Letters Home: A Song For My Grandfather

NOTE: It's Memorial Day Weekend again- and I have decided to revisit a post I wrote at the very beginning of this blog because about three people have seen it I think-- and I am proud of my Grandfather's service to this country. I feel that his story deserves to be told once again in honor of the holiday.

It's a love story, mostly- a tribute to what love can be and what it can endure, and it is a love letter to the two people who loved and parented me as no one else ever did.

I only got to keep him until I was eleven; she lived until I was thirty three. Every day was a blessing, and I miss them.

Please thank a Vet (and their families) for their service and sacrifice every chance you get...and have a safe weekend.

~bru

My Grandfather's Harmonica

If you're stateside I don't have to tell you that today is Memorial Day.

If you're from a military family, I also don't have to tell you that the day is about more than beer and hot dogs.

I hate to admit that I wasn't raised with a proper appreciation for Memorial Day- because my family raised me in a faith that taught that it's perfectly proper to take advantage of religious freedom bought and paid for with the blood of others but a sin against God to fight for it yourself.

My own views on war and religion aside (and believe me, I am putting them aside here as I'd sooner discuss my sex life in public than either of those topics- and I don't discuss that) I have developed a greater appreciation for what Memorial Day is supposed to be about since the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan started and, waking up from the world I was raised in to the real one, I realized for the first time in my life just what sacrifice truly is.

Too many days I've seen the flags flying at half-staff and too many times I've realized that my very existence is a lucky coincidence- based purely upon the fact that when my Grandfather was serving during WWII there was an incident where his platoon was shipped out while he was on leave and all of his buddies were killed. If he'd been with them, he would have died too.

My Grandfather never spoke to me about the war.

He died when I was eleven, and we discussed a great many things in the years I was lucky enough to have him in my life but not the war. He was the father to me that mine could not be- as my Grandmother mothered me in ways my own mother simply was incapable of and still, to this day, is.

Given my youth it's no surprise to me that he didn't talk about it but the truth is that he never talked about it with anyone.

The most I remember hearing was that once in a great while, he'd hear a certain old song or see a certain old movie and he'd get tears in his eyes, but he never spoke about it.

He was drafted as a very young married man and left as a new father- my mother was only three weeks old when he left for basic training and he wouldn't see her until she was nearly four years old, except in pictures.

He wrote to my Grandmother faithfully.

Hundreds upon hundreds of letters, I'm told- none of which she saved after the war.

She wouldn't say why but if I had to guess I'd say it was because it was just too difficult to look back on the time apart. My Grandmother was a 'hold down the fort' sort of woman and an inspiration in her own right. She went to work in a factory as soon as my Grandfather left because the pay was better than the job she had managing a Sanders ice cream shop.

One day the factory manager came down onto the floor seeking someone who had secretarial skills- which she had in spades- but she told him she couldn't afford to take a pay cut by leaving the line. He took her quietly aside and promised her the same pay as she'd get on the line if she did the job well.

She did the job very well.

She got approved for a mortgage because her ethnic name was mistaken for a man's name on the application- and she moved her sister and her brother in law and their kids into that house with her and my mother (the brother in law was not physically fit to serve) and her sister cared for the children while my Grandmother worked to support them all.

She never complained.

So many miles away from the life he'd left behind, it quickly became evident that my Grandfather couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a gun. He was, however, brilliant with numbers and could keep an accounting of anything- this led to him becoming the chief supply clerk at a busy hospital in what was then called British Guyana.

He saw a lot- but he never complained about it either.

How do I know this, you ask?

Because about seven years ago, in what would turn out to be the final year of my Grandmother's life, we got one hell of a surprise.

The family who had purchased my great-grandparent's home was renovating the attic, and under the floorboards they found a stack of letters.

Those letters were from my Grandfather to my Grandmother, and they were dated between late 1943 and early 1944. Someone (likely one of my Grandmother's many sisters and I have a good idea as to which one) hid them under there at some point, probably to stop my Grandmother from destroying them all.

The new owners tracked my Grandmother down through a neighbor and returned these letters to her.

At first, she didn't want to let anyone see them and I can understand why. She was a very private person, and not the sentimental type really but these whispers from the past, from a husband she had buried so young (he was only sixty when he died) almost two decades before had to be heartbreaking enough.

But she decided to let my mother see them, and knowing my lifelong love of letters in addition to my eternal love for my grandparents, she told me about them.

I begged, and I do mean pleaded, with my Grandmother to let me see those letters.

The paper was so fragile, the writing so faded you could barely make them out. I told her that I'd be happy to take them to Kinkos, if she trusted me with them, and that I'd darken the text and make copies she could handle and read without worrying about tearing them.

She debated for a long moment, then she made me promise I wouldn't let them out of my sight. She nervously watched as I left the house with them, and only seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when I returned with them hours later, copies in hand.

Then she did something I never expected. She said "You can keep a set of the copies."

I thanked her- I read them, and then I put them away. In some ways it was too difficult to read how the separation had been so difficult on them, in others it just made me miss him far too much to bear it.

The older I get though, the more I appreciate these few precious pages of the hundreds of letters he wrote that have long since vanished, for the true gift that they are.

My Mother told me that she would sometimes hear my Grandmother crying at night, right after those letters arrived, and that she'd see them out on the top of her dresser the next morning and know she'd been rereading them.

Today, on this storming Memorial Day, I took my copies out after not being able to see to read them for a very long time, and I read them again.

They are truly sweet, and romantic, and it's clearly evident how much he loved her. He stressed at the end of every single one that he remained true: and he was that for the remainder of his life as well, I have no doubt that he always was.

Never once in those letters did he complain about what he was going through or what he saw.

He tried to give her happy things to think about, reassuring her of his safety, begging her to take care of herself and the baby and telling her at almost the end of every single paragraph that he loved her.

He'd tell her what he had for breakfast, ask her how her parents were. He told her once to give her little brothers and sisters (and there were almost a dozen) some gum and Tell them it's from Steve's pocket as they were used to running to meet him as he'd whistle, walking up the long driveway and ask if he had any gum in his pockets. He always had something for them.

Mostly in those letters he promised, always, that he loved her, that they were going to do so much together when he came home, and that he was going to spoil her for all the work she'd had to do while he was gone.

Of course she never really did submit to that spoiling- she worked hard until the final days of her life. But they had many years of loving each other, and loving us by extension. Especially me.

They loved me so much I am only now at the age of nearly forty beginning to understand it.

Grandma has been gone for almost six years now and I miss her more every day but I know I was lucky to have her for as many years as I did.

She and I missed my Grandfather in a very unique way- and we shared that grief in a way that no one else in the world did. It did not alter with the years, our love for him never diminished with the passage of time.

Now, thinking of him I think so much about the families left behind when someone goes off to war. I think so much about the ones who never come home.

Today more than any other and for the first time, I feel it's appropriate to share with the world, in the words of my Grandfather, what a soldier might long for when he's so far from home.

I miss you terribly...I love you so much that I'll never be able to do enough to show it. No matter how much I do, you are worth 100 million times that. So when I come home I'm going to spoil you and baby you to make up for the time we have lost. I feel lost without you, especially when I go to the show. When I see pictures that we saw together is when it hurts the most. I just love you and baby more than anything in the world...

...Whenever you're out shopping and you see something cute in the way of household things buy it because I know it'll make you happy to have it and I want you to have them. Then when I come home we'll buy all the big things right away. We'll buy a refrigerator, electric sewing machine, carpet sweeper, living room set, POOL TABLE (note- this was also underlined. Eleven times) and all type of recreations and all the trimming that go with a house...oh yes you can have all type of Chinaware that you wish, anything your little heart may desire will be gotten too. That's a pretty big bill but we'll get them. We'll have a good time too.

There's more, he speaks of sending her his pay as soon as he gets it and signs it the same way he signed them all. I'll forever remain your faithful, true and clean husband.

When my Grandmother passed away, the entire family said that I should have the first look at her modest belongings to take what I wanted, as everyone knew of all the grandchildren she had we were closest.

I chose the things that no one else would've asked for, anyway. Things no one else could know the significance of.

I chose the hideous little green vinyl train case she took on all our vacations when I was a child.

Into it I put my favorite of her aprons, a few of her prickly plastic hair curlers and pins. An empty compact that still smelled of her makeup and a scarf that still smells of her perfume. I was amazed, when looking through the things she kept after she sold her house and moved into a small bedroom at my parents, that she'd kept so many pictures of me as a child.

My mother added some things to the lot- things of my Grandfather's knowing I'd want them if I'd knew they existed- among them, his Good Conduct Medal and letters of commendation from his commanding officers.

His wristwatch.

His wallet.

His Hohner harmonica.

My Grandfather loved to sing and did so frequently and happily but bless him, he couldn't carry a tune. But he loved his harmonica and I know he had a similar one, if not this one, during the war.

He used to play it for the local children when he could, they were fascinated by it. When I was little, he'd play Oh Susannah on it and tell me to sing louder, 'no, louder!' from the time I was very tiny.

The following are the lyrics to a song he used to sing to me, and I'll share with you on this Memorial Day, along with a few other selected lines of his letters and I hope, if she's watching somehow, Grandma won't mind too much.

I do so with great affection for them both- and with thoughts going out to everyone who is waiting for the one they love to come home to them.

Wherever my Grandparents may be now, I hope that they're together again. When there was some question among relatives where my Grandmother's ashes should be buried I said immediately "Where else, in Grandpa's grave." and so they were. The last thing you'll see on this post is one of those kisses he promised to give her, being given once he finally came home.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear them singing this song to me- sweetly, brightly, and just a little bit off key.

It was absolute perfection.

May all those fighting come home safely.

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine...
you make me happy, when skies are grey

Your letters were really swell, honey. I'll be so glad when I come home to my queen and little princess.

You'll never know Dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.

I got all the love you sent me, darling, and the kisses too. I love you more than anything in the world.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamed I held you in my arms,
but when I woke Dear, I was mistaken
and I hung my head down and cried.

I miss you a million. Whenever I don't get any mail I feel blue. But tomorrow when I get all the mail I'll be so happy.

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are grey:
You'll never know, Dear,
How much I love you-
Please don't take my sunshine away.

I love you...I just adore you...kiss baby a million times for me and here's a special kiss for you too. I love you. Your faithful husband, Stephen."



~May 2010, February Grace

Killing Time...

Hey everybody,

Hope you're all well and have a safe and fun holiday weekend (it's Memorial Day here on Monday, for those of you outside the US who wonder.)

So, how would you kill time on a long week prior to the longgger weekend when you're not exactly celebrating (but still marking in your own quiet, internal way...) your twelfth wedding anniversary while waiting for your spouse's lawyers to finally send the divorce papers he filed the previous week to your own attorney?

Me, I personally do not recommend you pass the time by doing what I did: by turning 40 and then getting so sick two days later that you stagger into Urgent Care expecting to be told you've got Mumps (or some mutated form there-of) and then being sent instead to U of M in an ambulance because they won't let you go home. (Pffft, my airway was fine. Kinda. No really, they just really wanted to watch me.)...and then having them spend the next 7 hours poking, prodding, and injecting you with radioactive dyes while scanning your neck and head.

Good news- they didn't find anything. Bad news, they still don't know what made me so sick--my amateur guess puts it down to a virus combined with a mild allergic reaction to Zyrtec. Good news, almost a week out after pretty much consuming my weight in Vitamins C and the whole B family, I'm feeling better. I tire easily though so those of you I owe email and blog visits- my apologies. That's one way I plan to use up some time this long weekend.

I also plan to burn a bit more time by watching this. Repeatedly. It seriously is the best thing since the Snooki book to remind me that getting published does not a writer (or in this case, writers) make. It's also another reason to love Anderson Cooper (as if I needed one...)

Enjoy. But I wouldn't recommend you watch this on a full stomach if it's still eating at you that your book hasn't been published yet. For me, it's just another confirmation in my own soul that I would always rather be an artist than...well, marketable.

Happy Memorial Day Weekend, everyone. Spend a few minutes remembering what it's really about. I know I will.

To those who have served or who have loved ones who have or who are: thank you for your sacrifice, for the rest of us. You are not forgotten.

hugs to all
~bru

Another Glimpse Into My Clockwork World

(...to remind myself, today, why it is that I do this. Because I am a writer.)

From my work in progress, The Clockwork Heart Of Doctor Quinn Godspeed

Schuyler hurried to the exit. He took care to open the door only enough to allow himself passage through it, and a moment later, all sound outside ceased.

The doctor’s eyes settled anew on my face, analyzing what must have been the confused and desperate look upon it. My reaction once more softened something in his expression, just for a moment, before it again took up the appearance of being chiseled from pure stone.

He was a statue, I imagined, somehow imbued with life beyond that normally granted to his kind. I could just imagine him, unfurling sculpted wings and staring with the burning, frightful eyes of a gargoyle; taking up residence on high, forever chained to the exterior of some ornate place of worship and scowling down over all creation. Clearly superior, but unable to descend to truly experience what it meant to be alive.

I asked myself again what pain could reside so deep inside of him that it deprived him of the living, breathing warmth that should contain his very soul.

“Do you understand why it is that you’re dying?” he asked, and I realized that aside from the most basic of answers, that my heart was weak and failing, I did not.

“Do you wish to know?”

Too exhausted now even to move my head, I tried my best to intensify the focus of my eyes upon his, and in so doing I found that they seemed even deeper in hue and more hypnotic than before.

“Have you had schooling?”

I kept my eyes where they were, holding his stare.

He nodded his approval. “In the sciences?”

My gaze wavered slightly.

“Then allow me to explain as clearly as I can.” He pulled the fob watch from his vest and moved to open it. Just as quickly he thought better of it and returned it to its prior location, undisturbed. “You understand how a watch must be wound to keep proper time? That if it is not tended to, or in the case of a self-winding mechanism, not tilted to and fro the gears will cease their motion and the hands will stop ticking?”

Understanding of the concept was reflected in my eyes, and he went on. “Now imagine if one of the components was damaged. If the stem used to wind the watch was snapped from its proper place. Or, a gear was slightly out of alignment…no…no.”

He grew frustrated and began to pace. “That’s not it at all,” he muttered. “This problem is electrical, I am certain of it. That is why the rhythm fluctuates as it does. It is not the first time I have seen it nor will it be the last. One question remains, and that is this. Is there anything possible that can be done to intervene.” His head fell into his hands for an instant, thin, elegant fingers ran back through his hair and grasped at the back of his neck. “Is it possible to best Death this time?”

I was frightened by his words, and his intentions. I had been raised to believe that the Creator himself decided when it was your time to leave this life and any effort to cheat death—any attempt to play god and prolong life past the rightful dictates of Providence would only render one Forsaken: disowned by all the heavenly host and condemned to live out eternity as one of the soulless, living damned who languished upon the very streets where Schuyler Algernon had found me.

The doctor ceased his pacing and slowly dropped to one knee. Though he raised his face toward mine I could not read his expression now. Every feature had been erased of emotion, leaving the slate completely blank. “There is a chance, slight though it may be, that I may be able to prolong your life.” He barely breathed the words, leaning closer to me. His face was half in light of the fire and half in shadow, and I thought it quite fitting. It seemed his very existence was a battle between those two extremes, light of day versus unrelenting night.

“If I did, I must warn you that there would be sacrifices to be made. A great cost paid, by you, to buy the time.”

I looked away, just wishing now more than anything that I could sleep. His strong hand grasped hold of my shoulder and shook me as I faltered.

“No, you must listen to me, we…” he quickly withdrew his hand and rose to his full height again. He stepped back and raised his eyes up to focus on the ceiling for a moment. He lowered them and inhaled deeply, determined to force himself to return to a more composed state. “We are running out of options. The question you must answer is, do you want me to try?”

I could not answer. The truth was I did not know what I wanted. What life was there for me if I should live? I still had nowhere to go and no family to belong to. What did existence alone mean, if only to wither in pain and wander alone?

I felt the breath in my chest desert me and was unable to take in any more to replace it. A slow, long exhalation sounded within my ears, and I was certain I was hearing my own dying breath.

My eyes slipped closed, and as they did I felt warm, strong arms gather around me. He was picking me up and carrying me off. I knew not where, or for what purpose, but neither, again, did I care.

“Should I even attempt to save her?” he whispered, and I wondered to whom he was directing the question—himself, or whatever higher power he may yet have faith in. “How high a price is too high?”

I wished I had the strength to plead with him now. Feeling his arms around me, even just this way, made my wishes undeniably clear.

Yes. Save me, I thought. For the love of all that is good and right in the world, please, save me.

© 2011 by February Grace. All rights reserved

"You become."

How many people on the planet can you be real with?

I don't mean that in the sense of, 'they've seen you without your mascara and the world didn't end' real. I mean, who can you really cry in front of, or laugh until your sides hurt, or both at once. Who will be there when you're at the end of your tolerance for pain, who will always hear you and put their arm around you when you feel too weak to stand?

When you find the few in a lifetime that are, hang on to 'em, tight.

Andrew Leon said something that really sums it all up for me in a comment on my last post and I hope he won't mind me quoting him. Quote: "If you can't be real with someone, if you always have to put on a happy front so that they will be around you, they're not a friend, anyway. Friends are the people that want us to be real with them and stay with us when things get really real."

That says it all.

I want to say thank you to those who have written emails, comments, messages when I was still using facebook, all of those of you who write blog posts and things that show a glimpse into who you really are.

Because while though there are those who would say that writers shouldn't have personal blogs, I blog personally because I am a writer. I want to hear your voice when I read, too, and I want to give a voice to those who feel like they're screaming but no one hears.

I want to be a reminder that there is more to people than you see on the surface.

Whether that is putting a heart and mind with the image of disabled people you may pass in your daily travels or talking about living with depression- someone has to say these things for those who cannot speak them.

Sure, when I've done so a few have cringed, likely some on the followers list here never really read anymore. That's okay. Those who do, who get something out of it, are the people I'm writing for.

Some of you know I'm turning forty later this week.

I've learned a lot- and I still have more to learn than I have ever before.

I think back to when I was half this age- newly married for the first time, and so alone. So hidden beneath layers and layers of social expectation and religious demand and family rules and grief and loss and despair that when I look at pictures of that girl now, I just want to cry for her. To scream for her, because she had no voice.

So many of you still have no voice.

I know that. I get your emails. I think about them long after I've read them.

I know you're sinking in the quicksand of obligation, and duty, and marriage and parenthood. I know that you feel buried beneath it all, like I have and at times like I still do.

I hear you, and I'm sorry that I almost did a disservice to us all- to you and to that girl I once was.

I almost allowed the feelings raised in me recently by a handful of people to shock me back into silence.

Call it a twisted kind of Pavlovian reaction. Call it the response of a woman who as a child would feel a slap upside the head hard enough to make her see stars-and not understand--still to this day does not understand--what precipitated it, even though I'm old enough to reason now logically that all that precipitated it really was that my parents were angry at someone else and I was within arm's length.

That little girl wanted to be invisible so no one would yell at her. So no one would hit her or hurt her. So no one would look at her the way they looked at me when I cried.

I will not, at this late date and at this age, shame that little girl into silence again no matter who thinks I should.

I will not force myself to smile out of a deeply rooted fear that if I don't, that someone will then give me something to 'really cry about'.

Because I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have done right- I have done my best- by everyone in my life and now, it's time for the first time in my life for me to decide what I want, what will make me happy, and to do my best to go after it, even with my challenges. Even with my disabilities. Even with my failings, and my flaws.

I am thinking tonight of that passage from The Velveteen Rabbit that I've always loved, the one about how toys become real:

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." (Margery Williams)

I'm more Real every day, and that is what I am meant to be.

I see the Real among you and I am honored- you are truly an amazing sight to behold. Thank you, for letting me see the 'loose joints' and spots where your 'hair has been loved off'. Thank you, for being Real with me.

A song for you tonight, though, sadly, embedding for the video on YouTube is disabled. It's a favorite of mine, (though I prefer the studio version to the live one) if for no other reason than the line, "Let love become the mirror."

Become, by the Goo Goo Dolls: for my beautiful, beautiful friends.

love,
~bru

If I Can't Say Something Nice...I really shouldn't talk for awhile.

Hi all,

Last night, my best friend referred to my post here yesterday as 'passionate' and said I'd made my point 'abundantly clear'.

He was being kind, I know.

I realize after thinking it over that I have let my frustrations with a few people and life in general (and yes, with social media but that's been more than covered) get the better of me and I've decided that I should just be still and quiet for awhile as I try to get things together here.

I have a lot- a lot more than 99 percent of people know- going on in my life right now. Everyone has their own real life stuff to deal with, and you don't need to hear about mine.

So I will spare you.

I should reemerge, hopefully, in a few months time when I have something positive to say. Otherwise I risk hurting people's feelings because I'm not at my most, as I put it in a comment earlier, 'delicately articulate' right now. I wish I could be. I just can't.

I may have to go without internet access for awhile too. Truth is I'm not sure at this point where I'll be living in the near future. Everything about my life is changing and as you can imagine, Social Security disability does not go far enough.

To put it in stark terms for you- the amount left over after medicare/medigap/part d is deducted is roughly half the amount of the rent on my apartment.

So.

My concerns right now are very much focused on figuring out the necessities- ironing out the every day details of life going forward and it's more than online friends should be asked to listen to or deal with.

While I'm not posting, I hope to visit and comment on your blogs in the meantime when I can.

Keeping my mouth shut is I think the only way to make sure I don't put my foot into it any farther.

love to all,

~bru

I'm A Person, Not A Pop Tart

This revelation came to me over the past several days as the ‘social’ in social networking suddenly left me feeling very empty.

Don’t get me wrong- I have/had several good friends on my ‘friends’ list. But they’d be my friends, will be my friends, anyway. This post means no disrespect, or lack of gratitude toward anyone in particular so please don’t take it personally if you are or ever have been on my friends list.

I am sure a lot of you would agree with me though that there are friends, and there are 'friends'(even if you can't agree publicly because I know many of you are obligated to use social media to market your work- know I get that, and I understand. I don't have to- so I'm saying what a lot of you are thinking...)

I understand that some love the convenience of FB for keeping in touch with literally everyone they know, but I can't continue to participate in something that drains me so just to be convenient to someone else.

The folks too busy to find me here instead, they were fun to joke around with when I thought I had time- but as my imminent and gigantic birthday approaches this week, I’m mindful again that time is finite. Like my eyesight, it is something that must now be conserved, treasured, and only spent on things and people that I absolutely cannot do without.

So I’m taking my humanity back from the media gurus who would sell it to the lowest bidder.

I’m a person. I’m a writer. I’m a poet. I’m an artist.

I am not a mass-produced toaster pastry.

I am not a brand.

So, now I’m also kinda a one-person revolt against a system I think is deeply flawed --no, actually-- really broken.

We’re all searching, seeking something, in these networks. Whether it’s validation for our work through a larger audience, or sales that will result in monetary compensation, or just meaningful contact with other humans.

I just don’t think we’re finding it most of the time.

And I mean that in every sense. I see so many writer friends, especially independent authors, who work so hard to market their books and unless they’re hiding fortunes and huge numbers somewhere I’m not seeing where the results are showing up for the effort they put into it.

I think that at some point, some of these things will have to become a fad otherwise, well, people are going to start having nervous breakdowns right and left from being unable to ever unplug for fear of missing The Tweet that could mean their chance at stardom.

People are going to have to connect in much more meaningful ways than status updates and 140 character shots at some point and I think that word of mouth is still the best marketing of all. REAL word of mouth- like someone taking the time to blog "I read this book, it was incredible, I couldn't put it down, tell everyone you know."

Unless you’re the fluke (which you could be, I don’t dream I would be) that goes viral over Twitter or Youtube or FB, it’s not going to get you bazillions of dollars and sales. There's too much static, and amidst all that noise, people are tuning out whether you want to believe it or not. I know it. My email reflects it with people saying again and again 'I can't keep up with most of what's on FB and Twitter any more'.

I’d rather be a content, unpublished writer, working on my art, writing what I love than an unhappy, published writer who has sold 100 books. I would rather put my work up on the internet for free, as it’s meant to be seen if that is the last resort (though self-publishing for Godspeed is still an option that haunts me at night, in a good way) than play the media games any more that I just don’t see people getting much out of.

It could just be that I am a recluse and that’s why I don’t ‘get’ social networking sites. I certainly have no issue with those who do- more power to you! I think six months was a fair run to see how it felt, and it didn’t feel good to me. I just don’t get them.

They leave me yearning for more.

I’m willing to give it, to be a real life, involved friend to those who are kind and loyal to me. Hell, I’ll even promote your book/art/project here if I love ya enough and you guys know I’m not quick to do that.

I just want, no, need, to surround myself with people (as my life takes some difficult turns before things get better...and they will get better) that ask how I am and then actually hang around to hear the answer to the question.

So that means that most of you who knew me here first or who have gotten to know me there will still see me any time you want. I’m always just an email away, and I’m happy to hear from you whenever you have the time. I'm also going to try a lot harder to keep up with every single blog comment though I will be doing it through email too for the sake of my eyes so please know if you don't have an email attached to your commenting account I can't track you down to reply to it.

I feel a huge sense of relief tonight, not having to check Facebook.

My status is “human”.

My hope is to see, and honor, the humanity in you, too.

I had lately seriously reconsidered even giving up this blog but then this week I got several unrelated emails from folks who said that my recent posts have really resonated with them. The sentiment was expressed that I was giving voice to feelings they could not- this exact sentiment by more than one person—and it meant the world to me. I want, if I can, to give a voice to those who cannot speak whenever possible. That to me is the true meaning, and worth, of blogging. To reach out, to communicate, and to care about the people who take the time to read what you write.

As you navigate the networking world, I'd ask you to be kind to yourself and remember the following:

We are more than our work.

We are more than our faces, or followers, and our Tweet count.

We are more than 140 characters can begin to explain.

Ever felt lonely amidst the crowd on Facebook or tried to swim against the rushing current of the Twitter stream?

I’d love to get to know who you really are.

~bru

On Mothers and Motherhood

A split post today, because I am split-- conflicted, when it comes to the topic of mother, and motherhood.

The first is a piece I wrote last year. I considered including it in my entry for a Literary Lab contest, in the end, I went with the companion piece about my father instead.

Because not all of us have happy memories of our mothers, something for the rest of us, on a day more of remembrance of loss than celebration of love.

Then, something for everybody.

The Tea Set

My sister asked me today if I wanted it.

She said the word in that way she does, as if I would psychically, automatically know what 'it' is.

"Maybe," I said. “What is it?"

"Part of your tea set. Do you remember it?"

I could not immediately answer. Of course I remembered it.

"I was sure Mom got rid of it. The way that she did my Alice in Wonderland dress. I asked her what happened to it, she said she didn't know."

"I rescued it out of the trash years ago,” my sister explained.

"What?"

"It was in an empty white garbage bag, outside the house on Graham. I took it out."

The house on Graham was sold in nineteen ninety-six.

"I only saved the pieces that weren't chipped or broken. I have one cup, one saucer, the teapot and the lid."

That made sense to me. My family has a habit of discarding people when they're broken, too.

Still, I couldn't speak. The image of my mother, stuffing fragments of my childhood, into that trash bag and throwing them away, was vivid. I don’t remember any of the parts of the tea set having been damaged when I was small, I was so incredibly careful with them.

Her rage, her bitterness, her resentment toward me for refusing to continue supporting her soft-focus, mythical accounts of what my life had been like had driven her to get rid of everything that reminded her of the fact that I'd had grown up and found a life of my own.

"She got rid of my Alice dress, too," I said. "After Hannah took it and restored it. She gave it away to a complete stranger."

My grandmother's best friend Hannah had taken such great care to restore the dress to its original condition: tiny stitches mending little lace collar and hem, secret ingredients in a soaking tub raising the dulled white of the pinafore back to life out of yellowed, aging despair. I'd loved that dress just as I loved those little china cups.

Images of countless mornings and afternoon tea times of early childhood resonated through me until my teeth set on edge. I remembered how I actually drank real Darjeeling out of it, cold, over-creamed and over-sugared, not knowing it was possible to have it any other way because that was how my mother always made it.

I remembered setting an empty cup on a perfectly placed saucer beside me, every time, for my best friend-- the little worn bear with the soggy neck and the yellow hat grown threadbare even then because it was such a convenient handle by which to carry him around with me.

I made him imaginary marmalade sandwiches and served him gallons of make-believe tea. I always seem to remember offering him the largest of all the pretend sticky buns, because he liked them so much.

I used to ask him how his Aunt was doing- if he'd gotten any letters from home. I would wonder if, as much as he loved London, he ever missed Peru.

"I think that she thought you wouldn't want to take it with you when you moved."

"No. She threw it out because she was so angry I changed my name."

My sister did not answer. She knew exactly why one of my first major, grown-up decisions was to legally change my name.

My mother has yet to forgive me for that, among other things.

My mother has yet to admit that they ever did anything wrong.

"I can bring it over,” my sister offered. “I have that CD I borrowed too, to give back to you."

I couldn't contain my sigh, not today. Not in that moment.

"Oh, actually I am about to go back to sleep." It was true. Sleep has been impossible to catch lately. The longer I go without it the larger the shadows looming in the corners by the shoe shelves, in the foyer and in the closet behind the curtains seem to become. I never feared monsters in the closet when I was small. The monsters were in every part of the house, and I remain ever grateful to the angels masquerading as grandparents who took me away from them, as long and as often as they were able.

I was so small.

"The cup has little orange dots on it, and red swirls. Do you remember what it looks like?"

Yes, I remember.

"The teapot has a big red dot and really happy, bright trim."

I marvel at the fact that she can look at the pieces and not realize that the picture on the teapot is actually a simple rendering of the sun, as a child might draw it.

As the child I was might have drawn it, back when I lifted the teapot with small dimpled fingers, so careful not to spill, and drank every drop no matter how cold or how bad it tasted.

Faint memories of that girl call to me sometimes, as if she was always someone else, because the woman today I see in the mirror could never have been that girl-- so sweet and gentle and as bright and warm as the strongest midday sun.

It took me no time to make my decision. "I definitely want it back. Thank you."

I slapped blindly for the cradle of the phone with the receiver, wondering what it will feel like, the moment I hold that tiny cup in my full-grown hand for the first time, and drink out of it to celebrate that if nothing else, I am not now nor will I ever be the mother that my mother was.

--

(This, I write this in honor of all the mothers I know and love.)

They'll never know how we worry. How we agonize and sigh and fret.

They'll never know how we endure morning sickness, stretch marks, and a hundred and one other indignities just to carry them.

They'll never know how they make us laugh, hold at our hearts, rule our worlds.

They'll never know how we cry, pray, beg the universe to make deals at the cost of our very soul if need be, on their behalf.

They'll never know what we sacrifice, the dreams we defer and the ones we abandon outright, as we work to help them live their own.

They won't understand we're not perfect, merely human, flawed and struggling, just like every other woman to wear the title. They won't appreciate, for the small things that we may have done wrong, that considering how some of us were raised, we did everything in the world we could as close to right as possible.

They won't hear, they won't understand, and they won't know until the day they realize that they're going to be a parent, too.

I am the mother of two babies I never got to hold, and one young woman I can no longer hold back.

May she be free to find herself, and to finally hopefully find her way back to me, one day.

I'll be waiting with open arms.

Mother's Day Wishes For My Daughter, by February Grace

I wish you joy, my beauty
all happy, never sad
I wish you love and truth
and all the things I never had

I wish you peace, I wish you hope
I wish most of all you'll know
no distance stops mother's love
my heart follows where you go

The People She Left Behind

It’s the smallest things that get to you.

Don’t get me wrong, the big things hurt like hell, too. They’re the punch that leaves you senseless; the crushing blow that knocks the breath from your lungs.

The little things are the sharp, stinging ache of trying to take air back into them again as you rise on shaking knees from the ground.

Packing up her room was a big thing.

The hearing, during which I gave her what she asked for, was the hardest, huge thing.

Coming home knowing she would never call this place home again, is indescribable.

I know I’m lucky. She’s out there. She’s doing better, she’s happier these days.

She’s alive.

I’m alive.

Kind of.

I cried when I packed up her room. Not the whole time; most of the time I was too numb to feel anything. At points, though, it was impossible not to cry for what I knew I had lost as I packed up what was left in the closet.

Just weeks before we’d gone through it together, she and I, and she’d chosen herself to give away and or toss the played out toys and worn down crayons; selvage of what she sagely referred to as ‘her childhood’.

She’s only fifteen.

I know she still has a ways to go before she leaves childhood behind.

But she wanted to go, and so I gave her what she wanted though it was breaking my heart to do it more every moment I thought about it.

I gave her what she asked for because she can more clearly live the life she wants there, with him. With his family.

In his religion.

She’ll live a more exciting existence there. Horseback riding lessons. Big back yard. Dogs. Her room here felt stifling to her, the view from her window less than she wanted, making the world feel too narrow for her to breathe in. While she disliked the location itself, though, it was the view inside the house that was harder for her to see: the limitations put upon our lives by my disabilities.

She said she couldn’t stand to see me suffer any more.

Though I had tried, God, how I’d tried, to keep the worst of it from her.

What can you say to that? There’s nothing to say to that. I can’t change my body.

So I gave her what she asked for, I let her go.

Now, she doesn’t have to see my suffering at all.

It’s been almost three months since my daughter moved in with her ‘other’ family.

I’ve talked to her on the phone four times. I’ve seen her in person once. It was a good day. A wonderful day, even. But the moment it was over, I knew that it would be a long time before there was another one like it. Weeks later, I doubt there ever will be. The longer she’s gone the less she thinks of me. Of us. Of the life she left behind.

Next year, they’re moving across the country. By then, I’ll hopefully already have moved even farther away- or at least, that’s the plan now. (Wish me a miracle, please. I need one.)

She wanted her freedom, to be with people who ‘support her faith’. Away, I know, from the Bad Influence that is me, her mother.

I never told her she had to believe in God, like they do.

I never told her that she shouldn’t believe in him, like me.

I told her that she needed to find her own truth; that every one of us does.

I always told her that I loved her entirely for who she is, and nothing else, nothing more. Like I have since the moment I knew I was carrying her. Like I will until the day that I breathe my last breath upon this stale, ancient Earth.

She found her faith, and it’s my worst nightmare to know it’s the one that will require her to shun me now that she doesn’t live with me any more (and in fact would have required her to anyway just a few years from now, when she reached the age of majority.)

It’s the faith I had pounded into my newly forming cells in the womb as a zygote and only finally battled my way out of in my twenties. I fought for our freedom, to give her a chance at a life much less restricted than I’d had, with three previous generations of my family and literally everyone I had been allowed to know a part of it all.

It’s the one that took my family from me and never gave them back, because if they do not shun me they will be cast out, too. Their religion will not accept that I had a right to remarry after I divorced her father, and so branded me unholy.

Back in 1998. I 'quit' before they 'fired' me, but they announced it was their act of throwing me out, anyway. People serve less time in prison for violent crimes than I have spent separated from my family because I couldn't stay married to a man I wed in good faith as a complete innocent at the age of nineteen.

Not so much older than the daughter I tried to protect is now.

All these years, I fought them for her freedom, armed only with unconditional love.

It was not enough. They've won.

Now, she won’t have to wake up and look upon me every day with sadness, viewing me as a person who will die soon (very soon, they keep saying) with the coming of the great day of Jehovah of Armies, when the blood will run as high as the bridles on horses and the forces of heaven will destroy all those, like me, who do not believe.

Oh, and “The Gays”. “The Gays” will get it to, they say. Sorry, guys.

Frankly, if it’s coming I’d rather die with you all as they say I’m destined to, given the choice, rather than live forever with people who practice a faith so dark and narrow that it can’t possibly let in the light.

I know there are things about what she’s being taught that bother her (the above homophobia being one example) I know, because we’ve discussed it at length.

I know that the idea of my impending death at Armageddon has bothered her since she was small enough to form sentences to say that it upset her, the idea that I had to die when that time came, because, as she once said “You’re a sweet Mommy and good mommies should live forever too.”

Still, she believes it will happen.

I don’t know where my little girl has gone. The one who became a junior black belt in Tae Kwon Do at the age of twelve, and taught classes of four and five year olds soon after. The one who worried about global warming, and volunteering for charity. The child who gave away almost all of her favorite toys, all on her own, to kids who lost everything in Hurricane Katrina.

I see a stranger in her eyes now, and I’m not the only one.

I’m also not the only one who can’t stand to look at the Nintendo since she left.

The only time I ever used it was when she wanted to play. I’m horrible at video games, it’s that whole ‘blind and lame’ thing I’ve got going on. But we did like to watch me miss at bowling on the Wii until my shoulder refused to swing any more (usually about six frames in then we just goofed around). Her stepfather, though, liked to play with it sometimes even when she wasn’t home.

Not any more.

You see, she elevated making little Mii people to an art form. Every one of her favorite TV characters is there. A couple of our favorite bands. Characters from her NaNoWriMo novel.

Characters from my novels.

It’s a world populated by her imagination, even members of the family all represented. Even a little Mii that looks just like her.

Seeing it would be too much now, without her here.

So the little people stay trapped in their electronic prison, and I walk around trapped inside my real one. It’s with me wherever I go, weighing me down, chains around my feet and ankles that I am still trying to unlock. It’s worst of all in the moments when I’m reminded just how far away close can feel.

Like yesterday, when I went to the dentist for a quick thing and we saw her name on the sign-in sheet. She’d just been there, left not five minutes earlier, after getting her braces adjusted.

They’ll be off soon.

If I’m lucky, she might send me a picture.

Most likely, though, she’ll think about it and then realize that it’s almost time for her Bible meeting, and that she just doesn’t have the time.

It's the little things that get you.

Like the fact that the Mii people don’t know that they’re inactive. That they’re suspended, waiting eternally, agelessly, on the girl who isn’t coming back. Unaware of the passage of time, of the changes all around.

They can’t remember, or look back. They can’t mourn for her absence.

Every time I walk past that damned white box, I envy them.

Bru Interviews...Michelle Gregory!

Citizens of Earth and the epic worlds beyond, it is my pleasure to introduce to you (or perhaps just shine a tiny little brighter spotlight on if you’ve already had the pleasure) author of Eldala and great bloggy buddy o’mine, Michelle D. Gregory!

Yes, that Michelle Gregory! Creater of worlds. Master of words. Woman of deep and cherished faith. Collector of way cool quotes. Sage and comforter to others traveling the same weary trail. Has a thing for guys with beards (I must confess I do to, as my Liam/Qui-gon Ewan/Obi-wan fondness tells so clearly) …but more on that later.

Everybody, this is Michelle. Michelle, this is everybody and...hey! You in the back! Take those earbuds out, I’m talkin’ here! Don’t make me start chucking perfectly edible mass-produced baked goods at you.

Okay, now that we have everyone’s attention, may I direct yours to the tea and Twinkies to your left and dive right into our chat? First off, thanks for stopping by.

MG: I used to get Twinkies in my sack lunch for grade school, but they were always a little squished when it was time to eat them. (Supposedly they can survive a nuclear holocaust—yes, I loved the cockroach who lived in a Twinkie in “Wall-E”—but they couldn’t survive the bus ride. The Ding Dongs didn’t hold up much better.) Hopefully the virtual Twinkies we’re sharing now will survive the trip across cyberspace.

And you’re very welcome for being here. It’s a privilege.

FG: I bubble wrapped the Twinkies for the ride, so hopefully they’re still good.

So, I know that you’re a sensitive, talented writer who also happens to have two other jobs as a wife and homeschooling Mom (been there, done that, still exhausted…) Tell me, Michelle, what would you like the world to know about you? Please introduce yourself to the rogue’s gallery of Pitch Slapped regulars here.

MG: I’m an obsessive list maker. Hence, it’s easier to list things about myself.

FG: Go for it.

MG:--I love to encourage people but am not very optimistic about my own life. Good thing I married an optimist.

--My dream is to see people come alive so they can do what they’ve always wanted to do.

FG: “I’m aliiiiiiive, and the world shines on meeeeeee today….I’m alive!” (Sorry, brief Xanadu flashback. Darn you, Jeff Lynne, for writing such darn catchy music.) All joking aside, though, I can really relate to that. I’m all cheerleading sunshine for other people then when it comes to myself, I don’t know what happens. I’m working on it, because I want to change the fact that my immediate reaction to seeing a half-full glass is thinking that it must have flipped over halfway through the dishwasher cycle and its gonna be all slimy with leftover soap and I have to run it through again.

MG: (Snort, snicker—that’s a good one.)

FG: Thank you kindly, it was the first thing that came to me. What’s the next item up for bids on that list of yours?

MG: -- When I started to write Eldala, my son called me a story person. At the time, I thought I had one story in me. Now there are so many stories in my head that I think it will take a lifetime to get them all written.

FG: A story person, that is so sweet. I’d much rather be a ‘story person’ than just a writer, that is such a wonderful compliment he gave you. As far as it taking a lifetime to tell them all, with as much detail and care as you put into building the world in Eldala, that does not surprise me in the least!

What else ya got? *peeks over Michelle’s shoulder trying to see her list *

MG: -- I used to do scrapbooks and paper arts. My father-in-law even built a beautiful slide-out desk and storage cabinets for me. A month later I started writing and stopped scrapbooking. Now my daughter uses all my crafting supplies.

FG: Oooo, I wish I could see a picture of that. I dream of one of a kind furniture like that, I think in a past life I must have worked with wood. Maybe I was a lumberjack…or a woodchuck.

…I digress.

Now, let me go back to a fun thing I happen to know that you and I have in common. We both seem to have a weak spot for well-bearded men…yes?

MG: I once dreamed about kissing my main character, Kieran, beard and all. My husband thought it was funny.

FG: I once dreamed I was chief engineer on the Enterprise and there was a warp core breach in progress. I was shouting in my sleep (I’m told) that we had to hurry up and eject the core. True story. Sad, true story.

Moving right along…What is the very first thing that you have to have at the ready when you sit down to write? Coffee? Soda? Double thick chocolate shake? (What, there are healthier beverages?)

MG: I would definitely take the shake, but I don’t require it for writing. Cookies are good too. What I really need is quiet. My muse won’t come out to play if it’s too noisy—unless she has this great burst of inspiration, and then I can write it no matter what the noise level is.

FG: Mmm. Cookies. Definitely a writing essential. For all my talk of Twinkies I’d rather have cookies, any day. Maybe I’ll have to shift my jokes toward more personally appropriate bakery.

Let’s talk about your book, Eldala. It’s an epic romantic fantasy with rich, vivid characters. I know, because I’ve read it! And that’s something because a) Fantasy is usually not my genre and b) you know how limited my eyesight is so if I commit to reading an epic tale cover to cover it has to hold my interest.

MG: Knowing how limited you are, I was honored that you read it.

FG: Aww, shucks. But you really helped with that. Knowing I was struggling to read my print copy you sent me the PDF so I could finish in my HUMONGO font on the computer. When I couldn't stop reading I had Natural Reader read it to me in a refined, British accent. I found it served the story well. I mean, the only thing better than a bearded guy is a bearded guy with an accent!

When it came to holding my interest, I found your Kieran and Arathor more than filled that bill (not that the others weren’t great too- just that whole bearded guy thing again, you understand.) For those who haven’t had the chance to read it yet, please tell us a bit about Eldala.

MG: On Kieran’s twentieth birthday, he receives a letter from King Arathor, along with a sword engraved with these words: “When the line of kings is broken, and an evil ruler takes the throne, a child will arise to end her reign; a child will arise to break her curse.”

Up until now, he’s thought he was the adopted son of Kale the blacksmith. He’s lived a safe, sheltered life. He hates how the liege lords and current king treat their subjects, but he doesn’t think he can do anything about it. His goals are to be the best smith in Teleria and find the woman who shares his dreams so they can raise a family. Now he has to choose between hiding in his smithy or walking in his destiny so he can save Teleria.

I tried to put the things I love about stories into my story—mystery, fantasy, a villain to defeat, allegory, someone who discovers they’re more than they thought they were, true love—and to make it a story my then pre-teen boys would enjoy. When it didn’t go the way I wanted, I asked for their help and it morphed into Eldala. They came up with character names, place names, and plot ideas. My oldest son even drew a map of Teleria for me. I love the fact that they were involved.

FG: That is so fantastic. I have heard similar stories once or twice about families working on and sharing books like this (I’m remembering the interview I did with Ted Cross ages ago) and it’s so touching to me. Some of the most fun I’ve ever had as a writer was hearing my daughter quote back dialog I’d written to me or pretend to be one of my characters when addressing me. Precious memories, thank you for sharing them with us.

Next question: train, plane, or automobile? Unicycle? Roller skates? Dogsled? What would you consider to be your favorite mode of transportation?

MG: I’ve never traveled by dog sled before, but I imagine it would be pretty cold.

FG: I tried to travel by cat sled once, but my cat only weighs nine pounds. He looked back at me over his shoulder as if to say, “Are you freaking kidding me?” That went over about as well as my idea of making him the world’s first seeing eye cat. He was smart enough. He just wouldn’t wear the harness.

MG: I just can’t picture a cat pulling a sled.

FG: *snort * Neither could the cat.

MG: Maybe I’ll get the chance to try it (dog sled) when I move to Montana. In the meantime, I prefer to travel by car, but not a small one. I’m so used to driving my Excursion that anything smaller makes me almost claustrophobic. With my sensitive stomach, I have to be in the front seat, and please don’t ask me to read a map or directions while the car is moving. Needless to say, my stomach and planes don’t get along very well. That will make it really hard to fly to Wales so I can see the country on which I based Teleria, but I’d love to try.

FG: One word, baby: Dramamine. It is my friend, it may be yours (for the flight.) I tried those flight bracelet thingies once and all they did was cut the circulation off to my fingers.

MG: Dramamine and I are NOT friends. Even the non-drowsy stuff makes me feel worse. And those patches you can wear… one of the side effects is dizziness. Like I needed more of that when I fly…

FG: …need that like turbulence right after lunch. Hey, if you go to Wales you have to send me a cool postcard please??? Please!!!?!?!

MG: Of course.

FG. Thank you :~) Now, I know you love quotes, and I've read some amazing ones on your blog Beautiful Chaos. Do you have an all time favorite, one you always call to mind in the roughest times?

MG: My all-time favorite is: "Don’t ask what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." (Howard Thurman)

FG: That is deep.I am going to definitely print that out and put it somewhere conspicuous. It’s a great quote!

MG: But that’s not one I think of when life is rough. In times like those, I think of a great line from Finding Nemo: "Just keep swimming."

FG: “I will name him Squishy, and he shall be mine. And he shall be my Squishy.” (I love Dory- though sometimes I relate entirely too much to her overall. I love Dory and Ellen for that matter!)

Okay, so I need a new 'standard bonus question' to end with here for 2011, since this is believe it or not the first interview I've done this year, I'll test this one out on you: Star Wars, Star Trek, Doctor Who, Harry Potter, or LOTR...if you had to pick a fictional universe to spend the rest of your life in, which one of those would you choose and why? If none, do you have an alternate you'd like to get stranded in?

MG: At first I was going to say Star Wars, but that Galaxy is so rife with on-going trouble that I’d rather not visit.

FG: True. But they do have Jedi. And nothing bad ever happens to the Jedi, especially not the handsome ones with beards. What, you in the back, did you say something? *fingers in ears* lalalalala not listening! Ahem, sorry…so, for a peaceful retreat then?

MG: For peace and tranquility, I would love to visit Rivendell in Lord of the Rings, but only after Sauron has been defeated and Aragorn has become king (and yes, I know that the Elves will have left by then, but I’d have them there anyway). When I finish exploring Rivendell, I’d go to Lothlorien. Dwelling in the trees fascinates me. (I tried to mimic some of that when I wrote a description of one of my Baraca clans in Eldala.)

FG: Of course you can keep the elves. After all, it is your hypothetical. It’s all about creating the world, isn’t it? And that is something you can definitely do.

In closing, let me say that Keiran and Arathor both kept a little piece of my heart when I read Eldala, and if you enjoy romantic, epic fantasy you should give it a whirl! Thanks, Michelle, for taking the time to talk today, and for being such an all-around wonderful person.

MG: It was so much fun to be here, even if it was virtually. The Twinkies were great, but I think I got cream filling on your floor. (Maybe the cat will like it.) Can I have you over to my blog sometime? Please…?

FG: Hey, if you’re into cookie obsessed, Coldplay caterwauling, Star Trek loving, pink shoe’d weirdos, I’m yours!

MG: Great!

Thanks for stopping in, everyone! Before you go, I want to pass on that a little Telerian bird told me that if you’re interested in checking out the world Michelle has built, this is the perfect time to do it!

For the month of May, if you use Coupon Code LQ89P at Smashwords, you can get Eldala for $1.99. Here’s the link to Eldala’s Smashwords page.

Also, Michelle has reduced the price of the paperback on Lulu 30% for this month, so now it’s $13.99. Here’s the link to Eldala’s Lulu page.

Don't forget to stop by and say hi to Michelle over at her place!

~bru