I thought it was bullshit too, the advice from old fathers, who had been at this for 20 some years. Time goes by as a snap, they would say. Time doesn't matter. You turn around and they are young adults, barely needing you. Maybe needing you even more, hard to say.
When she was born, to be quite frank, she looked like a yellow lizard. She was vaguely jaundiced. She was skinny. But my heart belonged, irrevocably, to her, as it had belonged to her brother before her and to her sister after her. We took her home on the third night after she was born, it was early February and it was snowing. Cold. We put her into her tiny snowsuit, that was large enough for her to swim in and took her home.
A few hours after we got her home, we became a little alarmed by her yellow color. She didn't look like a sunflower, or anything, she just looked yellow. So, I bundled her back into the car and took her to the Pediatrician who was on duty at the hospital who told me not to worry, she was fine. So we all began our lives together.
*snap*
She's 4 and eating my dinner with me. For years, I would come home late from work. Her mother would have my dinner set aside for me. She would come up and say "Whatcha' eatin', Dad-dy?"
"I'm eating my dinner."
"Can I haf some?"
Whereupon, I would sit her on my lap and we'd eat my dinner. I didn't have a meal to myself until she turned 6.
*snap*
She's 7 and it's her birthday party. Her hair is loose and flowing around her happy, smiling face. Surrounded by her friends, as she dances the freeze dance to "Who Let The Dogs Out?" You know, we never DID find out who did.
*snap*
She's 12 and her face is awash in tears as her mother and I tell them we are getting divorced.
*snap*
She's 14 and smiling in my parents' front yard, in Maine. Watching as her aunts, uncles and cousins, who she has not had much contact with, come home. Everyone gets a kiss, everyone gets a hug in our family.
*snap*
She turned 17 yesterday. She got her license today. She doesn't need her Dad as much. My heart is still irrevocably hers.
Happy birthday, Veronica. I love you.
Dad
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
Blathering and The Necropolis
I've got nothing I really want to write about today, yet, I feel that writing something is a must. Since last I wrote, I've begun very, very slow work on a novel. I've got some good ideas and characters and about the first chapter written. It looks like it will be a treasure hunt/mystery type affair around Manhattan. Having spent the last 4+ years going out to see Marcy in the Fort Washington section of Manhattan, I have lots of available locations.
So far, I'm looking at including The Cloisters, Yeshiva University, Times Square, a bar down on 9th Street that we visited once, MoMA and one or two others that have yet to be identified just yet. Marcy is going to be helping me write it, so this will be a fun sort of project. Although, at the rate I'm actually getting any writing DONE, it may be ready sometime around the turn of the century. Well, maybe the decade. Soon. Soonish, at any rate.
The plans are to write it, then self publish. Probably with an attendant podcast of the book. Similar to how Mike Bennett and Scott Sigler do things. Still, first, I have to write the bloody thing. With that said, I am going to put my story "The Necropolis" here for you to read. It needs some editing, but not much. Feel free to comment.
- Reticent Blatherer
This story came to me along time ago and has been banging around in my head. If you drive up the Garden State Parkway, North, toward I280 (At the time of writing, between exit 143 and 145) you will come across a graveyard on both sides of that highway. It stretches almost as far as you can see. In New Jersey, of course, that isn't very far. I never found the place particularly dark, but it did inspire this.
The Necropolis
Andrew J. Rowland
Most people would balk at the idea of buying a house next to a cemetary. My wife and I, though, found theneighbors to be quiet and the scenery picturesque. It was a magnificent Victorian or Edwardian house next to thegraveyard. At one point, I suppose, the house had been part of the graveyard's sextant quarters. Perhaps the vicar of the nearby church had lived there. We had no idea, really. Alas, in the intervening years, the church had shrunk in congregants and, needing the money, the church had sold the house. Depending, instead on having a traveling vicar to tend the local flock.
Be that as it may, my wife and I were more than happy to purchase the house. Which had been empty for some time. As I said, most don't like to live so close to the constant reminder that all flesh is dust. One happy, Spring day, she and I put down the payment and happily signed away our lives to buy the two story house. With theMaster Bedroom Veranda that overlooked what we came to, jokingly, call "The Necropolis". The City of the Dead.
It was beautiful in Spring. Spring, with the fresh grass and aptly named forget-me-nots peeking up through the new melting snow. Which would cup the gravestones, old and new, in its snowy embrace, the ice dripping down thefacings of the stones. It was marvelous in Summer. Summer, with the smell of fresh cut grass, the deep green ofthe trees, and the fresh scent of daisies, roses and lillies of the relatives coming to pay their respect to their dead. Fall, of course, meant Halloween. We got no Trick or Treaters due to our proximity to The Necropolis, to my wife's dismay. Children and their parents do not understand,or want to understand,though. Winter brought the humped snow across the stones and then it began again.
We were happy, although we had no children. That blessing was denied us. In those days, there was no such thing as In Vitro or anything else. We merely went on. Cherishing each other and our life. We continued to be happy. Could we have adopted? I suppose so. It didn't occur to us, to be quite honest. To quote F. Scott Fitzgerald "So we beat on". Life went from year to year. We grew older as people are wont to do. Happy in our lives. Happy with each other.
I don't remember when I first noticed them, to be quite truthful. I do remember it was evening. I was sitting on theveranda outside the bedroom, enjoying a beer and a smoke when I noticed the woman. She was simply standing there. In the middle of The Necropolis. Looking south. I couldn't see her face, although her body was quite solid, as near as I could tell. I turned to call my wife, but by the time I turned back, the figure was gone. Feeling like a fool, I told my wife, never mind, I must have imagined it.
The next day, I saw the grave diggers. In the same general area as I saw the woman. The pair of them dug thegrave in the morning. In the afternoon, the funeral came. The diggers returned afterward and filled in the grave. A few weeks later, the stone went up. These things take time, after all. I watched it all from the veranda and pondered.
The years went on. I saw a few of these people. Just standing, looking some direction or another. The next day,the gravediggers would show. The funeral would happen. The grave would be filled. The stone would be put up. Life, and death, went on.
I had no warning when she went. I came home from work one day and the love of my life was lying in the middle ofthe kitchen floor, dead. Cold. I tried to revive her, but it was futile. I raged. I cried. Later, they told me that it was an aneurysm. Something in her head let go and took her away from me. Random chance. Uncaring gods. Uncaring sky.
I was, needless to say, devastated. Friends tried to console me and I let them. Companionship is good. Loss shared is loss lessened, or so they say. I never really found it to be like that. After some, respectful amount of time, they tried to pair me with others. I politely declined. My Aphrodite was gone. My goddess of Love. My Heart. How could you replace her with Lulu Belle from down the corner? The short answer was: You couldn't and you cannot. I was never rude, I was just uninterested. They never stopped trying, though, bless them.
I put her in The Necropolis, of course. Where else? A nice place, close to the house. She was laid out in her finest silk and satin. Her hair had greyed over the years, but her luster did not fade for me. I put her favorite red ribbon in her braided hair. Then, I closed the box over her face. Let the mortician lock it with that key he had andthe procession of her friends and mine laid her to rest where I could see her.
In the Spring, the snow melted around the stone. The summer, I made sure to plant daffodils on her site. Her favorite flower. I didn't bother with the other flowers, although I would sometimes bring callalillies. It was somewhat of a joke between us. Some god awful movie with Lucille Ball and some woman, famous I'm sure, who would talk about "The callalillies being in bloom." Nights, I would take a bottle of whiskey up to the veranda with me. Smoke and sip bourbon and talk to her as if she was still with me. Of course, she was, but people don't understand.
Over the intervening years, I would, of course, see the figures standing in The Necropolis. Facing this way, or that. The next day, the Diggers would show. The grave. The funeral. The stone. So we beat on. I would smile at theperson standing in the Necropolis, if they were faced my way. Raise a glass to them. Never got a response but I did it anyway. Then, I would stumble my way to our bed and sleep.
Then, one night, I sat on the veranda and saw her. Standing next to her spot. Her stone. Looking at me. Me. There was a smile on her lips, ghostly, of course. What else would it be? Her eyes were bright and I could almost see the hint of blue that I remembered when she was in our bed. Her braid was unraveled in my mind, perfect in thespirit. I raised my glass to her and she grinned at me.
I took a drag of the cigarette, drained from my glass and looked at her. She looked back. That smile. Gods, that smile. I finished the smoke. She looked devilishly at me. I laughed and went to bed.
So far, I'm looking at including The Cloisters, Yeshiva University, Times Square, a bar down on 9th Street that we visited once, MoMA and one or two others that have yet to be identified just yet. Marcy is going to be helping me write it, so this will be a fun sort of project. Although, at the rate I'm actually getting any writing DONE, it may be ready sometime around the turn of the century. Well, maybe the decade. Soon. Soonish, at any rate.
The plans are to write it, then self publish. Probably with an attendant podcast of the book. Similar to how Mike Bennett and Scott Sigler do things. Still, first, I have to write the bloody thing. With that said, I am going to put my story "The Necropolis" here for you to read. It needs some editing, but not much. Feel free to comment.
- Reticent Blatherer
This story came to me along time ago and has been banging around in my head. If you drive up the Garden State Parkway, North, toward I280 (At the time of writing, between exit 143 and 145) you will come across a graveyard on both sides of that highway. It stretches almost as far as you can see. In New Jersey, of course, that isn't very far. I never found the place particularly dark, but it did inspire this.
The Necropolis
Andrew J. Rowland
Most people would balk at the idea of buying a house next to a cemetary. My wife and I, though, found theneighbors to be quiet and the scenery picturesque. It was a magnificent Victorian or Edwardian house next to thegraveyard. At one point, I suppose, the house had been part of the graveyard's sextant quarters. Perhaps the vicar of the nearby church had lived there. We had no idea, really. Alas, in the intervening years, the church had shrunk in congregants and, needing the money, the church had sold the house. Depending, instead on having a traveling vicar to tend the local flock.
Be that as it may, my wife and I were more than happy to purchase the house. Which had been empty for some time. As I said, most don't like to live so close to the constant reminder that all flesh is dust. One happy, Spring day, she and I put down the payment and happily signed away our lives to buy the two story house. With theMaster Bedroom Veranda that overlooked what we came to, jokingly, call "The Necropolis". The City of the Dead.
It was beautiful in Spring. Spring, with the fresh grass and aptly named forget-me-nots peeking up through the new melting snow. Which would cup the gravestones, old and new, in its snowy embrace, the ice dripping down thefacings of the stones. It was marvelous in Summer. Summer, with the smell of fresh cut grass, the deep green ofthe trees, and the fresh scent of daisies, roses and lillies of the relatives coming to pay their respect to their dead. Fall, of course, meant Halloween. We got no Trick or Treaters due to our proximity to The Necropolis, to my wife's dismay. Children and their parents do not understand,or want to understand,though. Winter brought the humped snow across the stones and then it began again.
We were happy, although we had no children. That blessing was denied us. In those days, there was no such thing as In Vitro or anything else. We merely went on. Cherishing each other and our life. We continued to be happy. Could we have adopted? I suppose so. It didn't occur to us, to be quite honest. To quote F. Scott Fitzgerald "So we beat on". Life went from year to year. We grew older as people are wont to do. Happy in our lives. Happy with each other.
I don't remember when I first noticed them, to be quite truthful. I do remember it was evening. I was sitting on theveranda outside the bedroom, enjoying a beer and a smoke when I noticed the woman. She was simply standing there. In the middle of The Necropolis. Looking south. I couldn't see her face, although her body was quite solid, as near as I could tell. I turned to call my wife, but by the time I turned back, the figure was gone. Feeling like a fool, I told my wife, never mind, I must have imagined it.
The next day, I saw the grave diggers. In the same general area as I saw the woman. The pair of them dug thegrave in the morning. In the afternoon, the funeral came. The diggers returned afterward and filled in the grave. A few weeks later, the stone went up. These things take time, after all. I watched it all from the veranda and pondered.
The years went on. I saw a few of these people. Just standing, looking some direction or another. The next day,the gravediggers would show. The funeral would happen. The grave would be filled. The stone would be put up. Life, and death, went on.
I had no warning when she went. I came home from work one day and the love of my life was lying in the middle ofthe kitchen floor, dead. Cold. I tried to revive her, but it was futile. I raged. I cried. Later, they told me that it was an aneurysm. Something in her head let go and took her away from me. Random chance. Uncaring gods. Uncaring sky.
I was, needless to say, devastated. Friends tried to console me and I let them. Companionship is good. Loss shared is loss lessened, or so they say. I never really found it to be like that. After some, respectful amount of time, they tried to pair me with others. I politely declined. My Aphrodite was gone. My goddess of Love. My Heart. How could you replace her with Lulu Belle from down the corner? The short answer was: You couldn't and you cannot. I was never rude, I was just uninterested. They never stopped trying, though, bless them.
I put her in The Necropolis, of course. Where else? A nice place, close to the house. She was laid out in her finest silk and satin. Her hair had greyed over the years, but her luster did not fade for me. I put her favorite red ribbon in her braided hair. Then, I closed the box over her face. Let the mortician lock it with that key he had andthe procession of her friends and mine laid her to rest where I could see her.
In the Spring, the snow melted around the stone. The summer, I made sure to plant daffodils on her site. Her favorite flower. I didn't bother with the other flowers, although I would sometimes bring callalillies. It was somewhat of a joke between us. Some god awful movie with Lucille Ball and some woman, famous I'm sure, who would talk about "The callalillies being in bloom." Nights, I would take a bottle of whiskey up to the veranda with me. Smoke and sip bourbon and talk to her as if she was still with me. Of course, she was, but people don't understand.
Over the intervening years, I would, of course, see the figures standing in The Necropolis. Facing this way, or that. The next day, the Diggers would show. The grave. The funeral. The stone. So we beat on. I would smile at theperson standing in the Necropolis, if they were faced my way. Raise a glass to them. Never got a response but I did it anyway. Then, I would stumble my way to our bed and sleep.
Then, one night, I sat on the veranda and saw her. Standing next to her spot. Her stone. Looking at me. Me. There was a smile on her lips, ghostly, of course. What else would it be? Her eyes were bright and I could almost see the hint of blue that I remembered when she was in our bed. Her braid was unraveled in my mind, perfect in thespirit. I raised my glass to her and she grinned at me.
I took a drag of the cigarette, drained from my glass and looked at her. She looked back. That smile. Gods, that smile. I finished the smoke. She looked devilishly at me. I laughed and went to bed.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Something to eat!
My partner and I went to the Green Markets in NYC yesterday. Spent the morning roaming around. Originally, we were going to get the ingredients for ratatouille, but there was no zucchini to be had. So, I had a thought, why not make a vegetable stew? Better, let's cook it in a small pumpkin. Thus this recipe was born.
My partner is vegan and is also on something called Dr. Fuhrman's Diet, so there is no salt or oils added to this recipe. You can, as with any recipe, adjust to your taste.
Reticent Blatherer's Vegan Pumpkin Stew.
5 pound sugar pumpkin
1 small eggplant
1 large piece of garlic
1/2 pound of fingerling potatoes
1 small winesap apple
1 medium small onion
1 tomato
1 teaspoon each of ground cumin, ground allspice and ground black pepper
Open the pumpkin and remove the seeds. Remove about a half of the meat inside the pumpkin and set aside. Cut all the ingredients up and mix them together with the spices and pumpkin meat. Place it all back into the pumpkin and put the top on (probably won't go). Wrap it up in foil and bake in a 250 degree oven for 3 hours.
-Reticent Blatherer
My partner is vegan and is also on something called Dr. Fuhrman's Diet, so there is no salt or oils added to this recipe. You can, as with any recipe, adjust to your taste.
Reticent Blatherer's Vegan Pumpkin Stew.
5 pound sugar pumpkin
1 small eggplant
1 large piece of garlic
1/2 pound of fingerling potatoes
1 small winesap apple
1 medium small onion
1 tomato
1 teaspoon each of ground cumin, ground allspice and ground black pepper
Open the pumpkin and remove the seeds. Remove about a half of the meat inside the pumpkin and set aside. Cut all the ingredients up and mix them together with the spices and pumpkin meat. Place it all back into the pumpkin and put the top on (probably won't go). Wrap it up in foil and bake in a 250 degree oven for 3 hours.
-Reticent Blatherer
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Riding the storm out
Two weeks ago, the promised "superstorm" finally hit the New York Metro area. Much of the Jersey shore is damaged, some of it is gone. A week after that, a nor'easter hit the same coastline. Many people who had gotten their power back after Sandy were again plunged into cold and darkness. While my house did fine, it's on a hill and no big trees around, I lost power for four days after the hurricane and another two or three after the snowstorm.
There are many kinds of storms that interrupt our lives. There are the physical ones, of course, then there are the more subtle ones that people observing you may not even know are happening to you. People looking at you from the outside may see you as happy and outgoing. They may see you smiling. They may see you laughing. They never, ever, see the shadow over your shoulder. Bankruptcy. Insolvency. Thoughts of suicide. Crippling depression and anxiety. Fear of failure. Failing others and much worse, to fail yourself.
This has been brought home to me again and again in my life. There is a thin, almost porcelain veneer that most of us have over the inner us. A barrier that others are rarely allowed into. A barrier that shatters if it is examined to closely. A barrier that shatters if the wearer moves too quickly. In that shattering, all the pain and angst inside are laid bare to a psychic barrage of lemon juice and salt: fear and self loathing.
So how does the person inside the porcelain mask deal with this kind of life? As best as you can. You take better life through chemistry. That is limited, of course, and the finding of the right cocktail is it's own form of hell. The short answer is that you "Do the things that you know you have to do". You force yourself to get up. You force yourself to bathe. You force yourself to look like you give a flying fuck. Maybe you can convince yourself, too. You have to convince others.
You look to the others. The ones that have glimpsed behind that veneer and not been disgusted by what is seen there and run shrieking into the night. You hold onto them like a drunk holds onto a light pole, staggering home after a bender. You care for them, because they care for you. You dig yourself out.
Depression is an illness of management. Depression is insidious. I won't lie to you, it is a curse. A curse that not many understand. A curse that has brought us some of our greatest literature. A curse that has brought us some of our greatest tragedies.
-Reticent Blatherer
There are many kinds of storms that interrupt our lives. There are the physical ones, of course, then there are the more subtle ones that people observing you may not even know are happening to you. People looking at you from the outside may see you as happy and outgoing. They may see you smiling. They may see you laughing. They never, ever, see the shadow over your shoulder. Bankruptcy. Insolvency. Thoughts of suicide. Crippling depression and anxiety. Fear of failure. Failing others and much worse, to fail yourself.
This has been brought home to me again and again in my life. There is a thin, almost porcelain veneer that most of us have over the inner us. A barrier that others are rarely allowed into. A barrier that shatters if it is examined to closely. A barrier that shatters if the wearer moves too quickly. In that shattering, all the pain and angst inside are laid bare to a psychic barrage of lemon juice and salt: fear and self loathing.
So how does the person inside the porcelain mask deal with this kind of life? As best as you can. You take better life through chemistry. That is limited, of course, and the finding of the right cocktail is it's own form of hell. The short answer is that you "Do the things that you know you have to do". You force yourself to get up. You force yourself to bathe. You force yourself to look like you give a flying fuck. Maybe you can convince yourself, too. You have to convince others.
You look to the others. The ones that have glimpsed behind that veneer and not been disgusted by what is seen there and run shrieking into the night. You hold onto them like a drunk holds onto a light pole, staggering home after a bender. You care for them, because they care for you. You dig yourself out.
Depression is an illness of management. Depression is insidious. I won't lie to you, it is a curse. A curse that not many understand. A curse that has brought us some of our greatest literature. A curse that has brought us some of our greatest tragedies.
-Reticent Blatherer
Monday, September 24, 2012
Roller Derby
About six months ago, my oldest daughter came and asked me if she could participate in roller derby. You did read that right, the sport that my tiny grandmother used to crowd to the rail and yell at people back in the 1960s has experienced a resurgence, I think mainly because of the Drew Barrymore movie "Whip it". The story of a young woman who learns "Derby" and comes into her own. I am willing to admit that I'm wrong, that's just where I heard about it from.
So, I made inquiries and learned that, indeed there was a Roller Derby league in the area, The Jersey Shore Roller Girls, but that you had to be 18 to join. My daughter was a disappointed 16, so we let it go for a while. A few months later, she called to tell me that JSRG had formed a junior league and could she please join. She gave me the big brown eyed look so we went. Then we went and dropped a lot of money on padding.
I wasn't sure what to expect from these women. I remember the Derby that my grandmother watched. The women who participated, I remembered as bruisers. Nothing really very feminine about them (Please keep in mind that, I was six, so this would be 1968. Memory tends to muddle things.) and the sport was ROUGH!
As I recall it, there were waist high railings around the entire ring. It was elevated from the center. The only rule seemed to be to absolutely DESTROY the other team. Elbows seemed to be the weapon of choice. It was not unusual for women to go flipping over the rails into the chairs behind and be pummeled by the little old ladies in the audience beyond, with their purses. I was letting my daughter get involved in this?
Well, it turns out that it has changed considerably since those days. The ring is now flat, not elevated. There are rules about using your elbows (It's frowned upon). It's still a full contact sport, mind you, but it seems to be, at least somewhat, sane. I don't understand the rules. I'm not even going to try to explain what I *do* know because I'm sure that, as soon as I publish this blog, one of the JSRG will fill me in.
Let me tell you the biggest and nicest surprise about the league: The women are not bruisers. Off the ring, they're not even mean. They're delightful women. The sport gives them self confidence and pride. They have jobs during the day as well: Teachers, Legal Secretaries, Moms, you name it. I have not met one, yet, that I didn't get along with and actively like. They also nurture the Junior girls. I've watched my daughter grow in confidence and bearing. It's an amazing thing.
Now the younger one wants to do it as well. When her arm heals from the spill she took trying to do something called a "plough stop", with no padding and the wrong kind of skates: we'll discuss it.
Reticent Blatherer
So, I made inquiries and learned that, indeed there was a Roller Derby league in the area, The Jersey Shore Roller Girls, but that you had to be 18 to join. My daughter was a disappointed 16, so we let it go for a while. A few months later, she called to tell me that JSRG had formed a junior league and could she please join. She gave me the big brown eyed look so we went. Then we went and dropped a lot of money on padding.
I wasn't sure what to expect from these women. I remember the Derby that my grandmother watched. The women who participated, I remembered as bruisers. Nothing really very feminine about them (Please keep in mind that, I was six, so this would be 1968. Memory tends to muddle things.) and the sport was ROUGH!
As I recall it, there were waist high railings around the entire ring. It was elevated from the center. The only rule seemed to be to absolutely DESTROY the other team. Elbows seemed to be the weapon of choice. It was not unusual for women to go flipping over the rails into the chairs behind and be pummeled by the little old ladies in the audience beyond, with their purses. I was letting my daughter get involved in this?
Well, it turns out that it has changed considerably since those days. The ring is now flat, not elevated. There are rules about using your elbows (It's frowned upon). It's still a full contact sport, mind you, but it seems to be, at least somewhat, sane. I don't understand the rules. I'm not even going to try to explain what I *do* know because I'm sure that, as soon as I publish this blog, one of the JSRG will fill me in.
Let me tell you the biggest and nicest surprise about the league: The women are not bruisers. Off the ring, they're not even mean. They're delightful women. The sport gives them self confidence and pride. They have jobs during the day as well: Teachers, Legal Secretaries, Moms, you name it. I have not met one, yet, that I didn't get along with and actively like. They also nurture the Junior girls. I've watched my daughter grow in confidence and bearing. It's an amazing thing.
Now the younger one wants to do it as well. When her arm heals from the spill she took trying to do something called a "plough stop", with no padding and the wrong kind of skates: we'll discuss it.
Reticent Blatherer
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Welcome
Another try at a blog for me. I haven't actually kept one up since March of 2008. Reticent Blathering was a rambling discourse on the progress of my divorce. With the divorce done, I didn't feel any need to keep the blog up. So now, I'm going to try this one.
The title comes from one of my partner's co-workers. A woman who used to be a professional baker and is now a fund raiser who fancies herself a database expert. During our conversation, I was asking about this worker's blog and suggested it was called "Baked Goods And Bad Data". Realizing that that wasn't, in fact, the title of her blog, I snatched it up.
Here we are. I hope to include in this thoughts, pictures, philosophies and maybe some short fiction I've written. I hope you enjoy. Feel free to comment.
Reticent Blatherer
The title comes from one of my partner's co-workers. A woman who used to be a professional baker and is now a fund raiser who fancies herself a database expert. During our conversation, I was asking about this worker's blog and suggested it was called "Baked Goods And Bad Data". Realizing that that wasn't, in fact, the title of her blog, I snatched it up.
Here we are. I hope to include in this thoughts, pictures, philosophies and maybe some short fiction I've written. I hope you enjoy. Feel free to comment.
Reticent Blatherer
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)