%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| July 10th Prompt: Go outside. Sit and observe with all 5 senses. Where does your mind wander when you sit quietly? Whew! At long last, the humidity blanket has been lifted. I'm not gasping. Breathing doesn't cause excess perspiration. Rain pitter patters on the out- stretched awning. A steady waterfall splatters from the deck rail to the ground. Thunder rumbles, huffs and puffs in a deep rolling growl. Lightning flashes and slashes the deep purple sky. Ah, the damp breeze caresses my overheated skin. It soothes and cools. I swipe the salt from my lips and inhale. For the first time in weeks, I am not dripping and seeming to melt. A few sprinkles splash up from the burgeoning puddle underfoot. Boom! Clap! Plink, plunk, splork. The green grass shimmers . Teardrop diamonds glitter suspended from leaves as they elongate and slip to the ground. The birds are silent, no squawking, chirping, trilling. Where are the squirrels? Their chirring and chattering are absent. All I hear is the steady drum of rain. It echos. I smile and remember dancing in the rain. Hair plastered to my skull, I twirled and leapt. Pausing only to swipe moisture from my eyes, I stomped and splashed in deepening puddles. Oh, cool, thick mud oozed and squished between my bare toes. Summer rainfall is the best. |
| July 9th Prompt: Write about the last time you did something nice for yourself. Nice? For me, myself, and I? Most of the time we treat each other with respect. After all, we're in 'this' together. If one goes down, we all tumble and bruise. So...I just poured a fresh cup of tea for myself. Ya, ya, I know its already a gazillion degrees and we're glowing with perspiration, but she needed the caffeine persuasion. The camp neighbours fiddled with their gas water heater, yet again, at two a.m. Who needs hot water at that time? Apparently, cursing at it and beating it did not dissuade it. Groan. They argued with it throughout yesterday, and now they're repeating their desperate efforts. Come on. Their trailer sat unused for the past two years. The water heater is most likely a bit rusty. Myself needs to sip, slowly. A few moments ago, I made the bed. Myself is a neat nut and that kind of disarray irks her. I hope she appreciates my efforts. This chore required a great deal of stretching, tugging and tussling. We really need a bigger bedroom. I do not like the shuffle, shuffle side step 'round the mattress. I need to sit and catch my breath. Oh, yesterday we all had lunch with my sister. We lounged outside, on the restaurant's newly erected patio deck, under canvas umbrellas. Sigh. That Covid and its restrictions deny indoor dining.The poor waiter never ceased moving. Up and down the stairs he climbed with platters of food and drinks. Then he juggled our dirty dishes. Me, myself and I lauded his dedication. We enjoyed our reunion.Whew, it's a wonder neither of us has laryngitis. We embody the "cannot get a word in edgewise" philosophy. Together we squeezed in much catching up. We parted well sated. Most of the time, me speaks out loud and expects myself and I to listen without interruption. She loves the sound of her own voice. I suppose this is normal behaviour because we spend so much time in each other's company. I have learned a few tricks over the years though.To avert me's attention, I introduce her to a book. With her nose buried in it for at least a couple of hours, I can enjoy some peace and quiet. She believes I am being nice, but am I? Do we both revel in the respite? Before we transferred to our camper, I baked a variety of our favourite desserts. They await us in the freezer. We love to pamper ourselves. Anything homemade is nice with a fresh cup of tea. Oh, I need to refill myself's cup. Perhaps if I do this she will sit with me outside on the deck. I feel a nice breeze coming. |
| PROMPT July 8th What historical events, besides your own birth, occurred on your birthday in the year you were born? Is this some insidious plot designed to determine my age? Something more important than my glorious birth happened? You mean I never have been the centre of the universe? My family deceived me. Of course, I consulted the wondrous online finder of everything, Google. That led me to Wikipedia and other sites. My family were correct. Other than my birth, nothing much happened on my special day. Could what did occur be categorized as 'an historical event?' The facts I discovered were meager. Let me just state that I am not a baseball fan, but an incident correlates with my arrival. I do appreciate that some people follow all things baseball, so here is a random tidbit. On June 1st, 1959, a Monday I am told, two-time world defending champion Monterrey, Mexico learned its team had been declared ineligible for the Little League Baseball World Series because of certain improprieties re the geographic origin of their players. Is this double-speak for cheating? I was born at a time of a cheating scandal? At that time, the throwing, batting, and catching of a ball did not concern me in the least. To this day, this holds true. I missed being born in March of 1959 when Barbie burst onto the doll scene. In August of that seminal year, British Motor Inc. launched the ten-foot long, four seater car dubbed the Morris Mini-Minor. I am not aligned with a toy doll or a toy-sized vehicle. But, I persevered in my research and I discovered the following. On the day of my entrance into this world, a British novelist, Sax Rohmer with the nom de plume, Arthur Henry Ward, died at the age of seventy-six. He created the fictional villain Dr. Fu Manchu an evil criminal genius and mad scientist. He headed a powerful Chinese organization and earned a reputation as being ruthless. He ordered his thugs to murder, but never with guns or explosives. He preferred knives, snakes, fungi, bacilli and black spiders. I suppose one could say he put some thought and preparation into his 'work.' This unleashed the Fu Manchu moustache on the unsuspecting world, too. I'd describe it as a droopy, comical length of facial hair, but then again I'm not a propagator of long facial hair that would dip itself in my soup or become entangled in any number of painful items. Fu Manchu embodied the evil lurking ready to pounce and his character thrived in movies, television, radio and both comic strips and books for over ninety years. Huh, so now I am forever tied to a lost baseball championship and a make believe Chinese master criminal. This all makes perfect sense for a girl born in Canada. |
| July 7th Prompt: What do you do when you are out of inspiration or ideas? Sandy sighed as she sat down. No, no Sandy dropped to the cushioned bench, coarse material scratching her bare legs sticky with July humidity. Sighing, she sipped a reheated cup of coffee. Out of the corner of her drooping eye, she noticed a blur of brown, striped fur. Oh, it's a chipmunk. Wait, is that George? He certainly doesn't need a caffeine kick. Look at him scamper. Up and down, he bounces through the tall grass. He boing-boings. I wonder if he'd share some of that exuberant energy. Sigh. Sandy stares off into the distance, eyes unfocussed. With a start, she considers today's blog prompt. What should she write? What could she write? Clenching her weary eyes shut, she wills her mind to relax.Memories float to the surface and swirl 'round and 'round. Snippets of recent conversations bob. Laughter glints off the sparkling stream. Alexandra smirks, eyes dancing. Well, she can't help that she's a cute distraction. Hearing a rustle, Sandy glances out the open window. George is back and seeking something in the dried leaves. She muses about his tail, or lack of a tail. Where did it go? Does he search for it? Miss it? Is he considered impaired? Perhaps George did not enter this world with a tail. Maybe he's an anomaly. Did he suffer the separation of his tail during a bold, high stakes raid? Ouch! Did a quick steel trap sever his tail missing his exposed neck by centimetres? Could a door have pulled it out as he wriggled to freedom? Did a panting, snarling predator only manage to taste a hairy tail? Oh, if only you could stop and share your life story with me George. Wait, did a farmer's wife cut off your tail with a carving knife? No, I suppose not. George, George would you bring me some inspiration please? I can barter. Sorry, I do not have peanuts, but I can offer you some shelled unsalted almonds. By the way, how do you stuff so much into your cheeks? Does that bulge cause discomfort? Ack, I'm stalling. Is that what I do when I'm seeking inspiration? Drat, I've dropped the pretense of speaking in the third voice. Okay, yes this me. It is apparent that I procrastinate. I am easily distracted. My mind wanders off leash. Double drat! My coffee is cold... again. |
| PROMPT July 6th Is there such a thing as “unbiased reporting?” (Consider not just journalism, but storytelling - is it possible to tell a story without bias?) Simple answer? No. We are all creatures with our own unique biases. Everything we see / witness/ experience is coloured by our perceptions, our position both as a vantage point and our beliefs, and our emotions. Imagine a vehicle crash on a busy thoroughfare. Plenty of passersby watched it unfold and they have an eyewitness account to share. Are they all drivers? Do they understand acceleration, steering, avoidance techniques, braking and more? Do they all recognize makes and models of vehicles? Do they know with any accuracy the speed that the vehicle achieved? Could they guesstimate? Did they notice the actions of other drivers? Did they see where the vehicle travelled from and where it seemed to be going? Were other vehicles involved? Are they aware of traffic signals and where they are placed? Are they all calm, cool and collected without the impairment of adrenalin and /or shock? What were they doing when the accident occurred? Were they distracted by cellphone use, a child, a fellow witness, something on the street or sidewalk, the weather, a stumble, or any other thing? What language are they comfortable speaking? Do they embellish or exaggerate? Eye witnesses are rarely reliable. Each of us notice and zero in on different details or aspects. Some may dismiss and discount the clothing they viewed on a suspect/ person of interest. Some may not see distinguishing markings such as scars or tattoos. Not everyone is able to describe another's ethnicity and some bristle at its very idea. is it necessary or relevant? Did the witnesses see the accident unfold, or did they witness its aftermath? Are some witnesses assuming what must have happened based on what they see afterwards? One witness could describe the vehicle as a red Ford and an older model. Another could insist the vehicle was a burgundy Ford Taurus with considerable dents and rust, but actually a brand new car. Yet another would insist the vehicle was a Subaru painted brown with a rear passenger door painted a different colour. Perhaps all three of these people did not notice the driver at all. Could another witness insist a woman was the driver simply because they made an assumption based upon seeing long hair? Did any of them notice the tires and rims? Could they describe the other vehicles? Perhaps the offending driver that caused the accident drove away and was not noticed at all. The use of language colours our reporting and stories. There are many meanings and nuances attached to our words. What is our understanding and use of words? To state that a car whipped down the street implies it was travelling at a high rate of speed which is then understood as speeding. Did the witness exaggerate because he/she is not a driver and has never handled a vehicle? Did they perceive speed because the car moved faster than they did? Do they resent vehicle traffic and view it as annoying, unsafe, loud? Could the car have been speeding? Even a car obeying the posted speed limit is a metal object propelled along a road. How is that rate of motion perceived? To claim a driver slammed on the brakes implies they failed to notice they needed to stop. This connotates panic or inattentiveness. To describe a vehicle as having swerved instead of steered around or avoided induces more drama. Insisting that a car barrelled down the road implies it forced its way amongst traffic by brute force, size and weight. I am about to share a true story, and yes, of course it will bear my own bias in the retelling. There are indisputable facts and here they are. My husband and our sixteen-year old granddaughter drove about forty-five kilometres along a secondary highway. Syd was the newbie driver and her grandfather rode shot gun. Oops, there's my bias . He sat in the front passenger seat next to Syd. At no time did they crash, leave the road, or hit anything. Arriving in town, my husband directed Syd to a vehicle tire shop where she parked our truck and waited while my hubby went inside. He hurried outside when three police vehicles surrounded our truck. Three officers demanded to see Syd's licence and shouted at her. Her grandfather inserted himself into the tense confrontation. They claimed they'd received a call from a concerned driver about a truck swerving all over the road at an excessive speed. They accused Syd of driving while intoxicated. They claimed she was a menace. The concerned caller claimed Syd had been driving alone and looked underage. First of all, the officers could clearly ascertain Syd's age from her licence so why did they accuse her of deceit and deception? They insisted she was misrepresenting herself. They could ascertain she had not been imbibing alcohol from her demeanour. There had been no reported accidents or vehicles forced off the road. She had not been alone in the truck as the caller claimed. As a new driver she and my hubby knew she could not yet legally drive alone. Our addresses were clearly represented on both the licences and the truck's registration, so how had my hubby appeared so quickly when the police arrived? He clearly had not walked to that tire shop. My hubby refused to back down and argued his points. The concerned caller phoned in a complaint from a vehicle on the highway. Did the officers know for a fact if that driver used a handheld phone which is illegal to use while driving, or was a blue tooth used? Why were they believing the unsubstantiated claim of an anonymous person? How could that caller have not seen him sitting in the front seat? How could that caller have assumed Syd's age and the level of a driver's licence she possessed? The caller had supposedly noted the colour and make of the truck, but had not noted its identifying plates. Was this even the suspect truck? And, exactly what laws had Syd violated? In the end, the officers backed down and left. Good ol' bias was at work then. |
| July 5th Prompt: Tell us about someone you find inspirational. I have been lucky enough to meet several inspirational seniors. When I came into their lives they were not diminished just dealing with new challenges. Time and physical limitations slowed them such that they accepted my assistance with tasks of daily living. All talked freely.Not one considered themselves extraordinary. It's a shame we view ourselves with such critical eyes. Joseph had a gruff manner and sometimes it seemed as if he barked orders. He and his charming wife had emigrated to Canada from Italy when he'd retired at the seminal age of sixty-five.Wanting to assimilate and speak English, Joseph enrolled in high school. He attended classes with enthusiasm and boasted he never missed a day. It must have been quite the sight at his graduation with teenagers as his contemporaries. His framed diploma hung for all to see in his livingroom. Joseph struggled after a stroke that left his right side totally paralyzed. Learning to speak and communicate frustrated him, but he persevered. His speech returned and he made sure to use his voice. He insisted upon dispensing advice as he taught me to cook. Oh, I tried to tell him I already knew how to cook, but as a former European chef he considered himself the true expert. I met Mary when she could no longer manage her own personal care. As a teenager, she had survived a devastating car wreck with stroke-like deficits. With a strong will and humour, she'd adapted to being left-handed. Her right arm hung useless and her right leg required a brace, but it did not stop her. She moved hundreds of miles away to the big city, married, had a son, and created a career for herself. In her seventies, Mary slowed down, but she could best be described as a social butterfly. She enjoyed card tournaments, dances, sight-seeing trips and more. She amazed me. She is the only one-handed knitter I knew. Gloria packed up and moved to another province when she retired at sixty-five to attend a four-year university program. With no previous experience, she earned a degree in economics. As a new graduate, she returned home. Within a year, Alzheimer's intruded and began to slowly, insidiously steal her memories and her great intellect. Bright sparks of the true Gloria would glimmer for brief, translucent moments. Someday, I will be a senior and I plan to follow their indomitable example. I will kick and raise my voice if it is necessary. |
| July 4th Prompt: What could you give a 40 minute presentation on with absolutely no preparation? So, just to be clear this is a pop presentation not a pop quiz. Whew, I have not studied or memorized anything recently. Today, I languished on a sun-drenched beach only repositioning myself when some body part or other screamed they were cramped. Humidity discourages physical effort. It also clouds my thought process. Technically, I am camping with my family. I don't feel up to creating graphs, or flow charts, or any type of visual aid. There's no preparation in my lazy day. Well, I did participate in a joint creation of a barbecue supper. It's mind boggling how peckish one becomes doing nothing. Beach reclining requires stamina. I suppose if I must dazzle with my impromptu reservoir of knowledge, I could teach everyone to sing camp songs. All those rousing lyrics reside in my personal data base eager to stupify and suspend disbelief. A typical Guiding campfire carouses for at least ninety minutes. Momentum is built and carried with silly and action tunes. Of course, audience participation is mandatory. Campfires are never a spectator sport. Tradition would have us begin with 'Fire's Burning.' Some fires need encouragement. Ready? Fire's burning, fire's burning, draw nearer, draw nearer, in the gloaming, in the gloaming, come sing and be merry. Note it is in the gloaming, not in the glowing. Gloaming is twilight, dusk, but yes, fires do glow. Now, we could follow this with a quick ditty about black socks that get stronger the longer you wear them. Maybe we could pretend we are aboard a ship and rolling over the billows in a deep blue sea. I still laugh at Alice the camel with her one hump. Who doesn't know the song that never ends 'cause it goes on and on my friend. Now, I'm singing to myself. There's a hole in the ground and in that hole there stood a tree and on that tree there was a branch. And....we must stop to breathe... In the end, after many additions including a leaf , a nest and a bird, I finally finish with the green grass grew all around and around, the green grass grew all around. I leave you with 'Taps.' Day is done, gone the sun, from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky, all is well, safely rest, God is nigh. |
| PROMPT July 3rd Describe a missed opportunity you encountered, and how things might have been different if you hadn't missed it. While I could best be described as a bouncing baby, my parents made the decision to leave Canada and relocate to Arizona. From what I've gleaned from family lore they had gone so far as to acquire visas, pack luggage, and assure the transmission of medical records to a new physician. They were ready to make a drastic move far from friends and family. This had not been a spontaneous choice, but a medical one. My Mom had been diagnosed with a lung condition that exacerbated her asthma and dry desert air had been seen as a coping mechanism. We were all prepared for a new lifestyle. As with most difficult decisions, my parents struggled. In the end, they chose to remain in Canada which may have been a blessing. My mother would undergo major surgery that removed lobes from both lungs. How could they have afforded this as newcomers to the States? Who could have helped them during her recovery? So, what I am saying is I could've been an Arizonian, Arizonite, citizen of Arizona. Huh. I'd be parlaying in Americanese right now. I suppose I wouldn't end my phrases with 'eh.' The flag I'd salute would be slightly different in appearance. I may never have tasted tortiere, beaver tails, maple syrup, or poutine. Oh no! Tim Horton's would not exist in that world. Could I purchase a cup of hot steeped tea without being given iced tea? Where would I toboggan? Could I build a snowman? When I became of marriageable age, haha, who even says that anymore, I most likely would not have met my current spouse a former competitive figure skater. Are they rare in Arizona? I mean I fell on him and everything, so that would never happen. Yes, I employed a rather impressive move to get his attention. I tripped down a flight of stairs at 'my' high school and he broke most of my tumble. He delights in telling people I fell for him which I cannot dispute. I would not have recently celebrated Canada Day or bothered to memorize the lyrics to 'O Canada.' Would I have traversed this great country from coast to coast? Would I have learned to speak Spanish instead of French? Ah, the 'what ifs' are endless. |
| July 2nd Prompt: Mood rings of the 70's? What if people could actually see your emotions like an aura of colour surrounding you. Would you try to mask it, display it, or something in between? I'm moving as little as possible today. I believe I am melting. Breathing is an effort. I'm certain witnesses would attest to me glistening and yes, there's a sheen to my skin, but it is most definitely not a glow of serenity. My mind is in a muddle, a stupor. The rest of me is listlessly languishing in a puddle of perspiration. It's too damn hot! My clothing is damp and sticking to me. I am steaming, roasting, beyond over-heated. Okay, I admit it. I sound petulant. To prove my point I'd really like to stamp at least one foot and jut out my lower lip, but that would require too much physical exertion. What should I do? I suppose I could summon the energy to stumble down the sun-drenched road to the beach. If I must, I could force my heavy legs to carry me. What's a bit of burning sand? Despite the relentless sun I could wade into the refreshing lake water. It betrays me though as it reflects the sun's burning intensity. Sunscreen? My skin refused to absorb it as I slathered it everywhere. I'm sticky and slick with this sun marinade. I trudge out of the pull of the lake. The smothering heat is a heavy blanket I cannot shrug off. That sunscreen fails to deflect the sun's piercing rays, but it attracts sand. My aura is gritty. I'm barely able to muster a glare, a glower and we all know it takes more muscles to frown. My aura is bordering on grouchy, tetchy. "Stay away. She's 'tetched' by the humidity. That one's under pressure. She's gonna blow!" I kinda miss the snow. No really. I can layer up and bundle for that. I have stripped and the only layer remaining is my skin. It absorbs and traps heat. Oh great, I am trapped in my own skin. It's too hot to think. Do I project an aura of resignation? Am I repressed, suppressed, stressed? Heat wave? It did not wave hello. It slapped me. It pummeled me. Worse, it wrapped itself around me in a crushing, unrelenting, ever tightening bear hug. Ugh, did I mention I felt over-heated? |
| PROMPT July 1st Write a letter to your parents from before your birth. Give them advice about how to raise you and give them a heads up about anything they might struggle with when you come into their lives. Hi Mom and Dad! It's me, your eldest. Sorry, to ruin the big bang of my birth, but I'm a girl. No need to wait and pace for nine long months. There is no mystery. You can discard all those boy names on your list; I'm not a Junior. Now about the moniker you did saddle me with... There's nothing horrible or nonsensical with it, but, come on, did you have to give me the dog's name? Sure, you forgot the golden retriever jumping at your feet when you christened me Sandy. Really? Two of us named Sandy? Were your memories, your powers of recall that lacking that you thought one name would suffice? It's my name and I've grown accustomed to it, but what were the alternatives? Gertrude? Gladys? I love my grandmas, but those names? Now, I don't wish to alarm you and you'll probably still be shocked when I arrive which will be on my doctor guesstimated due date by the way, but I will not be the blonde you anticipate. Weird, eh? Please do not embarrass yourself Mom by insisting that you were given the wrong baby and demanding the return of your own blonde child. Your first impressions that I had to be an Italian were erroneous. I will be born with black hair, lots of it. I will not be bald. Just sneak a peek at your own Mother and you will see the resemblance, dark hair and chubby cheeks. After a few years have passed, my hair will lighten to a 'dirty blonde.' Here's a heads up. I do not like anyone playing with my hair, no one. I prefer it to hang long and loose. Mom, please, please, please, I'm begging you. Rethink your plan to 'fix' my hair with a home perm. Why torture yourself and me the innocent child? No, I really do not need curls. And Dad, thanks, but your crude attempts to wrangle my hair into pony tails is not necessary. I'm like a sheepdog. I can see fine with hair hanging in my face. Oh, I almost forgot. My legs will be a bit 'different', but please try not to worry. Everything sorts itself out and I am not permanently crippled. Club feet are fixable. Oh, and if you want me to walk before I am eighteen months of age, let me attempt to toddle on my own two feet. They will support me. Warn the relatives, too. They do not need to carry me everywhere. I'm not suggesting they stop all the cuddling entirely, I do like it. A little less mollycoddling would be appreciated. Thanks. Okay, I feel I must warn you both. I will be a talker. I am a converser. Some may choose to label me as a chatterbox. They'd be accurate. Just so you know, I will always have something to natter about. No, I am able to breathe quite well as I spout chitchat. Contrary to popular opinion, speaking does not leave one breathless. Oh, and I shall pose many questions, too. I need to know things. It takes me time and tears I must admit, but I will reconcile myself to your insatiable desire to snap family photos. Please bear with me, I can be stubborn. Just between you two and me, no, it did not kill me to smile. What did almost undo me is the bright lights. Yes, I was and am a squinter. Could you consider shooting me and ending my misery, er, I mean consider shooting the photo ops. in less sunny locales? Why can't we place our backs to the bright sun? Could I pose in the shade? Oh, and please purchase a pair of sunglasses for me immediately after my birth. I acted as a miserable brat and I made you miserable because the light really did hurt my eyes. Yes, okay, I never did like to wear hats. Don't worry about me and my eyes. The constant squinting didn't harm them. Reading by the illumination of the streetlight across the street from my bedroom window did not strain my eyes in the least. To this day, I am an avid reader and I've never required corrective lenses. Do not feel as if you must provide me with expensive toys and gadgets. Give me paper and pencils and I guarantee I will amuse myself. The fridge will always have artwork to display. I'll want lots of paper. I discover writing and I cast my family in my stories. Sigh, I feel I must issue another warning. Prepare to spend time in emergency waiting rooms. Apropos name, no? I'm sorry. I'm an accident magnet. 'Things' happen to me. Full disclosure here. When I'm fourteen with a fractured thumb I will willfully disregard my plaster cast and swim with it. It was summer. Yes, you will tell me I'm old enough to know better, but I will do it anyway. May I suggest you 'punish' me with extra camp duties and visit the beach more yourselves? In the future during my teen years, you will take away my bike and disassemble it. Don't worry. I will not hold a grudge. I will actually breathe a sigh of relief. That damn thing and I shared far too many mishaps. Although walking will not necessarily prove less drastic, I'd rather get around with both of my feet on the ground. To put your worries at ease, we all survive my teenage years relatively unscathed. We reach the point where I drive the car and transport my siblings without incident. Oh, didn't I mention this? You make me the big sister to three others. Yep, there will be four of us. F.Y.I., you will be young grandparents. Hey, it happens. There may be a few disagreements over the years, but nothing earth-shattering. We will never be alienated. As your experimental child, I am not left psychologically damaged. That's not to say I'm unmarked. I will reciprocate your love and acceptance. I will carry the family sense of humour with me and share it. Thanks for creating me, Mom and Dad! Love, Sandy B. |
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