When you’re a kid, there’s never a thought about sore muscles or joints. You play and run endlessly and effortlessly without any threat of stiffness or pain. Then, one day, you fall and scrape your knee and suddenly know the nasty, burning feeling that surrounds the bloody wound. It’s a warning to exercise caution the next time or the injuries could be worse. Some kids heed this lesson while others throw caution to the wind. A broken bone is the next message. We first experience these growing pains and then there’s growing old!
The only fracture that I ever suffered was while skiing. Actually, I didn’t even get on the slope, slipping on the stairs leading out of our condo and cracking some ribs. It has actually come back to haunt me on several occasions. Skiing is one of the few “dangerous” sports I learned to enjoy despite the risk. It was frustrating and painful to fall time after time but somehow, I endured into my late sixties. I’ve joined the 70+ Ski Club but have yet to buckle in.
I stayed away from most contact sports growing up. Pain avoidance was my mission. With this in mind, I shunned motorcycles after a neighbor lost a leg, steered clear of cars, and cowered when on any ladder, feared heights in general. Still, I’ve been spanked, paddled, sucker punched, kicked in the nuts, hit in the head with a golf club, taken a rock between the eyes, survived a sharp stick to the pupil and was surprised by a falling limb that knocked me out cold. Kidney stones were by far the most excruciating affliction that I experienced, if you don’t count the softball liner between the legs. I’ve also had my share of cuts, scrapes, stitches, and strains. Fortunately, I don’t remember the series of rabies shots they gave me in the hospital as a young child after being bit by a dog. Apparently, it’s more than agonizing. I’ve also never had major surgery or been tortured to divulge government secrets.
I lived most of my youth without seat belts, crossed busy streets without a crossing guard, walked through winter blizzards, survived the unsafe playground equipment in grade school, withstood the kick-back of a shotgun that knocked me on my butt, took hallucinogenic drugs, got drunk, experimented with explosives, dodged falling arrows shot stupidly straight up in the air, and tobogganed behind a station wagon on icy roads. Please, kids, don’t try any of these unresponsible things that could easily lead to a painful outcome.
Growing old may be the most painful thing of all. You begin to feel it in your forties. Aches or pains from arthritis, lack of flexibility, past injuries, and stiff muscles plague every waking hour of the day. Getting out of bed is often a strain, while muscular degeneration and lack of balance begins to take its toll on your body. I’m lucky to still be running in my seventies, but it’s harder and harder to get going and stay motivated as my turtle-like pace continues to slow. Both ankles swell, feet get sore, and bones creak. We went to dinner last night and I watched car after car pull up with elders needing assistance to even get out, let alone navigate the stairs with a death-grip on to the railing. My mom frequently stole a quote from her peers, “Growing old ain’t for Sissies!”
Also see “Feelin’ My Age” Post #923.
It’s soon to be the year of the Rabbit, but already looking like it’s not the year of the Dog, or us, her humans. The Chinese calendar rotates between eleven animals, so Tally will have to wait until 2030 for her time to celebrate. Can she make it until she’s 20 years old and I’m nearing eighty?
My wife has a Lunar New Year’s Party planned at our house for the official holiday on January 22nd. One of the neighbors we invited referred to it a “Looney Tunes Party.” “What’s Up Doc?” The beauty of retirement is that you can have Sunday night parties without having to face a Monday morning work date. Most of our neighbors don’t care what day it is anymore. We’re free to party and be looney whenever we please!
Tally’s New Year is off to a rough start between two New Year’s parties, little girls, party horns, beeps, and fire alarms. She has noise sensitive ears and is still trying to get used to being around my grandkids, especially when the youngest has gotten ahold of a party-favor horn and can’t stop blowing it. All three of my son’s children were over for dinner the other night when smoke from the outdoor kitchen set off the alarms. Tally searched the house for a quiet spot while her legs quivered from fright.
She has always been wary of small children after an incident years ago when a little girl scared her. She usually growls at my youngest granddaughter whenever she comes over but is excited to see the older ones. For once, she didn’t react when all three and their dad came in the front door the other night, but the horn and fire alarm put her over the edge. She finally found peace in the comfort of her bed, away from the crowd. It’s the same place she hides when we have our parties, unless she can coerce a bite of food from one of the guests.
I think our Tally likes the new golf cart, but the neighbor who delivered it honked the horn and she once again cowered from the noise, while showing some initial reluctance to take a seat. Fortunately, he had disconnected the backup alarm, so we didn’t have to deal with more beeping. Once we got her into a harness and the wind began to blow through her fur, she comfortably settled in. This morning, she took her first trip to the dog park to show off this new toy to her puppy pals. She’s now the queen of the parade when we drive around the neighborhood.
We removed the past owner’s monogram from the front panel of the cart yesterday to officially make it ours. Friends have a caricature of their schnauzer, Sophie, to identify their cart. I’m afraid Tally will want the same royal treatment. The main color of our “old fart cart” is champagne that nicely coordinates with my wife’s Lexus convertible. The two vehicles sat side-by in the garage for a few minutes until my wife drove her car to tap class, noticing that the brake light was aglow. She found herself at the dealership facing a $2,800 repair. The cost is more than we got from selling the Solara to make room for the cart. It looks like our New Year luck isn’t much better than Tally’s!
As I continue with Storyworth, I’ve apparently ignored their suggestions on what to write about, as I recall lifelong memories for my family. One of those topics was apparently of interest to my son. “What was it like growing up with your mother?” was their question of the day. I’ve never followed a structured approach to writing, so this will be a different challenge.
Let me start with a little background on my parents. My mother, his grandmother, was a petite lady and a former beauty queen, sorority sister, and college grad. She was a recreation major at Indiana University, so trained to keep people actively engaged. Before she married my dad, she also worked for Red Gold canning tomatoes. It was their top priority to start family, but allegedly due to my father’s ice hockey accident, they were unable to have children of their own. The alternative was adoption, a highly regulated and controversial process that involved raising someone else’s mistake. There were apparently extensive background checks, lengthy interviews, and rules to follow. They went to the Suemma Coleman Agency (a home for unwed mothers) in Indianapolis for guidance.
I don’t know how long they waited or how costly the exercise was? All I know is that I was two months old when they took me into their Elkhart home around Halloween. It was a two-bedroom home, and it was required that I have my own room. When they added my adopted sister four-years later, our living room doubled as their bedroom with a fold-out couch, so Judy could have a required room of her own. This is a strong indication of how selfless they were in adding us to their family.
They did parenting right, whether it was demanded in the adoption contracts or not. They took me to church every Sunday, taught me right from wrong, curbed my language, and made me mow the lawn to earn an allowance. I was given everything but a sense of direction.
Mom was a busy lady as a stay-at-home parent. She was involved in a bridge club, ladies club, collected stamps, and owned a small business called the Calico Cottage. She organized several big birthday parties for me growing up. If I ever needed to borrow a tool, she was a much better resource than my dad who was usually working at Miles Laboratories as Assistant Treasurer. He frequently traveled to Europe, but my mom was never into flying, so family trips were usually by car. Mom was never a good cook, relying mostly on the microwave, clearly evident when the pressure cooker once exploded while she was trying to make applesauce. She was, however, highly organized with a freezer full of neatly stacked soups and vegetables, frozen in the shapes of the very bowls they would be nuked and served in.
Her mother, Grace, was a competent cook, canner, and pie-maker, but seemingly only passed along a jovial nature, love of games, and strong will to her only daughter. I was mom’s treasured son long after the initial adoption agency monitoring was lifted to assure that I was never mistreated. It’s a wonder that I was ever allowed out of the house without constant supervision, but she was rarely over-protective. I remember being gone most of the day while allowed to roam the neighborhood, play in the park behind our house, and even go to the nearby stores. I don’t recall her having to escort me to grade school every day that was about a mile away. I mostly got everything I wanted, but there was a time when she wouldn’t let me go see House on Haunted Hill at the movie theater because it was too scary.
I was a terrible teen, giving her every opportunity to regret ever adopting me. I was ungrateful, lazy, foul tempered, and disrespectful. She was the opposite of all this ugliness and somehow tolerated my hormone-raged moods. I slept late, lived like a slob, and never really liked myself. However, my two best qualities were saving money and getting good grades, important disciplines that they taught me. The only time I struggled in school they drilled me with flash cards to the point where Math was my best subject.
I couldn’t have asked for better parents, but they were sadly never rich enough to satisfy me, whatever that means. We were Country Club members, lived in a nice neighborhood, paid for my college, bought me nice clothes, but somehow it was never enough. We didn’t live on the river, own a boat, take elaborate vacations, or own the first color TV. I’m ashamed of this now in realizing how spoiled I really was growing up. I only hope that she can forgive me. Thanks Mom, for all the love.
I was born on August 27,1951 and was officially adopted in late October. I have some basketball genes in my DNA thanks to a birthfather who apparently played high school ball for North Vernon. However, it was the man that I called “dad” who introduced me to the game as a fan. He must have taken me to several high school games when I was a kid, but one was particularly memorable when he embarrassed me by yelling loudly, “You Hamburger” after a referee’s questionable call.
I made the Rice Elementary grade school basketball team in fourth grade but was a better dribbler than shooter. I would practice in our basement in the winter months, maneuvering around chairs. The low ceilings would only accommodate a round Quaker Oats container with the bottom removed to serve as a basket, mounted on a cardboard backstop. The “ball” was a wad of tin foil formed in a round shape that would fit in my hand. This is how I would reenact the annual Indiana High School basketball tournament, alternating between dribbling the real ball and shooting with the fake one. Remember, there were no video games to keep me entertained back then. At the same time, I would listen to the game broadcasts on WTRC, the local radio station where I would eventually work. By the time spring came along, I could dribble with the best of them, but “couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”
My mom and dad did send me to a skills camp every year, but they also moved me to Beardsley School in the sixth grade, where the kids on the team were much taller. It was the end of my basketball career, although I still loved to watch. “Junior Basketball Camp at Taylor University, the biggest, bestest, camp of all, with plenty of versatility. Bounce the ball down the floor, in the hoop for a score,” were the words of the camp song to the best of my recollection. All my Rice Krispie teammates were there, along with the bigger Beardsley Bomber bullies. In fact, every kid in Indiana that had dreams of winning a high school state championship was a fellow camper. However, four years was apparently not enough for me to ever start a game.
March was a special time in Indiana growing up, but there was always still the threat of snow. The tourney usually started in late February, and I would make a bracket to hang on the wall, filling in the teams around the state that would win their respective Sectional. As time went on, the Peter Eckrich Company would print special posters of the bracket in limited quantities, and I would scheme to get one. The unique thing about this elimination tournament was that all schools were part of a single-class system of competition regardless of size. The Elkhart High School Sectional was played in my North Side Junior High gym, one of the largest in the state seating 7,373. It opened in 1954, the year that the movie Hoosiers took place and tiny Milan High won the big prize. Adding to my love of the game, when the tourney took place at our school, the classrooms were closed. It was even better than a “Snow Day.”
I’ve always wondered how my love of this game evolved. I can only guess that it started with my parents, who as Indiana University grads, cheered on the 1953 Hoosiers who won the NCAA Championship, now known as the “Big Dance.” It was the second time that they won all the marbles and I’m seen in baby pictures wearing an Indiana t-shirt. Maybe this is where it all started. I also have the same temperament as my dad when it comes to watching the game as a fan but have never called a referee a “Hamburger.”
Despite not living in Indiana for nearly three decades, I still follow the tourney every year and continue to dream of making that last second shot to win it all. My high school has never won this state championship, even after it’s now been divided into classes by size of the school. However, it’s still the David vs. Goliath matches of the past that command all the attention. With an enrollment of only 161, the 1954 Milan Indians beat the giant, Muncie Central, to claim the coveted trophy. In their drive to the title that year, Milan nearly lost in the “Sweet Sixteen” to a school with only 14 students, seven boys and seven girls, from Montezuma High, who didn’t even have a gym. The Aztecs practiced in a basement with a low ceiling just like I did as a kid, but I doubt they used foil. Milan proved to be impossible to beat when they went into their famous cat-and-mouse stall game, long before the shot-clock became a factor.
I love this kind of history when it comes to Indiana High School Basketball and tried to pass that on to my son. He was scared of the Blue Blazer that was my high school mascot and instead rooted for our opponent’s furry Tiger. His claim to fame with the sport was two runners-up team trophies in the local Gus Macker Basketball competition. He was also the unofficial barber for his future high school’s state championship team, the Lawrence North Wildcats of 1989. My eighth-grade son volunteered our bathroom for the head shaving ceremonial ritual and left a mess of hair and blood for us to clean up. It’s Tourney Time!
Back in the working days or even back to school, the first Monday of a New Year was a chance to catch up on what everyone did over the Holidays. In many cases, co-workers or classmates were off that entire week, but I always felt that it was a good time to be in the office because there was often little going on. It was also usually a short week with days off or half-days, so it was a good time to get organized for the months to come. Besides, holiday travel was always a guaranteed hassle with flight delays due to overbooking and foul weather. Plus, pet sitting could get expensive.
People would return to the office or school with stories of family gatherings, special gifts, or elaborate New Year’s plans. A new outfit, watch, or other piece of jewelry was waiting for compliments. Pictures of new babies and pets were compared. There were always lots of leftover treats to share if you weren’t starting the traditional diet. Those that were wanted to get temptation out of the house. I was never much of a dieter because I maintained a regular exercise routine, but I did tend to cut back on alcohol consumption or pretend to maintain a dry January.
Back in the days of going to the gym or fitness center, I quickly learned that the first couple weeks of a New Year were by far the busiest, as well-intended resolutions began to kick-in. The locker rooms were crowded, there was a line to use the weight equipment, and classrooms were crammed. You could tell from the number of cars in the parking lot that there were a lot of new members. By the third week of January, all was back to normal. I think that all this activity eventually discouraged me from going, when I could enjoy the quiet solitude of running outdoors. There are no membership fees, people in your way, hours of operation, or malfunctioning machines. All it takes to run is a good pair of shoes.
In the last six years of retirement, I’ve found that Mondays are just like every other day, even as good as weekends used to be. There is no alarm to set, but still a routine to follow. In our case, Mondays are a good day to see a movie, avoid eating meat, and get rid of all last week’s trash. Just like always, it’s the beginning of a fresh new start.
Our schnauzer, Tally, is not a fan of “Meatless Monday,” missing those delicious smells coming from the kitchen and a chance that she’ll get a bite. She’s always in favor of me leaving the house so she has exclusive access to the office chair that we constantly fight over. She refuses to share. The only problem with a dog’s life is you’re never sure if your human will be gone for an hour or a month. As I’ve said many times, I wouldn’t mind reincarnation as a pup, as long as my wife is my keeper.
It’s the beginning of another year, traditionally celebrated with a New England boiled dinner of short ribs and cabbage. The two of us made it through four parties last night and were actually awake after midnight. This has rarely happened in the last twenty-two years since I started keeping a daily diary.
To bring in 2020, we celebrated a late night at Bern’s Steakhouse in Tampa as we explored the Gulf Coast looking for a retirement home. In most cases through the years, it’s been an early dinner and bedtime by ten. However, my wife spent 2017 in a hospital bed next to her mother and I brought-in Chinese for both of them. Back in 2009, during a low point in my career, I actually had to work at Joseph A. Banks on New Year’s Eve and Day in Austin, Texas, the only job I’ve had outside of media in the last five decades. Needless to say, it was not an exciting way to bring in the new. The very first New Year’s Eve that I spent with my second wife was in an Indianapolis emergency room after she sliced her fingers preparing a crab dinner. What a way to bring in Y2K!
Last night, it was appetizers at two different neighborhood homes including ours, followed by dessert at the next stop, and a finale of champagne to watch the ball drop. Ohio State missed a field goal at midnight in a losing effort to Georgia. Remarkably, it was the very first New Year event that we ever attended as a couple. We nearly attended one back when we lived in Decatur, Illinois but canceled at the last minute after days of stripping wallpaper. In all, our celebrations have now been in five different states – Indiana, Illinois, Texas, Oregon, and Florida. It’s actually hard to believe that we’ve never been in an exotic location on this big night or ever planned a vacation around it.
I do vaguely remember a few wild New Year celebrations back in the day when I was more apt to stay up late. This includes a sauna night back in my hometown of Elkhart with former high school buddies when we cut a hole in the ice, smoked cigars, and did shots of whiskey to stay warm. At Albion College, I went to Milwaukee with Fraternity brothers and our dates to the Lake Geneva Playboy Club for snow skiing and to watch Lew Alcinder and the Bucks play ball, my first NBA game. It was another group of friends that convinced me to go to the Liberty Bowl in 1988 for an Indiana victory over South Carolina. We partied on Beale Street to bring in the New Year. There was also a midnight on Bourbon Street with my former brother-in-law after attending the 1993 Independence Bowl. Hopefully, there will be many more to come, but getting to bed at a decent hour is still preferrable.
A neighbor ran by this morning, halfway through a 10-mile training run. He retired earlier this year and decided to do another triathlon just after the new year. I used to be motivated like that, but never to do a run, swim, bike challenge. Instead, I’ve now settled into a daily running streak that reached 5,116 consecutive days this morning. It made me wonder when the last time was that I ran over 10-miles? I couldn’t find a date in my diary but noted five 6.2-mile races I did during this current running streak. There were two in Austin, Texas (Capital 10k) with my best time at 1:03:49 in March of 2012. That was when I was still able to run at slightly over a ten-minute mile pace. I also ran the Human Race in August 2008 at 1:08:25, Helvetica in June of 2015, and The Heartbreaker in February 2016. Those were the last of my distance races with the exception of the Hood to Coast relay event in August 2017. One of my training runs in preparation was 9-miles long and that seems to be the last time I covered that much ground in one morning. There were three legs of Hood to Coast that I finished in a 24-hour period of 7, 5.2, and 5.3 miles each.
Since that time, I’ve settled on a maximum distance of 3.1 miles and consistently cover this most every day. My pace has slowed to 14-16 minutes per mile on average, so covering 10-miles would take me over two-and-a-half-hours to finish, if I wanted to take an injury risk. In the good old days, I could have finished in well under an hour-and-a-half. My best Marathon (26.2 miles) time was just over 3-hours in 1979. It was an International Marathon that couldn’t happen in these Covid times, starting in Canada through the Windsor tunnel into the city of Detroit. Crossing any border is difficult these days. Also, border guards don’t like to see people running.
It was during this time, that I once legged over 120-miles within the course of one week (over 17-miles a day)! My legs often feel like concrete anymore, but at 71-years of age I’m lucky to have avoided serious injury. It takes about a mile to even loosen up and then I begin to tire. There’s certainly a great deal of admiration for those who can still compete as fellow Sexagenarians. For me, however, it’s often just challenging enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
“That’s gonna leave a mark,” is the movie line delivered by Chris Farley in the comedy Tommy Boy. In real life, however, to make your mark means “to do something that will be remembered or that makes one famous or successful.” At 71 years of age, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be famous, but I’ve been a successful brother, friend, father, grandfather, husband, stepfather, and businessman, with a few slips along the way. There has yet to be a statue to be erected, or a monument built in my honor, but I’ve seen my name etched on a few plaques, trophies, and certificates.
I continue to write for Storyworth, a gift from my family, that requires me to write my life’s story. It’s kind of like writing your own epitaph, so I apologize in advance for blowing my own trumpet. I can almost see myself speaking at my own funeral, so please bear with me.
Both of my grandfathers, Ross Adrian Hancher and William Jennings Johnston, along with my dad, Burton Lee Johnston, have achieved military honors, with their names inscribed on the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument in Indianapolis. My greatest accomplishment might have been avoiding the Vietnam draft that took the lives of several of my high school classmates. They never had a chance to be a father, husband, grandfather, stepfather or businessman. I was fortunate to have a college deferment, attending both Albion College and Indiana University where I graduated in 1973.
I was married for the first time that year, had a son in 1974 and became a grandfather in 2007, 2009, and again in 2018. I remarried in 2001 while spending over 45 years in the media business (radio, agency, TV, and newspaper) before retiring in 2016. There have been no Hall of Fame honors, but the Indianapolis Advertising Club once named me “Man of the Year.” I’ve also earned several sales awards in the business, but the main benefit was a rewarding career that comfortably helped to support a growing family all these years.
Being adopted, I really now have two families while discovering over 900 DNA connections. My birth name was Jerry Lee Bannister and I have met several members of this group. I often wonder what life would have been like had I not had the good fortune of being loved and raised by Burt and Cathy Johnston? They left their generous mark on me, the most important in my life. It made me what I am today.
My resolutions have been updated and I’m ready for the New Year. The first big change will be the golf cart in the garage. Today, we did joint errands with our one remaining car, as I dropped my wife off for a pedicure. I picked up some medication, dropped off a license plate at the BMV, got the oil changed, and tried to get a car wash. They, of course, could find no record of my visit a few weeks ago when I was promised a month of free car washes. I thought they would route me through anyway but instead they went through the trouble of removing some barricades to allow me to exit. Chances are I won’t be going back there again.
I’m looking forward to the bowl games, even though Indiana football will once again not be participating. I feel like I made the wrong choice of schools and regret not going on for a Master’s degree so I’d have another team to support. I’ve tried to adopt the hometown schools where we lived through the years like Illinois, University of Texas, Oregon, and Oregon State but it’s just not the same as rooting for the Hoosiers – good or bad. I grew up in Elkhart, Indiana, so neighboring Notre Dame would have been a likely choice, but that didn’t work out either. I also partnered with Purdue University for years when I was with WLFI-TV in Lafayette, Indiana, but the home state Boilers are still too much of an I.U. rival to always find endearing.
I’ve made a lot of bad choices picking teams through the years. I’m sure the Atlanta Braves are worried that I’ve moved nearby their Spring Training facilities. I can hear them saying, “please don’t pick us.” The Cubs, White Sox, and Bears have already suffered enough with me as a fan. The Indiana Pacers and Portland Trailblazers have also found me to be undesirable. “Adopt the team where you live,” they’ve urged me as we’ve moved from market to market. I’ve now owned homes in six different states with little to show for it. Fantasy sports have proven to also be disastrous for the players I select. “Please don’t pick me to be on your team. I beg of you!”
You would think that I could have made a fortune gambling against all these teams but that has proven to backfire, as well. Ever since I went the wrong way on the basketball court as a kid, sports have become my frenemy. I enjoy watching but don’t dare risk picking a side. Only the 2016 Cubs have proven me wrong after years of frustration. Come to think of it, I never really claimed them as my team but followed them regularly so I could engage in conversations with my dad, son, and nephew, who were avid fans. I even saw them win a World Series game! By the same twist of fate, the White Sox had one good year in 2005, after I had stuck with them as my team for 46 years. I saw them win two World Series games that year, another highlight of my unrewarding sports history.
I hope that 2023 is a good sports year for me, but I won’t hold my breath. I doubt that I will make it to Wrigley Field or Guaranteed Rate Stadium, formerly Comiskey Park, this year, although I have great memories of attending games with family. We saw Mickey Mantle play at Sox Park and watched Sammy Sosa launch two homers at Wrigley to top Babe Ruth’s historical mark. There are too many father/son/daughter moments to recall, but win or lose, from generation-to-generation, baseball is always our greatest bond.
As we bring in the New Year, this is a week of anniversaries – 14 years of running every day and 6 years since retirement. With my son Adam’s mother and grandmother in town, along with a favorite Aunt, my wife and I waited to celebrate Christmas with the grandkids. We had dinner together and opened presents at our Islandwalk home. I’m waiting for a video of the Magic Mixies Cauldron that we didn’t have time to fully charge last night. It got the greatest reception of all the gifts, so I’m anxious to watch the reaction as it boils and bubbles to reveal the secret prize.
All of these important occasions were melded together in one week, along with the neighborhood progressive New Year’s party. We’re hosting the second appetizer leg of the four-stop home tour on our street, followed by dessert and a champaign toast. If all goes well, we may make it to that rare midnight hour, but we have an escape route planned just in case.
This is my 72nd Christmas, having celebrated my 71st birthday in August, although I remember very little about the beginning years. I was adopted at two months and didn’t have to go through the hassle of buying gifts for many years. Those were the good old days! This year I had three grandkids, their parents, and a wife to buy for. We met my wife’s two girls and their spouses in Kauai just after Thanksgiving for that half of the holiday celebration and just the two of us spent Christmas day planning our next trip. It was our 23rd together, twenty-one as husband and wife.
I’m copying this post from blog.johnstonwrites.com into Storyworth, a thoughtful Christmas gift from my son and his wife. I’ve written a daily article nearly every day since retirement, so much of my life’s story has already been captured. Retirement is not without Hassles is the primary focus of this Go Daddy site, but I also ramble on about sports, adoption, travel, running and pets, with a bunch of silly poems mixed in for variety. Since it is a public blog, I tend to avoid using any specific names so as not to embarrass anyone in my family. I’ve exposed just about everything about myself, but it’s likely only of interest to close friends. I will edit this page to make it a little more family friendly when I paste it into the Storyworth site. Hopefully, it’s WORTH reading but tends to be more personal therapy.
