Debi Davis – Letter from a Friend

I have rowdy cousins. And there are, like, a zilllion of them. Breeders, we are. Rabbits. There are so many of us that we would have to rent a hockey arena for a family reunion.

The  title of rowdiest and rabbitiest cousins must go to the five Gough sisters. They are brilliant and gorgeous and outspoken, and yappy as summer days are long. They are like a flock of exotic, garrulous birds and I have admired and envied them my entire life. I'm sure they must be as dysfunctional as the rest of us, but what they do have is a sorority sisterhood of genuine and unbridled affection that makes mere mortals feel lucky to be in their presence. Like beautiful, confident women everywhere, they glow.

Debi is the oldest of the Gough sisters and she lives just up the road from me. She is whip-smart with a cracking-sharp sense of humour, a fervoured commitment to her family and her community (she was named 'Woman of the Year' a while back) and, I dunno, a deep-seated connection to her roots. I look at Debi and I see our beautiful mothers, Dorothy and my Auntie Ellen; I see our grandmother Hazel, and I even see Great Grandma Pratt. Our faces are cast from the same mold. I see her, and I see me. I see the women who came before us, and I see the faces of our children.

Honestly, though, it's a damned wonder we can see anything. Apparently we're all as blind as fecking bats.

Hello Cuz

We are all enjoying your letters from friends. Here's my addition to the project.

The cataract problems we have must be from our forefathers; you, Karen, Mom, Dot, Uncle Chaz and me; that's proof that either the Hooper or Pratt lineage is tainted. (Editor's Note: I always suspected it.)

I remember the first time my optometrist said, "You have cataracts growing in both eyes, and we'll have to watch them." 

I said, "Are you kidding me? I'm only 42!" 

"This is not uncommon" he said gently, "you probably won't need to worry until you're 60 or so." That sounded better and I forgot about it, really.

Then came the bungee cord incident.

You may or may not know, Cath, that we sisters, our daughters and our friends have been attending curling bonspiels for almost 30 years. We go to Minden and Acton (known locally as the armpit of the world), usually in March, and we take two or three teams. (It's a girl fest, really.)

Anyway, 5 or 6 years ago, we were going to Acton (because it's "worth the drive to Acton"). I had been asked to take a friend of a friend (never met the girl before and I have trouble remembering her name) and drop her off at the airport in Toronto along the way. No problem said I, we love to have company.

So I picked her up – let's call her Cindy – and we headed south. First stop was Barrie to pick up sister Jackie, then we would pick up friend Jane at the kiss and ride parking lot at Hwy 9 before we dropped Cindy at Pearson then on to Acton. (Whew, that's the set-up.)

So Cindy and I landed at Jackie's house in my beautiful white pickup truck. Cindy sat in the truck while Jackie and I started to load her things into the back. I had a huge Rubbermaid box in the back to keep things from flying out. It had two bungee cords holding it closed. You guessed it – when I attempted to remove the cords, one of them flew out of control and whacked me with the metal curved thingy across the nose, narrowly missing my eyes!

I was bleeding like a stuck pig, Cindy was totally unaware and Jackie was in the house getting more stuff to load. I held my hands to my face and ran into the house and held my face over the kitchen sink as the blood poured out. "What the F---?" said Jack. Then she handed me a towel full of ice and I clamped it over the wound.

So we loaded into the truck in front of an astonished Cindy and Jackie headed for the nearby Urgent Care Clinic. My right eye seemed fine but we had no idea if I had hit my left eye, we were afraid to look.

As we backed out of the driveway I had a glimpse of the street ahead. Jackie was watching over her shoulder. Good thing, because 4 or 5 doors down I saw a cat get hit by a car! 

"Don't look Jack, just drive." I said to Jackie the cat lover. 

"What the F----?" and the tears rain down her cheeks but on she drove. Cindy remained silent and aghast. Meanwhile Jane was waiting for us at Hwy 9 and the 400.

When we got to the Urgent Care Centre, I was triaged and asked to wait. Jackie called Jane who said "I'm on my way." The blood flow seemed to be stopped and the ice appeared to be slowing the swelling.

The handsome young doctor took one look at me and said, "You're lucky you did not lose an eye." Well no sh-- Sherlock. He did not even need to stitch the gash on the bridge of my nose. He gave me a band aid and a speech about the dangers of bungee cords and I headed for the lobby full of Jackie, the newly arrived Jane and poor unknown Cindy. Undaunted and not willing give up anymore time we headed to Pearson, Jane driving because we went back to Jackie's and switched my truck for Jane's Yukon.

I spent the weekend as the official drink handler and took many jibes about my raccoon eyes and "you're lucky you didn't lose an eye." We did not tell any husbands till we went home Sunday afternoon. As usual a good time was had by all.

That's a long way around to the cataract story but, you see, my left cataract became a rapidly growing one and had to be replaced last spring. Funny, when the optometrist and the ophthalmologist asked me if I had ever been hit in that eye, I totally forgot the bungee cord incident, until about 2 days after the surgery.

There is no moral to my story, just a recommendation: let the men use bungee cords.

Yours truly,

Cuzin Debi,

Hooterville ON

P.S. – love to that hunka hunka burnin' luv. 

Sharp objects

John Wiswell wanted me to pose with the sharpest object in my house. Well, Wiswell (get it? Well, Wiswell? heh) the sharpest objects are outside my house. Remember that kid in The Christmas Story that got a BB in his eye and blamed it on an icicle? I was reminded of that kid today. I was thinking that maybe posing with an icicle pointed at the eye that had surgery two days ago is not the smartest idea I ever had. There was no one around to take these photos so I improvised. This photo? It was meant to be a full frame of my face and the icicle. You can see how that worked.

So I thought, maybe I'll take a picture of my reflection with the icicle. In the first pose I just stood there. It wasn't too exciting so this time I lifted my leg in the air and leaned to the left. I think this pose is so much more dramatic, although in hindsight I realize it looks like I'm peeing on the kitchen table.

At first I thought I looked like Paul McCartney in this photo. That was a couple of hours ago. Now I think I look like death warmed over, or perhaps a wax statue of Paul McCartney, you know, if he gained weight and grew boobs. Look at my lips. Look harder, they're there. They totally blend in with my face. It's like I don't even have lips. If it wasn't for yellow teeth, you wouldn't even be able to tell I had a mouth. Until I opened it, that is. 

Again with the drama. I studied theatre arts for three years in high school. It was one of my best subjects. I know, you're not surprised. (Drama Queen. You're thinking it. Don't deny it.) At least I have lips in this photo. Actually, I don't. I took a picture of my cat's arse and photoshopped it on my chin.

I dunno. I have no idea. All I can say is "theatre arts." Oh, and constipation.

All this is in aid of the Liebster Blog Award, which John Wiswell honoured me with this morning. I think the rules are something like, take a photo of yourself with the sharpest object in the house and name five other bloggers who you think aren't the sharpest knives in the drawer. Or maybe they ARE the sharpest knives. Sharp. Dull, wtf, I don't know. I forget and I'm way too lazy to go back to John's and find out.

In the spirit of passing on the Liebster love, I'm honouring these lucky folks:

Lisa at Diary of a Square Toothed Girl because she is funny and she doesn't dye her hair, which makes her my hero. And apparently she has square teeth, but you couldn't prove it by me - mostly she has her lips closed in her photos. At least she has lips. Doesn't have to photoshop pictures of her cat's butt. If she even has a cat. That has a butt. Which is a stretch.

John at Going Gently because he, too, is funny and he has crazy pictures of his googly-eyed chickens on his masthead and he just gave whole new meaning to the slogan "put pork on your fork," stirring up quite a controversy. Somebody even sent him graven voodoo messages involving scary stuff - I forget what it was, but it was scary. Also he posts photos of very good looking men sometimes. Y'know, when he's not showcasing hens.

Cro at Magnon's Meanderings because he's friends with John and they're both over across the pond somewhere and they both have an inordinate amount of dogs and they're funny and I think if I don't include both then one will get jealous. You know how men are. Sheesh. Cro has scintillating games like "guess what breed of dog" he has and "what came first, the lizard or the frozen egg." Also, he bakes. Ladies - I know! He's a catch! Alas, he is married to Lady Magnon but we can continue to worship him from afar.

Tulpen at Bad Words because no one else swears as much as her and is so funny in the process. And also heartwarming, but you don't want to hear all that mushy junk. You just want a laugh, right? Do I know you or what? No? Oh go feck yourself then. Way you go. Piss off.

And finally, I can't go without mentioning Daisy the Curly Cat because she's a cat and she has more followers than most of the human bloggers I know. She's a fashion model, she's a comedienne and, I dunno, she likes pink. So we have a lot in common, as you can see. Plus, before I had my surgery? She sent me a message and said her "purrs were with me." Purrs.. get it?

OH, and my surgery was tremendous. It was a MIRACLE! I can see, blessed mother of pearl, I CAN SEE! Thanks for all your brilliant wishes and purrs. I was all verklempt when I read them.

Bitchy people, wrinkles and blogging buddies

I'm fecking old. Look at those wrinkles. Time for Old of Olay.

Quiet day here.

There's a fire in the wood stove, a chicken defrosting on the counter. Ben, the white cat, is sitting in the windowsill, licking what used to be his balls. I'm doing laundry, in spite of the fact that it costs more on a weekday (stupid Hydro), because I'm preparing for my surgery tomorrow. Whenever I prepare for anything – a camping trip, dinner guests, cataract surgery – I do laundry. When the beds have clean sheets, when every last towel is clean and smells fresh, I feel fully prepared for whatever lies ahead. Probably if I was ever called away to some emergency the first thing I would do is throw in a load of whites.

***

Yesterday something funny happened. Me and Dave (Dave and me? WTF, I'll never get it straight) went to Scrawl-Mart to pick up an office chair for my son, Sam. And some carrots, because I eat 10 pounds per week – I'm not shittin' ya. I think my skin is tinged with orange.

A woman came up to me in the produce section. She had a warm, curious smile on her face.

"Are you Cathy?" she asked.

I nodded. Unsure. Did I owe her money?

"I read your blog," she said. "I wasn't sure at first if it was you but then I saw Dave and I knew!"

I laughed. "A blogger friend of mine named Alan Davidson says Dave is the most photographed man on the internet."

We had a great conversation, standing by the carrots in Wal-Nuts. Sue lives just up the road from me, near Bracebridge, Ontario. She has just started beekeeping and she runs a nifty blog called Backyard Bees. (You should pay her a visit – her poor blog is kinda lonely and she has funny stories about backing into trees and runaway roosters.) Anyway, Sue was LOVELY. I was thrilled to meet her. Truth be known, I think bloggers are the nicest people. I've never come across a blogger I don't like. (Here's a link to the time I met Alan and Laurita Miller.) My dream is to meet all of them. Sue Harding suggested chartering a jet and fly around meeting everyone. Wouldn't that just be the cat's ass?

Another blogger friend of mine, Shelagh Duffett (an amazing artist, photographer and writer) went to a luncheon for all the local bloggers in her neighbourhood. You have to go and check her post. They had amazingly gorgeous, luscious food and, I'm sure, plenty of fabulous conversation. I know from past experience that when you meet other bloggers, you never run out of things to talk about. They're like best friends you didn't even know you had.

As for meeting Sue, I have another thing to confess: if truth be told it was also AWESOME to have somebody stop you in a store and RECOGNIZE you from your BLOG! I mean, come on, you'd be lying if you denied it! I walked around on Cloud Nine the whole rest of the day! Back in the days when I didn't say back in the days, I wrote a column for a community newspaper, part of my job as a reporter. It was common to have people come up to you in the grocery store and say, "Aren't you that arsehole who works for the paper?" But this was the first time it has happened since I started blogging a couple years ago. Thanks so much, Sue!

Some day I'd like to host a tea for the bloggers in this neck of the woods. I'd have to invite Sue, my friend Deb, Malcolm, Sarah and Ed, for starters. I just know we'd have plenty to yak about.

***

It's been a weird few weeks, being at home, unable to see clearly. I was hoping to have gotten some writing done but, honestly, I can't see well enough to do it. Heck, I was playing cards with friends the other night and I couldn't see what cards were turned up. I had to ask. Their answer was always, "That's the Queen of hearts." I believed them the first 18 times they told me that. Tomorrow is the surgery. I'm excited to be able to see again but I'm nervous.

Somebody asked me, "How can you blog if you can't see?" Answer? I can't! Good thing I touch-type. Good thing I have spell-check. Good thing I can blow up my computer screen, like, a million per cent.

I called the Huntsville blood clinic to ask if I could squeeze in some blood work before the surgery. I have to fast anyway so I thought I'd get my cholesterol checked at the same time. I've been holding on to the requisition form for a while now because it's such a pain in the ass to fast and then get to the clinic, blah, blah, blah.

So I phoned the girl to ask if she thought I had time and, MAN, WHAT A BIATCH! She was the grumpiest of all grumpy-assed-grumps I've talked to in a long time! I was polite, and nice, and told her I had to be at the hospital at 9 a.m. for surgery and did she think I had time for blood work? You'd think I'd ask her for her LIVER. Feck! Not surprised, though. Every time I go there I am dazzled by the complete rudeness. The nurses are OK but the people who do the paperwork are just ignorant! (So sue me! It's the truth! You think people LIKE fasting and getting blood work done? You ever think they're not well and maybe you should be NICE to them?)

***

Yesterday I used all my Shopper's Drug Mart Optimum points (and some of Dave's money) to buy a bunch of Oil of Olay products (thanks, honey-bun). Since I lost 56 pounds (and still am going for more) my face has sagged. It's like someone popped a friggin' balloon. I went from lovely fat-puffed skin to an old lady in less than six months.

Don't bother shoring up my ego. It's true. The only good thing about fat is it pouffs out your wrinkles.

Normally I ignore the ads on Facebook but I saw one for a skincare test for Oil of Olay and I was bored so I did it. The recommended a bunch of skin care products for old bags such as myself. (If you want to do the test, go here.)

Already I've used it twice and, by rights, I should look like a teenager again.

Pfffft.

***

If I die on the slab tomorrow, please, will someone please finish my novel? It's 75% done. I'd appreciate volunteers so Dave can give you a call if I croak.

Also, to my kids and my husband and my family and you, of course – I love you all. Even though you're a big pain in my ass sometimes.

***

P.S. I've got Weight Watchers tonight and I think I'm in trouble. I had french fries the other night. NECTAR OF THE GODS. And now I think they're stuck on my lily white ever-loving, growing-smaller arse. Can you see them? Yep, that's them. Swiss Chalet specials.

God I miss junk food. God I miss seeing. God I'm long-winded. Sorry.

P.S.S. I've got lots more letters to come in my Letters from a Friend series. If I don't croak tomorrow, I'll post them when I get a chance. Just so you know I haven't forgotten y'all. (I love saying y'all.)

Denise Covey – Letter from a Friend

Saturday morning. Dave brings our camp chairs from the garage and I take out my coffee and we sit in the snow for half an hour, listening to the cheerful buzz of chickadees, the cranky lectures of red squirrels, the deep, sweeping hollow of ravens' wings stroking through grey muffled skies, and the sorrowful complaining of the mourning doves. 

This is the sound of winter in Muskoka. People, for the most part, are indoors. Tourists are living their workaday lives in the city. We're alone, we're still, we're listening to what we might normally miss. Without human distractions, winter mutes daily ruckus, slows our moving parts and the pressing business of the day to day.

"I got a letter from Denise Covey," I say to Dave.

"One of your blogger friends?" 

I nod. "She's from Australia and something she said in her letter really struck a chord with me." I take a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee and smile at my husband. "Wanna move to Australia?"

"Sure," he says. Just like that. Humouring me, as usual.

"I mean, here we are, freezing our butts off, dealing with winter because that's who we are, that's what we're used to. But think of it – we could live anywhere we choose on this planet. Somewhere we don't have to worry about freezing rain and snowstorms and bad roads. Or big heating bills. Or splitting wood. Or coffee that goes cold the minute you bring it outside."

"Well if you drank it faster instead of flapping your gums it wouldn't get cold," he says. I make a face at him, which he ignores. "Other than the fact that neither one of us likes hot weather and we'd have to worry about work permits and visas and all that nonsense, you're right. We could live anywhere we want."

I imagine what it would be like to be Denise, to live her life. To swim in the ocean any time I want. To never have to buy a winter coat or scrape ice off the windshield.

That, right there, is the reason I love blogging. It's one thing to watch Oprah visit the land Down Under. It's quite another to put a face, like Denise's, on a place that would otherwise be nothing but a spot on a map. Like so many of my blogging friends, Denise and I hooked up writing Friday Flash. She's an aspiring novelist who writes short stories by the boatload and an avid blogger with more than spot where you can find her: L'Aussie Writer is home base for this adventurous writer, teacher and traveller; Romantic Friday Writers is rather like Friday Flash but all the writing is romantically themed (and boy, are these writers enthusiastic and fun!); and Reading at Dawn, a scintillating book review blog.

Yes, Denise is right there, at the click of a mouse. But I would love to join her on one of those sand dunes overlooking the ocean, a salty breeze in our hair and lots of writerly ideas putting brilliant smiles on our tanned faces.

Oh, and Hugh Jackman, of course, bringing us another round of fresh drinks. No worries about cold coffee in Australia.

My dear friend Cathy 

If I was writing you a special little story I’d call it Out Far, In Deep - my tribute to bush and beach. I wonder – do you ever think of Australia? Up there in the Northern Hemisphere when you’re being buried deep in snow, and as you shovel it aside (or whatever you do) do you crave a warm climate just for a change? Can you imagine what it’s like to grow up in a place which is nearly always warm and whose inhabitants have probably never seen snow fall? Do you think people are shaped by where they live? I think we definitely are.

Aussies project an image of bush people, wildly independent, innovative - Hugh Jackman in ‘Australia’. Well, the truth is, we’re basically hard-working beach bums. Our country is big, dry and empty. Our small population hugs the coastline (83% of us live at the beach). We take a dip at lunchtime, go for a surf after work and spend whole weekends on the beach, picnicking, barbequing, reading. There’s only a couple of weeks of the year when it might be a bit nippy for a swim, so we have to forego our rituals. But there’s always tourists who think it’s warm enough all year round and we shake our heads and mumble bloody idiots when we see them frolicking around in what we consider Arctic conditions. 

I’m an exception to the beach rule, or used to be. I spent my early childhood running wild and free in the Queensland bush, where my father was a horse whisperer (true) when he wasn’t droving cattle, and my mother killed snakes that threatened her brood. I wrote about it here and called it fiction, lol! We kids ran around bare foot, rode horses bare back to school and swam in creeks and dams (when there was water). As much fun as that was, nothing compared to my delight when I first caught sight of the beach. Once seen never forgotten. My family eventually moved to a little country town not far from the beach, population 300, not including the cows and horses. My dream was to live right on the beach. And I achieved that dream. Too easy here.
Now I have the best of all worlds. I live in two places – a small apartment right in the inner city of our capital city, Brisbane, for work (I tutor English when I’m not writing), and a large two-story beach house overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Peregian Beach, (60 miles north) for play. I travel a lot, but it’s hard to beat these two places. I saw a little poem the other day and it says it for me:

 The people along the sand

All turn and look one way. 

The turn their back on the land. 

They look at the sea all day. 

I do my best writing at the beach. There’s nothing like having our own special spot, is there? I know you like to shut the door to your bedroom Cathy, and it becomes your writing throne. I like to sit on the dunes above one of the longest stretches of beach on the Sunshine Coast here at Peregian and conjure up stories. Seeing the ever-changing nature of the landscape is inspirational; words must be found to describe such glittering beauty and majesty. It is a creative writing course of the imagination. 
One day soon I’ll be in Canada I hope, my friend, and must look you up on the Muskoka River. And if you visit Australia anytime soon, you’ll find me gazing at the beach, pen in hand, (a laptop just doesn’t seem right) trying to capture the beauty of this marvellous creation. And there’s a bed for you at the beach house where you can hear the crashing of the waves as they lull you into the best sleep you’ll ever have.

Until then,
Your Aussie mate
Denise

P.S. Have enclosed a picture of Peregian Beach just to show you what I’m doing now! See if you can find me in there! 

Mark Kerstetter – Letter from a Friend

My dad used to call me Albert A, a nod to Mr. Einstein. It wasn't a compliment. Usually he dissed me with the name at suppertime when we were arguing about politics and I was being a smartass know-it-all. Lately I've realized I'm not that smart. Well, not intellectually. I've got enough smarts to do what I've gotta do but a scholar, I ain't.

Geez, that Mark Kerstetter, though. He's one of the smartest people I know. He's so into the process of learning, of expressing himself, of thinking – man, it's just incredible. I lurk at his blog, The Bricoleur. I used to comment and I still do occasionally but I have to say most of what he talks about is miles over my silly head. I feel like he is a Great Master and I'm this dopey cocker spaniel dancing around his heels.

He would argue with me about this because he is truly one of the most modest, genuine people I've ever come across. While I had an easy time of it growing up in a wonderful family, he struggled. I was spoiled. He spent time on the streets. My brain stopped filling up the minute I walked away from college. Mark's has continued to grow and expand in the most exciting ways – to the point where he is one of the most respected artists, poets and art writers on the web. He has a devoted following of the like-minded at his blogs, The Bricoleur and Fridge Soup, and the popular web-zine he's strongly involved in, Escape Into Life.

I met up with Mark through Friday Flash, that fantastic community of writers who post a short story, of 1,000 words or less (flash fiction, they call it), every Friday. Anyone can do it. Beginning writers. Experienced writers. Anybody who feels the urge to tell a story. The best thing about it is everyone is SO supportive. You write, you post, you read other people's work, they read yours, you get and give encouragement, you become a better writer. I encourage everyone who visits this blog to give it a try. If it wasn't for Friday Flash, I wouldn't be writing a novel. I wouldn't have written 50 or more short stories. And I surely wouldn't have come across Mark Kerstetter.

You know? The best thing about Mark? He is the last person who would ever lord his smarts over anyone. He is so down to earth that even the earth must take an elevator to greet him. He is humble, and nice – really darned nice – and over the last few years he has become one of those small circle of bloggers who honestly feel like family.

bricolage |ˌbrēkōˈlä zh; ˌbrikə-|noun ( pl. same or -lages)(in art or literature) construction or creation from a diverse range of available things : the chaotic bricolage of the novel is brought together in a unifying gesture.• something constructed or created in this way : bricolages of painted junk.ORIGIN mid 20th cent.: French, from bricoler ‘do odd jobs, repair.’

bricoleur |ˌbrēkōˈlər; ˌbrikə-|nouna person who engages in bricolage.ORIGIN mid 20th cent.: French, literally ‘handyman.’

Dear Cathy,

I’m lucky to be counted among your internet friends. Especially since it’s perhaps not easy to know me from my online presence. You show us life on the Muskoka River. We see Dave and the kids, the cabin, we learn about blackflies and yurts. People don’t see the bricoleur’s workshop so much as his finished products, my good face. But more than that, I’m different in conversation than in writing. I can be a lot funnier, for one thing.

Throughout the '70s and '80s the neighborhood I live in had the reputation as one of the worst in our city. When Victoria and I moved in the whole neighborhood was a shambles, with only a handful of people, like us, trying to build it back up. They were investors. We couldn’t afford anything better. They fixed up their houses and flipped them. We stayed. They had no investment long-term, no interest in doing the real dirty work. We did. Today it’s a good neighborhood, and I can honestly say that Victoria and I had a hand in making it so, with a whole lot of luck of course (we could not have predicted nice folks would want to move here).

It’s a porch culture. People often tell us they’ve never seen another neighborhood (even within the city) where neighbors say hello and offer each other glasses of wine on their porches. To give you some context: in the '80s all of the porches had been enclosed. The neighbors hid from each other. One of the first things we did was tear those walls down, open up the porch the way it was intended to be. Don’t get me wrong, I like it when people mind their own business, but I also want to know who my neighbors are, to be able to talk to them about important matters if necessary, to back them up and know they have my back. I feel safe in saying that if you and Dave lived next door we would love having you as neighbors, that is, unless you get into loud arguments late at night or allow trapped dogs to yap endlessly or set up a meth lab in your house – then we’d have to talk.

So, I really mean it when I call myself a bricoleur. It’s not just my art that’s made out of whatever is laying around. My whole life is like that. I fix up my house with salvaged wood. All our furniture came from alleys and dumpsters. The bike I ride was somebody’s reject (even the cap and jacket you see me wearing in the photo were giveaways). My whole life is about striking a balance between what I need, have to do and want. It’s about mastering minutes. This is the moment I have to write, this is the moment I have to work on the house, this is the moment I have to make money, this is a second for twitter…. and now a nap. I often think of how precarious life is and how good I have it. All my adult life I’ve been among the working poor, yet in the important ways I’m rich and I never forget that.

The main thing about me that you can’t see from my blogger face is Victoria. She’s my heart. I’d be worthless without her, no doubt about it. If you saw us together you would see it. I wouldn’t have to say a word.

Cheers, Cathy - Now go work on that book!

Your internet porch buddy,

Mark