Southern Cries.

            As most of you, my dear readers know, I was on vacation just a few short weeks ago. I traveled halfway across this country and returned a more relaxed man. You know this because I shared this trip with you. However, while I didn’t want to go initially, I did manage to enjoy myself. I spent a lot of time resting, sitting in a hot tub or by a small fire pit with a nice blaze to chase away any blood sucking pests. I enjoyed the other insects, butterflies, lightning bugs and lady bugs. But something was missing; something I didn’t realize at first. Something that made sitting alone on a darkening patio as the sun slips west and earth rotates seem lonely. A loneliness I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

            Upon my return to my adopted state and city, as I crawled out of the car, more exhausted than I should be, I was greeted by a plethora of sounds that immediately made me feel more comfortable. These cries of the night creatures was more comforting to me than any sound I’d heard while gone. It was the sound of crickets and cicadas. I’m not saying the Northern states don’t have these little creatures but they don’t have them in the quantity the South has them.

            As a matter of fact, every year I look forward to the cries of the new brood of cicadas, the crickets will always be here. The one creature I didn’t miss while in the North, is the always persistent blood suckers. The ones that infect the area where I live are almost immune to any and all sprays, candles and flowers. I hate them little buggers, I eat lots of garlic, spend tons of money on repellent and they still manage to build up an immunity to the defenses I’ve put up. But still, I was home and the familiar sounds of the days and nights. A song if you will. A song only Mother Nature and temperate climates can bring to us.

            It’s funny the things we miss without realizing it. This is a perfect example. While on my holiday I relaxed and enjoyed the minutes, hours and days as they passed. But somehow, someway, my ID kept nagging me about the small things I was used to that were not present anymore. No matter how hard I tried to figure out what was wrong, what was missing I just couldn’t wrestle down the missing piece of my life. That is, until I arrived home and realized what had been missing.

            As I write this, I’m on my porch, smoking a good cigar and my citronella candles are out, my mosquito spray can is empty and I’m wearing a long sleeve shirt to prevent too many bites. I’m surrounded by blood suckers and other winged vermin and I’ve got the bites to prove it, but you know, I’m home, I’m on my porch and I’m happy. Regardless of the itching from the bugs who’ve been trained by Ninjas.

            I hope you, my dear reader, are in a similar place, a place where you are happy, comfortable and relaxed… without the flipping pests.

            Have a great week.

            

Waiting 101

            For a little over fifteen years I’ve been working part time as a waiter in a small, family owned, casual, fine dining seafood restaurant. From what I understand, this is rare in the food service industry. One waiter working at one place for that amount of time is either family or crazy. I’m not family. As a matter of fact this was my first food service job, outside the ninety days I spent in the vegetable preparation room onboard the USS Austin (LPD-4). This was also my first introduction to dealing with customers. Sailors aren’t too demanding when it comes to food. As long as the hot food is hot and the cold food is cold, they are happy.

            In all this time, fifteen plus years, I’ve accrued thousands of stories of customers, co-workers, managers and cooks. This blog is not about my co-workers. This is about customers and what I’ve been able to understand about them.

            You see customers are a funny sort and when I get a new table and I approach it, I never prejudge them. Nope, I save that for after the bill is paid. I try and give every person I wait on the same good service as the previous ones. When they pay and leave, and when I’m checking out the tip they left for me, that’s when I judge them. To me, there are three kinds of customers, good tippers, average tippers and bad tippers. And as a waiter who has known many other waiters, this seems to be an industry standard. We all remember the good tips as well as the bad ones.

            Now, if you’re an average tipper or a good tipper, you waiter or waitress will always do right by you if you are a returning customer. As for the bad tippers, if they return, well, the service they receive drops proportionately to the amount of tip they leave. Drink glasses will go unfilled, some food will arrive before other food, and in some cases, some food will just never show up. Bad tippers will rarely have a good meal when they return to a restaurant for a second, third or even fourth time. Word gets out. We talk to each other and we know who is difficult and tips shitty and who is difficult but tips well. The good tippers will always have a better meal and service.

            After all, when a person is making two dollars and fifteen cents an hour and is expected to move heaven and hell just for a lousy ten percent that the customer thinks is more than deserved, well, let me come to your work and pay you on your performance at whatever rate I want to pay you.

            I’ve been thinking about this for quite some time if you couldn’t tell and so I thought I’d try a little experiment. A few months ago, an elderly woman came in to the restaurant with a pre-teen girl and a teenage boy. She ordered one meal for herself and a couple of sides for the kids. I gave them the same amount of attention as I would anyone else. When the bill was paid and they had left I looked at the tip, it was less than ten percent. I wasn’t upset or angry, I just shrugged my shoulders and moved on.

            Then, a few weeks later they came in again, I waited on them again and I gave them just about the same amount of service as I had last time. The result was the same. I chuckled to myself knowing that this woman who reminded me of a walking talking toadstool would never be satisfied by anyone in the food service industry.

            Tonight, they came in again and once again, I was their waiter. I chuckled to myself and thought “I’m going to try an experiment.”

            My experiment was this, I was going to give them nominal service and see exactly how much of a virago she was. Once again, when she ordered, she ordered herself a meal and some extra sides for the kids. No meals for them. Just French fries.

            I didn’t make sure her drink was always full, I did ask her if everything was okay and satisfactory, I didn’t offer anything extra and I made sure that when she was snapping her fingers at me when I was talking with other customers that I did not hear her. After all, her first tip had been only two bucks and her second tip had been the same amount. What sort of crap am I willing to put up with for two dollars? Not a lot apparently.

            By the time she had finished eating, spilling crumbs everywhere, while her kids made a sticky mess on the glass tabletop with ketchup and salt I delivered the bill at her request. When they left, I looked at the bill, I didn’t get a tip, I was out two bucks. I laughed and knew my experiment had been a success.

            On the flip side of this coin, I had some regulars in tonight that I wait on at least once a month. I always give them the same good service as I do everyone else, they are regular tippers and nice people. Not too demanding, fun to talk with and are always smiling. Very steady, normal people who are just making their way in this world. If they ask for something extra, or need more of anything, I’m more than happy to get it for them. Not for the tip, not because they are regulars but because they treat me like a living, breathing human being. They know that I am a person and treat me as such. Which goes a long way in this world. That is something the Toadstool lady with her thick, coke bottle glasses doesn’t seem to get.

            It’s all about respect and understanding. Most customers get it, some don’t. The ones who don’t will never have a good repeat experience because they don’t treat the waiters with respect. You see, a please or thank you goes a long way in this world when dealing with waiters and waitresses, hell even calling them by their name garners a certain level of empathy that will make your dining experience a hundred times better.

            Do I think the toadstool lady will be back? I hope so. Do I think I will wait on her again? Probably not. Which is no skin off my nose. To me, she has no respect for me or the other customers in the building. After all, if I’m taking an order from one table and you’re snapping your fingers at me to get my attention, then it is clear you don’t care about me or anyone of the other diners in the place. So, you can wait just like I have to.

            Is this cold and callous? Maybe, but I do know that in all my years of waiting tables I’ve become a better customer when dining out. Also, I’ve become a pretty harsh judge of waiters and waitresses in all the establishments I visit.

            I guess what I’m trying to say is this, if you’re out at a restaurant and you want great service from your server, be a great customer. Learn their name, call them by it and if something is wrong don’t get pissy, just talk to them as you would want to be spoken to.

            Have a great week.

Enrichment through Reunion

             So, I went on vacation. Yes, me, the idiot Polak with a 70 IQ, that’s 70 in euro’s, and it was a vacation I really did not want to go on. Why didn’t I want to go on vacation? Simple, I hate driving and I knew if I left the places I worked at would burn to the ground. Seriously, I truly believe that when I’m not at my job, shit will just fall apart. I’m sure some of you out there feel the same way. Also, if you do feel that way, then you know even though you are not at work, your mind still is. Matter of fact, if you are like me, then you check your work email every day even though you are not there, you even respond to said emails and plan your return accordingly. Yeah, that’s what I did. I have to because something inside of me just can’t let work go. Can’t breathe because the weight of responsibility is heavy upon my shoulders. Work is most of what I think about… the trains, the motors, the repairs and the problems that have arisen, will arise and the solutions both simple and complex that my brain can think of.

            That’s just how I’m wired I suppose. I’m a 1 surrounded by 0’s sometimes. Not my fellow team-mates mind you but most of the people I come into daily contact with. (That’s binary talk if you don’t get the connection.) There is something in me that just can’t let go. Even on my days off I usually end up at the museum for a few minutes. Just to check things out. When there is flooding, snowfall, a noreaster, I’m the one first on scene checking to make sure all is well and nothing is damaged. It’s an affliction I can’t seem to shake.

            However; occasionally, once in a great while, after years have passed, I am forced by family, friends and coworkers to unplug from work. Which I do reluctantly. I did so this past week. (I still checked in electronically but I did disconnect.)

            My family and I drove halfway cross the continental united states to attend a family reunion made up of people I don’t know and some I do as well as some I have not seen for thirty years. Upon arrival at our destination, I tried to relax, sleep and basically decompress from life. The first day was easy. I was exhausted from traveling and driving. Food was eaten but not tasted. Sleep was deep but fitful and conversations were had in short, staccato bursts.

            The second day was spent in a fugue state of eating too much, sitting in a hot tub and trying to find solace and privacy in an attempt to sort my thoughts. That is when the pain started. I felt my muscles starting to release the pent up tension of years of work and stress.

            The third day I woke up and the pain in my tissue was worse, I could barely move and even the warm water and jets of the hot tub barely made a dent on what was going on within me. Once again I ate too much, I talked too much but yet, I managed to write a bit. (See previous blog.)

            The fourth day, I actually woke up feeling human. I felt as if nothing in my life was too extreme or important and could wait another day. I can only think that what I felt then was what most people feel. I had no worries, no stress and no fires to put out. I was surrounded by my family, water and the feeling of actually being part of something larger than the life I had left behind so many miles away. This is when I met many of the strangers whose blood I share. I didn’t get to talk to them much, but spend a lot of time soaking up the sun, lazing around on an inner tube and splashing in the water. Upon my return to the cookout, some relatives had left, others lingered. I chilled, ate some more and made an attempt to connect with the blood of others.

            The fifth day, I introduced my daughter to the wonderful yet terrible food of White Castles. She loved it. However; we were not alone, my cousin and two of his offspring came with us, his offspring devoured the sliders, cheese fries and onion wedges as quickly as a swarm of locusts go through a corn field in the middle states of our country. This day also brought more family into my life, people with whom are only a state away yet I’ve never truly met. We had things in common but we didn’t really speak of them. Instead we enjoyed the glow of long lost relatives in a comfortable and healthy setting.

            Day six brought the thoughts of moving on. Of a twelve hour drive home and packing away my clothes and gifts. Memories of the recent days filled me with morose thoughts and dreams where I had made different choices in my life. Decisions where I didn’t stay on the eastern seaboard and moved back to the Midwest. Where I hadn’t worked for a shipyard, a machine shop, a police department or a museum. Where I had gone back to my roots and gotten a dead end job working in a factory that produced goods and services for the masses.

            When all was packed away, with the exception of a pair of jeans, a tee-shirt, my bathing suit and Freddy, I went to the hot tub and spent almost two hours reflecting on the people who I rarely see who seem enamored with my existence. It felt good to know there are people out there who have a vested interest in me and my shenanigans. Those shenanigans seem to be far and few inbetween nowadays. I don’t have time to get up to no good now. Nope, I spend most of my time figuring out issues and problems that are presented to me by someone who is trying to hide the fact that their five year old just broke an unbreakable coated aircraft cable.

            Day seven brought an early wake up, last minute packing of the vehicle, hugs, kisses and promises of staying in touch. Endless miles later, with my Zune cranking out a mixture of Willie Nelson, Clutch, Led Zepplin and Sea Shanties, I was standing outside of a Harley Davidson Dealership with six more hours of road ahead of me. My mind wasn’t on the journey, it was on my family.

            A family who seems to love me no matter what, even though distance seems to keep us from being close we still manage to understand the earthreal connection that runs through our veins. Whether I’ve met them in the past, present or will know them in the future, we have an unbreakable bond.

            Right now, as I type this, my small mind can’t even comprehend the ripples of the connections that have been made over the past week. I do know that I’m grateful for reconnecting with my long lost cousin in Seattle. Our late night conversations and our need for intellectual stimulus, I believe was fueled by our time we spent sitting on a patio, a driveway and in passing by our love for all things scientific, natural and obscure. It was truly an honor and a pleasure to find someone who is as smart if not smarter than the general public.

            It was also a blessing to meet the folks who live their lives in the general humanity of life. People who try to eek out a living and pay bills in order to survive. People who try to keep their heads above water and keep the one true thing that is important to everyone in this life real.

            It has truly been an honor and a priviledge to see some old faces as well as some new. I feel more blessed and honored to have met these great people. People who I would never have had a chance to meet otherwise.

            Thank you all for a great week. You have enriched my life more than you will know and more than I will ever know.

            For all you non-family members reading this, take pleasure and do what you can to meet the blood of your life. Learn from them and cherish the brief moments you have with them.

            Have a great week.

A Moment of Wonder

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            In 1985 Bill Waterson brought Calvin and Hobbes to the masses. It was received with a reception that echoes to this day. If you are one of the few who’ve never read these comics, well, let me tell you, you are missing out on some amazing commentary on life, growing up, politics, loss of innocence and sheer unadulterated childhood joy and wonderment. The first time I read one of the strips I was immediately in love and understood exactly where he was coming from, but for some reason I couldn’t understand why. I didn’t understand why those strips spoke to me on a level I of childhood I seemed to have lost. No, not lost, more like I locked away in some deep recess of my mind.

            Lost memories of my youth, that is, lost to me. Others however, seem to have retained memories of my youth and have no compunction of regaling others of the shenanigans of my younger days. Stories I’ve heard a hundred times in the past but have always shrugged off like cold rain on a wet coat as I take it off. The wet, reviving memories one easily forgets. That is me. I try to not dwell too much on my youth. Some tell me it was filled with joy and mischief. I don’t remember those years being like that. I remember them quite the opposite. Days and nights filled with strife, discomfort, loneliness and awkwardness. Yeah, that’s how I see my youth. I was not happy. So much so that when speaking with family members about our past, their recollections never seemed to make a connection to my own skewed version of my personal history.

            In those rare situations, when I was amongst my siblings and stories were being told I usually just tuned them out. Not out of disrespect, it was more of a defense mechanism, to maintain my own memories and attitudes I’d become comfortable with telling myself. Not lies mind you, like the lies we tell ourselves daily, but more out of survival. Survival of who I knew I was, knew where I was going and knew for a fact what had happened in my life and when.

            Then, this week, a connection was made by one of the most amazing people in my life. A connection to my past that I had lost decades ago. It was an amazing moment, well, more of a bridge to the scared and lonely kid inside all of us. A long forgotten bridge by me but one of great importance.

            To tell you the truth, right now, I really don’t even know where to start or how to put into words what happened. Yet, more than that, how do I share what happened? How can one put into words one of the most amazing gifts one can receive as one slams head first into middle age and can’t even remember most of the details of daily life as a child or preteen? It escapes my mind, it’s as if I’m trying to grab ahold of fog on a cool summer night. The ether of memories are slippery and gaseous. One is unable to actually wrangle to the ground those memories open their hands and stare into the face of the innocence of childhood they once faced.

            I guess, I need to start at what I remember. Which is to say, I was troubled. I was angry. I was willing and able to do anything to try and alleviate the strife in my life.

            That’s when Freddy showed up. Yes, Freddy. He was sewn by my mother and he was the exact replication of the guy in the cartoon “The Flintstones”. However; my Freddy had a different voice, a different attitude towards life and he was also the most loyal and confident friend I’ve ever had.

            However; my mother also made a Wilma who she gave to one of my sisters. That sister seemed to think it was okay to try and boss me and my new best friend around whenever and wherever we were. I didn’t like that and definitely Freddy did not like it as well. Wilma suffered an excruciating demise which I won’t go into here. That is a story for another time. A time when I’m not feeling so… loved? Appreciated? Needed? I don’t know.

            I don’t remember the first day I got Freddy, nor do I remember many of the days that passed uneventfully. I do however remember many of the adventures we had together. Swimming pools became unnavigable waters with ninety foot swells and storms raging on the horizon. Frogs, toads and lizards became ancient dinosaurs trying to rend the flesh from our bones. Model airplanes became interstellar star ships that could traverse the endless miles of empty space while being chased by space pirates, smugglers and space police.

            When I was blamed for a mischievous act, I could always point to Freddy and say “Freddy did it. Not me.” And Freddy readily threw himself on the sword of justice. On the occasions where no one believed me and I was punished, Freddy was there to offer me solace and comfort. He didn’t judge, didn’t ask for permission, didn’t need apologies, no, he was a true friend who had large shoulders for me to cry on, a grin that shared my laughter and had more ideas in his cotton stuffed head than I could ever come up with on my own.

            When I was alone in my room, grounded, and working on one of my many puzzles or models, he was there to help my shaking hand guide the right piece into the right place. When I discovered playboy and penthouse magazine, he was there to help talk me through my discomfort and confusion.

            When my family went on camping trips and I felt out of place and alone, he would accompany me to the playground where we would slide down the endless miles of slides. Or direct me to the rivers where we could hunt for frogs, tadpoles and snakes.

            We did everything together. We bathed, we laughed, we cried, we even learned about life and all its intrinsically elaborate subtleties together. He was the voice of reason in my head. He was my Jimminy Cricket, albeit, a rated “R” Jimminy Cricket.

            I don’t know when he left me or how. I just know that one day I came home from school and went to look for him and he was gone. I was devastated. I hated life. How could I not? My best friend disappeared without a clue as to where he went. I moved on. I made real life friends. Friends like Fish, Finn and Brian. Later on, after we moved out of Green Bay, I made other friends and as my life traversed from youth to adolescence, I forgot my long lost friend and this is the real tragedy of the story.

            How can one forget the one person who helped you through all your questions and discomfort? Somehow I managed to. This is not necessarily a proud moment in my life.

            But forgotten he was.

            That is, to me, not my family.

            My family remembers. They remember the candy story, they remember the beheadings, they remember the small child running down the street with a small Fred Flintsone shaped pillow under his arms and they remember all the good and bad deeds done in his name.

            This year, my oldest sister, the one who always has been able to see the best in me gave me for my birthday a new Freddie. One she scoured the web, fabric stores, flea markets and second hand stores for years. She was unable to find the original fabric appliqué, instead she found the new, plush and articulated Freddie. A Freddie who is just as real to me in my middle age as he was when I was eight years old.

            The funny thing is, at the table when I’m opening my presents in celebration of my birthday I could easily tell what was inside each gently wrapped package. Yet, when I was handed the blue, iridescent bag, I didn’t have a clue what was inside. But when I pulled the first layer of tissue paper and placed my hand inside the bag and I felt the soft felt buried deep inside of the paper a long lost voice in my head said “Hello Buddy!” And out of my mouth I immediately said “Freddie!”

            A flood, no a deluge of memories filled my mind and to tell you the truth as I write this, I am a bit chocked up. How could I not be? The closest and most intimate friend of my life had been returned to me.

            In my head, we held a long conversation within seconds. In reality, I was surrounded by people in my life who have a vested interest in my life and what I’m doing.

            I pulled to my chest my long lost friend and held a conversation which I won’t reveal here. Needless to say, my youth was restored to me, my long lost friend was returned and I became a more whole and better person with the influence of my long lost friend.

            In the end, my offspring spent the night learning and realizing how important my youth was, she kept him as a protector against evil in the night. Much like I used to, and she made sure he didn’t allow the evils of the world fall into the spectrum of her living, breathing and living.

            I couldn’t be happier. I slept last night with my old pal and I’m pleased that my past has finally caught up with my future. I’m sure one day, in the not so distant future all of our children will have an icon that will escort them into the future. After all, we all need an impartial witness to our lives. A party who will accept us for who we are and what we will become.

            In the meantime, Freddy will be riding shotgun on my motorcycle and we will have endless conversations about our adventures about our separation.

            Have a great week and thank you Vera Lynn.

            

Never Forgets

            In my neighborhood there is an empty lot that has two oak trees. Tall, aged and proud. Home to various critters, the place for kids to play football, kickball, swing on the swing, and even play freeze tag. For the past five years in the summer I’ve driven past the overgrown grass and weeds, in the winter I passed by observing the slumbering fauna. Then, about a year and a half ago after a particularly bad storm I noticed one of the trees started to lean a bit.

            No longer was it tall, proud and monumental. Instead it had developed a hitch. A flaw that intrigued me. Not enough for me to get out of my car or off my bike to go and inspect it, no instead, I just wanted to observe. Watch, wait and see what would happen. After all, isn’t that what writers do? Observe and report? Not that I really consider myself a writer, I think I’m more of an observationalist. So that is what I did. I observed.

            This tree has a twisted trunk, so much so that it looks as if at one time it were actually two trees. The lowest branches were fifteen feet or so off the ground and you could see small dead limbs that had once had a promising future of life. Leaves in the spring and summer were a lush, deep green and in the fall and winter the skeletal features reminded me of the time when I looked at pictures of the actual elephant man. Twisted, broken limbs jutted out of places where they should never have had an opportunity to sprout, let alone grow for more than an inch or two. Instead, there seemed to be some sort of mutant gene inside this tree. A radical cancer of arboistic proportions.

            In the past six months, the tree has grown leaves, supported animal life and has slowly sped up its descent to the earth that once supported it. So much so that every day I passed by, it was leaning more and more. As if the earth below could no longer support the weight, the fuel and had lost the energy to try and keep it alive.

            This morning I rode by and realized that the slow descent of the high branches had finally reached the ground. Also, the trunk had finally broken about five feet up from the root ball. Inside the tree was hollow. Long ago eaten away by termites, squirrels and various other critters. The tree was truly broken. There was nothing inside to speak of for the countless years it had stood proud, tall and epic on the face of this mudball. While only a ten feet away its brother stood providing shade for its fallen compatriot in foliage life.

            Tonight, on my way home, the break of the trunk was almost complete. The upper part of the tree seemed severed by a maniac butchers rusty knife. What was left near the base was jagged and hollow. A good portion of the roots hung in the air like bleeding arteries of a severed torso. The life of the oak has ended. I felt a sense of loss even as I rode by knowing I had never taken the opportunity to visit this particular spot on earth. A loss I couldn’t quite understand.

            That is until I got home. That’s when it hit me.

            You see, this week, for all you who don’t know, I celebrated another birthday. A day I call +17 and counting. For the first thirty or so years of my life I was certain I would be long gone by now. At age thirty. Now, I’m seventeen years past my self-proclaimed expiration date. Which is fine by me. For the past seventeen years I’ve discovered a plethora of information I’m sure my younger self couldn’t have even comprehended. Which is cool. Why? Because I am a creature who loves to discover new and unique things in life. Which is what has become my daily existence.

            The sadness I felt for the fallen tree seemed to be a metaphor for my life, however, as I write this I can’t help but think I may have not felt sad. For you see, if I, at the end of my life am nothing but an empty husk of a human being, used up, worn out and just a shell of my former self… well, I have to consider that a compliment.

            Seriously, I want to go into the grave with no energy left. No stone unturned. No knowledge unleared. I want to have lived a life of passion, of knowledge of production. I want to leave this mortal coil knowing that in the midst of all my emotions, my attitudes and my arrogance that people will say “Well, he always knew what to do and when to do it. He suckled the teat of life and left nothing but an empty, sagging, useless bag that once held the waters of life. What he did with that water was to use it to do everything his mind could imagine? And he did.”

            I want no regrets for my actions, only regrets for the things I didn’t have the time to do. Like the fallen oak, a tree I believe should have had many more years in its future, I want people to feel a loss. Which is what I truly felt I suppose. A loss of beauty, a loss of emotional connection and a loss of a life giving force that impacted others.

            I suppose what I’m saying is, yes, I work hard and yet, when given the opportunity I try to enjoy the gifts life sends my way. Be it people, good cigars or in the rare case… living in the moment. Which is what I seem to be doing when I sit on my porch and watch as my neighbors scurry from one end of the block to the next.

            Life is for the living, the thinking, the breathing and the opportunist. Go and live it. Find a passion, find a lover, find a spouse. Live and enjoy the small dash between your birth and death that will eventually be engraved upon your tombstone. History is filled with people we will never know because they were satisfied with being obscure. I’m not one of those. I try to put my name, my stamp, my intellectual influence on everything I do. Why? Because when others in my realm of being are lost, confused or just plain confuddled by an issue, they call me and I fix it. That’s what I’m good at. And when I fix something, they know it and know they can count on me to be there. I’m the fire extinguisher behind the glass. Break the glass and get out of my way. I’ll fix it, I’ll figure it out and I’ll damn sure put my name on it. Why? Because I am here. I am now and I am not going to be forever, just like that fallen oak tree. And like that fallen tree my results, my ideas and my progeny will be.

            Have a great week.

As a PostScript I’d like to give thanks to Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet band for entertaining my ears while I wrote this.