Tag: Getting Older

“Mr. Mitchell,” came a soft voice behind me.

“What is it Cam,” I whispered.

We were in a movie theater. I had taken the middle school boys from the church as a reward for their achievements during the year. Cam was sitting in the theater seat directly behind me.

The Boy Scout motto, which we all had to memorize to earn the Scout Rank is: Be prepared. So, I memorized it and said it to my Scout Master so I could begin earning my Tenderfoot rank. At the time, two words was about the extent of my ability to memorize.

                But no one really explained to us what we were supposed to be prepared for. Did it have anything to do with bears coming into our camp? If we were indeed responsible for being prepared for any situation which would arise, I would have to spend considerably more time in the library speedreading books on every topic to get a general knowledge of what to do when a situation needed a solution, and in the fifth grade I was lucky to read through one book a year.

                It was not until this year that I found out that Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of Scouts, had intended the boys to be ready for anything from a sudden accident to the defense of their country. When he was asked what they should be prepared for, he replied, “Any old thing.”

The motto has awakened me at 4:30 many mornings as I lie in bed wondering, “What am I not prepared for today?”

This was something that I brought up with my best friend, Chuck, as we stood out on a sandbar, river fishing for Silver Salmon. He was about twenty feet upriver, fishing with his nine-foot rod which was now eight foot, six inches long since he chopped six inches off the tip by dropping his tailgate closed before he got his pole completely out of the back of his SUV.

“Here’s something I was thinking about,” I said as I lifted my boonie hat and swabbed the sweat from my forehead. “What would you do if I grabbed my chest and fell over on the beach?”

“You mean dead, or just fell over like you sometimes do?”

“I mean a heart attack.”

“Well, if you were dead anyway, I might swap my pole with yours and check in your tackle box to see if there’s anything I need.”

“You mean that you wouldn’t start CPR?”

“Hypothetically speaking, what if I had a fish on?”

“Would you call, 911?”

“When I got the fish on the beach.”

“You know, this is something we need to be thinking about. Neither one of us is getting any younger.”

“You are actually six months older than me.”

“When was the last time you took a CPR class? I haven’t taken one for about 15 years.”

“How old were we when we were working on our First Aid merit badges in Scouts?” he asked.

“Well, cripes! I’m signing us up for a class.”

And immediately after I had lost another three lures to a snag in the river, I went to the local fire hall and inquired about their next CPR class.

“We don’t get many men your age signing up for the class, a buff looking 20-something firefighter told me. Mostly, we get older women who are running daycares, or young kids who need it for a college class requirement. Are you physically up for it?”

“Hey,” I said, obviously offended. “If I can still use my bicycle pump to inflate my lawnmower tire, I think I can push on a chest for two minutes.”

“Yeah,” he said, slowly eyeing my out of shape muscles. “I’ll put you down for this Saturday.”

“Oh, I’ve been put down before. And put down my buddy, Chuck too. I’m relying on him to be the one to kick start me if I keel over.”

So, Saturday came, and I drug the reluctant Charles to the 9am CPR class. Just as the fireman had warned us, we were the only two “Older” men in a group of mature women and college girls.

“Thank you for attending Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation training,” the instructor said. “Let’s go around the room and tell us your first name and why you are taking the training.”

As was predicted when I enquired about the class, the older women were daycare owners or workers, and the college age attenders were taking CPR as one of the requirements for a Community College class. When it got to us, we had the classes’ attention because no one understood why two old broken down men were interested in CPR.

“My name is Marty and I worry about my partner, here. He could shut down at any time.”

“My name is Chuck and I’m six months younger than him. I doubt that I would jump start him because look at that face. I’m not blowing air into that mouth.”

Sometimes the truth hurts.

There were three adult Resusci-Anne mannequins lying on the floor and three infant Anne dolls on a table. The instructor began giving us scenarios about finding an unresponsive person and what to do if you were by yourself, or with other people helping. He showed us proper hand placement on the sternum and how deep to compress. He then produced some alcohol swabs and wiped the mouth of Anne and showed us how to tilt the head, lift the jaw, pinch the nose, and blow in, raising Anne’s chest.

“For your information, Anne holds the record for being the most kissed doll in the world. We will apply two blasts of air and then start compressions at a rate of 100-120 beats per minute. Try to think of a song that has a beat of 120 beats per minute, like Row, Row, Row Your Boat. You will alternate between two breaths and 30 compressions. Since we only have three Annes, while one person is practicing, the rest will watch and critique.”

The college age kids seemed eager to get practicing, so they gathered around one mannequin and one of the kids began. Chuck and I, and the older women were a little more hesitant to be the first to begin, so one of the women volunteered. She was a rather large woman in her late 50’s. With a little help, she lowered herself to the floor and sat on her knees next to Anne. After attempting to wake the patient, she concluded that Anne was not breathing and had no pulse. She told one of us to call 911, then, having previously swabbed the dolls mouth area, she tilted Anne’s head, brought her jaw up, pinched her nose, took a deep breath and came down on Anne’s mouth to give her the first breath of air, and . . .

“Frapp!”

Those standing around critiquing took a step back and looked at each other, not knowing what to do. In all fairness, she was able to fill Anne’s lungs also.

The next woman up was a thin woman also in her late 50’s. She took the position on the floor and after concluding that Anne was not just sleeping, she filled the doll with two blasts of air and began the chest compressions. After cycling through the process twice, she stood to let the next person in the group try. She faced the group with a smile on her face, as if to say, “That wasn’t so hard.”

The group’s reaction was, “Whoa!”  She had blown so hard into Anne’s mouth that she broke a blood vessel in her right eye and the white of that eye was dark red.

“The old group ain’t doing so good,” Chuck mumbled.

“The next thing we are going to introduce into the mix is the AED unit,” the instructor announced.  “The acronym AED stands for Automated External Defibrillator. More and more businesses, churches,  and schools are buying them, so you should be familiar with how to use them.”

He went through the attaching process, which included removing the clothing from the chest area where the electrodes would be placed.

“Using an AED requires no previous training because the pads are marked to show you where to place them and an audio voice will give you instructions. Chuck and Marty haven’t done their CPR practice yet, so you guys get on the floor. One of you will be doing the CPR and the other will apply the AED pads, then you will switch.”

Using a chair, we lowered ourselves onto our knees. The crackling of the joints made me worry that we might not be getting up again. I was in position for the CPR. We ascertained that our victim had no heartbeat and was not breathing.

“Okay, call 911 and see if you can find an AED,” I told him, “but first take her shirt off.”

“Whoa, hold on!  I’m not taking any female’s top off. My wife would kill me.”

“As soon as the paramedics arrive, her top is coming off anyway,” the instructor commented.

There was much grumbling as we removed her sweatshirt. I then began CPR as Chuck applied the shock pads to her chest and we followed the instructions given to us by the AED box. After swapping out positions, we had reached the limit of our ability to sit on our knees on the floor and both needed chairs to pull ourselves up to a standing position.

The last demonstration of the morning was dislodging obstructions in infant and adult windpipes. The J-Stroke, or Heimlich Maneuver, to be used on an adult, was done by pairing up the class. One person stood behind the other, made a fist, and visualized the upward thrust from a spot above the navel to the breastbone.

When I placed my arms around Chuck and made a fist in the center of his belly I asked, “Should I try one thrust so you can see what it feels like?”

“Not unless you want a wad of tobacco in that woman’s hair,” he said.

“This is a lot like giving the Heimlich to a very pregnant woman.”

He ground my foot lightly into the carpet with the heel of his steel-toed work boot.

Dislodging an obstacle from a baby required holding the baby in one arm face down, and hitting it between the shoulder blades, five times. If you can’t then see the obstacle in its mouth, lay the baby on its back on one of your arms and slap its chest five times. If that doesn’t dislodge it, start again on the back. This seemed like excessive beating of the baby and because our doll was old, its head kept falling off.

At 11:30, the instructor was satisfied that we could all perform CPR, and he said that our certification cards would be in the mail within the week. Returning once again to the  sandbar, Chuck cast his lure out into the center of the river. I watched as he stepped deeper and deeper into the swiftly flowing current. He was still complaining about the morning of fishing lost to a CPR class.

“Here’s something I was thinking about,” I said. “What if I fell into the river and was being carried downstream. When was the last time you took a junior lifesaving class?

His next cast swung wide over my head and his lure snagged my boonie hat and carried it out and into the far side of the river.

He did that on purpose. I’ll be checking into Lifesaving classes at the YMCA tomorrow.

Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes

My best friend, Chuck, walked down from his house to mine to borrow my impact driver. Apparently, he hadn’t completed his set of all my tools. He found me in my back half-acre with two of my fishing poles. 

                “What’s up with the two fishing poles,” he asked. 

                “I’m finishing up my final preparations for river fishing tomorrow and I wanted to see which of these poles will cast a 2-ounce sinker the furthest since I want the lure to make it at least into the middle of the river.” 

                Chuck looked at both poles closely.  

                “They are the same length. They both have spinning reels with approximately the same amount of line on the spools. The eyes on the poles are made for a spinning reel.” 

                He took one and waved the tip up and down rapidly. Then he took the second and did the same with it. 

                “Very close in the flex of the poles. I think that they will both cast your sinker about the same distance.” 

                Chuck and I spent many a day fishing when we were growing up, both in lakes and rivers. We would even take our sleeping bags and hike up into the hills to sleep overnight next to a pond or a creek we wanted to spend time fishing in. I valued his opinion of my fishing gear. 

                “It’s 125 feet from this fence line, across to the other fence line on the far end. I have an unobstructed mowed field, and the only obstacle is that 100-year-old apple tree off to the right side. The poles are labelled ‘A’ and ‘B’, and the 2-ounce lead sinker is attached to ‘A’. I’ll just cast the sinker and pace off the feet where it lands.” 

                Flipping the bale over, I brought the pole back over my head and gave the sinker a mighty cast, keeping the pole parallel to the fence line on my left side. The sinker arced high into the air, curved to the right and landed in the top of the apple tree. 

                “Nasty slice, Mitchell,” Chuck snarked. “It’s almost like the sinker was magnetically attracted to the tree.”

                Looking at the sinker dangling high up in the old dead limbs and realizing that it would be a lost cause to try to retrieve it, I growled to myself.

                “I’m going to have to work on my follow-through. That sinker is a goner. I’ll cut the line and use another 2-ounce sinker on pole ‘B’.” 

                Clipping another sinker onto the line of pole “B”, I took a slow practice cast without opening the bale. Watching the tip of the pole go over my head, I pointed it directly at the far fence line. 

                “Perfecto,” I said, and opening the bale, I brought the tip of the pole over my head and gave the sinker a mighty cast. It too arced to the right and landed in the high branches of the apple tree. 

                “Cripes!” I muttered.

                “I’d say that both poles are about the same and they really aren’t the problem,” Chuck said. “It’s the same problem you had in elementary school when you were pitching in a baseball game. You were aiming for home plate, but the ball went consistently between home and third base. It was always an easy walk for the batter.”

                “Yah, I think my right shoulder is a little tight. I’ll have Cheryl massage the muscles.”

                “It all depends on what you were trying to accomplish, Mitchell old boy. If you were trying to land the sinkers in the top of the apple tree, you were spot-on accurate. Now, about that impact driver.”

                Those sinkers still hang from the apple tree like ornaments on a Christmas Tree.

                Fishing is an addiction for me. Once I get started, it’s hard for me to stop until I catch my fill of fish. Sadly enough, it is like someone who goes to the casino regularly because they are so close to winning the big one. It ruins them financially. This, I’m afraid is also the case with a fish-o-holic.

                It’s not all my fault of course. I ride my bike on the dike over the river and I see other fisherman out on the sand bar, and I know that this year there is going to be a great run of Pink Salmon and Coho. The little demon on my left shoulder whispers in my ear, “You want to go fishing, don’t you?”

                My guardian angel, who is on my right shoulder, slaps me on the side of the head and reminds me of the toll it will take on me and that I better get that thought right out of my mind.

But when I go home and tell Cheryl that I saw fishermen out on the sandbar, she says, “I think you ought to go fishing. What else do you have to do with your day? You can’t sit at your computer all day writing stories.”

“But it’s addicting,” I remind her.

“You will be able to control your urges,” she assures me. “Go fishing.”

So, you see. It’s Cheryl’s fault. She’s an enabler.

And actually, this year was the reason I started fishing again because I am 70 years old, and my fishing license is free – which was the only thing free for me about fishing. I went to the local sporting goods stores and began buying lures at six to eight dollars apiece. Adding to that, sinkers, barrel clips and shrimp oil. I also grabbed a Washington State Fishing Rules magazine so I would clearly know the type and number of salmon I could catch in the Nooksack River. Included inside are photos and descriptions of the salmon so that if on a long shot, I did catch one, I would know what it was. Once on a deer hunting trip, I accidentally shot a rabbit. A clear misidentification issue.

Putting all the newly purchased gear in my tackle box, I chose pole “B”, and placed everything in the back of my SUV for an early morning start the next day. This also was not something that I was used to – getting up at 6 a.m. The desire to fish is greatly diminished when the alarm goes off at that hour. But with a shove from Cheryl’s foot, I was out of bed and onto the floor, ready for my first day of fishing.

Here is where the similarities between fishing and sitting at a slot machine begin. Standing on the riverbank in a secluded area, I began to lose lures at an average of $7.00 a piece and not just the lure, but the barrel swivels and the lead sinkers too. All this was happening without me ever getting a fish to strike. The lures were hooking up on debris in the water. And being that I was sitting under the low hanging branches of a tree on the bank, I was constantly swatting the limbs with the tip of my pole which greatly reduced the distance a lure would land out in the river.

Here is where fish-o-holism takes over. The fisherman cannot stop from taking another lure out of his tackle box after he has lost the previous one. He doesn’t know when to say enough is enough. I would go home at the end of the day embarrassed that I had a $30.00 day on the river, but not only did I lose that much, I also stopped by the sporting goods store and replaced what I had lost. I was beginning to see that I needed help.

Then, on my third day out, I was sitting on the riverbank in the sunshine. My lure was not in the water. From totally out of nowhere I heard someone say, “Good morning, sir.” Startled, I turned and stared directly into the face of Fish and Game Warden, Steve Michaels. I immediately wondered if I had remembered to hang my Discovery Vehicle Pass on my rearview mirror. From stories I have heard from other fishermen and hunters, these Wardens can be ornery, but Steve was very cordial.

“Can I see your fishing license and salmon catch record card?” he asked.

Reaching into my wallet, I handed him the fresh pieces of paper.

“You haven’t been logging your catches on the record card,” he noted.

“If I ever catch a salmon, I will be sure to do just that,” I assured him. “I consider a good day of fishing, not going home after losing $30.00 worth of lures.”

Steve and I chatted about fifteen minutes on easy ways to properly identify a variety of salmon and then he turned to leave, but only five steps away he again turned to ask me a question.

“I’m just curious, how long have you been trying to get your lure out of that tree? You’re never going to fill your catch card if the lure isn’t in the water.”

“Thank you, Officer Steve. By the way, do you know if there is a fishermens-anonymous meeting anywhere in the county?”

** Title photo salmon was caught by Braydn Kruger.

Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes

My contractor friend, Homer Bentnail, was standing out in the driveway with me looking at my newly installed metal carport next to the garage.

                “It wasn’t that bad,” I said. “It only took four months.”

                “Well, it was your own fault,” he said. “You applied for a permit. You should have just had them come out in June when they called and had them put it up.”

                “Wait a minute, this is brand new construction thirty feet from the road. Any county truck driving by would notice it right away and he’d come pulling up into my driveway and ask me to show him the permit.”

                “To which you would just tell him, ‘I didn’t know I needed to have a permit.’ It’s better to get the job done and ask for forgiveness later. They might slap you with an after-the-fact fine and then you move on with life.”

                “So, if you had a customer who wanted a new garage built thirty feet from the main road, would you build it for him without engineered plans and a permit?”

                “No, of course not. I could lose my contractor’s license for doing something like that. I’m just saying that you made a mistake going for a permit.”

                “I happen to know of a friend of mine who put up a shed on his property without a permit,” I said.  “An inspector driving by noticed it and stopped in and asked him for his paperwork which he didn’t have. The inspector slapped a red notice on the shed saying that until corrections were made, the shed was unusable and if anyone went inside, the owner would be fined $5000.00.”

                And so, we went around in circles with the permit topic for over thirty minutes.

                The carport idea started many years ago when Cheryl came out of retirement and started driving school bus. Her car was always parked outside, next to the garage which housed my nicer, more expensive car. I would lie in bed some mornings listening to her grumbling outside as she used the broom to wipe the snow off her car before going to work. Sometimes she had the audacity to wake me up from a sound sleep with the continuous rasping sound of her ice scraper going back and forth on her front windshield.

                “Hey, I am trying to sleep!” I’d yell from the bedroom window. Then I heard the front door slam and snow boots stomping up the stairs. Opening the bedroom door and flipping on the lights, she threw an armload of snow on my head.

                “I want a garage!” she yelled.

                In the months and years to follow, she brought up the garage topic just to annoy me and I ably dismissed the idea. And why, you ask? Well, there is the lumber cost of a stick-built garage. Add to that the hourly rate of a contractor, the engineered plans, the concrete pad, and then the permits. The total cost of a project like that was just out of the question. So, Cheryl continued to park her car outside, exposed to the elements. I might add though, that on the really inclement nights, I offered to let her park her car in the garage, as long as she mopped the melted snow off the floor.

                Then one day, four months ago, I was driving through an older development outside of town and I saw in the driveway of a home, a metal carport. It had a red roof with red siding and was big enough for two cars, and it was attractive. I wouldn’t mind putting something like that up next to the garage, I thought. It can’t cost that much. I wonder if Cheryl would go for it. So, I drove home, picked her up, and showed it to her. And she said, yes. Now to find out where the owner bought it.

                Walking to his front door, the owner came outside and was only too happy to tell me where he’d bought the building and how much it had cost him ten years ago.

                “Did you have to get a permit?” I asked him.

                “Well, let me think,” the old geezer said, rubbing his chin with his thumb and pointer finger.  “That was such a long time ago. But now that you mention it, I think I did get one.”

                “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll go check on pricing and maybe I’ll get one.”

                On the next Sunday after church, Cheryl and I drove out into the county and found the company that was selling the carports. The owner gave us pricing for an 18 by 25-footer and showed us color options for the roof and the siding. The total out-the-door price was $2800.00. Well, that was a heck of a lot cheaper than the price of a stick-built garage, and it was a no-brainer.

                “How about a permit. Do I need to get one?” I asked.

                He hemmed and hawed and asked where I lived. When I told him, he said, “I’ve never had anyone from that area say they had to get a permit.”

                So, I paid the non-refundable deposit after Cheryl picked the colors she wanted. We were told that the manufacturer out of Oregon would be giving me a call when they were ready to come up and install. I was also given a sheet of requirements that had to be met before they would erect the carport. These items included having the ground level and having two feet of clearance around the perimeter of the building, plus gas and power lines were to be marked. These things were all doable.

                Monday morning, I decided to stop by the Whatcom County Planning and Permits center, just to clarify if I needed a permit. Bringing in the color brochure, I asked the young lady at the counter, “Do I need a permit to put one of these up in Whatcom County?”

                “You most definitely do,” she answered. “An unattached shed less than 120 square feet does not require a permit, but your carport is 450 square feet and as soon as you drive rods into the ground and anchor it, it is a permanent structure.”

                So, the dealer of the carports wasn’t being truthful and didn’t have signage stating that if you buy a carport in Whatcom County, you will need to go through the permitting process. The permit lady helped me set up an account on the computer and printed me off a list of what they required.

                Maybe a seasoned contractor would understand the terminologies of what was being asked but I didn’t have a clue. Like for instance, site plan, elevations, engineered drawings, and to start the permit process, it cost me $150.00.

                “Hmm. This could be harder that I thought.”

                Going back home, I called the manufacturer in Oregon. “Hey, as it turns out, you can’t put up a carport in this county without a permit which your dealer didn’t tell me. I am going to need engineered plans from you.”

                Now, you would think that a company who manufactures the buildings, would have engineered plans to send out to a buyer to help them get their permit.

                “Well sir, some counties require permits, and some don’t. There will be an additional fee for us to send you the plans drawn to the county’s specifications. Being that the carport will have to be built to the County’s specifications now, the additional materials will also be added to the cost of the carport. Do you want us to continue with the process?”

“Cripes! I’ve already lost $500.00 in  non-refundable fees. Yes, I want you to continue!”

“I will send you a PDF form for the specifics that the county needs and you send it back to me when it is filled in,” he squeaked in his mousy voice.

                The form came to my computer, and I took it to the Planning and Permit Police and let them fill in all the numbers that they wanted, such as the ability to withstand a hurricane and the weight of twenty feet of snow on the roof. I then sent the specs to the manufacturer and started my wait.

                In the meantime, there was a permanent lean-to building on the site of the carport that had to be torn down and since they needed two feet of clearance around the perimeter to construct it, I had to cut down two rows of hedge trees. Then I had to level the ground which looked level already. To do this I bought four pieces of rebar and hammered them into the ground in the corners of the 18 by 25 foot dimensions. Next, using my unskilled mind, I ran a string from one corner to the next and using a line level, I tied that length tight. Then went to the next corner and tied it off when it was level. This also worked going to the third corner, but when going from the third corner back to the first corner, the string was three inches too high.   

                “What the heck?”

So, I untied the string from the  corners and started all over again and after leveling each corner, I ended up with the same result.  Returning to the starting corner – three inches too high.

                “Yah, string and line levels never really work well for that distance,” Homer told me over the phone. “Better use a laser level.” I went to his house and borrowed his laser level which to an experienced contractor would make total sense and of course the contractor would know how to use one. After a short demonstration, I returned home to find out that my level-to-the-eye gravel pad was actually five inches high on one side. After a few hours digging with a trowel on my knees and tamping, the two 25-foot runs for the carport base were level within a quarter inch.

Next, I got an email from the Planning Police which told me that if I didn’t have all my required paperwork into their office by a certain date, the application would be tossed out, I would have to open my application over again and it would cost another $150.00. This required yet another trip to the planning office to explain to them that my plans were being drawn and I couldn’t do anything until I received them. I got a smirk from the woman behind the counter as if to say, “We’re going to wear you down until you have a nervous breakdown.” I am so lucky to live only four miles from the county office, since I made multiple trips there to have them explain to a layman what it was that they actually wanted.

My next job was to figure out how to draw a one-square-acre land parcel with all the buildings, power lines, septic and freshwater pipes on an 8 1/2 by 11 inch piece of paper for the county site plan. After buying a 100-foot tape measure, Cheryl and I walked the property and measured everything, getting the distance from the road to the house, the width of the driveway, and the footprint where the carport would sit. All the numbers and sketches were put on a piece of notebook paper. Then, I found some graph paper and I looked at the numbers.

                Let’s see. Looking at the county’s example of what a site map looks like, 1-inch equals 10 feet. Heck, I can’t fit that on an 8 ½ by 11 inch piece of paper. Let’s try 1-inch equals 30 feet.

                By the time the one-acre parcel was drawn to scale, the entire house was the size of a postage stamp and the area for the proposed carport was a quarter by half inch. Oh well. I’ll add a magnetic north arrow at the top and the scale of 1” equals 30’ and it will have to be good enough. Amazingly enough, it was good enough. Actually, I was told that in the old days, site maps were drawn on the face of napkins and handed to the inspector.

                After a few weeks wait, I was called by the mousy voiced sales representative from Oregon.

                “Your engineered plans are ready sir. We will need a deposit of $2644.43 and we will send them to you. The remainder of the cost will be paid at the time that the carport is installed.”

                My deposit was now up to the cost of the originally quoted carport and there was more to come. I gave him my credit card number and moments later, PDF files of my engineered plans showed up in my email box. Now all I had to do was compile all the necessary drawings and information converted to PDF and send them via email to the County.  I breathed a sigh of relief realizing that I had made the County’s deadline and now it was in their ballcourt.

                Weeks later, I received a letter from the County stating that the permitting process was complete and for $850.00, I could download all my permit paperwork. 850 flippin’ dollars. What are you going to do? They’ve got me right where they want me.

                With permits now printed, I made a call to Oregon and told them to put me on the schedule. Three weeks later, two workers drove up with all the steel on a trailer and put it up in two hours.

                Homer and I stood out in the driveway looking at their finished construction.

                “Well, let me just add this up,” I said. “The original quoted price without a permit was $2800.00. The upgraded, engineered carport came to $4596.26. The fees to the Whatcom County Planning and Permits department were another $1000.00 which means my $2800.00 carport ended up costing $5596.26.”

                “Yah, but look at the bright side of this,” Homer added. “You won’t get awakened by the sound of Cheryl scraping the ice off her windows anymore.”

                “So true,” I said. “So true.”

Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes