Grieving Gardener

The Main Train Office in Bucharest was a visual delight. Assuming it was build after the war, the architecture and adornments were dazzling. Not a strip mall affair. This building was grand. As I waiting in a velvet-roped que, voices seemed to float to the cavernous ceilings. This was a grand place in which to do business. Each Window in the Main Office of the Bucharest Train Station was protected by an ornate, bronze window gate. The associates stood and worked behind them, although the entire area in which they worked was visible through vertical bars spaced between the gates. These were popular in very old bank buildings in the US. All of this protection seemed overkill for ticketing agents. A huge impression was made when ten of these windows closed at once, each with a metallic clink, manually, perfectly in-sync, and final. Especially when you are the next person in line.

Watching intently, I first thought it was closing time. But, at each window, a second person had appeared. The first associate was picking up every item at their window. Pencils, pens, stapler, staple remover, ink blot stamps, ink, ticket books, and anything else that was set out to be used. When they had collected their belongings, the second shift stepped forward and put out the same exact items. Never had I seen such an insane shift change. It was done in Soviet style. Everyone in lock-step with the next.

Finally, exactly together, all ten widows flew back open and I went to Window #13, although there were in fact, only 10 windows. In a broken regime, many times there are no answers.

Luckily, my ticket agent did speak a little English and knew, very well, Moldavia and the town of Tiraspol. I would arrive at 11:00 AM the following day. Again, the train would carry no food or drink. It would leave at Midnight, so, arrive at the station 15 minutes before departure. I would not be able to board before that time.

As she was telling me this, my mind went back to the dark recesses of the real station, deserted, except for one very determined stalker, waiting for my return. My stomach growled, bringing me back to the present. Paying my Leu, I still had plenty for a wonderful lunch at a little café next to the train station. I was going to start the meal with chocolate ice cream and go backwards from there. 5,500 leu in my pocket would insure that I’d eat like a queen. I knew the ticket would be expensive, and there HAD been the crazy taxi ride, but, I’d never spent 2500 of anything so quickly in my life.

With ticket in hand, I went outside to find the taxi que. But wait. More great news. There was NO taxi que. No sign of taxis. This quiet street was not anywhere downtown. There was no bustle or hustle. No bus lines. Nothing. Just a quiet empty street. I. Was. Lost.

It was then I started crying. Not a little cry. Not a loud cry. A desperate cry from a broken woman who bit off more than she could chew. Lost in a country in which she didn’t speak the language. Lost in a relationship that really wasn’t right or true. Dumped in a strange land by two men that should have been a little more interested in her wellbeing and safety. There, by the side of that street, exhausted and broken, I crumpled to the ground and wept. For how long, I really couldn’t tell you.

After a time, with tears not subsiding, a car rounded the corner. A large black car. Shiny. Long. Impressive. A Mercedes emblem proudly adorned the hood. Tinted windows hid the occupants. The only visible person was a driver in a tuxedo staring straight ahead. It was then the back door opened.

Out stepped a gentleman of means. That was obvious. From where he came, I know not.

“It seems you have troubles, my dear. Can I be of help?” Perfectly accented English peeked by total attention. Handsome and fit, his 6′ frame was perfectly proportioned. He stood as a man of wealth and status, would. Proudly.

I must have looked like a mere child sitting on the street crying.

Through my tears, I told him my story. He listened intently and asked if I would like a ride. He was going right near the station and would be happy to be of help. After assessing his custom made suit made from the richest cloth, the leather wingtips shining without a speck of dust, and his manicured hand reaching out to me, I made a decision that could have been lethal. Somehow, this angel man had been sent to save my sorry self. I took his hand and he helped me into his car.

Just like that, an suit-n-tie angel drove me back to safety. No groping. No unwanted attention. Just a safe ride back to the station during which he wished me well. On the drive back to the station, he offered me a drink of ice water with lemon from a crystal decanter along side two tumblers resting upon a sterling tray. Offering me his handkerchief to dry my eyes and knowing how scared I was, he remained gentlemanly the entire way to the train station. On the return trip, I realized how long and hard I fought off Mr. BackSeater. I shuddered and hoped we really WERE going back to the train station. Then, just like that, the car stopped at the entrance. With the sincerest of Thank-You’s, he opened the door and I was free. I forgot to even ask his name.

As the black chariot rode off, I found the bistro I’d passed earlier. There it was, with a faded photo of a bowl of chocolate ice cream right in the window. Serving lunch, I planned to be there for awhile, finally getting to enjoy a meal that I so desperately needed. Looking like the little cafes I had enjoyed in Venice, I settled into a chair and looked at the menu right in front of me.

The waitress appeared and plucked the menu from my hands.

“No. Closed.”

Was she kidding? Closed? At 3 PM? When I was starving????? Closed??????

I then looked at the door. Indeed. Closed at 3PM. Not open until tomorrow. With that, the waterworks opened up again. Just sitting a little longer, I put my head on the table and cried. It was then I heard them and looked up.

A group of very large, athletic, and handsome men were standing near the train station. Speaking in Russian, they were pointing at me while giving me looks I would have rather not received. Laughter would erupt periodically from their little gang of five. Four of them were behaving as young men often do. One whistled. One made a whooping call. When I turned the other way, they all laughed. All except one.

Being raised in on a family farm in the middle of no where in a family of five daughters, my knowledge of men was limited. I wasn’t a city girl, street wise and able to tell trouble from boyish silliness. With the added stress of the my ongoing troubles, being the center of attention wasn’t something I wanted. I was definitely the center of the approaching stranger’s attention.

“Hello? It seems you are distressed. May I be of help? I am known as John Lewis.” Although he had a buttery smooth accent, his English was perfect. His kind eyes calmed my fears just a little. Eyes are the windows to the soul, my grandmother always reminded me.

Being mindful of the others as they jeered him on to victory of what ever sort their were planning, I turned to him.

“I’m terrified. I’m hungry. I’m angry. I’m lost. I don’t speak Russian. Can you help with any of that? If so, have a seat. I also have a black belt in karate and will drop any of your friends that continue bothering me. Got it?” His smile was warm and he singled the others to leave. They waved like gentle school boys as they walked away.

John Lewis was perhaps one of the nicest men I will ever meet in my life. From Liberia, and in a foreign exchange program, he spoke perfect English. As I explained everything that had happened up to this point, his kind eyes spoke volumes. He assured me that chocolate ice cream waited right around the corner, along with a healthy meal for a weary traveler. Concerned about the stalker, he assured me that he would not leave until I was safely on the train. And with that, he became yet another guardian angel.

Suffering from extreme racism in Romania, he talked about his group of friends. He was eager to finish his education and move back to Liberia, becoming more able to help his countrymen. We talked and ate and talked and listened until the daylight turned to darkness and it was 11:30 PM. My luggage was waiting, safely in the locker. I had my ticket to Tiraspol, as well as Romanian money in my pocket.

Saying GoodBye to John Lewis was heartfelt. Here in a city that was confusing and complex was one of the nicest men I had ever met in my life. Waiting, while protecting me until I was on the train, I was safe with a gentle bodyguard that spoke fluent Romania and English.

With one swift sentence, the stalker, who had been waiting behind the kyosk, went running into the night, never to be seen again. A full meal, including ice cream filled my stomach and I was ready to enjoy a nice night’s sleep in my sleeping car.

Dreams came and went. In the morning, while crossing Romania and heading for Moldavia, I realized it was time to go mingle with the locals. I was sure there was a good story to be told just outside my cabin door.

To Be Continued……

In the very narrow hallway, where two could barely pass without turning shoulders a bit, there stood a no-nonsense policeman. He had a sidearm, along with a look that told me this was no joke. Hungarians didn’t mess around.

“Pass-a-Port-ah, Pleeeezzzze.”

Hmm. A new dilemma. Traveling 101. Your passport is your only lifeline to America. Lose it, you are in very deep trouble. Thanks to Arten, the American Embassy had not idea where this little cupcake was traveling, making this rule all the more essential and valuable. I had the passport inside the sleeve of my nightgown for safe keeping, right above the two security buttons at my wrist. This National ID would not leave my side without a real fight.

I looked blankly into his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

Agitation flooded this man’s face. He was not the warm and fuzzy kind of guy to be schmoozed by a maiden’s tear falling from the bluest of eyes.

In a louder voice, he boomed, “PASS-A-PORT-AH, PLLLLEEEEEEEZZZZZZEEEEEE.”

This wasn’t going well. I slowly unbuttoned the sleeve, revealing my ever-so-clever hiding spot, and produced the passport. Clenching the back half in a vice-grip, I showed him the page with my information. This clearly irritated him more.

“Give.”

“No.”

“GIVE NOW. OR ELSE.”

I’m not sure what overtook the thinking part of my brain, but the passport was magically sucked back into my sleeve. It was not leaving my possession. Period. Not for this crazy cop, or anyone else.

Traveling 101.

#1. Keep passport secure at all cost and at all times.

Done and done. My tear filled eyes would not leak, and I gave him a long steely glare-stare, crossing my arms to punctuate my answer. No.

Mr. Military type must have had a very long night, because he left. Just like that. I quickly locked the three locks and placed my suitcase in front of the door. I had just gotten back on the top bunk when the knocking began again, causing me to unlock my fortress a second time.

There were now TWO very large military types, one holding a bayonet-ed AK-47. Now THERE is a scary gun. Even scarier when pointed at your heart by a military soldier of a communist country. His eyes were void of anything except his focus, which was on making me comply.

“‘Eh-LO. You WILL give the pass-a-port-ah right now.”

Again, I produced the passport, holding it in a way they could see all necessary information, while gripping the back in a death hold.

It mattered not. Because, when two military types want to disarm you, disarm you they will. In a flash my passport was ripped away, and instantaneously my vocal chords were activated. Sounds I never knew I could produce came out of my mouth, as I started screaming, shrill and ear piercing. Frozen at my front door, each cabin swung open, and the occupants all leaned out at once to see the action, reminding me of a bad Lucille Ball movie. It mattered not, as I continued screaming while watching the two armed, regulatory thieves leave the train with my passport. My only documented connection to the USA was now off the train and gone into the night. I continued to scream at the top of my lungs, my vision flooded by tears, and a pounding heart choking my throat. The nightmare continued.

After what seemed like the eternal trip through hell, the two finally came back. By this time, they found me spent and demoralized while hiccupping and hoarse.

“American? American Woman? Why you travel alone?”

Oh, hell, who knows? Spy? Drug dealer? Art heist? Were these guys for real?

“I’m traveling to see my husband in Tiraspol, Moldavia.”

With limited English, these men hardly understood. Mr. Bayonet kept staring, and the talker just looked carefully into my eyes, looking for stray secrets hidden there.

“Madam, the next time officer tells you to give up passport, do so. Immediately.”

Thrusting the precious blue and gold booklet back at my chest, the two made sharp, communist, click-heeled stage lefts, and marched right off the train into the night.

Clutching my passport, yet again, I wished I was enjoying the freedoms of my country. Before living under communist rule, I had no real appreciation for the precious freedoms Americans enjoy every day. Something as simple as having a conversation at a border without fearing the shiny-sharp tip of a bayonet inches from insertion. Do you shoot and stab or stab and shoot? Both actions together? Horribly barbaric and frightening. Definitely not American.

That night held no more sleep for me. With three emotional upsets in under 24 hours, and no food, my stomach was experiencing a combination of hunger pains, dehydration, and adrenaline overload. I still had a full day to travel before I would change trains in Bucharest, Romania. Romania must be better, because Hungary had set the bar pretty low.

One roll and 1/2 an apple helped with the excess stomach acid and soon, I felt a little better. Under a morning sky, we rolled through beautiful fields and quaint little houses plucked right off the pages of history books. There were houses that had rope-and-bucket-ed water wells inside their weathered little picket fences. Ragged horses pulled wooden wagons full of green grass, cut and ready to store for the brutal winter, just around the corner. Everyone walked, because, no one had cars. Nowhere to go if you had one. Hungarian visions I would not soon forget. Straight out of a World War II picture book, frozen in time.

Mile by mile, the scenery had changed by mid afternoon. Rustic farms were being replaced by a more dense city-scape. Finally, we were pulling into the Bucharest train station, and civilization. From a first look, this could be even better than Vienna. My spirits soared. I had a plan.

Needing to lay over until midnight in Bucharest, I’d simply store my suitcase, exchange my $100 of US dollars into Rumanian money, and hit the town. I’d eat first, and then shop. By the time midnight rolled around, I’d be ready for the last leg of my trip. Easy peazy.

Leaving the security of my little room, I again checked my passport safe its secret location. Leave it at that. I had it secured. Struggling to get off the train, the other travelers evaporated and I stood alone in the station. Just my suitcase, backpack, and me. Except for one lone pervert lurking in the dark bowels of the shadowy station.

I didn’t notice him at first as I lugged my suitcase and backpack toward the ticket cage. But within moments, I heard someone following me while whispering in a hissing voice. I was being tailed.

“Hey. Baby.”

No. No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Early afternoon was not a time to deal with a pervert. Where were the communist cops when you needed them the most??? Like when an assault could occur? On a PERVERT? By a very tired American woman?????

Looking over my shoulder, I gave him the look I’d wanted to give the two morons at the Hungarian border. Only more stern.

“Hey. Baby. Whatcha doing?”

Walking faster, the ticket counter seemed further and further away. I couldn’t run, as this was way before the days of rolling suitcases. My 40 pound Samsonite needed carrying, leaving me slightly tilted to one side and a bit out of breath. Along with a 10 pound back pack, I couldn’t make a run for it. Walking fast, he walked faster. I could begin to smell the stench of urine and body odor that was his and his alone. I wondered if he could smell the human fear coming from me.

Finally reaching the ticket agent, I saw him slink behind a kiosk, his ragged and holey shoes giving away his position.

Relieved that the ticket agent spoke English, I proceeded with my request.

“Hi, I need to purchase a ticket from Bucharest to Tiraspol, Moldavia. Can you help me?”

“No.”

What? Could this situation get any worse? A one word answer????? No?????

“You must travel to the main office in the center of Bucharest by taxi. There you can buy an International ticket. We only sell National tickets here.”

This was not in the plans. The Main Office???? In Bucharest???? By Taxi???? Where everyone spoke Russian???? With a stalker on my heels????? How could this be?

“I would advise that you have the correct Romanian change. They do not deal in foreign currency at the Main Office. Thank you. I am closing now.”

With that, the window to an English speaking person closed in my face. Immediately, the stalker reappeared with some added vulgarities thrown in now. His intensions were very clear, as he spoke loudly, coming my way.

Across the way, I saw lockers in which I would stow my suitcase. There was a small bank in which to change my American Dollars into Romanian leu. In 1977, the exchange rate was $1 = 8109 Romanian Leu. Just like that, my dollars, invaluable for bribes, were changed to worthless Leu. Unknowingly, I’d exchanged immense bargaining power for scraps of worthless paper. I was “Jack and the Magic Beans” in girl form.

With over 8,000 Leu in my pocket, while keeping the stalker a few steps behind, I excited the train station and came into the light of early afternoon. Bucharest was beautiful and exciting. Right in front of my face, there was a taxi pick-up with a waiting taxi. Two men were in the taxi. The driver and one in the back seat. The front seat was waiting for me and I hoped in. The driver spoke limited English.

“Main Train Office, please?”

“Train? Train Here. You at Train.”

It would be a very long afternoon.

“No. Big. Main Train Office. Not Here.”

“Ahhhhhhh. Da!!! Da!! Poydem!!” In other words, “Let’s Go”.

Immediately, I realized the error of my ways as Mr. Back-Seat’s arm came over my right shoulder. The man in the back was a groper. As the driver turned around, chatting with Mr. BS, I was in terror. The car was moving at a high rate of speed while the driver’s eyes were on MY chest. Talking loudly and laughing, arms were flying everywhere. Horns were blasting as we careened down narrow streets.

As I struggled to keep wandering hands away from my breast area, I also had to brace for impact as the driver was totally insane. Swerving in and out of traffic, oncoming or otherwise, the chaos of the moment was overwhelming. Round-abouts and red lights meant nothing as we sped through a maze. With near misses of bicyclists and pedestrians, my shrieks and screams were real, as the two men laughed in uproarious fashion. It was another day on the job for them. My hell continued.

Finally, arriving at the Main Train Station in Bucharest, I was spent and angry. I paid the driver and quickly excited the car as the two laughed themselves to tears. Alone on an unknown street in the middle of a foreign town, I made my way into the office building and took my place at the end of in a very long line. I’d made it this far. I’d complete this mission and live to tell the tale. Mid-afternoon was upon us as I crept closer to the front of the line. Finally, at 1:59 PM, it was my turn. Imagine my good fortune. My turn!!! All good, until every single ticket counter slammed shut at exactly 2:00 PM.

To be continued……..

Kissing everyone I knew Good Bye from the threshold of the train was a bit eerie. Of course, I had no way of knowing what adventure and darkness would unfold as I started on my way. I had a ticket in my hand and hope in my heart. With a few steep stairs, I was aboard The Orient Express to begin a three day Odyssey.

With a very narrow and steep entrance, negotiating both a large Samsonite suitcase and a heavy back back was difficult. A conductor with his spiffy uniform, straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, helped me to my sleeping car after looking at my ticket. To the right and six doors down, I’d be shut away from the riffraff, alone to watch the countryside go by. In the worst case scenario, I would simply sleep the trip away. I was good at sleeping through difficult situations and this might become one.

Ushered into Sleeping Car 24, I examined every aspect of my tiny little home away from home. To the right, there were two bunks, one atop the other. Both had a nice view out the window which only opened about 2″, from the top down. There were ancient curtains, attached at the top and bottom, which when slid closed, would provide total darkness. To the left, there was a small water closet with a toilet/shower combo inside. Next to that, a sink and utility shelf. Completing the room, in the corner, sat a very comfortable but small leather recliner, also looking out the window. The entire compartment was maybe six feet square, plenty big for one. But there would be one little situation that arose before the train ever left the station.

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door. Thinking the conductor may have forgotten something, I cautiously opened it, as someone forcefully pushed towards me, shoving me back, almost to the window. In the doorway, a very tall, dark, hairy man stood, a gleam in his eye and smile on his lips.

“‘Eh-Lo”, he sneered in a very deep voice, as his eye gaze traveled slowly from the top of my pretty little head to the tips of my dainty little toes. Giving me the once over, his smirk intensified.

“Hello?” replying timidly, I realized I had no weapon or way to protect myself.

Without any introductions, he simply lifted his large leather suitcase up onto the top bunk and moved in.

“What are you doing? This is MY sleeping compartment!” came out of my mouth, sharp and decisive. He must remove himself now. The queen of this cabana had spoken. THIS was NOT acceptable. What could this mean? How could this be? This was MY sleeping compartment, paid for by an American Company for ME. Not to be shared with some unknown leering and jeering man of dubious means. Not such a large man that the two of us would have no personal space. Certainly not for three days. No. No. No. Wrong. This was not happening.

“NO. THIS is MINE, too.” With that declaration, a guttural and primal laugh emerged from his porcine lips.

With the moves of a ninja, I was out the door to retrieve that little conductor. This terrifying cabin poacher would be history. My receipt for a single room included No roommate or free-loader. This would be fixed in a flash. Now. As the conductor followed me back to the cabin, I’m quite sure I saw him roll his eyes. But, this communal situation wouldn’t be tolerated. Period.

Opening the door, cigar smoke billowed out of the cabin. Damn. A smoker, too. The worst. The conductor was at a loss as to why the two of us were sold the same cabin, but, it was decided the poacher would move to another. Disgruntled, he removed himself with one last horrible glance my way. I was left to deal with the second hand smoke and lingering body odor he left behind. Locking the door with three latches and my suitcase in front, it took a little while for my pulse to return to a normal rate.

With our cabin debacle taking more time than expected, we left the station 20 minutes later than scheduled. It would be three days until I arrived in Bucharest, Romania. Until then, I’d make the most of my time. I would only nibble on the bread or apples when I got very, very hungry. Until then, I would amuse myself however I could.

I decided to walk the length of the train, after we’d been traveling for about an hour. It would be refreshing to stand on the landings between the cars and smell the fresh country air as we rolled along. Perhaps someone would notice my gaunt cheeks and offer some nourishment from their fat baskets of yumminess. Alas, no one was passing out goodies, and soon, Day 1 was coming to an end. Returning to the safety of my sleeping compartment and climbing aboard the top bunk, (which was always going to be mine), I settled into the night rhythm of the train. Checking and rechecking the locks, I finally made sure one last time that I was secure and floated off to sleep.

Until.

I don’t like watches. If it’s dark, I’m probably thinking about sleeping. If it is getting light, it’s probably time to start waking up. Although I did carry a watch, it wasn’t on my wrist when I suddenly awoke. It WAS certainly very, very dark outside. The movement of the train had stopped, but noisy activity continued outside the train.

Looking through the window, I hardly believed my eyes. A crane had train-sized jaws around the sleeping car that had been attached to the same train while following along on this entire trip. It was lifting the car filled with sleeping people off of the original set of wheels and onto a set new wheels on tracks of a different width, running right along side the ones on which I had previous been traveling. We were entering the Hungarian Soviet Republic. The Hungarians obviously didn’t want to be invaded by rail. The European train wheels wouldn’t work on the Hungarian track. Plain and simple.

Terror struck me as I watched the crane hoist this huge rail car high into the night sky and carry it inches before setting it down again. Luckily, I’d been asleep when mine was moved. A few minutes after I’d opened my eyes to the dark unknown of night activities, there was a seriously determined knock on my door. Unwanted and untimely.

I’d prepared for a trip alone, and packed a matronly nightgown. I wasn’t going to get caught in a frilly negligee if something went amiss. So, in my long sleeved, full flannel nightgown with buttons at the neck and wrists (for added security), I shyly asked who was at my door.

“Who is it?”

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah. Open. Now.”

Blood running cold, I froze. Police? At my door? For being a witch to the guy that tried to steal my room? For walking up and down the train? Why? Why me?????? Why Now?????

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah! Open Door Now, or we will open it for you…..”

With that, I knew I must comply. In the little comfort that my flannel shroud provided, I slowly reached for the first lock, and prayed that this was all some very terrible misunderstanding…….

To Be Continued……

A good writer should be able to write a wonderful story about the phone book, if needed. Lately, my life is a little less interesting than the antiquated phone book, while plenty of great stories from my past adventures swirl around in my head. As I am the master of this blog, I’ll to share two of them with you. I assure you, they’re both harrowing and nail biting tales. They both happened to me as a very young bride in 1977 during a time called the Cold War. Very angry and dark times between the USSR and the USA. VST was the husband to another and the father of year old twins. As he tugged bolts in the hot San Joaquin Valley sun, I moved to Moldavia, USSR, for six months to begin my own life as a new bride.

Having lived in a communist country in which government controls every aspect of life, I truly understand what FREEDOM means. The gravity of losing freedom doesn’t become real until you are on a sidewalk with a bayonet in your face because you attempted to jay-walk across an empty street. Empty because no one could own a car. Patrolled and enforced, because you better bein lock-step with everyone in the town. Or. Else.

The summer of 1977. At 21, I looked 15. Hopeful for the future, I had married in March and promptly found myself following my husband to work in the tomato fields of Moldavia for an American company, to remain un-named. This company, along with others, had an agricultural business arrangement with the Russian government. Please remember, this was during the Cold War, when we were all taught to believe that enterprise was not occurring between the two countries. Not exactly the case. because there we were in the middle of the USSR, working for a US company.

In the town of Tiraspol, I was the only American woman to have ever visited, let alone, lived there. My cut off jeans, too short to really cover anything, and bra-less tank tops were the talk of the town. My every move was documented. My every phone conversation taped. Every letter I sent or received was opened before I did, with some of the messages carefully removed by razor blade, if it didn’t meet Soviet standards. My clothing, sent to be laundered, was often stolen, until I decided it was better to wash everything by hand. I lived in a communist fish bowl. Just one little golden fish, swimming ’round and ’round that bowl, day after day, wondering what in the heck I’d signed up for.

Each day was a version of the one before. I was ill-equipped for this experience, not understanding the Moldavian language or the Cyrillic alphabet. Alone for 16 hours a day to figure things out, I made many assumptions, because, there was no one to explain this crazy land in which I found myself. While my new husband had been hired to do a real job at the farm, 45 minutes from town by taxi, I was just a bride. Brought along for amusement. Left in town, all day, every day, for the entire time we were there.

At 21, my options for interesting activities were slim. I could sit down and read a complete novel each day, cover to cover. Which, I often did. I could go to the daily market and buy ingredients for anything I felt like spending all day cooking on my single burner hot plate. I could walk about the town observing, while I was observed more. And I could sleep. Boy could I sleep. Some days, 12 of the 16 daylight hours were spent in dreamland, walking up and down the aisles of my American Safeway. I was starved for protein and calories, along with all the other issues I was dealing with.

After a very long summer of hell, we’d been allowed to leave Moldavia for a one week vacation in Europe. At the end of the week, we’d meet with co-workers in Vienna and drive back to Tiraspol, through a countryside that few Americans would ever see. I was looking forward to the trip, even though it would be with three men, two of which I really didn’t like very much, one of those being my new husband. The juice would be worth the squeeze, and I’d suffer through the manly company just to travel by ground and experience something few Americans ever would.

The morning we were to leave, the four of us met for breakfast in a little Viennese café. The vacation had been one to remember with trinkets and memories of Austria and Italy. By train, taxi, and foot, we had taken in the sights and sounds of Vienna and Venice, with lots of places in between. The four of us now sat quietly, awaiting word from our exalted boss, about the plans for the next part of the journey. I wasn’t really prepared for his proposal.

Arten Max was a short little man who made up for that with bravado and sexual prowess. At least he tried to make up for his deficits. The more he tried, the more disgusting he became. The troublesome part of my relationship with Arten was that he was my new husband’s boss, and therefore controlled every aspect of our lives. Being a brazen womanizer, he often went into great details about the Moldavian women he had conquered during his decade long tenure in the country. Arten disgusted me with his comments on my attire and the need to wear a short dress, stockings, and bra when visiting the far. There were not words low enough for this man, and he earned every badge I’ve given him.

A physical description of Arten, a major player in this story, would help. Arten was a tight little muscular package of sinew. Without a drop of fat on his lean little body, he stood at about 5’6″, therefore, making us eye level. His crystal blue eyes darted this way and that as he would work a room, making sure all eyes were on the American. He had a typical farmers tan, but often took off his shirt to make sure the upper body glowed bronze, as well. Blonde hair and chiseled features led the Russians to believe he was straight off the beaches of Malibu, but then, we all were.

Arten had one major physical flaw that he used to his own benefit. He had suffered a terrible injury when a piece of heavy equipment had fallen on his calf, while he lay under the said equipment beating it with a pipe wrench. After spending days within the horrors of a Soviet hospital, Arten could simply take no more. He walked out, in the midst of a life threatening infection. The resulting leg was no more than a skin covered bone between the ankle and knee. Rather a peg-legged pirate affair. Fitting. He used this for sympathy with his stable. All the girls made over this poor, poor American. They should have remembered that the Diamond Back Rattler comes from the states, as well.

It was under Arten’s demand that we had not registered our position in the country with the American Embassy. Whether or not the embassy knew of our location was not the true point. It was his ability to make us BELIEVE the embassy couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to help us if we needed help. We would simply remain invisible in their eyes. As the weeks rolled by, controlled by communism, I was also smothered by the manipulations of a crazy American that should have been keeping us safe, instead of carrying on affairs with most of the eligible women in the town. At any rate, the next three days would be no different. There would be no American Embassy to which we could escape, providing no umbrella of safety for this little chick-a-dee.

It seemed that during Arten’s miscalculations of travel, in my opinion planned quite to his specifications, there was only room for three men on the return car trip to Tiraspol. A rather large piece of a tractor engine would take up the fourth seat. As I was only along for the ride anyway, with no useful purpose, it would be my seat that would be sacrificed on the journey. I was given an instant choice to make, as time was wasting. In a foreign country, with doubts about every decision I’d made to get me this far, I was faced with a very hard decision. I was given three scenarios for my destiny and told to pick one.

1. I would travel back to California alone. There was no apartment waiting for me, the new bride. Everything we owned was in storage. So, I would be setting up a solitary existence for an unknown length of time.
2. I would travel as far as Virginia and stay with my new husband’s extended family. All strangers in a strange land, to me. I would wait there, alone, for an unknown length of time.
3. I could take an adventure on The Orient Express, next stop Tiraspol, Moldavia. Winding my way through three days of lush countryside, I’d travel in my very own sleeping car. Yes. Sleeping car. Just like Joni’s song, “With the clouds and the star’s to read, dreaming of the pleasure I’m going to have watching your hairline recede, my vain darling.” What an amazing stroke of luck!!!!

Well, for a 21 year old girl, fresh out of college with her BA along with her MRS. degree, the choice was instant. Adventure #3. What an easy call. I would meet up with the men in three days. Three Glorious Days to find answers to questions that were burning holes in my brain. 72 hours to examine decisions that got me to the crossroads in which I found myself. My wild side spoke up and it was decided. The train left at 10 AM. It was 9:30 AM and the station wasn’t far. I needed to pack up, buy my ticket, and move out. I could hear that whistle blowing and almost feel the clickity clack under my feet.

With a flurry of activity, we arrived at the train station with 15 minutes to spare. I’d take my luggage with me, as there was no room in the car. With dollars in my pocket, I’d have enough money for daily meals. I had something to read and plenty to observe. I was ready to roll. Until a very important fact came into play.

While purchasing the ticket, we were informed that THIS version of the Orient Express had no dining car. No mahogany smoking cars with nefarious occupants sheltering devious eyes. No mysterious women with eyelids that shrouded intentions for evil. No men in tilted fedora’s, smoking expensive cigars while tapping their shiny wing-tips. No fine crystal holding finer liquors while being fingered by the finest of thieves. Save all that for a bed-time story.

The real passengers loaded the train. Plenty of zoot-suited men, out-date-ed with nothing but time to do very bad things. Fat women with heavy baskets of sustenance to maintain their womanly curvature. Fat women always cover their dietary needs. They knew already that no food of any kind could be purchased once aboard. Obviously, the most important fact was that this trip would be 72 very hungry hours unless I hustled up something quick.

The small, adorable kiosk, providing food for travelers, sat to one side in the station. Quick as a cricket, I was in front of empty bins. Yes, there had been sandwiches, bags of chips, fruit, and bread. There always was before the departure of the Orient Express. This, the three day trip, was one in which the vendor always sold out. With seven minutes to departure, there was no time to come up with Plan B. Arten hung back, snickering under his pompous mustache. He had been well aware of the train amenities and this wasn’t lost on me, as daggers flew out of my eyes, aimed right at his smug face. I purchased the remaining food from the vendor. Two bruised apples and two dried out rolls. A feast for three days.

With that, I kissed the only person I knew in Vienna “GoodBye”, boarding the Express Train to the hell that would consume me. eroding any confidence I had for the next three days. An American woman should never travel alone on the Orient Express. An American woman should glue her passport to one breast, and an alarm clock to the opposing butt cheek. Doing neither, a ding-dong American girl was about to have the ride of her life. All aboard!!!!

To be continued.

Good morning readers. I will be back on Monday morning. Plan an adventure this weekend.

Joy

Life never ceases to amaze me. Just when I think boredom has hit a new, all time low, another spicy adventure awaits. Life is brimming with amazing people all having their own history, but this story is rather unique and specific to my interests. It all began at Papa’s Old Bar and Grill on a chilly high desert Saturday night. After saying a final Goodbye to Miss Firecracker in Papa’s parking lot, just two nights prior, I returned there looking for something different. Something mysterious and haunting, like the legendary ghosts that flow from this place. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but there I was again, expecting some kind of something.

Choosing to eat outside, I took the table covered with the least debris. In the lands of the desert winds, one cannot expect things to remain clean for very long. Even with the most diligent waitresses, dust and debris quickly cover tables and chairs. It appeared it had been quite awhile since the surfaces had been properly cleaned, but being outside made that okay. I was the only customer, and after a full and busy day, I settled down to look at my phone a bit.

It was then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two HUGE men come outside to enjoy the fresh air. They were rough looking types that were bigger than life. At least 6’5″ and 300+ pounds each, they displayed massive arms of tattooed flesh. The younger of the two had gone a step further and tattooed his head and neck, as well. To say they were intimidating in appearance would be putting it mildly.

“My dad was a Navy Seal…….” was all it took. I had to look and smile, triggering a conversation with the younger of the two. He happened to be the one with the shaved and tattooed skull. As he approached our table, he grew larger and more intimidating, although his eyes said something different. There was a melancholy approachability in the way he looked at me. A gentle giant, although different than most with which I would strike up a conversation on a random Saturday night.

After a brief exchange, he asked if I’d seen the movie, “The Mustang”. He had my complete and undivided attention. In 2016, VST and I hadn’t been in the area that long, when it was announced there would be a movie filmed about the local prison and the Mustang and Inmate program there. Four times a year, there’s a sale at the prison. If you attend, you can’t wear blue jeans, as those are reserved attire for the inmates only. If you bring your horse trailer, you can buy a formally wild mustang, tamed and trained by an inmate. For years, I’ve wanted to go to a sale just to watch, being fascinated that the training occurs in 90 days. Hard to tell who needs gentling more, the horse or the inmate. These trained horses are purchased by all kinds of people, from law enforcement to ranchers. The bidding starts at $150. The proceeds support this valuable program.

Years ago, I’d begged VST. Really begged him to visit the prison on sale day. But, he was never in the mood to go sit in the sun and watch a horse sale. Maybe a little afraid that I might bid and become the owner of a mustang. So, we never went.

I’ve only met one trained mustang on a first name basis. His name was Rico and he was almost 28. It’s all in the eyes with me. Rico had given up his freedom to take a job settling trail horses that were not as sound as he. At 28, he was a stunning version of timeless beauty. As I said, it’s all in the eyes. This man standing before me had the eyes of a mustang. Until you look into those kind of eyes, there are not proper words to explain. Some wild things can be gentled, and some can’t. That goes for people, too.

Back to Papa’s that night, the mountain of a young man standing next to me said, “The movie was written about me. It’s my story. I had a part in the movie, but, the story is mine.”

My first thought was, “Sure it was. Sure you did.” How did he sense the huge interest I had in this project? And that it was on my list of movies to watch? And that I loved the entire thought of inmates settling these horses, while both benefited. How did he know? He could have been the subject of 100 movies. But, he wasn’t. He was the subject of “The Mustang”. The one that held my interest.

Quick as a cricket, he had out his phone and this man in front of me was talking on his phone screen at a Red Carpet interview in Hollywood on opening night. There he was, just as soft spoken and unassuming as he was in my presence. I was speechless as I listened to the interview.

He went on to show me pictures with Bruce Dern and some of the other cast members, while he kept talking about the story. He raised 26 horses while at the prison, each taking 90 days to gentle and finish. Three went to New Zealand, many went to police departments, and others just went to good homes. Polite, quiet, and reserved, the man who told his story had been through bad times and done terrible things. But, somehow, through the experience, life had forged him into someone new. The gift of time and the spirits of those 26 mustangs had taught him a thing or two about inner growth.

He talked of twenty acres he had just purchased in Oregon, just right for his new home. A prideful wild-fire fighter, he had returned to the area to visit friends. Through our conversation, gumption and determination shown through as he talked to me. Not anger. Not bitterness. Just a story told well about a young man that, in a split second, made a very terrible decision. His story.

If you want to watch a really good movie, see “The Mustang”. You’ll get a good visual of the Northwestern Nevada Desert in which I live. You’ll get a feel for the mustangs I’m so lucky to share the land with. You’ll see their magnificent power and their unnerving ability to understand the human condition. It may make you cry, while surely being interesting food for thought.

You just never know what stories people have to tell. With a quick Hello, someone can touch your life with quiet words and a well told tale. Every cover doesn’t tell the true story of the book waiting inside. I’m glad this was a safe and sane guy I was lucky enough to meet. I wish him all the best in his search for his own quiet paradise in Oregon.

A while back I was talking with a widower about the loss of his wife. He and I shared things that we missed after suffering the loss of our spouses. Our answers were exactly the same as we went through the long list. The things not mentioned were materialistic things. Those that came up time and time again were simple in nature. Things money could never buy or replace.

Shared memories during a lifetime with a spouse is a loss that hits when you least expect it. You can be having a great day and run across a funny picture taken while sailing in the middle of Monterey Bay. The photographer, now in angel form, isn’t there to set you straight on what time of day the picture was taken, or how many times kisses occurred on the way to snapping that picture. The moment is stolen out of a complete story that no one else can tell now, except me. Sadly, it’s out of a story no one else wants to hear, frozen in a screen shot.

Since his death, I’ve been spared from the split second desire to go tell VST things. I hear many people talk about that experience and I’m so glad it never happened to me. Quite often, I DO talk to VST, explaining how life is going, and how happiness has come to roost over Winterpast. Like cumulous clouds on a spring afternoon, fun activities are now coming my way. Lunch and shopping trips to the mall with girlfriends eager to find out all my news. A comforting church visit. Time spent with a new friend. A garden in full bloom after a long winter’s rest. VST always has time to listen. I know he’s cheering me on in heaven. That’s just what best friends do.

In our retirement years, VST and I became excellent workmates as we restored two houses, while maintaining a third. For hours each day, we would plan and execute building projects. Windows were re-designed and replaced. Doors were jacked up to square, or re-hung altogether. Trips to the hardware store resulted in beauty through the projects we completed. The lumber section of Lowe’s is a place that I still can’t yet visit. The smell of freshly sawn wood takes me back to the projects within the walls of the DunMovin’ House in Virginia City or our little cabin by the lake. These projects involved discussions of every kind while we worked. Times together spent doing normal things. Simply that.

Some of the most special things I miss are basic in nature, but more valuable than a gold mine. Belly laughs. Heartfelt tears. Home cooked meals. Trips to the beach. Hugs. Smiles. Early morning coffee and Channel 2 News. The littlest of things that disappeared. Some days, the absence of these things is deafening. How blessed I am to have great family and friends to check on me while sending funny messages my way once in awhile.

On May 20, a very special milestone will occur, making me wish VST was here to cheer with me. Our oldest grandson is graduating from college. VST spent years in college, finally earning a Doctorate in Organizational Psychology. One of his proudest days ever. This accomplishment inspired many around him to continue their educations, including his children and grandchildren. I wish, for a moment, we could sit together and watch our first grandchild reach this special goal. I’ll just need to celebrate for the both of us, knowing that in heaven, VST has a way to know everything while applauding all our successes.

I’ve started planning my summer of new special moments. If I don’t create these, no one else will. I call this Summer Camp for Joy. It includes a little bowling, some boating on Lake Tahoe, time in the Sierra Nevada’s, and trips to favorite spots as I take mini-road trips. Some will include new friends, while some will simply be time I spend getting to know myself better. Special moments spent forging a new path are never wasted. Solitude can lead to epiphanies while we create our best life.

As the months role by, solitary holes in my routine aren’t so obvious. Replaced by new activities, comforting memories bring smiles and stories to share with those interested. There will always be special treasured moments that hold a place dear in our hearts. Now is the time to fill our lives with new adventures and love! Life is precious!

The 101st thing on my long list of “Do Not Forget”-s involves automobile care. I must admit, I fall short in this category. To begin with, the rules keep changing. Long ago, the distance between oil changes was around 3,500 miles. I remember this, but never needed to open the hood. During those early days, my dad took care of every car need, even keeping my windshield sparkling clean. As any young coed in my neighborhood, we all knew how to drive hard and fast, but car care was a little beneath our little patent leathers. Now, with certain oils, it is 7,500 miles between oil changes. We all need to keep up with the specifics of our individual rides.

In my teen years, I did learn that there is oil in a car and knew it needed to be changed regularly. I knew the tires needed air in them. Beyond that, car stuff was never something I studied or cared about. Shame on me, because through my life, someone else has always worried about that stuff for me. Blessed with helpful angels in this area I’ve been. But, a self sufficient desert gal needs to know her automotive needs to be sure things run smoothly.

Speaking about oil filters and oil, one should be familar with the owner’s manual, if you have one. Yours might be online. Under specifications, there is a section on lubricants and the types needed for your vehicle. The needs of your car can depend on the climate in your area. The oil needed in the Central Valley of California might be different that that needed in the dead of winter in Viriginia City, Nevada. It’s important that you don’t scrimp on the quality lubricants, or you might pay a high price later. As your car ages, request the best oils you can buy. In my case, the truck takes synthetic oil. It’s all new information which I am noting as I jot down the mileage at which the service is done.

Be aware that many quick-y oil change businesses may use very cheap oils and filters. Damage may result to your car if the drain plug is not put back on correctly, or worse, stripped. The old saying, “You Get What You Pay For” applies to auto maintenance shops. Be sure that you find a reputable mechanic you can trust. Worth their weight in gold.

If your automotive specialist has your car in the shop, request a tire and brake inspection. Tires should be rotated every 5,000 miles. Don’t forget an occasional alignment. By caring for the tires, you can get extra miles out of a very expensive purchase. Be sure to inquire about the proper amount of air the tire holds and keep them properly inflated. Remember that they need to be checked once in awhile, especially when the temperatures change with the season.

If you live in a rainy area, don’t forget to replace your wipers when they start wear out. New wipers are pricey these days, so shop around. Automotive supply stores carry them and can help you find the right lengths for your vehicle.

Check out your air filter and see if you need to replace it. In the high desert and constant winds, air filters are replaced more frequently than in coastal areas that don’t have much dust. Keep an eye on them. Don’t forget to find out if your car has a cabin filter. They can be overlooked, causing damage.

Chips in your windshield? If you have glass insurance with your automobile policy, they are often repaired for free. If you need a new windshield, try your best to get a brand name replacement rather than a cheap imitation. Today’s windshields often have integrated systems within them. Be sure that you inquire as to the type of windshield that will be replacing your original. My Jeep is due for a new one, having been damaged in a sand storm and badly pitted. On my every expanding “To Do” list.

So, check that car twice. You can never be too careful. The Jeep is running well now, with all recall parts installed the correct way, fluids changed, filters new and shiny, and new tires in alignment. Time to find some great, public BLM roads (the real one, meaning Bureau of Land Management) to travel down. With my Jeep being “Trail-Rated” the spring is just the time to try out some 4-wheel’in.

Don’t forget the wash and wax!! The weather is fine. Get the hose and get busy!!!!

Good Morning! My day always begins with coffee, a mini journal entry, and an hour spent blogging at the computer. When I look back at the growing number of posts, it makes my heart smile. I am a REAL writer. Plain and simple.

The journey to 300 reads a day has been a slow one requiring patience. In the beginning, I was happy if I had one reader. Now, reaching for 400 reads a day, I find new purpose in my writing. Embracing my humble beginnings, I celebrate my slow and steady growth.

I’m not a psychologist, although I was married to one. I’m not a philosopher or a counselor. I have no hidden agenda, other than the desire to have a book for sale later this year. That personal quest hasn’t been hidden from anyone. I learned my grammar, punctuation, and literary rules in the mid-1900’s and everyone knows those parameters change over the years. I choose to use the rules I grew up with, including proper pronouns of the day.

I’m just a widow who lost her husband in the year of Covid. Not BECAUSE of Covid, but under the cloaked quarantine of Covid. It seems deaths from any other disease didn’t occur in the last 13 months. 2020 Widows and Widowers know differently. VST was just one of such deaths. Cancer continues to take our loved ones every day. My loss is no more or less significant than anyone else’s. Writing helped me to heal. It seemed to help some others along the way, too.

I write in three places. All day long, making short entries in my personal journal, it’s a safe place for me to write about anything and everything. Ranting and Raving in long hand, somedays may be a little sloppy. The key is, every day there is something. I started recording my readership numbers while tracking the daily changes. This is a nice place to reflect on blog growth, even if it’s slower than I might like.

Poetry is recorded in a separate place, being a poet from a very young age. Many very old pieces speak beautifully to a young teenage (ME) who lost her first love to an unexpected heart attack, a 25 year old mom with two babies she adored, or the battered and broken divorcee, picking up the pieces and moving on. My heart written on “real time” pages, splattered with a touch of coffee or tears. The third place is, of course, here.

When I started writing the blog, self discovery was essential. First, I needed to find my time of peak creativity. In my perfect world, that is 3 AM, but, even I can’t get myself out of my warm, comfy bed at that time of day. By 5 AM, I’m up and carrying out a few necessary tasks before I get to the keyboard with a cup of coffee. By 7 AM, I’m done and on with my life here at Winterpast. In the beginning, it was every single day, without fail. Now, I try to write a few posts ahead, just in case I might choose not to rise at 5 AM to create something new. My point here is this. Find YOUR time of peak creativity, and write something EVERY day. Even if it’s just a few words. Try different settings and times to find those that enhance your creative spirit, and then, sit down and write.

I’ve often wondered if my posting time mattered. Then I missed a couple of days and found out. People who read daily wonder where the heck I am if I miss a day. Writing is a wonderful habit I’ve embraced. Like deep breathing, it brings peace and perspective into my life. It releases tears when they need to flow, and empties abscesses that have formed in unhealed pockets of bitterness. It reminds me that the present is the life I’ve created, walking the path of my past. I can fight this truth, or accept it wholeheartedly and find great things to love about it. Writing paints a current, literary picture of me, displaying the person I’m becoming.

Finding Bluehost and Word Press was my first step. Finding a template I liked was the second. After working for an afternoon, the new template-ized screen was staring back at me with the words “Add Post”. I began at “The Beginning”. The programs I use are like a maze. It’s necessary to look at the free options you have at your fingertips and start learning about them. There’s no reason to spend money if you know how to look up information on Google and YouTube. If you choose to spend a little, the options become more wonderful.

When starting, I didn’t know what an IP address was. Internet Protocol Address. That’s an ID number that is registered every time someone reads my blog. Some readers hide their identity, and their address is in code. But, many people don’t. These numbers are just a that. A string of numbers, representing a town in a region in a country in the world. I started to look them up and record their locations. It’s most fun to realize someone in Sri Lanka read what I had to say. Or someone in Brazil. My mind questions whether they were on the beach when they read, or maybe in a town under the beautiful statue of Jesus. I review the numbers every day, and now, my consistent reader’s numbers are like reading their names. I look to make sure Y’all are up and okay, just like you check in on my blog. No worries, I can’t see names. Just numbers representing towns.

Getting my blog routine established was the most important part of the experience for me. It provided a purposeful reason to get out of bed. Now, I think of the next step. When will it be enough that I can introduce myself to others by saying, “Hi there, I write for a living. I’m a REAL writer”? On which hill will I plant my own flag stating “I HAVE ARRIVED.”? Not being sure, I do know one thing. I’m not where I want to be yet.

Information on Google and the Internet are plentiful. Your blog should reflect you. If you are lucky enough to throw money at your project, you can design your own template with personal pictures and individualized fonts. For me, it’s about having a cheap place to practice my craft every day. So, this works.

If you have more questions, you can always email me. I love hearing from fans. It’s time for breakfast and the beginning of another beautiful spring day! Happy Writing!

Mother’s Day! What a sweet time to remember our Mom’s, Grandmother’s, Great-Grandmothers, God-Mothers, Aunts, Mother-In-Law’s, or any other women significant in our lives. A beautiful day to let those women know they are cherished and loved, while reflecting on those that have gone before us. A day of love.

On this special day, I am so blessed to have my God Mother, TJ in my life. In the big scheme of things, my parents got it right when they chose HER to watch over ME, because WE are two peas in a pod. Both being Sagittarians, we clicked from the get go. TJ had the most fun house. She was the most fun visitor to OUR house. The day cheered up immensely when she would drop by for coffee and a chat with my parents.

TJ is a free spirit. She is extremely intelligent, intuitive, and wise. She is outrageously funny with her wit and humor. She is loving and caring, being the best mom ever to my sweet Cousin, the Law Lass. TJ always has the best advice, which is usually given after hesitation because she doesn’t want to influence others with her opinions.

We have covered every subject known to man over hours of conversation during Coastal Capers. These were bi-annual visits in which pajamas were the required clothing. Over chocolate, (only milk chocolate please), and snacks we would discuss the insane politics of the day, or just plain gossip about nothing in particular. The subjects just needed to include lots of laughter. Which they always did. It was on one of these such visits we decided a new rule for heaven. No Bras. Followed by more uproarious laughter.

Since VST died, I have missed our monthly visits with TJ. Over the years, they changed from “Girls Only — No Boys Allowed”, to including VST. He adored TJ and our time with her. For a long while, we made monthly RV trips to the coast to visit, and those memories are beautiful. The last year has been one in which I am honing my driving skills to make it back there. At 7 or 8 hours, the drive is not for the faint of heart, winding through some of the most horrific traffic in the country, after making it over Donner Pass. I need not remind you that just the name Donner Pass conjures visions not pleasant. Crossing the Sierra Nevada’s takes skill and fortitude, both of which I am working on.

TJ has been there for every important moment in my life. She was always awake and involved in my life, celebrating milestones and supporting me through heartaches. She has been my rock through everything.

I hope today, she has a day filled with beauty and rest! Practice some laziness, TJ!!!!

As for me, I will be celebrating my own memorable motherhood of 5 wonderful kiddos. Through the years, they have brought me happiness on a silver platter. They are the bubbles to the champagne of my life, for sure. Sharing kids with VST made our life rich and balanced, and for the gifts of his children, I am eternally grateful, as he was for the gifts of mine.

With five beautiful professionals making their contributions in life, my pride overflows. Our legacy continues with 13 grandchildren, beautiful and strong, although becoming grown-up way too soon.

Enjoy your Mother’s Day!!!!! To those women that support me with your daily reads, I am so grateful. I wish a wonderful day for all.