By Evie Andrejczyk

        I do not know the essence I give off or the aroma of my life. My day-to-day existence is usually uneventful and free from unhappiness. I feel I am fulfilled and have had a wonderful life. But what do others feel and see in my presence?

        What would I have to let go of to have a richer and happier life? I have clouded over my fears by business and activities but with soul-searching a few ideas emerge.

        Why were we told to take one-day-at-a-time by our creator?

        Why worry about 10 years from now?

        Will I be disabled, living alone?

        All these answers depend on my health and a degree of planning.

        I must give up listening to the world news 10ten times a day. Most of the broadcasts are gloom and doom and I have no solution for most of the situations anyway.

        I didn’t realize it affects me especially when conversing with others. My computer use has to be regulated because I waste time rather than reading and becoming enlightened and pondering my own thoughts.

        I must let go of my curiosity to a degree because I question acquaintances and even strangers, a habit of mine. It would be nicer if I gave to others the freedom to share what they wat without prompting from me.        

        Listening to others is gift I would like but it happens often that I monopolize the conversations with my own stories and desires. This is a project I have decided to work on.

        There is a freedom to being amongst the 80-year- olds. I don’t get offended when trivial situations occur as I did in my younger years. We know our place in society and, to cite a cliché, “It is what it is.”

        The greatest source of richness in my life would be to have more time with my children and grandchildren. There is so much I would love to share with them and have them share with me. They make me laugh and realize it is the time of a new generation. We don’t see things exactly the same way but I didn’t with my parents either. We can learn from each other.

        It isn’t just an on-and-off world anymore. The technology has passed me by so I am happy when my 8-year-old granddaughter helps me on the computer or the 10-year-old show me how to control all the choices on the new TV. Or sometimes just what remote to turn it on.

        This is why we take one day at a time. I enjoy today for what is before me and thank God for one more chance. Enjoy your life.

                                                        #####

 By Juliana Lavitola

     Mom and I were butting heads again.

     “Why do you ask so many questions?”

    “Because I’m curious.”

    “Curiosity killed the cat!”

    “Satisfaction brought him back!” 

    But even if it’s satisfying I learned curiosity can be detrimental if you are, at the same time, naïve. 

    After tearfully breaking up a three-year courtship with my steady high-school sweetheart because he had a wandering eye, my younger brother suggested I date an Army veteran, home after ending his a tour of duty guarding the 38^th parallel in Korea. 

    “Come on, Sis.  He’s been away for a few years and doesn’t know anyone.” 

    “I’m having fun with my girlfriends.  I don’t want to meet anyone.” 

    “You’re going to end up an old maid!” 

    Giving in, after dating this army guy for two months, he proposed marriage.  My response was a firm, “No.  I do not know you long enough.”  Even though he was the perfect gentleman, it was evident there were no sparks flying.   

     We continued dating, sharing friendships with recently married friends, when he proposed for the second time.  This time, I told him, “I’ll have to think about it.” 

    A few nights later, I approached my older brother, recuperating at home from his Navy tour in the South Pacific, “Would you please walk me to my girlfriend’s home across town?”  He agreed and I bombarded him with questions. 

     I told him of the two marriage proposals and that I was torn between the love I had for my high-school sweetheart and the feelings I had for this other gentleman who was nice, comfortable and fun to be around with the friends we had in common. 

    Would love come later in a marriage? I asked him for his opinion. 

     All he would offer is “He seems like a nice guy.”  

    A few days before Easter of 1961, I decided to accept the gentleman’s beautiful engagement ring.  My family was thrilled and wished us all the best. 

    I was dumbfounded when my fledgling fiancé made feeble excuses not to inform his mother about our engagement.   

    Easter Sunday, sitting in a pew at church, twirling my ring with its emerald-cut diamond set in white gold glistening from the rays of the sun pouring through the window, I saw my mother-in-law-to-be. She was a singer in the choir. 

    Sad and embarrassed, I prayed for guidance. 

    My curiosity pushed me into approaching my fiancée again about his mother. But he was adamantly against it. 

    Distraught, I gave him an ultimatum. “Either take me to your mother’s house or you can have your ring back.”  He relented and drove me to his house. 

    His mother and sister were there and invited me to sit on a couch where I hugged a pillow for support.  

    Our announcement touched off outrage and screaming of a level that I, as a member of a family of eight where no one raised their voices with such anger, I was not accustomed. When his sister flung a shoe sharply just over his head, crying out, “How could you treat your mother like this?”  I hugged the pillow more tightly and I was much relieved when finally they were all spent. 

    My fiancée apologized for his family’s behavior, explaining, “They never approve of what I do.  They’re still upset over me signing up for the Army at 17 after I threatened to run away from home if Mom didn’t sign the approval papers.”  

    I put my concerns aside and everyone seemed congenial as we proceeded with plans for a wedding the following spring. 

    Our wedding announcement appeared in a newspaper and was seen by my old impetuous 

high school sweetheart. He showed up at the car dealership where I worked as a receptionist.  He leaned over the counter with his familiar smile. 

    “I stopped by just to say ‘Hello’ and to let you know I’m engaged too.” 

    We exchanged congratulatory compliments and he asked, “How about going out to lunch for old-time’s sake?  We could drive up to Botsford for one of their famous foot-long hotdogs.”  

    Hesitantly, but also curiously, I agreed and placed my purse between us on the seat of my old Chevy hoping he would get the message to stay on the passenger side. 

     Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him groping in my purse.  “I’m just looking for a cigarette,”  he said. 

   “You do not have that privilege anymore,” I yelled, swerving and redirecting the car back into the proper lane.  “We are not a couple anymore.  So stay out of my purse.” 

    Mother’s retort, “Curiosity killed the cat!” resounded in my head. I could see a newspaper headline: “Head-on collision on Rt25 Northbound.  Female driver and male passenger both died at the scene. Contents of her purse were scattered everywhere. They were both engaged to be married but not to each other.” 

    Years later I learned my old beau became a Bridgeport policeman and he was shot and killed by a sniper while driving his patrol car on the Merritt Parkway. 

    So it came to pass my gentleman friend and I were united with the religious ritual of a candle-lit church ceremony and all the pageantry and pomp, the three-tier cake topped by the miniature bride and groom, the scramble by the bridesmaids for the bouquet of flowers and the sparkling shower of confetti. 

    We brought three wonderful children into the world. But it became evident the marriage was bereft of the ardor and passion that sustains and enriches a relationship. 

    After 13 years, alone in the house with the children at school and husband at work, I gazed out a window overlooking our 20 acres of beautiful wooded property, I was struck that I really was alone with no sense of sharing. 

    Before me, I saw a dreary future. Our marriage ended with a divorce.   

    In the ensuing years I found love in a second but fulfilling marriage after raising my three children to adulthood. Two married and I became a grandmother of five. 

    My curiosity was satisfied by finally discovering that true love is a passionately communicated relationship filled with common interests and unity of family encompassed with love and laughter. 

    My naivety was replaced by compatibility built on caring, compassion and kindness.

By J.M. Whitmohr

           Firemen in Cloverton knew Fannie McDougal. So did the police. She did more single-handedly training them in novel rescues than any state program.

A decade ago Fannie suddenly realized she was teaching her first students’ children’s children, and retired. Remembered as the teacher who made Shakespeare come alive for 37 years, everyone in town treasured her.

Fannie’s strength was creative problem solving, a skill she’d learned from her widowed mother during the great depression. Consequently she was always reluctant to seek help.  Her weakness was God’s small creatures. She loved them. She lived with a yellow canary whose cage hung in a window of her Victorian home— so he could talk with birds visiting the birdfeeder outside.

 It was her empathy for animals that often led her to creative problem-solving which too often led to a predicament. Fannie’s current predicament was instigated when a parakeet landed on the bird feeder.

 “Heaven, help me,” she exclaimed and quickly resolved to get that bird inside before crows, cats or early snow got it first. She opened her window calling out “pretty bird.” He flew away and she removed the screen. There. He was back. She called out again. He cocked his head listening and left. Fannie named him Landsalot.

The next day Fannie put up a ladder near the feeder and waited. When Landsalot appeared she held out her finger.

“Come on pretty bird. Come to mama,” she coaxed.  Keeping one eye on Fannie, Landsalot enjoyed the lettuce treat. But he wouldn’t come.  That evening Fannie took down the feeder and carried it inside. By morning it was on the window sill with a juicy strawberry, window open.

Sparrows, a finch, Cardinals—investigated but shied away.  And then Landsalot was there. Bold as you please pecking at the berry. All day long Fannie sweet-talked that bird, but he wouldn’t come closer. By the third day Fannie was getting desperate. A northeaster bringing snow was on its way. The parakeet could perish. Then she noticed whenever he flew off, he landed in her tulip tree.

“I can get up there,” she told herself, “and net him.” She figured that her ladder would take her part way up the trunk. Then she would nail 2 x 4s crossways like ladder rungs to climb into the higher branches. The tree was without leaves so she could easily track Landsalot, tempting him with treats.

Fannie went to work and she climbed into the tree. Curious, Landsalot flew over to observe. Soon Fannie had climbed so high the tree swayed beneath her.

She told herself. “You’re safe.”  But was she? And for the first time she looked down. The back of her neck began to prickle. Her palms began to sweat. The net slipped and she watched it fall into the pachysandra 30 feet below.

“Stay calm. You got up here, you can get down,” she said aloud hugging her perch. But straddling the limb with her butt against the trunk Fannie had no idea how to turn around without falling. Landsalot hopped closer pecking a strawberry speared on a twig.

 Soon little Timmy Thompson, all grown out, strolled by with his two Chihuahuas.

 “Timmy Thompson, do you have your phone?” she shouted.

“What . . .” he asked pivoting slowly.

“Here. In the tree. Look up. It’s Ms. McDougal.” He dragged his dogs to the tree.

“Hi up there. You dropped your net?”

“Forget the net. I believe I need some assistance. I seem to be in a predicament.”

“Should I call somebody?”

“Please.” And Fannie listened with great embarrassment as he called 911. The town alarms sounded.

Soon fire trucks rolled up sirens screaming. The police arrived. An ambulance parked in her driveway and (oh, mortification) a TV camera crew appeared below.  All for a woman simply up a tree.

Within minutes little Brian Dunsmore without his cowlick, in fact without most of his hair, had scaled the tree using Fannie’s makeshift ladder and was throwing up a safety line.   

“What are you doing up here Ms. McDougal?” he grinned.

“Hello, Brian. Nice to see you. I’m rescuing a bird.” she nodded upward. Landsalot sat above them, tilting his head, watching.  Dunsmore relayed the information back to his chief and a shot of the parakeet suddenly appeared on television screens across the region.

“Ms. McDougal! You need to stop trying to rescue animals alone,” he said holding up a safety harness. “Slip into this. You’re going to get hurt one day.”  He signaled below. A ladder moved into position and a bucket rose.

“Hello, Ms. McDougal.”

“Roy Baker, is that you?”

“Yes, mam. It’s me, same as last time. I’m here to get you down.” He held out his hand.

She sighed grabbing his hand. Safe in the bucket she dared look down. “Oh, my. So many people.”

On the ground a reporter rushed to interview her. She told how she tried to lure the parakeet inside “Snow’s coming,” she said. “Landsalot could freeze to death.”

“Lancelot?  That’s Romeo,” said a man walking up. “I recognized him on television. Everybody, quiet!” he shouted and stepped out from the hushed crowd raising his left hand, one finger stiff as a perch.

“Romeo, Romeo, where art thou Romeo?” And with a flutter of feathers the parakeet flew to his outstretched finger, hopped to his shoulder and nuzzled his neck. Gently his hand clasped the bird and tucked him inside his shirt. The crowd cheered.

“You taught me that phrase, Ms. McDougal, “said the man. “Ralph Roberts, Romeo and Juliet.” He grinned. “Thanks for finding my bird.”

“’Wherefore’ Ralph, ‘wherefore art thou.’” Fannie forced a smile. “‘All’s well that ends well’,” she said.

But not for Fannie McDougal. No bird in hand. No bird in the tree. Only Dickie Bird alone in his cage. She so wanted that little budgie to keep her and Dickie Bird company, she told the TV reporter.

The next day Fannie received 14 parakeets from well-wishers. 

                                                                #

By Ed Baranosky

    Writing is like practicing psychiatry. It gives you the ability to play with people’s minds. An added bonus is that to do it you don’t have to spend six years in a classroom and thousands of dollars for a piece of paper.

    Flattery is the whipped cream and cherry on the dessert of ego. I enjoyed basking in the aura of it. The caption under my picture in my high school yearbook read: “The wheels of his brain are ever oiled.”

    It was after I was discharged from the army that I found a job that was less taxing on  my back. I was pretty good at what I did for a living.

    At a company meeting when my solution to a problem was explained to the group, a colleague would ask: “How did you do that?”

    At a company celebration, my wife and I were asked to sit at the executives’ table. The head of the company stood up and said: “One of the reasons we can celebrate tonight is because of Ed.” I soaked up the applause.

     Can you imagine the amount of air that can be pumped into an ego when a graduate of MIT asks your opinion on a dilemma he is facing?

     In my dealings with sales people, at the conclusion of our business I don’t say: “Have a nice day.” My parting words are: “May the Publishers Clearing House agent knock on your door.”

    The usual response is “I wish” or “That would be great.”

    At the bank I use a teller signed up for the PCH Sweepstakes at my suggestion.

    Lo and behold the agent knocked on her door with all the hoopla. She was a winner.

    In an interview on national TV she told her story and mentioned my name.

     Later when I left the company several competitors hired me to find solutions to their perplexing problems.

     I believe it was Frank Lloyd Wright who said: “It’s difficult to be humble when you’re  a genius.”

     I really don’t have to tell you what gets me into the most trouble . . . do I?

                                                  #

By Russ Hartz

     A few years ago I lost my soul mate.

     As I sit here watching and listening to all the kids playing together on the beach and I see the sailboat far out on the lake, I can’t help but reflect on our lives together.         

    Mitch was always there for me. And I thank God for the wonderful life he provided for us and all our children.

    When little Mitchel Jr. was born, Mitch came into my hospital room, scooped him up into his arms beaming and said, “Look Patty, God has blessed us by sending us one of his little angels to care for.” He said that about all our children . . . and grandchildren.               

    But then Mitch was always a sentimentalist. I could never figure out why he was so devoted to my mother. I’ve never known a man to be so devoted to his mother-in-law. He always said she was a giant of a woman.

    Mom used to say, “It’s probably because I lost my own family and Mitch was impressed by my devotion to you.”

     When Mom passed away Mitch broke down and cried like a baby. I had never seen him cry before. He was embarrassed about it and explained, “She was a giant of a woman . . . and she risked so much to save you for me.”

    I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But I didn’t question it. I always knew she was great.

    I still remember that first night when Mitch took me to the dance. I never told him but until then I had thought of him as the big brother I never had. He was so different from the other boys with whom I had gone out.                

    In my mind’s eye I can still see the harbor lights glistening across the water. And when he slipped the engagement ring on my finger . . . I knew it was the best thing that would ever happen to me. Except for all these wonderful children in my life.

    I’m so tired.

    Oh . . . ! Mitchel . . . ? Mitch   

                                                               #                                                                                         

By Ed Baranosky

  (Wednesday, Nov.15, 2022)

         Family and friends were sitting in pews in St. Jude’s church in Monroe. A flag draped coffin was in the center aisle in front of the altar. The priest had just concluded the funeral mass for Ed Baranosky. He addressed the people saying “Ed’s daughter would like to say a few words about her father.”

        Susan went to the lectern and adjusted the microphone. Daubing her eyes with a tissue she took a few moments to compose herself. In the angry voice of her mother’s Scottish heritage she said “If my dad wasn’t such a stubborn old man he wouldn’t be in that damn box waiting for his ass to be burned to a crisp. A few gasps mingled with a bit of laughter filtered through the assembled mourners.

        She turned to the priest and said “sorry for the language Father. The priest nodded and smiled. Susan went on. “He should have been at home today making scrambled eggs, home fries and bacon. He called Wednesday his ‘egg day.’”

        In September his children and their spouses, grandchildren and their spouses and great-grand children celebrated dad’s 94th birthday.

         His eyes teared up on Veteran’s day last Saturday when his great-granddaughters told him “thank you for your service Papa.”

         I checked on him Monday morning on my way to work. He told me he was going to make a fire in the fireplace because of the cold snap that came in overnight.

         I said “Dad the chimney hasn’t been cleaned. Please wait until it’s cleaned.”

          I left for work.

         At noon I got a call from my sister Sandy. When she went to check on Dad she found him by the wood pile. Apparently he was chopping wood with an old axe and when Dad lifted the axe over his head the axe came off the handle and struck him in the head.

         He was our Dad and we loved him dearly. He was one of a kind they don’t make any  more. We will miss him.

                                                                     # 

 By Juan Rodriguez

     Juan Rodriguez, colloquially referred to as an “eccentric old author” by those in the neighborhood, succumbed to old age surrounded by his children.

     His final words were “Worry not, I’ve had a good run. I got what everyone gets, a lifetime.”

     Juan was known for his love of hyperbole, absurdism and his ability to quote poetry on a whim, especially Bukoswski.

     His antics had him committed involuntarily many times over the course of his life time. He would often refer to the hospital as his personal writer’s retreat.

     Though they were often short stints, his wife Becky would retrieve him explaining that it was all a big game.

     He would have conversations and only allow himself respond with movie quotes, song lyrics or poetry.

     A novel concept to those who knew the game it was a sight to behold. To others the nonsensical responses sounded like the ravings of a madman or someone on the verge of a stroke.

     Juan was a retired letter carrier and moderately successful novelist. He often said that his day job lent itself well to his hobby.

     There in the monotony of repetitive tasks the muses would strike and he would stop to write down the idea before the inspiration was gone.

     In retirement he put out more of his work, going through decades of notebooks, apps and journal entries, collecting them for what he called “just another coffee table book” for his loyal fan base.

    The literary world has lost one it’s most devout absurdists. But his work lives on.

                                                            #

By John-Paul Marciano

    I never saw it coming.  I didn’t hear anything.  No one said a word.  There was no warning, no alarm, no siren; only silence.  It’s not supposed to be like this.  Is it?

    I can see but only what is before me.  I can hear a soft wind gently blowing through the trees.  I can see the leaves gently flutter on the breeze.  I am not in total darkness.  There is light peeking through the canopy.  I can hear a bird sing but I cannot turn my head to see it.  It shouldn’t be like this.  Should it?

    The fresh smell of grass vies for dominance with the pungent aroma of soil.  I cannot see them but I know they are there.  I am parched.  My tongue sticks to my palate, but I cannot quench my thirst.  I try to move my arms but to no avail.  Likewise, my legs lay lifeless like two fallen trees.  I don’t understand what happened; they were working just a few minutes earlier.  Weren’t they?

    I wish to speak but I cannot.  If I could, would anyone hear me?  Better still, would anyone care to listen?  Maybe not, but that’s never stopped me before.  Why can’t I speak?  Where has my voice gone?

    I think I hear my heart beating.  I can’t tell it’s real or if it’s just in my mind. It really doesn’t matter.  Does it?

    I’m feeling cold now.  I wish someone would give me a blanket.  The light is fading.  Or is it just a cloud blocking the sun?  I can’t tell.

    I think the bird stopped singing.  Or did it just fly away?  I can no longer smell the grass.  The aroma faded away.  So too the scent of soil has faded to nothingness. 

    I think the wind has ceased.  I can no longer hear it blowing through the trees.  I no longer see the leaves flutter on the breeze.

    There is no music playing, no angels in the sky.  It’s only me with my waning thoughts as life just fades to black.

                                                             #

By John-Paul Marciano

    Peter was distracted by a streak of light across the sky followed by the sound of metal scraping asphalt. He had been busy rolling a giant snowball he planned on using as a base for his snowman. The proximity of what he saw and heard piqued his curiosity and distracted him.

    Peter was trudging to the fence in the backyard through a foot of snow when he heard a deep throated “Hah-ah-ah” followed by another streak of light. Now the five-year-old stumbled his way to the front yard as fast as his feet would take him. When he finally reached the fence he looked to his left. A well-dressed man with a neatly trimmed beard and long jet black shoulder-length hair was rounding the corner whistling an unrecognizable tune. 

    “Hey there, young fellow,” the man called out in a baritone voice. “Hello,” Peter replied hesitantly. He turned to see if his father was looking out the front window. Fortunately, his father was busy baking ginger snap cookies and wasn’t watching. His father constantly stressed that he not talk to strangers.

    He turned back to face the grinning stranger. “Parents teach you not to talk to strangers?” the man asked. Peter nodded his reply. The stranger’s grin turned to a smile. “Pretty sound advice if you ask me,” he said conspiratorially. “I’m in a quandary, though. I’m looking for Peachtree Lane but it’s not on my map. Think you can help me out?”

    Again, Peter nodded but initially said nothing. The man looked at Peter questioningly and said, “Well?” Peter hesitated for a beat before speaking. He pointed to his right and said, “Two blocks that way then take a left. Go to the third light and turn right. Follow the road until you see the house with the huge snow globe in the front yard. The next street on the left is Peachtree Lane.”

     “That sounds simple enough. Thank you very much.”

    “Are you going to walk there?” Peter asked. The man shook his head and let out a summoning whistle. “I have a ride.”

    A flash of light to his left caught Peter’s attention. The gentleman began walking away. Peter watched as the man stood on the runners of a sled behind eight reindeer in the middle of the street. As Peter looked on the man’s hair and beard turned snow white and his clothing morphed to red. Peter’s new friend grabbed the reins and took his seat in the sled.

    The reindeer pulled the sled slowly until the sled was directly in front of Peter. Peter gazed in awe as the man gave him a wink and a nod. He snapped the reins and, in the blink of an eye, disappeared down the street.

    “There you are,” Peter’s father said as he came up beside him. “Were you just talking to someone?” Peter nodded and said, “Some old guy was looking for Peachtree Lane.”

    “How many times do I have to tell you not to talk to strangers?”

                                                                  #

By John-Paul Marciano

    Dear Joseph,

    I’m your cousin Liam.  We’ve never met so I enclosed a picture of myself. I’m the handsome dude on the right.  That’s my girlfriend Ashlee on the left in case you were wondering.  I know you’ve met my cousin Angus.  His father and my grandfather are brothers.

    I heard you could use some cheering up so I decided to write.  I actually wanted to come visit you but I was told the Department of Corrections doesn’t allow dogs to visit the inmates.  Go figure.  Dogs always get the short end.  I would have enjoyed leaning into you while you gave me a belly rub or scratched behind my ears.

    I’ve read where some enlightened correctional institutions have Prison Puppy Programs where inmates raise and train puppies to work as service dogs.  The dogs live in the handler’s cell, spend the day training outside the cell and going to meals in the chow hall with their handlers.  While the program provides much needed trained service dogs, the correctional facilities get the benefit of a calmer climate created by the presence of us dogs.

    My humans mentioned you weren’t real happy with the food there.  That’s a shame.  I love to eat and rarely turn away from a meal.  I can’t imagine eating lousy food every day.  The only time I passed on a meal was when a store sold stale food to my humans.  I don’t think there was any malice involved.  For some reason the manufacturer thought it was a good idea to print the expiration date in black on a dark blue background.  I’d send you some of my kibble, but I think the inspectors might consider it contraband.

    So I’m curious.  Do you have your own cell or do you have to share it with one or more cellmates?  Have you made any friends there or do you just stay to yourself?  Are you allowed to have any electronics or a radio in your cell so you can listen to music?  What’s the prison library like?  If you find it wanting, maybe you can be the Andy Dufresne of Gowanda and work to improve it in your spare time.

    I hear you work offsite operating a front loader and a couple bobcats.  I always wanted to go along for a ride in one of those.  They look like fun, especially the big front loader.  That’s a good skill to have when you get out.  You can get a job operating heavy machinery making a lot more than they’re paying you in there.

    I’m glad to hear you’ve not been issued any tickets.  Sometimes it can be hard to avoid trouble.  I remember when I was a puppy my humans were told I wouldn’t be allowed to return to a doggy daycare because they thought I played too rough.  My humans asked if they would reconsider.  One of the owners said they would, but only if I met with a dog behaviorist they recommended.  So they drove me to a dog park in Ridgefield, CT and the behaviorist evaluated my interaction with the other dogs for a half hour.  In the end he said I was the most balanced dog in the park.  He said he didn’t really understand what they were complaining about as puppies tend to play rough in general.  So as best I can tell, I was banished for nothing other than being a playful puppy.

    I hope all is going well for you and that you are in good cheer.  Maybe they’ll cook you a decent meal for Thanksgiving but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.  Christmas is right around the corner and that’s always a happy time.  I hear my humans are planning to take a ride up there to visit you but I’m not sure when.

    I will close now as it is getting close to my afternoon mealtime.  Hopefully we can meet when you get out.  I would like that.

    Your friend always,

    Liam

                                                                #