I took this test I saw on Turtle's blog....

I'm not sure if this is a good or a bad thing ... (grin)

We Wish You a Merry Christmas....

This was one of my mother's mirror paintings. She did them every Christmas for a long time... I just loved them. I know it's early, but...


My mother's mother was an artist. She didn't start painting until she was in her mid 50's, and she started with water color and segued into oils. I would think it would be easier the other way around, as water colors seem more unforgiving. You can make a lot of mistakes with oils and just keep covering up... my kind of craft! I may put one of my grandmother's paintings here someday. Maybe not.

My mother was artistic, but, since she kept her children around her, she didn't have much time to pursue art. She did hand color black and white photographs of us, and did a pretty good job of it. I still have her 'photograph coloring kit' which seems quite fresh, even now. The one thing she did have time for when we were young was Christmas. Somewhere along the line she started painting over the mirror in the living room at Christmas. She worked from magazine pictures and no two pictures were ever totally the same. Through the years she perfected and enhanced them so that, for a while, they were truly works of art. I have a picture of her somewhere on a stepladder, painting away... I'll have to see if I can find it.

As she aged and we aged beyond the 'living at home' stage (a noticeably longer process for me), the mirrors started getting 'simpler'. One of the last was just a Merry Christmas scrawled across the mirror...

I still miss the mirror paintings. I should start them myself...

If only I had a mirror anywhere in this house...

me

The Sheik Of Araby...

To be totally honest, sheik is the wrong word... the name of the dog was Sultan. He has a wonderful story, so settle back and get a cup of hot chocolate and picture this:

It's around 1888, in Foochow China. My great grandmother was about to, or had just given birth to my grandfather. My great grandfather took one of his many trips and went to the Monastery of Saint Bernard in Switzerland. While there he sent a huge ring of leather, rigid in type, about 2 inches wide with a heavy brass buckle. He sent this to Julia, my great grandmother without any explanation. She thought it might be a belt for her to wear and attach things to the brass bands, but she most certainly was puzzled.

Meanwhile, Sultan, as he was called, was making a very long and perilous journey for a cold climated dog. He traveled to the Mediterranean Sea and then through the Suez Canal to the Indian Ocean, improving his unhappy existence by totally charming the ladies of first class, who said "How is it, good Captain, that we did not know this beautiful creature was on board... we beg of you to allow him to remain with us". Such patting and petting he had never known before, and he made the best of it until the temperature rose. When the heat of the journey overtook him, the captain had buckets of water poured over him, and finally sheared off his hair, thinking that would cool him. The immediate result of that was sunburn, and at some point he got into the deck tar, so that when he came joyfully down the gangplank in China, julia put her face in her hands and turned away in terror. Now she knew the point of the leather 'belt'.

The Chinese were terrified of him, and called him the great tiger. To quote Julia, "Chui se lau hu, ai ah, keng cheng twai" This is a tiger, ai ah, this is a very large dog... This intimidation, of course, was the point of having a dog this size guard my grandfather. It took Julia quite a while to finally get Sultan to obey, he had been on his own for too long. He had a habit of going to the open air markets and taking a hank of something choice and bringing it home, followed by some Chinese merchant, screaming...

So here he is, tame at last, with my grandfather in the house on the hill in Foochow.

Later, when they returned to Boston, Sultan was thrilled at the first snow, and apparently ran out and threw himself into anything that looked like a snowdrift, so happy to be back in the climate he loved.

and I have no idea why he was called Sultan...

me

Wai Gong

That's supposed to say 'Grand father" (Mother's father). Each type of grandparent is different, which makes Chinese an excellent language, as you don't have to say, 'well, I mean My mother's father, or my father's mother"... tedious. The gentleman on the wall is my Great Great Grandfather, John Norton Coffin, who was a captain in the 5th Mass. during the Civil War.

My grandfather was born in China. I cannot tell you how many people will look straight at me when I say that and ask if I'm Chinese. No, seriously. And they're not all children... But now we must step back in time a bit to get to China in 1888.

My great grandmother (and I'm certain there's a simple word for that in Chinese that sums up both Great Grandmother and Mother's great grandmother).. but I digress again. My great grandmother graduated from Medical school as a doctor in 1877. She went to (then) Foo Chow China in 1878 as a Medical Missionary with a women's group. They took the train from Chicago to San Francisco. For my Deadwood friends, General Crook was on that train, as was President Hayes son. The General was there with troops because of robbers.. sigh... How dashing! How daring!

While in China, my Great grand mother (Julia) met my Great grand father (John), who was working for Hedge and Company, importing things. I have no idea what kind of things, but he made a goodly living at the time. He was younger than she (you can see pictures of them on my website), and apparently quite smitten with her. She wouldn't marry him because she didn't want to be married, she wanted to be a doctor. Her mother's life was not a good one; 8 children and three of them lived. I believe Julia had decided to never suffer her mother's fate. He finally wore her down, though, as they were married in 1884. My Wai Gong was born in 1888. Again, I think that this was something Julia might not have wanted, although there are indications that, once here, my Wai Gong was adored.

When he was born, Julia was quite ill with Cholera, and the doctors there despaired of saving her life. They thought my Wai Gong was born dead, or at least unsalvageable, and they delivered him with forceps and put him aside while they worked on Julia. The old Chinese woman who had be hired to look after him picked him up, without being seen, and took him to the servants quarters where she 'breathed life into him'. His survival was quite the surprise.

and his first words were in Chinese...

We'll talk more about him later.
me

It's your birthday and you know it clap your hands...

My kitty wanted to make me a Birthday drink... isn't that sweet! She's wearing her super kitty cape, which is why she gets to use the blender... I have no idea where she got the fish. Wait.. what's this charge on my e-bay account??!

Daddy long legs... and the mouse

My father, at age 11. When he grew up, his legs always looked so much longer because his upper body was foreshortened by TB and whatever else (body casting, fusing)... He looks so serious...

My father died 22 years ago today, two days before my 40th birthday. I'm sure he didn't plan it that way, but that was how it happened. The two are forever intertwined.

I've been transferring old super8 movies onto DVD this week, as part of a Christmas plan. I haven't been watching them while I'm transferring the information, but I did take the first finished one over to Mom's to show her. She has a little trouble with some of the people sometimes, but whenever she sees my father she lights up. The movies were taken from 1972 until 1983. They started with the birth of their first grandchild, my brother's son (also named after my father, who was named after his father, which makes my nephew a "the 4th"). Fortunately, they named their son Calvin, and broke that cycle! But I digress.

We don't have video tape of my father, so his voice is absent from these movies, but it is SUCH a joy to see his face and see him moving and laughing and holding my nephew and niece with such love... and making the mouse.

My father used to make a mouse out of a handkerchief.. it was one of our greatest joys. it wasn't so much what it looked like, as it was an elongated body with the two ends used for ears and tail, one folded in and the other left out... it was what he DID with it. I watched it again today. He made it move. He made it look as if it was desperately trying to get out of his hand, and then he would pull it back in and it would jump out again. It was real. I watched the face of every child he did this for, and it was real. Just one of the tricks my father had up his sleeve.

I miss him especially this time of year..

long legs, mouse and all

me

No No! Not LObotomy!! Phlebotomy!!

Don't you just hate it when they mix up those two??? Dang...

I had my first phlebotomy the other day. No, not the "we're going to take a bit of blood from your arm to test it'... I had the real deal... the big Kahuna. 500cc's of red stuff SUCKED from my arm. Or at least that was what was supposed to happen. Of course, in keeping with all my VERY SUCCESSFUL doctor appointments this year, it just went so smoothly...

right..

In case you aren't up to date, I have Hemochromatosis. It's only the most common genetic disorder in the U.S., and the least recognized. Of course it's mine... They call it the Celtic Curse, because it mainly occurs in English/Irish northern Europe genetic mixes... and boy, am I mixed. So far (not counting any encounters with some delightful gentlemen) my genetic mix includes: Irish, English, Welsh, Scots, German, French and... well, that's about the main thrust of it.

Back to the phlebotomy. The problem with Hemochromatosis is that my body doesn't get rid of Iron. It holds it. Not a big thing until it starts to build up so much that it loads in the liver and pancreas and other useful organs. Then it's a very big deal. We think it killed my father.

Oh yeah.. phlebotomy (can you tell love that word?)... the only way to rid my body of excess iron is to BLEED ME (maniacal laughter inserted here). My family hates it when i say that... bleed me... but it's true. So I need to be phlebotomized on a regular basis, depending on the iron load in my blood.

and this week was the first time.

Now, I've donated blood bunches of times. No big deal. I have found, however, that hematologists tend to travel with oncologists... I have no idea why, unless it's because the names end the same. You could sort of combine business cards, I guess...

ANYWAY, the office where the phlebotomy was performed is one who's main purpose is to PUT something IN your blood. There were people there receiving chemo, or something else, I know not what. First the little technician tried my right arm, in spite of my protests that my left arm seemed better to all the donation people. She managed to raise a hematoma somewhere that seemed to be nowhere near the vein. It's still bruised. When she finally seemed to connect, the blood would coagulate as soon as it left my arm.. She switched to the left arm and had no better time with that, and finally had to sit and hold the needle in my arm the entire time the blood was SUCKED out of me. All 500cc's of it... I was NOT a happy camper.

and I have to go back..

again and again

I have a plan, however...

no, I really do

honest

me!

Jardine Ski Club

My grandfather (my father's father) on skis, sometime in the 1920's, I think. Another great picture from a pile of great pictures of people about whom I have NO information... except for Poggy...

In my mother's house, in the front bedroom (my old room) there is a small piece of furniture with doors and shelves. I cannot think of what it would be called, so we'll leave it at the above description. Into this small piece of furniture my mother put pictures and albums she got when my grandparents died, from both sides of the family. My mother and I used to go through the pictures often, remarking that, although some of the people were obviously relatives (my brother's eyes appear more than once), we had NO identification on most of them. (an aside here... if you have pictures, make notes... ). When I say we used to go through them often, I mean just that. It would kill a long afternoon, even before Mom started having strokes. I emphasize this because, in spite of the many times we went through the boxes and albums in that small piece of furniture, I never saw the guest book until I started packing up some things to put away this year.

The guest book for the Jardine Ski Club.

I NEVER saw this before. Now occasionally we would run into a picture that seemed particularly tantalizing-someone that neither of us had seen before, who seemed more 'related' than most and we would agonize over the identity of the occupant of that picture. But this was a largish GUEST BOOK. I would swear it wasn't in that small piece of furniture the last time I was looking at things. But there it was, large as life, earlier this year... go figure.

Now I've been searching for Jardine, Montana. The closest place that keeps popping up is Gardiner, but I'm thinking Jardine is a ghost mining town. I can't find it anywhere. It is possible that the name of the ski club was whimsical, and the actual lodge was somewhere close, but many of the signers of the guest book list Jardine as their address. I don't have a clue. What I DO have is this lovely guest book, with signatures of so many people, and so many of them relatives of mine, including my grandfather. Apparently, in spite of his health being damaged by TB, he could still ski... and don't you love that picture!

The first entry in the guest book was made by my grandfather, Edwin Thomas Schenck in 1921. (on closer inspection, he was not the first, he merely put his name there at the top... that is SO Schenck!) The last was made in 1943, at which time the owner of the cabin (and founder of the ski club?) was 86. Fortunately, someone included his obituary in the guest book, so part of that mystery is solved. Some of my relatives refer to him as an uncle, but I have no idea if he was a relative or just 'uncle Tom". hmm..

"Funeral Services held for Thomas H. Lewis, MONTANA PIONEER". I love that part. He was born in 1857 at Mount Vernon (which, if you have been following these discourses, would put him in the right part of the country to be related). His father built a number of ships for the government. At the age of 18 he enlisted in the 7TH CAVALRY and (unfortunately) participated in campaigns against the Nez Pearce and Crow Indians. I don't love that part. He came to Gardiner in 1889 and erected some of the main business buildings in the southern Park county community. He later located in the Crevasse Mountain area and for many years had been prominent in developing mineral resources. He discovered some of the outstanding tungsten mines in the area. He retired in Jardine. He never married. He died in 1945.

A hell of a life, if you ask me...

and..

He liked to ski...

Tom Lewis- Montana Pioneer and my???

This is, as nearly as I can tell, a picture of Tom Lewis. He's related to me Somehow. We don't look a bit alike, except for the beard...

On the back of the picture it says "Taken at the Cabin, Will send another as soon as snow is gone showing full cabin', Tom. I found other pictures of skiers. It appears from the guest book that my grandfather was there when he lived in Denver, as were other members of my family through the years, from Los Angeles and New York. I can't imagine them driving to Montana in the Winter, but I did find a picture of someone next to a small plane..

The plot thickens...

My Aunt came back, from the New York Fair...

The next line is , "and she brought back a rocking chair".... My Aunt Emily. My father's sister. I just love this picture... MY sister looked like this as a child, but never looked a bit like my aunt as an adult. This is a good thing. I got my aunt's 'built' as they used to call it. This is a bad thing...

The title of this blog is misleading... it was the only song I could find with Aunt in it (other than go tell Aunt Rhoddy (grin)). This is such a great picture. My Aunt was born in 190.... 0.... WAIT A DANGED MINUTE! Ok.. here's what I believe (and know) to be true. My father was born in 1912. In February. My grandparents were married in 1905.. and my aunt, to the best of my knowledge, was 8 YEARS OLDER THAN MY FATHER... whoooaaa... OK.. I'm going to have to check that out. She must have been born in 1905? I'll get back to you on that. hmmm...

Well, until I figure that part out, here's the story I had to tell. My aunt, from all pictures and stories, was a 'darling' child. She loved to dress up until she died, and often told people that she looked like Lucille Ball... the only resemblance I ever saw was that she died her hair red (grin). She was AROUND 10 when my father took ill with his back (broken or TB or whatever). At that time, a really critical time in her life, and for the next 6 years, he was the center of attention. Period. Her life must have changed dramatically. I do know that she married poorly, and had two children. One seemed to fare well, but her daughter was problematic (she said, being nice about it). I don't suppose she had much of a chance. I always felt a little guilty that my Father got all the attention; I was glad that so much was done to make him as well as he could be.

She moved in with my grandparents and took care of them (and my father took care of all of them), and then continued to live under his support until she died in 1976. She was probably an alcoholic... my first real experience with one. I remember her, older, as a sad, morose, frequently drunk woman, which is terribly unfair for us all... She had a great smile in better times, but a sad sad life after all...

And so I love this picture of her... serene in her power and beauty, before it all fell apart....

me

Come live with me and be my love...

My grandparents on their wedding day, in 1905. I love the little dog sitting on my grandfather's feet, and the smile on my grandmother. I haven't seen a lot of pictures of her smiling...

We'll get back to some of my travel stories in a bit, but for now I'm heading back down the family memory lane. My father's parents were both born in 1877. For some reason that seems like such a long time ago, and yet they were so much a part of my life that I can't really believe it wasn't just the other day.

I don't know how they met or where. I do know that my grandfather's family lived in Mount Vernon New York (let's call him Poggy... I'm sure it was a nick name for grandfather... or something). My grandmother, Bonnie (as her last name was Bonnell), lived around that area. She was baptized in Brooklyn, and, later on, the family lived in that area for a while before coming to California.

They married late for their time. They were 28 years old. I'm sure that Bonnie thought she was an old maid at that time, as age was always an issue with her. I don't think we knew how old she was until very late in her life, if at all. She lived to be 95 years old. Poggy died at 86.

I think my grandfather was searching for the job at which he could excel. He had several before they landed in Florida, where my father was born. There was an 8 year difference between my father and his sister. She was the oldest. Poggy was a pharmacist at one time and became quite the banker while in Florida. It seemed a good match for his talents. He was a patient, quiet, serious man, with an ear towards listening that set me at his feet more than once. I find it interesting that both my brother and I worked in banks long before we ever knew he'd been a banker. The good match didn't stick. He 'came down' with Tuberculosis and eventually passed it on to his son (in his back and bones) and his daughter (her lungs), weakening both children considerably. It wasn't his intent, of course. He had to leave his job in Florida and went to institutions in several states before the family finally settled in California. My father basically 'carried' him from the time he was old enough to work. He adored his parents.

My memories of them when I was young were vaguer (spell check accepted that word, but it doesn't look or sound right (grin)). They were 66 when I was born, and 70 when my sister came along. I remember them as always being old. They dressed 'old' and were sedate, maybe due more to infirmities than age on Poggy's part. My grandmother, who took such good care of my father when he was ill, was the most patient person I knew... simple and sweet. She used to French braid my hair when I was young. I can still feel her long fingernails parting the hair and making tight, pretty braids on my head. This was a definite change from my fairly impatient Mom (who, if you recall, cut my braids OFF when I was 5 and sent me off to school one day (grin)).

The one thing I do remember about my grandparents was that they loved each other. Doted on each other might be the word. I never saw them apart, until he died. They had been through a great deal in their lives; illness, the depression, my father's condition. I'm sure they had their moments, but I don't ever recall seeing them yell or argue or even glare at each other.

Sometimes, the old ways are the best...

me

and he saw her standing there...

This isn't a great picture, but I love it... it was taken from a slide and then it's been out for years and has faded. I'm actually surprised that I got it to look this good...

Joe and I traveled around the country in 1976, looking for someplace we could get along. Along the way we learned one of life's great lessons. If you can't get along here, you can't get along anywhere. A cheap lesson after all, because the trip was a treat (not counting all the battles). We traveled all over the country, hitting about 30 states and a bunch of miles. We fought in JUST about every state, but still had some incredibly good times.

We had a cat named Lucifer. He was all black, and it seemed fitting. He was a cat's cat. He, who hated riding in a car anywhere, seemed to know we were fixing up the VW camper to go away, and he sat in it while Joe fixed it... He refused to be left behind, and we were happy he decided to go along. He slept in between us in the small bed in the back of the van-his back to me, as I never moved, and his paws to Joe. Anytime Joe moved, Lucifer would put out a claw or two and Joe would roll back over. I watched this happen more than once, and marveled at Lucifer's cunning, and the fact that he never once woke up Joe!

We ended up in my favorite campground in Joseph, Oregon. Lucifer was never chained or tied or in any way restrained the entire trip. It was a different time. We figured that it was his idea to come along, and if he ran away, he was a big cat and could take care of himself. He, of course, never lost sight of the camper, in spite of the times he seemed to disappear.

The deer come to the campground in Wallowa lake. They seem to know that they will be fed (not so much anymore) and NOT hunted while they are there. One day, both Lucifer and a deer caught sight of each other, and were mightily confused. The deer, as you can see, has her feet splayed, ready to run from this incredibly small cat (she knows the scent of cat, but was so curious she overcame her fear). Lucifer, who had been grazing as she, on the long grass around the camper, was just plain curious. I crept up to make certain that he didn't startle the deer (or she, him). I love this picture. I have one of them grazing together just before this shot was taken. I love that they are more curious than afraid...

He hated when we came home and stopped camping...

me!

On the Road Again...

This was the motor-home I had for a couple of years. It was built in 1978, and I cleaned it up 'real good'....

For a brief while I traveled in a motor-home. It seemed like a dream come true when I first saw it. My sister and I were going to share it, although they only used a a couple of times. All the years I camped, I would wander around and look at people in their motor-homes and think, "wouldn't that be super!". I polished and scrubbed and painted (most motor homes have the same basic color... it's the color of paint used on propane tanks.. a sort of non rust basic off white!.. go figure!). My first trip was joyful EXCEPT...

I liked it fine enough when I was actually sitting in the campground. The ability to get dressed STANDING UP, was a treat, and the shower was GREAT and the table where I could read and be warm and look out the window at the rain was INCREDIBLE.. and somehow it was all lacking. Here's what I learned about myself. I LIKED the little van. It was easy to drive, it was more than enough room for me in the back, it was cozy and needed no hook ups (other than electricity where I could find it). It was easy to drive. I had to say that twice, as it was the first thing I noticed. The Motor-home got about 8 miles to the gallon on a good day going downhill. I never counted on being able to travel more than .. oh... about a 100 miles before I started looking for gas. It was a bitch to drive in the wind. I drove through a forming tornado outside of Sturgis South Dakota. The wind was so intense that it actually LIFTED the motor-home off the pavement, and blew rain up UNDER the windshield and down the inside. The only thing that kept me on the road was the fact that I could see sunshine in what seemed to be about 300 yards in front of me. I later read that it touched down close to where I was driving. I didn't much like that, but I wouldn't have liked it in the van, either. I spent the night in Spearfish with a storm that raged from all directions. The poor tent campers went and slept in the bathrooms of the KOA. So it was a dichotomy- fun when camping and not fun to drive (except for being the BIGGEST THING ON THE ROAD which WAS fun (grin) ).

but... was it really fun when I was camping? Aye.. there's the rub. One of the reasons I love to travel is meeting people. Invariably, people ask me about my traveling alone; traveling in my little van; about not having any amenities; and we talk. I LOVE to talk. Ask anyone I know. What I learned with the motor home was that I didn't meet as many people. Either I was spending more time INSIDE, or I was less approachable when I had the motor home.... quell shame! I wasn't as bohemian, I'm thinking, and was just some old woman traveling alone. I don't know, but it was a marked difference in interaction. PLUS... picture this. Nice motor home. Spend the night. Get up. Take a nice cozy shower with lots of room to change and dry off (not usual in the campgrounds, except for Oregon State Parks)... Pack up.. then CRAWL under the motor home and unhook the sewer and water lines, pack them up, and go to the campground showers to get clean again (grin). Not nearly as much fun as it seems... With my little van, all I do is drag the electric line in through the window and take off...

Now.. if only I could stand up in it...

me!

On the road ag... BANG!

Just an aside. I learned that you check the tires on a motor home (there are 6 of them) by feeling them. If they are inordinately hot, it's a bad sign. I left Joseph one morning to go back to the coast. When you first start up with 6 tires, it takes some time for them to all 'get in round' together, but I noticed some bumping that seemed to last longer. Got out. Felt tires. Looked at tires.. nothing... it's 72 miles to the main highway from Joseph, and I stopped more than once and could find nothing. Stopped in La Grande to get gas. Looked at Tires.. felt tires.. NOTHING. Got on the main highway, where there is a center divider that bounces sound back at you. CLEARLY SOMETHING WRONG... crept off the ONLY exit that would take me back to town (I would have been stuck for MILES) ... crept back to town..

and look at the tire... (shudder)

me!

Take me for a ride in your car car...

My first car. A 1955 Mercury, previously owned by my voice and piano teacher... a real tank!

Ok.. enough about family for now, we'll get back to them in a bit. Now we're going to talk about cars!

I love cars. I've had a bunch of them in my life, and I've had my favorites and some real tankers, but I've loved them all at one time or the other. My first car, seen above, was one that my father thought would be a 'safe' car. It's a good thing he paid attention, as you'll see in a minute. He got research from somewhere about the safest cars and would let me have no other than what was on the list. So my cars were never 'cool', but I AM almost 62 years old, so there must have been method in his thinking.

If you notice, this car is not particularly intact. I was taking a friend to work after school (and this is truly another story for another time, as he was dating my best friend at the time and later... well... we got very close (grin) ). We parked across from his work when I heard a squeal of tires and leaned AWAY from the window just as a 1949 Ford hit the driver's side door. And drove off down the street, with pieces of my car careening behind it. The license number of that automobile was LCY 995. 1961. I remember it well. I wrote the license number in the dust on my dashboard... assessed damages to us, got out, cool and collected and burst into tears when I saw the side of the car. The perpetrator was a 16 year old kid who wasn't supposed to be using Dad's car. No insurance. He hit a car just before he hit mine, and was leaving THAT accident when he lost control and hit me. I've often wondered what kind of person he became.

The good news was that the car became the BEST car to take anywhere! We used to take it up in the hills; we used to paint to for football games; we put Band-Aids all over it; it was the most fun! It cost $500. We got $450 for the accident, which would have done nothing to fix the car, as the front axle was tweaked, but when added to the $225 that we got when I sold it, allowed me to get that '56 Ford!

I loved that Ford. I used to drive it as if it was a stick shift auto, starting in low and moving through the gears so decisively that it's a wonder the transmission wasn't sitting on the ground at some point in time. I could take ANYTHING in that car (partly due to the fact that I BELIEVED I could, and never backed down from a challenge)... I can do that now in Mom's Cadillac, but somehow it ain't the same (grin).

I moved from the Ford to a Buick... the biggest car they ever made, a 1962 Le Sabre. I think I had 3 or so accidents in that car, none of which were my fault (well, I might have been driving a little ASSERTEDLY). I also had several tickets at that time, but quickly learned that wasn't as much fun as the accidents, so I quit breaking the law (grin). I was on assigned risk for a while... I can't imagine why! Several cars ran into the Buick... and never left a mark! It was some car car.

After that, I had several cars that were not loved as intensely as the first cars. Then Joe and I had a volkswagen camper, which served us well. I gave it to him when we split, so he would always have a place to go OTHER than my house. Cheap at twice the price, believe me. As the shirt says, better to have loved and lost than to live with the psycho for the rest of your life.

As I had no car after joe, i took on my father's delivery truck, a 1969 Ford van. It had 90,000 miles on it when i got it, and I did some of my first, best traveling in it. sigh... It required a lot of attention, but I was younger and had the time... I drove it for 8 more years (!) finally giving it away after I got my 1985 Astrovan.

Now I have my Astrovan. It's a nice van. I like it a lot. I loved it's younger sister, the 1985 version, which was a FAR better vehicle than the 2002... isn't that a shame? But again, it gets me where I want to go and I can sleep in it and drive it for hours and hours...

and I LOVE to drive in the car car..

me!

I'm going for a ride in the car car...

The 56 ford... transmission intact (grin)

Paradise by the dashboard light...

As much as I dislike Southern California, I can't bitch about the weather. Well, I CAN, but there is no real point to it, and it just makes everyone else mad at me... I've been going through pictures lately, cleaning out unwanted flack and found this, so I decided to put it up, just because it's so pretty. It's from my front window, and the ocean is just right out there.

However, I'm going to write about cars next, hence the title...

so look at the pretty picture...

just another day in paradise...

me!