%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
Something slightly loftier, pointed and hopefuly witty. |
| The ever popular question of what now comes to mind on yet another end and begining. |
| This is my idea of a good way to spend the evening, I said to the only other pathetic old man to visit my third place. It’s New Year’s Eve in Phoenix and I have no parties to attend, no large mass of crowds pushing their way down the city square to deal with. It’s just me and my thoughts, away from the craziness that will no doubt accompany the night as 2008 rolls across the country to hover over Phoenix for another year. I have never been a huge fan of large gatherings or rowdy people. This is not to say I don’t enjoy mingling with society, as long as it’s from a safe distance. I have read that most writers are best left with their thoughts in solitary refuse and if that’s the case, I believe I fit the profile, and yes, this is my idea of a good way to spend the evening. Happy New Year |
| I searched the valley for an open Starbucks. Guided by the soft glow of a winter’s moon and driven by an addict-like need for my evening coffee I set out in search of my fix. I drove past the empty shopping center parking lots and down the normally bustling streets of Phoenix, determined to find a temporary third place for the night. My third place was locked up tight. A few lights were left on, illuminating the quiet espresso machine inside. There it stood. Silent, like a monolith of stainless steel and brass plumbing, it glistened in the dim light of the empty store. I could only stare at it through the glass doors, a hand written note hung with care wishing other would-be coffee junkies a Merry Christmas. “Bah Humbug,” I thought, at the idea of a caffeine free night and set out on my quest. I donned my new iPod, a Christmas gift to myself, and searched through the library of music for something suitable for my coffee fix search. I landed on the song “I Wonder Why” by Dion and the Belmont’s and set off down Camelback Road. I kept beat to the rhythm of the fifties tune, putting to use my mental GPS of other Starbucks locations. The truck seemed to have a mind of its own as it rolled down the quiet street and into the next Starbucks parking lot. Another closed sign and Merry Christmas wish. I knew there were at least four other Starbuck stores within this five mile radius and as I headed for the next location, my little iPod shuffled the song “It’s Bad You Know,” by RL Burnside. A great little blues riff that was literally speaking my mind. It was bad; you know? I could see the green and white sign close into view like an oasis of salvation as I rounded the corner of Missouri Road. Alas, I could see a few employees through the picture window of the corner-store Starbucks. Might I be saved? I pulled in and stopped at the drive through to order. Silence… no friendly greeting to welcome me. Maybe they didn’t see me pull in, I thought. I took a chance and pulled past the speaker box and straight up to the window. This was serious after all; an all out coffee emergency. The goatee-sporting employee shook his head, nodding out a sympathetic sorry we’re closed gesture while hanging up the all-to familiar hand written Christmas wish of good will to man. I managed a defeated half-smile as I pulled out of the drive through and back on the road. My little iPod’s next choice happened to be “Who’s Sorry Now” by Connie Francis. How appropriate, I thought as I drove to the next location. I fought back and skipped to the next selection, “Time is On My Side” by Irma Thomas and let out a small cheer of rebellion as I continued my quest for that soothing warm beverage loved by so many. The miles rolled on the digital odometer of my truck as I slowly drove past another closed Starbucks location as Perry Como came on to remind me that “It’s Impossible.” Defeated, I settled on the closest Quick-Trip convenience store for my caffeine fix and enjoyed the stillness of the Christmas Eve drive home and the vocal company of Billie Holiday singing “God Bless the Child.” Merry Christmas to you all… |
| Overrun with little jam-hands. I arrived to my third place to find the entire store overcome with children. Ugh! Where is the child catcher from “Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang” when you need him?” I was just talking about that character earlier today with a friend of mine. How ironic it is that I would need his assistance this very evening. A creepy little man walking hunched over wearing a sinister grin of false trust and friendship would lure the towns’ children to his false-front candy store wagon turned cage. How cleaver Baron Bomburst was to deploy such an effective child recon team in order to provide peace, quiet, and a never-ending supply of toys all for himself. Blast that Caractacus Potts and Truly Scrumptious for bringing down a brilliant plan of world order. So what if he built a flying car out of scrap and an old fishing boat hull? It’s not long ago I remember him a lowly chimney-sweep traveling about with a lady and her umbrella. And look at how he turned out. Tripping over an ottoman like a drunken fool and working for an over-bearing balding pompous ass of a television executive. It was all a glorified hallucination; a dream of grander. An underachiever just trying to get laid and all while in the company of his illegitimate children who should have been permanent guests of Baron Bomburst’s dungeon of terror. Ah, Baron Bomburst; where are you now? |
| The Arizona desert was cold. A thermos of coffee and a few blankets would make me comfortable as I chose a remote pathway to view the annual Geminid meteor showers. Each year this meteor shower lights up the sky with colorful streaks and magnificent displays which never fail to amaze me. They are named from the Gemini constellation from which they originate and depending on your location can produce upwards of 120 sightings per hour. I hiked the trails of the Dreamy Draw, just north of Squaw Peak Mountain, to escape the city lights and laid my blanket out over a natural recliner-like formation of boulders and earth. I made a quick scan of the surrounding terrain to make sure I was “alone” and not in danger of becoming a snake bit victim or sitting on anything “prickly.” The ground was still damp from our recent rains and the cold ground soon made its way through my blanket as I settled in and orientated myself to the night sky. I had the latest star chart to help with constellation identification, a pair of binoculars, and my coffee. I was set for the big show. The sky opened into a grand display of sparkle and wonder. My breath clearly visible, taking a sip of coffee while allowing my eyes to adjust to the night sky. Soon, constellations such as Orion and Taurus came into view and I compare their location to my star chart. Mars lights up the eastern horizon, its yellow-orange glow making it easy to spot. Seeing the red planet reminds me of the Mars explorer “Phoenix” which is currently in route to the Martian planet. The probe was designed and built at the University of Arizona and will serve in gathering information on ice formations found in the arctic regions of the planet. Its journey will take approximately 10 months to travel the millions of miles from our planet and is scheduled to reach Mars obit in May 2008. I was brought back from my Martian day dream by the colorful streak of light that shot across the sky and disappeared behind North Mountain’s peaks. It all happens so fast, yet seems to slow as the meteor does its best to enter our atmosphere. A brilliant battle takes place against our earth and the foreign invaders which result in flashes of greens and blues that pass silently overhead. Some of them make it through earth’s defenses from time-to-time and become meteorites once they impact the ground. The sky was still for most of my visit, having missed the peak performance a few days prior. I counted fifteen separate meteors, some solitary while others traveled in groups, breaking up as they soared across the night sky. A couple of hours of sitting had numbed my backside and forced and early retreat for the warmth of my couch. I gathered my blanket and empty thermos and hiked my way out of the desert, a couple of stray meteors seemingly chasing after me down the rocky path. |
| It’s cold! I know those of you back east are rolling their eyes right about now and saying, “poor desert boy.” The sun finally showed its warm face today, chasing after the clouds and rain that have been tormenting our tranquil valley. The outskirts of the valley revealed a scenic blanket of snow on the higher elevation mountains. Four Peaks Mountain, known for the four peaks that reach skyward, is capped with a fresh coating of snow and made for a beautiful back drop to our normally earth-toned surroundings. The sun struggled throughout the day to warm the air and could only muster 58 degrees. A friend of mine told me that would be a heat wave for them which caused me to ask myself how I ever lived in Chicago for all those years. Snow is best viewed from the summits of a mountain and not for driving through, unless of course your name is Santa. But, he flies, so I rest my case. |
| The Sunday morning crowd of my third place is quiet; everyone busy flipping through the morning paper. The line for a warm coffee grows and shrinks and grows again while the barista’s smile and greet and brew…as they do. It’s overcast days like today that remind me of the changing seasons of Chicago. All the signs of winter are here with folks dressed in sweaters and boots, scarves and ear-muffs, and the cold-crisp air on your face. Those still wearing shorts and flip-flops are clearly new arrivals or out-of-towners, this being warm to them. After living in the desert for so many years, any time the temperature falls below 70 degrees we all reach for the nearest jacket and switch on the heater. It’s an odd transformation that takes place when you first move here from an eastern part of the country. The thought of no snow is a key factor of course; no more shoveling all that white powder and scraping car windows is a thing of the past. Us desert-dwellers normally use this time of year to make the mocking phone calls back to our eastern-living friends and relatives and rub in the fact that its 70 degrees and sunny. This little act of weather-rivalry does not always work out in our best interests as the temperature is a matter of location. We may call back east and ask how the weather is and get in response that’s its wonderful and 65 degrees. When posed with the same question by our eastern-living friends our response may be that its awful and 65 degrees. But, in the end, there is no snow and for that we rejoice. The dessert-dweller takes the Christmas season very serious making every effort to replicate a winter wonder-land in their front yard. It’s the lack of what we all escaped from that seemingly motivates our passion. Snow-scapes and winter-like scenes start to pop up across the valley shortly after Thanksgiving in an almost “Griswold-like” attempt to out do the next door neighbor. Some actually have snow shipped in to add to the winter atmosphere while others use lights to achieve the effect of snow and ice. Some choose to put a musical accompaniment to their lights and turn their neighborhood into a little Vegas strip complete with passers-by and congested streets, all eagerly awaiting the next performance of Trans Siberian Orchestra. One cheerful Scottsdale resident found himself in a lawsuit last season by his grinch-of-a-neighbor for having such an elaborate display of holiday cheer. Of course the court ruled against our “hero.” Grinch: one, Scottsdale cheer-giver: zero. Adding to the dessert Christmas are the festive parades and holiday events put together by the cities and towns across the valley. The Phoenix zoo decorates the grounds with lights and animated winter scenes while the City of Phoenix hosts the annual parade of lights. Each year the city closes off Central Avenue and all street lights, traffic lights and business lights are turned off for this electric parade. Colorful dancing lights adorn floats, cars and trucks. Not even the high school marching band is left out as each band member is fitted with dazzling lights on their instruments and uniforms. Not to be out done, Tempe hosts a boat parade of lights each year at Tempe Town Lake, while the local radio station airs their version of the classic Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” performed before a live studio audience in the tradition of the days before television. Local news personalities along with local celebrities from Alice Cooper to Walter Cronkite have volunteered their time to this valley tradition. Although the desert may lack the most common ingredient related to Christmas, I have never felt the spirit of the holidays quite as much as I do living Christmas in the desert. |
| Visiting the less fortunate has always been a wakeup call when I feel my life has taken a turn for the worst. I am far from being what society would label as successful, but I have a nice home and a fairly good job, so I am above most. To me, my success lies not in my belongings or the balance of my checking account, as meager as it is, but in the close relationships I have acquired and maintained over the years, as few as they are. As with years past, I have always given a few hours of my time during the holidays to the veteran’s of the Carl T. Hayden veteran’s center. There reside the forgotten heroes of a bygone era of innocence and pride, of determination and resolve, and of romance and magic. I enjoy bridging the generation gap as young and old meet with one thing in common; we are all veteran’s. I feel richer this year then last, and as with each passing year usually have more to be thankful for, although it’s not always as clear to me at any given time, I try not to take too much for granted. As usual, I found the group in various stages of alertness; some sleeping in their wheel chairs while others where outside enjoying the companionship of their loved ones. Mr. Brady was outside enjoying his mid-day cigarette. With him was his youngest daughter, a lovely lady with long red hair and sea-green eyes. She was preparing his Thanksgiving meal that she had brought in, on the picnic table while he puffed away under a nearby tree, taking a moment to greet me as I walked up. Mr. Brady suffered a brain mass which was surgically removed but not before having an irreversible effect on his motor skills and speech patterns. He now suffers bouts of memory loss and will drift in and out of conscientious without much warning. Despite that, he always seems to remember my name, although he has no recollection of the parade we attended last week and I am afraid he will not recall his daughters visit this week. I excused myself from the Brady’s thanksgiving meal and headed off to visit my newest friend Peter Italiano. I stopped in the recreation room where I usually find him glued to the television watching an old western or black and white James Cagney movie, but today the room was silent. I headed to his room where I called out, “Italiano,” and again was met with silence. I found his bed empty and felt the chills run down my back as I quickly made my way to the nurses station. They informed me that he had been rushed to the hospital side of the complex earlier in the morning after a restless night of coughing and shortness of breath. I got his room information and made my way over to look in on him. There he was, sitting upright in bed watching television. I sighed in relief to see him awake and seemingly in good spirits. He held out his hand as I approached and I gave it a reassuring squeeze, his weary eyes half-smiling along with his toothless grin. Peter told me he had pneumonia and would be in the hospital for a few more days. We talked about the parade on TV and where our families came from in Italy. Peter’s father comes from Sicily and his mother from Tuscany and I shared that my grandfather was born and raised in Fiuggi, just outside of Naples. Peter told me that he was just three years old when my grandfather left for America in 1920. I gave Pete a warm smile while thinking I could only hope to be half as spirited as at his age; if I make it to 91. Pete’s heavy eyes were my queue to let him rest, and with a wink of his eye he said, “Ringraziamento felice mi’amico,” and I made my way back to the assisted living wing of the complex. It was nearing meal-time for the residents and Doris was still sleeping. I was told that she too wasn’t feeling well and it looked like I would be spared the nurses teasing comments this time and would catch up with Doris during my next visit. For many of them, Thanksgiving was just another day of being; unaware of conscience time, for time stands still within the halls of this place, like a Twilight Zone of memories from which there is only one escape. The circle of life is complete. |
| I met Pam, the activities director of the veteran’s hospital, at ten sharp in the middle of directing a very intense game of bingo in Liberty Hall. Each weekend the residents gather and part take in a very heated battle of this ever-popular senior sport for a chance to win small prizes and have a few laughs. Today Pam and I planned a small outing with a few of the more mobile residents to my third place for coffee and treats. While she finished up with the bingo tournament, I went and made my rounds to a few of the other residents. I had promised Stewart, a Vietnam veteran, a picture of the US Airways Cardinal’s plane and had a framed print of me and Dory from last week’s parade I wanted to get to her. Along the way I also wanted to stop in and visit a new friend of mine, Peter Italiano, whom I found in the recreation room watching an old western. What a great name Pete has I thought when we first met. There is no doubting his heritage, and he is Italian through and through. Pete is an old WW II veteran who served in the Marines and moved here from Philadelphia in 2005. His toothless grin is priceless and he’s always freshly shaved when I see him. It’s great fun to walk in and greet him in our native Italian language and have him understand and respond. It gets the staff talking as they had no idea he spoke Italian. During our visit the resident priest stopped by and offered Pete Holy Communion which we both took part in. I was shocked that the building didn’t collapse as it has been quite some time since I received communion. I performed the sign of the cross and shared in a small hale Mary with Pete, the extent of my religious ceremony and went back to the western on the television. I have to laugh at these old westerns and Hollywood’s poor depiction of the Native Americans as played by all white actors. But, Pete was enjoying the movie and that’s all that mattered. I left Pete to finish his movie and made my way to present Dory with her framed picture. She was still in bed, her sister in for a visit, when I entered her room. I reintroduced myself to Dory and told her I had something to add to her room. She was very gracious and seeing her face light up made it all worth while. She promised to keep it near and warned the duty nurse to keep their hands off from now on. The warmth of my face must have been apparent as the room burst into laughter with Dory’s quick-wit and devilish grin. It was just the beginning for me as I would soon discover throughout the day. I composed my embarrassment and reminded Dory that today was the coffee house trip and that we would be gathering out front. Just about that time, Pam found me and asked if I would help her get George and Bill rounded up while she brought the van around front. George is a very alert and friendly soul who served in the Navy and wears big rimmed glasses and an even bigger smile. He is quiet in nature but always willing to add to our conversations no matter the topic. He epitomizes the grandfather persona to the letter and always offers a welcoming hand shake. Bill, another Navy man always introduces himself as Bill, the kind you don’t have to pay and was an engineer for an aviation company after the war. Bill is a wander and quite an expert at sneaking off to charm the nurses or any pretty young lady that crosses his path. We arrived at Starbucks and were seated by the wonderful staff that had a table reserved for the five of us. For me, it was like a scene out of an old mafia movie where the gang comes into a crowded restaurant and is immediately seated. And lucky for us, as my little Starbucks was bustling with coffee crazed customers. Daniel, the store manager welcomed me and my extended family like royalty and took everyone’s order while we got comfortable. I went for a copy of the morning paper to help get the conversations going, but the table took on a life of its own and soon we were all enjoying our warm beverages and pastries. I took a few more jabs from Pam about how Dory seemed to swoon about when I was around her and it made me think of a conversation I had with a friend about if I was making a difference in the world. I think I could finally admit that I was making someone’s life a little more pleasant and I took comfort in that feeling…if only for a moment. Before long, the time had come to get everyone back home and ready for lunch and we gathered up our merry group and headed back to the veteran’s center. Lisa, one of the nurses greeted us upon our return and got an earful from Dory as we walked her back to her room. I of course received more jabs from the nurses along with some “oohs” and “ahs” before making my way home, promising the residents that I would return to visit on thanksgiving. During my ride home, the question of was I making a difference returned to my head and by the time I pulled into my driveway I concluded that it was them making the difference for me. Again, I took comfort. |
| I can only imagine how ridiculous we must have seemed to the other Marines as we were paraded around, freshly shaved heads bobbing in formation to the deep raspy cadence of our nameless receiving Marine. I can’t count the number of times the recruit behind me stepped on my heel which caused a chain-reaction that put us all out of step…once again. The command, “platoon halt” was given for the “millionth” time, as we received another explanation of marching in step and maintaining a forty inch interval from the man in front of you. We also learned a few more choice Marine phrases like “gaggle-fuck” which was used to describe our apparent inability at marching. You would think we were learning to walk all over again having never taken a step in our “nasty civilian lives.” The Marines sure had a way with words and I often wondered if there was some Marine Corps insult book that was required reading for drill instructors or if they made it up as they went along. Whatever the case, it most often involved the word “fuck” in some form and usually was followed with a question directed at the offending recruit or platoon, as the case may be. It would later take me nearly two months to “clean” my mouth when talking around family and friends, having grown accustomed to using colorful metaphors when expressing myself. When we weren’t learning to march, we spent most of the day taking aptitude tests, physical examinations, and finalizing the long list of documents that would follow us throughout our career. The Marine Corps was famous for its paperwork in triplicate on top of more paper work for the paper work we had just filled out. Then we would march to chow-breakfast, lunch, or dinner-we were marching. When time was limited the drill instructor would tell us, “today, we are having duck…you’re going to duck in, and duck the fuck right back out!” This of course was met with many of us biting our lips to keep from laughing, but we got his hint. This routine of marching, exams, paperwork, and “ducking” went on for three more days until the time came to be introduced to our drill instructors; the Marines that would shape us into lethal fighting instruments. The Marine Corps Recruit Depot, MCRD, is located in San Diego, California and butts up against the San Diego airport and Naval Training facility. I never understood the recruits that would attempt to escape by hoping the fence and making a mad dash across the runway in the hopes of boarding a flight back home. For one thing, we stood out in the mass of society with our shiny bald heads and camouflaged utilities, looking more like an escaped mental patient or prison inmate, so the chances of a successful escape were nil and they would soon find themselves in the custody of the military police. For me, I welcomed the life during boot camp and felt secure in the routine and daily accomplishments of be pushed further and achieving more then I ever thought myself capable. Our nameless receiving Marine assembled us out front of our temporary barracks for the last time in preparation for the march to our new home for the next 14 weeks. We arrived in true “gaggle-fuck” order as he faced us and gave us a stern “ten-hut.” We all snapped to attention and waited in front of a large three story building for our drill instructors to assume control over our “nasty, worst-ever platoon of civilian shit,” as we had come to be known. One-by-one, the drill instructors filed out of the building and formed a line in front of our platoon. They were clean and fit; their uniforms looked like a second skin of green and khaki, and their eyes poked out from under the brim of the “smoky” hat they wore squarely on their heads. Intimidating was a word that crossed my mind along with a few colorful metaphors of alarm. Then, one of them spoke as he announced his name as our senior drill instructor, “I am Sgt. Bennet”… |
| I woke early and was greeted by the crisp air of a desert morning. The clouds broke over the valley as the autumn sun poked its eager face over the mountain summits, their shadows stretched out in sprawl. I planned on an early start the night prior, having cleaned and pressed a fresh uniform in preparation for the Veteran’s Day Parade. I have made it tradition to attend the parade each year, taking time from my airport duties to do so. I justify this personal day all my own, having earned it as a veteran, although it’s not a popular practice among the higher-ups in my company. Each year I’ll “latch” onto a Marine unit, or join the Marines of my former unit and march the three mile parade route through the city. It’s a time to catch up with old friends and meet some new ones. I have had the honor of meeting Walter Cronkite, a group of Tuskegee Airmen as well as the mayor of Phoenix and governor of Arizona. One year I convinced our mayor to climb aboard our five-ton tactical truck and pose with my platoon. Every other day of the year such personalities are practically “untouchable,” but during the Veteran’s Day festivities, they roam the parade route and are willing to do just about anything to oblige the veteran’s. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This year I decided to change my routine slightly and see what I could do to help out at the assisted living wing of the hospital. Each year the residents are escorted to the parade route and invited to take part in the parade that is, after all, honoring them. I signed in as normal and went to C-1 to greet the residents and nursing staff a welcome morning. The floor was bustling with youngster volunteers and hospital staff preparing the residents for the parade. I was impressed with the younger crowd and their interaction with the residents. They stopped being young “kids” and took on the responsibility of caring for our elder generation in true form with gentleness and sincere kindness. It gave me hope for our younger generation, if only for the day. I made my rounds as well greeting Mr. Brady, who I found near the nurses station and asked if he wanted to see the parade. He was less then receptive of the idea at first, but after some very good salesmanship on my part, sold him on the idea of spending the afternoon in the sun with unlimited access to his cigarette stash. Next, I found Dory sitting alone, hunched over, wrapped in her blue terry robe and tan slipper-socks and asked if she would accompany me to the parade. Her warm smile lit up although she too declined at first. The staff nurse told me I was wasting my time as she hasn’t left the wing in years. Well, not one to turn down a challenge, I turned up the charm and soon had another willing participant. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ We gathered up a few hats, some bottled waters, and sun-screen and made the necessary rest-room stops before heading out the front lobby doors. It was a lengthy “walk” as we pushed our partnered-patients to the parade route. A parade of our own took place as the convoy of wheelchairs made its way along the hospital grounds; Dory looking back from time-to-time asking who I was. After many re-introductions, she settled into her chair, American flag in hand, and was ready for the start of the parade. Mr. Brady patiently waited for his cigarette and was soon quietly puffing away under a tree behind the wall of wheel chair bound residents. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The parade kicked off right on time with a platoon of service members carrying a huge American flag that stretched the width of the street, followed by one of many high school bands, cheerleading squads and rows of military tactical vehicles. One by one the floats passed by, pausing slightly to display their sparkle and elegance before moving forward down 7th Street. The clouds broke formation and warmed our faces as the temperature climbed to 85 degrees, Dory looked back to ask who I was once more before telling me that she was becoming uncomfortable in the sun and wanted to return home. I excused myself to Mr. Brady who was contently enjoying the parade and his abundant supply of unrestricted cigarettes and returned Dory to her room. By time I made my way back to the parade route, Mr. Brady was being pushed back along with many of the other residents. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The event continued with a huge picnic lunch, live music, and local news media interviewing residents and family members. I went to check in on Dory, who had become “my girl” for the day and invited her to the picnic lunch. It took less effort this time round and we all enjoyed the closing ceremony and music of Veteran’s Day. I later learned from Nurse Lisa that Dory had reported my well mannered behavior and “striking good looks” but said she wouldn’t be able to see me again because “she’s just too old for me.” How cute I thought as Lisa and I shared the moment in laughter. I gathered up my belongings and “broken heart” and made my way home after the long day, another Veteran’s Day memory behind me. |
 Log in to Leave Feedback |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
