Many Americans have disturbing memories from the year 2001. I am no different. My recollections are troubling for personal reasons. The event which affected me the most was not the September attack on the people of New York City.
     The event from that year which made the deepest impression upon me was the death of my father.
     February 9, 2001. The anniversary of his passing is the hardest day of the year.
     My memories of that time are haunting and fragmented. I have never attempted to capture that time in words before today. I will not endeavor to record a complete account here. I simply want to share some of what I remember and what I learned on the day and in the time since.
    
     I received a call from my brother-in-law at around 5:30PM on Thursday, February 8th informing me that my father had suffered some kind of major health setback, was in serious condition and was not expected to recover. If I wanted to see him alive I'd better come as soon as possible.
     What a terrible journey it was driving to the hospital, my mind swirling with images of pain, discomfort and hopelessness. The truth is I didn't know what to expect. What greeted me when I finally arrived was more horrifying than anything I could have imagined.
     "I'm here to see Mr. Benjamin C. Jarrell. I'm his oldest son." The receptionist at the ER desk wasted no time directing me to a special room off to the left where I found my mother and other distraught family members and a 'counselor' who was there to answer any questions we might have. The counselor was a masterful practitioner of evasion and vagueness. The gist of it was my father had suffered a massive heart attack while eating his dinner. Help had not arrived before he suffered brain death and he was not going to recover and be the man we remembered and loved. The counselor did not convey this directly, pausing to weigh answers to my questions to find ways to couch her painful truths in soft, pillowey words. This angered me. If I ask a direct question I deserve a direct answer, especially if the answers are vital clues to the mortality of a loved one.
     We went down the hallway to see him in the ER cubicle where he was entangled among machinery, breathing with the help of a respirator, the heart monitor showing a heartbeat, slower, but stable. His eyes remained open and unblinking which was the worst of it. Grasping his hand elicited no response. My father wasn't there anymore. A broken shell remained, a face that conjured memories and emotions I was totally helpless to escape or deny. I loved him and I knew he was going to die.
     There was a brief visit with the attending physician regarding my fathers' prognosis. A family discussion followed with a painful concluding decision to remove my father from life support.
     At this point 30 hours of hell began.
     We called relatives far and wide with news of the tragedy. We phoned friends near and far and fellow church goers. There was a stream of visitors, including current and former caregivers who had nursed and looked after my father during the 19 years since he'd suffered a debilitating stroke. I was touched by their connection to him, grateful for their presence, wishing it was for some other purpose. We remained by his bed all during the hours which passed slowly, painfully, mercifully, the hours ticking away to a final reckoning. I was there when we called the nurse as his breaths became shallower and less frequent. She listened for his pulse.
     "He is still with us," she declared. We held his hand, kissed his forehead, whispered our goodbyes and cried. Soon after we heard him take a final breath and slowly exhale. Silence. The nurse checked his pulse.
     "He is gone."
     February 9, 2001. 10:30PM.
     There is no comfort in that hour when a loved one dies. I could not find any. My pain swelled within me, overtaking every emotion I normally felt. Nothing was important now but this sense of loss, a longing for one I would never be able to share time with again in this life. The ground beneath me gave way. His death uncovered the depth of love and devotion I possessed for him I had not fully comprehended until now. On the drive home from the hospital that night the air was unseasonably warm and windy for  February.
     "It was nice out today. He would have liked this day."
     We decided on only one evening when friends could call to sit with us at the funeral parlor. I remember very little about this time. I was most impressed by the visit from a nearby state of an army buddy my father had known for about 50 years. This devotion touched me deeply and I was grateful for this final visit among old friends. It validated my own love and appreciation for him. I kept to myself, shook hands, greeted family and friends and stayed as composed as I could. I did not feel composed. I was in such emotional agony I could barely stand it. If I was to survive the next days I would need to protect my heart from what I felt.
     The coffin would be closed after the visitation tonight. It was the last time i would see his face in my lifetime. I made the decision not to look at him again after I'd said my silent goodbyes and turned away to leave. Looking back would just make it worse, unbearable for me. I feared I would never stop looking back if I didn't stop now. I made peace with the parting by reminding myself of one thing. My last glimpse of him was a parting, a going away. The next time I would see him would be be in welcome, a greeting in a glorious reunion I could not experience on Earth. It took every ounce of my self-control to keep myself from looking back. I paused and finally walked out of the room and put the event behind me.
     The day of the funeral was warm and bright, a spring-like day. There were a few birds in the trees above us and a welcoming breeze. The weather poked at the corners of my gloom. It was a beautiful day to be outside in midwinter even if it was for a funeral.
     Friends have helped me cope along the way. My manger at the store was wonderfully supportive of me, allowing me some extra time to get my head together before returning to work. Her open ears and sympathetic heart worked wonders to get me moving again.
     Each year I am filled with sadness as the anniversary of this day approaches. I am always grateful when it has passed again. It is a day I would like to forget.
     I focus on my good memories of our time together. The smiles, the laughs, the expressions of love, his devotion to providing for us shelter and a loving environment in which to grow and thrive. I still remember the last time he hugged me. He had been having trouble with his heart for the previous six months and was hospitalized. I finally got a day off work and went to see him. His joy was great at my visit. Before I left I leaned over his bed and reached out to me and hugged me tightly, kissing me on my cheek. I will take the memory of that embrace with me into eternity.
     There is seldom a day which passes that I don't think about him fondly. What looms largest in memory is the love. All the love for my mother and my brother and sister and the times we shared together. He loved us without hesitation or reservation. He was a friend to many and was appreciated by them. They liked him and he enjoyed talking to people wherever he went.
     My goal has been to be the kind of man my father would have wanted for a friend. Loyal and steadfast in what I do, caring for others as unselfishly as I am able. I fall short at times, but I cannot let that deter me. I have an example to follow and build upon. I want to follow in my father's footsteps and be treasured and remembered by those who come to know, and perhaps love me.
     I want to be the son that makes my father proud. I think I've made a pretty good start.
     In remembrance of Benjamin C. Jarrell  1933-2001.

     A new and regular posting regarding what is good to read, watch etc.
     Today: Books.
--Noah's Compass by Anne Tyler. Her best novel in years about a downsized teacher who moves to a new apartment and is mugged on the first night of his residency. It's a story of adjustment and finally coming to terms with what is important to him, then finding his way forward into his retirement life. It is filled with her trademark warmth and simplicity, elegant in a familiar, commonplace way, including characters which are empathetic, stand-ins for our own struggles with life's questions and truths.
--The Kingdom of Ohio by Matthew Flaming. A highly readable literary novel of love, adventure, mystery and discovery. An antiques shop owner comes across a photograph in a box of 'junk' he's sorting and sees a familiar face staring out at him. The woman and he were separated under mysterious circumstances nearly a century before. Now he recounts a tale of lost history, lost love and an inexplicable shifting of time for he and the long-missing beauty. Read the first page and you'll fall in love with the prose, take the journey, step through the door. You won't be disappointed.
     More later.
     Take advantage of the dark, rainy, snowy, gloomy days of winter to explore fictional worlds of all kinds. There is much treasure in pages at your local bookstore and library.
     Books are essential.

      With the holiday break complete I can breathe again, rest more peacefully, and have energy to devote to creative endeavors and the life of the mind. The shopping season may take a toll on all participants. I love my work as a bookseller, but when I leave work during the December crush I am deflated and wrung out. Only rest, sleep and small doses of friends and family will help me refill my cup.
      I have never understood people who don't take time to contemplate anything. Some of my neighbors return to their rented homes and sit outside smoking, staring off into space. It's as if they are uncomfortable being alone with themselves. I find I need the time for myself, for reflection, pondering, creating, commenting, reviewing my actions and interactions or I don't feel fully engaged with my life and those around me. What we say and do, what we think matters whether we acknowledge it or not.
     This is why I was so caught up in the story and characters of the new James Cameron film Avatar.  The young marine Jake Sully arrives on the moon Pandora to start a new life after a crippling accident that cost him the use of his legs. During the course of the film Jake finds a new way of living, changing his outlook on the world at large and his own personal part of it. When Jake is (through an innovation of science) able to walk and run again his spirits soar as do our own. What could be better than regaining something precious that was lost? I could identify with this character because I have a dear friend who is confined to a wheelchair following his own devastating accident on a construction site. I know he would want to walk once more, if only to be able to work again, as the confinement of his injury limits his ability to engage in tasks employers find of value . Working and running, walking and jumping are things he would give almost anything to be able to do again. This character connection and my own friendship make the film resonate powerfully for me. The choices Jake makes opens the door for his restoration as a man and as a new being within his avatar, better than before, more fully engaged and alive. The same thing may happen to us when we take the time to get to know ourselves, our hearts, our actions and thoughts, contemplating the world we live in and how we interact with its' other citizens. 
     Never be afraid to know your own mind. You might transform yourself and your world with the insights you discover.

A masterful, dark fiction debut awaits you in early 2010. If you like well written tales of terror, things that try mens' souls and trouble their hearts and minds, this book fills the bill and then some.
Mr. Shivers by Robert Jackson Bennett is part literary novel and part nightmare landscape story melded together into an intoxicating brew of strong imagery, memorable characters and one of the nastiest sons-of-bitches villains to grace the pages of a dark fantasy novel. The depression-era story is reminiscent of the John Steinbeck novel, The Grapes of Wrath, without the politics. This story is about more than that. It is about the survival of mankind, struggling mightily against death since the dawn of creation and its' changing face over the span of millenia.
Connelly is a man who has lost his beloved daughter at the murderous hands of the title character. He is so overcome with grief he can think of no other recourse than to hunt down the deadly stranger and see him finished by any means necessary. As he journeys into the barren land of the drought-plagued plains he encounters several fellow travellers embarked on a similar mission. Each has a story to tell of a hideously scarred man who has stolen a precious life from them. They all seek to destroy this stranger as well.
There are many twists of plot and intriguing places visited by the journeyers as some join and others leave the quest for revenge against an elusive, mysterious enemy.
Ultimately the reader is rewarded with a rich tale that explores our own struggle with decay and death and a striving to stay ahead of the inevitable passing of all we know and understand.

Mr. Shivers by Robert Jackson Bennett, published by Orbit Books, 1/15/2010.

Illness is like being stuck in your very own snowglobe. You get to keep the misery to yourself.
3 sick days now and I miss not being in pain. I've been napping when possible and trying to relax. Pain killers don't seem to work for what ails me. I must soldier on without relief.
I've been reading an excellent debut novel, Mr. Shivers by Robert Jackson Bennett. It's the story of a cross-country trek by a group of people who've lost a loved one to murder at the hands of the title character who may be more than human. The depression era setting has the feel of a John Steinbeck novel, while the horror elements are reminiscent of Stephen King. The writing is vivid, precise and excellent, poetic without being flowery. Watch for it when it drops on January 15, 2010.
If you'd like to see an excellent adult drama at your local theater don't miss Jim Sheridan's new film, Brothers. The film has 3 strong lead performances from Tobey Maguire, Natalie Portman and Jake Gyllenhaal. The film you see is not the one they try to sell you in the trailer. No cliches here. Just powerful drama, terrific acting and a musical score that enhances the story.
Until next time...

I've chosen a new look for these jottings. Let me know what you think!

It is sunny, but cold here today. Thank you for the sun. Good to see it again. The wind chill makes it uncomfortable to go check the mailbox. Lucky for me the flag is up, signaling outgoing mail and I can save a trip and a shiver or two.
I'm happy for the weekend off. I have to pace myself for retail season. I'm not young anymore. I can only take so many annoying people per day. When I've had my limit I must bite my tongue for the rest of my shift, otherwise several of us won't be happy in proximity.
Reading has been spotty, per previously mentioned S.A.D. tendencies I experience/exhibit when it gets gloomy. I get gloomy and it gets hard for me to accomplish anything, even little things. As you may imagine writing isn't getting done either, but Dover Farm and its' people are never far from my mind.
When I return to this blog I hope to have much more to report. Take care of yourselves.

Above description is the geography of the Holiday shopping season. Learn it. Live it. You were warned!
Thanksgiving is the nice pause time. Citizens of Dover Farm are once more thankful their community was not swallowed up by some interdimensional apocalypse precipitated by talking statues, the menacing undead or 'souls' whose presence is difficult, if not impossible to explain.
The weather has done a number on my head. The gloom of cloudy, rainy weather makes me depressed and feeling a little crazy. I hate it.
More later, from Dover Farm...

     As the 'witching hour' approaches beware the scratching, clawing sounds coming from your windowsills. Don't look behind you and whatever you do, ignore the shadowy thing in the mirror standing just beyond the partially closed door. Terrors lurk everywhere at Dover Farm. We don't need to look for them. They can find us on their own. They know where we live and what we're afraid of.
     Have fun dressing up as one who has passed on. Put those terrors to rest with a bit of merriment. But don't become smug or complacent. We will all join the grinning bone brigade when our time is due. No one gets out alive. Least of all the citizens and friends of Dover Farm.
     Happy Hauntings!

     A loony schedule and way too much to do have kept me from blogging.
     I've now listened to the majority of CDs in The Beatles box set. I've enjoyed them, but wonder if their music isn't stronger as singles rather than album collections. Many good songs fill these grooves (or laser etchings to split hairs) but I still the remember the hair-raising time I first heard the single version of "Revolution." None of these albums have popped for me in their entirety as songs like "Yesterday," "Get Back," "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," or "Paperback Writer" still do to this day.
     I've rediscovered some of the most cherished friends of my life recently on Facebook. With the recent departure of close friends I am grateful for this new connection with people who already know and appreciate me in all my different facets and eccentricity.
     There is still plenty of writing to do. And publishers are sending me goodies from their Winter/Spring lists to be read and commented upon. A cowboys' work is never done.
     Do yourself a favor and read a great book. You pick the book. Buy it from a real bookstore. Real bookstores support communities, schools and libraries with fundraisers, book fairs, educator appreciation days, and donations for underpriviledged children. Amazon doesn't. When you order from Amazon you are taking money away from your local community. Education costs money. It is worth it to pay a little more and know others will be helped by what you do. Share what you love with other readers. Ideas are the backbone of our culture. Let's keep it strong.

     Yes Mark, you get credit for this reference. Now instead of employing it at the retail level it will go out via the web. The following pronouncements are my opinions. I have opinions and I am compelled to share them from time to time. I expect to have an entry like this on occasions where something or someone bothers me.
     So, here's the first one.

-Philip Roth's agent should stop planting items in the press every year about how the Nobel Committee is about to award him the Prize this year. I'm not a fan and neither are the members of the committee, or so it seems.
-NBC is committing commercial suicide by dumping their best new drama in years (Southland) prior to the start of it's sophomore season. Who cares if Dateline caught another predator or a philandering husband was plotting to murder his wife? Stories give us hope and illuminate our lives, and John Wells knows how to tell a great story. Who could forget the three terrific seasons of the Emmy-winning drama China Beach?
-Guy Ritchie mentions in a recent interview that he thinks ex-wife Madonna is "retarded". You just figuring that one out buddy?
-Jon and Kate Gosselin should go crawl back under the rocks they came out from and take an overdose of fertility drugs or something. It's a shame those kids have such self-obsessed morons for parents.
-Why hasn't someone told David Letterman it's ALWAYS a bad idea to sleep with women you meet at work. I know he's not good looking, but come on Dave. Can't you get someone to hook you up with ladies you won't have to pass in the hallway everyday, wondering if they've compared notes on your...ahem...comic stylings?
     The people at Dover Farm know better.

     Confession time. I am a pack rat of sorts. When it comes to books (all formats), magazines, newspaper clippings and book catalogs I hang onto things for a very long time. This tendency produces clutter, which in the end requires attention, lots of it. Right now I am devoting huge chunks of my valuable time to address this issue as some of my living space is brimming with clutter, nearly useless to me in its current form of unorganization. There is information both obsolete and useful all co-mingled with book reviews, manuscript fragments and notes, reading lists, phone numbers and new book release announcements for titles to appear during the big fall season of 2002.(!)
     Thusly occupied, I have been unavailable for reading and writing, which is motivating me to become much more organized and less clingy with this accumulation of stuff.  Next up will be a further pruning of my library. I own things I'll never read. Do I really think I'll get around to reading ten old novels by Dean Koontz which I've owned for over a decade? Not likely. Other examples abound.
     Wish me luck as I get my trash cans at the ready and make up bags for book donations to the local senior center. I cannot afford to allow my past acquisitions to hold me back from my future endeavors and achievements.
     The citizens and visitors of Dover Farm are counting on me.
     Lets all have a neat day.

     A bright, full moon hangs over the countryside tonight at Dover Farm. I have always enjoyed the sight of the moon above the trees and the houses. It somehow seems like the answer to a question buried deep inside my mind, but I don't know what the question is.
     I enjoyed lunch and a movie with my nephew today. We ate tacos and laughed at the antics and foibles of young Ellen Paige and her friends in the indie comedy Whip It. This is an enjoyable autumn escape about a young woman finding an identity for herself outside the boundaries her parents and friends perceive for her life.
     Also I worked on cleaning up my "office" area of accumulated junk and clippings, book lists, reviews etc. Things a curious mind likes to surround itself with that need to be purged and tamed once in awhile were worked at a bit. Accumulation takes time and so does the purging thereof.
     Nothing else to report right now. Work week starts in the morning. With a little luck I'll have time and an original thought or two to bring to the pages of the revision in progress.
     Hey! Do yourself a favor. Step outside and check out that moon.

     Silence from Dover Farm these past few days as I struggle through a season of sadness and grief. There have been personal issues to be dealt with. Also a close friend has relocated to another city and a much-appreciated former boss passed away during this week, making me less than sharp, enthusiastic or expansive about anything.
     My story is staring me down, the cursor asking "OK, what comes next" as if I know. The creative process is messy at times and I cannot think straight when other things are bothering me. I hope to begin sorting out my 'stuckness' with it starting again next week.
     One of my favorite things to do is read interviews with other writers. I just finished reading the October 2009 Locus interview with award winning author Connie Willis. I am now looking forward to the publication of her new novel, Blackout, a time travel book which will be published by Spectra in February 2010.
     More later, but not now. Even this citizen of Dover Farm is haunted by phantoms he is sometimes helpless to understand or deal with. The front has to pass before the weather can change. Right now I'm looking for that great, big sun.

     Some things are just too unusual to ignore. They become obvious fodder for an anecdote or inclusion in a piece of writing.
     While driving to the bank on my day off I went past a "junk" store which sells kitschy castoffs of another cultural (or subcultural) era such as wooden indians, cannons, plastic crabs, Elvis cardboard cutouts and other oddities. There was a pile of red flamingos lying in a heap inside a wire wood carrier on the sidewalk in front of this store. Their bright, deep color was what first attracted my eye. Maybe a factory mishap had gotten the pigmentation far beyond the standard pink for a lawn monstrosity to the bizarre red witnessed on the pavement. Do flamingos get sunburn? The other detail which was disturbing in a strange "what the hell is that?" way was the fact that each plastic bird had their heads covered by a clear plastic bag. It seemed as though I was witnessing a strange crime scene wherein this pile of asphyxiated, sunburned flamingos had been put out for all to see, some freakish example to any other criminally minded birds to stay away lest they get some of this medicine. Then the thought came to me, what would the asking price be for a red, dead flamingo and who would want to own such a thing? Imagine your front yard full of this cluster of strange birds (without screaming) and what glances and comments you might receive from all your neighbors. You might be wise to make sure before you give the birds a new home that your local hardware store isn't having a sale on pitchforks and torches.

     We read out of curiosity. A friend recommends a story, poem or book to us and we are inclined to check it out.
     I just finished reading The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury, which was recommended to me by a co-worker. It is a poetically rendered exploration of the origins of the holiday told in an almost hallucinatory manner combining historical events and legends and myths with genuine emotions of the neighborhood boys striving to reunite with a lost friend. The short novel is a cousin to the great valentine to a long lost American boyhood depicted in his classic novels Dandelion Wine and its sequel Farewell Summer.
     I also recently finished E.L. Doctorow's Homer & Langley, a wondrous character study of The Collyer brothers of New York City fame and notoriety, whose lives intersect with the arc of American history in their encounters with people from all walks of life as they are visitors and guests in the huge house which once stood on Fifth Avenue.
     Writers also write out of curiosity. A character introduces himself to us. Who are they? What do they want? What is their story? Who will care about them and their story? How can I find out their secrets, their stories? We write as an act of discovery. The revelation of the truth behind the questions is the essence of what we put on the pages. We continue to write because by our nature we are curious. We want our questions answered and we want to share what we find out with you the reader. We feed your curiosity by satisfying our own. All the reading and experiences we live feed our curiosity. It needs to grow and thrive so we can do the work we are compelled to do. By remaining curious and faithful to that curiosity we are made more alive and we feed our lives as artists. You might even say curiosity is the write stuff.

     Another 600+ words added to "Nest" yesterday. I'm happy with the number. A first draft represents raw material, a blueprint for going forward and building up. Without this foundation there won't be a story. The session was limited by other obligations, but that's OK too. I visited with a close friend who'll soon be moving away to another city. This was time well spent. Most likely there won't be a writing session today. I leave for work within the hour and have an early shift on Saturday. The ideas still are flying around in my head. The draft in progress gives me a springboard for all that is still to come. The project gains more momentum with every word added. I couldn't be more pleased.

     Breakthrough day. Mark it down. Non-writing inertia was beaten back and squealing away this afternoon as I enjoyed one of the most productive writing sessions in a very long time. I wrote 1,822 words for the first draft of the page 1 rewrite I'm doing on my 2005 Flannery O'Connor-esque short story, "Rise Up And Follow." The tentative title for the reworking/rewrite is "Nest." It won't share many common qualities with the original version. Yes it's first draft stuff and it'll need tinkering with, but that no longer bothers me. I'm discovering raw material and exploring story avenues for what I think will be one of my longest stories to date, and one I'm having fun writing. I hope it will turn out to be a joy to read as well. No estimates on when the work will be finished. I'm still shaking the rust off and I have to go back to work on Friday. Vacations don't last forever. Oh, but to have pages to peruse and perfect and cross out and redo! It's all good.
     I know I will sleep well tonight knowing that progress has been made on one of my creative goals. I'm still working towards the writers balance. In the meantime I bask in the glory of A Good Day.

     As the summer fades into a cloudy, humid muddle my thoughts churn on.
     I'm enjoying reading Homer & Langley by E.L. Doctorow, just published to mixed reviews but so what. The man is a masterful writer and this is a fascinating peak into a lost era of New York City history and culture as two orphaned brothers try to shut the world out of their lives and their home during the years following the Great War. This has drama and humor and terrific writing. Don't be put off by the small canvas he's chosen for his story. It is intricately crafted and worth the time to explore.these pages.
     My own stories continue to take shape, notes and sentences jotted. What I need to do is stare off into space for awhile and turn all of this over in my mind, finding more threads which will lead to middles and ends and more beginnings too. The merging of reality and imaginings that is the fruit of the afternoon nap may also lend a helping hand, the fever visions which allow the dead to rise, the impossible to take place, the unreachable be suddenly at hand. These dreams and imaginings will be the rope that I cling to that will lift my mind from the mundane, humid afternoon day I endure in front of my PC screen to places and peoples far away and ever near at Dover Farm.
    
Things I'm looking forward to in the next few weeks:
*Beatles box set, re-mastered recordings on CD
*South of Broad by Pat Conroy
*City Lights, starring Charlie Chaplin
*Angel Time by Anne Rice
*Last Night In Twisted River by John Irving
*Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin
*Threshold by Caitlin R. Kiernan
*The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown
*Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, starring Marilyn Monroe

     I don't know about you, but right now I could use a tall glass of sweet tea.
     More "Jottings..." to come.

     I must confess I still do not feel comfortable composing (writing) at the keyboard. I always wrote my pieces longhand until my carpal tunnel became so bad It was nearly impossible.to scribble even a few lines without hours or days with burning pain in my arms and fingers. Today I installed new ink cartridges for my printer, ran off my draft in progress to mark up and look over safely away from the screens' bright glare, and composed a letter to accompany a gift being sent out later this week.
     As I get to know my machinery I will be more relaxed getting into my stories and novels, Dover Farm located and otherwise. At present the piece which seems to want to bubble to the forefront is the rewrite of a Flannery O'Connor-like story I finished 4 years ago. I both like and dislike this one. I'm going to see if the idea can be expanded and morphed into a more threatening piece about man vs. nature as opposed to the current versions'  character driven juxtaposition of the storm aftermath and the muddled women at the shelter in way over their heads as they confront the unknown and unwanted.
     Watched the Who documentary, The Kids Are Alright and enjoyed it. I tried a terrific new ice cream flavor combo of something like Cone Commotion and Caramel Surprise made by Turkey Hill. I won't be losing any weight this week.
     I hope you visit me at Dover Farm again soon. My pages are calling to me. I've got to find out what these people want with me and what they want me to tell you about them. So keep a smile on your face, read something that engages your mind and listen to something wonderful and we'll meet up again back here for another visit.