Aftermath

I spent 450 days, give or take, thinking about my wedding. The celebration surrounding the act of getting married lasted about ten hours. The part where we actually said “I do” took approximately three minutes.

The process of getting married is like being in a play: There’s a production that takes months to develop. It involves a collaboration of players all of whom are focused on the opening night. An audience is present.

One of the ways it differs: opening night is closing night.

Even a showcase has a longer run.

I have now been married for 22 days and I’m still trying to get out of the mindset that there must be something else that needs to get done.

In fact, the show’s over. I can’t help but think, “Well... now what?”

I recently read of a writer who said every time he finished writing a novel, it felt as if a grand piano had been removed from the center of the living room. The room in my head that I had set aside for all things wedding-related is now sitting vacant.

I should stress that I am not unhappy about this. I’m simply adjusting.

Now I can put my attention to … cleaning up that wedding stuff piled up on the chair in the bedroom. My new husband is very curious as to why this has not yet happened. I don’t have an answer for him. I, too, thought I’d have gotten around to it by now.

I may be suffering from a case of Re-Entry Reluctance. When I was in the throes of the countdown and all of those never-ending To-Do lists, I couldn’t wait to get back to my “normal routine,” but from this vantage point, that routine includes laundry and filing. These tasks have never been my forte, admittedly. When I envisioned my newlywed status, I thought of all the reading I’d have time for again. Did I honestly forget that I have always struggled to set aside adequate time for reading? My good old days have never been chock full of quiet evenings and hot bubble baths.

It’s time to tackle all the boring chores I have never enjoyed. And while I'm busy sorting my cold wash from my warm, I'll think about the next project I have in mind. The one that takes up all my time and will fill my head with dreams for the day when I have time to do laundry again. That’s how I’ll know I’m back to my routine.

The Vortex, A Play in One Scene

Cue: De Grieg’s “Morning”
Lights fade in slowly to reveal silhouette of woman standing on a bare stage.

Woman: Oh…

Lights continue to brighten until the audience is illuminated.

Woman: Oh! Hello. Was I…have you been here a while? I feel like I’ve been away for a very long time. Let’s see, I remember the Fourth of July, and then… it’s all a bit fuzzy. And now, it’s – I’m sorry, what’s the date?

The audience remains silent.

Woman: Oh, dear. It’s been ages since I was last here, isn’t that right? You must be quite annoyed with me. After all, I asked all of you here, and then – whoop! I vanish. But it seems I’m back. If that’s any consolation to you. Thank you for being here still! No, really, I do truly appreciate your patience.

It seems I entered the wedding vortex. Have you heard about it? I hadn’t. Well, not really. There are rumors, you know. There are always rumors. But there I was one day, preparing for my wedding, things moving along as they do – and then, Poof! I could feel a flurry of wedding preparation pick up speed, and I tried to shift into a higher gear to better tackle the approaching tasks, but there was a gravitational pull that was stronger than I was. And then, yes, it’s all coming back to me now, I woke up one morning to a whooshing sound and then suddenly I was getting sucked into the vortex. It’s all a blur when I speak of it now, but I am certain that’s where I was. Quite certain…

And – oh, yes! This I remember quite clearly! There was an earthquake! Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing? An earthquake in New York City! It seems so implausible, doesn’t it? But there I was in my office on the 31st floor when the walls started wobbling. My brain didn’t know what to make of it, so it suggested perhaps I was underwater. I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t rule out that option nearly as quickly as one might expect. When the vase began to teeter on its pedestal, I swear, it was something right out of a movie!

I know it was nothing at all compared to what others have experienced. But I was an earthquake novice, you see. I’m not accustomed to my ceiling buckling. When the announcement came over the P.A. system to evacuate, I did not hesitate, not even long enough to grab my purse and phone. That was very silly of me. I would like to think I’d be much more clear-headed in an emergency situation, but to walk away from my money and means of contact? I’d have to give myself a failing grade on that one, don’t you agree?

An with each floor I descended, one of the thousands of employees working our way down the stairwell, I thought of more things to concern me. I didn’t know how bad the earthquake was on a city-wide scale, so my fear got the worst of me. O was scheduled to be on the subway; had his train derailed? Was he all right? My sister would learn of the earthquake and try to reach me; I envisioned my phone ringing incessantly on my desk.

And before I realized it, I was having some odd, pseudo-flashback experience to September 11, 2001.

I say ‘pseudo’ because I wasn’t downtown on September 11. Yes, it’s true that I work across the street from where the towers fell, and when I say that aloud, I realize it brings a level of sustained awareness of vulnerability to my everyday. But I didn’t think it affected me. Go ahead and laugh, I don’t mind, I know it sounds absurd. But I mean it! I don’t have a personal connection with the geography of my office building. And the crowds of tourists lend themselves to the feeling of being in the middle of a giant attraction, and that’s how I feel in Times Square, too.

Mind you, the looming ten year anniversary has brought with it a renewed level of attention to That Day. And yes, the articles recollecting personal experiences from back then have revived some of the emotions. But I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that my own response to a little itty-bitty earthquake surprised me.

Once they let us back in the building, I tried to go back to work, but my boss told me he’d never seen me so pale and to go home and have a drink. I walked home for fear of being on a subway should an aftershock come. I canceled plans to see a play lest an aftershock bring the roof down of the old theatre building.

… and now here I am. When you think about it, there’s nothing quite like a natural disaster (or fear of one) to shake off a wedding vortex, that’s for sure!

A stage assistant runs on stage.

Oh - pardon me -

Whispers in Woman’s ear and runs off.

Well, if this doesn’t take the cake!

Woman begins to laugh.

A hurricane! A real, live, honest to goodness hurricane! (Laughs) I mean, now, really! An earthquake AND a hurricane in one week? Who on earth has ever heard of such a thing?! (Continues to laugh) What’s next? Locusts? No, flying pigs! (Collects herself) Whew. I needed that laugh. Oh, dear. You must all be quite ready to go home.

The audience begins to leave.

Stock up on candles and batteries! See you again soon, I hope! Thank you for coming!

Woman exits stage, muttering “A hurricane! Of all things...It’s practically farcical... Where’s my umbrella?”

The Stand Beside

As of tonight, there are forty-five days left until H and O wed. As maid of honor (or best woman, or – as a colleague called me today – The Stand Beside), I’ve been working on my toast. Most of my brainstorming takes place as I drive up and down the slopes of Haleakala on my way to and from home. I envision myself standing before a crowd of family and friends, H and O beside me, and as I imagine what I'll say first, I inevitably begin to cry. That’s as far as I’ve come. Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.

There is not one particular reason for my tears. I suppose the most obvious explanation is that I feel I’ll be standing in, so to speak, for both of my parents. There’s no getting around that one. But also, it is a rite of passage, and rites of passage by definition mark milestones and reveal what is valued in a culture and to a people. As I envision H's and O’s celebration, I can almost see the silhouettes of those people, our people, who have come before them to this particular rite; they gather around H & O, smiling, nodding encouraging, welcoming them. And in 0 to 60...my tears.

Three years ago on the Ides of March, H and I, on our separate islands, each went out with friends. That evening, I met my young, sweet man as I ordered a Cosmo in my little surf town by the sea. H. ventured out into the chilly night to a bar on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for a friend’s birthday; O was there with his own friends. When H and I called each other the next morning for weekend updates, we shared our news.

H and I had lived together for three years as single women in our early and mid-thirties, respectively. Life was good back then. Many a night, we'd meet after work at one of our neighborhood haunts, order the endive salad and pumpkin ravioli..and a couple of dirty martinis, to boot... and revel in the comfort of it all. We also understood that at some point we'd have to break out of that comfort zone. We joked that if we weren’t careful, we'd find ourselves in our eighties, shorter, wrinkled and still clambering up on the same old bar stools.

Some new moon evenings, we’d wander down West End Avenue to a beautiful church on the Upper West Side. As people strolled their dogs past us, and as the food delivery guys squealed by on their bikes, we'd stand by the curb, sheltered by trees or scaffolding depending on the season, and whisper our dreams for work, creativity and love just loud enough for the other to hear and support. And then we'd walk home arm in arm envisioning those futures, the city's apartment lights and lives surrounding us.

This past July 27^th marked the one-year anniversary of the first Heffalump post. At that time, I was living on the volcano’s slopes with that same young man. Though we lived together and loved each other, our lives were slowly but steadily growing ever more separate. Back in New York, O. had just proposed to H.

One year later, I am living on my own with Petey the dog, a stone’s throw from a stunning, wild, rugged beach. I have just begun to dip my toe back into the world of dating. One year later, H is about be married. One year later, or many years later - depending on when you start counting- life is good. It’s different, but it’s good.

There isn't anything I'd rather be doing in forty-five days than be standing beside H and welcoming in O.

Officers and Gentlemen and Questions

This past week, while on Oahu for a class, I happened upon a strip mall that backs up to Hickam Air Force Base. I was looking for lunch when I realized I was actually looking at men and women in uniform. Everywhere. I was awestruck and feeling as though I’d stepped onto a movie set; any minute now Richard Gere would pass me, heroically carrying Debra Winger in his arms. A woman in my class is married to an officer. Her husband is currently on a submarine. She won’t see him again for a year. She tells me that in the fourteen years they’ve been married, she has probably spent a total of three to four years with him. I try to wrap my mind around this. Maybe I’m fascinated by their lives because they

seem so different from my own.

And yet, I remind myself, it’s not completely unknown to me. My grandfather was a general in the Army. Growing up, our summer trips always took us to Falls Church, Virginia, to visit our grandparents. By then, my grandfather was retired. I don’t remember ever seeing him in uniform. Still, every Sunday, we went for supper at the Army Navy Country Club. But the name of the club had little meaning to me. While the grown ups lingered in the bar, ice clinking in their bourbons, I focused on my Shirley Temple and eating as many ruffled potato chips and creamy onion dip as my mother would allow before we were shooed away to play before dinner. H and I would explore the outdoor lawns and indoor corridors, always ending up in the ladies' restroom. The front room was a lounge with couches and floral pattern covered chairs where ladies sat before mirrors reapplying make-up; the room smelled of grandmotherly powders.

For dinner, there was a long buffet and I remember little of what we ate; I do, however, remember the dessert buffet. A creature of habit, I always had vanilla ice cream with butterscotch sauce. But my favorite part was after dinner when the buffet tables would be cleared, and a big band would strike up Chattanooga Choo Choo. I would dance with my grandfather, my feet on his shoes as he sashayed me around, the scent of his sweet, smoky cigar dancing with us. This is what my memory digs up for me when I hear the words Army and Navy.

And then this. My father attended Staunton Military Academy and had a stint in the Korean War. But when I think of my father, this never comes to mind. He rarely, if at all, spoke of his early days in the military.

This June, H and I spent twenty-four hours in Washington D.C. and visited our parents in their little corner of Arlington National Cemetery. Per usual, we had trouble finding our way along D.C. roads. H. had inadvertently chosen “walking directions” on her GPS even though we were in a CAR. We knew we were thoroughly lost when we turned down a deserted road toward the Pentagon past signs that read - something along the lines of - You Are Not Supposed To Be Anywhere Near Here – Stay Away! When I saw stern looking officers put their hands up in the universal Halt sign, I stopped instantly and refused to budge. I’m not good with authority figures. This meant H. had to get out of the car and walk to them for directions. One U-turn and just a few minutes later, we passed through the cemetery’s main gate.

The down side of having parents die is, well, the dead parents. The upside is that if they’re lucky enough to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery, you get a special pass to drive right on in. I know it pleases my mother to know her daughters are gestured in with a guard’s respectful nod of the head.

Every time I visit the Columbarium, where those who were cremated are kept, I have trouble finding them. I know they’re in a corner somewhere in the middle of the wall, but there are many walls with many corners and many middles, and I can never quite remember if it’s a corner with a tree or not. The irony is not lost on me that I can never easily find my parents, who - even when I do find them - aren’t really there. Just like a dream; it all makes sense, and yet you know that none of it does.

H and I eventually do find them, and we sit and lie on the cool ground staring up at their marble tile. It is peaceful in the open-air corridor. Silent. I read and reread the engraving. Morris Robert Nelson, Jr., 1930-1992 and Margreth Nelson, 1943 - 2002. Below my father’s name, or maybe beside it, is his ranking of 2^nd Lieutenant. I can never remember if he was in the Army or the Air Force, and I feel like a lousy daughter for not knowing. His ranking explains to anyone perusing these walls how he came to be buried in the nation’s cemetery. But it is not the whole truth. It is not even his true ranking. It is, if you will, the cover story. I wonder how many people have a cover story on their tombstones.

A writer, a mentor of mine, once said to me of her parents, “I am the daughter of a writer and a lawyer. It has helped form who I am.” And then she posed this question to me, “If you don’t know who your parents were, who your father was, then how do you know who you are?”

That is a question I ponder.

The Cleanse

The Monday before the long holiday weekend, O decides he’s going to do one of those lemon-maple syrup-cayenne pepper cleanses. He hasn’t been feeling up to par and has decided that a detox is in order. It takes me about 3 seconds before I graciously offer to lend support and join him in solidarity. I, too, will cleanse. See what a great fiance I am?

Not quite. In truth, I have been curious about cleansing for years. I’ve come close to considering it, but I wimped out each time. Recently, I read an article lauding a certain juice cleanse in NYC. I bookmarked the web site. O’s initiative was the push I needed to jump into this purportedly Über Healthy terrain.

The next day, I pored over the site’s information on cleansing, the benefits, the deliciousness of their product, etc. Yeah, yeah, yeah, that was all great and fine, but - what’s this? They deliver? To my door?? Sold. I signed up for three days of juice as well as - oh, why not - the Day-Before and Day-After recommended “transition” menus, comprised of a combination of juices and raw, vegan food to help me ease into and out of my food-less foray.

The night before I was to begin, I drank wine until midnight. I felt like Cinderella right before her carriage turned into a pumpkin. Eat! Drink! Be Merry!

Day One: Pre-Cleanse
7:00am - My alarm goes off. I await the delivery of my raw, vegan Pre-Cleanse Prep. Normally, this is when I make my coffee and toast and read the paper. Today I just read the paper and drink water. My doorbell rings. Game on.

9:05am - My stomach growls. It’s way too soon for this. It must be anticipatory hunger.

9:30am - Time for my first juice: Pineapple and Ginger. Yum! Must remember to sip slowly. This puppy’s got to last two hours.

5:20pm - My tongue feels funky. I suspect all that raw ginger and pineapple played a role.

9:30pm - I have wolfed down my surprisingly delicious raw, vegan collard-green “enchiladas” and am moving on to the raw, vegan chocolate-coconut pudding. At first spoonful, I surmise that vegans may have forgotten what chocolate-coconut pudding is supposed to taste like. Then I realize this probably IS what it’s supposed to taste like. It’s just that my sugar-addled taste buds don’t recognize that. I appreciate my pudding anew.

Day Two: Juice
7:30am - my 3 days’ worth of juices arrive. I’m relieved to see nary a pineapple juice in the lot. I don’t think my tongue could handle another one. I am a little peeved to see that two of my six daily juices are the same. I’m spending 72 hours not chewing. At least don’t give me repeats.

4:00pm - I have a workout session with my personal trainer. He is not happy to hear of my cleanse and warns me I won’t replenish the nutrients I am about to expend in the next hour. I rebut that the website approves moderate exercise. He gives me a look and tells me my workouts with him don’t fall in the “moderate” category. I think I just insulted him. He warns me I’ll be wiped out tomorrow.

5:00pm - I survived my very-not-moderate workout and chug down my coconut water. Only two more hours before “dinner.” Walking home from the gym, I see people eating everywhere I look. In cafes, on the street, in the park, in their cars. I feel like I have a new appreciation for how this city looks to hungry people. I note the irony of being privileged enough to opt for self-deprivation.

8:00pm - O and I are eager to fill the time that would normally be spent eating dinner and drinking wine. We grab our beach chairs and beeline for the Tompkins Square Park’s Films on the Green Festival. Watching Jacques Tati in “Mr. Hulot’s Holiday” distracts me from the beet juice I nurse for the duration of the film. We go to bed early. It seems easier to sleep than not eat.

Day Three: Juice. Again.

The morning gets off to an unexpectedly good start. I’m in a great mood. The sun is shining. I’m feeling clean and pure. I recall my trainer’s words of caution. I don’t feel wiped out at all! I must be in better shape than I thought.

2:00pm - I am so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. I take a two hour nap.

7:00pm - O and I practically run to the movie theatre to keep ourselves preoccupied. We talk about food all the way there. When our movie lets out, we decide to sneak into the next feature one theatre over. We have successfully filled another dinner-less night.

Day Four: Juice. Juice. More Juice.

11:00am - I hear O yell from the other room, “God, I want breakfast!”

The act of eating takes up a lot of time. Without it, our day stretches out before us like a wide horizon. I countdown how many hours before I get solid food. 26, is the answer. I spruce up my beet juice by pouring it over ice and spritzing it with lemon. It’s marginally more exciting that way.

Day Five: Post-Cleanse

2:00pm: I’m chewing! My raw, vegan “couscous” is real food! It’s also... not so great. But I’m chewing!

4:00pm: O and I take a walk on the Highline. We stop at the beer garden below the 30th Street entrance, just to “check it out.” We survey the menus of the taco trucks. We pore over the wine and beer choices on tap. I think we are reminding ourselves that good food and drink are within reach. It’s just that we are choosing otherwise. We take comfort in knowing that it’s there. We have crossed over into pathetic.

6:00pm: O has roasted vegetables for his dinner. He offers me a beet. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I am not eating another beet for the foreseeable future. He insists that this is worth tasting. I relent. I regret. Seriously, no more beets.

Day Six: Return to Food

7:00am: The coffee grinder won’t grind. I have no coffee. A week ago, this would have fallen into the Catastrophe category, but today, I calmly reach for my decaf green tea.

9:00am: I order scrambled eggs, a coffee (small) and a banana from my corner deli. The scrambled eggs are completely tasteless. The coffee is bitter. The banana saves the day.

My cleanse has made an elitist of my mouth.

What have I taken away from all this? Well, for starters, I’m shocked by how little I suffered from lack of caffeine. I’m surprised (and relieved) by how little I missed wine. I am more committed to eating less meat. But mostly, I confirmed what I already knew: how much I enjoy the flavors, textures and varieties of food. I like eating.

And without question, I am definitely more resolved to select quality over convenience. You can rest assured that from now on, I’ll take the long way to work so I can get my morning joe from the good coffee place. That is, if I decide to drink coffee that day. It seems I don’t really need it, after all.

Cogito ergo blogum

Last week about this time, I started a blog entry. I didn’t know where it was going, I couldn’t figure out what I was trying to say, and then I put the computer away to be distracted by something I could figure out. Crossword puzzle, anyone?

Now, here I am again.

Earlier this month, my sister and I assessed the state of our blog. I was concerned that I haven’t said anything new. I voiced my fear that I’m not interesting, that I’m stuck in the past, that my entries are not contributing adequately to the Blog World. And then in my paranoid tantrum, I screeched, “I don’t even remember why we’re doing this!”

Perhaps your next entry should start there, my sister suggested calmly. It wasn’t true. I did remember the impetus for the blog, but I am quite good at being dramatic and my outburst seemed to fit the moment.

This whole blog business began with a desire to explore the question “how did we get here?” The fact is I am daunted by the notion that we all end up where we are simply by taking one step in front of the other. There are decisions we make in our lives that we know are life-changers. Choosing my college, for instance. I knew that was a defining moment. I can’t help but wonder on occasion how different my life would be today if I hadn’t gone to the Midwestern university that prompted my move to Chicago after graduation, thereby determining my first major relationship, career path, friends, and so on.

When I think about how choosing one thing over the next, all the time, every day, has led me to where I am this very minute, I feel like rewinding my life and playing it back in slow motion just to see where I might have done something differently. Sometimes I wish there was a little flag next to what seems like a small decision, alerting me. “Pay attention to this one. This one’s going to matter.”

I’m not speaking about regret. I don't dwell on mistakes I have made. It’s more that I’m thinking of the wanna-be writer who makes a point to get up at 5 a.m. so he can spend an hour working on his novel before he leaves for his day job. I think about the woman practicing Tai Chi at 6 a.m. every morning outside my window. She reminds me that I, too, could get up before work and do something that matters to me. And then I consider how much earlier I would have to get up. Then I think about how much earlier I would have to go to bed, and conclude it’s just not realistic for my lifestyle. In a matter of seconds, I have dismissed a potentially desirable pursuit. See? A Choice.

I go through phases when I fixate on the possibility that one might miss their true calling. Consider the fate of the world-renowned concert pianist had they not had a piano to plunk away at when they were a toddler, garnering the attention of over-attentive parents. Would they instead have never known that they had it in them to be a concert pianist? Or would fate have intervened and thrown a piano in their path?

Never mind the pianist. What about me? Do I have a true calling, and if so, am I ever going to know what it is? Or worse: what if I don’t have a calling?! What if my uninspired means of employment is just going to have to suffice, because maybe there isn’t something better for me out there?!?

And now I spin into my Woody Allen in Therapy mode, which is clearly a bad headspace to be in.

I digress.

Let’s get back to the beginning of this entry. It seems I am not without things to say, nor am I done exploring my initial query. I definitely haven’t figured it out yet.

And so, I blog.

Dating: 1927 -

The other day, a friend’s phone rang and she asked me to answer it. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how. Yesterday evening, I arrived at another friend’s home to dog sit. I went to turn on the water tap, but it’s all hooked up to an alkaline machine and I could not figure out which buttons to push, what the digital number on the screen should read, or which faucet the water is supposed to be coming out of. Don’t even get me started on T.V.s these days.

It has come to this. The only phone, t.v. and water filter I can handle is my own. I sometimes long for simpler times. And yet, not everything has become more complicated. Dating, for instance, seems to have stayed just as complicated over the decades. Lying on my bookshelf is my grandmother’s diary from 1927. That year, Miss Lucile Flannery, was a twenty-four year old southern belle living in San Antonio, Texas. My grandmother’s dating life was quite full it seems. Allow me a few excerpts:

January 2^nd.

Ak! I could cry and cry tonight I feel so awful. Nelson and I had it out tonight. He finally told me I either loved him or it was a case of pure necking. When he said that…I nearly died! Told him I was never going to let him kiss me again.

January 3^rd

I had a date with a new one tonight. Paul is real nice and awfully funny in a droll sort of way but he didn’t make so much of an impression on me. I hope he asks me for another date though because he is a date.

January 6^th

Ah me. I had indeed a wonderful date tonight. Mr. John Joseph Burns. My heart simply fails me when I think of it. He took me to a movie and when we got home, didn’t say, “When can I see you again?”

January 16^th

Margery and I sat at home tonight without dates, but I really didn’t mind and I hope she didn’t.

February 27th

Tonight I have been crying and crying until I am exhausted. My faith in Nellie just crumpled up like paper. I feel like I hate all men! Everything has been so beautiful up to now but it's all ruined now.

March 20th

Nelson is the sweetest thing on earth. I love him.

There are many other tortured moments that year, with my grandmother crying enough tears “to fill a bucket” more than once. Most of this torture was tangled up in her love for Nellie, also know as Morris Robert Nelson, a pilot in the air service. Nellie, whom she would become engaged to later in November and to whom she would be married for over fifty years. Nellie, my grandfather.

1927 vs 2011? Not so different. It doesn’t matter whether we get to know each other over mahjong or pool, via letter or telegram or text. The questions and confusion remain the same. If he didn’t end his text with a question, is it okay to write back? I thought we sparked…maybe we didn’t spark? Did we spark? He seemed so present. Then he wasn't. What if? Would he? Did I? AK! Ah me!

And let me tell you, making it all that much more confusing is the plethora of advice that comes my way, sometimes requested and sometimes unsolicited. Flirt more. Flirt less. Be open. Not too open. Care more. Care less. You’re not ready. You’re too ready. Negotiating the world of dating is kind of like an obstacle course, only the obstacles are set-ups, single's tables at weddings, and mixed signals. If at all possible, avoid parties where you are the only single person and where the game de jour is The Newlywed Game, only… “Oh, sorry, YOU can’t play.” (This happened to me once. Really.)

Dating is not simple. Figuring out what others are thinking, or not thinking, is not simple. It wasn’t in 1927 and it certainly isn’t now. And I like the simple things in life. A phone I can figure out how to use. A good glass of wine with friends. Beach walks with Petey the dog. But the truth is, a good story doesn't usual come from simple alone. You need twists and turns and detours. And when you hit that unexpected dead end in a cul-de-sac, U-turn and try again.

- - - - - -

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM: 1928

TO LUCILE NELSON.

DELAYED BY RAIN BE HOME WEDNESDAY MUCHLY DISAPPOINTED LOTS LOVE

NELLIE.