When I was a kid the Cascades song, Rhythm of the Rain would run through my head endlessly. Which isn’t bad if you’re not trying to go to sleep. But usually I was, tossing and turning, thumping my pillow, and listening to the darn song in my head – verse after verse, chorus after chorus, over and over again. Wide awake.
A bit later on in life I learned to alter my breathing to fall asleep. And a few years after that when we moved to Oregon I would lay in bed at night and wander the streets of my old neighborhood mentally naming each kid, in each house – in order. Then I would name their dogs, their cats, parents, sixty houses, I got pretty good at it. Needless to say, forty years later I can still do it, except it doesn’t put me to sleep anymore. Now I just take pills and say my prayers.
What I did get from the whole exercise (which expanded into blocks away from my neighborhood) was a good memory, or at least the realization that I have a fairly good memory. Apparently better than most, I thought everyone had this good of a memory – people like my friend Pam make me see otherwise.
The one thing I can’t remember is the first grade. I remember kindergarten, crap I remember the first day of kindergarten (but it cost me a nickel if I said crap.) I have a cute little picture of me from that year. I remember my teacher. I remember being bummed at the end of the year because it was summer of all darn things and there was no school (we didn’t get bummed, that actually came several years later.)
My first grade – almost a complete blank. I know my teacher was Miss Saurdeaux (in my head it is Miss Sourdough) she was young and blonde. Tada that is it! I have no school picture from that year and I’m fairly damn certain that is the reason it is a large blank in my memory.
Except one day – the day they took the school pictures. Yep, I remember that very day, because I was home sick with the mumps. It was a sunny November day, I was wearing my Halloween costume (really Girl Scout’s Honor – well except I’d not been a Girl Scout yet, or even a Brownie) mom had gotten me an angel costume that year… remember when you could get flannel Halloween costumes that miraculously became jammies? Been there.
Anyway, it was late morning when my mother became panicked because Butch was missing. I don’t mean he was suppose to be in the front yard missing, I mean he wasn’t to be found anywhere in the neighborhood (which was the afore mentioned three block cul-de-sac of sixty homes) and his trike was missing. Yes, trike he was four years old. Come to think of it Mrs. Taylor couldn’t find Donny, and Mrs. Winters was missing a Lance (it was a blessing really). The three had suddenly disappeared – Butch, the eldest by a year or so was the ringleader – the neighbors were sure.
My mother called the police; her panic increased she was stuck between staying with her sick child and combing the streets looking for her missing child. The cops on the other hand were scouring everywhere within a six block radius for the missing miscreants. I was languishing of the mumps in my Halloween Angel jammies, watching Sheriff John (it was lunch time.)
Mr. Taylor (they lived two houses down) came home and was just about to join the search when a black and white pulled in front of our house with Lance and Donny in the back seat, trikes jutting from the trunk. Yes my brother was safe, but they needed help.
A few days before a little boy a few blocks away had gotten lost in the storm system for a day and a half. In La Mirada the storm culvers are massive concrete structures that run for miles under the streets. It had been feared that the three had some how found their way into the storm system and were lost. A smart officer had decided that was a bit too evolve for three toddlers and checked the local grocery stores. Nope, no trikes and kids at Safeway (which would have been the much preferred location, no big streets to cross.) None, at the liquor store (personally I loved the candy counter at the liquor store.) Across the street at Boys Market (clearly the name should have been a hint) the officer found three trikes jammed in the phone booths outside the store. Why inside the phone booths? They didn’t want their trikes discovered (there’s a hot market out there for bashed and battered trikes) and stolen. Or maybe they didn’t want to be found by the cops.
What was definitely known was that Butch was in big trouble. Not only had he crossed La Mirada Boulevard with his rag tag team of lost boys, but he was refusing to get into the car with a stranger. In fact he wouldn’t even talk to the stranger (except to say he’s not allowed to talk to strangers) and yes, to him that meant the cop was a stranger – no talk.
I don’t remember what happened when Mr. Taylor brought him home, because I was sick and still had the mumps. Hey, I was only six, give me a break. It was while I was in the first grade and Crap! I can’t even remember that year.
Everyone who takes rolls of film has a story about the one that got away; yes, often confused with the fish story. This is one of those stories…
When I plan a vacation, I plan a pretty full vacation. I mean, who knows when you might get to return? And of course after you’ve spent seven days seeing the sights, won’t it be several years before you go back? After spending two days and nights acquainting ourselves with our hotel, the restaurants there in and about, and with the Fremont Experience Ducky and I spent Monday taking in the sights and sounds of the southern end of the strip time share high pressure sales seminar. Note no commas, that’s how it felt. No I didn’t take pictures…well I did…sort of…but that is for later.
As a child my parents gave us the best of the US that they could. We scoured Route 66, I-80 and the roads in between. I have a freakish memory that can pull out bits and bobs of this event or that dating all the way back to age two and a half. I’m sure part of that is aided by my mom’s photo albums spurring my memories along. Which explains why I can’t remember first grade, I had mumps the day pictures were taken. And maybe I’ll tell that story tomorrow, but the gist is that I don’t remember first grade. Major digression. Knowing that we would be within driving distance of great places I remember from childhood, but Ducky’d never seen, I was primed to play the tour guide.
Monday afternoon I rented a car for three days. Tuesday morning, way too friggin’ early for vacation, Ducky and I bought coffee and a bran muffin, loaded up the rental, went against what Horace Greeley preached, and headed east. I’d planned three-day trips for our vacation: Hoover Damn, Grand Canyon, and Zion Canyon. Ducky smartly suggested doing the farthest first and the nearest last, so Tuesday we were off through the Nevada high desert into Arizona, into Utah and back into AZ for the North Rim.
After having to make a few stops for Ducky to rest his hip (really it’s walking the kinks out, but well you know) and five and a half hours later I was second guessing my desire to show him the Grand Canyon. He was in pain and fighting off cranky (which is a huge accomplishment) when we arrived in the parking lot of the North Rim Visitors center. One shot and I was already changing my film. We walked along the path getting small glimpses of the rim rock, making me fear the North Rim would not live up to my memories of the South Rim.
Suddenly the area opened up and we were offered endless views of the Grand Canyon. I am always amazed by the grandeur wrought by Mother Nature, an amazement that was renewed by Ducky’s fascination. Now my husband has a fear of heights, yes pretty much equaled to my terror of snakes, he’s a bit more emboldened than I am. He walked out on points and let me take his picture. UNFUCKINGHEARDOF!!! Ducky despises having his picture taken. He let me take shots here, there, and even had a German couple trade cameras and locations with us to get couples shots. I was in seventh heaven.
Half way through I changed film again and loaded roll number four. While my digital was in the rental, I’d only brought my Pentax on our walk. That Tuesday I shot the better part of two rolls of film capturing the vistas of the North Rim, Ducky, and the day.
Only to return home and find, roll number three of seven is nowhere to be found. Sith, Cele
For the better part of fifteen years I lived in the same neighborhood. Six kids on my block were in Mrs. Espinosa’s kindergarten class. I remember Michael and I sitting on the flagstone BBQ in my backyard staring at the school on the Mesa waiting for the morning kindergarten to be over so we could go to school. Excitement, I doubt I slept the night before. Our moms walked us – holding hands, envelops with milk money pinned to our shirts down the hill and the four blocks to the school. Five of those six kids graduated in 1974 - together.
Growing up we ran barefoot and wild, roaming our neighborhood from dawn till way past dark during summer playing hide and seek, ditch-it (on bikes), and Red Rover (not on bikes – duh!) There were swim parties at the Taylors and the Meyers, neighborhood sleepovers in my back yard, and when we were older there were parties- birthday, graduation, and finally my going away party.
Several years ago Ducky and I went back to La Mirada, to my old neighborhood. Despite 28 years past some of my old neighbors still lived there. Our names are still etched in the corner piece where Mr. Timmons had cemented because we spun on the street pole so much it wobbled and leaned. All of the olive trees are gone, pink stucco has replaced much of the avocado greens and butter yellows once worn by the track houses and now looking at the three blocks that made up our neighborhood, an area that had seemed so huge to me before, was in truth really quite small.
On September 26th several of us gathered again in Las Vegas for a reunion. It had been in my mind several years to invite all of the kids I grew up with to a gathering of sorts. Ducky and I had flown in just that day. My sister, her husband and their youngest son (he’s 28) had been in Vegas since Thursday, I was looking forward to hooking up with them for margaritas after dinner that night.
Never close to my cousins, I was envious of friends who had close relationships with their. I had none of my own to claim visual ownership to. So Judy and I became cousins. To this day she is my cousin, Psam calls her Aunt Judy, and despite time and distance we have remained close. Judy brought Lori with her for a long weekend. It was Judy that Ducky and I first saw as we checked in.
Despite having just said I had no cousins to be friends with, that isn’t entirely true. I have one cousin who is my age. Lynnie Furby. He lives in Ohio. See there’s the distance factor. But for one year Lynnie lived with us, went to seventh grade with me, made friends with my friends and then he moved back to Ohio at the end of school in 1970. Yes, it has been forty years since I’ve seen him, or really had much contact with him. Seeing him made me feel the loss again, while regaining him and his wife. I won’t lose them again.
Michael showed up looking like his dad. We’d played doctor together when we must have been four or so, I wonder if he remembers? I’m sure he remembers I broke is race car set in a snit when I was about six. Pretty bratty of me, I’ve often contemplated sending him a new one out of the blue.
Pammy was the sheltered kid in the neighborhood, but I really liked her. I have three songs that inevitably bring her to mind so I think of her often. She brought her husband and daughter along for the trip. Very down to earth, smiling people.
Growing up there were six Morin kids: Paul (Gene), Mike, Dale, Vicki, Julie, Janice. Sadly Paul passed of a heart attach July 29th. Mike, Dale, and Janice all showed up in Vegas bringing spouses and grown children.
Cheryl lived on the fringes of our neighborhood, but she and her brother Rod were always around. Her dad having passed just two weeks before it had been questionable if she’d come – but she did.
Eleven and company gathered three weeks ago in Vegas and had dinner, relived moments of our past, but more importantly we caught up on the people who’d been important to us on the road to becoming who we are today. They are my past, a part of my present, and thankful a part of my future.
Sadly my pictures did not come out as well as I’d have liked.
It is now a warm memory, except for the blister remnants, a lost roll of film, and grainy photos. I'm kind of bummed, I may shoot on Kodak film but the processor does a crappy job with their CD's. The hard pictures have great clarity and color, the disc, well you can see below the pictures are grainy. And I cleaned them up some. I'm bummed. It had been a good forty years since I'd been to Vegas. It was worth the wait. And while you must see the Strip (especially the colors at night) I was much happier on the Fremont Experience.
Thursday night of our trip (yes, I will be giving you our vaction in reverse... sort of) we finally rode the Deuce to from the Golden Nugget to the Strip.
If you've seen anything on TV or in the movies about Vegas you know the shows on the strip are a must. And several of the night time shows in front of the casinos are free. We made sure we got off in front of Treasure Island so we could take in the pirate show.
The show sadly didn't live up to the hype. Definately worth the visit to down town, don't let it be the only thing you see on the strip.
And the foreigners, way rude. I was pushed, bumped, elbowed, and just about butt fucked to the point where I finally walked a step backward to get the guy behind me off my ass. He was literally body pressed to me as we minced our steps away from the viewing docks in front of Treasure Island. I am usually a non aggressive person, but forty five minutes on the strip I'd had my fill.
One Brit Idiot scoffed with down her nose distane, "No wonder they have terrible smog, it's all the firework smoke." Lady, leave your money and go home. We walked the short distance down to the Mirage for the Volcano's eruption. The fire action was hot and colorful. And I mean hot, you could have been scorched to cinders at our first two shows.
Sadly I didn't get pictures of the best show on the Strip, the dancing fountains of the Bellagio.
I could have watched all night long. But because I was shooting with my Macro I didn't get a good shot. Next time I go back I will have dinner at the Venetian and watch the dancing waters.
Ducky and I both thought the Bellagio show the best. Our performance was to Elton John's "Your Song" I understand the music changes nightly.
The Bellagio Fountains surpassed the hype.
Because we were staying at the Golden Nugget, the majority of our evenings were spent on the Fremont Experience. Billed as the World's largest television screen we enjoyed most of the hourly performances, but I especially liked Kiss and Queen; Ducky's favorite was Don McLean's American Pie.
Not all the bands were good, but one or two were exceptionally good, drew big crowds, and had people off all ages dancing in the street.
The five dollar margaritas weren't bad, but the seven dollar margaritas were pretty darn good.
I also tried to get a shot of the Golden Nugget's Shark Tank pool, but failed sadly.
We definately will go back, stay at the Golden Nugget and play the penny machines.
Along with Domestic Violence Awareness month, October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Most aware people know about this devastating disease that afflicts women world wide, but what most people don’t know is that every day men are diagnosed, treated, or not, and die from breast cancer - everyday. Naw, you say. But, oh, it is so sadly true.
The Centers for Disease Control reports in 2005 - 186,467 women and 1,764 men were diagnosed with breast cancer; 41,116 women and 375 men died from breast cancer. For 2009 The National Cancer Institute estimates 1,910 new cases of breast cancer among men, with 440 deaths resulting from the disease. Yes, the numbers are higher for women. But women are aware, most have been taught by their mothers, doctors, and even in school to do monthly self exams. For men the devastating numbers are climbing. And no one is teaching men to be self aware, and of course to admit, that as a man you might have breast cancer is just un-well-manly.
The first step is admitting the possiblities. Educating both men and women that this cancer doesn’t affect just one gender, but all. The second step is self awareness, sometimes that is the most difficult step. As a woman when was the last time you did a self exam? Or are you going to say, “I just had a mammogram…” ten months ago. Men? That’s what I thought.
Or worse, if you’re under forty you might never have had a mammogram, just your annual check up from your doctor. What’s that you say, you’ve not had a check up since when? Thank you for underscoring my point. Good Health and cancer prevention is proactive, not reactive. Waiting until you have to react to the discovery of a lump maybe too late.
It's just two simple steps, we take one step at a time: education and self examination/awareness.
So what spurred this blog? Yesterday, Peter Criss, founding member and the original drummer for KISS announced he’d been breast cancer free for one year. Way to go and congratulations. But what got me the most, it takes a big man to come out and tell other men to cut the macho crap. You can read a full article on Peter Criss (including some of the statistic’s I’ve used) Original Kiss Drummer Celebrates Surviving Breast Cancer here.
Two simple steps, done one at a time, could someday save us from having to hold Relays for Life filled with thousands of steps to raise more money to find out why.
It’s not a new phenomenon, it’s not vandalism particular to nor confined to the Willamette Valley, or even Oregon. It is played out time again on TV, the mechanics of releasing the hounds of Hell and a few ghouls in movies of B grade – C grade and beyond upon the Silver Screen, but knocking over grave stones began years, decades before it ever appeared on any movie screen.
This morning’s front page of the Eugene Register Guard shows beautiful head stones and monuments, in tribute to beloved lost ones, lying in crumbed ruins of the groomed lawn of a historical cemetery. While the stores have been filled with Halloween goodies, ghoulies, and treats for weeks this destruction has nothing to do with the sweet holiday it is equated with. It is all based on selfish need for destruction and disrespect.
Not a believer in funerals per se, I mourn for the families who do, families who lovingly laid their fore bearers to rest under enveloping cool green lawns, shaded by ancient stretching oaks. Resting spaces marked by weather bearing smooth marbles and granites, defaced or destroyed in careless abandon, mindless of the cruelties they wreaked.
Psam and I have spent several afternoons walking the spaces between graves marked or not, noting often the loving care that some graves are tended by family members who hold their past with reverence. Making special note of the names, the dates, the history of those remembered in the space. Walking through the warm sun into the ice cold spots and back again from those who’ve not left. There are cemeteries I love to visit and others where my blood runs cold and I avoid. I have been touched by incredible sadness and other times laughter in cemeteries, but most of all I have been touched by respect and reverence in the moment.
Someday I will pass this plane and wish to be cremated, my ashes cast upon the four winds at the tide line where the waters of the Pacific rush to meet the sand. The end of my days could come tomorrow, next year, or forty years from now, but as certain as the rain will fall my days will end. And I will rest on the wind, in the waters, and in the sands of time. There will be no head stone to knock over, no marble to bear my names, no granite to crumble with the test of time. No totem to knock down.
Funerals are for the living, the dead gone from this plane and do not care, but to deface the resting place of their loved ones memory shows a distinct disrespect for all. Not even a decided disrespect, because that takes fore thought to respect, but a lack of respect total. I can’t imagine the selfishness of parents who are so self-centered, self-absorbed in their own personal pleasures or misery that they fail to teach their children respect. Maybe we should neuter hateful and decidedly ignorant people so they can’t reproduce and spread their disease? It’s a thought, not a viable one, but still a thought. Ducky would tell me I can’t blame their parents, and in some cases that maybe true, I am well aware that peer-pressure is a real and strong persuader, but really parents get with the program.
Restitution and community service working in the cemetery of their destruction digging graves by hand, helping with the final preparation and interment process could be a justifiable punishment… for say three years or more depending on the destruction wrought. Putting back together all those monuments and headstones with super and Gorilla glue should keep their hands and minds busy for quite away. Or as my mom would have said, time for them to think about the outcome of their actions.
Wow, I guess this is what Republicans felt when we non-Republicans railed against Bush, his non-existent MWD’s, and his war. When we cried out at the insanity and self- importance Bush and his campaign of fear and hatred force fed all Americans and the world. Oh, wait, I still feel justified in my anger at his jump to war, the loss of thousands of young lives hoisted on the petards of oil, old men and the paranoia of the Republican leadership.
“They”, on the other hand, are crying out because 1) people should have an affordable health care plan that isn’t regulated and handicapped by almighty money grubbing insurance companies – “they” disagree. 2) Because Obama ran on a format of Bi-Partisan Government – “they” disagree. 3) Because holding detainees at Guantanamo Bay is illegal (I mean really, how would we deal with say Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, or another istan who hold our soldiers in such conditions?) – of course “they” disagree, I mean c’mon folks “we are the United States Of America.” 4) Because the Nobel Committee awarded President Barack Obama this year’s Nobel Peace Prize. Yeah, duh in outrage – “they” disagree.
While I know this will not happen I would like to see the collective “they” (okay, I’d accept them doing it one at time) step back for just a moment and consider the facts of the situation. Barack Obama did not mandate this award it is from an international committee of which he has a) no control over b) no congress with c) no membership in d) he did not lobby for this award and recognition from. An international committee which annually awards prizes to people who make a great strides in science, health, literature, economics, and yes, in peace.
Now you know I’m all for Barack Obama, did he deserve a Nobel Peace Prize? No, not yet. Someday he might, but no, he didn’t. He has, though, made great strides in his first year in office. How? (I know you are wondering where I am going with this) he’s made the US palatable in much of the world again. Bush in his eight year tenure create a world atmosphere of hatred, imbued with his and the Republican paranoid rhetoric, self-righteousness, self-justified temper-tantrums (because God knows and you do too that there was no physical evidence to base his truths and acts upon.) The world (minus one or two countries and world leaders who, imagine this, are not in office anymore) came to hate US (no that’s not too strong a word) remember the international travel warnings, even restrictions, for Americans to not travel to foreign ports just a year ago? No? You must be either senile or Republican, dude Google it.
While Barack Obama has not reunited the divided sides of this country, he has given US credibility again. Has he had to go back on some of his running formats? Yep, let’s get real because this is a real world and he’s learning that. But, overall he’s been true to himself with a whole- hearted desire to do his best for Americans and America.
Yesterday I listened to national news reports that mainly (okay completely) interviewed outraged Republicans type thinkers outraged that Obama received the Nobel Peace Prize. I got home to find, from a life long friend – who doesn’t recognize my political standings, an outraged email that Obama received the Nobel Peace Prize. The email was filled with pictures of our young service men armed in remote far- flung reaches of the world laying their lives on the line “to keep America safe.” Get real, Obama might have to keep them there, but he did not put them there. There is no basis for calling a soldier a “Peacekeeper” other than that is what Nato, the United Nation, and the US warmongers call SOLDIERS. Soldiers don’t make PEACE soldiers make war. And how does a 19 year old from Dubuque dying in Kandahar, the Peshwar, or Kirkuk equate to mine or your safety? It doesn’t.
Don’t give me the “Bush was responding to an act of war against our country,” argument because if that be the case why did he attack Afghanistan? When it was 15 Saudi nationals, 1 Egyptian, 1 Lebonese, and 2 UAE nationals who attached the US? Why? Three letters & zillions of dollars – OIL. Folks Barack Obama might not be the president you voted for, but give him time to prove or disprove your doubts about his ability, vision, and determination as president of our country. He received the Nobel Peace Prize because he’s not George W. Bush. Get over it.
Life has been kind of crazy this last week and a half. We went to Vegas for vacation and all I got was this crazy head cold. Well that’s not completely true I came back with six rolls of film and a memory card full of pictures. Now you’re saying where are they, I know you are Fii – don’t deny it, I live in the boonies they are being developed.
So why did I go to Vegas, I’m not a big gambler? I went first for a reunion of the neighborhood I grew up in. And then Ducky had never been to… well anywhere. That’s not to say his family didn’t do things together, they camped a lot. But traveled, not much. I, on the other hand, grew up in a family that traveled a bit for vacation. So over the years I have returned to some places of special memory and drug Ducky with me. On our honeymoon we laid on the beach at Balboa soaking up the rays, then took in the A’s and the Angels, his first major league baseball game. Then we spent a day at Disneyland, fulfilling a boyhood (and adulthood, I suspect) dream. One trip we went to Frisco and spent a week seeing the sights, riding the cable cars, and venturing out the Alcatraz. The highlight (no joke) watching the fire department put out a fire on a pier – way kewl. His fear of flying kept him from going to England with me, so after 9 / 11 (which only increased his anxiety about planes) we drove to Reno, walked the boardwalks of Virginia City and cruised the streets of Tahoe and Carson City soaking in the history and sights. Another trip (really two) we drove to Seattle, took in two Mariners games, went to Pike Street, walked the waterfront, and drank coffee.
We have plans to take in spring training sometime; go to the Alamo and San Antonio another. Drive across Oregon and Idaho and into Wyoming to enjoy Yellowstone. Our next vacation is planned for late spring to take Burp (yeah because you know Ducky’s dragging his feet on this one) to Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm. Vacation isn’t real life, but it makes you appreciate your life (or regret it) a lot more. By the time we were finished with Vegas I was exhausted and more than ready to go home. A sensitivity to air conditioning didn’t help… well it helped the cold set in, but that’s it.
On day four of our vacation Ducky and I drove to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Self-doubt about the trip had set in along with a growing pain in Ducky’s hip that made him cranky after about five straight hours of driving. I was also worried about his fear of heights. Crap! What the worried, my husband blew me away. He even stood patiently several times and let me take his picture as 40mph winds buffeted him while he stood on the precipice of the crumbling north rim. My husband, picture, high perch… amazing. Later I thanked him for letting me take his picture. He replied, “I have to have pictures, no one will believe it without proof.”
Day five of our trip was spent driving to Zion Canyon. I knew I’d done right when we rounded a corner in the park and I hear this amazed, “Wow!” from Ducky as the three buttes came into view. Life is good.
At the moment I only have a few digitals shots, none are from the Grand Canyon. I promise I will post those next week. But what I do have is a realization that my time here on this planet is measured and I need to make the most of it. Share what I have to share, give what I have to give, and enjoy all that there is. Not dwell on the negative, but learn its lessons. Embrace all that is before me and love with a whole heart. I am sated with what I have – a full life that is sometimes boring, challenging, confusing, colorful, quiet, chaotic, wet, blooming, dirt brown, and leaf green; a life full of love, laughter, joy, tears, sharing, giving, taking, making, being. Life, our lives, is what is make of it. There is nothing else like it.
I have this increasingly long list of blogs I peruse, some I actually get to read, everyday. But now I am whittling down my bloglist. Why? Because people don’t blog anymore, I’m not sure why, maybe it really is the Facebook thing. I have a Facebook page, but mostly I just play Farkle there. I’m really don’t care about the surface floss that gets posted on Facebook. I want deeper comment and thought the stuff blogs are usually made of.
So the list of blogs posted to the left, er that’s to the right (I’m left right challenged) is being added to and taken from.
The current list of castaways includes, “they never write anymore.”
Karin Tabke - she’s a delightful writer, but I’m just not there anymore Jennifer Lyons - I don’t care if they are wing slayer worthy, it’s just not readable anymore Murder She Writes – Yeah, yeah, yeah. Wrycatcher – it’s too heartbreaking she doesn’t post anymore Jazzy – she hasn’t had free time in months (January was her last post) Pomp – she hasn’t posted … here … since December, thank heavens this isn’t the only way to keep up with her Reluctant Writer – Okay I get the point, Ironic don’t you think.
I have lived in heaven for more than thirty years, the Central Oregon coast. You don't know heaven until you've been here.
I am happily married with three daughers, and a wonderful grandson, and my constant companion Arlo - my Bassett hound.
I serve as the Operations, Programming, and Promotions director for a small, hometown AM & FM radio station. It is the best job in the world. Well be sides being a talented author (which I'm not - and that and saving the world would be the only other job titles I would want.)
I am irreverent - a recent discovery
email me at
Cele at Celebrindal dot com