15-29

Favorite numbers can trigger memories and feeling. My favorite number has long been 15. Bart Starr, my hero. Aaron had more than one favorite number. 15 and 29. Those were his football jersey numbers. Actually 29 was his number one favorite. That was his first youth football number and he wore it as often as it was available from 4th grade through 8th. Once in high school, he didn't have a pick. As a Sophomore who dressed for every varsity game, he was assigned a number-you don't pick when you're a high school rookie. The number 15 wasn't claimed. They gave it to Aaron. He was glad to have a jersey. I liked seeing him wearing the number of my childhood hero. Aaron used the combination of numbers for his cell phone 772-1529, screen name meyerman1529 (I think), and probably more than one password.

In 1998 we started taking annual family spring-break trips to Florida. Cathy, well organized and prepared, had all of the bags ready for her three boys: Aaron, Patrick, and me. The young boys packed a travel bag each with some entertainment devices and books, or in Aaron's case-comic books.

They traveled light, with one exception for Patrick. Without exception, FOREVER, when we we went anywhere for longer than a day, Patrick would start a cold and then have asthma related difficulties for the first few days of the vacation. A nebulizer, the size of a small suitcase was always at his side. Racking up travel miles like a 1962 Samsonite hard-shell suitcase, this plastic contraption goes where we go. Once we get to where we're going, PT, or Potchy as we called him, hooks himself up to the breathing aparatus and begins enjoying warm, sunny days looking out on the ocean from his air conditioned, 2nd floor hotel or condo room. All the comforts of home, and content as could be when he should have been taking in all the comforts of the southern climate little Potchy-boy adjusted to the climate. By mid-week, Potch was out on the beach working on his tan-five or ten minutes here and there.

Many of those spring break days involved Patrick tagging along near Aaron and their cousin, Amanda Greening. Aaron and Amanda were non-stop swimmers. Patrick held his own once he adjusted. Every trip started by catching a flight from Milwaukee.

This morning we made a trip to Milwaukee for a flight to LA. Except, only one of us would be traveling. Potchy-boy was packed and in line for his boarding pass. Cathy and I were escorting him to the ticket counter. Our little boy was about to leave on a cross country flight to visit his cousin Amanda at Pepperdine. Amanda's Mom and Dad, Kathy and Dave Greening made the trip possible with a wonderful gift to Patrick. Cathy, Patrick, and I appreciate their generosity. They have the unique perspective of having lost a teenage son to know continuing bonds with a deceased sibling and cousins is good for the mourning and healing.

This is a trip Aaron would have made by now, and there would be no way we would see our boy Patrick going so far away all alone. But, here we are. Patrick, 15 and nearly six feet tall, is almost as confident a traveler as Aaron was at 17 and he's making a spring break trip all alone; or so we thought.

Midwest Express ticket agent, Margaret, was checking Patrick in. "What's your destination?" She asked. "California" was Patrick's immediate response. As if there was only one airport, or one city in the state, the answer was classic Aaron. We clarified that his preference was LA, but of course he wouldn't know the difference if Margaret chose San Francisco. Considering Amanda would be picking Patrick up at LAX, the agent continued to book him on the appropriate flight. The processing complete, Margaret handed our traveler a ticket and announced "Your seat is 29-F". Cathy and Patrick responded with a collective "Huhhh" the way you draw in air when you've been startled or really surprised. 2-9, as Aaron called it. Patrick was more than pleased to draw the seat.

We took Patrick through screening and stopped for a quick pre-flight bite. I'm sure Aaron's favorite drink, Snapple, is sold in all airports, but it was a good sign to PT to see it at the only spot where he could get a cold drink before boarding. He wanted gum, so we went into one of the book/magazine/snack/etc shops. Aaron's last pack of gum was a green apple flavored Wrigley brand. Patrick included a pack in selection. We took a seat to wait.

"Hmmm, 15 pieces in this pack of gum. A bottle of Snapple. And I'm in seat two-nine. I guess Aaron is really with me" Patrick told me. I agreed. Aaron wouldn't let PT travel alone and he would want to be in LA with Amanda. It's spring break.

I watched Patrick walk down to board the plane. Over his shoulder was Aaron's well worn back pack with the PHISH and PEACE sign patches. It's stuffed with a dvd player, and a blanket of Aaron's from MBA. In his sweatshirt pouch was a Snapple, and 15 sticks of Aaron's favorite gum. In his left hand, a ticket for seat 2-9 F. In his right hand---the nebulizer.

Breathe easy PT. Your brother is with you.

Sleep tight boys.

Dad

Aaron Being Aaron

This post was started a few days ago and was titled "The Many Faces of Aaron". While looking at one photo of Aaron and two of his young neices, the story took a different direction. Last night I returned to my previous thoughts with a new reflection. Cathy, Patrick and I watched the TV movie "Augusta, Gone" and we were taken back to the days of 2003 when we lost Aaron for the first time.

A promise I made to Cathy will keep me from sharing details of those days today. We have some photos but I refuse to look at them; they are photos of a young man in trouble. The boy in those photos resembles Aaron in some facial and body features but that's where it ended. The character had changed beyond belief. Three years later explaining so you understand what we and Aaron lived is still beyond my ability. Here is a link from an interview with Martha Tod Dudman, author of Augusta, Gone. Her story is similar, as are all of the stories of families who survive a child in danger experience. If you can relate, seek professional help. Oh, the police are not the professionals to seek out. http://www.eyeonbooks.com/ibp.php?ISBN=0743204093

In Martha's true story, Augusta ends up at a boarding school in Oregon called Circle Mountain. The real name of the school is Mount Bachelor Academy. Aaron was a student there for 13 months. Learn more about the school at http://www.mtba.com. For photos of the students in their campus environment see http://www.welcomemba.com/looking2004/fall.cfm. You can see some photos of Aaron in the photo albums if you search. What may strike you as unexpected is the way the kids look; they're normal teenagers. What you don't see is what they were before they arrived. I don't care to see those photos.

MBA and the SUWS wilderness program gave our son and brother a second chance at the life he loved. They helped us learn to be better parents and brothers. For that we say thank you everyday.

Peace
Tom

Broken Arrow - A Bow with a Soul - And Meaning

A Lakota bow looks like a fine piece of wood. The one I'm making is Ash. High ground between Canoe Pond and an open marsh is where this sappling began life. The Ash is white with slightly darker, thin, even lines. What can't be seen is the soul of the instrument.

The Lakota description of the process of making a bow has little to do with woodworking and everything to do with a spiritual experience. What I learned about woodworking during the four-plus weeks of coaxing the wood into a bow, I learned from two men of wisdom in woodworking and serenity. The spiritual experience is in the act of doing.

I plan to give this bow as a gift to my five year old nephew Noah. If you live North of Highway 10 in Wisconsin, you won't be surprised to know a five year old is already an experienced archer. If you are surprised, be assured it comes with the territory. Noah has already spent more time in the woods being part of nature than he will ever spend playing video games. My wish for this gift is to light a spark in young Noah to encourage him to grow a connection with Mother Earth. A similar spark was lit in Aaron and it changed his life. I'd like for Noah to know what was important to his "Big Buddy Airn-done". Aaron got me to thinking about the Truth in Native culture compared to the confusing beliefs of Euro-American mis-history.

In Lakota tradition, my bow was cut from a straight sappling. Tobacco was left where it stood as an offering to the earth in thanks for the tree's life. The earth will replace the tree. With only hand tools, the Ash was carved with a flat side facing the person holding it (the inside). The outside is rounded, with the bow tappered to the ends. A handle was carved out at the midway point. I was pleased that by no accident, the bow balances on the head of a nail, at what appears to be the exact mid-point. It is important that the top and bottom of the sappling remain the top and bottom of the bow. Reverse them and the bow will break. According to the Lakota bow makers, the life of the tree moves from Earth to Sun, disrupting the natural flow of energy will weaken the bow and cause its destruction.

Ash is a stout wood. Once the tree is cut, there is no bend to it. My wise, serenity elders told me to heat the wood in water inside a steel tube. Once good and steamed the wood should bend. It did. That's not the way I lived; once steamed, I became inflexible. I'm trying to be more like the Ash: stout yet flexible under pressure.

The Lakota elder who was an expert bow maker said the bow should never be worked on in the a time of mourning. At times when I hurt the most I didn't pick up the wood. When my heart was calm and my mind at peace, those good feelings were transfered to the wood.

Yesterday was a beautiful end of winter day. Sunny. A gentle Northwest wind. Wind from the west brings introspection. From the north is wisdom of elders. Molly, Aaron's 13 1/2 year old English Setter roamed the yard. Doc, our soon to be 10 month old Chesapeake Bay Retriever lounged in the warmth of the sun.

I built a fire in our fire pit from wood of a Standing Person (tree) cut by Aaron last spring. (The fire pit is the same one Aaron used to burn his past sorrowful memories back in September '04.) In the fire, I added Grandfathers (stones) from our Tranquility Pond. One of the Grandfathers is a stone I brought home from the location where Aaron and I last hunted ducks. Tobacco I bought last spring after Aaron died and cedar from Lost Lake Road near Antigo, were sprinkled on the Standing People and Grandfathers. The Heat and Smoke they gave to the Bow carried Good Medicine of love and strength.

Carved into the Bow, to make sure Noah always knows the top from the bottom, is a Grandfather Sun at the top. A Broken Arrow points up to the sun. Grandmother Moon is at the bottom. I chose the Arrow as a symbol of a Warrior, Truth, Security, and Brotherhood. It's a Broken Aarow to represent the Peaceful Warrior who has passed. The Bow bends under pressure of mourning the Broken Arrow... but does not break.

Today I may finish my work with the Bow. I don't know for sure. When it's done it will be done. Noah and I share the interest in hunting that Aaron and I had. In fact, Aaron planned to learn deer hunting from Noah's Dad. That would have been a lesson he had time for in the coming years. I hope Noah grows to know the connections of the symbolism in his sacred bow: Two Leggeds (people) are no more or less than other Beings. All life is part of Mother Earth. When one of our Family moves on, we can maintain a connection by feeling and using our inner senses to "hear" what all Beings, in any life form, are communicating to us.

At a recent sweat, my friend the Lakota Sun Dancer, pointed out to me that the "Broken Arrow" is a symbol of Peace. How perfect. Aaron ended most of his notes and messages with either "Love, AJ" or "Good Times" or just simply "Peace". I dedicate this bow to it's new owner Noah- Broken Arrow.

With an open heart and peace of good intent.

Tom

Many Faces of Aaron

Rough and tumble was the way I saw Aaron as a little boy. Wild-Thing, was the nickname his cousins Kristopher, Amanda, Melanie, and Jaclyn called him when he learned to run before he learned to walk. Athletic was certainly a face of Aaron. Those were fun times for him. The competition was for others. Oh, Aaron would compete, but win or lose he'd be the same happy for having played-- what to do next?

When Aaron was the Big Cousin, his little cousins didn't seel him as Wild Thing. Noah called him "My Big Buddy Airn-done". The litte girls simply screamed "Aaairrr-Rennn!!" They loved him. They climbed on him, they hung on him. Alexa stared up at him as if he was some kind of wonder. Chelsea teased him in defense from his continued razzing. (Like his relationship with his little-big cousin Amanda, I often thought the two acted like brothers and sisters.) Elly and Aaron could watch TV for hours without speaking. Swimming with reckless abandon, forever, was the way Aaron and Alex-1 were connected. Little Alex was his Godson. They met once. Nicole, or Nicole-ee, was his shadow. If Aaron layed on the couch, Nicole-ee was right there. If Aaron slept, she slept. If he sat up, Nicole-ee climbed on his lap.

"Play your guitar for us Aaron" Nicole-ee and Elly pleaded last March 27th.

Good Times was his screen name.

Play your guitar for us Good Times.

Dad

I can't do something....

Aaron was probably 5, Patrick was months old. We went on a walk around our new neighborhood on one of those in-between spring days we know in Madison, WI. I was wearing a sweater. Patrick was in a stroller. Cathy was pushing the stroller. Aaron had his new bike.

Down the hill, about 2 blocks from our house we approached a house with some young girls playing in the driveway/yard. Aaron, forever the one to make new friends in an instant, rode up to show the girls his new, blue bike. Within moments of greeting the girls, Aaron was off of his bike and on his way to explore the back yard hill and woods. We stayed behind to chat with the Mom.

Last year, in the spring, probably on a nice day in March, Cathy, Aaron, and I remembered how this walk ended. Aaron recalled vividly the color of the sweater I was wearing: pink. No, it wasn't pink, it was salmon...Sort of a pink. He told me he liked that sweater. I don't know why I owned a sweater that color, but I did.

Today I took a walk along the back side of those woods. It was a pleasant afternoon. Late winter cool, no wind, and snow coming. The ground was mushy soft in the field. The path into the woods was covered in last fall's gray leaves. I walked in to where I remember the walk from 14 years ago ended. Some patches of snowy ice were right where they were, frozen in time. Just like a memory scene in a movie, where the character flashes back to an event buried in the "archives of the mind" as my friend Lloyd Kincaid, used to say, I could feel the rush of adrenaline.

"Dad!! Dad!! Help!!!" The screams of my son in danger jolted me from our chit-chat in the driveway. I ran to the back of the house, yelling to Aaron, "Aaron, where are you?" The wooded hill behind the house had a path which I ran up, but couldn't see Aaron. "Dad! Dad!" he screamed. I ran to the sound of his loud cries. The first thing I saw of Aaron was him standing sideways to me. He was wearing a little boys, blue baseball, windbreaker jacket. Aaron was holding his right hand with his left hand. The right hand palm was up. Deep dark, red blood was pouring from his hand and spilling onto his white and blue, velcro strap tennies.

"Dad!! I can't do something!!! I can't do something!!!" I swooped Aaron up in my arms and took off running. The Mom had us go into the kitchen and run water on the jagged gash. Our perfect little boy, had a not so perfect big gash in the fat part of his palm, beneath his thumb. Blood ran freely from the wound. We wrapped something around his hand and I sprinted the best I could, up the long hill to our house, with Aaron in my arms. Cathy "walked" behind with Patrick, the stroller, and the new blue bike. My legs ached, I was hot, and Aaron was very heavy and his legs were very long. The front of my pink-salmon sweater was covered in blood, sweat, and big tears.

Stitches at the clinic put the layers of skin back together. There was no blood mixed in the ice and snow on the ground of the wooded hill today. I stood there looking about and remembering how Aaron remembered the event. At the time he said he fell on some "ice". Last year he recalled the ice was actually glass. Today I could see several bottles, old cans, and debris. The Aaron of 17-18 was a man of nature. He believed in leaving his campsite cleaner than when he arrived. Doc had uncovered a long plastic bag in the field. I filled it with glass bottles, some cans, and other debris from the hill.

Walking back to home, my mind went to the report of Aaron's final injury. The typed report said the time was 1:26 pm on May 10, 2005. A seven inch diameter bruise on his chest. Some abrasions. A possible broken left lower leg. A bloody nose. About that same time as the man was making the notes of what he was seeing, I was calling my son to suggest a possible job for after school. I know I left a message. No one heard my message. It would be another hour and 20 minutes before I would hear from the man who wrote the report. He had awful news to relay to me.

Slipping on the greasy ground along the edge of the field my eyes teared up and my arms ached. I thought, "Aaron, Aaron!!! I can't do something!! I can't do something!" A Dad's gotta be able to help his son. That's our job.

I miss you Aaron.

Love Dad

What's He Doing In My World?

The song was done by country singers including Faron Young and Eddie Arnold. I remember if from my childhood when my parents played these songs on 8 tracs. I like the old country music and this is a classic.

When I brought a new dog (Doc) home in October, our Molly gave an image to the melancholy lyrics. Five months later she has no more interest in Doc today than in her first meeting. Patrick and I were wondering today what Aaron would think of Doc. We agreed he would like the knuckle head for the same reasons we get a kick out of him. And we agreed Aaron would not like Doc trying to rough- house with his best little girl Molly.


What's he doing in my world?
What's he doing holdin my world?
If he's not more than a friend
then why were you kissin him?
and whats he doing in my world?

What's he doing in my world?
Did you tell him that you're my girl?
If your love for me is true
tell him my worlds made for two
and what's he doing in my world?

Oh ! don't let me keep on wondering
what you're gonna do
wondering if the one I love
loves somebody new

Whats he doing in my world?
we don't need him in our world
if its true he's just a friend
what were those kisses you gave him?
and whats he doing in my world?


Tom

Skippy...

Best if used by May 26, 06. It would never have had a chance to see the end of '05, that 4 pound tub of Creamy Skippy Peanut Butter. Never. Aaron would have made quick work of the 1.81 kg of roasted peanuts, sugar, partially hydrogenated vegetable oils (rapeseed, cottonseed, and soybean) to prevent separation, salt. (That's what the label says. Maybe the other stuff is OK, but rapeseed, I think is what's used to make lubrication oil. Could be wrong, but I don't think so.)

Aaron's daily brown bag lunch, put together every morning by Cathy, included his favorite PB&J sandwiches. This net wt 64 0z tub was probably opened in April, '05. Aaron may have made a good dent in it, but nearly a year later it's still in the pantry.

Today marks ten months from the day of Aaron's accident. Patrick wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before being dropped off for school. Cathy made the sandwich. The sandwich triggered memories.

Amazing how an innocent sandwich can take a full grown Mom and reduce her to tears and less. She never saw it coming. How many PB&J sandwiches does a Mom make in the years it takes to raise two boys? I don't know for sure, but I do know this tub of saturated fat more than peanut butter. When it's gone, an era ends. Another link to Aaron's life dissapears with the last spread.

Cathy and I spent some time sitting on the boy's old swing set today. Doc was digging in the sand box pulling out their old play guys, buried for years since they last battled for the supremacy of the sand world: half of a Batman, a Joker car with three wheels, He-Man in perfect fighting condition, a Spider Man, a chunk of maybe Superman, and an unidentified figure. We talked about the days when Aaron could fly on her lap on the swing with Pixie Dust. He loved Peter Pan. Cathy recalled the day Aaron, sitting on the swingset, realized that he would never be able to fly. For a kid with a healthy imagination, having his wings clipped meant more than being "grounded" it ended a dream.

Swingsets and sandbox toys were left idle more than a couple of years ago. Their stillness is different and give us a quiet, contemplative feeling. Music, clothes, guitar, razor, shampoo, toothpaste and toothbrush, books, and peanut butter containers hurt to the heart.

I took a look at that peanut butter tub this evening. Smells like peanut butter. Tastes like peanut butter. But works like Kryptonite. I screwed the lid on...tight.

Ten months and wondering what might have been.

Tom
Post Script from Cathy:

I remember telling Aaron that he was 17 1/2 years old and old enough to make his own lunch. His response was "Mom, this is one thing I think you should always do for me." I agreed and made it along with notes on his napkins (like when he was in elementary/middle school). On my 1st day of working for you in April, 05, I was eating my bag lunch and there was a note in it that said, "Have a great day! Love you. Love AJ" I still have that note. My heart aches from missing him.

DeForest Girls Go to State...Again, and Time Keeps on Rolling

Approaching May 10 and the one year anniversary of Aaron's death, I am constantly seeing reminders of events from a year ago when Aaron was home and our life was..., well normal. These reminders are many happy memories and yet they are like hour or minute markers on a clock; as each passes we get closer to the fateful day and further from the time Aaron lived. I don't prefer either.

This Thursday the DeForest Girls basketball team plays in the State Tournament for the second year in a row. Many, many fun, funny, and happy Aaron memories come to mind of the last March madness. I'll share one here.

Know this, Aaron was glad to be home from the Northwest US. But, he knew he could not be in DeForest High School. Aaron was enrolled at Horizon High School in Madison. That's where his body and mind went every day while his old friends were wrapping up senior year at DAHS. Aaron's heart was with his friends at DeForest.

Aaron lived in Oregon and Idaho for 13 months prior to returning home at the end of January '05. He had become a child of the Northwest in appearance (blue jean jacket, sandals or moccasins, and shaggy hair) and accent (I recall it but I don't remember it).

Aaron never lost his impatience or frustration with me. The first day of the tournament was no exception. Typical for Madison and basketball tournaments, a heavy wet snow fell that day. Aaron wanted to be home to go to The Kohl Center at a specific time with friends. I could not make that happen as I was in Madison and Aaron was at school just minutes from my office. Driving home 35 minutes to then drive back 35 minutes did not make sense and I am all about making sense. To Aaron it was disaster: "I'll never find them and I'm not sitting by myself or with you."

I picked Aaron up at school and we went to The Kohl Center with me explaining it will be easy to find the friends as the schools all sit in a designated area. In Aaron's mind I was wrong of course and this was going to be a mess. We walked from the parking garage to the game, Cathy, Patrick, his friends and me a good ten steps and then a half block behind Aaron who trudged on with his head down.

No more did he enter the door when he met his party and they were off and running. Cathy and I took our seats with other parents and searched the stands looking for our two boys and their respective friends. Aaron was easy to spot. His friends all were wearing DeForest Senior T-shirts or DeForest Pride T-shirts. Aaron was wearing a blue jean jacket. Patrick was a different story, but we eventually found him with his 8th grade pals.

As the game went on, Cathy and I did not know how Aaron was adjusting as an "outsider" back in the mix. Sports, which once were his purpose, were now an event of his past. Aaron was more interested in music, guitar, and nature.

We couldn't see Aaron much during the game with all the cheering going on, but sometime near the end of the game we got a different view. With DeForest pulling an upset and the student section going bananas, a Kohl Center camera focused on two boys. The view from the camera showed up on the Big Screen above the court. There he was, Air-Bear in his brown rice eating, back packing, liberal attitude, mop hair, and blue jean jacket, right next to his honor roll, college bound buddy Eric (Doc) Leonhart. The boys were jumping up and down, laughing and pointing at themselves on the Jumbo Tron! Ahh, relief. He looked like a part of the group again if not in attire, certainly in happiness.

The next day Aaron was properly attired for game two. I recall either Eric or Abbey gave Aaron a class shirt to wear to the game. He fit in as if he'd never left. Cathy and I felt a calmness we had not known for a long time. Aaron was adjusting and life looked like it could be healthy again for all of us.

Tic. Tic. Tic. Tic.....


Does anyone have a picture that includes Aaron at the games?
Tom

Mural by Jason Vincent

Our family moved to DeForest in January 1991. We expected to find more children in the neighborhood and we were not dissapointed. Aaron was in friend heaven. By running across the backyard of our house and two neighbors, Aaron could connect with two great pals, Jason Vincent and Jenna Austin. From there any number of kids could congregate to play whatever kids play from age 4 to 18. Somedays it looked like a scene from the 60's with dozens of baby boomed kids running and riding every sort of wheeled contraption.

Aaron and Jason grew up together and they grew apart together and they grew together together in the end. Everyone loved Jenna, especially Aaron's brother Patrick "Jenna, I love you" he proclaimed at about 4 or 14, I don't know for sure. :) Jenna was the closest thing Aaron and Jason have to a sister. They love her like a sister.

Last week I received this outstanding mural put together by Jason. Its a work of art and heart. It took me many days to write this thank you. The photos and words capture Aaron as he became. We have many writings by Aaron. The mural is a compilation of Aaron's love and respect for himself and life as he came to understand it. It needs no words of explanation; just Thanks.

If anyone has photos of Aaron and would like to post them with or without comment, please send them to me. I'm running out of images. Seeing a photo of Aaron which I have not seen before is a gift.

Thank you Jason,
Tom

Abundance

The title of this blog is Abundance for a reason. But the reason had nothing to do with what the blog became, and yet what the blog became has everything to do with the reason I started the blog.

Back in April 2005 I was looking closely at attitude. My life was showing ragged edges from wear and tear. More than your usual 46 years of random care and neglect. With smart direction from people who know better, I was directed to looking at gratitude. Their suggestion was for me to look at my gratitude. I must have missed that suggestion. My first venture into gratitude was to look at other people and see that they were or were not living a life of an attitude of gratitude. HA! Typical for me. (I sure hope I am changing my ways. )

Nearly one year later, its a good feeling to acknowledge that I did catch on. Good thing the process was started in April, for by mid-May I was in the midst of chaos. Mistakes last spring could have drastic consequences. An attitude of unfairness would have been cement shoes. Abundance, even a little abundance, in my attitude was a life saver. Sometimes it was a life boat where I could crawl in out of the rough sea. Sometimes the attitude was so small it was just enough to give me a break from treading water.

The air to fill the attitude of abundance so I could float came from many people. Certainly Cathy. She always keeps us going by showing the way of picking up one thing at a time and getting it done. Remarkably Patrick. I never would have expected my young son to be able to show me how to live in a crisis, but he did. Thankfully many long time friends. Nobody had the instructions that don't come with life on how to care for friends who lose a child, but they could give lessons today. Surprisingly people we hardly knew, and some whom we don't know at all, came into our lives and lessened our sorrow for some moments at least. I remember meeting an angel in the basement of a building when I was at my most desperate, resentful moment. Because I hardly remember May, June or much of July, I don't know the date. I just remember the event. It was a Sunday- early evening. The angel had no children of his own, but he knew the evil of resentment and the healing power of abundance. "Resentment is taking poison and expecting the other person to die."

When it looked like everything was lost, we took an inventory of blessings. We are a blessed little family. Thank you for giving us a part of yourself. You did more than you know and if you are reading this, you know I am writing to you.

Peace
Tom