Birthday Boy!

Today is Michael, my manfriend's birthday. I was asked recently why I call him my manfriend. Well, I was dating him and we seemed a little long in the tooth to call each other girlfriend or boyfriend. My friend said call him your manfriend, that's what my mother would call him, your manfriend. So it was, manfriend stuck. I long for the days when we used to go skiing for his birthday every year. It was fun for me, but just watching the unmitigated joy on his face as he skied down some of the steepest hills, riding along, going around moguls, as if he was flying, well, it was like watching the best testosterone filled ballet ever. I miss those days when we would be surrounded by friends and snow, lots and lots of snow. He is never as happy as when he is skiing down a double black diamond hill, gracefully maneuvering through the snow. Our son Thomas skate boards, and when I see him weave on his board, it reminds me so much of Michael it makes me tear up. By now everyone who sees what I write knows we are faced with a rather unpleasant quandary of what to do about his impending move away from us. This might very well be the last birthday I get to be with him for a while. Yes, it makes me sad, very sad, but I will say that while he is here, in front of me, coming home from work to this house, I cherish every single minute. I notice everything about him these days. I notice every new grey hair on his head, every mannerism that may have escaped me before, every syllable he utters, even the ones where he is talking about dog pooh. He is without a doubt my manfriend. Michael and I met years and years ago at college, when I was a sophomore and only 19 years old. He was a whopping 22. He was an "old man", what they called upper class men in band. We were both going to Ohio University, and I had gone to band camp for marching band. I knew everything about marching band in high school, but let me tell you, being in the OU 110 was a whole different animal. Michael was on the staff for the band camp and busy doing all kinds of things to help out our director. One job was he had to take pictures of all the new people, so the director could put faces with names. He would stand outside the dorm we were staying in and put us one by one up against a wall and snap the photo. Every time he did it, he got asked the exact same question, "Why?" I was just another face in a long line of newbies he had to photograph. He was surly and short in his answers, even snapping at me when I asked the inevitable question. I couldn't help but feel something was different about this guy, something was extraordinary. I stared at him until he turned around and asked, "What?" I shook my head and headed back to the herd that was my group. I knew then as I know now that there really was something pretty amazing about this saxophone player with the surly attitude. Michael and I dated in college and after. I felt so drawn to him, so riveted by this boy, this brunette, sinewy youth, who was funny, smart, handsome and focused. We were like magnets that always found ourselves next to each other, but we wanted such different things in our youth. Michael wanted to travel, be free to do what he wanted when he wanted. I wanted kids, a home, a family. I knew we were at odds, and he did too. Out of love and respect, we did what felt very unnatural, we let each other go pursue our individual dreams. Love is what brought us together in the first place and love is what escorted us right back out of our relationship. Because it was out of love we decided to part, we made a decision to keep the friendship. Our friendship grew over time, with our acceptance and our expanding lives. I did get married and have kids, and Michael came to the wedding, eventually becoming Betty our youngest, Godfather. We did double date, including our significant others in our friendship. When he broke up from his latest girlfriend, we talked it out. When my marriage failed, he helped me move. We were there for each other in ways I could not have imagined when I was 19. Michael has been my friend when I needed one the most, and I have been his friend when he felt alone and distraught. I look back now and see that is where the real love started, in the showing up for each other without any expectation. We saw each other as people first, treading carefully when needed and making the other laugh when least expected. It is our foundation, this friendship, this companionship and mutual respect. Had you asked either of us way back then, if we would be married now, I doubt we would have seen it. But now, in this time in our lives, it seems completely right, and nearly unthinkable for things to be any other way. Our love sneaked up on us. It came softly, not with overwhelming passion at first, but with quiet walks, and inside jokes, and total appreciation of who each of us were to each other and ourselves. I was right when I saw extraordinary surrounding this man. He is in every way. He is the best friend you will ever have. He is the kindest person you will ever meet. He is generous to a fault, inclusive to his world, gentle to those who are weak, and able to show unbelievable strength when required. My 19 year old self, feeling nothing but a gut instinct, knew enough to stay close to the young man with the agitated demeanor at band camp. I knew enough to treasure him first as a person, the same way he treasures me. We are who we are as a married couple because of who we are as friends. Today we celebrate his birth, the anniversary of his arrival. I can't imagine how this world would look to me without him. He changed my perception of how I see others, how I respond, how I think. His influence is everywhere in me, as if a part of my DNA. I have mannerisms similar to his, now. After being married, we have started to acquire physical traits where there used to be only emotional ones. I tell him all the time, one day I will have a goatee, and a larger nose, while he would have glasses and a craving for chocolate twice a day. (He got his first pair of glasses just last month. Our oldest now calls us Pawpaw and Memaw when we watch television.) Today is one of the happiest days of my life. It is the day God gave me Michael. It is in every sense one of the best days of the year, along with the kids birthdays, because this being the anniversary when they hit the ground running. My darling boy is older, softer, a little greyer around the temples. He is wiser, funnier, and more thoughtful. He is showing our children how aging gracefully looks. He is the best of men, this manfriend of mine. Today is not a day for thinking what we might not have next year, but a time to celebrate where my Michael is today. Today, he has never looked better. He kissed me goodbye this morning and the electricity, the sheer warmth of it has stayed with me all day. He says it's because of static cling. But I know better.

Daddy Issues

Tonight I was thinking about a time with Michael and I where I got to really cut loose. We were dating and I got travel with him to Mexico, Belize, ski trips to upper state New York, really fun stuff. I was not thinking about the kind of daddy issues that lead to a pole, although I did take a one night strip course in which I saw myself in one of those floor length mirrors that prompted me to put away the notion of ever doing any moves in front of anyone, including me. I am talking about the kind of daddy issues where I was both mother and father to the kids after Danny died. It went something like this..."Ladies and Gentlemen, we proudly introduce the one, the only, asexual, food encrusted, dust bunny killing, mom/dad combination...Kellie!" To which I would do a sweeping curtsy and trip over the microphone wire, falling directly on my face. Tahdah! I ran offensive tackle for one son, defensive goal keeper for another one and taught my youngest daughter to stand on my feet when she danced. I had to do it all because there was no one else to do it. I was all consumed with kid stuff. Every once in while I got the chance to travel for a few days and forget that I was both father and mother and I got to be all girl. I lived for the those times, counting the days, packing weeks in advance for the chance to board a plane and become someone's girlfriend. I wasn't much of a drinker. I am known even today as TBK, Two Beer Kellie. Given a little food and a dance floor, I can hold my own with a couple glasses of wine, much more than that will lead to me either falling asleep or falling down. Neither is attractive to a date in a bar. I had been pretty much straight sober before my divorce for 7 and 1/2 years, with the only exception being a wild night at the neighbors making luminaries, drinking wine which lead me to be trapped in my own sweater when I got home falling off the side of the bed. The neighbor and I, both really embarrassed, only spoke of it one time after it happened. She had been blasted as well, watching me stumble home, taking an incredibly long time to key into my house, whose door was already unlocked. So you get the picture, I can't hold my liquor, wine or beer, for that matter. One summer while Michael and I dated I got the chance to go to Cozumel, Mexico. It was hot, July, and I was anxious to get the hell out of my house. It was baseball season, pool season, summer vacation for my kids and they were home being "bored" participating in every activity known to mankind. I was working long hours and coming home to chaos. I needed a break, a vacation from being a parent. I needed to be a girl, woman, person who didn't cut up food on others plates, or run a washer 7 days a week, or chief, cook and bottle washer. In Mexico, we snorkled, swam, laid upon a snow white sandy beach, ate fresh fish at nice restaurants, slept in clean sheets sans the little person in my life who did not like sleeping alone. One night Michael took me to a place called Carlos and Charlies, a loud, wild, dance club for the young drunken set. It was perfect for me, seeing all that tanned youth, drinking shots, dancing carefree, happy to be alive. We were at a table when a guy came up and asked if we wanted a tequila shot. "Ooooh, yes, please." I said almost drooling at the idea of not checking my watch for the time to see when I had to get a sitter home. I was free, the kind of free parents get once only in a very few years. It was the kind of free where time does not exist, patients never die and children are with their grandparents, safely tucked into bed. The first shot was in a very thin, taller than a shot glass glass, that went down like silk. "Mmmmm, delicious." I murmured over the hazy after glow of the alcohol. We were laughing and dancing and having such a marvelous time when the guy came back with the second shot, I immediately said "Yeah!" Once again he gave us the magic tequila, while blowing whistles and shaking our heads as we giggled and slurped. "Yum!" was my only response. The music was banging loudly and we continued on being "partying" kind of people. I had met a young man at the next table and in my increasingly intoxicated state, decided a popcorn fight in the middle of the bar was exactly what was needed to liven things up. This young college kid and I had the best time throwing food, dancing on tables, waving our hands being generally fun loving slightly drunk vacationers. The third time the guy with the shots came around, my inhibitions and judgement were shot. Michael raised his eyebrows at me and said, "Kel, I don't think it's a good idea to have a third one. Those things sneak up on you." Not being of sound mind or body, I responded with a flat, "OK, Dad." With that Michael threw up his hands and let me drink the third shot as I danced around in my warm and very fuzzy state. A little later, the popcorn dude was falling to the floor and Michael was escorting me to my feet so we could make the walk back to our hotel room. He held onto my hand tightly as I bobbed and weaved with invisible changing gravity, down the sidewalk, making our way back to our temporary home. I still in my tequila fuzz, fumbled my clothes off and lay in bed in my underwear. I stayed in the exact same position all night long until the sun rose the next morning. My head banging much like the beat of the previous night's music, I felt sick. I wasn't throw up sick, but I was definitely "oh dear God, kill me" sick. Everything on me hurt. My hair hurt. I was so hungover and craving something cold for my face I went out on the balcony, in my underwear and laid down on the porcelain tile. In Mexico the workers get up and go to work at sun up, so there I was this crazy American drunkard laying out on the balcony in my underwear praying for death. I had put on my sun glasses to keep out the light since my eyes had shriveled to the size of raisins, as the Mexican workers pointed to our balcony yelling "Americana, el loco!" as they wandered down the busy street to work. It's not really an exact quote because I do not really know Spanish, and well, I was a little busy being extremely hungover. Later that morning Michael looked at me as I wore dark glasses, my hair tousled, head in my hands and said, "I guess Dad wasn't wrong after all." Had I not known how right he was, I surely would have called him names and stormed off. Instead all I did was laugh for the first time all day, since my tequila incident. I have never called Michael "Dad" since that night. If he tells me I might not want to do something with that raised eyebrow thing he does, I stop doing it. Wild and crazy was fun, but drunk and hungover was not my cup of tea, which ironically is all I could stomach for a while after my tequila regression. I learned something on that trip. First, I learned whistles, music and college students have a price, second I learned to cut loose without the need to lay face first on a balcony in my underwear in a foreign country, and thirdly, the

most important lesson, when your best friend says don't do it, then that is the perfect time to stop.

Living An Extreme Lifestyle

I was written to by someone I knew a hundred years ago when I was a teenager. He said he didn't mean it as a criticism, but he thought I was controlled by my extreme emotions. At first I thought he did mean to criticize me, but had qualified it, so I would not retaliate in writing using words to get back at him. But then I realized since he and I had never had an actual conversation as adults, he had no idea who I was without inflection to my words. It's a curse for all writers to try and explain a feeling, or describe an emotion or event. How do you get something across to someone without the inflection in your voice? How do you say what you mean, if the written word is all you have? I describe my emotional state the best way I can, trying to convey the power of a single moment in flowery words, but the truth is most of our biggest moments would not be considered very big if someone actually heard the conversation. I suppose he was right in some ways. I suppose to him, in my writing I probably sound as if I am controlled by my extreme emotions, but I know I am just living my life the best way I know how, and pretty quietly at that. I do not rant and rave all over the house every day. I do not cry often, but sit and spend my time in thoughtful contemplation when big decisions need to be made. I am more quiet at home than any other place on earth. I live a simple life, spending time with my family, watching TV, taking walks, discussing the news of the day. My life in it's totality, in it's reality, is actually pretty tame. I am not one for, what my friend Jim refers to as "Barbie Drama", where a situation gets inflated beyond recognition, with a frenzied sense of urgency that is neither necessary or called for. I was a nurse for so long that I tend to want to breathe things in for a minute, no matter how critical, so I can make a solid decision. Panic is not in my repertoire. If you have a fever of 106, I will take your temperature twice, get ice to apply to your head and neck, call a doctor and follow the advice without so much as breaking a sweat myself. If you cut your finger off, I would put it into a bag of ice, bandage your hand and drive you to a hospital, going the speed limit and talking in low tones. If you get dumped after years of a long term relationship, I will offer you cheese cake, a shoulder to cry on and the softest tissues in the house with a "now what?" attitude to get you thinking about where you need to go from here. I am not good at panic, or extreme anything. I am not an extreme sports enthusiast, extreme makeover fan, or extremely good at very high highs or very lows. It is what makes Michael and I perfect for each other. Neither of us gets worked up at the same time. If he is unnerved, I am calm. If it is me who is upset, he is the one who ushers in the quiet. I am the exact opposite of an adrenaline junky. Even Michael with his ability to ski the steepest slopes, carefully plots out his course, before he starts down the hill. I was reading one of my favorite writers, Martha Beck. She was writing about the today's culture of being over inflated with the sense of "WOW!" Wow is nice, having the occasional toe-curler, I think is necessary, but real happiness comes from a peaceful place. Martha for me is like having a personal trainer for my brain. In her musings about happiness, I found myself confident that I was doing things in my personal life right. When Martha writes I am usually the reader who recognizes immediately how wrong I have been, but this time when she was writing about real happiness, what I recognized was how right Michael and I are together. Together we celebrate our life together with simple means. We notice a perfect weather day, or how a tree is waving to us in the wind, or how good something smells. Together we share meals, cooking together, one chopping while another sautes. We then sit at our table we bought together for just such occasions and talk, and eat, and sip, and laugh. I rinse the dishes, and he then loads them into the dishwasher. We walk hand in hand, taking in sights, smells, seasons. We rub each others feet while we watch the TV in the evening. We touch each others faces, as if to say, " I know this face. I love this face. This face makes me happy." Having these simple pleasures, this real happiness every day, is why I write blogs of extremity. I know if things do not somehow change I will not have this joy again for some time. Michael comes up behind me while I am cooking, he puts his arms around me, kisses my neck, says he loves me, purrs as if a contented feline. He nuzzles me, so completely connected are we, one to the other. He showers in the evening after working out and every night, as if on cue, I enter just after he has gotten out. I applaud his nudity, make suggestive remarks, tease him about being the "Man Candy" of the house. He dresses, his face crimson. He brushes his teeth as I stand behind him, my arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck. It is our routine, our private boring little moments of a marriage that has lasted beyond a decade, beyond teenagers, college students, job changes, illness and moving. There is a quiet sweetness to our life together. What puts the sexy in sex for us is the connection, the acceptance, the appreciation. What others might find boring or even mundane is the very thing that keeps us content, connected and hot for each other. Martha wrote that most people do not take the time to find peaceful happiness in every day moments, but I know to my core, that Michael and I do that very thing. Big excitement is fine every once in a while, but we know enough at our age that the pendulum of excitement, adrenaline, and big comes down to swing the other way. We prefer simple, quiet, real, everyday. I know exactly what I will be missing when Michael's job takes him away. I will feel it to my bones every singe day and night. I know in excruciating detail every touch I will not feel, every kiss I will not receive, every smile I will not see. I know all of it, without exception. His having to move will prevent the big stuff like holidays together, but the worst part is the every day routine of our love, our joy, our quiet happiness. Tonight we are having southwestern pasta with chicken and capers, jalapenos, and a tomato cream sauce. We will have a salad, with a chocolate for dessert. We will laugh and talk, watch the news and discuss the events of the day, finish up, so we can do the dishes, all while brushing arms, holding hands, kissing necks, and playing footsies under the table. I am in the moment. I push so hard to live directly in the eye of the moment, quietly calculating how long until Michael will no longer be the at the physical center of my universe. He will always be in the center of my universe as a whole but just not within touching distance. What I feel for my husband is extreme. I may not live an extreme life, but I live in extreme love. As a writer, it is the one subject that is the most difficult to describe.

Censored

This is what my blog could look like if SOPA/PIPA gets through. Stop censorship of the web........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................Enough said.

I Came Out

I was asked not too long ago why I had more gay friends than straight ones. My response was to sit in front that person completely puzzled. "What?" I asked. This person a younger female then looked at me almost embarrassed and said, "It just seems as though you have more gay friends than straight ones." I watched this young one's face carefully. I wondered to myself why that question was even a question, and why it mattered to her or anyone who my friends might be. "I don't think I do, but to be completely honest with you, I have never sat down and looked at the numbers." Although my first instinct was to get insulted, to take this question personally, I thought it might better serve me to stop and think about why she thought she needed to ask the question in the first place. I get touchy about any prejudice toward my gay friends, so I knew I was being pissy with her. I called my closest friend and asked if he had noticed if I had more gay friends than straight ones. "I think, Kellie, you gravitate towards people who are thoughtful and self reflective. Gay people need to be self reflective in order to survive. Maybe it's not so much a matter of numbers or a ratio of how many versus straight, but rather that you go for friends who are accepting. "Ahh, that makes so much sense, now that you put it that way.I know I have gay friends, but I also have straight ones. The common denominator is that they are all so accepting and giving.When she asked it just reminded me when I asked if I were gay way back when." My friend paused and sighed, "I remember that time.Everyone wanted you all figured out. When you came out as a straight person, I think the people who questioned your sexuality were relieved that you had openly picked a side." Back when I was in high school and college I found myself being questioned about my sexuality. What exactly was I? For me the answer was self evident, I was straight all the way to my bones. My gay friends seemed to know who they were as well. My problem was I didn't look the part of the stereo typical straight girl to some. I seemed to be a quandary to some. I loved flannel shirts, wearing baseball caps, power tools and high top tennis shoes. I also liked people of all types so I could not be type cast in the friend department. In college I went long stretches of time without a boyfriend. I liked sports but wasn't particularly good at them. I liked boys, but I felt myself being pulled away from it because of my extremely bad taste in boyfriends. I became a little asexual, putting aside my sexuality until I had things more figured out for myself about what kind of person I wanted. I remember when a woman, a beautiful, tall, blond "Miss America" type showed an interest in me. I thought or at the very least assumed that everybody knew I was straight, so I thought she wanted to be friends. She had asked me out for drinks. This gorgeous woman, smart, funny, so well put together sat across from me and acted as though I were fascinating. I was embarrassed by the attention. She then did something very unexpected and made her intentions known to me. We were on a date, only I did not know it. Once I found out she thought I was gay, I had to tell her I was straight. Dumbfounded, she looked at me mouth agape and uttered, "You are kidding! I never saw that coming. I was certain you were gay." I wasn't shocked. I probably should have been since I had never even considered women as possible partners. What I did feel was a little remorseful that I was straight. I looked into her eyes and said wistfully, "I am not even bi-curious. It's almost sad." She laughed at that. My straightness was then clear to her and she found the whole situation hilarious. I was so completely complimented that she thought enough of me to ask me out. In my mind she could have had anybody, and she chose me. It was such a lovely moment for me to have someone so beautiful, so smart, so incredibly generous think enough of me to want to get to know me better. It's one of those rare, sweet moments I continue to remind myself of when I am having a "I hate everything about me" days. After our "date" she looked at me, leaned over and kissed me so softly and said, "If you ever change teams, let me know." and with that she smiled this big brilliant smile, all sparkling, white toothiness smile. As she drove away in her very cool car, I thought, "Damn! I wish I were at least bi." Over the years, when I was single, I have had people pull me aside and ask what I was. Almost bored I responded, "I'm straight." Since I have remarried no one asks anymore. The wedding rings, blog and book have answered those questions. I do have lots of gay friends. I don't think of them as gay, they are just who they are. I find that the people they fall in love with are people I tend to like very much. What are they? I don't really care about all that, and never have. My sexuality has been one part of my life. I am made up of many parts, as are my friends. My straight friends are non-judgmental, as well, so what they are is never as important as who they. Curious to see if I really do have more of one than the other I did the math. Turns out I do have more close friends who are gay than straight. It isn't all that lopsided, and in the end, it doesn't matter to me. It doesn't matter to them either. They accept for exactly who I am without apology or exception. I never have to explain why I am, I just talk, being completely me. My gay friends all have these magnificent coming out stories. Some are gut wrenching, some tragic, some are even glorious. They all had to come out to family and friends and say who they were. Being faced with that, I think they are more insightful than some. They have had to come to terms with those who would not accept who they were. In some ways, on a very tiny scale I can relate. There have been times when I have lost friends for being me. Maybe I was too liberal, too conventional, not tall enough, not blond enough, not whatever they had thought I was enough. Not too long ago I had walked into a room of lesbian friends. We were all laughing because we had all worn very similar clothes. One friend looked over at me and said, "We should make you an honorary lesbian." Gleefully, I clapped my hands and took the honor bestowed on me with great pride. I was surrounded by some of the nicest, most sincere, genuine and loving women I know, so being included in their group made me so happy. I came out as a straight woman years ago, but it's nice to know I still have my honorary gay status still intact.

Pass It On

I was at work making people cry which I have to tell you is not uncommon for me since I spent over 20 years as a nurse. As a nurse, I was used to making people cry over injections, diagnoses, prognoses, and sometimes about just taking a shower. I am used to seeing people burst into tears when I have bad news. It still effects me, but I have learned over the years how to keep the calm and respect their tears without falling apart myself. I worked as a hospice nurse where I literally had to call people in and tell them their parent had died. What could be worse than that? Not much, I am sure. Maybe if I were a pediatric nurse who had to deliver that news to parents about their child, maybe that is worse. I make people cry for other reasons now. It isn't about their health, it's usually about their hopes and dreams. Working in financial aid, there are times when I am a dream crusher. One day last week I made five people cry, nearly in a row. I bought a box of tissues and leave them at my seat for just such occasions. I hate when I have to look someone in the eye and tell them that all their hopes and dreams will have to be put on hold or changed completely, and they will have to find another way to get where they need to go. I know there are those who think these situations aren't a big deal, but in one case the girl's brother was shot in the head and she had to help take care of him, leaving her school work behind. Another case a woman left her very abusive husband with her children and lived in a shelter for months, moving back to Houston to be with family only to find out we could not help her now, not never, just not now. Do you see why I am the dream killer? I have to point out all the red tape, the guidelines, the things that need to be secured in order for them to get any help. Do they deserve help? Sure they do, I think they do, and if it were up to me they would get it, but it's not. If it were up to my boss, my dean the people all around student services they would get what they need, but it's not. We do what we can. I am the face, in a way, of the department, the first person in a long list of people who touch their files. I try really hard to see each and every one of them, to not view them as a number, but to remember that I was them once a long time ago. I guess, that is why I like my job so much, this twisting and turning of guidelines and number crunching that helps people live up to a potential greater than most ever thought they could achieve. In some ways, I am living proof that great things can happen after tragedy, that good people, nice people do not always finish last, but learn and pass on whatever knowledge they have gained. Years ago when I was on my own with my kids, our finances hanging in the balance, I was in school, working two jobs and just doing whatever I could to hang on. One really bad month, a friend of mine, my supervisor at the time, told me to meet her in the parking lot. She popped her trunk and inside was food, a whole car load of food, paper towels, cookies, a week's worth of groceries to help us out. "I can't take this," I protested. "I am not dragging all this back home," she said smiling at me. Embarrassed, I put all the groceries in my car. Crying openly, I fell into her arms as she hugged me and said this, "You will be O.K. One day, when someone else needs a hand up, pass this on. We have to be here for each other, we have to help each other. It's how we will all survive." It was not the only time she helped me, not with money, but Ma Carol helped me with problems, giving advice, sharing a cup of coffee, making me laugh. To this day we still keep in contact and I try my level best to live in a way that would make her proud. I try my level best to pass it on, in whatever way I can. I love my job, I do. Not everyday is filled with tragedy, just some. Those are the days I remember from whence I came. I was single mother. I had really tragic times. When Danny died I had to take finals the very next week. I failed every one. I had to repeat the whole semester. I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out, but I survived because Ma Carol put her hand out and helped lift me out. She didn't coddle me, she helped me help myself. I love when I get to help people get the assistance they need, so they can go to school and pass this on. I reiterate to them, when I can, that is the bigger picture for them and for me. One day they will be O.K. One day when they are doing well, they will be able to help someone else who is having a really hard time. One day in the not so far future they will be able to pass it on.

Dear Kellie - Monday, January 09, 2012 - Copyright 2007 Ourtribune.com

Dear Kellie - Monday, January 09, 2012 - Copyright 2007 Ourtribune.com


First column of new year.