First Born and Second Chances

Brandon was my first-born in the wilderness, son of my youth. He gave me motherhood in all its facets. He was my first pregnancy, my first labor and delivery, my first experience with breast-feeding and teething and diapering and loving thoroughly another perfect human being who depended on me completely for his life. On him I practiced, with him I was infatuated, from him I received much love as he was a cheerful baby, but on him I made the most mistakes. I didn't know nearly as much as I thought I did. As he grew up he became more and more independent--sometimes too independent to my way of thinking--and the problems, experiences, the trials, the joys, the successes, and even the mundane, all became more complicated because soon we were a family of four and then five, and Brandon was not just the first-born, he was the older brother, the one we expected to set the example for the others, the one who, no matter how old he became, was always the first child. Whether he was 12 or 22, my experiences with him were always new. Always a trial run. Always a crap shoot if I was doing it right or not. But Brandon seemed to be able to handle it.

Later as I grew in wisdom as a parent, I lamented the fact that I could do a much better job with Brandon if only I had the chance to do it over again. I got my wish July 30, 1998 when Brandon survived a major car accident. Horror. We didn't know it that day, but Brandon was going to come out of his coma a 200 lb infant; we were going to do all the things with him that we'd done the first time around. He had to relearn everything and we were going to re-raise him only this time with an upped ante--magnified personality traits, a man who didn't realize anything was mentally wrong, intense temporal lobe rages that put us in physical danger, an inability to reason, and all with the same strong independent will as before and a physical strength that returned well before his mental capabilities did. God help us all if he stopped progressing at 15! Thankfully, he didn't. But even in the most difficult circumstances we found some humor.

Shortly after Brandon first came home after three months in the hospital, he went from using a wheel chair to walking with a walker. His balance was very poor. The doctor had emphasized how devastating it would be if Brandon fell in the shower or anywhere and hit his head again. For that reason, one of us always followed him to the bathroom to stand guard in case he started to fall. Chantel even put on her bathing suit and helped him in the shower a couple of times. I remember one time in particular, Brandon went into the bathroom and I was close behind him. He was physically progressing rapidly and was irritated when any of us were in there with him. In frustration he turned around and hollered, "Well, you followed me in here-- do you want to hold my penis for me too while I take a piss?" There he was! The old Brandon! Shortly after that, he quit using the walker and we gave him back some privacy.

Another time, Larry, who had became Brandon's full-time-every-kind-of therapist, (fodder for another post) decided that he needed to increase the level of Brandon's physical activity. Brandon had surpassed every physical goal, from being able to walk to the corner and back, to walking around the track down at the school, to walking around the block and up the hill. Larry often brought the wheelchair with them in case Brandon needed it to get home, but one day he decided to sit in the wheelchair and let Brandon push him. That was the day that a neighbor drove by and scowled at Larry as if to say, "What a mean father you are, making that poor crippled boy push you up the hill!"

Remembering those times makes me proud of how the Dayley family sacrificed for Brandon and how hard he worked to 'come back.' It makes me marvel at how determined he was to overcome his limitations and to what degree Larry and Chantel and Clayton gave to make that happen. It makes me reflect with gratitude on the power of faith, the hundreds, maybe thousands of prayers that were offered up for all of us, and it makes me hopeful that I will have the opportunity to help the families of other head-injury victims, even if it's just a word of courage to them.

I do feel sad to remember how open ended our grief was in those days. The Brandon we knew had died, but his body had not. Although people sent numerous cards, and offered many prayers and messages of condolence, there was no funeral and no closure. We wore our grief like shackles, with no one to explain to us the grieving process or how to get through it. At the time, Brandon's accident was the worst trial I'd ever been through. I didn't think I'd ever go through anything more difficult than that. I was wrong. But would I go back and change those days? Fast forward over the early years to a place where Brandon was mature and confident and hopeful? Not a chance. I learned so much with him and from him, and from my family also. Those years were a gift, a blessing in the form of adversity. Brandon should have died in that car wreck. The day I stood at his gravesite and spoke was the day I realized that he didn't need to have been here, to struggle like he did these past ten years. It was the rest of us who were given the opportunities to grow. We became more patient, more understanding, more willing to give and do and love, more forgiving, more filled with compassion. And isn't that the idea? To return home with honor to our Heavenly Father and Mother, having received the experiences we came to earth for? Sometimes I ask myself: If I had the chance to relive those years, knowing what I know now, would I? My answer is always the same: You bet your life. And mine too. In a heartbeat.

Caterpillar

The grieving process is personal and solitary, and yet, I am the MOM. And somehow, that means that I should have the answers, or can find them, in spite of my own grief, that I can kiss the hurts and make them all better. I read my daughter's blog entry recently and cried, for her sorrows and mine. I wonder if I haven't been there enough for her, if somehow in our separate journies we've put on a good front for one another when maybe we needed to cry together. Or maybe she is grieving in the best way for her and the fact that she can write about it with such honesty is evidence of strong, emotional and spiritual health. Still, I am shocked to realize that yesterday was the six month anniversary of Brandon's death and I lived the entire day--me--the one who is organized and sentimental and aways starts new endeavors at the beginning of the month or the week, yet, somenow, I missed the day's significance. How did that happen? Lying here in this room three thousand miles across the country from Maryland, I realize that Michele has made a collage of pictures for Rolan, all the people of significance in his life, and I'm grateful. She hung it low on the wall, at his eye level, and mine at this moment; thoughts of Rolan remind me of the continuity of life even when I feel the world has stopped revolving; his sweetness is balm to my spirit. One picture grabs my attention--taken in 2005 when Clayton was moving to San Diego. We had a party for him then, at the Martinez Marina and we posed together, the five of us. Fire and water. Moonlight and sun. I have a copy of that photo in my apartment in Baltimore but today I see details I hadn't noticed before. The uneven slant of Brandon's shoulders after the accident, the minuscle web of lines in Larry's and my faces, the result of full lives--the kind I haven't always prayed for, but began to, perhaps in my thirties, when I began to look back and see not just the expense of adversity, but the gifts I've received in the process. And even though my awareness of the costs grows every year, death and sorrows, divorce and illnesses, it is a full life, the only kind worth experiencing. I know that the faith my daughter wrote about has the power to heal us and our broken bodies and broken lives. It's the same faith that sent a dawn breeze through the open window this morning when only the lower edge of the night sky was turning gray, then lavendar, then pink. It's the same faith that assured me of Clayton's birth long before its reality and I can't imagine his never being here--especially now. The words "my son" have taken on a whole different meaning. The faith that turns the world on its axis is the same faith that causes trees and plant life to reach up, in spite of wind and rain and ice. And I still want that, life in all its raw beauty, even the blackness against which all other lights shine.




I look at the photo again. Brandon on one end, body language defying his limitations. A strong arm around his smiling sister who appears to be almost bursting in the joy of being with her brothers. Brandon pulls her against him, while her upper body leans slightly against Clayton. Clayton in the center, deep smile, arms wide with one around Chantel and the other around me. Larry standing on the other end, leaning into me and suddenly, I see it. We are the caterpillar. Parts that move independently, but dependent upon one another. Together in spite of our seperateness, coming together to make up the whole, even if just once in awhile. Brandon is close by. Chantel and Clayton are loving and strong. Larry is a part me. Forever. And for today, it is enough.

My Mother, My Friend

Dear, Dear Mother,

Today is your birthday and just one of many times that I think about all those years we spent together in Idaho. Remember when I was 16 and newly married? We lived downstairs in your and Dad's big brick house on Palmer Rd. You never complained about that. Every night you cooked dinner and every night we gathered around the kitchen bar, blessed the food, and ate. You cooked simply, Mother, and I know that sometimes you felt that your food wasn't fancy enough, especially compared to the way my mother cooked. Hers was just different, that's all. I tried to assure you that your food was delicious but I don't know that you were ever convinced. You fixed chicken, roast beef, or hamburger patties, mashed or baked potatoes, gravy, a canned vegetable (usually green beans) and sometimes a salad or beet pickles from the fruit room downstairs. Chicken was either fried in the big black iron skillet, or put in the oven in a roasting pan and nobody could match your milk gravy! (Brandon never stopped talking about it as long as he lived). Beef was always roasted surrounded by potatoes and carrots. And steak from the grass-fed beef was sometimes substituted for hamburger. For dessert you served homemade fruit pie (remember how you'd make 12 at a time and freeze them?), jello salad, or canned peaches which you and Dad bottled every summer. You always set the bar with your everyday dishes--white Corelle ware with the yellow gold trim, plastic gold tumblers, paper napkins, salt and pepper, slices of homemade bread, and ice in our cups. Dad drank soda pop every night and you usually drank water. Larry and I usually drank soda pop or milk, but sometimes you fixed Koolaide. Larry's place was on the round stool closest to the wall, giving his left-handed elbow freedom to move. I sat next to him on his right, and Dad sat a space down from me, closest to the telephone. As the children came, the bar accomodated them and their high chairs, too. I never told you how much it meant to me for all those happy times around that kitchen bar, happier than any other place I can think of. And over the years, you sat across from all of us in the corner where the big cabinets that Dad built joined each other so you could get to the stove or refrigerator easily if we wanted seconds.

Sunday meals were the same as every day meals except for more choices of food, and then you used the clear glass tumblers with the painted flowers on them. Only when we had large family gatherings did we eat around the dining room table and the bar. I loved it when you used your pretty china with the roses on them and a tablecloth to protect the dining room set you'd inherited from your sister, Marvel. Age determined who sat at the dining table and who sat at the bar with preferential treatment oldest to youngest, but the kids didn't seem to mind where they ate since they were always hungry for your home cooking. If we had a really, really large group, the adults fed the kids first, sent them outside or downstairs, and then we ate. How I miss those precious times together in that house. You and Dad were my parents in almost every sense of the word.

Only one experience with you gives me cause for chagrin and that was shortly after Larry and I were married. I don't think that I ever thanked you for it and the lesson you and Dad taught me about growing up and taking adult responsibility.

After our family dinners, Larry and I jumed up from the table and usually went downstairs or outside. Sometimes we joined Dad in the den to watch television. Several weeks went by and one night Dad took Larry aside and told him, "You guys are not children anymore. Marci should help Mother with the dishes after we eat." Needless to say, when Larry told me, I was mortified. I knew better than that! I guess I was so wrapped up in my own life that it never occurred to me to lend you a hand. Typical teenager. I simply hadn't stopped to think about the work and sacrifices you were making for us, and indeed, I felt like one of your own from the beginning. I guess you could say that, married or not, that's when I began to grow up. I was eager to jump in and help you after that and you always thanked me. Looking back, I realize that all those after- dinner times together formed the basis for our life-long friendship. My memories of putting food away, washing out the gold porcelain sink, and washing and drying off the big counter are sweet ones. I even love the memory of how you always put your little dish with the plastic fruit in the center of the bar after we were finished. I have that dish now and it's a reminder of you and all you taught me. I will love you forever! Happy Birthday, Mother.

Our Trip Home to Idaho

Most people don't realize that we had the privilege and blessing of taking Brandon's body back to Idaho ourselves. When we found out at the mortuary that this could be done, I saw Larry's face and I knew that there was no question whether he wanted to do it or not. Clayton's face had the same resolute look. Larry and Clayton returned to the mortuary after the funeral and helped load the casket into the back of Larry's truck. It was well protected from the elements and tied in place. Chantel and Austin and I with the boys drove separately in a rental car. We met up that evening in Winnemucca, Nevada and stayed in the same motel. The next day we drove the rest of the way to Burley and went straight to the cemetery to pick out the plot. The grounds keeper was expecting us. Chantel and I got there first and enjoyed walking around the cemetery that mother had taken us to so many times. It's a beautiful cemetery near a few small acreages and lots of farm ground. We had our choice of plots with flat headstones only, or plots that allow the uprights. We preferred the uprights and found the ones we wanted with a view of the mountains. When Larry and Clayton arrived we showed them the plots and they liked them, too. Then we went together to city hall to pay for them. Larry bought not just Brandon's but three other plots next to his. One of those is mine and I'm very grateful for it. I have always wanted to be near Mother and Dad and being interred next to my first born goes without saying. Brandon's final trip. Pleasant View Cemetery, Burley, Idaho Near side: Clayton Dayley, Colten Dayley, John Bruch, Austin Calder. Far side: Dan Dayley, Larry Dayley, Kevin Neiwert, Justin Echols. A sweet graveside service was held on Friday afternoon April 4, 2008, a windy, blustery day. The city had set up the site with two heavy tarps as wind breaks, but they did little to help. Larry said that Brandon made a lot of noise and it was appropriate that he left us by making noise as well. About thirty people attended including friends from Salt Lake City and Martinez, California. Austin conducted the service and sang two verses of the hymn "Nearer My God to Thee." Brandon's Uncle John (my brother) gave the opening prayer and his Uncle Dan was the main speaker. Austin singing "Nearer My God to Thee." His clear tenor voice and willingness to sing acapella helped bring the spirit to the service. I was more than happy with how well everything went. Dan talked about Brandon's amazing ability to keep getting up after being knocked down so many times. He also praised Brandon's good humor and his determination to reach his goals no matter what. Dan identified Brandon not only as his nephew, but as one of his "very, very best friends." Members of the congregation were then invited to speak impromptu. Chantel praised Brandon for being such a wonderful uncle to her boys; she also mentioned how safe she always felt with him and referenced an experience she had taking the train to Chico to see him when she was younger; I talked about the example Brandon set for me in facing adversity and how much I'd learned from him these last ten years. My brother John shared a funny memory of a comment Brandon made at his mission return. Then Brandon's very good friend, Justin, spoke about their long-term friendship. He said, "I'm a better man for having known him." Austin shared some personal thoughts and explained the reason we dedicate or set-apart grave sites. Most of us included in our remarks our anticipation of a happy reunion with Brandon someday, as well as joy on the day of resurrection. We buried Brandon with a view of the mountains in the same cemetery as several generations of his ancestors, including his beloved grandmother and grandfather Dayley. Chantel and Clayton with their Bruch cousins: Jantzen, Queston, Kolsen and Garrett. Savanah wasn't able to come because she was ill. A family of four After the graveside service, we went to Beverly's house where she had prepared a delicious meal for all of us. She has been such a wonderful sister and friend. Beverly took care of Dad and then Mother, all the while taking care of her son, Ken, and often her granddaughters Camrai and Katela. I love you, Beverly, and I appreciate your unfailing selfless service to your family and to us these many years.

Of All the Nerve!

What some guys won't do to get their faces on the internet! Clayton and Larry with the one little pudgy I can't wait to get my hands on. He doesn't seem to have either of your hairlines. Michele's maybe? You two are so lucky! Thanks for sharing!

Last Night

Marty came over and stayed the night. John had flown out from Utah, then Larry decided to stop by. Suddenly, I was in a room full of people who love me, and people who love each other. When "the boys" get together, there is mighty laughter and lots of story telling and reminiscing. At one point in the evening, I was lying on the couch with my head on Larry's lap, listening to these men--Larry, Mike, Marty and John. Rachel and I contributed some, but the joy was in listening to them and their laughter, the power of oral tradition to strengthen a family, and all of it motivated by love. I thought to myself, "This is a healing experience all by itself."

Catching Up is Hard to Do

Graduation weekend--fantastic. Rates right up there with Chantel's wedding and Owen's and Soren's births. The day was gorgeous. The energy I felt, (once I stopped crying and before we marched) was amazing. Such an honor to walk with my good friend Sarah. And what a sweet surprise to see Larry and Clayton making their way past the line in search of me--hugs and and a last minute, "We're proud of you," before the campanile began to ring for a solid minute, announcing the approaching graduates. Chantel and Brandon had found the best seats; I got to walk right past my family and even give Soren a kiss on the way. There isn't one part of the ceremony that stands out as the best part--it was all wonderful. But I will always remember waiting for my turn to cross the podium for my diploma, looking out across the audience and seeing my family--Larry, Brandon, Chantel and Soren, Clayton, my brother Marty, Mike and Rachel, and my friend Marilyn, all smiling and cheering me on with such joy in their beaming faces. I felt so much love from them. I'm a Mills woman! A graduate of the class of 2007. Wow. A long time for this dream to come true, but worth every bit and more. Truly, I am a blessed woman.

Zen

Last night was a public reading of the senior creative writers' theses. Preparation was intense. This was no ordinary final. This was a presentaion of the culmination of all our work at Mills College. We were fortunate to have use of the historic Bender room, with its high ceilings and beautiful arched windows. I'm told that the Bender room was the original Mills College library, and it appeared so with its dark wood glass-faced cabinets lining the walls.

Brandon came with me and we went early to help with set-up. It was a party, complete with beautiful food and drinks and fresh flowers. talk about brandon and what he did to help.

I wanted my family to be there so much and they came: Larry, Brandon, Clayton and Michelle. I felt varying degrees of nervousness all evening. Everyone sat with their friends and family. We came up from the audience as Elmaz, our incredible professor, introduced us.

My best friend, Sarah, read first and set the standard. Each woman as she was called, walked up to the podium with confidence and read with clarity and pride. Hearing these final presentations, I was so proud of them. Every one! At the beginning of the semester we workshopped together--everyone read everyone else's work. Then we broke off into small groups for the majority of the semester. I didn't hear the completed versions until last night, and what a transformation.

When it came my turn, the clapping and cheering sounded extra loud, but it made me smile and I was still smiling when I turned around to face the audience. I looked out and saw my family all smiling at me, and others. The room was dead quiet. It was my turn. I opened my mouth to read and a strong settling energy came over me. Any nervousness vanished. I was in my element, in my space, doing what I do; I knew how to pace the reading. Where to pause; where to slow down; when to speed up. Elmaz had told us that readings are really telling stories, that our paper copies are just for reference. I felt myself doing that, being connected to my audience. Every eye was on me. When I finished, the applause felt GREAT! Elmaz was crying. I knew that I couldn't have done any better.

I learned the signs for chicken and pork...

Last night Larry took me and Brandon and Traci to dinner at (where else?) The Mecca! We had a great time. Traci is so sharp. Brandon and I are both picking up sign language. He's taking a signing class at LMC also. Brandon spends more time with Traci than I do and he seems to understand everything she says, even though he can't sign as fast as she can yet, of course. It's really amazing to watch them together. Being with Traci has improved Brandon's speech also. He's been forced to enunciate and speak more slowly (Traci does some lip reading) and that has improved our communication tremendously. There was a time when I said "What?" to EVERYTHING Brandon said. Now, I almost never have to ask him to repeat himself. Larry learned some signing last night too, and the four of us did a lot of laughing together.

Repairs...

Larry picked Brandon up at 5 am and drove him to Pleasanton Kaiser for his shoulder surgery. I got off work an hour early, thanks to another care-giver, and went on over around 10 am. Brandon was still being operated on. The receptionists kept checking his progress for me, then I got to go back to recovery. As soon as I walked through the door across the white tiles, the smell hit me. It was so familiar but I couldn't place it. Then I remembered, oh yeah, that place...almost nine years ago...

Brandon was sitting up in a chair flirting with a nurse. He was HUNGRY, which was a good sign. And he was SMILING which was another good sign. He is supposed to keep his shoulder immobile for three weeks. No showering til Tuesday. He's on Spring break this coming week so the timing is good. The best part is Dr. Wyatt was able to do the surgery orthoscopically instead of with a traditional incision. The healing time will be much quicker. Brandon had a priesthood blessing last night and that's what we prayed for.

Brandon's life is coming together in so many ways...I'm thankful for that. He's been through a lot, some of it his own doing, but he keeps learning from his mistakes and he keeps setting goals and moving forward. I love you, Son, and I'm very proud of you.

Sun not Snow

Not only do we not have snow, (except once last week on top of Mt. Diablo) we don't even have the usual fog and cold rains. Gorgeous today and supposed to be gorgeous tomorrow too. But who's complaining? This morning I opened the window, heard birds singing, inhaled the chilly morning air--aahhhh! Felt just like a summer morning in the mountains of Idaho-everything crisp and fresh. Man, I miss camping!! Anyway, enjoy these photos, inspired by Owen in red!

Chantel, Dec 24, 1981, in front of the house where she was born.
The neighbor Wendy, a regular at our house. She supplied the sled. Brandon and Chantel provided the fun.
What a good dad!
Warm and happy. What little munchkins!!

Miss You, Dad

Dear Dad,

It’s been six years ago today since you left and went to the other side. I miss you and I still think about you often. Mother misses you like crazy, but I’m sure you know that. When are you coming for her? My guess is you’ll be coming soon. When she goes I will miss her too, but honestly, I’ll be so happy knowing you two are together again.

When my marriage fell apart a few years ago, I thought I was going to die of grief, and losing you and Mother was a part of that. I just couldn’t imagine not being part of your family. I’ve since come to understand that nothing breaks the bonds of love, not divorce and not death. I don’t know if you ever realized how much I needed you in the early days, have always needed you and Mother. I look back and see such a little girl. With Larry, I got the package deal! You never criticized our decision to run away and get married. Your demeanor was the exact opposite of Martin’s: kind, solid, calm under pressure, self-assured. I wish I could have been there the time he came to the house in a rage, demanding ‘his daughter’ back. My Mom to this day talks about how well you handled him, diffusing his anger while standing your ground and standing up for us, young as we were. Looking back, I realize you and Mother must have had your own concerns, your private talks, your worries, but we only knew love and support from the very first day. I always knew that I was loved and would be protected, and I was.

You know what I miss? I miss talking to Mother on the phone, knowing that you’re sitting in the bedroom on the extension phone. You never said much, but you were always there, listening, supporting us, offering a few words when they were needed.

I miss the simple family nights we used to have on Mondays, watching “Little House on the Prairie” together in the den, until President Kimball said that that wasn’t enough. Apparently, lots of LDS families were doing the same thing. We didn’t stop watching the show, but after that you and Mother made sure we had a lesson every week. Sometimes we’d have it at our new house, or over at the motel with Hal and Kathy. After they moved to California, seems like we had it at our house most of the time. We were always getting together for family night, or Sunday dinner with you and Mother, or someone’s birthday party.

Lately I’ve been reading a book called, The Five Love Languages. It’s all about the different ways people communicate and receive love. If we don’t recognize our partner’s or children’s ‘language’ we might miss out on the love they’re offering us (since people usually ‘talk’ in the way they also receive.) Well, one of my languages is “words of affirmation.” I need to hear words such as, “I love you.” Yours, on the other hand, is “acts of service” and I use the present tense because I suspect you’re still working, going about your life quietly but getting the job done. I realize now you said “I love you” every day by the things you did for us. I used to say, “I love you, Dad.” And you always used to answer in the plural, “We love you, too.”

Remember that time I got an infection beneath the skin on my face? Man, that hurt. The doctor was going to hospitalize me if it didn’t get better within 24 hours. I wasn’t worried about going to the hospital, but I was worried about having to be separated from Chantel. She was just a year old then and still nursing. I had to stop breast-feeding for a few days because the medicine they gave me was so strong. I don’t think she missed that too much because you and Mother took such good care of us. You came to the house and gave me a blessing. I remember when you left, I was lying in bed. I said “Bye” and then, as you were walking away I yelled, “Dad?” You said, “Yeah?” I could tell you had stopped in the hallway. I said, “I love you.” You paused for just a second then said, “I love you too!” It was the first time you ever said “I” instead of “We.” But then right after that you said, “We love all you girls!” And I smiled to myself. That’s always been a wonderful memory. I got well too and didn’t have to go to the hospital after all.

I never realized how hard it must have been for you and Mother when we moved away to California, until Chantel and Austin moved to Maryland. I remembered Mother writing about her own feelings when we left Idaho. We were young and had such a future. By then you and Mother must have known what I’ve since learned too—that family is the only thing that makes the future worthwhile. You and Mother always supported our decisions and helped in any way you could even if that meant leaving you. Dad, there’s no way I can express how I feel about you and what you did for our family. Without your support—emotional, financial, spiritual—there would have been no “us.”

Your legacy of always doing what needed to be done has been a powerful one. I don’t think you know that I gave the girls in Young Women a lesson once on service with you as the example, how you worked two jobs, then worked Larry’s little arms and legs—an act of faith—in spite of the fact that the doctor’s had said he’d never walk.

And remember that time we went away for a night and you agreed to milk the goats for us? To me that was an amazing act of love, because I remember when we first brought the goats home—to your house. We backed the truck into the driveway and you came outside. You looked at the goats and quietly growled only two words: “Good Hell!” You turned around and went back inside and Larry looked at me and said, “I forgot to tell you—my dad hates goats!” But that didn’t matter because he knew his dad loved him! We owe much to you, Dad.

The last time we really talked, at the cemetery in 2002, I know you were there with me, listened to every word, saw every tear. I know you’ve continued to do what I asked you to and that knowledge has given me peace and comfort. I’ll be seeing Mother soon and I’ll come see you again too. You’ve always been there for us and there’s no way to ever thank you for that except to follow your example. I guess that’s what the gospel is isn’t it? It’s all about families. Well, this is a long letter and I know you have a lot of work to do, so I'll close. Until next time then…. ‘Sis’ XO