Make yourself at home. Put your feet up. Grab your favorite beverage and prepare to enjoy the reads.



In Memory of Jeffery, Fire Rescue Cat

The Dowager Queen, so lonely in her old age made her wishes known: a friend, a companion, I must bring her, to share her last days. The shelter had none old like she, only rambunctious kittens and healthy young ones. No, these were not to be.

Keli needed one of her own, a cat with tired bones and wise heart, not wanting to chase and play. When they called me,
I suspected another mismatch.

But, there he was, a sad derelict rescued from the forest fire. Home unknown. No chip. No collar. No front tooth. A tired old man. But eyes full of life and some kind of rare understanding glowing there.

The shelter called him Charlie, but as soon as we came home he told me it wasn't his name. I had suspected as much. He said, Jeffery would do. Hard of hearing, that is the name he responded to.

Both a bit crotchety, Keli and he bonded as old folks do, tolerating personality quirks, respecting each other's space, and a riled spat or two.

They grew close enough to share the heater, the bed, the food bowl, but not me.

When the Dowager Queen died
Jeffery did the most remarkable thing. He sat shiva with her body.

In awe, I put my feelings aside and let him be with this mysterious cat ritual until he walked away. No one can ever tell me cats don't grieve, because that's what he did. The same as me.

Jeffery didn't eat. Already skin and bones I couldn't face another loss so soon. I went against advice and adopted a pal for him. He didn't much like Ninja but enjoyed the challenge of being first at the food bowl. Being top cat brought back his interest in life and I had hopes for their friendship to develop.

It was only six months and five days after the Dowager Queen died when Jeffery went to join her. We left for a check up visit to the vet. On the highway, we drove past where the skeletal remains of thousands of trees stood testament to the fires from which Jeffery was rescued. Frantic in his carrier, he seized.

He sleeps forever beneath the big pine where he sat many an evening, perhaps missing his old forest home.

I look at his pictures and wonder. How could a cat with me so short a time make such a big hole in my heart?

 It's been one year since Jeffery died.


Can I be a Biggest Loser?

Dear Biggest Loser,

I cried tonight watching when Corey fell, not once, but twice and he didn't get a chance to make it over the finish line.

I cried when he said he wants to lose weight, but he doesn't understand why he keeps eating. And while he's eating he keeps asking himself why, while a part of him says to stop, but he continues to eat anyway.

I cried when I saw the oxygen mask over his face and the Emergency vehicles ready to take him away. I cried as I took what was left of my carrot cake I had been munching on while watching the show, and tossed it in the garbage.

I'm like Corey. I know my health is quite seriously in danger. I really want to lose weight. But, I still eat incorrectly and while I'm doing it (or not eating at all) I still ask myself why and still do it anyway. There's no part of me telling me to stop, though. It's more like, "Shhh... don't think about it."

And I would be like Korey trying to run a mile. I would fall down too. Not only can I not walk a mile. I cannot run at all. I haven't been able to run since my leg popped out of it's socket. I did it twice and then that was it. I never ran again.

I had a rare bone cancer starting when I was 22. I had seven recurrences for eleven years. A portion of my pelvis was removed along with some pelvic floor muscles, as well as a muscle on the inside of my leg. There is no built-in prosthesis holding me together.

Originally, I was told, if I survived, I would never walk. But, I did walk, and have had to get out of a wheelchair and learn to walk again more than once. I've done the best I can all these years. I'm 65 now. Even with my eating the wrong foods, I'm still able to keep my (over) weight stable these last 15 years. But, I'm afraid as I become more inactive I will gain more.

I know I have gone against the odds so many times and learned I have something in me that fights even when I think I have given up. But, this part of me that cannot eat right, wont eat right, defeats me.

I keep wondering how soon it will be when I'm in a wheelchair again, and at what point I wont be able to make myself walk. There's longevity in my family. I don't want to spend the next 30 years unable to walk.

I don't need to lose hundreds of pounds. If my goal weight were to be the healthy weight I had at age 18, I would only need to lose 60 pounds. But, I know my challenge to lose that amount of weight would be just as difficult for my body and mind as if I had hundreds of pounds to lose.

I doubt I would be accepted for the show. I have other medical problems that would probably disqualify me.

I wish you would have a Biggest Loser season where you help disabled people to lose weight and show us how to do it with adaptations equal to our physical capabilities. Could you do a Biggest Loser show like that? If you do, I bet it would be the biggest challenge that Bob and Jillian (and Dr. Huizenga) have ever faced.


A Royal Life

A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia
By Jean P. Sasson

During the early seventies I tutored male Saudi students in English while they attended college in the Los Angeles area. These students were of the same family from which the author, Sultana derives. Therefore my interest in this book was piqued, as soon as I realized my connection. I read until my eyes were too blurry to see the pages and fell asleep with it in my hands. I awoke with it and began reading it again, until it was finished the same day. Then, I re-read it.

Being born a Princess, the youngest of ten daughters and one son, one would think, what a charmed life! Regardless of the great wealth of the family and the opulence of her palatial surroundings, according to Princess Sultana, she led a pretty dismal life, without the freedoms that we take for granted. Yet, she seems to have a strong spirit of rebellion and a sense of justice that made it difficult for her family to control her. Because of her position in life, she was exposed to trips to Europe and education beyond the norm.

Fortunately for Sultana, the ritual act of vulvectomy was not performed on her the way it had been for some of her oldest sister’s, and she was indulged enough as a youngster to assert her independence early. Because of her position she was able to become more aware of women’s rights and in her own veiled way, is an activist. She indicates the dictates of her religion, the control of the religious community, and the severe consequences of any actions taken by any woman in her society, keep her from causing a major revolution. Ironically, one could consider her the Gloria Steinem of her people, yet Sultana, upon reaching an age of maturity, covered her body completely by donning the traditional garb of the veil, and submitted to a traditional arranged marriage with her cousin, and other things one would not consider to be part of the life of a women’s rights activist.

As I read, I was very aware of my discomfort in what I considered to be the egotistical and manipulative personality of the author. I had little sympathy at times for her complaints of being oppressed when she described the incredible advantages she has because of her wealth: trips to Europe, vacations in palaces, wearing Paris fashions, and precious gems and jewelry. My attitude was, Such Poverty!!! Poor little rich girl! But, when I got over my bout of judgmental envy, I realized that all the wealth in the world is not worth the lack of basic human rights.

The facts presented by Sultana, of the things every Saudi, both male and female, take as a matter of proper living is difficult to grasp. It appears to me, the men, given all the power, certainly do not appear to be very content with the burden of it. How happy can they be? The women in their lives, their own mothers, sisters and wives are forced by circumstance to behave in fearful, subservient, whimpering, obedient, and less than human way. It appears to me that the women whose spirits have not been broken, become cleverly devious, manipulative, revengeful and unapproachable. How can love or trust be built into any kind of healthy relationship?

The descriptions of life as given by the author, for the average Saudi are appalling. To think that all in the name of Allah, little girls are tortured, (genitally mutilated), sold, or married off to old men to be raped, kept confined to quarters all their lives unless accompanied by a father, brother, or other approved male, denied proper medical care, and punished for the crime of looking someone directly in the eye are beyond comprehension. It is interesting to note that none of this is dictated by the Koran. It is the Imams (the religious leaders) who swarm over every community who have the true power in Saudi Arabia. I often wonder if the men in Saudi society are just as entrapped as the women.

It was with horror and revulsion, I read this book. As much as I wanted to throw it across the room into the fireplace, I could not stop reading it. I do not recommend this book for those with queasy stomachs or those who only prefer to read high quality Literature. I do recommend this book to anyone who wants to understand the complexities of other cultures,
and especially, to any man who wants to understand how women think and feel. It doesn’t make any difference that Sultana is from another country. Her feelings about the way women are treated reach across the borders and reflect the hearts and true feelings of all women regardless of background.


Let's Kill Cancer!

October 2nd is the anniversary of Lance Armstrong's cancer diagnosis and it will be a global day of action. On this day we gather to celebrate survivorship and commit to working towards a world without cancer.

Host a LIVESTRONG Day event and put it on the map. Raise awareness. Raise funds. Register to create your event page and tell the world.


If you can't pull together hundreds of people to organize a big bash, that's okay. Get together with some friends, decorate in yellow, wear the LIVESTRONG wristband and remember those in your lives affected by cancer. Or choose some other significant way to participate with the rest of the world in the plans to kill cancer!


A Free Spirit

Trapped like an criminal

in a confining cage

pacing back and forth

until the hopelessness

sinks in and takes over.

The creature sinks

down into lethargy

and a fog of indifference.

The free spirit that once

burned brightly

locked away,

what remains, but

a smothered coal

in a cold damp cave

close to annihilation.

The tiger dreams

of the chase.


Digital art and poetry by Elizabeth Munroz


The Hardest Thing to Do

A first person account of Daniel Mercy:

I remember when my best friend, Johnny, came home from the hospital. We were both five. But he was half my size. He had been living with leukemia but then, he died. I remember that was when I first decided "when I grow up I'm going to be a doctor".

I soon forgot that dream and before you know it, all I wanted to do was ride my bike and be a racer. As I peddled like a speed demon delivering the newspaper throughout the neighborhood, I always avoided the house of Johnny's parents as much as possible. I got very good at throwing the paper from impossible distances, making sure his parents weren't in sight. If they were, I would go back later to deliver.

As I grew older Mom and Dad encouraged me to be an accountant. They pointed out my thriftiness with the income I made from my paper route as a way to point out that I was a "natural" for such a career. I would be secure with good money and I would always be well off, they said.

It was at that time I took up art and scribbled away on any piece of paper I could get my hands on drawing the microbes I saw in Biology class, drawing the map of the stars in astronomy class. It was then I decided I wanted to be an astronomer

But, the day came when at a neighborhood festival, I ran into Johnny's parents. They had gone on with their lives, and had other kids by this time. I met them one by one, right down to the youngest, the five year old they had named John.

That day is indelible in my mind, it was the day I got serious and began to study. I made up my mind, it would be medical school or nothing. It wasn't easy. I thought it was the hardest thing in the world I would ever do. But, it wasn't.

I thought the hardest thing I ever did was when my first patient died. I went home in a daze, I punched the wall in the garage before I went in the house and cried my eyes out in my wife's arms.

But, that truly was not the hardest thing I ever did. Not the hardest thing I will ever do.

The hardest thing I ever do, is every day... Sometimes it is when I have a new patient come in the door with worried parents.

And later on, after you have tried your best to save that little life, you would think the hardest thing is being honest and telling the kid its over. But they are so understanding and wise beyond their years. They already know. They are relieved. They want it to be over. They know it is time. They knew it before I did.

But that's not the hardest thing. The hardest thing is telling the parents there is nothing else that can be done. That it is all over. Time to go home and wait it out. Get hospice. And knowing the child wants to go, but the parents cling. That's the hardest thing.


Note: This was a fictional writing exercise in character development.


I am human.

I bleed.

I ache, my chest heaves

I cry real tears,

sometimes wipe them away,


Where did that come from?

I am human.

At my weakest,

a ball of bread dough

waiting to arise

through the science

of warmth and yeast.

At my best, a wondrous child

of the Creator.

I am human

swept along the riverbed

with the rest of humanity

carried to the open sea,

not to be lost,

but to find myself

as one among the many.

I am human

knowing nothing

except of what I convince myself.

My illusions in flux,

one day transforms

into another until

I look back

and recognize only

someone has been there.

Could it have been human?


Life is full of Tigers

Here's a little story. You've probably heard it before in one form or another. This story concerns a man or maybe it's a woman, who is being chased by a tiger until she reaches a cliff where she totters for a moment before falling.

Already know this one? Read it anyway.

As she tumbles down the side she grabs hold of a small shrub growing on the face of the cliff. She hangs there, poised precariously between life and death contemplating her next possible move.

She looks up. Above her the tiger remains panting and growling pacing back and forth. She knows she can't climb up. Looking down she sees another tiger prowling in anticipation at the bottom of the cliff. Where did he come from?

Then to make life even more interesting, she notices two small mice are now busily gnawing away at the main stem of the shrub on which her life literally depends.

Simultaneously she sees some wild roses growing just within reach. She plucks one and puts them to her nose to sniff and thinks to herself, "Ah... how intensely beautiful the fragrance!"


Life is full of tigers and the adrenaline and stress that come with them. This week tigers have been everywhere I turn. And those darn mice are but the gnawing worry that kept me awake last night wondering what I could do about the situations I was facing.

But, today while awaiting the results of a ten hour long surgery of a patient who is in my bone cancer support group, and hanging out with my elder lady buddies in the book discussion group I attend, and coming home to my three cats who come running to me like puppies to be petted; it was then I stopped and smelled the roses!

Who knows? Maybe all those tigers I've been dealing with will turn out to be made of paper after all.

Note: Both photos were taken by me. The Sierra Rose photo was enhanced in photoshop by plucking a rose from another picture and placing it there next to the dying bush.


Jasmine Elizabeth's Birth Day

I remember the day you were born. Your Mama was already ensconced in the hospital birthing room with a bevvy of nurses bustling around.

No... wait a minute. They weren't exactly bustling. Maybe more like joking. They were all quite jolly, you see. It seems they all knew each other and your mom from high school and this was like a big reunion. Maybe they all weren't nurses, either. I mean... how could that many nurses be assigned to one patient? Maybe.. um... maybe one was a nurse, one was an aide, one was going off duty and one was hanging around. I really don't know. But, it still boggles my mind that in the center of all these giggling women, sat your mother, calm and tranquil, almost invisible, it seemed, like a beautiful jewel hidden behind a veil of serenity. She had such an amazing aura about her countenance.

Your grandmother was there, too; sometimes involved with the "Ladies of the Court", sometimes focused on your mom. Always the hostess with the mostest, making sure everyone was happy, everyone's needs were met, often relaying messages to those outside, always a smile on her face. Isn't that just like your Mima?

It all reminded me of a nature show I once saw about a beehive, where all the busy bees gather around the Queen Bee. They were buzzing and active, and the queen was simply gestating. Though she's the quiet one, she's the one expending the most energy. Perhaps, in a way, she could borrow their energy in order to make her job more effective. I'm just speculating on that, of course. I know so little about apiculture.

My son, your cousin, was in a new high school associated with Ball State University called The Academy, and since it was the beginning of the school year, the students weren't spending their time in the dorms on the weekends. You must have been born on a Friday, now that I think of it. I had previously committed to pick up some other students and bring them home with Xavier that day. It was such a long way from Indianapolis to Muncie, and at that time there was no such thing as a cell phone. There was no way to get in touch and call another mom to take over the responsibility.

So, as the sun crossed the sky, I sat there rubbing your mama's feet and wishing you would soon bless the world with your presence. I didn't want to miss it for the world. But, the hours passed and it came closer to the time I was to pick up your cousin and his friends. I knew it was time for me to leave. I sent you a message in my thoughts, asking you to wait until I returned.

Xavier was standing on the sidewalk outside the dorm looking a annoyed and embarrassed that his own mom stood him up, and showed up late for that first very important weekend. His friends didn't seemed too concerned and when everyone piled into the car and I explained why I was late, they all understood.

So, there we were speeding down Highway 69, and I mean it. I was exceeding the speed limit, maybe way too much, because everyone was pretty quiet. Soon enough we arrived at the drop off point and we headed east on 70 hoping that you had waited for us that extra forty miles.

I cannot express the sadness I felt that I could not be there for your mom during that time and to welcome you into the world. Yes, of course, your Mima was there, as it should be. But, oh, how I wanted to be there too, but you had arrived before us. By this time there was a nurse, practically on guard outside your mother's door, keeping everyone shooed away. All she would do is announce that the Auntie was present. So many other relatives now were out in the hall, I thought for sure I'd be overlooked.

Yet, still the Queen, your mother had summoned Xavier and me inside and we all hugged, apologized for not being here and talked about our various experiences since last we'd been together. You were not in the room, having been taken to the nursery. Another disappointment for me. I had wanted to hold you, even if I was late. But, that was not to be, either.

After a while the window blinds were drawn on the big nursery window and you were pointed out to me and Xavier. I stood there in awe. I had never in my life seen a baby like you. There you were with your legs firmly planted in the air like a bird on a perch just waiting to take off. Seriously! Has anyone ever told you about that? I expected to see a little snuggled bundled with a dark little head peeking out the top, but those legs of yours were not to be confined.

I think of you often like a bird, always ready to fly through the sky to explore the world, to come back and perch on a branch. Not a very romantic image for a baby girl I guess.

But, now that I think of it, soon, like a fledgling, you will be preparing yourself to begin your journey into adulthood. When the feathers of your wings grow in fully and you are ready, I can see you soaring with the air fluttering behind you, the sun warming you and the clouds smiling as you go by.

Happy Birthday my dear precious namesake.


Minimalist Book Seller

I've now gathered another eighty books to haul off to see if someone wants them. There are two other bookstores in the county of which I am aware, that will buy or trade books. Or I have the option of selling on half.com  I have a dear friend who has offered to help me maneuver their system. She's done quite well selling her books there.

Decisions, decisions. Do I take the time and energy to load books in the trunk of my car, including the ones rejected already by one bookstore? Or, shall I cull out the ones that will sell on half.com and make some cash? The advantage of the first is the simplicity of unloading books all at once. But there is no guarantee, of course, they will be purchased or traded, and I might just come home with a trunk full of books anyway, and nothing to show for my time and energy. Do I want to spend a couple days driving around the county to drop books off, waiting a few days and returning only to be told, "We want these, but not these." or worse yet, "Sorry, we don't want any."

The disadvantage of selling online is that I'll have those same books, not in my trunk but stacked up under the table in the living room, (where they are now) taking up space, having my home in disarray, and having to be dealt with. The advantage would be that two people will be attending to this. It might be fun!

In both cases, receiving money of any sort will still be up to chance. Perhaps the leftover books could be sold on ebay in a lot. I've always wanted to try ebay selling. I certainly buy enough things there, which has got to stop if I am to continue working towards a more minimalist lifestyle. I will need to ask my brother, who sells on ebay all the time, how easy or complicated it might be.

I wonder, too, if the rejects would be a kind gift to donate to the Senior Center, or an insult. Some of those well read paperbacks might not be wanted. When I am down to the last should I donate to the thrift shop? Or just toss those rejects in the recycle bin?

In the meantime, I still have seven other shelves full of books to consider in the future! Too bad I just don't have the courage to release them through Freecycle and let someone else quickly and easily take them off my hands. Why do I want to be so responsible in dissolving my book collection? Am I simplifying my life? Is this how to become a minimalist? Is there a right way, a better way to do this?

Related posts

Part 1 - Overbooked
Part 2 - Take Some Books Off My Hands
Part 3 - Is Dreaming of Book Disposal a Nightmare?
Part 4: Stealing from the Book Store


Stealing from the Book Store

Seventy five books I turned into the Capitola Book Cafe to be purchased or traded. Surprisingly. I was offered $76 trade or $44 cash. Guess which offer I accepted?

Interestingly these offers were made upon only twenty eight of my books and the rest were given back to me. I took the trade and ended up with three new books of my choosing. Two of them of great importance to me, and the third will be read and passed on to someone else. It was only $8 and marked down because it was someone else's trade-in book. I not only feel like I got a deal, but I got a steal!

And I didn't spend all of the $76 trade. I still have $24 left over. I intend to get a cookbook for someone I deeply care about who loves to cook. Well, at least he likes to look at pictures of food and read the recipes. He already has a great cooking style and repertoire. I'm not sure he would take on a new recipe to try out. But, I know he would love the book, and since his birthday is coming up, it's a perfect gift, (aside from the sobakawa pillow I already have in the closet).

See related posts:


Calls for Submissions


Deadline: September 30, 2010

We are a small hand-stitched publication and will consider poems of one page or less. Please submit up to three poems. No previously published work will be accepted. No simultaneous submissions. Entries should be submitted within the body of one email. No attachments, please.

Email all submissions to
Submissions Manager Carol Deprez 

Subject line: Echoes Submission

Questions? Paula Anderson, Editor
Subject line:  Echoes



Deadline: September 30, 2010

They read unsolicited submissions and have included well-known poets.

For guidelines: Send SASE to:

Cave Wall Press LLC,
P.O. Box 29546
Greensboro, NC, 27429-9546

or visit http://www.cavewallpress.com/



Deadline: November 15, 2010
Prize $1000 and publication

Perugia Press announces its annual contest for a first or second unpublished poetry collection by a woman.

Submit manuscripts with a $25 entry fee. Send an e-mail, SASE, or visit us online for complete guidelines.

The 2010 winner, “Each Crumbling House,” by Melody S. Gee, is now available from our web site.

Perugia Press Prize
P.O. Box 60364
Florence, MA 01062




Deadline: November, 2010.

Looking for Creative Nonfiction by Lesbian Authors

Arktoi Books, an imprint of Red Hen Press, specializing in the work of lesbian authors, is calling for book-length submissions of Creative Nonfiction.

For information, please visit





Deadline: December 1, 2010

Theme: The Sex Poem

Edited by Patricia Smith

How do we re-energize and reinvent the sex poem? We identify the 100 words that are the most blatant offenders, and we declare them off limits. That forces us to examine the act without the customary escape routes, those words that say "I don't know how to say this, so I'm saying this."    

For a list of the forbidden words, please email 100Wrds@gmail.com.     

Submissions of any length or style will be accepted at the same address. Please, no more than three poems per submission. As of yet, no publisher has yet been wooed for this project, but the search is on.


Magnolia Journal publishes socially engaged literature by women.

They are accepting works of fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry on topics of social and political significance. Full submission guidelines

available online October 1st.






Artists and writers featured in Her Circle use their work as a means of addressing identity, gender, ethnicity, politics, and statutes that surround and shape women's lives, challenging us to reevaluate and re-imagine the world in which we live.

We accept book reviews, guest blog posts, and feature articles on topics related to women's literature and visual arts.  While we prefer unpublished material, we will consider works that have already been published in print or online.

Submissions are accepted via email, with the content pasted or typed into the body of the message; please do not send attachments.

Submissions may be sent to the following:

Book reviews,

The Writer's Life blog (guest blog posts, short Q & A pieces),

UpClose interviews, Writing from the Margins, and special features,





(Imbibing and Production)

Deadline, November 1, 2010

Napa Valley or others

Please submit a maximum of three poems and a brief cover letter with contact information to http://www.juddshill.com  “Arts & Recipes” and “Poetry.”

Selected poems will appear on the Judd’s Hill website and winner will receive a very big bottle of wine if it is legal in your state. No fee for entry.





A literary journal committed to standards of excellence and the Christian faith is soliciting authors and artists for their upcoming issues. They will publish two print issues each year and a website ( http://www.rockandsling.com ) with expanded content for art, pod casts of readings, author profiles, interviews and more.

Whitworth University,
300 W. Hawthorne Road,
Spokane, WA. 99251



Mystery Windows

My bathroom was created with windows high above the shower/tub as was usual in the day before bathroom ceiling exhaust fans were common. The idea was, turn on the shower, open the window, let the steam out.

Needless to say, this is a very convenient perch for my cats. Bambi, the bug watcher, especially likes this spot. It's fascinating to see her leap from the edge of the tub to this high window ledge. Sometimes she almost slips on the tiles which adjoin the edge of the window. She grabs at the screen to catch her balance. Therefore "cat claw holes" in the screen, and a great invitation for Bambi's favorite snacks to make their entrance!

Recently, I've noticed something odd. No matter how clean  the bathtub is scrubbed, by the next day, a sprinkling dirt has magically appeared. I thought maybe the cats were tracking it in, or it was falling off the bottom of their feet as they leaped up to the window. But, common sense tells me that indoor-only cats have little opportunity for little chunks of dirt to fall off their furry feet into the tub.

It was a mystery until today. I stood in the tub to close the window as there was a chill breeze coming through and I was about to draw water for my bath. When I did so, bits of dirt fell down. Then it occurred to me! The dirt was coming from years of accumulation in the ridge of the window ledge. Each time one of the cats leaped up there they were disturbing the "stuff"! It probably would never bother me much if my cats were outdoor cats, but my little pristine babies are white! Also, I just don't like the idea of them being exposed to that yucky stuff every day, not to mention my having to continually clean out the bath tub.

I grabbed the shower hose and began spraying the window. I really couldn't see exactly where to spray because I am barely tall enough to reach the window even to open or close it, and certainly not enough to look into the channel in which the windows slide back and forth.

I was so surprised how much dirt, dust and dried bug parts came floating down the wall tiles in the stream of water, even a living spider!!! good thing I'm not afraid of spiders. Can you picture the water spraying all over the bathroom as I run out screaming?

I continued to aim the spray until the drain got plugged. Uh oh! I hadn't thought of that! Once I got the drain unplugged I attacked the window again. More dirt!!! More plugged drain! Cold wet feet! Water dribbling down my arms to my elbows into the ends of my sleeves and ending up in my armpits. Ugh! But, I didn't quit until the water ran clear!

Housekeeping hint: When cleaning windows, check the windows along the ledges!!!

See Bambi's side of the story HERE.

Twilight is not a book

“For years I never knew whether the twilight was the ending of the day or the beginning of the night.

And then suddenly one day I understood that this did not matter at all.

For time is but a circle and there can be no beginning and no ending.

And this is how I came to know that birth and death are one. And it is neither the coming or going that is of consequence.

What is of consequence is the beauty that one gathers in this interlude called life”  ~~~ W.O. Abbott