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 |  It's who we are. It's what we stare at in the middle of the night. It's a bug zapper. |
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My friends, When we were young and newly hatched—also young and in love—my husband and I lived with our four young children on the Space Coast of Florida. The massive propulsion of rocket and shuttle launches from Cape Kennedy often rocked the windows and doors of our little love cottage. We were always properly respectful and impressed by the reach of mankind’s achievements. It was a point of pride to stop whatever we were doing (dishes, dinner, dancing, sleeping, fist fighting, etc.) to watch the eastern horizon—hands on hearts, tears in eyes—as the United States of America raced into the frontier of space. One deep, dark morning (about 2:00 am) I shook my husband awake to watch yet another triumph of human advancement. “Get up,” I mumbled to Sherwood, “the shuttle’s going up. We gotta’ watch.” Sherwood moaned, “The garbage is out all ready. Let me die.” He did not open his eyes. “Come on. We should watch. Night launches are amazing.” He dragged himself upright and clung to the window ledge behind our bed. We knelt, with our chins braced on the ledge, our bleary eyes fixed on a blazing light in the eastern sky. We watched. The light did not appear to move. We stared some more. The light remain fixed. We struggled to focus. The light blazed away. We waited for the light to fade into the blackness of space. It did not. We watched and watched and watched. The light stubbornly refused to move. At last, collapsing back into my pillow I said, “Honey, go back to sleep.” Sounding confused, miffed, and a little whiney Sherwood asked, “Why?” “Because for the last eight to ten minutes we’ve been staring at our next door neighbor’s bug zapper.” He went back to sleep. And I lived to worship at the altar of space exploration another day. This story pretty much sums up who we are, and how we got this way—excessive staring at bug zappers. And this is my blog, a space-age way of recording one’s thoughts, ideas, embarrassments, and foibles for the entire known world. Once upon a time, I would have made this record on papyrus, rolled it up, stuffed it into a ceramic jar, and asked to have the whole thing buried with me in my sarcophagus. I still might. Disclaimer: Some of the stuff you will read here is true. Some of it is not. Some of it is the result of wishful thinking. Some of it is the result of too much thinking, and some of it is the result of too little thinking. But all of it will be written with joy and laughter, because the alternative is despair and weeping, and isn’t there more than enough of that stuff out there? Thank you for your support, Linda (Zippity the Zapped) Zern |
| NOTE: I want to be a serious writer, and I want to be taken seriously. I do. I really do. I mean, I think that I really do. It’s just that the words get away from me sometimes and take on a silly life of their own and go bucking off across the page like rodeo broncos, making me sound like the mad woman of Kissimmee Park Road when she’s tied to the back of a convulsing horse that’s got its doodads tied in a knot. That’s the problem with being a writer, the words can be unruly and hard to tame. For example, it wasn’t until after I sent this email in response to an invitation sent out by the head of our English department that I questioned my own literary seriousness, dedication, and bronc riding sanity. Well Howdy Yourself, While I will not be able to attend the counseling session this evening, I would like to express a concern I have about the lack of a creative writing major at Rollins/Hamilton Holt. As a writer of serious stuff or a serious writer of stuff or a stuff writer of a serious nature, I openly mourn the lack of such a degree. Perhaps "openly mourn" is overstated; more correctly, I quietly grieve. Seriously, it is something of a conundrum. While the University of Central Florida, better known as UCF or U Can’t Finish, may have a creative writing major, it is a factory—a soulless, heartless, knowledge factory. Rollins College, on the other hand, is a lovely brick strewn statement of academic gentility that does not offer a degree in the fine art of the writing of the words. Sheesh! Every assignment that drags me away from my serious word writing is . . . mean . . . in my opinion, of course. And yet I press on, because my children are nags, and I love walking by the rose garden on my way to Orlando Hall and let’s not forget the bricks. Sincerely, Linda (Major-Minor) Zern Hamilton Holt Student and Thrill Seeker |
| The Internet is a marvelous work and a wonder. Except when it’s not. On one of the websites where I post my writing, people occasionally chime in, sound off, make comments, and post responses. These people do not identify themselves with their given names. They use online names or aliases such as “Hello Kitty Hat Hair” or “Dolphin Dew Dipper.” They often say complimentary and encouraging things about my writing. The problem is that I’m never sure if these people are real. I mean, it would be one thing if somebody with a name . . . oh . . . I don’t know . . . maybe, a name like Ray Bradbury commented on my recent essay about chupachabras by saying, “Nicely shaped paragraphs” or “lovely sentence length” or “good use of the article ‘the.’” Note: Yes, I know that my writing idol, Ray Bradbury, is dead. But still, how cool would that have been? Ray Bradbury would be one thing but when Dolphin Dew Dipper sends me a note saying, “You’re funnier than a monkey sitting on a power pole that may or may not be a chupacabra—the monkey, not the pole,” I tend to wonder if Dolphin Dew Dipper isn’t a Ukrainian chick trying to hack my computer in an attempt to get to my sensitive vital statistics. Or, that Dolphin Dew Dipper isn’t really my husband trying to get to my sensitive undercarriage—also vital statistics. I want to believe that people saying nice things are real. I do. But what if Dolphin Dew Dipper is really homeland security, because the word chupacabra is a codeword meaning ‘dirty bomb transport ship arriving from Pissport Nowhere?’ The subtext of which is, “Round her up, boys.” Or what if Dolphin Dew Dipper is my mortal, sworn enemy come back from my too trusting past to taunt me with manipulative, faux praise designed to soften me up for that Ukrainian hacker chick? See my problem? The Internet is a marvelous work and a wonder. Except when it isn’t. Who knows if anyone is who they say they is/are/was/were/am? But this much I do know. I know who I am, and that I really am who I am when I say that I am that. Even if sometimes I’m less of who I wish I was and more of what I could be, except when I’m not. Count on it. Linda (Zippity) Zern |
| Family Fairy Tall Tales Who knows how these stories begin? Someone mumbles something under his or her breath at Sunday dinner. Someone else gets bored and kicks the first someone under the table. There is mocking. Insults are traded, and before you can ask, “Is there going to be pudding?” a random mumble has become a favorite family fairy tale shrouded in adjectives and dolled up with frilly adverbs. These are the stories that become part of the collective family experience or as we like to say, “Raise your hand if you think dad really saw a monkey sitting on a light pole next to Interstate-4.” At the curve in the exit from the turnpike onto I-4, near the Millennial Mall, close to The Holy Land Experience, my husband swears he saw “something” sitting on top of one of the thirty-foot tall industrial light poles, looking at him. “Did you see that?” I remember he sounded breathless and breathy. “What? That hopeless snarl of urban petroleum fueled congestion snaking through the labyrinth of cement jungle that resembles a concrete purgatory.” I am a country girl. Cities make me itch. “No, on top of that light pole. Something sitting, with a face. Like maybe a squirrel. It looked at me.” I glanced over at the giant light poles lining the road. “That would be some squirrel. Are you sure you saw a squirrel? Why would a squirrel shimmy up a pole like that? I mean, what’s up there that a squirrel would want?” Traffic ground to a halt. We were on I-4, after all. I tried to imagine a squirrel with the kind of ambition required to sit on a pole, watching backed up traffic on the interstate. My husband seemed unhappy with my interpretation of events. “I said,” he began, “‘Like a squirrel.’ It had a face!” He was starting to sound miffed. “Babe, squirrels have faces, not big ones but eyes and stuff, sure. Faces absolutely.” “Bigger. It was looking at me. It had a face. A big face.” I squinted at the poles. They still looked really tall and smooth and hard to climb to the top of. “Maybe it was a monkey,” I offered. “Monkey’s have faces. And they’d be able to climb up a pole like that.” “A monkey! From where? Monkey town?” Now, I was getting miffed. Then I pointed. “From over there, those apartments behind the mall. Someone’s monkey got away. Climbed up a pole . . .” He made a rude noise. I doubled down on my theory. “And looked at you, with its face. Maybe it flew up there, because it’s a winged monkey.” “People in those apartments cannot afford a monkey. Now you’re just making fun. ” “No, if I said that I thought it was a chupacabra face looking at you from the top of a thirty foot light pole, that would be making fun. And how do you know those people cannot afford a monkey? Maybe they found a monkey. You’re a snob.” “It had a face and looked at me.” I made a rude noise. At Sunday dinner that week, I said, “So, Dad saw a winged monkey with a chupacabra face, sitting on top of one of the light poles next to I-4. Discuss.” And that’s how a family fairytale begins and grows and takes on a face of its own. Linda (Plain and Small) Zern |
| It was a once in a lifetime, dream-come-true cliché—a hunting trip for the men in our family through the wilds of Texas. It was a rugged, manly exercise in the production of testosterone. There were guns. There were animals sporting massive branching horns on their skulls. There were pop tarts. It was man heaven. Disclaimer: Unlike a bunch of city folks raised on Disney and PBS, we are country people. We know that ducks don’t wear pants, that ‘possums have the most teeth of any mammal on earth, and that given a chance, a Bald Eagle will carry off your pure bred puppy to feed to its chicks—piece by bloody piece. Mother Nature is a b . . . booger. Hunting is what animals do to animals, and if my biology teachers are right, well, then we’re animals. Right? Sherwood went hunting with Aric and Adam in Texas and shot a white stage (a kind of elk.) Two hundred pounds of meat came in the mail and went into my freezer. Delicious. Frankly, I’d have eaten the hooves if they’d sent those. The white stag’s mounted head came in a crate, on a semi—that stopped traffic on our street. The trucker, mumbling something about damage to the crate, insisted on cracking open the box. “Lady, the last time I saw something like that I was at a ski lodge,” he said. He wasn’t kidding. Unfortunately, we don’t own a ski lodge, and it’s been a real challenge finding just the right spot to hang, Attila the White Stag. “Not there. It’ll poke out the children’s eyes.” “You cannot hang it there. It’ll breathe down my neck during Sunday dinner.” “And if you hang it over the fireplace we’ll have to tear down the mantle so the horns don’t hit the roof.” So now it’s on the wall of our bedroom, staring at me. Or it was. Until yesterday, when Sherwood stumbling around in the dark looking for his pants, bent down and then stood up, smacking Attila the White Stag right off the wall. Attila tumbled down off the wall and stabbed Sherwood in the thumb with his enormous horns. I heard the unmistakable sounds of white stag violence and husband cussing, and jumped up out of a sound sleep screaming, “Oh no! It’s attacking!” The screaming escalated—mine! And that’s how Attila the White Stag continues wreaking revenge, beyond the grave. Linda (Elk Burgers) Zern |
| My first Mother’s Day was a celebration of sleeping baby atop Poop Mountain. Sherwood worked graveyard shift. He offered to “watch” the napping baby while I went to church. He didn’t mention that he would be napping while watching. It’s a little reported but true fact that napping babies wake up. Napping husbands who work the graveyard shift not so much. Our eight month old woke up. His father did not. Our eight month old, unable to rouse his father, entertained himself by sketching, smearing, wiping, trailing, painting, and possibly ingesting through his ear-holes—poop, his own. I came home from church to a Mother’s Day tribute of poop-encrusted child, napping—once again—on an artful poop mound. The nursery smelled like a scene from the movie Slumdog Millionaire. I cried. Three more children quickly followed. They also tended to poop. I cried a couple more times—off and on. They cried. Then they laughed and brought me wads of flowers ripped from the ground, trailing roots and dirt. I taught them to read the great books of their people, and sacrifice for the good of others, and dance the dance of duty versus personal fulfillment. Mostly, I raised them not so much to kiss me but to kiss their children. For this, I am accused by my silly, short-sighted, materialistic society to be a do-nothing, stay-at-home mom. I have nine grandchildren and if each of those children have spouses and produce four children . . . well, you do the math. That first kid, the poop artist, he grew up and went to the Amazon as a warrior. Then he went to Greece, and Spain, and Iraq, and Afghanistan and Texas as another kind of warrior. This Mother’s Day he sent me a zombie novel, a rifle, and a note: To the greatest survivor I have the honor of knowing. In this text lies a story of great adventure. Happy Mother's Day. From: Your Son--Stay Alert, Stay Alive! And I earned every word! By the way, I finished a five hundred page zombie novel in three and a half days and harvested a butt load of green beans from my garden, and pressure washed a chicken coop, and reached the twenty-five thousand word mark on a new book and . . . . try to keep up . . . would ya’. Linda (Barefoot and With Child) Zern ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Man, sometimes these college creative writing classes make me wish I’d been taken hostage by Somali pirates, offended to within an inch of my life, and saved by Seal Team Six. That would put the razzle in my creative writing dazzle. Let’s see; what have I got? Malignant cancer at twenty-six. Blah. Writing about cancer around here is the equivalent of writing yet another drink-drank-drunk tale of giggly good times and party trouble—mostly party trouble. Cancer is so pass'. Crap, I don’t know how to spell pass'. Okay, what else? When I was twelve we lived in the Bahamas in a two-bedroom duplex next to a croupier, and the woods burned down next to our side of the duplex while the Bahamian firemen watched. The croupier didn’t wake up; he worked nights, slept days. My dad worked as a “manager” at the one and only oil refinery on the island; that’s what he said. I think he was a spy. We lived in bathing suits. That’s probably where I got cancer. No murders. No mayhem, other than the fire. No vampires. A few mobsters with huge get-away-homes, but they never bugged us. My brother got poison oak. I stepped on a sea urchin. Next. I guess I could write about my dad shooting up crap, when I was a kid. He shot that Blue Heron, shot up the barn trying to kill rats, shot my calico kitten in front of me. That’s pretty poignant stuff. Creative writing classes eat that kind of crap up with a spoon, but I’m not sure what the point would be. He was quite the drinker, my dad. Started young, kept it up. Liked to wet the boar’s ball sack down with water and then shock him in the testicles with an electric cattle prod. Good stuff. Gritty. Raw. Honest. Horror and shock and the worst kind of uncertainty. Am I ready to take all that on? If I am, I’d better hurry, because I’m halfway to dead. I can write funny. Sure. But I’m no David Sedaris. Not gay. Chose DNA over New York City. Never did dope and I only use alcohol to clean my glasses. I’ve had to wipe my butt with a plane ticket before and cut bubble gum out of my husband’s bottom hair but nothing hip or cool or stoned. You can tell I’m not hip, because I used the word bottom instead of ass when talking about my husband’s ass. So, what else? Let’s see. I’ve only had one sexual partner in my entire life, and sure, he’s Super Man and adores me and we still can’t get enough of each other even after thirty plus years but the cutting edge of sexuality—hardly. No skeletons, no closets, although we have done “it” in a closet and a hayloft and . . . Okay, so I watched the Apollo rockets rumble towards the moon from my front yard in Titusville with all the other kids whose dads worked at the Cape, and I went to segregated schools in the South, once upon a bad old time. And I know a Polish woman with a tattoo she got when she was a small girl—at Auschwitz. I wrote a short story about her but the community college kids thought the story was about a woman who got old and saggy and her tattoo got ugly. Sigh. So I fell into the generation gap and drowned. Well, what did I expect; I have scars older than most of the students I go to school with. It’s not their fault. Maybe, the war stories? I could write about getting that phone call from Iraq, the one where my kid is so stoned on synthetic morphine, he can barely speak. But he’s fine he slurs and on his way home—just an accident. Don’t cry, Mom. The magnesium burns aren’t that bad, he tells me. And suddenly I’m learning more about magnesium flares than I care to know. Magnesium burns at 3200 degrees Fahrenheit. It can melt engine blocks. It melted his Kevlar body armor. It takes him five days, flat on his stomach to get home: Bagdad, Germany, D.C., Chicago and the world’s premier burn doctors telling him at every stop that he’s looking at skin graphs, potential infection, potential rejection, and months of hospitalization and therapy. But all along there have been prayers and fasting that have gone up to our God’s heaven like incense from the tabernacle in the wilderness of our afflictions. Finally he reaches Brook Medical Center in San Antonio where the doctor’s tell him, “SSG Zern, we can’t explain it, but you’ve begun to heal and healthy skin is growing over the third degree burns. We’re releasing you to the barracks to recuperate.” Ah, but that smacks of faith and religion and miracles and we all know how that plays in some circles. Damn. What I wouldn’t give for a good Somali pirate kidnapping. Okay, that’s it; I got nothing. Nothing to write about. **Grist: Ground grain. Something that can be turned to one’s advantage. |
| “I drowned one of the ducks.” It’s never a good sign when you start out the day by drowning an aquatic bird. What? I didn’t do it. Sherwood, my husband and boyfriend of thirty plus years, did. But it’s my fault. I told him what to do, just not often enough or clearly enough or slowly enough or enough. When I noticed that our four new ducklings ($3.99 at Tractor Supply) were starting to walk like Quasimodo, I jumped on the Internet, typed in “ducks lurching about like a character in a French novel”, eavesdropped on several duck blogs, and learned that ducklings being raised in giant rubber buckets occasionally fail to develop proper leg strength. Therapy to develop proper duck muscles included thirty minutes per day of swimming about in water of a sufficient depth. That’s what I told my husband. Thirty minutes. NOT – place ducklings in bucket of water and leave, until one drowns, remove remaining ducklings. Confess. When he confessed what had happened, I said, “You don’t listen.” He said, “Oh, I listen. I just don’t hear you.” In truth, Sherwood felt horrible about the accidently drowning. Especially in light of the fact that he’s been working on a state of the art duck pen, complete with antique iron tub and surrounding concrete decking. He’s been working on the duck pen for about a year, because his first duck construction efforts resembled the work of a drunken computer programmer and my husband, a computer programmer, doesn’t drink. Raising baby ducks has a learning curve like everything else, and duck farming ain’t for sissies. But like all learning curves it’s extremely helpful if hearing and listening become part of the duck therapy experience, before . . . . . . somebody has to die. Linda (Duck Out) Zern |
| Secrets of a Relapsed Shoe Shopper Or How to Think in Circles Being a girl beats being a sharp stick in the eye. I love being a girl. I love dressing up and makeup and hairdos and having long eyelashes. That’s how you know you’re a girl, if you have long eyelashes, but everyone knows that. Being a girl beats being someone who has to wear ugly shoes. Have you seen boy shoes? Plain. Flat. Cloned. Cow. Flesh. There, now you’ve seen boy shoes. I love being a girl, because the shoes are “too cha-cha for words.” Except that I’m not supposed to love shoes, because it’s wrong and vain and superficial and materialistic and . . . I only have two feet and . . .what do I need all those shoes for, and if God had wanted me to have 100 pairs of shoes He would have made me a centipede . . . and . . . So I went on the NO shoe-shopping wagon for months and months, but no one told me what a good job I was doing NOT buying shoes. In fact, no one mentioned my NOT buying shoes at all. It was highly anti-gratifying and kind of sad when no one sends me anything in the mail except the county, making sure that I know the government is trying to knock down every tree between my house and Macy’s. So then I overpaid the Macy’s credit card by a bit. What? It happens. Besides, I really don’t eat very much so I must have sent the food money to Macy’s department store, by accident. But then I realized that no one had patted my head and told me what a good girl I’d been for NOT buying shoes, and since I wasn’t comfortable with Macy’s having all of my food money in the form of a credit, and then there was this amazing spring shoe sale . . . So I bought four pair of shoes to eat up the credit on my account, but I went over by a couple of bucks, and now I owe Macy’s money for shoes, and that’s how I fell off the NO shoe-shopping wagon and landed on my feet, wearing a dynamite pair of Easter floral pumps. Linda (Too Cha-Cha for Words) Zern |
| Hey Boy Dudes and Girl Dudes, I found pot in my garage yesterday. I should end this communication right here. No, that would be cruelly unusual. Okay, so I found pot in the garage yesterday. I was throwing some storage boxes around, pretending to simplify and organize, when one of the box lids came loose. Stuff flew out. Bending, I scooped up a bit of desiccated leaves and seeds wrapped neatly in clear plastic wrap and tied with a blue twist tie. “What’s this?” I mumbled to no one in particular. I shook the bag in front of my face. Seeds jumped. “Wow, this sure looks like pot,” I said, also to no one in particular. Our cat, Charlie, meowed. I glanced at her with narrowed eyes and asked, “Charlie, are you smoking pot?” She meowed again, and that’s when I got paranoid. First, I made a mental note that the pot had flown out of the box belonging to the kid that I’ve always suspected of everything. Then I made phone calls. I called my husband, my best friend, my oldest daughter, and a drug awareness hotline. I also confronted the only kid at home, with the righteous flourish of an 11th century crusader. I said, “Sherwood, what’s the worst thing parents can find in their own home?” My husband said, “A used condom.” “No. Good answer, but wrong,” I corrected him. “The answer is pot. What should I do with it?” He said, “Sell it.” I hung up the phone and tried my best friend Mindy. I said, “I found pot.” Mindy said, “Really, where?” I said, “On top of some Mother’s Day cards and Boy Scout awards.” She said, “How much is there?” I said, “A nickel bag.” I actually used the words nickel bag. I don’t even know what that means. “What should I do with it?” I asked. She said, “Flush it.” I called Heather, the oldest daughter. “I found pot in the garage,” I said. “I think your dad is smoking pot.” Heather laughed—sort of. “What should I do with it?” First, she offered to take it to college and give it to her reprobate dancer friends, then she said, “Flush it.” I shook the plastic baggy at Maren, the youngest daughter, and said, “Is this yours? And is this why you’ve been in seventeen car accidents in two years?” Maren said, “Nope, I’m just a really bad driver. I don’t need marijuana to make it worse.” I asked, “What should I do with it?” “Smoke it,” she said. My paranoia grew. What if there was a kilo of pot hidden in the Christmas decorations? What if the neighbors were hiding their stash in our garage? What if the pot had been there awhile and we have been transporting it across state lines every time we moved? Would that make us drug mules or drug traffickers? Going into my super mom crime scene investigator persona, I started pawing through the suspect storage box. That’s when I found the plastic bag full of black cocaine. When Adam came home, I shook the pot and the black cocaine at him. “What’s this?” I accused. He took the plastic bags stuffed with drugs from me. He handed the bag of black cocaine back to me and said, “Well, this is dirt.” He handed the other bag back to me and said, “And these are grass seeds.” I shouted, “Exactly! Grass, marijuana, ganja, wacky tobaccy—DOPE.” He spoke slowly and clearly and said, “No, I mean grass like, ‘I’m going to mow the grass.’ It’s an object lesson from church. My Sunday school teacher gave it to me.” I stared at the pot and the black cocaine. He continued, “You know—seeds, fertile soil, faith, planting, harvest.” “Wow, that’s a relief. I thought our cat was smoking pot in the garage.” Adam laughed—sort of. That’s how my Monday went. Do I feel stupid? Gosh no. I feel I learned an important lesson—I know now who really loves me. Mindy really loves me, and Heather really loves me, because they told me to flush the drugs, thereby avoiding capture or death in a drug shoot-out. In contrast, Maren tried to get me hooked on drugs, and Sherwood tried to turn me into a drug pusher. Adam just tries to avoid me as much as possible. Have a great, drug-free week, Linda (Sell it, Flush it, Smoke it) Zern |
| “Wow! Was she good looking?!” I couldn’t decide if my husband was making an emphatic declaration or asking a question about the woman who had administered his lie detector test. It bugged me. “The deputy was good looking. Check. But what did she ask you?” “Everything.” There are times when holding a conversation with Sherwood, my husband of thirty plus years, is a bit like being in a police interrogation. “So give me an example of ‘everything,’” I prompted. Then I adjusted the interrogation room light to shine more squarely into his eyes. I was trying to pry information out of him about the lie detector test he had taken to qualify for the Osceola County Volunteer Mounted Posse. Kitty, his horse, has her lie detector test next week. “You know. Did I ever do drugs? Do I know any felons? Am I related to any felons? Is there anything in my past that I could have been arrested for and wasn’t? Any domestic violence? But this was before the actual lie detector test. We were just chatting.” “And . . .” I prompted. “And I said, ‘No, kind of, yes, possibly and does my wife throwing pancakes at me count?” I felt myself pale. “You ratted me out. How could you do that? You ratted me out to the Osceola county sheriff’s office. I can’t believe you.” He looked sheepish. “Did I mention that the officer was really good looking?” “Arrrggggg! But did you explain? There were extenuating circumstances and that it was justifiable pancake violence? That you were already playing softball nine days a week. That I had four little kids, six and under. And that you were wanting to join your seventeenth softball league? Did you? Did you? And that I just snapped and the pancakes were there on the griddle, and then they were in my hand, but I don’t remember how they got in my hand or when I started throwing them at you? And that Aric, who was all of six, yelled, ‘Incoming!!’ and then he dragged all his siblings to safety. And is it any wonder that he joined the Army? Did you tell her that part?” “Yes. Some. Not true. True. Hardly seventeen . . .” And that’s when I commenced to beating on him with a rubber hose. Actually, I’d like to join the Osceola Volunteer Mounted Posse myself, but I’m afraid I can’t pass the lie detector test, seeing as how I have a rather checkered past and all. Oh, I didn’t go streaking (naked) on motorcycles or anything like that the way MY HUSBAND DID but I have had a bit of an Irish temper and you know how those people can get. Linda (Hotcakes) Zern |
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