Da Goddess

Kids say the darnedest things. They also think the darnedest things.

Today’s memory brought to you by the magic of Memory Dumps: Safe disposal of all your sensitive information. “If you don’t need to know it, we’ll make sure it’s the only thing you remember while simultaneously deleting vital information!”

So…anyway…I woke up recalling how I used to think She Walks In Beauty by Lord Byron was a great poem,but was confused by the “meat in the aspic” line. When I asked my mom about aspic, she reassured me that it could, indeed, contain meat or meat byproducts. Then she wanted to know why I was asking and I told her Grandma had read me a poem about it. Ever confused by my explanation, Mom called Grandma. After their conversation, my mom read me the poem again and explained the line is “meet in the aspect.” And there you have it: kid brain thoughts.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

I think it would be an even better poem if it was about meat in aspic.

Dragonflies have always fascinated me. They’re so dainty and delicate in appearance, but they’re tough and rid the world of pests. Dragonflies symbolize good luck, prosperity, and new beginnings. Funny that. When I got my first tattoo, I chose dragonflies and got the tattoo as I was starting divorce proceedings. I must’ve sussed the meaning before I actually learned this bit of trivia.

Today, GmaB and I watched dragonflies flit about and then, miraculously, watched as one began to lay eggs. Sadly, those eggs will come to nought as the chosen site isn’t next to water. I may have to find a way to put water just below the eggs and then relocate the nymphs once they emerge. (I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m just winging it…hehee…winging it. Wing-ing. Wing. Dragonfly. And…)

I needed beauty in my life today. I’ve been feeling rather emotional the last couple days and our dragonflies brought me beauty by the bushel. Now, I must go so I can weep silently in the kitchen.

Today, my mom would’ve been 88 years-old. I miss her ever so.

Mom was the kind of person who could and would talk with pretty much anyone and everyone. Part of it was her genuine interest in other people. Part was a bit of a persona she cultivated for sales. Either way, you essentially got a woman who was willing and able to talk for hours and you’d never be bored.

Taking care of Crackerjack’s grandma, it feels a little like I’m taking care of Mom. Sure, Gma B has dementia, but she’s vibrant and kind and has so many stories to tell. That reminds me of my mom. And Gma B is an artist, like Mom. Her paintings are pretty amazing. I keep thinking I should rank them in order of my love for them. There’s just one teeny problem: I have multiple favorites for different moods and moons. Same as I’ve felt for Mom’s art.

I wish Mom could be here to meet with Gma B, talk with her about art, life, kids, etc. They’d have gotten on like a house afire.

So, while it seems strange that I might enjoy spending long hours with a 90yo who has dementia, the truth is that she helps me through the grief when it rears its ugly head. Not that grief is “ugly”. In fact, I believe grief is really kind of beautiful. It says you loved the person who’s gone. It says you have a heart. It says you can survive without them, you just wish you didn’t have to. That’s the clearest, purest definition of love I’ve ever come across. You miss them and you grieve them because you loved them deeply.

In a terrible bit of horrible timing and dark irony, Gma B was admitted to the hospital the other night after reacting badly to some antibiotics and becoming dehydrated, which, in turn, caused her to collapse as we were trying to walk her out to her youngest son’s vehicle. One 911 call later, we’re at the hospital with her and the doctors say her lungs were looking poorly. Yes, just as Mom’s birthday and anniversary of her death from lung cancer were approaching, my new charge is struck with pneumonia. (Thank God, it’s that and not cancer!) You better believe I asked God to help Gma B through this illness. I don’t think I could handle the alternative.

It’s made me miss Mom more than ever. It’s made me appreciate the time I had with her and appreciate how she was able to determine her own life and death. Mom was not one to linger or try to prolong the inevitable. She didn’t want to spend her last months sick from chemo or radiation. She decided against feeling awful just to spend a little more time here. Even if it meant we’d have to say goodbye sooner than we’d like, Mom knew she’d be living on borrowed time and she’d be miserable throughout. None of us wanted that for her. I certainly wouldn’t want her to suffer. And thus, she decided to make the most of the time she did have left. That’s a fortunate choice she was able to make and one I respect.

I thought of her yesterday as I discovered a hummingbird trapped in the garage. I happened to go out to look for a painting Mom had done of — a hummingbird, of all things! — in one of my boxes out there and found the bird buzzing about. It was hot. There was nothing in the garage that would’ve helped it survive for long. At one point, it landed on the ground in front of me, almost as if it was asking me for help. I opened the side door and then one of the garage doors. It took a minute or two for the bird to realize there was a way out of the hot concrete box, but once it saw the big door was open, it zipped on out, back to the world with nectar and water and others of its kind. I felt so elated watching it find freedom. It was as if Mom had been that bird and suddenly she was free. I took this as a sign that Mom’s okay where she is, that she wants me to release her from the this world, that it’s okay to move forward. I have been moving forward. It’s good, though, to have a reminder like that to push me towards the next thing in life. I work at that every day. Now I feel certain it’s time to open up my heart to whatever comes next, even if I can’t share it with her. Well, not directly. She’s still here in my heart and I believe she’ll always be there, cheering for me whatever comes my way. So, sharing with her, but not being able to talk with her about it all.

I miss you, Mom! I love you and miss you and I’m so glad we had many years of fun and sadness and joy and sorrow and good health, bad health, years of contemplation and action, years of making memories, telling stories, sharing in the wonders of this world, reminding each other how lucky we were to experience it. I hope you’re visiting with all the people you’ve loved and lost. And I hope you’ve saved me a seat at your table for when it’s my turn.

Love you! Happy birthday!

P.S. please forgive me for not wanting to write something tomorrow. I think I’ve covered it all here. <3 <3 <3

P.P.S. how do I get rid of the acrid smell of really burnt food* in the house? It won’t go away no matter what I do! It’s times like these that I desperately want to ask your helpful advice. You always knew what to do!

* I had chicken tenders in the microwave that decided to not only cook in record time, but to burn into tiny hockey pucks in record time. Smoke BILLOWED out of the microwave. It was awful. It’s still awful. Mom would’ve known what to do about the lingering stench. She always had solutions to problems like this.

I fell deeply in love at first sight this morning. So did Crackerjack.

She came to get me from her grandmother’s house so I could move some of my belongings over (I’m staying here overnight now because Grandma B’s dementia is getting worse). We stopped at Dollar General, which is out all-around favorite place to stop for Red Bulls. As we walked up to the door, this beautiful mini border collie came up (she was ignoring a man who was smooch calling her — is there another word for this?) and I asked her to sit, which she did immediately. She gazed up at me and I was instantly besotted. I mean, absolutely, positively, flat-out in love. I apologized to the man once he drew up to us. I said I figured it was better to have her sit and wait for him and I complimented him on what a VERY GOOD GIRL his dog was. And gorgeous, too! He then explained she wasn’t his dog, but was just running around loose and had been for a couple weeks. Crackerjack and I looked at each other as if to say, “we’ll take her until her owners are found!” Of course, that really wouldn’t be a possibility because the other dogs at the house would likely attack her. Instead, the man said his wife runs a rescue and she was on her way over to scan the dog for a chip and if there wasn’t one, they’d take her in.

While that was great news for the dog, my heart kind of broke into a million little pieces. I was so captivated by this petite pup, I had — in less than 20 seconds — already adopted her and trained her to herd cattle out here on the dairy ranch (it’s more of a farm now and they don’t do the dairy part as much, I guess???), where she could live her bestest life. I know, I know, my imagination overfloweth. The other scenario was that she would turn out to be more of a couch potato and want to spend all her time beside her new grandma and grandma’s caregiver. (A girl can dream, can’t she?)

Anyhow, Crackerjack and I reluctantly left the dog with the very nice man and went on to do what we’d set out to do: get Red Bull and move shit. We did that…two trips, in fact, with more to come.

In between the first and second trips, I asked if we could swing by the store to make sure the dog wasn’t still there. I’d been thinking about her the entire time I was packing and loading. She was gone. I was relieved because I couldn’t stand the thought that she was left in the lurch once again. I still don’t understand how she was just hanging around the store for two weeks without anyone coming to claim her or anyone calling a shelter to get her off the street. Apparently, she’d been seen on both sides of the (busy) road and, even worse, both sides of the freeway! Ugh! WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? How is there this gorgeous girl running loose with no one looking for her?

So, there you have it: my tale (tail) of instant love and almost instant heartbreak in a kind of wordy nutshell.

The hedgehogs have been arguing a lot lately. I’m not sure what they’re arguing about most of the time, but I know what tonight’s beef was: Spike pooed in their house and Ash was having none of it.

I arrived on the scene just as Ash was chasing Spike out and telling him to get lost. She was mad! Spike was squealing like he was snakebit, but it was just him being dramatic. He pushed back a couple times, to no avail. Ash is simply bigger and more assertive.

When Ash went for a nosh, Spike ran back in the house and tried to keep her from getting in. More squabbling, hissing, and skittering about. Guess who prevailed?

After an emergency counseling session (I’m charging double next time), they both returned home and snuggled in close.

Honestly, I wonder about them. Will true love prevail? Or will Spike’s predilection for shitting in their house, in their food bowls, ON their house tear them asunder?

Answers to these questions and more on the next episode of “Soap”.

Little Dude is 26 today.

I love you, kiddo!

That’s it. That’s the whole post.

Marshall Tucker keeps playing in my head these days.

“Can’t you see?
Whoa, can’t you see?
What that woman, Lord, been doin’ to me…”

It’s been on a near constant loop in my brain for the past 7 to 10 days. It’s been about that long since I basically lost all but the blurriest vision in my right eye.

It’s just a worsening of the cataract that I needed to have surgery on last year, but didn’t because I had nowhere to stay during the surgery and recovery time.

Everything was fine until about 10 days ago. I woke up and my eye was a little sore, a little itchy, but nothing major…until I started to get on with my day and realized my right eye felt “off”. I did the whole close one eye to test my vision thing and BAM! All I had was colorful blurry blobs in my right eye.

Well, that’s not great news. Natch. But I’m left-eyed. So, it could be a lot worse. A LOT WORSE. Of course, I need to make a special appointment with my ophthalmologist in San Diego very soon. I’d try to squeeze it in on Monday while I’m there, but that’s not optimal as far as timing and such. I’ll be there for a very short time. Essentially there two days. Then it’s back to Phoenix with my friend J. We’re doing a quick trip to get as much of my belongings as we can fit in a van and also for a bladder/kidney scan (one of the more exciting exams one can ever schedule). It’s necessary since I’ve had intermittent bouts of urinating bright red blood.

While chances are this is another health problem related to Covid, I opted out of the study here because it ended up too far away from where I live. The study would have covered the scan and whatever treatment is necessary. However, this particular study did NOT include transportation for 2-3 appointments a week for the first month and I most certainly can’t afford to Uber 70 miles round trip that often. Thus, my San Diego doctor was kind enough to set up the test I needed. I’m also supposed to have a pain management appointment after, but there’s a problem with authorization (of course!). So I’m taking what I can get this time around and will schedule more for September when I go back to get the remainder of my stuff.

Very exciting, right?

This past Tuesday, J and I drove her kids up to Vegas to be with their dad. Two chatty little ones and two chatty grown-ups. Four and a half hours or so there. Just over four hours back. It was a good trip. And honestly, I’m in awe that J does this trip frequently. Alone.
———
Fast forward to today’s trip. We made great time, dumped our meager belongings at the hotel (a $200 room for $35 because J works for the hotel chain and this is one of the perks), then headed over to my sister’s. I got to see Fletch! OMG! He’s so stinkin’ sweet. I love that cat more than life itself. While I’d take him back in a heartbeat, he’s settled there and C&D have become accustomed to having him in their lives. No way I’m breaking up that power trio even if I could. For now, I will enjoy the cats at J’s and get kitty loves when I can.

Anyhow, we loaded up the minivan with quite a bit of my belongings and hit up In & Out Burgers for dinner. We’re now settled into our room and are trying to get comfortable. We’re exhausted. Sweaty and exhausted. Sweaty, exhausted, and feeling oddly accomplished. It’s a good, satisfying sensation.

Tests in the morning. Off to sleep.

Photos of the storm were encountered on our drive and a very melty version of me.

I can’t post photos because the new version of WordPress doesn’t have the option to upload that I can easily discern. *facepalm* Oy.

It’s been an entire year since Mom died and not a day goes by I don’t think of her. How could I not? She was more than just a parent; she was my hero, my inspiration, my guide, and my friend.

I still remember the phone call from my sister around 0130 a year ago. I knew it was coming and I knew it was the best thing for her. And yet, it still gutted me. It took a while to really process it, but the hurt was there. The tears…oh, those tears. Of course, yes, I cried my damn eyes out off and on for…I don’t know how long.

The moment she got her diagnosis, we all knew the clock was ticking down. The only goal for any of us was to make whatever time Mom had left as comfortable and as pleasant as possible. We were so grateful the assisted living facility where she lived gave us such freedom to be with her. The pandemic was still an issue, but we were lucky this happened at a time when we were able to visit and just be together. A lot of families were denied that for far too long. I can’t imagine Mom being alone at the end of her life. Thank God she wasn’t!

I still see her in those last weeks, surrounded by her friends and the small family we are at this point. Her laughter is with me even now. (As I write this, a hummingbird just flew up to me and hovered a moment. I believe it was sent by her to let me know she’s watching over me. I have her painting of a hummingbird as one of my most prized possessions.)

I hope when it’s my time to go that I can go the way she did: with the dignity and love she had, on her terms.

Mom will always be missed so very much. Her love of life and her joy in creating — painting and making a warm, welcoming environment for those she treasured — it was a big part of who she was and how she chose to live. There will never be another like her, but I’m so glad I got to be her daughter.

I love you, Mom!

These are some songs my mom loved and, especially this first one, were the songs Mom wanted for her funeral/memorial. For years. YEARS.

These last two songs are just from me and were songs Mom and I laughed and joked about.

Today’s Mom’s birthday. Or, rather, it would have been her birthday.

It’s a bittersweet day.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot, naturally. How lucky was I to have a mother who inspired and encouraged me throughout my life? She loved all us kids and never let us forget it! She protected us from some of the more awful things in life while trying to guide us through the scariest parts with love and gentle care.

I wish I could give Mom a great big hug right now and take her a homemade cake. But, since I can’t, here’s a song that makes me think of her:

I miss you, Mom! Happy birthday up there! I hope you’re having a marathon card game and laughing yourself silly. I love you!

I am in utter disbelief that I’m now 56 years old.

There are days when it seems nigh impossible for that to be accurate. It was only yesterday when I was sliding down into the canyon (now just more houses, natch) to go make a fort with Michelle, Kecia, and/or Laurie.

We had the perfect place for our fort: on the bank of a hill, behind a huge bush/tree. Scrub bushes grew big in the canyon. This one had branches that gracefully arched overhead. Any that didn’t were summarily removed. Big boxes were broken down, used to slide down the hill a few hundred times before becoming the base of the fort. If we could manage to sneak a blanket out of the house, it would most definitely find itself an integral part of our refuge. Pads of paper, pencils, pens, crayons, and various cast off toys enjoyed a cushy life at the hideaway, too.

We never needed to phone one another to set a meeting time. Each of us ran through our Saturday chores (or homework if was a school day), made ourselves some sandwiches, and then hightailed it to the fort. If you got there first, you were responsible for making sure there were no spiders or rattlesnakes around. Stomping and waving cardboard about, nothing could sleep through the racket, and most definitely nothing stuck around! We once chased a javelina family from our sanctuary, but that’s about as exotic as our visitors got. Garter snakes, lizards, and tarantulas were common and became favored captives for short periods of time. None of us wanted to remove them from their homes or families for too long. Mostly, we just enjoyed their company before we released them back into the wild. We played Marlin Perkins and his trusty assistant, Jim. Or we took turns being Joan Embery visiting with Merv Griffin or Mike Douglas and presenting our latest finds to the host. (One guess who got to be Joan Embery most often.)

While we loved the canyon and the freedom we experienced there away from the prying eyes (and the beckoning calls to come home) of our parents, our days there were numbered. The same is true of childhood. However, the loss of our fort was due to discovering a real live adult human being we didn’t know taking up residence in our spot.

For once, Michelle and I met up at the corner across from my house before we made our way down the hill and over the uneven terrain to the fort. We talked loudly and stomped our feet in our normal “dangerous-animal-be-gone” manner. Unfortunately, it didn’t scare away the man we found. In fact, I think it’s safe to say it merely served as an alert for him to strip down and begin masturbating, because that’s exactly what we found upon arrival. We both yelled at him and began kicking dirt in his face, throwing wood and rocks and whatever else we could find. When he failed to stop touching himself, we left in disgust. We never returned to that spot again. Instead, we explored further afield and always with a buddy. It was just safer that way.

About a year later, the big machinery arrived and curtailed our adventures further. We just got a little more creative with the how and what of our play. On weekends, when the site was abandoned, we scrambled up and down the diggers and dozers and other vehicles. We yelled and ran through the giant concrete pipes that would someday serve the expanding neighborhood. We also caused minor mischief by hiding loose materials whenever we could. We didn’t go too crazy with it because we knew that anything major would only bring in security guards. We knew this because Michelle’s brother and his friends had caused that very thing to happen at another site.

In the end, the timing couldn’t have been more apt. We were nearing the age of more “serious” pursuits as we went from preteens into full-blown adolescence. And while we would occasionally make our way down to the canyon, it was less about play and more about sneaking cigarettes and maybe increasing the quality (and quantity) of our creative obscenities. No prying ears or eyes to limit our newfound endeavors.

I’m not entirely sure how this turned into a major nostalgia-fest, but I suppose it beats the other direction I could have gone. I was going to mention all the heartbreak of the past year and all the ways life has changed in that time. I’m actually very glad for the “remember whenning” about my childhood as it feels more relatable and somehow more comforting — and definitely healthier — to reflect in that manner.

So, here’s a great big “I’m so glad I’m still here at 56” shout declaration from my tiny corner of the internet. I hope I can do this again next year.

TTFN!

I started a walk down Memory Lane one recent night that quickly led to a case of nostalgia for my very early years on this earth. It didn’t take long for nostalgia to become obsession.

I was overwhelmed by memories of my maternal grandparents: Grandma and Grandfather. My Dad’s parents were Grandma and Pappy (though Pappy married Grandma Eleanor or Lenore [who had A PINBALL MACHINE IN HER BASEMENT!!!] after Original Grandma died). Anyhow, I was thinking about Grandma and Grandfather this particular time. They were the ones who: had an enchanted garden, a magic mirror in the bathroom, the electric organ, and neighbors with the little girl burned to death (Bernadette). Their house was the second one from the corner. That detail I distinctly recall. How can I be certain? Because the cars would have to slow down for the stop sign at the intersection. We kids slept in the front bedroom and we could hear the telltale clickety tickety of the slowing tires and watch the headlights as they rolled past. I remember Bernadette’s house being on the corner. Grandma and Grandfather’s house was a single story, whereas Bernadette’s house was two stories. These are important details, as you’ll come to appreciate shortly.

For some reason, as my nostalgia gave way to curiosity (oh, shit! I left out that part of the grand journey to obsession, didn’t I?), I started to think maybe I could find their house by googling the road. That’s the only part of the puzzle I had firmly in my mental grasp. No street number, just the name of the street. Should be relatively easy, shouldn’t it? Google maps could lead me down this path and I’d magically (technologically) find a piece of my childhood and live happily ever after, secure in the knowledge that something so precious to me still exists.
If only. All I have to do is find a single story house next to a two story house, second from the corner, on a specific street, and BAM-A-ROONY! Mystery solved.

As if.

I spent no less than three hours trying to find the house. That night. I’ve since revisited the oh so (not) helpful maps of Googleland. My quest, apparently, has no end.

At this point, I should mention that I’m working with a very fickle Bluetooth signal. (Predictive text tried to turn fickle into fucked, which is not only kinda funny, but also a whole MOOD…and an accurate one at that.) So, of course, while I have my Google map groove in gear and hot on the trail of MY QUEST FOR THE HOLY GRAIL of childhood memories, the Bluetooth signal keeps crapping out on me. I think this is how memories become nostalgia becomes curiosity becomes obsession. Curiosity can become victory pretty quickly if you have a solid connection to the world wide web. Denied that solidity? Curiosity becomes obsession. The itch to continue your search leads to a jittery and frantic dance as you toggle between windows/functions. Just as you think you’re on the precipice of a MAJOR BREAKTHROUGH, you get a wee dinosaur and the notice of “lost connection”.

This. This is when you realize you can no longer just drop the search for a bit and get some sleep. Oh no. You’re far too keyed up for sleep. You’re at peak wakefulness now. You. Must. Continue. The. Quest.

So, three hours and multiple “damnit!”, “fucking hell!”, “shit on a pointy stick!”, and other utterances of frustration (are there any other types of utterances?) later, you finally give up — ¡temporalmente! — because your already wreck of a body can’t take any more spasms and teeth-grinding madness. There’s only so much a body can take. I don’t care who you are. There’s a point where you simply must decide that shitting yourself during the marathon just isn’t worth it. I’m all for not shitting myself, figuratively or literally. And my back and neck will attest to the fact that I can no longer spend hours tied up in knots of anticipatory stupor. I just can’t do it.

And thus, I’ve reached the end…so far…of my QUEST for the house my grandparents owned when I was a wee bairn. I shall let you know when — not “if” — I am triumphant.

Wish me luck.

P.S. I blame this all on Covid brain, lingering paroxysmal coughing fits, and my ever present insomnia. But, mostly Covid brain and the coughing. So, basically, Covid.

I wish I had photos of all the amazing women who’ve influenced my life and helped me get to age 55.

Barring that, here’s a few of them.

In the past week, while I’ve been cursing the slow progress toward recovery from the dreaded Covid, Mr H got himself another dog.

He got drunk one night and, while on Facebook, looked at the local lost and found pets page, saw a dog he couldn’t resist (this is actually the second one; the first was with a woman who wouldn’t deliver*), and agreed to take if the rescuers could bring the dog to the house. They agreed. And the very next day, voila! Another dog.

It’s a boy.

His current name is Duke. Or Juke. He answers to both (because they sound the same). He briefly answered to Rex. He was also temporarily Billy Joe, after Billy Joe Shaver — he seemed to really like “Live Forever” and so we tried that. Prior to that was Bubba. H calls him Buddy more often than not. He also refers to him as “her” because he’s used to having a female dog around. He’ll be paying for DJuke’s therapy for years.

This beastie is young. He’s totally untrained and, boy oh boy, he’s doing his best to resist learning the basics! I think he was abused before he was abandoned because of the way he reacts to a hand placed on his rump. If you slide a hand down while petting him, he’s okay. Try touching his hind end otherwise? He’s jumpy and he tries to squirm away. So, teaching him to sit is a very slow work in progress. I’m doing my best to capture the behavior and reward him for it while repeating the word “sit”. It’s pretty much the only way to get there from here. I’ve also resorted to asking Cookie to sit and rewarding her for doing so in front of DJuke.

I haven’t worked with many abused/abandoned dogs in the past, but I’m willing to put in the work while I can because I really love this goofball. Already. Yeah, it’s a sickness. I fall for animals very quickly.

DJuke fell in love with the Mr Piggy toy. The weird, deep squeal it had turned into a a funny, higher pitched squeal. Then it went silent. The pig has lost some of its appeal without the sound. According to the dogs, that is. Maybe according to the humans, too. Maybe. Maaaaaayyyybeeee. Possibly.

Now it’s time for me to go slather purple dye on my head again. I have errands tomorrow afternoon with H’s sister and I’d like to look presentable. Ish.

* H’s car has died again and he needed to have the first dog dropped off. The woman agreed to it, but flaked. I was secretly relieved because the dog looked less-than-healthy. With DJuke, the young couple who found him had taken him to the vet for a once over and a chip check. He was deemed healthy and unchipped. And thus he was posted to the Facebook group. The couple also delivered.

This is one of the dog’s toys. It has the most hysterically weird oink I’ve ever heard. It sounds a bit like a cross between an old boar’s grunts and that of an aged, emphysemic cow. It’s truly delightful to hear when Cookie starts romping about with it.

It would seem Piggy somehow offended Cookie and the punishment was a backyard burial. I guess I interrupted the plot because this is as far as the dog got with her plan for revenge. Piggy survives to annoy and offend another day.

There are other toys facing execution. I’ll have to remember to get photographic evidence of their existence before they disappear without warning.

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Dad would’ve been 91 today. It’s strange to think he’s been gone almost four years. I miss him every day. There are so many things I want to ask him. Things I never thought to ask him while he was alive. But that’s always the way

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, isn’t it? We don’t know how much time we have with anyone and, if I could give you any life advice, I’d suggest you make the time to ask your loved ones as many questions as you can now.

I miss you, Dad. I miss you and I love you very much.