Saxon Bennett's Blog, page 4

MONEY,MONEY,MONEY

Our new administration is all about money. We have a billionaire for president. Enough said. The orange guy likes money. His plan is to make as much money as possible in four years. Okay, so he’s raiding the coffers, it’s not like it hasn’t been done before. It’s the other guys we have to worry about.

They are the really bad guys who are intent on destroying our present country for profit and control. And creating a white supremists paradise. Like heaven with only white people in it. And if the orange guy has any say a lot of pussy grabbing. Free pussy for everybody. Oh, and everyone has wings.

Now, think of how profits come to be. People buy things and patronize business for various services. We are a nation of service workers. We don’t actually make anything anymore.  So we as consumers have the kind of power Mr. Trump understands–money.  To him money talks. Let’s call it pocketbook politics. We, the all-inclusive we, the millions who voted for Hillary, have a lot of collective pocketbook power. Money makes things happen. The loss of it also makes things happen.

Think of Indiana and that silly law—Religious Freedom Restoration Act. If for religious purposes you refuse to serve someone because, I guess, you think they’re gay, it is not against the law. That lasted about a week as sports events were cancelled, tourism went bust, and businesses suffered. Money was lost and the economy of Indiana went into the toilet fast. They went at Governor Pence with pitchforks, (figuratively) and that nasty little law went into suspended animation.

Next the ACLU went into HIGH ALERT. They sent a letter to the New York Times addressed to Mr. Trump telling him they will fight him on any civil rights infringements. I thought that was good of them—give the guy warning before you kick him in the balls.  Donations to the ACLU went sky high.

Pence is really down on Planned Parenthood. He just can’t stay away from our reproductive organs-geez get your own. Donations to Planned Parenthood came flooding in.  Money bought them the ability to give Mr. Pence the finger.

See money talks. The Trumpers whined about how mean the NY Times was in their coverage. The powers that be wanted to bring them down. Subscriptions went way up. Myself, included.

Next,  Trumpers had their protest and went after Starbucks. Trump people bought lattes and used the name Trump for their orders. (I was surprised that these instant Folgers drinkers even knew what to order.) What this means is we can actually manipulate the Trumpers into boycotts that support gay friendly local businesses. How great is that?

We must work against Trump with our money. He doesn’t like losing money.  Buy and support businesses that are good and boycott the bad. This is a simple but effective mode of civil disobedience especially if we use social media to keep us informed and united. (As a side note we need to stick together because the Trump people will try to divide us.) No one gets physically hurt and we make our displeasure known with our debit cards. All our money together is a lot of money. We hit Trump’s bank account and those of his cronies and policy will change right quick.

Let’s do it.

Save

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

Last night, I walked out of my watercolor class to find six young men shaking the soda machine trying to dislodge the can that was stuck. They were big guys. They glanced at me briefly. I put my head down and slunk by, not walking fast but trying to be as invisible as possible.

The six big guys followed me out the door. My heart raced. I tried to walk normally when I wanted to run. I waited at the crosswalk. They went down the sidewalk completely unaware of me or my fear. I chastised myself for my over-reaction. Then I read and see photos of gay people getting beaten up—a seventy-five year old gay man assaulted in his front yard. Who does that?

It reminded me of the days that I didn’t want to look too “dykey” because people would scream out car windows at me or women in restrooms would tell me I didn’t belong in there because they thought I was a boy.  There were hate crimes as my baby dyke self grew up.  Someone put sugar in my gas tank and ruined my truck. The worst part was that the guys I worked with knew who did it but never said. Then there was always the graffiti on the restroom walls of at work—like “Whose tit you gotta suck to get promoted around here?” because I was the lesbian assistant manager.

Our daughter carries pepper spray now. I ask her every time she leaves the house if she has her spray. We live in a small town which is fairly progressive and we’re worried. I can’t imagine what people in big cities do and feel in this new climate of hate and fear.

I don’t understand this culture of persecution. Why can’t straight people just leave us alone? What does how we live and who we love have to do with them?

But this is our new life now. People tell us not to worry and give our orange Hitler a chance. A chance to do what?

THE FIRST FOUR DAYS

Election night was terrifying. We all saw it happen, but no one saw it coming. This is how it went down with me:

My heart pounded as the votes started coming in. Hillary-3, Trump-19.  I looked over at Layce. “Should I be freaking?

“No. See all those states,” Layce said, pointing at the map on the television. “Those are hers.”

I watched as she lost more states to the red devils.

“She’s losing Florida,” Layce said, chewing on her fingernails.

“She’s going to lose. On Twitter they are giving the election to Trump as 55%,” I said.

I went upstairs, put Pink Floyd on, sat in my bean bag chair and tried to find that 14 year-old girl who didn’t have to think of big things—like being rounded up for being gay.

More losses.

Upstairs, I lay on my bed in the dark. I sent out energy to people to help Hillary get the wins she needed. I came downstairs, still praying .

Downstairs, it’s over. Layce had her head in her hands. I started to cry. We went to bed, but didn’t sleep.  In some alternate universe, Hillary Rodham Clinton won by a landslide. The world was a better place. We changed the course of our planet for the good. Unfortunately, we live in the universe where the pussy-grabbing orange Hitler just hijacked our country with the help of half our fellow citizens.

In the middle of the night, I grew angry. I wanted Trump to fail his voters so badly, that they’d regret voting for him and get what they deserve.  Then I had an epiphany. We need Donald Trump to be a good president because if he fails, we all suffer. This lasted about ten seconds.

By morning I was crying—for Hillary, for the loss of our humanity, for the insanity that we just unleashed onto the world. For the first time in my life I was ashamed to be a citizen of the new Amerikkka. I went online to see the protests starting. Before the election we worried that the Trumpers would riot, but no, it was our people—people who believe in love and life and liberty for all peoples. We are not HATERS. We marched peacefully.  NYC, Seattle, Portland, Chicago, Berkeley, Phoenix, Philadelphia and D.C., the list grows– we have civil disobedience in mass numbers—enough to be a force, enough to remind the HATERS that we too have our own army.

With love we’re trying to save you from your misguided selves. We want to save our planet and its peoples.  We can’t give up. We march, we make safe places, we comfort our youth, and hug each other, and weep for our lost humanity. What sort of a country is this that parents and teachers have to explain why this evil man is our president? That if you’re different you are now hated by half your country?

The white men who beat their chests at rallies and screamed “Kill the bitch” want to kill everyone that is not like them. They want a man to Make Amerikkka Great Again by letting white men rule. This election wasn’t about jobs, the corruption in Washington, healthcare, this election was about a woman being in charge. This was about putting women and everyone else that isn’t white and male and straight back into the box using HATE, the law, the government, and our own citizens to create a perfect world in which there is no place for otherness.

Oh, but we forgot to tell you Trumpers—we aren’t going back into that box where xenophobia, homophobia, racism, bigotry, and misogyny is the new law of the land. As Hillary said, in this country we have the rule of law. Until Trump buys the judicial system.

Day two after the election, we have more protesting, Michael Moore gets involved, the air space about Trump Tower was restricted.  The HATERS are scaring and beating people up because Trump told them to go ahead and do what they wanted to all along—ride around in pick-up trucks with baseball bats, harassing and beating people up, frightening our children, spray graffiti celebrating the Nazis, the list goes on.

Then you think you’re safe with your family until you discover they voted for Trump. Then you see their true colors—they really are racist, xenophobic, homophobes. They say they love you but deep down, they hate you for your otherness.

Day three, California wants to secede from the rest of the country, more protests. A wonderful post on social media, “We can disagree and still love each other unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and the denial of my humanity and right to exist.” The KKK plan a victory march in North Carolina.

Trump still wants to jail Hillary. He begins to break his promises, the very promises his supporters voted for. In his first 100 days of office, Obamacare stays in place, there will be no wall, restoring coal mining jobs is too difficult. The final insult is that instead of ‘draining the swamp’ he hires Washington insiders and his own family. The dictatorship begins.

Leonard Cohen dies. Kate McKinnon sings Hallelujah dressed as Hillary in a white pant suit. At the end of the song she said, “I’m not giving up and neither should you,” Can it get any worse? Yes, it can and it will. Pence and Paul Ryan want to take away as many civil liberties as fast as they can, starting with gay people. They have it bad for us.

Day four, I’m standing in line at the gun store behind four other women buying hand guns. I bought a 9mm semi-automatic. Our household is now fully armed. We put our safety pins on and opened our home. This is our new country.

Welcome to the apocalypse, courtesy of one man who incited so much hate that a pacifist just bought a gun.

Sometimes the only safe place to be is within the covers of a book.

A brand-new Laugh Out Loud romantic comedy!

Available to buy or borrow for free at Amazon!

 

THINGS I DO WHEN I’M SCARED

I usually have loads of ideas for blogs and I like them to be funny. I enjoy making people laugh. However, since this horror of an election began I haven’t felt very funny. I’ve felt stressed, sleepless, and when I do manage to sleep, I have nightmares. Mr. Ulcer has been having a party, complete with party favors, in my tummy. I’m glued to social media, news articles, and editorials. That creates fodder for my imagination. The problem with being a stressed-out writer is that I create scenarios, mostly bad, of what kind of a world we might end up living in. Believe me, it’s frightening. I wouldn’t put these stories to paper. They’d be too terrible.

So what do I do when I’m scared? I clean and straighten—I don’t know how much more vacuuming the carpet can take. I dust every conceivable surface in the house every day. The dust doesn’t have time to settle before I swish it away. I’d purchased dusting gloves, two pairs in case they stopped making them, to aide in my dust obsession.

I straightened every cupboard in the house. I organized my T-shirts according to color. Next came the sock and underwear drawers.  Layce observed all this but didn’t say anything until she found me in the attic. It was the only area in the house left untouched.

Layce heard me shop-vacuuming the attic after I’d organized and labeled every box and then stacked them neatly according to use. I put all holiday stuff in one section, and Emma’s moving out stuff in another section, which mostly entailed odd kitchen devices like a hotdog bun toaster, tax records and extra furniture. Layce knew she had to put a stop to it.

“It’s fine. It will all be fine,” she said pulling me out of the attic. “You have to stop this.”

“You don’t understand, I can’t.  We have three days left before we get to stay in a kind American or have to run for the border. See this bag right here,” I lifted a knap sack.

“Yes,” she said calmly.

“It’s our family bug-out bag in case we have to make a run for it. You do realize that the powers that be always get rid of the writers, artists, intellectuals and activists—never mind being gay—we’re in the double jeopardy category first.”

“Go pack some clothes,” Layce said.

“Aren’t we going to wait and see how things turn out?”

“We’ve already voted. I’m taking you to an undisclosed location with no WiFi. We’ll stay in a cabin in the woods and go for long hikes and you’ll be so exhausted that you’ll sleep. We’ll eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, your tummy can handle that, and drink loads of chamomile tea for your nerves. It’ll be perfect.”

That’s exactly what we did and it actually worked. We are back home now, one day before the election and I’m not as stressed.  I didn’t organize or clean the cabin. I slept dreamlessly and Mr. Ulcer went into hiding.  Tomorrow, I can feel it, the world will be a better place.  Please vote for a kind world where we all live in peace with love and respect. I know you’ll do the right thing.

Save

Bicycles, Grasshoppers, and Snakes

We stared down at Layce’s tire. “It’s definitely flat,” I said. I spotted the culprit—an enormous thorn. I pulled it out and the tire let out its last gasp.

“Good thing you got the spare tube and pump at the bike shop other day,” Layce said.

I furrowed my brow and kicked the dirt by the tire.

“You did not do what I think you did, did you? Layce asked.

“You used three ‘yous’ and ‘dids’ in one sentence and you book ended it with two ‘yous.’”

Layce was not to be distracted. She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you have the stuff to fix the tire?”

“Because I left it in the truck. I didn’t think we’d need it. It’s not like we’re going into the wilderness.”

“So what you’re saying is that only in the wilderness would we get a flat tire?” Layce said,  narrowing her eyes. “Not on a paved trail that cuts across town? And the repair kit is four miles away in the opposite direction. Did I get that right?”

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up,” I said, mounting my bike. “I’ll ride like hell and be back soon.” I amended, “Very soon. Just take a break.”

“Be careful,” she said.

“Aren’t I always?” I took off, thoroughly chastising myself for my lapse in preparation. After that, everything was going well… until the grasshopper.

He came straight at me like a bullet, hit my neck, and disappeared. I screeched to a halt, and fell over because I couldn’t get my foot out of the stirrup in time.I was lying on the ground with my knee bleeding and my elbow already swelling when I felt the little bugger down my shirt.

Normally, grasshoppers don’t scare me. However, I also never had one up close and personal with my ta-tas. I jumped to my feet and ripped off my shirt. Fortunately, I was the only person on the bike trail. I swatted at my chest and hopped around until I realized… it wasn’t a grasshopper I had felt tickling my chest. It was one of my dangling earbuds. My bad.

I made it to the truck and back in record time.

 

“Boy, that was quick,” Layce said. She studied me. “Is that blood?” she said, pointing at my knee.

“I was attacked by a grasshopper,” I said, getting to work on the flat tire.

“A grasshopper pushed you off your bike?” she asked.

“He hit me in the neck at 13 miles an hour, then he went down my shirt, I thought.”

Layce raised an eyebrow.

“It turned out to be something else, “I said. She stared at me. “My ear bud.”

“Hunh,” Layce said, unfolding the bike tube and handing it to me.

I fixed the tire and we took off. Everything was going well, until… the snake decided to cross the path right in front of Layce. She screamed like a little girl, high pitched and frantic. She held her feet up high in the air, weaved over to the edge of the pavement, over-corrected and went down the bank. After that I lost sight of her.

“Layce!” No answer. “Are you okay?” I screeched to a halt. “Are you bleeding?” I called out.

“No,” she said tartly. She walked her bike up onto the path. She had pine needles in her hair, her glasses were lopsided, and her bike shorts were twisted so badly she listed to the left. I plucked dried leaves off her shirt. “Maybe we should head back before something larger and more ominous happens,” I said.

“Ya think?” she said, pointing her bike back toward the truck. She took off. It took me a couple of minutes to catch up with her.

“That was pretty funny,” I said. “I wish you could’ve seen yourself, screaming with your feet over your head, riding down the hill.” I laughed.

She squinted at me and said, “At least I’m not the one wearing my shirt backwards.”

 

Your next great read is waiting for you!

What happens when a guardian angel falls in love with a human?

“Irresistibly wacky, laugh out loud funny, and with plenty of aww moments!”

Available to buy or borrow here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT EMMA TAUGHT ME

When I met Emma, she couldn’t pour her own cereal because she destroyed the kitchen. The whole place would have scattered cereal and spilled milk everywhere. It was like the Tasmanian Devil got hold of the Cheerios.

We’ve come a long way since then. She makes her own breakfast now. Having mastered that she’s moved onto bigger things–teaching me stuff, which is not as easy as it sounds. Here’s what I’ve learned:

Sandwiches do not need condiments. You taste the meat and cheese so much better. You get the essence of the unadulterated flavor.

The Review tab takes you to Spelling and Thesaurus in MS Word.

Coconut oil is great for your hair. It makes it shiny and soft. Note: A little goes a long way.

How to change the interior car lights to different groovy colors—a car feature I had no idea existed.

Ice cream in a cup is better than in a cone if you’d like it to stay solid when it’s a hundred degrees outside.

It’s fun to surf the floor in your socks. You need to watch your speed. Wood floors are hard. In the event of an emergency landing do the butt.

Chicken wire and manure have many uses. We won’t go there. Layce is still mad about it.

Recorder players are cool. Now, I am a record sniffer-outer in flea markets, antique shops, and thrift stores. Buying records facilitates a dialogue with others.

You can’t be lost if you’re still in Oklahoma. (Also, all cows look alike. You can’t use them as landmarks.)

She taught me that it is possible to crack the screen of your laptop by tripping and falling. I have experienced this myself. It’s alarming.

She taught me that you really can lose your glasses in a hay maze. I keep mine in sight at all times, most times, okay, there have been slip-ups.

It’s okay to wear a wig.

Save

TUX THE DOG

“I think Tux is a Cadog,” I said.

“What is that and why is Tux one? Layce said.

I wish she wouldn’t ask two questions at one time. I am too easily confused. “The answer to the first question is that a Cadog is a non-binary species.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a mammal that doesn’t identify with being either a cat or a dog—so it’s a Cadog,” I said.

“How do you spell it?”

“C-A-D-O-G,” I said.

“Why does the dog get more letters?” Layce asked, putting her what-the-hell-kind-of–deal-is-that face on.

“I’ve just heard them called that. I suppose it could be a ‘Catdog’ but the ‘t’ would be silent. I find silent letters annoying. So Tux is a Cadog. We should leave this issue to the linguistics people.  At least the cat part goes first. That’s something. We got v-a-g-i-n-a. What were they thinking on that one,” I said. “It could be worse.”

“Okay, what is he doing to indicate he is, in fact, a Cadog? ”

“Well, he greets Emma like a dog. He actually gallops toward her. He comes when she calls. He follows her around and guards her. He sits outside the bathroom door while she showers.”

“That does sound dogish,” Layce said.

(Tux exhibiting rub-my-belly-like-a-dog behavior)

“We shouldn’t mention it, though. He’s embarrassed about it.”

“He’s embarrassed?” Layce said.

“As a cat it’s disrespectful to behave like a dog. He can’t help it. His DNA is dictating his behavior. I looked up Tuxedo cats, T.C’s for short. They behave like dogs. However, they do retain their cat pride. I had him sit up for his treat. He did it twice but on the third treat he just looked up at it and walked off, tail in the air. The equivalent of a kitty F.U. and your dog tricks. Cats do not do tricks unless they pick the trick. They won’t do it on demand but Tux might if we ignore his dog-like behavior and let him channel his inner dog. It’s like getting two fur kids in one.”

“This is weirdly fascinating,” Layce said, studying Tux as he walked by.

“According to Tux, we gave him a stupid name. He has a point. So, I’ve been calling him ‘The Gentleman.’ He seems to like it. I mean, he is wearing a tuxedo.”

“I am not calling the Cadog ‘The Gentleman,’” Layce said as she watched Tux gallop across the living room to the bathroom to guard Emma while she brushed her teeth.

I got him a treat and made him sit up, twice, the third time he walked off with disdain, leaving Emma undefended.

“That’s his cat part,” I said.

 (Tux exhibiting cat behavior and posing for a Vermeer painting due to low light photo.)

“Laughed, Cried, and Devoured!” Amazon Reviewer

FREE for Kindle Unlimited!

FreeSave

Save

LEAVE IT TO BEAVER

“We can’t go that way,” I told Emma. We were walking home after the belly dancing show in the park.

“Why not? It’s shorter,” Emma said.

“Because of the beaver.  I can’t deal with it. I tried to call the city to pick it for two days now.”

“Is it dead?” Emma asked.

“As a door nail.”

“Remember when you used to keep track of the dead animals we’d see on our road trips?” Emma asked.

“I had to stop doing that. It was too traumatic and I was concerned I’d start stopping to bury them.”

“Didn’t you have a character in one of your books that did that?” Emma asked.

“It was in my Family Affair trilogy. Chase did it. She couldn’t  bear to watch a beaver or any other animals get squished and taken to parts unknown in the tire treads of all the cars that will run the poor things over. And neither can I. If your mother hadn’t had stellar reflexes we would’ve high-centered the Jeep going over it,” I said. I was so busy worrying about the beaver that I didn’t realize we’d arrived at our street.

“Come on, you can do it,” Emma said.

“I can’t look.”

“Just pull your shirt over your head like you do when you watch scary movies.”

“I only do it when there’s a lot of blood, or needles, or dark hallways leading up to closed doors or…” I stopped. Evidently, I did wear my shirt over my head a lot. “Oh, all right. You’ll have to lead me past the beaver because I won’t be able see.” I pulled my shirt up over my eyes.

We got past the beaver without incident. At the top of the hill, Em told me it was safe to come out. I pulled my head out of my shirt. “What did the beaver look like now? Was it smooshed, dismembered, and lying there as a reminder of the complete disregard for the sanctity of a dignified death?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Because it wasn’t there.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me? It’s hot under my shirt.”

Emma just smiled.

“Does this have anything to do with my comment on your room?”

“You mean the one where you called it a cesspool of teenage funk and disarray?”

“Sounds familiar,” I said.

“Then, yes.” She looked at me and grinned.”Paybacks are hell.”

Buy or borrow!

Save

My Wife’s Panties

“What the hell is that?” Layce asked. We were standing in the produce aisle at the grocery store. I was picking out apples.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, focusing on the bag of apples to vet the squishy ones.

She pointed at my neckline. I put the bag of apples down and felt where she was pointing. “WTF,” I said.

I pulled on an errant piece of fabric. I felt like a magician pulling a scarf out of his sleeve, but in this case it wasn’t a scarf. It was a pair of panties. I had been wearing a pair of panties around my neck! My wife’s panties to be exact.

I held the panties out in front of me. The produce guy smirked.

Layce gawped. “Are those what I think they are?”

“Fucking static cling! I can’t believe you let me go out like this! We’re married. You’re supposed to check me out before we leave the house. It’s one of your conjugal duties,” I hissed. I was holding the panties, well, waving them around, gesticulating wildly.

People were staring. I came to my senses and stuffed them in my pocket. “They’re not even mine! What were your panties doing in my shirt?” I asked.

Layce laughed.

“I’ve been wandering around the store, thinking wow, I must have picked out a nice outfit today because people sure are checking me out—probably thinking, you know, for someone approaching her senior citizen discount days, she looks damn good. But no, they’re staring because I’m wearing a pair of panties as a scarf.”

“Maybe they thought you were wardrobe challenged and didn’t know the difference,” she sputtered between giggles.A full-blown fit of laughter was just around the corner. I could feel it like how barometric pressure drops right before a storm.

“Or maybe they think you’re a fashionista and panties are the new infinity scarf,” she said, tears forming in her eyes.

“Or maybe I just invented the first traveling panties. I could do an infomercial: Ever find yourself in need of an extra pair of panties—this amazing pair of panties”—I whipped them out of my pocket for effect— “Can go anywhere and be anything. Look, it’s a hat, tilt it slightly and you look French.” I put the panties on my head. “Or you’re out eating lobster and you need a bib. Here it is.” I tucked the panties in my neckline. “Ever find yourself in need of a fanny pack? Just stick this amazing piece of modern engineering through your belt loops and you’ve got yourself a fanny pack. Or how about flagging for help when your car breaks down?” I waved the panties in the air.

A crowd had gathered. People were staring. Layce was gasping and bent over. “I think I just tinkled in my panties,” she said.

“Not a problem.  I’ve got a spare pair.”

Making the world a happier place, one book at a time!

Buy or borrow on Amazon!

The Early Bird Catches Robert Redford

I was in my homeland (Washington State) visiting my parents who are both in their spry eighties. My dad and I were having our morning cappuccinos. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and there were no state disasters. It was a good day.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I had coffee with Robert Redford?” my dad asked. My dad is a great one for the associative storytelling non sequitur.

“No, you haven’t, but please do.”

I adore his stories. They’re like finding sea glass on the beach—little jewels buried in the sand. Beautiful, if you can find it. That’s the thing—it’s hard to get the stories. As a writer, I want to sit him down and say “Tell me everything about your life from start to finish.” But that’s not how life stories work.

“Well, one time I was with some buddies and we went to Sundance, that ski resort in Utah that Robert Redford owns, and the place wasn’t opened up yet. I was early,” My dad is a crack-of-dawn kind of guy. “You know how I am,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Yes, I do,” I said, sipping my own coffee. I had learned as a child, the hard way, to be showered, dressed, packed, and prepared to leave way before dawn.

“So we’re outside the lodge waiting for the place to open and a guy pulls up in a Ford Bronco. It’s cold. He’s covered up with a hat and big winter coat. I’m thinking good, it must be the cook, maybe he’ll let us in and we can get a cup of coffee,” my dad said. “We find out pretty quick it’s not the cook. It’s Robert Redford. He makes us coffee and I ask about where the best ski runs are. I want the inside scoop and who better to ask than the guy who owns the place.”

He paused. “He makes good coffee.” End of story. No autographs, no fawning, Robert Redford is just a man talking man-to-man about skiing. And that other man happened to be my dad.

The real point of this blog is to remind myself, and all of you, that you need to get your elders’ stories because when they’re gone so are the stories. Their life stories made them who they are and they, in turn, created you. These memories are the most important part of your inheritance as a human being. Our humanity is in our shared histories. Don’t drop the ball on this, and for chrissakes, write the stories down. It’ll simplify things for the next generation and the ones after that. We all have stories to tell—all you have to do is listen.

Now Available!

Click here to buy or borrow!