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| Two rolls of duct tape and a partridge in a pear tree... |
| 11.29.04 (6:41 pm) [edit] |
Well, the holiday season is upon us and I am fearful. Time to deck the halls, the porch and the tree. Time to shop, chop, wrap and bake. All of this to do and I am frozen with indecision. It’s the most wonderful time of the year and my seasonal icon… my decorating diva and garnishing guru has hung up her potholders and is currently somebody’s bitch in prison.
Martha, how could you? And really, what was that judge thinking? Throwing Martha in the slammer before the holidays is like taking away Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve. But, instead of a million crying children, there are a million domestically challenged women standing around weeping over an unopened bag of fresh cranberries, some pipe-cleaners and a can of gold spray-paint.
Come on admit it… you hated her… but you couldn’t stop watching. You ridiculed her grandiose ideas and despised her smug, know-it-all demeanor… but every night when you crawled into bed—you wished that you had taken the time to hand embroider your family tree at the top of your Egyptian cotton sheets.
When I think about the years I devoted to that woman. Pouring over magazines, ripping out recipes, collecting everything from antique linens to celebrity cigarette butts…AND LOVING IT! I was the queen of the home improvement project. Armed with only duct tape and a staple gun there were no projects too big to conquer in a weekend. I had no fear. Make a 19th century train station out of cardboard? No Problem. Make a banquet tent out of PVC pipe and tuille netting? How big do you want it? If Martha could do it then so could I.
Martha raised the bar and set the standard. If there was a way to take an enjoyable task and turn it into a drawn out, stress-filled, expensive holiday nightmare… she had the recipe. Red frosted sugar cookies at Christmas? Hell no! My Christmas cookies would have a stained glass pattern that was an exact replica of the windows at Notre Dame Cathedral. "You! Child! Get that cookie out of your mouth this instant! What can you possibly be thinking—It took me two hours and twelve dollars worth of food coloring to decorate that cookie. Now go get a Chips Ahoy and I’ll pretend this never happened".
Buy a pre-made wreath for $12…are you kidding? And have everyone know that it is not a one of a kind frivolity in foliage…an expression of the latent botanist inside of me dying to get out? I don’t think so.
No, Martha taught me that I should gather the boxwood from the left quadrant of the garden and the holly from the right. Then with diligence, trim the spruce with specially serrated scissors so I do not tear the delicate stem. I wrap each piece with wire and hook it to the form using an age-old pattern that originated with one of the royal families of Norway.
Then, so that I don’t distract from the beauty of the pine boughs, I will touch up the Heavenly Alabaster White paint on my front door and hang the wreath on a sterling silver hook which I have hand-polished with a chamois cloth and the spit of a yak found only in the foothills near Tibet.
Ah, yes, the joys of yak spit. But that was then.
Now it is Christmas, 2004 and I still haven’t cleared away the corn stalks from Halloween. My pumpkins have black spots and are imploding. There were no cornucopias for Thanksgiving… just a banana and a can of Mexican corn. My boxes of ornaments are gathering dust in a corner. The lights sit idle. My tree has no theme. I have hit bottom.
To my children, I apologize that, for the first time in thirteen years I will not be sculpting the city of Bethlehem out of a stick of butter. Nor will I be making musical cupcakes for you to share in class. And the days of slaughtering the cow for our Christmas dinner… gone, little girls, all gone. The spirit of Christmas past has left me.
Prison is too good for you, little Miss Martha. You deserve a life filled with chipped beef on toast. You are responsible for spiraling an entire generation of women down a dark road toward insanity… competing over centerpieces, birthday parties and stuffing recipes. We clawed our way up the domestic ladder… spurred on by rave reviews, compliments, oohs and ahhs. And for what? The wicked fall back into a world of mushy pumpkins and a store bought roast beef? God help us.
I don’t feel sorry for you, Martha… with your millions of dollars and your striped jump suit. I feel sorry for sweet, Paula Tidwell, in Lincoln, Nebraska who, without a source of creative direction, passed out while attempting to stuff a turkey with a box of Velveeta Shells and Cheese and cinnamon-coated macadamia nuts, leaving her family to eat a lukewarm can of Beefaroni and frozen pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving Dinner.
Let me ask you Martha, is that ‘a good thing’?
It’s time to wake up and smell the unflavored generic coffee. Perhaps now, we can all get back to the business of living. We can hang up the skill saw and calligraphy pen, the French Press and the Cuisinart. Put down the cranberries and spray paint, ladies… and dry your eyes…with a hand-tinted heirloom tea towel if you must… but, let’s get back to our lives of peaceful mediocrity.
With the time I save on etching Shakespeare sonnets into my drinking glasses I can read a book or catch up on my television viewing...
Oh for crying out loud…..what in the world is Queer Eye? Oh, wow… would you look at that centerpiece? That is gorgeous! Gosh, I LOVE those guys. Heck, I could do that…I just need…Megan, get me a bag of cranberries, some pipe cleaners, gold spray paint…and the duct tape…stat!
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| The Tattered Stable... |
| 11.22.04 (12:21 pm) [edit] |
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Once again they are trying to remove every aspect of Christmas from the landscape... with the possible exception of the cash register. That is what today's blog is about... it's a departure... but I hate becoming predictable.
I worship carrots.
Away in the manger
No crib for a bed
The exhausted Lord Jesus
Laid down his tired head
and pounded it on the table
Again and again and again.
Oh Winter Tree Oh Winter Tree
How lovely are your barren branches
The Nativity is empty
Save for the snowplow parked underneath
The tattered gable
where an Angel once stood watch
Shut your eyes, children
Shield your ears
The courthouse lawn is strewn with religiosity
Now go and watch your MTV
And a mile up the road
Three well-dressed kings of Orient are
Hitching a ride in a gas guzzling car
They’ve lost their way… misplaced their star
Along the coastal highway
There is no room in the PC ring
For people who worship a small infant King
But the credit cards are flying
Pulled by eight tiny non-denominational reindeer
And Madison Avenue is praising Jesus
We wish you a Merry something
So, have yourself a Silent Night
The choirs have given up the fight
The instruments nestled all snug in their bed
While Jesus is nursing His tired aching head
And Peace on Earth is in the Court
The First Noel a brainless tort
We the people of the United States of America
Have lost our collective minds
And somehow allowed
A fringe minority of frightened, rude
And ignorant loudmouths
To change the rules
And manipulate the game
And now the bullies are running the show
And we are just plain running
So help me ACLU.
Joy to the World
Unless it can be helped.
The ones who never learned
To play well with others
The ones who took the ball home
so no one could enjoy the game
they looked out the window
and smiled at the snowplow
parked under the gable
of the empty stable.
Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.
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8 Comments
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| When life hands you lemons... |
| 11.17.04 (8:12 pm) [edit] |
When life hands you lemons… make lemonade. Probably coined by the same person who said ‘don’t worry… be happy’ or ‘when God closes a door he opens a window’.
These statements are a bit saccharine, but I get it. Look on the bright side, don’t wallow in it, move forward and quit whining.
There are a lot of lemons floating around out there. I’ve had a few tossed my way and I’ve made an effort to turn them into lemonade rather than pile them up to rot and fester. When I was divorced, I made lemonade and prepared myself for life in the single world. When money ran short and my water was shut off, I made lemonade… but I used bottled water. When my support was behind six months and I had to go through the court system… with an attorney who charged me $2,500, forgot my court date and was the brother-in-law of opposing council—I didn’t make lemonade, I made whiskey sours, but who’s keeping track.
When Ali was diagnosed with cancer… after some time, we made lemonade together. It was a little sour and hard to choke down… but we did it… one swallow at a time.
It got to the point that I wasn’t surprised to go home, open the mailbox and have a pretty substantial number of lemons fall out…and as if to mock my very existence, they would land on the shiny Pottery Barn Christmas catalogue.
Let’s take a minute and be honest here… fellow brave soldiers in the lemonade wars…don’t you ever have days when you are sick and tired of making lemonade and just want to make that puckery, sour, nasty lemon face and yell… THIS SUCKS! I’m tired of lemons! How about some pomegranates for a change? Pomegranates, hell, I’d settle for Blood Oranges… any chance I could get some of them Blood Oranges?
Stop with the Lemons!
Shouldn’t you worry just a little bit when your life starts sounding like a country song?
My car is a wreck
I bounced one more check
My water is coming in dribbles
My dog ain’t come home
And he made it quite known
It’s because I cain’t buy him no Kibbles.
All I need is a Chevy truck and a lover who’s cheatin’ on me with a waitress at Howard Johnson’s and I’m on a career track to Nashville.
For a long period of time…years and years…no lemons… no lemonade…no hint of citrus of any kind. Iced tea by the pool, Chardonnay by the fireplace, and coffee on the porch… but no lemonade. Whatever did I worry about? The kids tracking in dirt on the Berber? Megan listening to "secular" music? The pool water turning green?
Amazing what kind of impression a falling lemon can have against a hard, smug skull full of mush.
I’m not going to lie… there are days when I would gladly trade in a bunch of lemons for iced tea by the green pool water. In fact, there are days when I would drink the green pool water if it meant a week without an influx of little yellow distractions.
Mortgage companies, judges, banks, collection agents, attorneys and my ex-husband. Unemployment, hospitals, doctors, tests, infections, transfusions, chemo, recurrence, radiation, burns, injections.
I am not just tired of lemons… I am simply tired. And what you don’t expect is that sometimes the little things are what ultimately do you in.
Twenty years without a ticket and then two in a year and now I have to take a Defensive Driving Class. I have no health insurance, so if I feel like I’m having a heart attack I am going to have to throw my chest against a door handle and hope that it is fooled into thinking it’s CPR. There was a mouse somewhere in my house, which I recently found and disposed of without the aid of rubber gloves, an exterminator or my boyfriend… but now I feel the need to bleach everything.
I discovered a half eaten Fig Newton in my living room light fixture (the one on the ceiling—and while this does not constitute a crisis, it does make you stop and take pause, doesn’t it?)
I have given up Starbuck’s Frappucinos because I could have bought a vacation home with what I have spent in the past year (don’t mock me—this is a crisis). My dog didn’t have arthritis like I suspected but bone cancer… and fleas… lots of fleas that I couldn’t see because I couldn’t afford to have him groomed-- which didn’t seem to be a problem until what has come to be known as…the unfortunate missing hampster incident.
I have zits and wrinkles at the same time, gray hair that is increasingly resistant to coloring and I recently discovered that a pencil stays put under my breast… meaning,
yes, I am sagging.
Lemons, lemons everywhere.
You don’t have to look very far to find people who are toting around more lemons than you are. The good news is, that it takes more than lemons to make good lemonade, and in actuality, life rarely hands you lemons without adding a degree of sweetness to it as well.
The ‘horror’ is just a bit easier to describe than the sweetness.
There is sweetness in a gift from the heart…how do you describe the congregation of a small church 120 miles away, who have never met you yet raise over $3,000 to help with your bills? Or the fact that, my little nieces and nephews went door to door selling candy and lemonade (ironically) for their cousin? Can I say thank you enough to my family and friends who sacrificed to make sure that I didn’t lose my house?
There is sweetness when you least expect it. Going out my front door one morning and finding my entire porch decorated with a huge fall display. A get-together with my strange family on election night where we burned Kerry yard signs and sang a medley of Queen songs (I know this makes no sense at all but believe me, it was magical). And amazingly enough, at 43 years old, in the middle of all of this chaos, I met my best friend…the person who ‘gets’ my sarcasm, likes how I look without make-up, makes me laugh with a single word and changed everything that I thought I understood about loving someone.
There is sweetness in humor… like a game we made up called, "Funny Things Ali Says While Under the Influence of Morphine Trivia". Or, when we go to where Megan is waitressing and sit at her station and she has to be nice to us or we won’t tip her… that has caused all kinds of fun. Laughter really is the best medicine, and when Ali feels bad, or sad, or achy—an episode of "Friends" that we have seen a million times causes her to laugh when nothing else will. That is all the proof that I need.
There is even sweetness in waking up every morning and smelling the coffee.
Looking back, I’m forced to ask, if life didn’t hand me lemons, which lesson would I be willing to trade? Which one of the sweet things would I want to give up? Saccharine or not, it’s true. When life hands you lemons you need to make lemonade and when God closes a door he always opens a window… sometimes it’s not big enough to crawl out of but it always allows you a breath of fresh air.
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| Dear Diary... |
| 11.12.04 (6:22 pm) [edit] |
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I am holding in my hands a diary. It has a black satin cover with flowers in pink, blue and purple. There is a tarnished gold latch but they key is missing. It is a five-year diary which I started in 1969 when I was in 2nd grade and recorded the last entry on April 6, 1973-- the day of my grandpa’s funeral.
It is like a time capsule-- a glimpse of my world through my eyes. Page after page of things that I remembered, remembered differently than they actually were, and things that I didn’t remember at all.
I learned that much can happen to a girl in East Toledo between the 2nd and 6th grades. I also learned that even at the tender age of 8, I was preoccupied with boys, was constantly at odds with my sister, and I had a real problem with swearing!
As the years went on, my handwriting got better as did my spelling, my entries were filled with more adjectives and juicier tidbits, my flair for melodrama increased five-fold and I found the queen mother of all diary treasures… Bobby Sherman’s address!
Travel back with me… to 1969 and beyond. Maybe it will help you to remember when…if not, it will at least reveal just how damn old I really am.
Dear Diary...
June 18, 1969: I went to my Grandma K’s to watch Here Comes the Brides in color.
July 4, 1969: I learned how to ride my twoweller bike and we also had a bad storm and a tornado warning.
July 19, 1969: I played Batman and princess and rode my bike.
July 20, 1969: Today two men walked on the moon.
November 23, 1969: I made Boston Baked Beans. It was also a luckey day they started to make our attac to our bedroom.
November 24, 1969: Apollo 12 splashed down today.
December 27, 1969: Linda was born. It was a wonderful day.
February 14, 1970: (embellished with hearts) William Harrison gave me a Valentine that said Be my honey bunch valentine. He said he loves me--3rd grade.
February 17, 1970: We had a MAN teacher!
May 12, 1970: I gave William a picture of me we no we love each other.
October 11, 1970: We went to the mall I got a girl scout uniform.
December 16, 1970: Tammy and Amy came over for sloppy jos we made love beads.
(Slim pickins from 1971... Apparently not my best year.)
February 3, 1971: My poem was picked for Snoopy News. It was the only one in my class.
July 14, 1971: we went hiking and fishing at Strawberry Lake. I caught 2 fish.
July 30, 1971: we got a new camper it is so exciting! Two men rode in a car on the moon.
December 25, 1971: It is such a lovely day. We’re going to the farm for Christmas.
December27, 1971: Today Linda is 2. Poor thing… nothing was planned we had French toast and stuck two candles in it.
February 4, 1972: We’re over Grandma K’s. Made pizza and beautiful valentine cards.
May 22, 1972: Help! I need dear Abby. I think Billy Davis likes me. I sort of like him. No BOYS I LIKE LIKE ME! Dad yells… I cry. I can’t seem to grow up!!!!!
November 29, 1972: Dear Diary, a man came in our school and robbed us. He took 9 dollars from one teacher and he robbed other schools to he carried a play pistle air gun but everyone thought it was real.
December 3, 1972: John S. is in love with me I think. I hope not. Tony M kissed Lynn and she swung back her fist to hit him and he ducked and she hit me. Casey almost took my hat. He’s so cute!
(This as far as I can tell starts my swearing phase)
December 11, 1972: Today we went to Masonic Auditorium and saw the most wonderfully stupid show in the world. Someone spit on mom, probably one of the dumb ass boys behind us.
December 13, 1972: I put up grandma K’s tree and manger and decorated a little. Lisa will help me with the basement. Christmas is a week from Sunday. The year has gone so fast it seems like yesterday it was summer.
December 14, 1972: Today is Thursday. I think I may like Matt W. he is sort of cute and he’s funny. Casey is cuter. He sits right in front of me! We are going to get our Christmas tree today. If anyone looks at this I’ll kick their ass.
December 19, 1972: Good movie, Lisa the dumb ass started asking what to wear we got in trouble and dad gave me a damn lecture about the room.
December 26, 1972: Kris and Laurie (me) stay up to the farm. (This entry has significance because it is when I changed the spelling of my name from Lori to Laurie so that I could be like the woman I looked up to most in the world…Laurie Partridge).
December 31, 1972: This is the last time I’ll be writing ‘72 in my diary. I hope that in the coming year there will be peace on earth. Went bowling. Bowled 85, 82 and 102. Happy New Year.
January 2, 1973: mom is pregnet. It’s a miracle after that operation!
February 22, 1973: Today we had the shittiest sub in the world… she called the dam principal and we don’t get art until mister chief says ok. It was NOT our fault!
February 23, 1973: Went to Jeri A’s house for a birthday slumber party. We ate and put people in trances. We put cathy in one and told her to do the strip tease and she did! She took off her pants and her shirt.
February 24, 1973: Dad said if my grade card stayed good I get my ears pierced. I get a slumber party for my birthday. I can’t wait!!! Still slipprier than hell and I fell three times on the way to kellys.
April 6, 1973: Todays Grandpa Schusters funeral. I’m writing in my diary now because I couldn’t take it before. At night I cry I miss him so much. Grandma held up pretty well until the curtain closed. I’ll never forget grandpa.
This was the last of my entries. A fitting end I guess… as it was the first chip in the protective bubble of childhood. I was lucky… I made it to sixth grade with nothing more dramatic than the ever adorable Casey almost taking my hat.
Thanks for taking the hike with me. By the way…Bobby Sherman’s Address as of October, 1969: Bobby Sherman PO Box 890 Radio City Statinan N.Y. N.Y. 10019
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6 Comments
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| Barefoot in the glass. |
| 11.04.04 (10:46 am) [edit] |
When did we stop running barefoot?
There was a time when we would fly out the screen door like miniature lightening bolts and by the time the door slammed shut we were already a block away in Frankie McNamara’s avocado green kitchen eating a bologna sandwich and drinking lemon-lime kool-aid. We ran with abandon giving no thought to the possibility of encountering a rock, a jagged piece of glass or an uneven sidewalk.
On which trip around the block did we slow down our pace and start looking for obstacles in our path? When did we decide to throw in the towel completely and start wearing tennis shoes?
When we are toddlers we do not understand danger. If you allow a baby less than four months old to crawl across a bed… they will keep crawling until they fall off. A toddler does not conceptualize a fear of fire until he touches it and it is hot… before that it is just a pretty glowing light. We all need someone to guide us through the pitfalls. But what happens when our desire to protect extinguishes the desire to explore, to take a risk, or to chase after a dream?
There is a very short period of time when we experience ultimate freedom. We are old enough that our parents aren’t constantly following us around, but young enough that we have no fear. Kids play outside in the rain, ride their bikes off of poorly built ramps, and pick gum off of the sidewalk and chew it. My six year old nephew came from playing at the neighbor’s house and informed my sister that they had been playing on the roof of the garage but he didn’t think that she would like it so they decided to play on the roof of the shed instead. He didn’t think about a trip to the emergency room… his goal was the adventure.
Why do we stop embracing this freedom and start embracing fear?
I believe that out of love, we are programmed to fear. It is well-intentioned, but often misguided. We, as parents, come up with all sorts of rules. Some rules, of course, are necessary and prudent…look both ways before crossing the street, don’t play with guns, knives or explosives and don’t drink the Drano.
Sometimes though, we drift from reality and start repeating the things that we heard growing up or stick firmly to a concept that has no real consequence in life one way or another; clean your plate, don’t jump on the bed, get out of the mud or you’ll get dirty, not on a school night, don’t go outside with wet hair-- you’ll catch pneumonia, and don’t run with that or you’ll poke your eye out… in fact, just don’t run at all. Don’t sit so close to the TV, color in the lines, and if you cross your eyes they’ll stay like that.
Taking precautions is wise; it’s when we try to protect them against any threat of danger that we start going off the deep end and begin limiting normal childhood experiences. Children going out to ride bikes are better protected than a NASCAR driver and I was so neurotic that I made my poor children wear batting helmets to watch a semi-pro baseball game.
Why? Because we are under the very false assumption that we have some control and if we stick close enough or have enough rules… my child will be safe… living in a bubble, but safe. We are haunted by the "what ifs". What if they fall off of their bike, what if they freeeze to death because their coat is not thick enough, what if they eat the yellow snow?
When my girls were little, I did not want them to play on a trampoline… period. I didn’t really like them climbing on the monkey bars either—unless my protective hand was under their bottom… what if they should miss a bar and fall? So, I made the trampoline rule and the monkey bar rule. Unfortunately, I forgot about making the "don’t put the mini trampoline INSIDE of the monkey bar because a screw might be sticking out rule". As children do, Megan found a contingency that I hadn’t thought of. It resulted in four stitches to the top of her head.
Megan survived, but not because I protected her. Kids are resilient. My hope is that despite my past affliction with the "what ifs", Megan’s spirit of adventure has also survived. I hope that when my children have the chance to experience something new and exciting they will not hesitate because they see a path filled with rocks, jagged glass and uneven sidewalks.
I will have failed them if their response to life is a litany of "what ifs". What if I lose, what if I fail, what if my heart gets broken? There are so many things that I missed because of self imposed, irrational fears.
Carl Jung said that, “Nothing is a stronger influence psychologically on their environment, and especially on their children, than the unlived lives of the parents.”
I have given up fear as a lifestyle. My house is relaxed and just a little bit quirky. I am now a woman of adventure. They haven’t been big adventures, so far, but when something comes up… I’ll be ready. I want to be an example for my children and not a barricade. You cannot control what happens tomorrow but you can decide to live for today.
You have a choice to kindle your child’s flame of adventure or extinguish it. Perhaps that means breaking one of your own rules now and then. Yes, dinner may be late, they may get dirty or stay up past their bedtime...they may even require stitches. The world will go on. Sometimes the best gift that you can give your child is to hold your breath, let go of their hand and allow them to run barefoot in a world full of stones.
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| Make Love not war? |
| 11.02.04 (6:43 am) [edit] |
Make love not war.
Give Peace a chance.
Drop daisies… not bombs.
On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, America woke up like they did every other day. Coffee brewed, children pounded on the bathroom door, and dinner plans were finalized. Horns blared in Manhattan, buses made their appointed rounds in Cleveland and around the country planes waited on runways for clearance.
On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, Osama bin Laden was already awake. With no intention of dropping daisies, he was about to give America a wake up call that they would never forget.
In the streets of Manhattan, you couldn’t see the streets of Manhattan. But you could hear the weeping and the wailing.
In the streets of Iraq, the people danced and celebrated.
And in LA Michael Moore was shoving his face full of chicken wings.
"These acts shattered steel but they cannot shatter the steel of American resolve" (G.Bush)
What resolve?
In a New York minute we have forgotten.
The War on Terror is currently going on around the globe. The United States and her Allies have captured over 3,000 al Quaida operatives in 102 countries.
Jeepers, Beaver, can’t we just give peace a chance?
Bernard Brown, Asia Cottom and Rodeny Dickens, three sixth graders from Washington DC, took American Airlines Flight 77 from Washington’s Dulles Airport on their way to California on a National Geographic-sponsored education trip to learn about the Channel Islands near Santa Barbara. Imagine what went through their minds as they looked out the window while their hijacked jetliner flew into the west side of the Pentagon.
More Candy… less war.
"We can take a chance in going back to where we were before Sept. 11, 2001, with someone who can't seem to make up his mind whether terrorism is serious or a nuisance." --Rudy Giuliani
Even a three year old understands the nature of idle threats and a slap on the wrist. It is their greatest tool to getting what they want.
PEACE THROUGH STRENGTH.—Ronald Reagan
American troops overwhemlingly support President Bush. But what do they know?
Osama bin Laden, who planned the 9/11 attack killing 3,000 of our countrymen -- men, women and children -- has issued a statement in support of John Kerry.
He is joined by the communist party and a long list of tyrants such as... Abu Jalal, Saddam Hussein, Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi, Kim Jong-Il, Mohammad Khatami, Moammar al-Ghadafi and Hu Jingtao.
Why do you suppose that the enemies of America are supporting Kerry and with whom will you vote?
What will you do when they come for you? Perhaps if the people in the twin towers would have held up their fingers in a peace sign... planes would have stopped mid-air and the towers would be standing today. If only we would have slapped bin Laden upside his head with a little diplomacy back when his targets were only nuisances.
Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Why does America have to be number one? Go ask the parents of the children killed in the school Russia, ask a woman in Afghanastan who could be put to death for showing her face in public or someone whose family is laying in the bottom of a communal grave because Sadam Hussein was growing a little bored.
Go. Brew your coffee, get in the carpool line and thaw out your hamburger for dinner.
God help us.
Peace through strength. Drop daisies? What the Hell is wrong with you America?
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Grace, beauty, humor, strength.
Alison Haley Cloud
Nov. 16, 1987-March 1, 2005
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
