The Road Not Taken

Recently, the question was posed to me by a pal from back-in-the-day, "Where would I be if I had stayed in my 'home town' after high school graduation and done what was expected of me, planned for me, and wanted, initially, by me?"

That's a tough one.  I simply DON'T KNOW!  What about you?  Did you stick around or ditch your original plans and adventure forth?  Making that choice doesn't necessarily guarantee an actual adventure, however.  Some of us probably are more acquainted with this idea than others.  Staying put doesn't imply that one is a bland stick-in-the-mud, either.  Both directions can seem impossible or impossibly right.

I'm not sure which choice would have been the better one for me.  Hindsight does offer a better view but 20/20?  Don't know about that.  What I recall is that what seemed most comfortable to me at that fateful juncture in the road between my childhood and impending young adulthood created a high sense of discomfort for most everyone around me.

There was no steady boyfriend.  Not in high school.  Not directly after.  There were two boys for whom I harbored a steady crush the entire year -- one in my junior year, one in my senior -- and they, being well aware of it, chose to make a move on the pretty but definitely different Sweigard girl only AFTER school let out.  Each crush swiftly deflated.  Evidently for me, the fun was in the anxious and uncertain chase.  A minor fling with my best male friend ended swiftly.  Should have never happened.  Strong feelings for a man ten years my senior yielded nothing more than an unhealthy obsession that could lead nowhere for either of us.  Hence, staying on would NOT have ended in a marriage for me.  At least not as anything planned and desired.

My brain, and the experiences of my life, were what mattered to those around me.  To teachers, to my grandma and mother, to my friends, to the kind vice-principal who worked so hard to help me gain entrance into a college.  To the decision-makers at UC Santa Cruz who read my application essay and mailed off that wonderful acceptance letter with the full-tuition offer: that which would enable me to study psychiatry in my pursuit to help others who had experienced trauma to change their worlds for the better.  To my Uncle Zan who wished to see me attend an ivy-league university.  Even to my eager, full-of-promise, but also intensely unsure and afraid self.

But after all the planning and thought and focused energy exerted in the pursuit of my academic future, I caved in to my fears.  I was a virtual Humpty-Dumpty of a mixed-up young woman.  Seemingly confident on the outside but roiling with doubts and insecurities on the inside.  Deep within was the belief that truly good things, especially the good things I wanted, were not to be mine.  So to pursue them would be vain effort.  And those around me who cared, they hoped to put me back together again as someone more like them and less like what I was raised to be.  So dogged were they in this pursuit, that they neglected to actually get to know the real me.  Instead, I felt they were intent upon creating a new me who would one day become wholly unrecognizable to me.  I feared the loss of an identity I had yet to fully grasp.

My son told me once that I should be in school because I'm too smart not be there.  God love him.  That was one of those fine moments in life that sits well on a glass shelf and reflects light back with a startling beauty each time it is enjoyed.  A moment which never would have happened if I had stayed in California and become a UCSC Banana Slug (yes, that was, and is, their mascot) in the fall of 1988.

Though I often regret, mildly mind you, my decision to ditch higher learning for marriage and babies, I don't regret my life as it unfolded on the other side.  There were intense lows and serious highs.  I gave birth to three highly colorful personalities with the potential to create their own waves of impact on the shores of their lives.  I married a man who was entranced with me upon first sight, and four years later he came back for more . . . that was twenty-one years ago.  He still makes me laugh.  I still confound and enchant him.  The people who have come into my personal space and taken up permanent residence as friends and neighbors and reconnected family are the richest tapestry of humanity possible to imagine.  I have learned.  Oh, how I have learned.

In all honesty, the only point I seriously ponder is the area of study I chose.  If I had achieved the end result and started my own practice, would my knowledge have gifted me with the insight into my own brother's mind and saved him from seventeen years of incarceration?  Would my experience have lent me the power to decipher and stop the puzzle of psychosis in my sister which led to the death of her two children?  Therein lies a cruel irony concerning the two most painful chapters in my life.

The great WHAT IF?  

A Tale of Two Brothers -- Again

I owe two blog entries to last week's question winners.  Those are not forgotten.  (I'm rather disappointed that no one has answered this week's question.  However, people have a life and my blog is not central to those lives!  Only to mine.)  The promised entries hover, circling, picking up steam, becoming less an idea and more a solid thought.  Soon, soon.  I'm sensing an essay and a poem.  But, at this very moment, aside from sensing sleep, there is another significant subject which needs tackling.  One in a series of major developments during this past stretch of days.

Again, it's a tale of two brothers.  I realize that three personable children, a husband, one senior dog, a deceptively charming cat, and my mother-in-law currently live in this house.  And, their actions spin off often humorous stories worthy of sharing here.  Fortunately for them, yet quite unfortunately for the dynamic brotherly duo, the days of their lives have been safe and somewhat commonplace.  Believe me when I state in writing that I eagerly await the day when my younger male siblings give me no cause to regale my readers with tales of their unanticipated antics!

So, Gary.  This afternoon.  He's on the phone with me.  Our conversation has gone on for roughly an hour.  We've both gone a bit daft in our tired heads and the chit-chat is humorous bordering on plain old silly.  In between our verbal riffs, he shouts out a few comments to one of his roommates concerning the difficult task of actually making contact with one's social worker on the ward.  In the background, the ward itself is rather quiet.  Suddenly, I hear Gary exclaim something in surprise and anger.  The phone clatters and continues to bounce against whatever surface from which it now dangles.  The sounds of a scuffle, fists thudding with dull meaty impact on a body, alarms jangling, footsteps, yells.  Someone picks up the phone.  The roommate.  Gary is all right, but he was attacked and they fought.  I thank him, still in the midst of calming myself, and we hang up.  Fifteen minutes later, the furious voice of my brother is informing me that Raven, a one-time trouble making roommate who threw hot water in Gary's face a few weeks back, approached and tossed a cupful of his own urine at Gary's face while he sat, unaware and relaxed, talking with me.  His anger is directed at the floor staff who promised to move this disturbed man to another ward weeks ago.  He will be penalized for beating on the guy.  I'm not so sure there are too many men in my sphere who would not throw a few punches after such an outrageous assault.  THIS is Gary's life right now.  (Yes, he immediately showered, changed clothes, and called from the other phone.)

Meanwhile, rewind to this weekend.  The eldest of my younger brothers, John, is attending his 20-year class reunion.  A wealthy and generous friend has opened his home and pool to the event.  John is playing pool basketball.  At some point, he vacates the pool in search of an errant ball.  Returning to the game, he jumps in and inadvertently crashes into another swimmer.  The forceful impact redirects the trajectory of his 5' 11" 185+ frame to the bottom of the pool -- head first.  He makes contact, opening an impressive gash on his head before floating up.  All is not well and this becomes immediately apparent.  His wife is upset, nervous, but somewhat hopeful once he moves his fingers and toes.  There is an ambulance ride to the neighboring city of Modesto.  (Our grandma lives there.  See the blog entry about my visit.)  In the midst of his shock and pain, John hears the rapid discussion between doctors and nurses regarding the extent of his injuries.  Words like 'surgery' and 'halo' are tossed out.  This scares him.  He is told that his outcome is most incredible and he is most fortunate.  Things could have been so much worse.  As it is, he is kept overnight and ordered to keep his broken second vertebrae in a neck brace for the next eight weeks.  No turns to the left.  No turns to the right.  No driving.  Drug up and rest up for the next few days or so.  Did they also tell him to send that alarming text message to his sister about his accident after she missed his call?!  Sister had to take a moment out in public to find an aisle where she could release a few tears of horror and gratitude at the news.  UGH!

And, there's not a darned thing I can do about any of it.  Besides pray.  Continue to be Sister G. to the both of them.  Send a care package of candy and other snack items to Gary courtesy of the online sites who handle such business for the psychiatric hospital there in Napa.  Send possibly annoying texts to John in an attempt to stay abreast of his situation (his wife actually has done a bang-up job of keeping me in the loop WITH pictures) . . . and hope that the impromptu trip he planned for his ENTIRE FAMILY just this past Saturday or Sunday will yet come to fruition in early October. 

This Blogger Has A Couple Of Issues

There are entirely too many subjects for blogging this week.  I've been batting them about inside my head in a wild tennis match of sorts.  Ideas and thoughts flying everywhere!  Bouncing off of every conceivable surface.  Collecting bits of grey matter as they careen and collide and crash.  Though I miss my windowed corner of writing escapism at the Napa, California Starbucks just down the road from the state hospital, I'm every bit as stimulated in my present hometown of Murfreesboro, Tennessee.  Why, my family oozes enough source material to keep this thing going for years on end.  But, the news end of things hasn't been to shabby, either.

Before going on to other matters, let me air a grievance I have toward an unknown college-aged female driver who was parked next to me at the light on Church Street just before the I-24 bridge at 10:47 this evening.  She was texting, tapping and scanning with the tip of her manicured finger, all the while holding her smoking cigarette in place further down the same finger.  Besides the obvious distraction of texting, not to mention that it's illegal (and carries what I consider a wimpy fine of $50), the double whammy of performing the maneuver while smoking with the same hand seems a bit of a risk.  A lit cigarette falls into her lap, burning through the flimsy layer of her short Saturday-night party dress, and then what?  Pain?  Startle reflex?  Reaction?  Over-correction?  A perfectly awful late-night weekend automobile accident?  The two girls never make it home?  This irritated mother never makes it to pick up her daughter from a babysitting gig at the other end of town?  PEOPLE!  Please, either pull over or put your phone out of your sight!  It's not worth the risk and possible outcome!  Asking what bar serves the strongest drinks or what party offers the hottest eye-candy: are these topics valued above human safety and life?  Enough said.

So-o, Andrew Breitbart, the blogger who posted the merest wisp of a portion of a speech given by Shirley Sherrod, a black woman who was, until Tuesday past, the Agriculture Department's director of rural development in Georgia, ought to be ashamed of himself.  If you don't know the story, in brief, he's a politically enthusiastic Tea Partyer who blogs from this perspective.  Nothing wrong there.  More power to him.  More power to us all.  Whatever.  But, as one who is putting information out there for the masses, and one who possibly holds the power to sway public beliefs and opinion, he has a responsibility to research thoroughly and present honestly.  His posting of this video snippet, which was picked up by FOX News and other media outlets, had people believing this woman was a racist toward whites and refused to help white farmers.  In reality, the full speech reveals a professional who, in a moment 20 years ago or thereabouts, realized she had a bias which kept her from helping poor people in general, a bias which was coloring her character and her ability to perform her job in its highest capacity; this realization caused her to reassess what she had carried with her as the result of painful experiences in her childhood, and she actually went above and beyond to save a specific farmer from losing his livelihood.  Her strong faith in the Lord and her deep passion for her position were also in evidence.  All of that was lost as the few seconds of a few of her words went viral and spread outward in a rather large radius before someone was able to grab the attention of the news powers-that-be and entreat them to watch the speech in its entirety.

(I'm including a video link to the speech: the REAL story behind Shirley's words.)

(To be balanced, I'm also including a link to one of Andrew Breitbart's sites: Big Government.)

Based on what I've read about him, he can't really be considered a journalist.  The way in which he conveys news, the formation of his words and ideas around the stories, reeks of sensationalism.  It's attention getting.  The pot he chooses to stir is set aside for boiling alive everything in his path, everything set in his laser sights, everything which does not run parallel to his views.  There's definitely a way to discuss different opinions and divergent philosophies.  His ain't it.  The very idea that his type of writing in ingested by so many who are desperate for change, eager for the next better thing for America, scares me.  The flames he fans are, indeed, seductive, but they also fan hatred.  When questioned by the press, Mr. Breitbart deflected any responsibility for what he chose to air over what he chose to ignore, by stating his intention was to show the racist reaction of the listening audience and had nothing to do with the words of  Ms. Sherrod.  (I'm simplifying for the sake of space.)  Wow!  Do intelligent people honestly swallow that rotten bait?  Check out the unfolding story for yourself.

I know people who are members of the Tea Party.  This entry is not political in any way.  But, I hope my affiliated friends can see that this man casts their efforts in an ugly light and detracts from their basic premises.  Though I don't doubt his intelligence, I doubt his integrity.  I realize these are strong words.  The more I write on this, the more incensed I become because this man tramples on the very moral foundation upon which this country was built.  There are good folks engaged in the political process because they love this country and they respect people even though they reject the principles embraced by certain factions within this country.  Calling individuals pricks and soiling the graves of the newly dead with verbal diarrheal rhetoric is simply uncalled for.

Question the news.  Don't believe everything you read.  Research for yourself.  Be open-minded.  Realize no side is entirely wrong or entirely right.

Enough said.    

 

  

Window To Her World

Bevy of blackbirds, not baked in a pie,
but a blight to her keen eye.
Starling, grackle, cowbird.
They swarm, an iridescent gathering.
Feasting on every valuable seed
meant for their diminutive brethren.
The shotgun crack of her knuckles
against the glass panes scatters.
As one, a dark rising, moving on.

From the five-o-clock position
near the silent floor fan,
the meadow rises green and unbroken.
Fawn and mama deer wander in search.
Hoping for every valuable seed,
She cranes her slender neck.
But the feeder is more deer-proof
then clever squirrel-proof.
They bound past the pod-laden catalpa.

Juvenile cardinals, skittish and scruffy

rub wings with their tufted cousins.

Their parents chip, chip, chip as

ruby red papa scouts for his mate.

Hankering after every valuable seed.

Each one a holiday ornament,

adorning bush and tree alike,

both in and out of  "'tis the season."
A royal family holding court.

The counted busy sparrow.

The undulating sunshine flight of the goldfinch,

upstaging the purple and house of his ilk.

Mister Indigo Bunting alights on rare occasion.

Desiring of every valuable seed.

Even with the robbery,

there is always enough for nuthatch

and tufted titmouse dining.
Even the yellow-bellied sapsucker.

Beyond the neutral sheen of curtains, 

past the army green utility box -- number 28736,

is a world of hummingbird vine

and avian houses, of heady tottering sunflowers.

Falling with every valuable seed,

the rise and fall of a living space

entices her to engage in its rhythm.

Familiar and new at each dawning.
A friendly place for the soul.

(Written for my mother.)
-gsv

Numbers Game

So, Chandler and Joey are peer pressuring Ross into drinking breast milk from a bottle . . . he's avoided the taste throughout the entire half-hour show.  It's the final minute of the episode: and he's DONE it!  Neatly washing it down with a couple of Oreo cookies.  "Friends."  Ashley's all-time favorite sitcom.  The girl owns every episode in an extensive CD collection she's gathered over the past few years.  There are a great many laughs to had with the stupendous six.  (They stray a bit too far near the edge at times for my tastes, but funny is still funny.)

Well, it's official.  Cramming one's face full of combination pizza and cherry pie, licorice and Skittles, In-and-Out burgers and nachos, donuts and cheesecake -- all during my five-hour visits with Gary, not to mention adding TWO lattes a day to one's dietary intake, Grandma Opal's chock-full-of-goodness carrot bread, and sucking down  plentiful glasses of red wine more than once or twice over eighteen days, oh, and hitting up Foster's Freeze AND that fast-food Chinese joint in one evening, will yield a net result of a six-pound weight gain.  To my credit, I did intersperse the binging with flax seed in plain yogurt and mucho veggies and fruit.  On the positive side, daily walks and keeping up with push-ups most likely kept off another six!  Doubtless, copious calories were burned by my regular blogging, texting, and Facebooking.  Thanks to all of you for those saved ounces.

While I missed my Valdez Bunch, including the animals and the home front, let it be said that never EVER did I state that I regretted leaving the humidity behind.  At 10AM, with the mercury hovering around 83 degrees Fahrenheit, I was sure I could easily handle the late morning walk after my vigorous striding around Merced and Modesto in 95+ degree weather.  Fat wet chance!  My dog barely cleared her daily mile, tongue lolling, panting unceasingly.  My shorts climbed, lodged, and stuck to me in ways most unpleasant.  What's left of my rapidly departing damaged hair was arranged in an alarming golden disarray beneath my sweaty cap.  And that was only my FIRST mile!  I'll spare you the damage done in the next two miles.  UGH. 

We had ourselves a real entertaining evening here on Marilyn Court.  A push-up contest for best form: 25 executed with chest hitting the ground and coming up into fully extended, but not locked, arms, maintaining a straight line with the body.  Zachary and I performed first.  Perfect!  Not too fast, not too slow.  Then, it was Jimmy V's turn.  We contend that he zips through his series too quickly for them to be of maximum benefit.  I laid in front of him, hand flat beneath his chest, policing the depth of his dip, encouraging him at each count with a friendly, "C'mon, Chippy!  You can do it!"  (This refers to his very cute front teeth which I find rather appealing when he grins.)  By number 19, he had collapsed in a fit of laughter.  Good times!

In keeping with my efforts to drop those pesky six pounds, I surrendered to my PMS-induced cravings for reduced-fat Original Pringles (I shared the tube with Ashley and Zachary, thereby reducing my overall intake) and 4 1/2 carefully culled selections from my hand-picked 48-count box of Ethel's Chocolates -- my splurge during my stopover at the Las Vegas Airport on Friday last.  Let's see.  Creme Brulee.  Raspberry ganache.  Tiramisu.  A rich caramel.  Cheesecake.  Peanut Butter and Jelly.  Half of a partially eaten dark chocolate truffle . . . and the final corner of a plain Peanut Butter and the wee sampling of Zachary's rum cocktail specialty chocolate.  Um-m, I'm evidently better at denial and weaker in math as the years run by; that should be 6 and 3/4 picked from my delectable stash.  Yikes!  Hey!  I'm downing a huge glass of water right before I hit the sack, okay?!

Wait.  Stop.  I peeked in on the two-layers of goodness nestled between individual plastic compartments and separated by candy-box lining.  I discovered 1/3 of the caramel and 2/3 of the cheesecake yet untouched in their spots.  Last I checked, six subtract one equals five.  Phew.  Not quite as bad as it sounded.  And I did hit 151 push-ups today with that extra contest set.  Not to mention 120 reps on the ol' thighmaster.  (Yes, Suzanne Somers is right: you can squeeze your way to firmer inner thighs in just minutes a day!) 

So there! 

  

Strangers, Than Non-Fiction

Strangers share funny things with one another. Juicy tidbits or entire meaty monologues of personal information that otherwise might remain buried deep in the middle earth of oneself, away from the familiar eyes of those who know the everyday you. Those who might look away if they were privy to portions of that private information being dispensed like Pez candy to the stranger seated at your right or left on the airplane headed to Vegas, in the subway hurtling toward uptown, at the line into the classic rock reunion concert, or side-by-side at that long-distance Walk-A-Thon to raise money for injured police dogs. Or, worse, those who might broadcast the seed of your revelations across the inquisitive fallow fields of your workplace, church, or neighborhood.

Now, I must make a disclaimer of sorts here and state that this particular oddity of human nature doesn’t necessarily apply to me. Since early adolescence, I’ve been telling my story and begging answers to the stories of others, friend and stranger alike. While I’m not inappropriate in the telling or its content, I’m aware, especially as the wisdom of the ages chooses to lightly sprinkle me with a dusting of advanced perspective every ten years or so, that some people would rather not be told anything. Nothing. At all. They do not appreciate sharing time. While those of a certain generation are generally accustomed to a practiced chit-chat which says much, but reveals little, out of social nicety, a great many more are simply uncomfortable with knowing too much about others or too much about themselves. There’s a subconscious fear that some tiny crack, unbeknownst to them, might be infiltrated by the exchange of words and thereby create a further difficulty in maintaining the status quo. I try to respect that though it is obviously not my philosophy.

It becomes easier to gauge the water temperature with each dip in the community pool of reciprocal conversation. The man who immediately inserts his earbuds, pushing each one purposefully and with great force not required for such small objects, and taps on the music library of his smart phone, has all the words and sounds he requires right at his fingertips. Thank you, very much! The woman who pulls her sweater tightly around her middle while running her bookmark down the pages of the latest summer beach-read, lips moving silently with each line, feet tucked smartly beneath her seat, is an island of silence unto herself. There’s an entire library of body language, eye contact, verbal cues, and, often, just plain old gut feelings. Ironically enough, these withdrawn ones often tell something about themselves without ever saying a single revelatory word.

For the record, I don’t discount those who simply crave a bit of solitude in the form of a nap, gossip magazines, etc. That’s an entirely separate genre of strangers. I’ve been that person on multiple occasions. But, I’d interrupt the respite in the blink of an eye if I sensed an opportunity for fascinating mutual discourse with a perfectly respectable, or maybe not so much, individual. I may never see them again. The chances are actually stacked quite against it. Therefore, it is unique in a world where much is same old, same old.

While my reasons for opening up to those not in my personal universe for very long are pretty straightforward – curiosity, friendliness, connection – the motives vary among the masses. I’m thinking the guy sitting in the aisle seat of the row in front of me needs to impress. He hopes to sound experienced and a touch worldly. He’ll be wandering the gaudy streets of the Vegas Strip in less than an hour with the two younger (mid- to late-twenties to his late-forties) attractive blondes to his left who sound as if they are co-workers along on a work-related conventions of some sort. They now know, along with me and several other in-flight strangers, that he’s probably done just about everything under the sun and then some in comparison to his less experienced vodka-sipping co-horts. Have they seen “The Hangover?” They haven’t?! Oh, well they certainly should; it’s pretty true to life. Chuckle chuckle. I imagine that up and down the aisle, from window to window, several shared scenarios are unfolding across the lap belts. Perhaps a mother whose son told her only last week that he thinks he doesn’t like girls. Maybe a husband who inadvertently discovered his wife’s ongoing infidelity via a misdirected e-mail. Even a kid unsure what to do with what he saw pass between students in the school bathroom on Monday. And, scads of information far less scintillating or scandalous. Assuredly downright boring in a majority of instances. But still . . . people who want to chat it up and people willing to listen.

______________________

Well, I’ve landed in the land of “The Hangover.” Glad I’m here long enough only to purchase Starbucks, post a blog, and hand-select 48 pieces of Ethel’s Chocolates finest offerings. There’s a charming funny man who wishes to escort me back home from the Nashville airport. My bland multi-grain bagel egg sandwich was beyond bland. I picked at it for a time before tossing it in the trash bin. For me to throw MORE than half of it away, it’s gotta be bad. Avoid the bagel shop in the Las Vegas C terminal. Save your dollars! Maybe there’s still time to buy a buttery pretzel for the 3 ½ hour flight yet ahead of me.

Ciao for now.

Envisioning

In less than twelve hours, my husband will lay eyes on his beloved bride of twenty-one years after an almost eighteen day absence. I can hardly bear it myself. As much as I love my brothers, they aren’t home for me. Neither is California. My home is in good ol’ Tennessee!

But for the night, it’s a double bed in a nice clean room in ye olde’ Quality Inn situated in Vacaville. Interestingly enough, Gary was once in a prison in this fair city. I can’t tell you how many times I penned this little cow town’s name on plain business-sized white envelopes. Evidently, though, it’s outlet malls and an historic downtown which draws the folks in. For me, it was the available room for a single adult after four earlier strike-outs . . . and the Starbucks just down the road.

One of the amenities is the box of tissues I found on the bathroom counter. A very likable green and leaf motif package design with a pleasant-sounding name: Envision. After pulling one out, I realized I was to envision actual tissue in my hand as opposed to the rough and raspy thing between my fingers. I gingerly dabbed my nose with the stuff, worried it might come in contact with my mouth and rip the healing membrane covering the annoying trio of cold sores which suddenly erupted on my lower lip yesterday. (Just in time for that wedding I’m attending as a satin-ensconced bridesmaid on Sunday!) On the bottom of the box, Georgia-Pacific brags that there is a 10% post-consumer recycled content in the fair product. What might that be?! 10% steel wool? 10% fiberglass? 10% wood chips, perhaps?!

My fatigue is evident even before I state it. Why else would I wax on about Kleenex at the end of such a momentous trip? Perhaps because, at the end of a rewarding but emotionally draining day, not to mention the extra four-plus hours of driving I did journeying into, and out of, the fair city by the bay – San Francisco – a travel-weary gal just wants a wee bit of comfort. Even if it is for her nose!

My belly is busily digesting the half a restaurant-baked cherry pie and two slices of combination pizza I munched on during my earlier adventurous commute. From time to time, over the miles and through the toll booths, I dug my fingers into the box and pulled out gooey chunks of cherry and crust, licking as I went, alternating with handfuls of lite microwave popcorn, washing it all down with pink grapefruit sparkling Perrier water. My dinner. My coping mechanism in a city where left and right turns are offered more to taxicabs and buses than cars and trucks, horns wear out for all the rude honking, and pedestrians gobble up the valuable green light time at intersections. I only hoped to check out the three-story Anthropologie store on Market Street. But the lack of parking and my lack of directional familiarity with the roads (my iPhone had the directions straight to the store, but I drove past and could NEVER get back!) thwarted my valiant attempts. I surrendered and left through the tunnel and over the bridge and past the protective foothills.

That’s all I got. I believe sleep is what the doctor would order if she knew me!