Buster Dozer

Buster Dozer
Buster and Dozer are each one of a kind.

Bees are the source of all HappyDay Farm's goodness.

Bees are the source of all HappyDay Farm's goodness.
The bees work overtime here on the farm.

Self-portait

Self-portait
Life is a balance...

Butterfly on the zinnias alert!

Butterfly on the zinnias alert!
I do experience my share of luck, when it comes to being in the right place at the right time.

I take photographs of the sky and find the most interesting images.

I take photographs of the sky and find the most interesting images.
Yes, my head does reside in the clouds, more often than not.

Annie is a Patients rights advocate.

Annie is a Patients rights advocate.
Annie is an inspiration to us all.

Bernie for President

Bernie for President
Dozer chairs the Bulldogs for Bernie chapter of Mendocino County.

Howard Creek at sunset

Howard Creek at sunset
Sunset over the Pacific

The braids

The braids
My sister, JT, and I, back in the day..

Mahlon Masling Blue

Mahlon Masling Blue
My friend and brother.

Mark's E-mail address

markyboy1231@hotmail.com

Monday, July 25, 2016

In Good Company

In Good Company

Normal: ordinary, regular, typical, standard, conventional, run-of-the-mill, average, commonplace, routine…

I’m searching through this list of adjectives for one that describes me, but I am having no luck. After all, what is “normal,” besides a setting on a washing machine? What defines normal? Are actions performed when there is no one else in the arena, evaluated the same as when you do something in front of others?

Take dancing, for one. I see the posts on social media that go like this, “Dance as though there is no one watching,” or “Dance like toddlers; they don’t even need music.” It would seem that others share my affinity for kicking up the old heels, and letting it all hang out, as we used to say…a long time ago.

I do go through life these days plugged in. I listen to contemporary pop, I listen to reggae, I listen to just about anything that has a quick pace and a lively beat. I need everything going my way if I am to have the best shot at getting any work done.

As I made my way through two solid months of soil-prep back in March and April, that is working with a pitchfork, the music was fuel for my soul. It’s hard to dance while turning soil, but it’s not hard to get yourself motivated to make steady progress.
Ear cushions long gone, electrical tape in abundance...do I care?
What seems like an endless task is made more palatable if there is endless music, especially if one has a good sound system. I invested my life’s savings back in 2011, prior to going to Ireland, to buy a set of quality headphones, and have gotten my two hundred dollars’ worth, ten times over.

The ear cushions are long gone and I have had to use electrical tape to keep the exposed wire covered up, but the quality is stellar.

So the question is, when I walk Dozer early in the morning, and I am listening to the song “Karate” by the band, Kennedy, and I am gyrating to the beat of the music, is that normal? Others obviously “do it.”

Does it become abnormal, if there is someone to observe my actions? Is it a case of, “Oh, don’t worry. He’s harmless-just likes to get involved in his music…?” I guess there are worse classifications than “harmless.”

Is it normal that I arise every morning-after no more than four hours of sleep-and ponder the universe from my own personal tilt-a-whirl? I drink one cup of coffee, wait a couple of hours, and then have another. I limit my intake of the “black death” to three cups, or maybe four on a particularly tumultuous day.

I listen to my music, I write letters, I pour over my photography, I write about the Giants, I post on my blog and I visit face/book and connect with some my many social media friends. No one else is around and Annie says she never hears a sound that I may make.
I took a pic of the sky...and found this.

When “Kelly” by Van She came on a little while ago, I drifted outside onto the front deck, reveling in the cool seventies-plus temperature that will soar into the nineties later on. Once the front door was closed, I turned up the volume on my headphones to almost the maximum, for just the one song.

Interestingly enough, with this particular song, there are several versions, none of which has a whole lot of personal interest, until we get to the “cut copy, remix” version, and then I go into a quasi-trance…when I am alone. There is something about the term, "cut copy remix" that intrigues me. Maybe that's what I need: a remix!

I press the two speakers against my ears and allow the music to cascade over me like white water on the Colorado River. It’s free, it’s cathartic and it’s harmless. 

But is it normal?

My father used to have an expression that seems to apply. He’d say, “Do whatever blows air up your skirt.”

The Divine Bette Midler had an even better one, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”


The Divine Miss M on my left and me own father on the right? I’m in good company, even if I am by myself.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

Luckier Than Most

Luckier Than Most

If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that each of us has at least one “day of infamy” lingering in the murky depths of memory, a day in which it did not pay to get out of bed. I am luckier than most: I have two such days, January 10th, 1972 and July 23rd, 1985.

I entered the military on the first date, having been drafted in the final year in which a draft was held. I rolled into the Armed Forces Entrance Examination Station (AFEES), Los Angeles, just before six o’clock in the morning, and before the day was done, I was in Missouri, in total misery.

For many years this particular date loomed in my mind as the one day that I would just as soon forget ever happened. The depths of my despair, as I embarked on this particularly unwelcome adventure, had no measurable basis in reality.

Talk about being on automatic pilot.

Possibly to instill a sense of balance in my life, fate then decreed that I should have a second “day of infamy,” as President Roosevelt referred to December 7th, 1941, this one set in the dead of summer, July 23, 1985. 

On this day while I was straddling a roof at Jeff Bath’s place on Bell Springs Road, installing a new roof, a helicopter landed on my property in the big field where the pond now exists, and commando-style, paramilitary thugs disembarked.

I call them thugs because they found it necessary to kick in our unlocked gate, they ransacked our house, they crow-barred off the unlocked lid of Annie’s Hope Chest and they confiscated $900.00 that Michael Ferretta had pre-paid me for construction services that were still to be rendered.

I had to work ninety hours over the next couple of weeks, just to break even, before I could start bringing in income again.

Additionally, the thugs left notification on the destroyed gate that my home and twenty acres were now the property of the United States Government. 

CAMPed on, facing prosecution for the dastardly deed of growing thirty-three cannabis plants and looking at the prospect of losing my home and property, I would say July 23rd, 1985, trumped January 10th, 1972, as my personal worst day of infamy.

I remember sitting around on the redwood deck over at the parents’ house that same night, a residence located ten minutes’ walk from our own home, and one clearly in the line of vision for all of the events of that most eventful day.

In an effort to lighten the mood-a weak effort-but an effort nonetheless, I opined that “we would all get a good laugh out of this, ten years down the line.”

I remember wondering how Annie’s folks were going to handle the whole debacle. Would they condemn me for leading their daughter into a life of crime and debauchery? I needn’t have worried. 
My father-in-law, Tom, drew this for me afterward.

After presenting the facts to them, Annie’s dad Tom presented me with a little something he had been doodling on, as the whole sordid saga was being unfolded. It was an illustration of a character with an apple on his head, and an arrow shot though his forehead. The dude is smiling, and below is the caption, “Smile and have faith!”

Solid advice. That paper still resides on our cork-board.

I never did see the humor in the whole thing but I did learn how valuable a good lawyer can be, and I paid the $17,500 with a smile on my face, once the decision had been made to withdraw the allegations of cannabis cultivation.

Lawyers get a lot of bad press, and much of it deserved, but when you really face injustice from the powers-that-be, regardless of the infraction, and you have to enter the arena, they are worth every penny it takes.

The grow was a joint (no pun intended) effort on the part of my then 63-year-old father, Robert, and myself. Defying all logic, Robert, the most conservative of individuals while in SoCal, turned into a pot-growing rebel when he hit Mendocino County.

I exaggerate, of course, because like all of us who moved to the mountain in the late seventies/early eighties, he worked to keep the home fires burning. It’s just that he grew a few plants on the side to ensure that there would be enough money to make it through the rugged winters.

In 1985, that number was 33 and we grew them in the middle of a manzanita grove, in a series of little patches with maybe a half-dozen plants in each little plot. I guess it was a slow summer for Sheriff Bill Stewart that year because he came after us with a vengeance.

I never came into contact with any individual involved with the entire process, except my lawyer. There were no charges, no finger-printing and no mug shots. It was all rather antiseptic.

Just hand over your house and twenty acres and disappear, along with your old lady and three brats.

That was then-this is now.

We had that nice Mendocino County Sheriff Dan out here one week ago, to inspect our site to ensure that we were practicing clean/green procedures with our plants, and to sign al the necessary documents of compliance.

We now frequent cannabis farmers markets, offering our medicine to those with proper documentation, and accepting in exchange, donations to our collective that help us stay afloat in the farming business. It is all so civilized and could even be described as joyous.

And yes, the subject of that infamous day in 1985 surfaces frequently, and inevitable comparisons are made. 


And I do smile a lot, so I guess that constitutes seeing the humor in it all.

Friday, July 22, 2016

Impasse

Impasse

I have a mood spectrum disorder, what old schoolers would call being bipolar. For me it is 98% mania and 2 % depression, with normalcy not even on the radar. I have tried two different prescriptions from Corporate ’Merica’s ever-ready, bottomless pit of handy-dandy chemicals, suited for one purpose and one purpose only: to reenforce the lining of deep pockets. The prescription(s) created a whole new plethora of anxiety-riddled issues, for which I was unprepared.

Can you say chemical shit-storm?

Cannabis offers me physical relief, in that it helps reel me in when I am super-glued to the ceiling, and it drags me out of the quick-sand, which makes the pillows-over-my-head so appealing. I say physically because both mania and lethargy are the outward manifestations of my disorder; modern technology does not have a vehicle for conveying a picture of my mental state.
Like the butterfly, I stay close to my cannabis.

Fortunately, I have the next best thing. I have mastered the art of being able to evaluate my mental and emotional states of mind, to the extent that I can place a number beside a particular area of concern.

Irritation level? Hmmmmmmmmm. That would be a 4 on the scale of 10, with 1 being minimal and 10 being brutal.

Mania? Hmmmmmmmmm. That would be a 9 on the same scale. It’s different every day.

There are vast quantities of similar symptoms, all with dotted lines for numerical evaluations.

I acquired this ability to quantify my issues when I immersed myself in cognitive behavioral therapy. This process provided me with a set of tools designed to allow me to understand what was going on, and more importantly, how to be able to live my existence, without inflicting my disorder on others.

That’s what it’s all about. I can’t change what is happening inside my head, but I can prevent others from being exposed to whatever shenanigans I had in mind. I simply had to recognize that others did not see life with the same parameters, as the way I see life.

It’s not good; it’s not bad. It is what it is. We are all different and I am no exception. It’s just that instead of there being a gap between me and others, there is a chasm. Again, once I figured that out, I recognized that I needed to bridge that chasm so as to be able to be a part of the shared human experience.

My inability to sleep is the greatest impediment to being a part of the shared human experience. I sleep-at most-four hours at a time, and rarely more than that in any given night. I lie awake until I can’t any longer, and then I get up, usually around 12:30-1:00.

I put the coffee on, don my headphones and open Suzy Puente, my new computer. I write, I post pics from both the farm and outlying areas of Bell Springs Road, and I check in periodically with social media. I read. I spend the first six hours or so of every day in like manner. 

If the Giants are doing well, I will make sure I spend a minute or two in the world of sports, before either writing a piece and posting it on China Basin Chatter, or moving on in another direction. 

The possibilities are endless, especially if I want to dabble in politics. The only problem with politics, by definition, is that only half the populace will even consider reading it. The other half has no interest. I usually avoid the political arena because it’s a stupid venue in which to lose friends.

By the time the rest of the world gets up, I have already been on the go for six hours. I then spend the day outside, regardless of the level of heat, and come back in late in the afternoon. Needless to say, I am pretty beat. I do often nap during the day, generally for an hour or so, and that helps, but by the time seven o’clock rolls around I am in bed.

I would label it a vicious circle but that sounds so negative. I would like to be able to get a normal amount of sleep but my doctor at the VA Clinic refuses to treat the symptoms of mania, without treating the disorder itself.

We’ve been at an impasse for almost four years now.

I recognize the irony of desiring chemicals for sleep, while refusing to take chemicals for a mood spectrum disorder. It’s all about those side effects.
Nice and blurry, just like its contents...

So if you are coming home from a late-night shindig, or happen to be up in the wee hours for any reason whatsoever, and you see that I am online, know that I travel lightly and that I like to keep things upbeat.

I don’t rant and I don’t spew on social media. I’ve learned how powerful it is to compose a letter filled with fury and significance to someone in an adversarial position-and then delete it.

That’s my secret to success-that delete key. It keeps me out of a lot of trouble, and when it doesn’t, someone is quick to let me know.

But that's another post entirely.



Thursday, July 21, 2016

The Flip Side of Chaos

The Flip Side of Chaos

U C D Bees? D
Bees  U C R...OK. D
Bees I C...R Gees.

I posted this little piece of nonsense this morning on face/book along with three photos of bees I had taken recently. I didn’t plan to write such a silly bit of nonsense when I originally posted the pics, and only did so when it came time to say what was “on my mind.”
I C D Bees.

Being retired as I am, the sky’s the limit when it comes to what may or may not be on my mind. I am still in awe of the direction my free time has taken, since I put my collection of neck ties out to pasture, and picked up a hobby-or two.

Because Annie bought me a little camera a few Christmases ago, and because I like to infuse social media with a steady-incessant, actually-diet of positive images, I have become a veritable gold mine of optimism. Despite the dismal direction national politics is taking, I remain determined to stay buoyant and hopeful, just as the bees are doing.

Do I worry that folks may think me just a tad goofy for posting such nonsense? I don’t know. Do I worry that the men in white coats might be on their way to take me away? More likely, I would say. 

I am fortunate to live in an environment which radiates beauty. It’s one thing to have a spiffy little camera, with which to take quaint photographs; it’s quite another to have something in the lens that bears capturing.

I recently had a former colleague of mine from the school district, gently point out that, wasn’t taking pics merely a matter of directing the camera and clicking the shutter? And of course, he is right.

That’s why all pics are pretty much the same.

Regardless of how much talent is required to capture an appealing image, posting it is so easy, even I can do it. 


When it comes to the being goofy part, all I can say is that I am a frequent flyer on social media. When I see those posts which reflect the pain and angst of the human condition, when I view the rants exposing the injustices of individual lives, I tend to expand on the goofiness.

You want injustice? I’ll deliver injustice to you on a silver platter, ignoring the irony for just a moment.

In this morning’s news feed, there was an article about a local individual who was killed when driving on the highway, after debris from a big rig in front of her, became dislodged from the truck and crashed into her car. She ended up losing control and died at the scene. The big rig continued on its way, apparently oblivious to the chaos that had occurred.

Go ahead, tell me again how your life is so fucked up.

So when you see this,

“U C D Bees? D
Bees  U C R...OK. D
Bees I C...R Gees,”

please don’t think of it as goofy.
The flip side to chaos

Think of it as the flip side to “… The big rig continued on its way, apparently oblivious to the chaos that had occurred.”



Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Simply SOL

Simply SOL

The man the Republican Party has chosen to represent it in the 2016 election, is unworthy of respect-either mine or anyone else’s. He is an abysmal example of a person, let alone an individual who is running for President of the United States. 

With utter disregard for women and their rights, he is racist, bigoted, greedy, rude and contemptible. Unfortunately, he is also a fifty-fifty chance to be elected.

How is this possible, if he is indeed, all of the things I just said he was? Who would vote for him?

I mean, women wouldn’t vote for him, would they? Knowing how the Republican Presidential candidate feels about them? And what they are good for? 

The black community, the Mexican populace, any ethnic group, they wouldn’t vote for him, would they? Gay folks, women or men, they certainly wouldn’t, would they? 

I’m starting to get confused here. There are so many people who are allegedly turned off by this guy, where is his support coming from? There just aren’t that many white male cro-magnons lounging around to make up the balance.

I wouldn't think it would come down to voting along Party lines; I think it comes down to a certain feeling of smugness, on the part of an individual who actually votes for the Republican Party candidate. This person can ignore all of the hateful characteristics because, after all, they don’t have anything to do with, you know, me, personally.

“I don’t hate women or Mexicans; some of my best friends are gay.” This must be the attitude of an individual who checks his or her ballot with the name pf the Republican party candidate. 

Actually, I think it’s more about gun rights; it’s about the bloated perception that ‘Merica is some kind of never-do-wrong entity, which takes what she wants and kicks butt on what she doesn’t like. It’s an arrogance bred from two-and-a-half centuries of riding roughshod on any part of the world she felt like.

I am still in shock that longtime Republican stalwarts, as conservative as they are, would stand for an individual with such repulsive values. Even Mitt Romney shines in comparison, a man who once drove cross country in sub-freezing weather, with his dog in a conveyance attached to the top of his car roof.

When I talk about smugness, on the part of those who vote for the Republican Party candidate, I am talking about people voting for a candidate who only cares about one percent of the nation’s population. These voters know that millions of Americans struggle for economic viability in this country, and that these unfortunates are simply shit-out-of-luck.

Economic viability is a fancy way of saying these people fight to feed their families and pay the bills. It’s devilishly hard to do so on a budget based on the minimum wage. The folks running the country have given themselves nine pay raises, during the same time period in which they have raised the minimum wage once.

This self-serving hypocrisy is incomprehensible. Why does it not matter that they are called to accountability, and yet life goes on? Why do our leaders not serve all of the people in this country? Why do they only serve the wealthy? What about the part of the Bill of Rights that mentions “…of the People, by the People, for the People…?” 

Isn’t it talking about serving all of the people?

Mind you, this is not a rant based on MY candidate of choice. No, my candidate of choice is still on the sidelines.

This is simply a bare-bones attempt to understand how it has come to pass that a man with such unprincipled beliefs, could be in a position to assume the mantle of leadership in this country. A man of this nature could not be in this position unless the political party in question felt he represented the best chance for victory.

The political party in question would not feel this way if there were not millions of Americans who were willing to vote for the candidate in question. And that is what scares the stuffing out of me. Millions of less-than-wealthy Americans are willing to vote to keep the wealthy in power.

Amazing.

On top of it all, the man selected as the running mate for the Republican Party Presidential candidate, the current governor of Indiana, has a track record that is equally reprehensible. 

I know I am classified a Liberal because I hate to see millions of Americans in pain, every day of their lives, while a small minority bask in the glow of gluttony. I accept that condemnation.


What I refuse to accept without a fierce battle for comprehension, is that people are willing to vote for this specific Republican Party candidate-for any reason, whatsoever.

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Enough Tears



Enough Tears

No fireworks exploded, no trumpets blared and no discouraging words were heard on Friday, as the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Department paid a discreet visit to my homestead, and stamped my little plot of cannabis plants with the seal of approval.

Annie herself affixed her name to the document, filed under the 2016 Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office Medical Marijuana Exemption Program. You don’t have to be able to say it, if you are in compliance with the individual components of what the county has provided as guidelines for the historic shift in perspective, as regards medical cannabis.

I myself do not know all of the complexities of what is involved, because that is not my role here on-farm. My job is to know what constitutes “clean/green” organic practices, and to put them into effect. 

When I wrote a few weeks ago about composting the chicken manure, poplar tree cuttings and mushroom compost, in preparation for spring of 2017, that would be an example of employing organic principles in line with clean/green practices.

We don’t add no stinkin’ chemicals.

Specifically, what paperwork had to be filed to cover the pond, how the logistics of building permits were conducted and how the application process proceeded, are all beyond me.

I am retired-I am just a farmer. I leave the rest to those with the intestinal fortitude necessary to contend with the issues. I don’t think anyone holds it against me. After all, I am the one solely responsible for providing the initial twenty acres, from which a couple were chosen to grow vegetables and cannabis.

That is not to say land would not otherwise have been acquired; it simply is what it is.

I never stressed about the visit from the sheriff. The last time I had a visit from the local constabulary was July of 1985, and they arrived in a helicopter.


If I had my ‘druthers, I’d take Friday’s visit any day of the week, and twice on Sunday.

It was all quite civilized. Pleasantries were exchanged, statements of generic historic note were made, a tour was conducted, a series of questions was asked and answered and the document of inspection was signed.

I asked Sheriff Dan if he would pose for pics for my personal photo album, and he obliged.
Sheriff Dan

Considering the fact that a new era is dawning, one with unlimited opportunities for further development of cannabis as an effective tool in the fight against cancer and so many other human maladies, I am dazzled.

I am appreciative to those who have spent so much of their time and energy to make all of this possible, both here on the local front, and in Sacramento, and I am appreciative to Mendocino County for investing its trust in medicinal cannabis farmers.

Most of all, I am appreciative of the fact that I have access to this magical plant for my own medicinal issues, and that those I love have access to it also. Ultimately, that’s what it’s all about-the healing capabilities of a plant which has been providing said qualities since the beginning of time.

Dwelling on the economic and political reasons for the initial quashing of cannabis as a viable commodity, is pointless. Water under the proverbial bridge, as they say. We're done wasting water. Enough tears have been shed.

A new era is dawning for medicinal cannabis, I wrote above, and the future is bright indeed.

Great success!



Wednesday, July 13, 2016

On Assignment

  1. On Assignment


I’m away from my metaphorical desk, plopped in a faded red camp chair, sitting alongside the rusty metal fire-ring over at Howard Creek. Since I do not sit at a desk, ever, my “desk” this morning is my lap. Annie and I busted loose yesterday, and headed back over here where we camped a month or so ago.
The scent of frying bacon mingles most pleasantly with that of the coffee I am sipping, having had it together this trip, to remember the coffee in the first place. Last trip I used a veggie steamer arrangement, with a doubled up paper towel to make a weak facsimile of the real stuff, after buying coffee from the little store in Westport.

Any port in a storm.

Annie is cutting up the baby potatoes she bought from Gloria, Monday, at the Laytonville Farmers’ market. With some onions the fragrance is intoxicatingly inviting.
Earlier this morning, just as the sun was peeking over the eastern coastal foothills, I made a first cup of the Kona blend we had picked up at Long Valley Market on our way through yesterday. Annie maintains I make the best coffee she has ever tasted, and she misses it (and me) whenever we are not together. I am quite confident that she is not saying that, simply because I bring it to her in bed.

The cup I made for myself this morning was as grand as any I have ever had. You know what George Carlin used to say, “Coffee, the lowest end of the speed spectrum.” Legal zest. Necessary for forward progress. I can stop drinking coffee on a dime, and have done so for extended periods, multiple times.

But what’s the point? Like millions of others, I enjoy the ride.

This has been such an intense summer, what with HappyDay Farms having trimmed down outside help, so for us to get away to the coast for a second time, is bliss. I am never sure why getting rid of every semblance of the creature comforts of home, and replacing them with the questionable accommodations over at the coast, can result in such satisfying times.

Is it that regaining of childhood freedom and innocence that was the “no chores/just s’mores days? Is it that we work so hard now, that just having the freedom to vedge for a minute or two, is that exhilarating? Or is it just a pure case of “small minds, small pleasures?”

Being on assignment, it’s not my job to make any such determinations; all I want to do is revel in my options. I can read, I can read some more, and when I get done with that, I can take a nap just prior to reading some more.

Annie has indicated to the boys that she would take it kindly to their joining us for a minute or two, at some point over the next couple of days. She mentioned something about a bucket list, but what I know about buckets, is confined to the harmony between the that of the bucket and that of the mop. 
I am the go-between.

Lito brought me a gift, right out of the blue the other day, a book written by Bengie Molina about his father. I’m not sure if it is the gift itself, the subject matter or the setting that makes it all perfect. But it is.

Bennie Molina is one of three brothers who play Major League Baseball. All three are catchers and all three have earned at least two World Series Rings. It is a dynasty in the truest sense of the word.  Bengie was the catcher for the Giants at the time when Buster Posey joined the team, in May of 2010.

Bengie helped the kid out, got Posey situated behind the plate though it was shoving himself aside at the same time, and moved on to the Texas Rangers. Ironically, he would face the Giants in October that same year, losing to the Orange and Black in five games.

I was in the middle of reading a John Stanford novel from the “Prey” series, but I have no problems reading two-or-more-books at the same time. I make it my mission in life when the occasion arises. I think of it as job security.

Just as trying to gain some measure of comfort, at night while camping, is also a matter of job security. After last month’s camping excursion, we vowed to buy a cot so that arising, particularly in the dead of night, would not be such a challenge. 

Don’t you just hate those leg cramps?

We had the foresight to set up the cot with its air mattress in advance and considered setting up the tent, also, just to see how it all fit together. I wish we had.
Fresh baby potatoes from Gloria were so delicious.

It turned out that the bed literally filled every square inch of our little dome tent. So instead of walking into the tent, and around to whichever  side is mine, I simply open the tent “door,” and crawl onto this Titanic of a cot.

We actually have a huge tent back at home that we have been ignoring for about six years, simply because it is so painful to set up. It is, however, perfect for our new cot. Had we discovered how tight our quarters were going to be, I am certain we would have gotten out the old tent, and taken a refresher course in tent-erection.

Voila! That gives me an idea. I should have no problem convincing the powers that be, that we should make yet a third jaunt over here to the beach, some time in September, so that we can test-drive the new cot, in our big tent.

I’ll entice her with some of that grand coffee.