Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 34

May 17, 2019

Post Mother’s Day Musings

It must be an age thing: when I was little, I remember speedily and greedily ripping the wrapping paper off each gift I received for any reason – at any time – rarely paying attention to the accompanying card.


As I got older, I started actually giving credence to the written words of the cards I received. So much so, that one of my sons rather humorously remarked, “Mom, seriously, it’s a card – not a testament written especially for YOU. Keep some perspective.”


Still I must admit, when I got a Mother’s Day card signed from all of my sons and replete with a pin (featured below), I was quite happy and pleased – even though I admit it wreaks of hyperbole:



The truth is that when we are raising our kids, we rarely know definitely and definitively how well we are doing our job of parenting. Advice columnist Carolyn Hax summed it up succinctly and wisely: “You don’t know…nor do any of us – what parental quirks will drive your kids nuts or screw them up or age into their living nostalgia.”


I decided to find out.


I asked each of my five sons these two questions:


What did I do during the years that I raised you that drove you nuts?


What did I do that you remember positively?


Answers to my first inquiry:


One son wrote my most annoying quality when he was growing up was my insistence on wearing jeans – all the time …even when more formal wear was more appropriate and that is why as an adult he has never owned a pair of jeans.


Another son said it made him crazy that our pantry was devoid of any sugar-coated cereal and our refrigerator never had any soft drinks. His brother confessed that my voice yelling upstairs or down to the basement to nag him to do something made /drove him nuts.


On the positive side, here’s the feedback:


“I always felt that you had my back and supported me and that you had energy to do so. In the middle school and early high school years, you had a great sense of humor about things and that made life fun.”


“One of your best qualities is that you don’t see people through a superficial lens.” He said he has never heard me utter a racist, or prejudicial or even a mean remark based on stereotypes or social class…that I judge people by the content of their character and that is very appealing.”


“You are a true matriarch and we are all lucky to have you,” was the last comment I received.


Why did my children’s words mean so much?


For one thing, my husband and I did not spend this Mother’s Day with any of our children. The dream of a big rowdy day spent scrambling after our grandchildren and hollering over the din to our sons and their wives didn’t materialize. My husband and I flew back to our hometown, ate a low-key lunch at Bob Evans, and then visited my soon-to-be 94 year-old mother-in-law in her assisted living facility. Reading those words were uplifting on a day that could have been inherently lonely.


Why did my children’s words mean so much?


Because I viewed my child rearing years as fraught with uncertainty and ambivalence, laced through with anxiety and worry. I wasn’t unflappable. I wasn’t even-keeled. I spent much effort trying to shape my clan into my vision of an ideal family. And I tried to control them and the events around them. And, of course, I failed


So, if you need a boost of reassurance from your off-spring, do what I did. Ask the questions you want to ask and request a hand-written response. And if there is none forthcoming in a timely manner, ask again.  (If you really want to be bold or if your grown kids need additional supplementary prodding, ask them what they would say at your funeral or in a eulogy! That should light a spark.)


When the world looms too challenging and the hills appear too steep to climb and mothering still seems so damn hard, find a quiet corner and read their comments over to yourself. It will restore your sense-of-self and well-being.


I’d like to offer each of you one of my handknit pouches in which to store your kids’ comments.


The pouch is my post-Mother’s Day gift to you. All I’m asking is for you to cover the cost of shipping and handling – which is about $4. Just send me a check made out to Iris Ruth Pastor, with your name and address. I’ll send you one promptly.


PO Box 130443

Tampa FL 33681


And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

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Published on May 17, 2019 14:46

May 10, 2019

Mother’s Day 1993

I watch my sister-in-law closely. She is pregnant – heavy and cumbersome – with her third child. She is consumed with diapers, feedings, playtime and naptime.


I watch my mother closely. (She is not pregnant.) She has no children at home. She has no buses to meet, no jeans to hem, no school projects to oversee. Her grandchildren have parents who are fully capable of running their own lives – most of the time – and meeting their own children’s needs.


My sister-in-law – even if she so chooses – has little time to pursue hobbies, interests or outside pursuits. My mother, on the other hand, has the time to widen her horizons and develop skills and talents too long ignored under the guise of being a hands-on mother and grandmother.


My mother’s role is changing. Her eldest daughter’s children are becoming self-sufficient and her youngest daughter, with her husband and two pre-schoolers, is moving away. Her only son has his own life, his own priorities.


“I used to have a knot in my stomach every day around 3:00 PM,” one of my older acquaintances once told me, “because I knew in minutes my kids would come bursting through the door – home from school – breaking the peaceful solitude of my day. Now I have a pit in my stomach every day around mid-afternoon because I know NO children will be bursting through my door – they are both grown and gone.”


I watch my mother closely. She talks of not being needed. She infers she is being shut-out. I respond as best I can – reassuring her that it is not a case of not being needed, but rather a natural pulling away that offspring do in order to assert their independence and make their own way.


I watch my mother closely. She seems to be listening. She discusses getting more involved in philanthropic endeavors. She plays Mah Jongg spontaneously with her friends and goes on a day’s outing to Indianapolis. But still she grieves.


A holiday weekend comes. My brother is busy with his new wife and her family. I am booked for an extended family outing with my husband’s relatives. My sister and her brood are occupied with packing for their move to Virginia. My mother and father are alone.


We go the park with my husband’s family and toss Frisbees. An elderly couple approaches me hesitantly and asks if I would take a picture of them picnicking on a blanket amidst the spring bulbs and budding trees. I do it eagerly – hungry for their story.


“It’s for our daughter, who lives in Milwaukee,” they explain. “We want to show her we have a life.” They laugh and so do I.


By 5:00 PM, we are home. The kids are still wound-up so they help my husband mow the lawn. They help me weed. In between chores, they play soccer and wiffle ball in the backyard. I am surrounded by them and their activities – temporarily safe in a cocoon of my own weaving.


At 7:30 PM, the phone rings. I answer hurriedly. It’s hard to hear. Louie is practicing his sax five feet away and Sam and Max are fighting over the TV.


It’s my mother – a note of jubilation in her voice. “Guess where we went?” she asks gleefully.


“I can’t image,” I reply honestly.


“To the zoo,” she exclaims. “We went the zoo – just your father and I. And oh what a time we had!”


I pause. I sigh. Tears of relief well-up in my eyes. “Good for her,” I think silently.


I don’t watch my mother as closely now. She’ll survive because she is learning that there IS life after children and grandchildren – one just has to search a little harder sometimes to find it.


The above was written in 1993.


My sister-in-law went on to have three more kids – for a total of six – all who are now out in the world – pursuing and growing. As are ours.


My mother and father have both passed away.


And me, like my mom, am learning that there IS life after children and grandchildren – I, too, just have to search a little harder sometimes to find it.


No matter what stage you are in, Happy Mother’s Day.


And Keep Preserving Your Bloom.

Iris Ruth Pastor

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Published on May 10, 2019 14:47

May 3, 2019

Preventing the Ravages of Aging – Tee Hee

Okay. Let me set the record straight right away: I am not – nor have I ever been – a good cook. My five sons will attest to this. In fact, if you ask them to name a favorite dish they recall me serving during their growing-up years, you’d be met with blank stares.


However, my mother instilled in me the importance of feeding my growing children nutrient-rich foods. So, though my meals were pretty simple, mundane affairs – certainly not gourmet level – they blasted out with health-enhancing ingredients.


I was an exemplary lunch packer. My kids’ lunches were laced together with nourishing items ensured to give them the best possible start in life. Teachers were known to hold up my packed lunches as models for other moms to replicate. (The fact that every one of my boys routinely swapped their carrot sticks, hummus and raisins for their friends’ Hostess Cupcakes and Doritos was not something I was aware of until years later.)


Now, of course, we are a more health conscious nation in general and us baby boomers realize that we certainly can’t control our adult children’s choice of foods nor our grandkids’ choices. However, as we slide into the autumn of our years, (okay, maybe even the winter of our lives), we CAN control what we stuff into our own mouths.


So here’s a few things I’ve been either making, eating and doing to help me stay fit, energized and operating at a truly feel-good level.


Image result for smoothies


The Shake

From my friends Gopal and Darin


8 slices of cucumber

5 packets Truvia (my addition – the sweeter the better)

8 oz of water

1-2 oz of cherry juice

1 lemon – fully squeezed without seeds

4 large leaves of basil – cut into smaller pieces

1 serving of collagen

Blend in bullet

This shake is foamy and refreshing.


Cottage Cheese Smoothie  

1 serving of protein powder

1 slightly thawed frozen banana – (cut into slices before freezing)

1 cup 2% cottage cheese

1-2 ounces of almond milk

3 packets Truvia

Chopped fresh basil or mint – optional

Blend well

It’s not ice cream, but it’s pretty damn close and packed with protein!


Image result for pancakes


Breakfast Pancake:

1/2 cup uncooked oats

1 egg beaten

1/2 mashed banana

1 serving collagen or protein powder

Blueberries or strawberries, chopped pecans, walnuts, almonds or flaxseed can be added

Cinnamon to taste, if desired

Mix altogether and fry with Pam or a little coconut oil

These pancakes are thick and filling and utterly amazing, especially when drizzled with maple syrup – which probably defeats the whole purpose!


Health Enhancing Boosts:

Apple cider vinegar – I start the day with an ounce or so of apple cider vinegar dissolved in a glass of hot water with a splash of lemon. Tastes kinda icky, but after I grimace and swallow, I’m in a kick-ass morning mood. And so is my digestive tract and colon.


Collagen

I add a serving of collagen to my first cup of steaming hot coffee. (Collagen dissolves better in hot liquid and smoothies.) Collagen is tasteless, is good for your skin, hair and nails, helps joint pain, promotes better sleep, keeps bones strong, improves digestions and aids in weight loss.


Protein powder – Want a jam-packed protein fest without eating a ton of meat? WOW! This stuff keeps you feeling pleasantly full all day. I mix it with Chobani Coffee and Cream Greek Yogurt and my daily Cottage Cheese Smoothie. Protein powder helps build muscle, repair tissue and make enzymes and hormones.


We plan: G-d laughs. Nothing can really control the ravages of aging. However, we can influence the way we feel through our diet. And we can aim for peak capacity and serenity.


Sipping a glass or two of wine nightly helps too! Tee Hee.


Image result for wine glass


Keep Preserving Your Bloom and send me your healthy recipes and tips. I’ll share with all.


Hugs,

Iris Ruth Pastor

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Published on May 03, 2019 14:48

April 27, 2019

Taming the Hunger Monster

Like probably a gillion other people – in anticipation of indulging in huge holiday meals – I went into the Passover/Easter holidays weighing a tad bit less than usual and feeling a tad bit prouder of myself too. Looser jeans. More prominent cheekbones. More clothes in my closet I could actually wear in public.


The scale went south and my spirits went north.


Then I went to spend the holidays at the homes of my three married children – all of whom have kids. Kids who like marshmallows and ultra-chocolate chip cookie dough super premium ice cream, and cake and cookies (even made with matzah meal, not flour). Families who have beckoning pantries stocked with “exotic” items I’d never have the will power to stock in my own pantry: short bread cookies, boxes of malted milk balls and double crunch zesty cheddar flavored chips. And in the freezer? I actually stumbled on a roll of something titled “Unbakeables.” A cylinder of cookie dough bites described as “chocolate, chocolate dough topped with chocolate mint.” One piece: a mere 160 calories.


Poof. My will power faded. My jeans grew tighter. And tighter. And then the words poured forth:


Why does food have to be my comfort?

Why not staying in bed 

with a good book instead

will bring the same satisfaction 

The same sense of relaxation

Such a pleasing sensation

As devouring an entire loaf

of banana bread?


Why does food have to be my comfort?

My go-to reliever of stress?

Why can’t I be more like my friends

And find relief by simply buying

A brand new dress?


Why does food have to be my comfort?

Why not downward dog and Namaste?

Does it always need to be M & M’s and glazed donuts 

That gets me through the day?


Why does food have to be my comfort

Why not prayer – dance – a soothing bubble bath?

Why does just one look in a bakery window

Lead me down the very wrong path?


Why does food have to be my comfort?


I’m getting a grip. I’ve started foraging their refrigerators only for cheese sticks and fresh strawberries – not leftover matzah kugel. I’m substituting water for wine. Keeping the freezer door closed. And blocking out the box of chocolate covered matzah sprinkled with pecan bits brazenly displayed on the kitchen counter.


And once again, going back to my basic mandate:

Preserving Your Bloom


You can be fat

Or you can be thin

A self-starter

Or hard to begin


You can have dreams

That falter and fail

You can have plans

That only flutter and flail


You can be flawed

Imperfectly molded

You can be doubtful

And easily scolded


But the one tool

You must possess

Utilize wisely

Fully possess

IS YOUR BLOOM


Use your talents and resources

To be the best you can be.

Not perfect. Not perfect.

Not perfect you see.


Choose to live without pity

Cast off despair and gloom

Concentrate solely

On Preserving Your Bloom


The best version of you

Is how I define it

It’s up to you individually 

To further refine it


Preserving Your Bloom

Is self-care and awareness

Preserving Your Bloom

With your well-being

Don’t be careless


It’s not just about being fit

It’s not just about looking your best

It’s about doing your own bidding 

And living life at your own behest


It’s surrounding yourself 

With people who care

And giving back wisely

When others need you there


It’s the old story

Put your oxygen mask first on yourself

Take your desires, dreams and well-being

Down from that dusty, seldom used shelf


So sally forth 

With gratitude and with glee

Preserving Your Bloom

Is the only way to BE



Hugs,

Iris Ruth Pastor

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Published on April 27, 2019 14:48

March 22, 2019

My Own Voice From My Own Past

My granddaughter came to visit while my son was running for mayor. Looking closely around my library, she spotted a framed picture of two pieces of notebook paper.



 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


“Nana,” she inquired curiously, “why do you have something framed that is so faded it can no longer be read?”


I peered closely and anxiously at the picture. She was right. My  sixth grade essay written in ballpoint pen over sixty five years ago was barely legible. I panicked. Were my words lost forever?


Immediately I took the picture down and stashed it in a dark closet – protecting it from further deterioration until I could examine it more closely.  This morning, with the aid of my cell phone light and a magnifying glass, I painstakingly transcribed the words onto my computer screen for posterity. I printed the essay out and glued it to the back of the picture.


My essay is as follows:


From where I stood gazing out into the September sky, I could hear her gasping for breath. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and lips – like icy rain stands out on a freshly washed window. Her pain-stricken body lay lifelessly on the wrinkled sheets except when stricken with spasms of pain. Her skin was pale with a bluish cast. New wrinkles had appeared on her uncluttered brow, new gray streaks in her once stark black hair. I couldn’t believe this woman who had fed me a bottle when I was an infant and comforted me when I was a small child, was now in need of my comfort. How could it be possible that this woman, who I had idolized and relied on all my life, was dying? I could accept the fact that my parents would die eventually, even my younger sister and brother would pass away as would my friends and relatives in the future. But this woman? My mind could not comprehend the fact that death would strike her. This woman could not die.



How would I live without her? My problems were solved by her keen mind, my fears whipped away by her soothing voice. When I achieved goals, received high grades, accomplished what I had set out to do, who did I want to share my triumphs with? Who came to mind immediately? It was always she as long as I could recall. Her appearance may grow dim and gradually fade from my mind. I may forget the pitch of her mild voice, the touch of her soft hand, but I would never forget her. She’s everything I am now and everything I will ever be. She is the backbone of my spine.



Soon it would be dawn. The frightening black of night was already transforming itself to dismal gray. Soon the gray would vanish and the sun would burst forth in an array of color as do fireworks on July the Fourth. A new day would begin bringing forth new life, new adventures, new memories. An old life would end



It was close to four o’clock when the final spasm struck her. After it, she lay limp on the damp linens. Numbly I watched life flowing out of her worn-out bones. Her face was tired. Her body feeble, but the look in her eyes was as serene as velvet. Silently her eyelids closed. My grandmother had died.


I was seven years old when my grandmother died at age fifty-five from pancreatic cancer. I wrote this story in seventh grade, receiving an “A.” Of course, my high grade didn’t make up for her loss, but sixty-four years later my written recollection helped answer the question of why I continue to miss her so intensely every day.





 


 


Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

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Published on March 22, 2019 20:33

March 14, 2019

My Connection to Love, Loss and What I Wore

You may not have heard the name Ilene Beckerman, but you probably have heard of Love, Loss and What I Wore.


It was published in 1995, when first-time author Ilene Beckerman was sixty years old. Publishers Weekly described her book as a “captivating little pictorial autobiography for adults…a wry commentary on the pressures women constantly face to look good.”


Beckerman’s breakthrough: Our memories are tied to our favorite clothes. Her message resonated with us and how we tie together our personal history of relationships, disappointments and greatest loves with the wrap dress, the red spike heels and the Pucci knock-off adorning our closets. Love, Loss and What I Wore is always my go-to present for friends’ milestone events.



The first time I met Ilene was shortly after her book was published. In those days, relatively unknown authors customarily crossed the country on book tours. I was a writer, eager to interview her. We met at the Netherland Hilton Hotel in downtown Cincinnati Ohio – known for its elegance and art deco motif.


Introducing myself, I slid into the booth in the hotel’s opulent dining room. I was eager to size her up, analyze her life experiences, mine for kernels of wisdom. But the look on her face startled me.Two unexpected words leapt to my mind: Transfixed. Astounded.


I was momentarily taken aback. “Why do you look so disconcerted?” I probed.


“Well, I’m a New Yorker, honey,” she boasted,“and I thought Ohio meant farmland and overalls. Not a French Art Deco masterpiece of a hotel and a fashion plate of a reporter, toting a Louie Vuitton bag.”


That was the first astonishing thing that came out of my new friend’s mouth, but not the last.


Beckerman, a graphic artist and former advertising executive, confided that she didn’t even get started writing until the age of sixty.


At age twelve, she lost her mom


She married young to a man seventeen years her senior


She divorced


She remarried


She had six kids, one who died in infancy


She divorced again


It’s no wonder Love, Loss and What I Wore was resplendent with wisdom. Her book went on to become even more widely known when in 2008 the Ephron sisters, Nora and Delia, used it as the basis of a play with the same name. The play would run off-Broadway for a record making amount of time, be produced on six continents and in more than eight countries. 


But Beckerman, nicknamed “Gingy,” didn’t stop there.


In 2011, she published The Smartest Woman I Know, a narrative of growing up as a teenager under the guidance of her grandmother, Ettie Goldberg – who had no more than a third grade education and was a proprietor of a small Upper East Side candy, stationary and paper store. The Smartest Woman I Know is also a favorite gift-giving book.



Ilene “Gingy” Beckerman is a force, a warrior and a role model. She blossomed late. Triumphed over life’s roadblocks and continues to inspire everyone she touches.


Below is the link to her latest blog. I’m a fan. I hope you become one too.


http://lovelossandreallife.com


PS: She is happily remarried to a guy named Stanley and lives in New Jersey.


Keep Preserving your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

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Published on March 14, 2019 20:05

March 7, 2019

The Case of the Missing Credit Card

The first thing I notice is that my American Express card is missing from my wallet.


Not too concerned, I check the side pockets of my purse, the space between the front seats in my car and the pile of campaign paraphernalia splattered across my dining room table.


I can’t remember the last time I had used it, but I seem to fuzzily recall plugging it into the gasoline dispenser at the mini market down the street a few days before. I drive back, ask the cashier, peruse the parking lot. Nada. And with nine million calls to make, canvassing commitments and letter writing duties – all connected to my son’s run for mayor of Tampa – I kind of forget about the frustrating card disappearance.


I do remember, though, not to share the card loss with my husband – who would have been aghast at my carelessness in not immediately reporting my card as missing.


Election Day arrives dank, dark, cold and rainy. I stand out for four hours at a key precinct – a fellow mayoral candidate beside me.


“Few voters are making eye contact,” I remark to him casually.


“Not a good sign for either of us,” he answers.


We continue our vigil – becoming better acquainted, but more subdued.


The election results – though dramatic – are not surprising. The frontrunner – Jane Castor – almost wins the mayoral spot outright with no run-off – pulling close to fifty percent even with seven candidates in the race.


The richest man in the race – the one with blanketed name recognition and no budget constraints – comes in second. He is 1600 votes ahead of Harry, who is a close third. The richest man in the race outspent my son by thirteen times.



Comments, remarks and messages come pouring in – all centered on the same theme:

Harry ran an exemplary, substantive campaign laced with civility and devoid of negativity. Being the youngest candidate in the race, his future looks very bright.


“Sometimes you have to take a hit to advance,” I think.


My American Express card shows up on my front porch the following morning. No accompanying note. Just stark and striking, resting atop the black chair cushion. The mystery of its safe return unsolvable.


“And sometimes – even when you do absolutely nothing, it resolves itself perfectly.”


I guess that’s the irony of life.


No matter:



Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris

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Published on March 07, 2019 19:05

March 3, 2019

A quote, a plea, and election fatigue.

“With the many faces and the haze of big money, few candidates beyond Castor and City Council member Harry Cohen have distinguished themselves from the pack with their vision, skill sets and compelling agendas.” ~ Tampa Bay Times 


Harry is starting to surge – very good shot at second place in the election tomorrow!!!!!


What’s going to put him firmly in second?

The most recent poll answers that question: THE UNDECIDED VOTER


I know I must be contributing to your “election fatigue” but the momentum is building in his favor and I’m asking for your help.  If you know someone who is undecided , please pass this along to them and urge them to vote and to vote for Harry.


Thank you sooo much!


Warm regards,

Iris

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Published on March 03, 2019 19:07

March 2, 2019

Who has brains and heart?

Harry does. That’s why Harry has a great network of family behind him.



And a great many friends, neighbors, colleagues and constituents behind him too.


I’m asking for your help. Please take a few moments to E-mail your contacts and spread the word:


Harry Cohen is the candidate with real plans to tackle the biggest challenges facing Tampa today.


Please vote!

Jan Platt Library from 10am – 6pm today

Tuesday, March 5, Election Day

7am – 7pm at your precinct


Thank you for your help, support and time.


Warm regards,

Iris Ruth Pastor Harry’s Mom

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Published on March 02, 2019 19:07

February 28, 2019

The Friday Before Election Day

I remember what my son Frank said after his first child was born: being a parent is like throwing your heart in the middle of a New York City street and hoping it doesn’t get trampled on.


I related to that – having been around as my five sons battled their way into adulthood.


 -Watching one of my sons at age fifteen umpire his first little league game – and listening to the parents jeering at a miscall.

-Watching one of my sons struggle with a painful break-up with his girlfriend.

-Watching them strike-out, fumble a pass, fail a test, re-take the test and fail again.



I watched when I could fix things.

I watched when I couldn’t fix things.

And tried to fix them anyway.


I learned that a mother’s instinct to protect her child never leaves – even when that child has gray hair and has almost reached the half-century mark


So I thought I was prepared to weather the ups and downs of a campaign – especially since my son had won two campaigns in the last eight years. And as always, I threw myself in to it with wild abandon and high expectations.



And what have I learned?

What again have I been reminded of?

Politics isn’t always fair

The most qualified often don’t win

Money can buy votes

And the only reliability is unreliability


And then there are the many high points:


The frontrunner for Tampa’s mayoral race declares three    times publicly that if she weren’t running, she’d vote for Harry


    Harry’s TV ad rocks it!



To all my friends and family that have not only supported my son Harry in his run for Mayor of Tampa, but have been there for me as well: a sincere, heartfelt, thoroughly appreciative hug.


There are one woman and six men running for mayor. If no candidate gets fifty percent of the vote on Tuesday, the top two vote-getters will be in a run-off.


Will Harry make the cut Tuesday night and make it into the April 23 run-off?

Who knows.


Will Harry be content with whatever the outcome is on Tuesday night?

You bet.

Because he fought valiantly, fearlessly, honorably and fairly.

Because he did the best he could and his best was good enough.


And that’s what really “counts” when the votes come rolling in.


Keep Preserving Your Bloom and please forward this to your friends and family living in Tampa,


Iris Ruth Pastor

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Published on February 28, 2019 19:09