Umoja: To strive for and maintain unity in the family, community, nation and race

~~~
remember when
your neighbor, auntie,
big mama down the block
could pull your coattail
making you stand so tall
your neck would pop?

(c). me.
~~~

today marks the start of Kwanzaa, the seven days we celebrate our families, traditions and culture. the first day, Umoja, highlights unity amongst the community. as a people, i've noticed that unity is sometimes difficult to attain. charge it to our history in this country & the fact that despite the our collective struggle, there have been forces that have attempted to strip us of all cultural ties & connections (read: slavery). i know some people don't like to make the connection between today and pre-1865, but to me, it's quite evident. but today is the day we begin to patch it up. remember all of the fathers, mothers, uncles, grandmothers, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, aunties, and play cousins that have kept us in line & loved us fiercely.

say a prayer. light a candle. bless.

(i LOVED this song...all hail the Queen)

oh how i love the weekend! during the school year, my mood automatically shifts at 3:04 Friday afternoon. i'm off work, able to sleep in, breath easier, and just be ME. this weekend was very laid back. i didn't grade any papers, which i really needed to do, but i did enjoy myself.

on saturday i went to a book club meeting and met some very interesting women. i think i'm going to stick with it. i need to talk to ADULTS about books for a change, plus a lot of the other women have children & they brought them along. so it'll be a chance for both the munchkin and i to make new friends.

today was my grandmother's 74th birthday. we all went out to dinner to celebrate and i ate way too many tasty breadsticks. my grandmother has definitely been a force in my life, and i'm thankful she is still here to give advice, crack jokes, and make her sweet potato pie. i pray that God blesses her with many, many more good years and birthdays. i just wish my grandpa could have been here to share this day with her/us.

at the book club i realized that i need to stop tripping and get back to the things i love, namely writing. i have the begining of a short story/novel written and i've just been letting it sit for far too long. i'm sort of stuck, and normally i'd allow that blockage to keep me from writing. but tonight, i dusted it off and added a few more pages. i'm going to try not to overthink it and just write. i am my own worse critic, and i have to stop being so hard on myself. i am just going to write, write, write and fix it all later.

i want to share a piece of the story with you. it is so unfinished & i need to figure out what i want to happen...but i think i've got an interesting start. let me know what you think.
~~~~

This Side of the Wall

And just like that, her world ended in a cacophony of silence. No longer able to focus, the sound of the gavel deafened her ears. All hope and prayers were crushed, silenced by the astonishing assault on the chestnut podium. She sat in awe. Unable to feel…anything. A dam of tears threatening to break free and flood the courtroom, heaved dangerously behind her eyes. Yet, she remained still, struggling desperately to emit an air of peace, despite the chaos that haunted her mind.

Lela sat, for what seemed like hours, outside of the courtroom, still trying to wrap her head around what had just happened. She could not cry, at least not right here. She was too exposed. She blinked purposely while the lawyer tried to explain it all. He mumbled something about their options, told her they had tried hard, and to get as many letters as possible together for the sentencing. Lela nodded, but couldn’t really make out exactly what he was saying. All she could do was cradle her growing belly and wonder.

* * *

It was as if the universe sensed her mood. Just as she stepped out of the courthouse, the clouds that threatened to drown the city all week, finally cracked and began pouring. Lela contemplated taking a cab back to Brooklyn, but shuttling back and forth to court and to see the lawyer had put a serious strain on her wallet. And she still hadn't eaten. She was out of work, seven months pregnant and too proud for welfare. Lela stood outside of the courthouse, broken.

Her phone buzzed violently in her pocket. It had been ringing all afternoon, assaulted by a few of Damian’s friends and his family wondering if she had any news, good news, to share. Reluctantly, she checked her voicemail and heard Damian’s mother’s crackling voice.

“Lela, haven’t heard from you yet. Any news? Good news, I hope. Hang in there, dear. God will bring Damian home! I just know it. I wanted to be there today so badly but—”

Lela slammed the phone shut. There was always an excuse, some pressing reason why Damian’s family couldn’t make it to court. Demanding bosses or uncooperative trains or non-existent bank accounts always managed to get in the way. Lela rubbed her temples and began to get angry. She was tired of his family. She was tired of being the conduit, the messenger between Damian and the outside world. She desperately wanted them to step up, so she could ease herself into this pregnancy without the burden of doing it all. She felt alone and wanted to talk to him, but would have to wait until Thursday, visiting day. Although she desperately wanted to speak to Damian, to hear his voice and make sure he hadn’t gone crazy because of the verdict, she wasn’t sure of what to say. She did not want to cry. She did not want to make him feel any worse than he must have already felt, but she, too, was hurting. Lela wanted to comfort Damian, but was afraid that he, again, would have to comfort her.

She contemplated calling Damian’s mother to deliver the news, but decided to head home instead. In a daze, Lela walked the three blocks to the Brooklyn Bridge station and braced herself for her descent underground. Immediately, she felt the need to vomit. The station reeked of rotten food and musty flesh. It was the middle of rush hour and it seemed as if all of Manhattan was crammed underground. Lela hated the 4 train, but didn’t feel like walking from the courthouse to Canal Street to catch the A. The A train station was an extra five blocks away and would force her to slowly weave her way through Chinatown. The stench of day-old fish and the pungent smell of Chinese food would have been too much for her delicate stomach. So there she was, stuck desperately trying not to breathe the stifling air that clung to every wall and bench and overhang in the station.

“People in this city are so fuckin selfish,” Lela muttered, as she got onto the train.

Straphangers hung to every conceivable inch of the subway car, piled on top of their neighbors as if they were lovers in an embrace. Even though Lela’s belly was pushing against the seams of her blouse, and it was obvious she was pregnant, no one moved to offer her a seat. Her feet ached and her baby did somersaults in her womb, while those around her pretended to be asleep or deeply engaged in the day’s news. She hissed her teeth loudly, annoyed at their lack of manners, and steadied herself against a commuter and the door of the train.

As Lela emerged from the Nostrand Avenue subway station, her cell phone vibrated wildly. Without looking at it, she knew it was Damian’s mother calling again to find out what, if anything, had happened. She pressed ignore and checked her wallet to see how much money she had.

“Damn, fifteen bucks,” Lela mumbled, wondering how she would make the meager amount stretch until the end of the week.

It was only Tuesday, and her unemployment check wasn’t due until the weekend. Between now and then she had to eat, get to her doctor’s appointment, and visit Damian at Rikers. She walked into Golden Krust and deeply inhaled the savory aroma of the jerk chicken that rested on the grill. Her stomach twinged at the spicy smell, but she couldn’t afford to spend seven dollars on a meal. Instead, she decided to buy a patty and coco bread and walk home.

Lela entered her apartment, immediately stripped off her clothes, and headed for the shower. In the past, whenever she felt stressed, Lela would sit in a hot bath and soak until the scorching water turned cold. However, she was pregnant and baths were off limits, so she often sought solace under the barrage of a torrid shower.

“God, what are we gonna do now? I can’t believe this shit is happening to us!” Lela pleaded with God for answers.

She had been hopeful Damian would be coming home today. For the past six months she prayed daily that God would bring him home and give them the chance to be a family for real. She was a true believer. She felt confident that her prayers and pleadings would be answered, and her lover would be returned to her arms, but today, that dream had vanished. As the water washed over her, Lela cried, deep, torturous tears that she was afraid to share with anyone else, even herself.

***

Lela’s skin was damp and her pores agape and welcoming after her long shower. After losing her job, there few luxuries she could still afford. Luckily, hot water was included in her rent, or else she’d owe the city a small fortune. Lela spread lavender baby oil over her skin, massaging her belly first. Running her fingers over the translucent stretch marks that crisscrossed her growing belly, she almost giggled, remembering how Damian had teased her on their last visit.

“Baby, you getting big! You sure we ain’t got twins in there?” Damian reached for Lela’s belly, rubbing in slow, deliberate strokes, as they hugged, greeting each other. The tedious ride to Rikers and the near two-hour wait for him to be produced in the visiting room always set her on edge. Damian’s touch rebuked the stress that inhabited her limbs.

“I look that bad?” Lela smiled back, trying to mirror his excitement, but she was tired.

“Nah, baby. You look good. Better than good. You look great. Are you okay, though? You look a little down. I already told you that you didn’t have to visit so much, especially the further along you get. You need to rest and—”

“I’m cool,” Lela said, cutting him off with a smile. “Besides, I can’t sit up in that apartment all day wondering how you are. I need to see you. Just to make sure. Besides, it’s hot as hell out, and y’all got AC!”

Damian laughed and kissed Lela’s palms, placing them against his aging face. Although he tried to be upbeat, Lela could sense that he, too, was growing weary. He had been on the Island for six months now, and struggled to cling to some semblance of his life on the other side of the bridge. He hated being forced to watch her solider through this pregnancy alone, tracking the growth of her belly by how wide he had to open his arms to hug her. Damian’s once ultra confident swagger, had slowly been eroded over the past six months.

July was oppressively hot, and New York City was especially unkind in the summer, imposing unbearable heat and humidity on its residents. Lela suffered, her belly exploding into a large, ripe watermelon seemingly overnight.

Hoping to look the part of a happy, buoyant mother-to-be, Lela wore a blue, strapless sundress that clung to her protruding bump, and pulled her hair back into a lazy bun. Her amber skin glowed with a slight mist of sweat. She felt like shit, but put on a brave face for Damian. She couldn’t let him see how tired or sick or drained she actually was. She didn’t want him to spend precious energy worrying, that was her job.
“So how do you think it’s going?” Lela asked about the case. The reality of it all made her uncomfortable, but she wanted to know what he thought.

“I can’t call it. I look up at the jury and I try to imagine what they thinking, but I can’t. Mr. Todd says things seem to be going well. But he also said it’s too hard to tell.” Damian cleared his throat, “the D.A. offered another plea.”

“What? When?” Lela cocked her head to the side, and wondered why she hadn’t heard about it yet.

“A few days ago. Said we had until court resumed to let them know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when they talked to you?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. I knew you’d be over there thinking and worrying yourself to death, and I can’t have that. Plus, I wanted to talk to you about it in person.”

“So that means you’re considering it?” She asked nervously, her voice cracking. The thought of Damian being away longer than tomorrow made her sick.

“I don’t really know. Mr. Todd says it’s a good sign, especially since that last witness, Carlos, was lying his ass off on the stand.” Damian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hated talking about case. He thought about it enough when he was alone and tried hard only to think of Lela and the baby.

“So, they offering fifteen this time.”

Lela’s body stiffened, and she pulled her hands away from Damian to fiddle with her hair. Damian knew she was trying not to cry. Lela looked down and then toward the wall and around the room before settling, again, on Damian’s face. He scooted his chair closer, pressing his chest into the table that separated them. He rubbed her back and continued cautiously.

“Mr. Todd thinks he could bring her down some more, you know, negotiate. But damn, fifteen years is a long time. Our baby will be grown if that I take that shit. And you, you know, might not want to wait that long. I wouldn’t blame you, either.”

Lela blinked back tears. Until now, she never doubted that Damian would be home for their baby’s birth, holding her hands, feeding her ice chips and willing her to push. She struggled to imagine herself alone in the hospital room, holding some stranger’s hand, ushering their baby into to the world while he was locked up somewhere far upstate.

Fifteen years. She shuddered.

It sounded like he said forever.


(c) me. don't bite.

in my ideal life, the one i used to imagine in my late teens, i saw myself as a cultural maven, hitting cocktail parties, discussing experimental art, writing, and living the lush life. i thought of myself as one of the posh new yorkers that stayed up late, drank cosmos (hey, sex & the city just started), and had THE most interesting life EVER.

and then there's my real life.



on saturday, the munchkin and i dashed off to the art museum in search of mommy's alter ego. of course, from the begining i felt a little lost. thankfully i wrangled my family (mom + brothers) into joining me so i wouldn't amble about confused with no one to talk to.

when we first arrived, i was pleasantly surprised to find out anyone bringing a child and signing him/her up for a (free) museum membership entitled the accompanying adult to also get in free. the next surprise was that if you are a Bank of America customer, you can visit several museums for free at the beginning of the month. so, our tickets were gratis & all we had to come out of pocket for was the parking. yes.

museums are interesting spaces. tons of people talking about color, intention of the artists, and paintings that don't really make much sense (to me). not only am i not art smart, but the language of art...all of the vocabulary that goes along with discussing it, the frames of reference people use, the artists...are foreign to me.

the contemporary art section was a confusing blur. of course you had a few Andy Warhol's, Jean-Michelle Basquiats, and Jeffery Koons, but then you had a room with video and bodies with severed heads. my (younger) brother bolted out of that room as if the chick from The Ring was chasing him. comedy, but it WAS a bit strange. sometimes i am confused about what is deemed "high art." some galleries were fulled with paintings with simple lines, or geometrically-shaped colored blocks that i didn't find particularly fascinating, but who am i to judge? i did enjoy myself, though...immensely. silly me, i forgot my camera at home, so i had to make due with my phone. hope you enjoy the flix (click on the pics to enlarge them).


The Cheech Marín Collection (yes, as in Cheech & Chong. who knew).


Margart García, "Eziquel's Party"




This "window" isn't made of stained glass. it is made entirely of butterfly wings. i wondered, did he kill the butterflies? or did he wait for them to die, then pluck their wings? either way, it is painstakingly beautiful, don't you think?


close-up of the "window"


from the african art collection


egyptian art collection


south-east asian art (of India)


so i felt inspired by all the art. i will call this, Lady in Red...camera phone + glass + munchkin & me


peace

when i found out i was pregnant with the munchkin, beloved struggled with my decision to have him. we were both students, i had just lost my job (our main source of survival), and we weren't married. from the beginning i knew i wanted to usher this baby into the world. not really because i felt an instant connection, and not because i was brave beyond measure, but because my momma always raised me to keep my legs closed, and in the event i happened to get preggo, i'd woman-up and have the baby. and so i did. and this little boy has been an amazing addition to my life. quite honestly, had it not been for him i might not have fought so hard to keep my relationship with beloved together. i might have fallen apart when the shit hit the fan. but i didn't. knowing i had to keep it together, knowing i couldn't draw up into a ball and fall deeply into depression, has motivated me to be the best woman i can be for my son.

i'm sure my story isn't unique. i'm sure millions of other women have found themselves knocked up sooner than they thought, and had to change their course in order to be the best mommy they could be. sometimes i wonder what my life would be like if we'd just waited to have the munchkin. when i hear my friends talking about jetting off to the Bahamas or going to some club, i'm a bit jealous. but the question begs to be asked...am i happy? are you?

a recent Newsweek article took a look at a study that measured the happiness of people with and without children. it found that childless people are, according to the study, 7% happier than parents. the article states,

"Parents experience lower levels of emotional well-being, less frequent positive emotions and more frequent negative emotions than their childless peers," says Florida State University's Robin Simon, a sociology professor who's conducted several recent parenting studies, the most thorough of which came out in 2005 and looked at data gathered from 13,000 Americans by the National Survey of Families and Households. "In fact, no group of parents—married, single, step or even empty nest—reported significantly greater emotional well-being than people who never had children. It's such a counterintuitive finding because we have these cultural beliefs that children are the key to happiness and a healthy life, and they're not." (read the whole article here)

so what is it about parenting that makes us both immeasurably ecstatic, but yet less happy than our childless counterparts. i think a lot of us (parents) would reject this study on an emotional level because we feel as though it calls our parenting and the love for our kids into question. on the other hand, i am inclined to agree. although i love my son beyond measure, parenting requires an immense amount of self-sacrifice. i am forever having to put my needs and wants on the back burner for my son. am i resentful? no. do i sometimes wish i didn't have to always be last? hell yes.

in the old days, parents, specifically women, didn't voice their needs. all of their time, money, and emotion was thrown into their children. women slaved over hot stoves, cleaned-up the house, catered to her husband, and buried her own needs and dreams. today, our focus is slightly shifting. our society is more open to mothers pursuing goals and dreams, but somehow it still has to play second to making sure their children are taken care of. and i guess that makes sense. once you decide to have a child, you take on a whole new set of responsibilities. you are now responsible not only for you life, but for theirs. it makes sense to have to put your child's need ahead of your own, but damn if it doesn't suck sometime.

i know you can't always have it both ways, but why do we (women/parents) feel so guilty about putting ourselves first?

if study is correct and children are not the key to happiness, then what is?

i'm not sure, but i think the answer lies in loving yourself. if you do not love yourself and aren't happy with yourself and your decisions, then you will not be a good wife/mother/partner/friend. nothing good can come of a poisoned tree. and no amount of happiness can come to you if you do not take some time for yourself & just love you!

Technorati Tags: parenting, happiness survey, motherhood

Freddie Lee



5 am. Surrounded in silence, he bathes.
thinking of all the things he can do. he
lathers, shaves, and drenches himself
in Obsession. the burgundy Olds
is spotless and it’s time.

seventy-one years have not slowed his pace.
he still speeds like a man of twenty-three
barely stopping at lights and signs, never
failing to honk at those who drive too slow.

He drives everywhere. exhaling Benson & Hedges
going to airports, and banks, and hospitals, praying
with the sick, delivering communion, rummaging
junkyards for new mirrors, and it’s amazing
how much gas he burns each week.

Granddaddy never sits still
unless it is to listen to Chick Hearn call the game
or watch John Wayne ride into the sunset,
victorious, having conquered a world,
my grandfather has never seen.

(c) me. 2003

~~~~

my grandfather passed away the summer i moved to New York, a day after his 74th birthday. my mother and I were actually in NY at the time trying to find me an apartment. he had been struggling with brain cancer for most of that year. his decline was startling. he went from a vibrant 73 year old man who still preached, served communion, and drove all over the city for God knows what, to a man barely able to feed himself. i hated to visit him in the hospital. not because i didn't love my granddaddy, but because i couldn't bare to see him like that.

my granddaddy loved the lakers. love to hear Chick Hearn call the game & wrap their win up in jiggling jello and hardened butter. we would watch together and argue over Eldin & Vlade. we would watch as Robert Horry would will us to win with yet another clutch three pointer. we watched as Kobe & Shaq embraced after they brought the crown back to LA where it should have stayed all along. and we watched as three parades marched through downtown, signaling victory.

it's coming up to the 5th anniversary my granddaddy has been gone. and the lakers have gone through many changes since them. they've lost, Shaq left, they gave us some hope, only to lose again, but now they are back on top. as i watch them today, i am still proud. still a diehard laker fan, but i can't help but feel a bit of emptiness. my granddaddy would love this. he would love the new players & the excitement they bring. he would love how Kobe has finally begun to share the ball. and he would love that they are on top. i hope they go all the way this year...not just for our city, and the fans, but for my granddaddy. it's been far too long.

I'm leaving, on the next plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me, like you know I'll never go
Even though you know I will
I'm a travelling man
moving through places
space and time
got a lot of things I got to do
but God willing I'm coming back to you
~ Mos Def "Traveling Man" Remix

i'm leaving on a jet plane tonight to see beloved.

while i LOVE that i get to spend a few days with him, the hassle of traveling with a 2 year old tries my nerves. i have to pack so many things to keep him busy, clean, and fed. i have to make sure he keeps his feet off of the seat in front of him, and hope that he doesn't throw a tantrum and scream at the top of his lungs. basically, i have to make sure he's not THAT kid that everybody rolls their eyes at. not to mention my family constantly looks at me sideways when i say, "i'm going to my 2nd home." although they are supportive of our relationship, they still don't understand why i need to visit so much ("didn't you just go last month?" they ask). i look at my little one, and i ask them, how can i not?

beloved & the munchkin barely know each other. no matter how many trips we make, it doesn't make up for the months or weeks that they don't get to see each other. you know how kids are: they don't know what they don't see, and the last thing i want our son to do is look at beloved like a stranger. i know it probably won't really CLICK until he's a little older that 1)he has a REAL daddy that doesn't just live in pictures and 2) daddy is just away & will be home...soon(?). but i'm trying to do all that i can to reinforce their relationship now.

our visit is coming at the perfect time. not only am i off for spring break, but beloved is having some issues. since his sentencing in Nov. 2006, he's been in two mental health hospitals, and for the last few days (or a week, i'm not sure), he's been on "observation." i don't really know what that means considering they won't tell me anything over the phone (ugh!), but i know that something isn't right. he's been increasingly depressed and a little distant as of late. when we talk all he really says is that he misses me & really misses our son, but not much else. seeing him face-to-face and being able to hold his hand and show him that we are HERE, will (hopefully) go a long way to ease his nerves. i can't even begin to imagine what he goes through. the physical situation is enough to break most people, not to mention the psychological turmoil he puts himself through (feeling increasingly upset with himself for putting us through this). i can't imagine having so much alone time just to sit and think about what i should have done & how my life could have been different. that is a mind killer.

whenever you see articles or studies on the prison population, they deal mostly with the numbers, not the families behind those numbers. i wish someone would come along and put a face, a voice, a story with the facts. perhaps then we would not just say, "wow, that sucks" when we hear of the alarming numbers of people being locked up. maybe then we'll try to come up with solutions.

The political world has been upended by news of Eliot Spitzer’s connection to a prostitution ring. Apparently, the scandal was flushed out when bank officials noticed several suspicious cash transfers and filed reports with the IRS. Many thought that it was a possible corruption scandal, but were shocked when Spitzer, the “Sherif of Wall Street,” was linked to a high-end call-girl service.

Sex and politics are not strange bedfellows. Several prominent politicians have found themselves on the wrong side of a sex-scandal, but news of Spitzer’s improprieties have many calling this once moral crusader, a hypocrite. Honestly, I could care less who Gov. Spitzer was sleeping with. That is between him and his wife, but this scandal brings up a myriad of other questions, namely, when does one move from being a human being, wrought with contradictions and complexities, to a hypocrite, devoid of any moral leg to stand on?

Thinking about the contradictions involved in Spitzer’s debacle brought to mind the complexities and contradictions that have shaped my father’s life. My father, a 30+ year veteran teacher and coach, has worked hard to teach, mentor and mold some of our most troubled youth, but he is also a functioning drug addict.

I have never said those words aloud. Never admitted to anyone that my father is addicted to drugs, nor allowed myself to think about it in any meaningful way. Likewise, he has never admitted it to me, but the signs are clear. My father, once vibrant, has deteriorated into a paranoid, heartbroken, functioning junkie. That stings, but cleaning it up doesn’t make it better.



I often wonder how broken you have to be to get hooked on drugs. How much pain do you have to live with until you say, “enough,” and fall into the comforting nod of cocaine? My dad has seen a lot. He lost his father at 7, saw his dreams of a NBA career wither away, and lost the love of his life, my mother. Apparently, my father’s drug use was constant throughout my parent’s 14-year marriage, but then, it was only weed. I distinctly remember a box my father kept which contained his “homemade cigarettes.” He never smoked in front of us, but he’d purchase Zig Zags and close himself off in his room for a while, then a strange smell wafting through the house. Like a teenager looking for an escape hatch, my father fell right in.

Soon his drug use turned to abuse and his paranoia led him to question every move my mother made and become violent. Mentally exhausted and tired of the drama, my mom moved us out to my grandparent’s house and my father’s downward spiral began.

I believe he sold all of our stuff. Everything we didn’t move out of the house is now gone: my mother’s piano, my flute, our TVs, bikes, our dog. I don’t have anything from my childhood that was left in that house. During those first few months and years of their separation, my father was vehemently angry. Everything was my mother’s fault. She kept us away. She was evil. She was a bitch. He threatened and threatened, and I realized I didn’t even know him anymore.

It has been 13 years since my parent’s divorce was final, and I’m still looking for the father I once knew. I catch glimpses of him from time to time, but the moments spent talking about and enjoying life have faded away to mere memories. My father still uses drugs. At 56 he has nothing. No car, no house, no place to call his own. He lives with my uncle and aunt, and hitches rides to work with friends. It doesn’t help that he makes quite a bit of money, but is broke a few days after pay day, always making excuses and blaming his lack of money on others. When he starts acting weird and asking questions that make little sense, I try hard to remember that he IS my father and not some strange man on the street. But it’s hard. We have little to talk about, and he still feels very foreign to me.

Watching HOB’s “The Wire” has made me a bit hopeful for my dad. Watching Bubbles, a drug addicted homeless man, fight his way back from addiction to some semblance of a normal life gives me hope. My dad isn’t that far-gone (right?). He still goes to work, he still mentors kids, still plays grandpa on holidays, but he also still uses drugs. Although the show a work of fiction, it is still grounded in truth. If Bubbles can fight his way back from the brink, I feel my father can piece himself back together again.

My father is not a bad man, he is in pain. And pain causes you to do things you may have never imagined. The dad I once knew is still there, waiting to come out again. I just hope it happens before it’s too late, and I don’t even have the memories of him to hold onto anymore.

from my family to yours...

be blessed.