Notes from three women

She told me she needed to interview someone for her community college class on nonprofit organizations. And so we agreed to meet in my office, where I do communications for a small nonprofit that runs a network of 12 food pantries. She was skinny, her voice was gravely, and her face was potholed as if she'd smoked cigarettes since she was a baby. Her hair was overly blond and kinda stringy yet she was well presented with a long skirt and pretty top. I had to listen hard to understand her words because she didn't enunciate like I'm used to; it was almost like hearing a heavy accent, the accent one talks when they've lived hard. I thought stupid, patronizing thoughts like how great it was that people like her could go to community college. She got right to her assignment, pulled out her notebook, and asked me questions.

"What's your mission?" she asked. I answered.

"Who do you serve?" she asked. I answered.

"Where do you get funding?" she asked. I answered.

And on with all the typical nonprofit questions, until she got to this question: "Do you have interns?" Yes, I answered. Not a lot but sometimes, I said. Why don't you send me your resume and tell me about your interests, I said.

And that's when the conversation shifted. She put her notebook down. She put her student persona down. She put her pretenses down.

"I'll tell you what my interests are," she said, looking straight at me, talking with confidence and conviction that she didn't exude a few moments earlier. Suddenly I could understand her very well. I no longer needed to strain my ears to pick up her sentences.

"My interests are women who are doing prison time and who shouldn't be," she said. "I'm not saying all of them, but I'd say at least half the women in Mitchellville (women's facility near Des Moines) shouldn't be there. They are victims. They were defending themselves. They did drugs to escape. They shouldn't be there and there are no services for them when they get out. They get sent to a halfway house but they don't need a halfway house, they need a chance. They need to get back into the world.

"But I can't do anything until I get my education," she continued. "That's what I'm focused on now." She working towards her associates degree, then her BA in Human Services.

The interview was over. We shook hands and she walked out of my office. I'd given her my business card but after she left it occured to me that I didn't even ask her name. For all I knew, she didn't really exist and I'd simply imagined her.

*

She told me she couldn't get food until Friday. It was Wednesday. She was eyeing the leftover food from our weekly dinner at church. It's food that we put in to-go containers for anyone to take home; food that otherwise would be thrown out during clean up. She told me she didn't want to take the leftovers that others might want. I talked her into taking it. My goodness, take it please. I put the food containers into a plastic bag so it wouldn't look so conspicuous that she was taking it. I asked her to wait so I could forage the church refridgerator for more food. I grabbed a gallon of milk and disguised it in another plastic bag. I gave her my work telephone number so we could chat tomorrow about what food pantry to go to. Later I realized that I could have also given her apples and oranges from the kitchen. I could have run to the grocery store for a gift card. I could have told Bob who could have come up with assistance from a church fund to give her. I could have fixed her life right then and there. Except there are a zillion people like her, thank you very much double dip recession and a cold hearted congress. And I can't fix anyone's life. But I tried as hard as I could to not have a pathetic look of pity on my face as she told me that her cubboards have never looked this bare, that she's never been in this situation before. "I'm a giver," she said, "Not a taker." And by the way, she works full time. She works full time and has no food in the house. Explain that. "We're all givers and takers," I said.

*

She told me she's transitioning from a man. I knew that but I pretended I didn't because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Her new name is Rebecca Grace. "I got to pick my own name," she said with the most innocent tone of voice you can imagine; a sweetness hard earned by 50 or so years of utter anquish. My Lutheran friends believe that "grace" is a special word. It means loved unconditionally. It means loved nomatter what. It means loved in spite of who we are, what we do, and where we go. We Lutherans believe that but by grace alone do any of us thrive, survive, die, or stay alive. And for those who are into counting heaven, grace is the direct line in. It certainly has to be hard to transition from Michael to Rebecca. For those who are into counting hell, living in another body might be one way to do it. You've got so many people to freak out -- the wife, the kids, the family, the friends, the coworkers. She said that people at her workplace are scared of her. "All they have to do is talk to me," Rebecca Grace said. "I'm happy to answer questions. I won't hurt anyone."

*

These are just a few of the people I've encountered recently. There are so many more, and I wish I had time to write about them all.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog! Wish you all a good night.

With love, T

Dear Planet Earth

Dear Planet Earth,

Hello, how are you today? I understand that you are due to deliver the 7 billionth inhabitant today, according to U.N. estimates. That's about double the global population since I was born, a few years ago in 1962. Evidently, there's a bit of concern how you will sustain all these people. How will they all eat? How will they all stay warm? How will they all get from point A to B? How will they all not fight over things such as water and oil on your crowded space?

If you don't mind, I wanted to offer up a simple 10-point, 10-word solution to ensure sustainability for you, dear Planet Earth. Let's call it the 10-10-10 plan. Here goes:

10 ways to ensure global sustainability, in 10 words:

  1. Women.
  2. Women's rights.
  3. Women's safe healthcare.
  4. Women and girl's education.
  5. Women in key leadership roles.
  6. Women who vote, women in charge.
  7. Women empowered to make their own decisions.
  8. Women who make choices over their own bodies.
  9. Women who are not beholden to decisions men make.
10. Women working in tandem with men for a better world.

You're welcome. Happy 7 billionth birthday!

With love, T

P.S. Dedicated to my husband, who gets this. (Love you!)

For my parents' 50th wedding anniversary

Yesterday we celebrated my parent's 50th wedding anniversary, hosted by the fabulous folks at United Methodist Church in Dexter, a small farm town in SE Minnesota. My mom asked me to give a little speech and here it is:

Today we’re here to celebrate 50 years of marriage of my mom and dad. Five decades of two people being together. If I did my math right that figures to 600 months of patience. 18,250 days of forgiveness. 26,280,000 seconds of commitment. One half century of ordinary days and extraordinary events. A golden anniversary of love—for better and for worse, as they say.

So what was it like 50 years ago? How many of you remember 1961? (show of hands) Was anyone born in 1961? You know, 1961 was a great year:

President John F. Kennedy established the Peace Corps.

Barbie’s boyfriend, the Ken doll, made his first appearance.

The number one song this week in 1961 was “Hit the Road Jack” by Ray Charles.

Pampers disposable diapers were available for the first time.

The cost of a first class stamp was 4 cents.

The academy award for best movie went to West Side Story.

Fellows styled their hair in crew cuts and ladies styled theirs in bouffant.

Minimum wage was $1 /hour.

A baby named Barak Obama was born.

And two teenagers in a small town in rural Minnesota decided to flirt.

It was a town called Pine Island where a couple of youngsters, 17-year-old Milford Edwin Mork Jr and 16-year-old Diane Pauline Stromback, were hanging out with their friends one summer night in front of the Rainbow Café on main street. These two crazy kids, Jr. and Diane, ended up crammed together in a carful of friends and road tripping to Rochester to buy a jar of pickled eggs. (Not recommended, by the way, for all you 16 and 17 year olds in the crowd! I'd definitely go for the deviled eggs.)

I’m using words like “teenagers” and “youngsters” and “crazy kids” but in reality, even at this tender age my dad had already taken on serious responsibilities of a hard working adult with the full time job as a truck driver. My mom was entering her senior year of high school.

They kept seeing each other to the backdrop of the music of Elvis Presley and country and western. Dad had a ’49 Ford with pin stripes and no reverse so he had to be careful where he parked because there was no backing out. And there was no backing out of this thing he had with my mom. I think it was one of those junctures that happens without even realizing it happened; no one knows exactly when it was decided but during the next months as they spent more and more time together, they just knew they’d eventually be married.

But the day it became real was into the next year. My mom had graduated from high school, finished beauty school, and worked as a stylist in Mantorville. One day my dad brought over an ad for Goodman Jewelers in the Cities. Apparently engagement rings were on sale – and so that was final proof that getting married was their destiny.

One “Starbright” diamond and one payment plan later -- Pine Island had themselves a newly engaged couple.

The wedding was at St. Paul Lutheran Church in Pine Island, Minnesota. The bride wore white. And the groom was late. I mean, getting married isn’t any excuse to skip out on your grain haul. It was October for pete’s sakes, a grain hauler’s busy time, wedding or no wedding, as my Dad’s strong sense of work ethic was already firmly set into the fabric of his character. (Invite crowd to view gorgeous wedding pictures and memorabilia.)

In what surely was the most romantic honeymoon on record, Mom and Dad took off in the truck for the destination city of Oneida, South Dakota, population 37. The truck had no heat but it mattered not to my Mom because she knew there was a special addition to this honeymoon – her father-in-law. Yup, that’s right, they honeymooned with Grandpa. The blissful threesome headed west and when my mom got cold, she ditched my dad and rode with my grandfather, whose truck had a mighty fine heater. This seemed like a pretty strong indicator that this family was going to last.

And so this marriage was off and running . . .and so was my dad in his truck, and so were the babies that were to be forthcoming, and so was my mom in her amazing way of running a household often times on her wits and grits and guts alone.

So, how exactly does a couple stay together for 50 years? I asked our resident experts, my Mom and Dad, and they had some pretty good advice for the rest of us.

Mom said it’s important to keep your individual interests yet to also develop common interests. For example, she nurtured her love for growing flowers by becoming a master gardener and starting her own greenhouse. My Mom enjoyed her yard and her house and her swimming pool and her friends. Yet she also made a specific effort to spend time with Dad by doing things together such as enjoying Nascar and wintering in Arizona. And we all know that she literally learned how to drive one of those big old trucks herself so they could go on the road together.

When I asked my Dad this same question – what advice he would give to a couples – his answer was quite a bit shorter. He said it takes “a lotta love, a lotta dedication, and willingness to compromise.”

Mom grows things and Dad delivers things. Petunias and lily’s. Potatoes and apples. Children and puppies. Humility and hard work. Now here we are in the year 2011, 51 years after that magical night in front of the Rainbow Café, 50 years after that lovely day at St. Paul Lutheran Church – we can see so much of what they grew and delivered.

Gratitude is one of those things that we often don’t think about until we miss something. It’s hard to be thankful for something that you don’t know you have. The air you breath. The legs you walk on. The house you live in. The people around you. For some reason it seems far too easy to focus on the things you don’t have – a better job, a nicer car, more money, more time. It seems that most often family and friends get together for sad occasions, such as funerals or tragic events, and then they wish they had spent more happier times together, or even just more boring times together. For anyone who’s experienced tragedy, you know that boring times are a blessing.

But if you can turn that around and take stock of all that you have, then it’s hard not to be grateful. The old fashioned way of saying it is “counting your blessings.”

And that’s why we’re here today – to count the blessings. 50 years of marriage brings a lot of blessings. Mom and Dad do see what they have. When I asked them about the things that they’re grateful for they listed so many things that I can’t even mention them all, but I’ll tell you a lot of them.

Mom used the word “respect” and how thankful she is that she received so much of it from my Dad and from us kids too. Mom is grateful that she is given the freedom to be creative with her yard and her house, to make it the home she’s always dreamed about. Mom is grateful that Dad was home for every birth and every Christmas – which is quite an amazing feat given the merciless demands of the truck driving industry.

When I asked my Dad about what he’s grateful for, he mentioned work, the fact that he’s had constant employment all these years. And indeed, even now pushing 70, he’s still at it driving truck coast to coast. He mentioned being grateful for good health and for a lotta luck. He said that he’s thankful for his wife, and I quote: “I think I got the best.”

And of course, Mom and Dad see their blessings whenever look at their children, their grandchildren, their greatgrandchildren. And if you’ll bear with me, I’d like to name us all of and ask if family members could please stand when I say your name.

Children - Tom, Trey, Russ, me

the ones who gave them grandchildren – Jennifer, Amy, Julie, Bob

grandchildren – Priscilla, Danielle, Brandee, Mackenzie, Mallory, Ashley, Paige, Aaron, Amanda, Aidan

great-grandchildren – Kylee (Kyle) and Hunter (Jake)

the Strombacks

the Morks

the friends and neighbors

And my parents see their many blessings when they see you all, their dear family and friends. As we look around this room and we see just small part of what Mom and Dad grew and delivered in their 50 years of marriage. And we give thanks for all the blessings.

Thank you. You’ve been wonderful. Please stay. Eat more food.

Before the mommy blogger there was Shirley Jackson, the mother of horror.

Life Among the Savages

By Shirley Jackson

Farrar, Straus and Young 1953

An Annotation

Life Among the Savages is s sweet mommy-memoir by Shirley Jackson, the same author who wrote a story that has terrified me since sixth grade, “The Lottery.”

As I read Life Among the Savages I couldn’t help but to wonder how her life experience of raising kids in a small town informed her creation of the horror masterpiece, The Lottery, set in a small town with a ritual of annual human sacrifice. Even the title begs the question, who does she mean when she refers to the “savages?” The kids? The townspeople? The parents? And what kind of writer includes the word “savage” in a sweet mommy-memoir title? But then again she titled her second sweet mommy memoir “Raising Demons” so there you go.


The book is full of stories of how it is to raise children, the tender, the frustrating, the funny, and the futile. As one who likes to write about the chaos of my children, I could easily relate to her setting. She opens by describing their house:

“Our house is old, and noisy, and full. When we moved into it we had two children and about five thousand books; I expect that when we finally overflow and move out again we will have perhaps twenty children and easily a half million books; we also own assorted beds and tables and chairs and rocking horses and lamps and doll dresses and ship models and paint brushes and literally thousands of socks.” (1)

She uses the word “and” over and over instead of inserting commas, a stylistic choice that emphasizes the chaos. As the book unfolds she often refers to the white house, its rooms, its pillars, its characteristics; almost as if it were an entity unto its own. She often places household elements as the subject of the sentence, and the people as the object, for example, when describing how the family moved into the house Jackson writes: "One bedroom chose the children, because it was large and showed unmistakable height marks on one wall and seemed to mind not at all when crayon marks appeared on the wallpaper and paint got spilled on the floor" (19-20). Focusing on the house itself is an effective way to tell the story of the people who live inside it, and it inspired me to consider writing my own mommy memoir centered around our big white house, which is a source of as much joy as incredible frustration. Think money pit meets the American dream.

But the other consideration in Jackson’s choice in lifting up the house as a character is knowing that she also wrote a famously frightening book, "The Haunting of Hill House," which I have not read yet but I’m curious if there is a connection in Jackson’s creative process. (This book has been sitting on my shelf waiting for me for months. It's first up after December graduation. :-)

While funny and sweet, Life Among the Savages seems to hint at that part of Jackson’s brain that can concoct the scariest tales ever. For example, she describes her search for a paid mother’s helper, recounting all the reasons why this or that household helper didn’t work out for the job. The mother’s helper, Amelia, who baked a batch of almost evil cookies helps show Jackson’s skill at blending funny and sweet with the slightly eerie:

“Amelia had but one major failing. The second day she was with us – which turned out, coincidentally, to be the last – she made cookies, spending all one joyous afternoon in the kitchen, droning happily to herself, fidgeting, cluttering, measuring.

“At dinner, dessert arrived with Amelia’s giggle and a flourish. She set the plate of cookies down in front of my husband, and my husband, who is a nervous man, glanced down at them and dropped his coffee cup. ‘Sinner,” the cookies announced in bold pink icing, “Sinner, repent.” (98-99)

In this short passage alone, Jackson manages to artfully join words like cookies, joyous, pink, nervous, sinner, and repent. I count her as one of my main influences.

Something about nothing

Thanks to the power of ice and redosing (two advil every five hours is what my pharmacist otherwise known as me has prescribed) I am here live and alive, ready and eager to blog to all of you, gloriously unchanged for two days in my galabea (fancy word for my Egyptian pajamas that, yes, I do occasionally wear in public).

I'm practicing writing really long sentences after a marathon of reading essays by the amazing David Foster Wallace (RIP), who wrote 100 pages about taking a cruise. One hundred pages about an experience mostly spent on the inside of his minuscule cabin because of his self-proclaimed agoraphobia. It's a fabulous essay and so is the one about the Illinois State Fair, which I mentioned in my last blog. I've never read anything before whereby the author starts out by outright insulting his editors and getting away with it. But they are not gratuitous insults, they are truthful ones. And the editors put up with it (although I notice they got edited out) but still, they paid him and gave him more jobs. Of course he was a brilliant writer, so that definitely helps in the getting away with it department. (Note to my current and potential editors: I promise that I am well aware that I could never get away with insulting my editors in my copy, nor would I ever want to. Code: please give me more paying work.)

So, this is what you do when you are flat on your back in bed. Besides looking out the window at the leaves and trees and noticing how one of the tree branches looks just like a descending snake, a head like that character on the Jungle Book movie. I would attempt to draw it, but it's hard to draw when you are flat on your back. I could appreciate why Frida Kahlo had a mirror attached to her ceiling, and then painted all sorts of weird things about her perceived and real body deformities, her having to be flat on her back for weeks and months at a time.

When you are flat on your back all your addictive NPR listening habits become heightened. I am now an expert on the Libyan revolution, the East Coast earthquake, and that former IMF guy who was able to forge a consensual relationship with a chamber maid in a mere nine-minutes. (Evidently, he was known for his charm.) Listening to NPR is awesome when you are flat on your back and staring at the ceiling or at the tree branch snake outside the window (or in the car or at work or cooking dinner).

It's hard not to get depressed when you are flat on your back. It takes me approximately three hours to transition from "hey, it's so nice to be still" to "oh my god, they'll have to check me into a nursing home soon." You start thinking about the sick, the invalid, the sad, the lonely. You realize just how close you are to all those things.

And it all started with a simple fluffing of the hair. All I meant to do was bend over (bad idea) and fluff up my newly washed, sprayed, and curled hair to look the freshest I could look on the way to work. And, zing, an electrical charge goes up the back, and the hair-fluffer falls to her knees staring close at the crumbs on the floor and that's about it. I think we'll be going back to the flattening iron -- no fluffing involved. Back to the no-nonsense look.

When you are flat on your back you think about all the things that you've been wanting to do like washing the dishes, scrubbing the floor, cleaning out the boy's bedroom from top to bottom and front to back, getting out the press release, updating the website, making extra keys, driving the kids around to endless hours of activities--all the glorious living that you miss so much.

Me and my galabea gotta go. And we thank you so much for coming by and send our apologies if there's anything we did to convey that this blog post had anything substantial to say.

With love, T (et al)

A Full Body Wrap for Mother's Day

Remembering Mother's Day 2007

I suppose because it's mother's day, I thought of an old blog post I wrote about a woman named Miss Kim, from our church in St. Paul, Christ Church on Capital Hill. (Site of the dancing wedding youtube craze that some of you may remember from last year.)

Wo be the introvert in that congregation because sharing of the peace lasts for about ten minutes and everyone generally rounds the whole sanctuary with greetings for all.

On Mother's Day 2007, Miss Kim, who survived the Vietnam war, shared the peace with me by giving me a full body wrap. (See the post.)
It was so cute! She is literally about half the size of me. It really got me to thinking about how complicated Mother's Day is. About mothers who lost their children. Mother's who couldn't have children. Mothers who left their children (in this church, there were enough refugees to hear stories of children separated by war).  Mothers who are astray from their children. Mothers who wanted children. Mothers who didn't.

About mothers who mother others.

About mothers who are forced to bear too many children. And the ones who die in childbirth. (See recent column by my guy, Nicolas Kristof.)

And then there are the "Motherless Daughters," as my current writing mentor, author Hope Edelman has coined in her researc, writing and networking for women who have lost mothers at a young age. She has built an amazing community of love and support and today she posted a lovely blog to commemorate lost mothers.

Bob and I count ourselves lucky to both claim living, lively, lovely mothers -- both who are here and now, yet sadly, so far away. And so we send out our love to Diane Mork of Dexter, Minnesota and Martha Speirs of Brooklyn, New York. I will admit that distance is really the pits. I really miss living in a place where we can participate in family gatherings. And yet we are so grateful for people like Miss Kim and everyone who offer us a full body of wrap where ever we are.

I write this blog and send it out to all of you who care for the children, who care for eachother. Happy Mother's Day.

With love, Terri

Soccer Mom v. Mustache Dad

Sunday afternoon was Amanda's first soccer game of the season. We were the away team playing at the Vision Soccer Academy fields in Waukee, Iowa, about ten miles outside of Des Moines. Take the last gravel road on the right and park next to the 360 panorama of corn fields and the biggest blue sky since last October. Sunshine all over the place. Glorious.

Me, my lawn chair, and my book (my usual soccer game fair) approached the field and searched for a place to settle down for one and half hours of no moving, no email, no thinking, no nothing but for to sit and be. About 99 percent of the time Bob has other stuff going on so he can't go to Amanda's Sunday soccer games. But I don't mind because me and my personal time do just fine together.


"Mom, did you see me make that awesome move or were you reading your book?" asks my daughter, often, after any given game.

"You did great! I saw some of your moves." But she and I both know that I mostly read my book at any given game.

On this past Sunday, I looked for a place to settle and since I was the last parent to arrive the whole parent side of the field was filled up. I had to start the second row and it occurred to me that I had no idea which side was "my" side. I didn't know who the opponent parents were and who my people were. I looked and looked and seriously, I didn't recognize anyone. You may think that Des Moines is just another small town in Iowa, but it's big enough so that we don't know anyone. People in school, in church, in soccer, in baseball--they don't mix. They are all completely different sets of people. I'm sure it's not like this for our opposing, host team, Waukee, a true blue small town in Iowa, where everyone really does mix and match. I don't even see the one family we do know to a small degree, our car pool family.

So I picked a random spot close to the center line and settled into the peace of the afternoon and my book. Suddenly, interrupting my la la land with all the fervor of a Budweiser commercial, Mustache Dad emerged from the line of parents -- standing, pacing, and sweating about ten feet in front of me.

"YOU'RE CLUMPING! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP GIRLS! SEPARATE! LET'S GO WILDCATS!"

To be honest, I didn't know what our team name was, but I was pretty sure it wasn't Wildcats. I was sitting in the opposing parent section. And I was in a beer commercial with Mustache Dad and a selection of mom's with an usually high ratio of long red hair.

"HEY WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? NICE KICK! QUIT STANDING AROUND AND LOOKING AT THE BALL! BE A LEADER!"

I considered moving, but I was already cozied in and besides, where would I go? I didn't know which way was my people. All I could do was pull out a scrap paper from my purse (a crumpled envelope with my rumpled wages for 2010, which I was supposed to give to our tax man) and start scribbling down all the things that Mustache Dad was screaming into my ears. They say that no one is safe when there's a writer around.

"DON'T BACK OFF! NICE JOB! OUTSIDE! KICK THE BALL! GET IT OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF YOUR CLUMP, GIRLS!"

The one percent of the time that Bob has joined me at soccer games, he is tempted to be like Mustache Dad, feeling that urge to coach from the parent section. Coaching is a vocation that comes from deep within, apparently. I just can't take it. I tell Bob he absolutely cannot yell instructions from the side. It makes me feel bad for the real coaches. Or maybe I'm just a prude. The ref did tell Mustache Dad to cool it, but there was some kind of explanation that I didn't catch wind of to the effect that Mustache Dad continued with his high decibel drill sergeant act for the entire game.

At half time two of the red headed mothers kindly befriended me. "Hi! Are you Amber's mom?!"

When they looked at my confused face, they knew what I was going to say before I said it. I knew that at that point, they didn't care who's mom I was. I thought it best just to say a polite, "Oh, no, I'm from the, um, other side."

"Oh," they said, with dropped faces. "Well, it's nice to see you anyway!"

"Your soccer field is really pretty," I said.

"It's rustic," they said. "Thanks."

"I love the cornfields," I said.

They could not have known that I was reading Shirley Jackson's memoir, Life Among the Savages which chronicles the maddening minutia of being a mother, wife, and citizen of a small town. The more I read it, the more I am convinced it forms the basis of her chilling short story, "The Lottery." (Which by now you surely believe I'm obsessed with.) And after being haunted by that tale since sixth grade, I now wonder if the protagonist--that poor woman who got stoned to death by her neighbors--was actually her, the author, Shirley Jackson. Because sometimes you feel like everything and everyone is coming after you, even when you're just trying to get your kids dressed and breakfast on the table and your daughter to school and your son to piano lessons and yourself to work and your deadlines met and your coffee cup to not leak all over the inside of your car. Maybe she wasn't making a sweeping social statement, but instead just conveying the experience of an extremely overwhelmed and harried mother. Maybe she's just telling the story of a woman who can't get any peace and quiet.

"WOW, WHAT AN AWESOME KICK! DID YOU SEE THAT KICK? GREAT KICK! NOW GIRLS, QUIT YOUR CLUMPING! THEY'RE NOT SEEING HOW THEY'RE CLUMPING."

It got to 87 degrees on Sunday. (Back to 30 degrees on Monday.) And so Amanda and I stopped for ice cream on the way home from Waukee. I forgot the score.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog and I would like to especially thank my friend Marty for making my day by asking for The Snake Charmer's Wife. And while I'm on tributes, I'll offer one up for my husband too, who listens to me drone on and on about this and that frustration. I'm starting to think that God is just plain and simple gratitude.

With love, T