Tag Archive: writing


[See part one, two, or three] “I was driving to Bossier City to do a little gambling. I knew it was, well, a gamble, but I was getting desperate and needed money. I wasn’t going to be stupid about it – I had a limit. But I was worried about losing, having nothing to show for it, and having it end up on the list of bad choices that for some reason I always had trouble avoiding. I was listening to the radio and trying not to think about it when the tire blew.

I replaced the blown tire with the factory “donut” in the trunk, knowing I was on borrowed time to get a replacement. My budget blew with the tire if I couldn’t get it fixed cheap. Putting the flat tire in the trunk, I got in and started the car. At the same time, the passenger door opened and a man fell into the seat with a pistol pointed at me.

He told me to drive and I drove. I’m already on probation for being stupid in public and I didn’t want to end up dead or in jail. He said he just broke out of jail. He rambled on about being set up for the charge of assault with a deadly weapon. Which I thought a little weird since he was doing just that with me. But I kept driving.

We were just coming around a curve when he hit my shoulder and told me to pull in to the gas station on the left. Which I did, barely avoiding a gray Prius pulling out of the station.

I managed to pull up to the pump without colliding with anything more important than the trash can. It did not fall over, but I knocked it into the other side of the pump. After which a car coming in from the other direction knocked it nearly back in place. As I shifted into park, he handed me a Visa credit card with a name I was pretty damn sure wasn’t his. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask him.

“Use it like a credit card and fill up the tank. The zip code is 75234. Then go inside and go to the blonde behind the food counter. Tell her you need two barbecue sandwiches with regular chips and waters on the fly. Say it just like that. She’ll know what to do.”

“I hate to bring this up, but I’m going to need to get my tire fixed. This donut isn’t going to last much longer.”

“Fill the tank up and I’ll let you know.” He turned to his phone and  began to send a text as I was getting the gas.

“Get in and back into the bay and the mechanic will fix the tire,” he said as I looked into the car after filling the gas tank.

Which I did and the mechanic did, putting the tire on the car and the donut in the trunk. All while my inconvenient passenger was sitting in the car, and I stood nervously by. I got in the car, started it, pulled out of the bay and stopped, putting the car in park. I turned and looked at the guy.

“Should I get the sandwiches now?”

“Of course, do you remember what to say”

“I’ve got it.”

And I did. I walked into the station and went straight to the food counter.

“May I help you?” the blonde asked.

“I need two barbecue sandwiches with regular chips and waters on the fly.” By now I was getting kinda hungry. I knew it must be some sort of code, but I hoped the sandwiches were real. I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen and it never hurts to have barbecue first. Fortunately, she handed me the food and waters. Unfortunately, things began to take a nasty turn.

When I got back to the car, my passenger was now the driver. He motioned for me to get in the back seat. As I was opening the door, I heard the shots. I was in the car and closing the door when the blonde came running out of the gas station with a gun in her left hand and a bag in the right.

“Let’s go, Pete,” she said to the driver as she jumped into the passenger seat.

“I thought we weren’t going to use names, Sharon.”

” Just drive.”

I’m thinking, well great, I just ran into a modern day Bonnie and freaking Clyde. Talk about bad choices and bad luck. I was better than fifty percent positive I wasn’t going to get to Bossier City. I was hoping I would get to keep the money I had on me.

I saw the speed trap coming. Pete didn’t. Apparently, neither did Sharon.

[Peace be with you.]

I have a theory – call it the a-hole relativity theory. The number of a-holes in any given area is relative to the total number of people in that area. Hence, more people, more a-holes. This of course includes many varying degrees of a-holism.

Some of them don’t actually know they have this social disease. They are oblivious of the fact that they are disturbing a very large number of people. Then there are those who are chest-thumping proud of pissing people off. Some are in between – most of the time they are considerate of the people around them. Until something hits their switch and they became flaming lunatics.

What they all have in common is a serious lack of driving skills. They have the inability to see that everyone is passing them on both sides and they are slowing down. And they were not going the speed limit to begin with.

To do what I feel is my duty, I thought I would jot down a few rules to help these poor demented souls survive yet one more day. Some are just common sense – something most of them do not possess.

If you are already in the turn lane while coming to a stop, there is no longer any need to turn on your blinker.

On the other hand, if you are not yet in the turn lane or left lane, please turn the damn thing on.

If you are turning right at the corner, don’t turn the blinker on until you’ve passed the parking lot entrances. People coming out of the parking lot will think you’re turning there and will try to pull out in front of you. Turn on your blinker when you pass the last entrance. You can begin slowing down, however.

Being in the middle lane going forty miles an hour is not the best time to whip out the phone and post a selfie on Facebook and/or Instagram.

If you get a phone call when you are driving in rush hour traffic, let it go to voice mail. You can check it at the next red light or at your destination. If you are lying in the road dead or dying, letting them know you are running late is not going to matter.

Whether you know it or not, the mirrors are on the car for a reason. Use the freaking things!

Please feel free to add others in the comments. The ironic thing is, if the people I refer to read this, it probably won’t occur to them that it’s about them.

Peace be with you.

[Read part one and part two]

“Everyone be quiet and stay calm and no one will get hurt,” the gunman commanded. “The shot was an accident. No sudden noises.”

Antonio knew that if the police were not outside by now, they would be soon. He also knew the gunman was becoming more nervous by the minute and he did not want to get caught in the middle, which was now an increasingly likely situation.

“The police are going to be here soon, if they aren’t here now. I’d like to help you if I can,” Antonio said in the most calming voice he could muster with his nerves on overdrive.

“Why would you do that?

“Because I’m a preacher and it’s my job to help people with their problems.”

“So how can you help?”

“I have a cell phone with the number of the sheriff and he will listen to me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I helped his family out. Like I said, it’s what I do.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“I’m a preacher, for God’s sake! I don’t have an ulterior motive.”

“A what?”

“A reason for lying to you. Just let me call him. If you don’t like what I say you can shoot me. And I wouldn’t give you a reason to do that. But I need to know why you’re doing this. Are you here to rob them?”

“I’m not here to rob the place. I’m not sure how things got this far. Make the call.”

Antonio could sense desperation in the man’s voice. He hadn’t always been a preacher and he knew the difference between an evil man and a desperate one. He pulled out his phone and called Sheriff Martinez.

“Hello, Antonio. I’m a little occupied at the moment.”

“No more than I, Oscar. I’m in the restaurant with the gunman’s arm around my chest.” He felt the gunman relax his hold a bit.

“Was anyone hurt by the shot?”

“No, someone dropped something in the kitchen which surprised him and he reacted. The bullet went into the counter after going through a chair.”

“What does he want?”

“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain. If you’ll let us get to the chapel, we’ll try to resolve the situation without involving the people in here. We’ll be coming out the main door.”

“You got a line on this nimrod?”

“So far anyway. But remember, he’s one of God’s people.”

“But not one of the chosen, Antonio. Call me when you’re in the chapel.”

“First chance I get.” Antonio hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket.

“What’s the chapel?” the gunman said in his ear, tightening the grip on his chest.

“The semitrailer in the parking lot. I’m surprised you missed it.”

“I wasn’t looking for a chapel.” He pushed Antonio toward the door between the two rooms.

“Point taken,” Antonio said as he reached out with his hand and unlocked the door.

The gunman put the pistol in his pocket and stayed behind Antonio. Antonio nodded slightly to Fred as they passed the cash register. The two men walked out the front door of the truck stop and headed for the trailer. Police cars were parked in front of the restaurant. A group of officers gathered behind the cars watching the two walk toward the chapel. .

As the two men walked up the steps of the trailer, Antonio glanced toward the restaurant. A couple of deputies were coming out of the door looking toward the chapel. The gunman  followed Antonio into the chapel and locked the door behind him. Antonio walked over to his desk, swiveled the chair around, and sat down facing the gunman.

“So now that we’re here alone, what do I call you?” Antonio asked him.

The gunman held the gun on Antonio and looked confused. He was trying to get straight in his head the significant turn his original, albeit on-the-fly, plan had taken.

“I’m Jason,” he said finally.

“Well, Jason, I’m Antonio. Brother Antonio. Sheriff Martinez is expecting me to call him shortly and have the answers to some questions. Why don’t you tell me your story and let’s figure out how to wrap this thing up, whatever it is. What brought you to the truck stop with a gun?”

“A flat tire, an escapee from jail, a woman, two barbeque sandwiches, and a few bad choices,” Jason said with a sigh and look of resignation.

[Peace be with you.]

[This is the Sunday post, but there was this game…] Read part one.

Immediately upon spotting the gun, Antonio felt the man’s left arm come around and clamp his chest under his chin, reclaiming his vise grip on Antonio’s right shoulder. Although he  had an urge to turn his head to see where the pistol was pointed, the preacher decided instantaneously that it would not be the wisest choice he could make. His heart was beating so fast that it seemed determined to fly out of his chest. At the same time his brain struggled between telling his eyes to close tightly to feel the barrel of the gun should it be pointed at his head, and telling them to remain open to eliminate the element of surprise.

Francis dropped the coffee pot, which shattered, sending hot coffee and shards of glass onto her shoes and legs. Her fear of the man holding Antonio and the gun offset the pain in her legs. That, and she was praying harder than she ever remembered praying. She wondered if it would matter to the gunman if he knew Antonio was a preacher.

The instant the coffee pot shattered, Fred Martinez, the owner of the truck stop who was still at the cash register, stepped on the floor alarm under the register that signaled the police. He always had unruly customers, but he had the alarm installed when a late night birthday party got  out of control. With the use of credit and debit cards, the truck stop never had enough cash that he thought someone would rob the place at gunpoint. Especially with all the glass and traffic.

“Pull down the shades, and turn the sign around!” the gunman demanded, pointing the gun at Francis – who fought hard against the fainting spell, which along with her fear, was turning her legs to jello.

Francis was not sure how her legs kept moving, but she moved toward the windows as quickly as she dared. As she reached up for the shade on the last window by the door, she spotted Steve Striden at the pump putting gas in his blue Ford F150. He looked around toward the restaurant. Francis tried to catch Steve’s eye as she pulled down the shade. She turned the open sign around in the window, glancing again toward the pump.

“Lock the door,” said the gunman, who had backed up against the wall dividing the restaurant from the store. “Now this one,” he said after she locked the front door, nodding to the door to his right.

The gunman still held Antonio in front of him. Antonio had said so many prayers they had turned into one long prayer. When the gunman had relocated – pulling Antonio with him – the preacher nearly lost his balance. He was sweating buckets and knew the gunman was, too.

Antonio was struggling to keep his bladder in check against the fear and coffee. But that did not keep him from noticing that the man with the gun and arm around his chest was getting nervous. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Which was when someone dropped something in the kitchen, Antonio felt the gunman twitch as he pointed the gun toward the kitchen, the gun fired, and Antonio’s ears rang.

Brother Antonio opened the chapel – a 52-foot semitrailer in the parking lot of the Traveler’s Treasure Truck Stop – at 6 a.m. as he did on most mornings. He liked to be available for the truckers who were getting an early start and wanted to pray before heading out. As he walked up the wooden stairs and unlocked the wooden door in the wooden wall that replaced the metal doors of the trailer, Antonio recalled the pain of opening the original doors which would swing around and bang against the side of the trailer, knocking a few pictures off of the wall.

Leaving the door open, he flipped on the two window air conditioning units installed on the left wall. The units were a welcome benefit of the redesigned entrance. Taylor Perkins, a long hauler for a lumber company, donated a batch of leftover lumber to the chapel that the company did not want to pay him to haul back. Fred Mullins, the truck stop owner, paid his handyman, Jeff Purvis, to build the steps, the rear wall with the door in the middle, and add supports under the trailer.

Purvis, a deacon at the Community Christian Church, painted The Church of the Necessarily Significant on both sides of the trailer as a favor to Brother Antonio. He also was a handyman for the Restful Traveler Hotel across the road from the truck stop. The hotel had upgraded from window unit air conditioners in the past year and the owners were happy to donate two of the units to the chapel. Jeff Purvis attended Brother Antonio’s Thursday night Bible study.

The Mothers of Miracles group at the Community Christian Church sewed blue tarps together to cover the underside of the trailer. The women added crosses alternating with the words Jesus, Forgiveness, Redemption, Faith, and Love. Mavis Monahan, secretary of the group, was the waitress/manager in the evening at the Food and Plenty diner in the truck stop.

Antonio walked out and closed the door behind him. He straightened the sign hung on a nail in the center of the top of the door. “I’m in the restaurant, 406-224-5893 (ask for Brother Antonio) or stop in.” When he was in the restaurant the waitresses would call him to the phone.

Which was where he headed after straightening the sign. He entered the truck stop through the main entrance – saying “hello” to Fred at the cash register – and turned left toward the restaurant.

“Good morning, Antonio.” Francis smiled brightly as she served his coffee – one sugar, one cream – while he settled into his usual corner booth.

“Good morning, Francis.”

“Do you want the usual on this beautiful morning?” She went ahead and wrote special on her order pad anyway. He had only been in town for four months, but the order had not changed.

“Yes, thank you. It is a good day that the Lord has made, isn’t it?”

“Better than yesterday.”

“Nature has a mind of her own, so to speak.”

Francis smiled, topped off Antonio’s coffee, and headed to the kitchen to turn in his order, stopping along the way to refill the coffee cups of other patrons. Antonio glanced around the restaurant, smiling at everyone who caught his eye, and nodding to the regulars. He pulled out his phone and checked the Church of the Necessarily Significant’s Facebook page. It was not a church, per se, although that was Antonio’s goal. The church had begun…

“Here you are, Antonio. Two eggs over easy, bacon, toast, and grits.” Francis slid the plate in front of him as he raised his hands to give her room. She filled his coffee, smiled, and walked to another customer.

Antonio bowed his head and said a quiet prayer. He added butter, salt, and pepper to the grits, stirred them, and tasted a spoonful. Then he cut a piece of an egg, broke off a piece of bacon, and put them on the corner of a piece of toast and took a bite. As he was preparing his second bite, Antonio felt the rush of air as the door to the restaurant opened behind him. He was chewing the second bite when he was suddenly jerked out of the booth and to his feet by a vise grip on his shoulder. While he was regaining his footing he saw the gun.

Merry Christmas from Jesus

He walked through the streets in darkness,
Homeless but not alone,
A man on a mission of reverence
beyond the mundane chore of survival,
in a spirit of grace and mercy.

He stopped at Johnson’s Laundry
With it’s Closed for Christmas sign,
He knelt on the sidewalk outside the door,
Quietly saying the Lord’s Prayer,
the only prayer he knew.

Thanking “Papa” Johnson
For the clothes left unclaimed,
He left a small package – a crude, homemade cross
With a card on which was scrawled,
“Merry Christmas, from Jesus.”

Next was Garcia’s Grocery
For the leftovers not yet spoiled
He knelt and prayed –
Another crude cross,
And the card, “Merry Christmas, from Jesus.”

Ten blocks later, Miller’s Hardware,
For his sturdy, cardboard box dwelling,
and timber for his bed,
A kneel, a prayer, a larger crude cross,
And the card, “Merry Christmas, from Jesus.”

Too far from home, the mission closed,
He found a bench in the park,
after a passerby bought coffee
and he walked – recalling forgotten memories –
without knowing what they meant.

Early the next morning on Christmas Day,
he fought the wind and rain,
through the cold streets to the mission,
where Christmas dinner was served, the soul sustained,
and life again had purpose.

The rain stopped, the wind died down,
as he trekked on home,
home – an alley behind the church
white and made of stone,
with a view of the cross on the wall.

He turned into the alley
and stopped in his tracks.
Where his cardboard box had stood,
was a sturdy lumber shack,
with a roof, a window, and a door.

He opened the door to a sturdy wooden cot,
An orange crate table, his few possessions inside,
with something new on top.
A suit of clothes hung on a hook,
with the laundry marker still on it.

He closed the door because he could,
he’d forgotten what it felt like.
Walking to the table he turned on the lamp,
it had been years since he had his own light,
but then his breath went away.

Also on the table sat a Bible, brand new,
inscribed with a name he hadn’t used in years,
next to a picture of a family he’d forgotten he had.
He stood staring at them, his mind racing,
memories bombarding his thoughts.

He sat on the cot and picked up the Bible,
after staring at the picture a while.
He ran his fingers over the only thing he owned
that wasn’t worn by wear or weather,
with emotions he couldn’t control.

Through tears, with shaking hands,
he opened the Bible and read
“Merry Christmas, from Jesus.”

Peace be with you.

Dans article - Texas Beat 1995I was working at the Dallas Songwriters Association booth at the Dallas Guitar Show last weekend. Cameron, our middle son, was with me for a while on Saturday. Across from the booth was a display of all kinds of music stuff – literally. There was one box on the end of one of the tables that had a sign on the side reading “Vintage Texas Music Magazines.”

“I wonder if any of the magazines I wrote for are in that box?” I asked myself offhand, talking more to myself than Cameron.

But Cameron went over and looked. He didn’t check them all out, yet he found a couple of issues of Texas Beat with my column in it from 1995. That particular column – Music As You Read It (one of which is pictured) – was a music book review column. I had different columns over the years.

When Cameron found the magazines, I was surprised. I wasn’t surprised that he found them. Somewhere at home I have some myself. But what surprised me was that when I was writing for magazines over the years, I never considered that the magazines would be classified as “vintage.”

My friends, you have before you the writing of a vintage writer, songwriter, guitarist. Sadly enough, it simply means I have been around long enough for my writing, etc., to achieve the distinction of being vintage – or even part of vintage. Which, when you think about it, is actually a good thing. I’m just not used to being classified under the term. But if vintage means good enough to hang on to, I’m in.

Peace be with you.

scan0050 As I meet other creative types on reverbnation.com and other channels of social media, I often wonder at what point they felt they were meant to be or called to do whatever it is they do: write, paint, sing, play, or whatever the case may be.

My own story begins on the Friday before my senior year began on Monday. We had just had a new compressor installed for the air conditioner. I picked up my friend, Brian, and headed to Greenville Ave. to go to Milo Butterfingers. We had heard about Bowley and Wilson’s show and wanted to check it out.

The beer was the coldest I had ever had at the time and few times since. Bowley and Wilson was not my type of show, but they had other people playing in between sets who were more interesting to me. I was just glad that they could not see me from the stage because they made fun of everyone. I don’t remember staying all that long before we headed home, but it could have been a couple of hours. When we turned onto Snow White from Royal Lane, I saw smoke above the trees in the distance.

“That’s my house!”

Brian told me that we couldn’t tell from that distance which house it was. But I was sure it was my house. When we reached the end of my street, the police and firemen had the street blocked off and we had to park on the next street. We ran down the short street between the two in the middle of the block, relatively. When I turned the corner, the top of the house was in flames. My mom, my brother, Dennis, our dog Lady, some neighbors, and assorted onlookers were in the yard of the house across the street.

I asked mom what happened. She said that she and Dennis smelled the smoke, saw flames at the fuse box on the garage wall opposite the compressor, and got out of the house with Lady. I was standing there watching our house burn. I thought I knew which flames were coming from my guitars, but who really knows? I said something about my guitars and Brian tried to go up the firemen’s ladder to “save” my guitars. They had to hose him down and I concluded that he had a few more beers than I had. But I appreciated the effort, albeit misguided.

I heard someone watching the fire ask if anyone had any marshmallows. I did not take it well. I let them know that it was not at all funny and asked if they would think it was so funny if it was their house. Friends came over, calmed me down, and pulled me away.

After the fire.

After the fire.

My father returned from a trip about that time and had to walk up the street with his suitcase and suit bag when the taxi couldn’t get through on the street. After the fire was under control, so to speak, my parents and Dennis stayed with the couple next door. I stayed with a friend up the street.

In the days following the fire, we were going through the house, packing what was left that could go to storage. My mom, aunts, and grandmother were going through the kitchen – which was mostly intact – although the smoke had permeated what it could. Dad and my uncles were packing up the books which the firemen put on the couches they had shoved into the middle of the room and covered – during the fire. (A quick shout out to first responders!)

I was in the back yard looking at the pile of ashes that used to be my personal belongings. You would not believe how long a guitar string will stretch after it’s been through a raging inferno. Parts of items were left because the firemen had shoved everything out of my room into the yard before some of it burned completely. Talk about smoldering memories!

With older people around, I was trying to contain myself, but the tears came anyway. I felt better when I found my Neil Young songbook for the Harvest album, even though it was stiff, brittle, and burned around the edges. Then, when I spotted them, I was completely speechless. Okay, I wasn’t saying anything anyway, but if someone had said anything to me, I would have been speechless. It certainly took my breath away.

Earlier that day I had placed my stuff for school (which included a new notebook) on Monday in the center of this large table my uncle, Jack, made that I used as a desk – there was only one drawer. What I saw that took my breath away was what I had put in that notebook. There before me, burned around the edges but still intact and readable, was every poem and song I had written, except for the first page of the first song I wrote.

20140307_170525 With the exception of one book my grandmother on my mom’s side gave me and a high school annual, the poems and songs were the only thing I had left except the clothes on my back. Well, and my stereo, which I had in the bathroom so I could listen to music while I took a shower. In addition to the songs’ survival, my mother had loaned my first guitar to a friend for their son to learn to play – as you can see I still have it. I took that as a sign that writing and music was what I was meant to do. Granted, I was a teenager and thought that’s what I was meant to do anyway, but the “sign” sealed the deal. And, while it hasn’t been easy, I was right, it was a sign, and I’ve been writing ever since – whatever form life and the writing took.

Now it’s your turn. What’s your story? When did you know what you were meant to do? And I’m not asking just to get comments, clicks, or whatever. I really want to hear your story, because it’s worth hearing. And it might make a good song.

Peace be with you.

20131103_132007 I hope I’m not the only writer with this problem, but I find it difficult to switch from writing prose to writing poetry or to songwriting. Not that I can’t, I just find it difficult at times. In younger days, when I was writing songs and playing music all the time, the ideas came continuously from everywhere, whether it be a verse a line or two, or a chorus. It’s a mindset. I looked at everything in hooks, lines, rhymes – or not – and musical themes

Writing prose is another mindset altogether. I think in terms of paragraphs, short stories, ideas that can be stretched into posts, articles, essays, or books. There is not the “instant” (in comparison) gratification as in a song that you have just written. The song will go through changes, but having the framework is the hardest part.

So, having written books, articles, and so on for the past twelve years, and having written few songs, getting back into the rhythm – as it were – of writing songs as well as other writing has been a little tough. One idea would be to write prose works on alternate days from songwriting. Or spend a half of each day on each. Which would be good ideas if I didn’t have a myriad of family obligations.

I watch re-runs on tv when I’m writing because it’s background garbage. If I listen to music while I’m writing prose, I quit writing and get into the music and begin to switch to the songwriting mindset. If I listen to music while I’m writing songs, I end up with pieces of songs that sound like everyone but me. And not necessarily in a good way.

How do you juggle writing duties – whatever that may entail?

Peace be with you.

I was in East Texas a week ago. Marshall, to be precise. I had business in Jefferson, but there are fewer places to stay there. And less to do, to be honest. There’s not all that much to do in Marshall. But there were enough places to go to give me sufficient reason to leave the hotel occasionally, if I chose to do so. Which made working alone in a hotel room more manageable. Leaving is not as important when you simply know you can.

I had three goals in mind. The first – not necessarily in order of importance – was to reconnect with myself and recover from the end of year and first of year psychological roller coaster. From the emotional buildup before Christmas – which for us included plumbing problems beginning the weekend before Christmas and not ending until several days after – to the anti-climactic, questionable, introspection of New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, and the first few days – actually, as it turns out – weeks of the year.

The second goal was to quit a bad habit. I am fortunate to be able to say that – so far – my efforts were successful. The third and last – but certainly not the least, as they say – goal was to reconnect with God through music, meditation, and prayer. Actually, these goals were three parts of the same goal. Whether I reached all three goals has yet to be determined.

Reaching a goal whose finish line is not a mark in the sand, but an indistinct and flexible idea of a time in which everything will be “back to normal” is a rather elusive task. But the trip was for the experience as well as the goals. A chance to not so much take a break from the everyday, but see it from a different view. With internet, social media, smartphones and the like, it is, unfortunately, rarely possible to completely take a break from the “everyday.” If you think about it any harder, it is literally impossible.

I had this concept of the trip as a time of writing furiously and returning home with pages of prose and songs. Which was rather unrealistic. What I did accomplish – at least partially – was to realign my expectations, relax and spend time in prayer, contemplation, and guitar playing. Which is as much as I should have expected, being gone only three days and having an afternoon worth of business to take care of in Jefferson.

I also spent time thinking – in general, but also about this blog. With life not allowing posting opportunities in January, I also needed to revitalize the blog and reconnect with its purpose. Which always seemed obvious to me, but not to some of my readers. The purpose and goals of the blog will unfold as days go on. The About page will be updated along the way. Some things will stay the same.

But in the meantime, if you had four nights and three days to get away, what would you do? If you read any previous posts, what did you like most?

Join me – or rejoin me – on this earthly and spiritual journey.

Peace be with you.

[I have pictures, but apparently WordPress has not wanted me to upload pictures for a couple of days!]

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