Old Pat T and the Great Bathroom Wars
And Other Tales of my Youngin Days
By T. M. Strait
Published by T.M. Strait at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by T.M. Strait
More fun stuff at www.thestraitline-tmstrait.blogspot.com
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Also at Smashword by T. M. Strait:
Red Dawn - Black Dusk: A Story of Barre' In Her Decline
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Echoes of '59
The closest I ever came to the supernatural was that summer of ’59 in Eugene, Oregon. My dad was a teacher, and he would fill his summer break each year by accepting a National Science Foundation Scholarship. One year it was Stanford University in Palo Alto, California. Another it was Ball State in Muncie, Indiana. That summer it was the University of Oregon.
That
summer was weird and wonderful, filled with unexplained events that
still mystify me. I was only four, my sister Carol was three, and it
was our first real experience away from home, so maybe it was just
the exotic newness of the locale. My parents had rented the top floor
of a big Victorian house, set spookily on top of a hill (probably not
that big of a hill, but impressive enough to a family from Michigan’s
flatlands). Male college students occupied the first and second
floors.
I
remember the piercing introductory music of Perry Mason, my mother’s
favorite show. Carol and I would hear it from our beds and shiver. I
remember my first pet, a turtle that I took out onto the roof in the
mistaken belief that he needed more sun. He required much less
attention after that. I remember getting mad at Carol and shoving her
down the stairs. In a normal world, she should have been maimed or
killed, with me suffering horrendous guilt the rest of my natural
born days. Instead she tumbled down like a gymnast doing an Olympic
routine, popped up at the end of the stairs, and came flying back up
ready to kick some brother butt. But what I remember most was the car
we brought back to life.
We
were playing in the front driveway when we got bored. So my sister
conceived of a tag game where we would chase each other like idiots
unless we could touch the safe spot first, which she decided in her
infinite toddler wisdom should be a yellow Ford Mustang belonging to
one of the college guys. Remembering Perry, the fried turtle, and
Elastic Girl tumbling down the stairs, I said, “Are you crazy?
That’s not our car! What if we break it or something?”
Carol
laughed. “Stupy boy!” which, in her lingo, said it all. And then
she proceeded to show me that it was okee-dokie to touch the car. She
raced up to it and gave it a little whack on its front hood. I was
paralyzed by her effrontery, but we were both horror struck by what
happened next. The car started to back out the driveway, then turn
into the street, and started to drive away! The college guy whose car
it was came bursting out of the house, cursing us as little brats,
and went running after his suddenly untamed Mustang.
Selective
childhood memories repress what happened after that. Maybe we were
spanked; maybe the college guy saddled his car before it wrecked,
maybe his car made it to the fields where Mustangs roam free. I don’t
know. It wasn’t until years later that it occurred to me that
gravity and parking brakes could have played a role. I still prefer
to think of it as I did in my youth, as one of those rare times when
real magic echoed through our souls.
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My Vacation: Written in first Grade
My Vacation (written in First Grade and as unedited as I can do)
There are no boys in my family except me. I have a sister
named Carol. My vacations are Indiana, Oregon and Northern Mich. My
trip is Northern Mich. We just hopped in our car and off we went.
First of all we came to a motel and we went swimming there. I think
the water one foot deep. We went when it was a rainy day.
My
next vacation is Indiana. We just hopped in our car again. We came in
somebody's house. They said we could stay all summer. Every time
Carol took a nap, I always read some books. Every day we went
swimming at a swimming place.
And my last vacation is Oregon,
We just hopped in our car and off we went. We went to a place where
cars went way up high in the sky. It was so big that I know you would
get very dizzy. We stayed in a motel. Once when Carol touched a car,
it drave off with nobody in it. And the man who owned the car chased
after it. He got it in time. When we came back we stopped at
Yellowstone Park and a bear put a hand through the window in a mans
and woman car. The lady sceamed and quickly shut the window. Then we
went to the Paint Pot. We saw a giant buble earthquick. We took a
picture of it.
The End.
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Old Pat T and the Great Bathroom War
They had to take her away. The ambulance came and took her away, and we never saw her again. Old Pat T had taught her last class.
We
moved from small agricultural Charlotte, Michigan to the blue collar
suburb of Bridgeport, Michigan during the summer before I started
First grade. If we had stayed in Charlotte, I would have had to
repeat Kindergarten. I was a rebellious little kid who didn’t feel
like it was important to share with the teacher what you were
learning. I defied rules at all turns, was obnoxious, and missed most
of the last weeks of school, lying at home, almost dying with severe
hard measles.
First
grade changed all that. Set in an old school building that only had
the first grade in it, there were four classrooms on the main floor
and one, one solitary classroom that was set below. Below in the
basement. And that was where I was, not alone, but with twenty some
other terrified kids. Alone in the basement. Alone in the basement
with…Old Pat T.
Old Pat T, whose real name is completely lost to
me, was our teacher. She was a Bridgeport institution, having taught
First grade for decades – for all we knew, centuries. We were alone
down there with her. There were no aides or assistants in those days.
Any stuff or nonsense any of us had hanging over from Kindergarten
was knocked right out of us.
We
had a big walk-in closet down there, where we hung our coats and
mittens and all those things you needed to survive in chilly
Michigan. And it was used for one other thing. Time out. Oh, not the
cute little sits in the corner time out used today. No, this was
something else. If you were bad, she would put you in there. With the
door shut. And the lights off. I must not have always been good.
Because I remember that closet. I remember it all too well.
I
remember poor Jimmy Schauman coming in with his pants wet, and Old
Pat T humiliating him in front of the whole class for having wet his
pants. He tried to tearfully deny it, and wound up in the closet for
his troubles.
It
was a troubling time for all of us. Our only relief was when we got
into the light of day at recess. The only other time out of our
dungeon is when we went as a group to the bathrooms upstairs. A
fairly routine task. That is, until the Great Bathroom War.
There
were only one set of bathrooms in the building. These were on the
main floor with the other four classrooms. Every classroom was
supposed to have a set time to go, as not to overwhelm the
facilities. This was particularly true for us in the basement, and
this strict schedule may have helped explain why we boys with wild,
untamed bladders might occasionally have accidents. Old Pat T was not
going to vary her schedule for anybody.
One fine school day, Old
Pat T organized us for our trek upstairs to the bathrooms. But when
we got up there, one of the other teachers was starting to line up
her kids ahead of us. Well, Old Pat T was livid. This was not right.
This was her classroom’s time, not this young upstart’s.
They
engaged in verbal battle. We watched, our mouths dropping in
amazement. We had never seen two adult teachers going at it like
that, saying words to each other that many of us didn’t recognize.
The confrontation became physical! Old Pat T slapped the upstart, and
the upstart punched Old Pat T in the gut!
Meanwhile,
as the fight was going on, we students from both classrooms, we of
the full bladder club, came in and used the bathrooms together,
operating in unison, without conflict or strife. When we came out,
the ambulance was there and Old Pat T was being taken away.
I
don’t remember what happened to old Pat T, other than that she
never came back. I don’t know what happened to the young upstart
who slugged her. I did learn that sometimes, if we don’t let
ourselves get confined by authority and fear, we can all just go to
the bathroom together.
The
remainder of our year was more peaceful, even if we were in the
basement. Yes, it helped straighten out a bit of my wildness. But it
also left me a little bit terrified of authority figures, an attitude
that has continued to this day. It has also left me with the need,
wherever I’m working, whatever I’m doing, to make sure that I
have quick, easy, and unfettered access to a bathroom.
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Hansel EXPOSED!
Where
did the community theatre hamwich you see before you come from? When
did the bug bite the shy guy and turn him into a lion onstage? Why
does this fever burn within him, the whiffing highs from feeling an
audience respond?
It began with Childcraft. I would make the
stories I would read from the Children's Encyclopedia of stories and
fables come to life. The viney tree in the corner became the
centerpiece for Jack in the Beanstalk. The sandbox would be
surrounded by a mote. I would search the backyard and find a mop
handle, galloping to defeat the dragon and rescue the Princess.
When
we moved to Bridgeport, Michigan and we got three channels instead of
one, my mind exploded with the possibilities. I would perform my own
TV schedules around the house. At 4 PM it might be Combat, featuring
G.I. Tom's death struggle against the evil Nazi scientist, Baron Von
Tom. Then at 4:15, Tarzan and the Jungle Boat Cruise where you dare
not let your hand dangle off the sofa lest it get et by a 25 foot
crocodile. And on it went, with spies and cowboys and astronauts.
By
first grade, it was discovered that I could read very well, and that
when I read out loud, it was with emotional inflection and individual
characterization. In second grade, this little advantage helped me
out in tryouts for our class play. To my amazement, and my parents, I
was given the lead, Hansel in Hansel and Gretel.
I don't
remember much about the rehearsals, except the costuming was a bear
(some kind of weird tights or something), and you had to do a lot of
bending to put down bed crumbs. I guess I did okay . I sure don't
remember the teacher yelling at me a lot.
The big day came,
and the class was filled with parents and spectators. I was so proud.
They were all just waiting to see what kind of phenomenal job I could
do. My Childcraft plays and TV shows had no audience. Just my Mom
interrupting me to do my chores or that it was time for supper. This
had to be the biggest moment of my little young life.
The play
started. Everyone was into it. I was saying my lines like a pro. Then
it came time to put down the breadcrumbs. As I bent down, there was a
huge ripping sound. Then thunderous gales of laughter. I got up from
bending, I had no idea what was going on. So I bent down again. And
felt a breeze. The back of my tights had ripped to shreds. I had been
mooning the entire audience.
Some fast stitching was done, the
play went on, and I did not bend down again. The play mercifully
ended and my petrified mother got me home. School went on. People
laughed, but I don't remember being picked on for it. Most kids
probably thought it was pretty darn cool.
So after that, why
would ever go onstage again? I don't know. I can't fully explain it.
Even with everything that went wrong, there was just something about
it that made me feel alive. Heck, maybe even the explosion of
laughter helped encourage me in some bizarre way. Just making people
feel something, sharing emotions, it's something I keep coming back
to again and again.
Since then, I have made countless mistakes
in the theatre, from breaking furniture to missed exits, from coming
out in the wrong costume to forgotten lines. But, somehow, the magic
keeps drawing me back. And I wouldn't miss it for the world.
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After
third grade, everything changed. But during that year it was like a
golden existence, a brief bubble in time where I was somebody. For
that year, I was appreciated for what I could do, not what other
people's expectations were.
The teacher was trying to read
part of a book each day in front of the class. It wasn't going well.
She wasn't holding the student's attention. So as an experiment, she
let me try to read from it. I finished out the whole rest of the book
for her. Pocahontas and Captain John
Smith. I had them riveted.
That
year, I was the room's student council representative. When we had
lunch or snack, Diane Mainprize used to
let me share her desk and seat. It was the year I met Dona Bow. And
it was the year of one of the greatest miracles ever.
I loved
baseball, but I could not play it. Hitting a ball demanded a level of
hand/eye coordination I do not possess.
To the best of my knowledge, I've only hit the ball once out of the
infield. And it came during the spring of that golden year.
We
had a big game against another classroom. I came up to bat, probably
for the only time, because they did try to work around me as much as
possible. As usual, the first swing or two, I miss badly. Usually, I
would begin my swing about the time the ball was in the catcher's
mitt.
But
somehow, by some miracle, on my last swing, I connected with the ball
big time. I watched it sail past the infield. I watched it soar into
the outfield. I stood in awe as the outfielders tried to chase it
down. I watched and watched, in open mouth wonder, all sound and
sensation gone, until finally the shouts of those around me began to
penetrate. "Run, you idiot, Run!"
Shaking the
cobwebs away as fast as I could, I went dashing for first base, like
a possessed locomotive, steaming my way
in. I stepped on first and started charging to second. Well, by this
time, the outfielders had managed to corral the ball and start to
throw it back in. They shouted "Stop, you idiot, Stop!",
but there was no stopping this freight express from hell.
I
raced to tag on Second, but I was greeted by a very happy Second
Baseman, Who held the ball. That tagged
me out.
There it was. The biggest moment I would ever have in
the sport that I loved. And I still felt like I was coming up a
loser.
That is, until the real miracle occurred.
Another boy on our team, whose name has been tragically lost to me,
came up to me and said, "You know, it's alright you can't play
baseball well. I just wish I could read half as well as you can. You
sure can tell good stories."
Yes, for that one amazing
year, there was joy in Bearcatville. It
was the one beautiful year when somebody could appreciate
you for what you could do. Maybe you weren't an athlete. But you
could read well. Maybe you weren't the best dressed. But you can
share what you had. It was a year I'll never forget. It was a year
I'd spend the rest of my life struggling to get back to.
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War of the Witches and the Martian!
It was true. At least to me. At least for a little while. I had powers beyond the normal. That’s because, unbeknownst to my unsuspecting fellow fourth graders, I was not from this earth. Thomas “Martin” Strait was actually from Mars. Adopted by the Straits after my escape pod crashed into their backyard, I could do amazing things. I could will the teacher to pick the student I wanted when they raised their hands. I could read people’s minds. I could move my pencil across my desk just by the power of my mind. Well, sometimes I could. It didn’t always work. But it worked enough for me to know that I was, indeed, from someplace else.
But it didn’t stop there! In my classroom, there were also...witches. Yes, a whole coven, led by the nefarious Dona Bow, and her witchy friends Amy and Karen. That’s what was interfering with my powers! That’s why my telepathy and telekinesis didn’t always work!
But, oh, these amazing developments were hard to keep to myself. Soon the girls would know I knew what they were. And, eventually, other students figured out that I was the Martian.
And that is when the nightmare began. That is when my social decline started, spiraling me down into the lower ranks of elementary school cliques. At first they laughed at me because I thought I was a Martian. “You’re not a Martian, Strait! You’re just crazy!” I was baffled as to what to do, and increasingly humiliated.
In my frustration, I did one of the most evil things I have ever done. I dumped pencil shavings all over Dona Bow’s carefully drawn map of South America. It was a stupid, cruel thing to do. Why? Frustration that I was going down while the witches remained popular, some odd notion that Dona could use her witch powers to clear the map thus proving I was right, and, of course, most importantly, in the world of fourth grade logic, I had a huge crush on her and had no idea how to express it.
With that bit of horribleness, I snapped out of it. I confessed to everyone that I wasn’t really a Martian; I was just playing a game. And that just made things worse. Everyone began teasing that I really was a Martian, and said, “C’mon, Strait, move something with your mind! Tell me what I’m thinking! Why don’t you pop up your antenna and wiggle them around!” I became, and remained to one degree or another, the laughingstock of my class.
Eventually, I learned to take their teasing and use it to my advantage as best I could. I learned to use humor, particularly self-deprecating humor and also physical shtick, to get then laughing on my terms instead of theirs. As time passed, I had a bizarre kind of popularity as the class clown or funny guy. But I never felt good about myself again. Not really. I always felt like people really didn’t like me after that. That I had to prove myself just to be with people.
Recently, I have made friends with Dona Bow through the miracle of facebook. The most surprising thing I learned was that she actually enjoyed the witches and Martians game, and her friends played it some at home. That she believed it, at least a little. So I was not the only one with an explosive imagination.
Imagination is often beaten out of as kids. We tend to blame adults or church or just the way the world works. But sometimes it’s our own peers that make the magic disappear. I’ve tried to hold on to what I could. I love comics and stories, theatre and writing. Even as a dull CPA, I have my own special place, where I can be a Martian if I want to be. And if you some of my staid peers don’t like it, well, that’s tough. I have a special pratfall just for you. So there!
Lowering the Draft Age
The rumors spread fast and swift around the fifth grade playground. Someone heard it on the news so it must be true. They were lowering the draft age to twelve. They needed more soldiers for the escalation in Vietnam, and that would mean we were only a year or two from being shipped out! Some of us were very excited. War couldn’t be much different than the reenactments of World War II we did in the neighborhood, could it? Reenactments where I always played the Nazi, by the way. Part of it was because, well, kids just loved ganging up on me and letting me be the loser. But also because I could fake a German accent and was the only one who could act his way out of a paper bag.
The thing that struck me about Vietnam, even as a kid, was the war reports, particularly about casualties. I couldn’t help but notice that the casualties were always in a ten to one ratio. If there were five Americans killed, there was fifty reported Viet Kong killed. Seventy Americans? Seventy Viet Kong! It seemed odd to me that it always worked that way.
My fervent imagination, although somewhat more quietly channeled, still existed. I loved Get Smart, and would run around the playground as Maxwell Smart, sometimes talking into my shoe. Even though I was discreet as I could be, I still was picked on and not very popular. Although I did have one, brief shining moment.
Some kid wouldn’t leave me alone. Kept nattering at me, wouldn’t leave me alone, bullying me, even starting to get physical. My usual humor was not working. Finally I snapped. Somehow I turned on him, knocked him to the ground, put my foot on his back in such a way that he could not get up, and said, “Will you just leave me alone?”
The other kids were awed. How did weasely, clumsy Tom Strait pin down and get the big bully to cry uncle. Kids were practically applauding my victory. I was on the verge of restoring the popularity I had lost in fourth grade.
But in my mind, it was just a meaningless fluke. I had no idea how I did it. I had no martial training, no concept of physical self-defense. It was just luck. It could have easily gone the other way. The bully could have decided to take revenge on me later, although he never did. I still to this day don’t understand the bullying instinct, or why kids only respect those who are physical in return.
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The last two stories in this mini-collection are from postings I put on facebook, thus the repetition at the start of each paragraph of either Sixth Grade 66/67, or of Summer of ’67. I have kept them in because each entry can be taken independently, or as part of a larger whole. Also I am too lazy to take them out.
Sixth Grade Memories
Sixth
Grade 66/67...Hey! Hey! We're the Monkees! Yes, even I was carried
away with the introduction of these fine, funny gents. A
pseudo-group, constructed by Hollywood to have their own Beatle like
group that was completely under their thumb. Nevertheless, some of
their songs were pretty good, and the show itself could be
chaotically entertaining. And people just say we're monkeying
around!
Sixth Grade 66/67, there were a lot of great adventure
programs on too. My favorites included The Time Tunnel, Lost In Space
and Mission:Impossible. Fortunately for my diminished reputation, I
was no longer acting shows out on the playground. Sometimes becoming
an adult is having the imagination slowly beaten out of you.
Sixth
Grade 66/67...a new grade meant a brand new school just opening much
closer to where I lived...Thomas M White Elementary School,,,Thomas
and Myrtle White were like the Godparents of Bridgeport schools and
the ones that hired my Dad. They were very nice and friendly. But
what I remember most about them were the anise cookies. We were
invited to the White's house when I was just six...my Dad had just
been hired. Those were the cookies they had set for the guests. I had
never had a cookie like that. The flavor upset my delicate
six-year-old taste buds. Just the thought of it has haunted me ever
since. In fact, I pronounce the name anise along the lines of the
vulgar pronunciation of...Uranus.
Sixth Grade 66/67....my
next foray into theatre was a school production of The Little
Matchgirl. I had a brief non-speaking role as a grocery store clerk,
and I was supposed to operate the lights, including an important
spotlight for The Little Matchgirl's big musical solo. When it came
time to turn on the spotlight, I got so caught up in thinking about
the acting, that I failed to turn on the light. After a long pause,
the Director finally had to say, in a voice loud enough for the whole
audience to hear, "TURN...THE LIGHT...ON!" Needless to say,
I have not really worked much backstage since.
Sixth Grade
66/67...our shiny new school was built along the team teaching
methods that my Dad promoted when he first came to Bridgeport. We had
two classrooms separated by a divider that could open when they
wanted to combine the classrooms to "team teach". Great
theory, but this virtually never happened, unless they wanted to show
some film strip or movie.
Sixth Grade 66/67...there used to be
Republicans that were okay. George Romney (Mitten's Dad) wasn't so
bad. Donald Riegle (who admittedly later became a Democrat).
Congressman James Harvey (who until I saw his picture I though might
be a giant rabbit that looked like Jimmy Stewart). But, alas, those
days are gone. Republicans have gone from conservative to
reactionary.
Sixth Grade 66/67...we had a school newspaper,
which somehow I became Editor-In-Chief. I think they let me do it
because I suggested it, and most of the rest of them didn't know what
it was. I think we called it the Thomas White Gossip and I tried to
pattern it at least a little like Mad Magazine. I still have a copy
of one somewhere buried in a closet of junk.
Summer of ‘67
Summer
67...my first big trip out of the United States...went to the
Montreal Expo. Huge pavilions for many countries, one of the last
really special World Expos...we were in a trailer park miles away,
came in by bus...first time I was around a lot of people that didn't
speak English, found it disturbing I couldn't understand what people
were saying.
Summer 67...my comic habit is now full grown. And
I have grown to Make Mine Marvel! To my usual love of the two-in-ones
(like Strange Tales) I regularly get The Amazing Spider-Man and
Fantastic Four. I also sample The Avengers, Daredevil and whatever
else Marvel offers. DC is now primarily Adventure Comics featuring
The Legion of Super-Heroes.
Summer 67...historically, the
Summer of 67 is known as the Summer of Love, the height of hippies,
free love, the blossoming anti-war movement, psychedelic rock,
Haight-Asbury. Somehow at 12 years old, I missed all this.
Summer
67....we joined a club of people that had Holiday Rambler travel
trailers. Once a year they would hold a national rally. That year it
was in Kentucky. People from all over the country were there. As shy
as I was, I got to meet kids from all over. Including a girl from
South Georgia.
Summer '67.....at the Kentucky Trailer
Rally, I met a girl from South Georgia. I don't remember the name of
the town, but it was very close to the Florida border. She was
pretty, and how shall we say, more developed than most girls her age.
She hung around me and my sister, and this other guy from somewhere
else. I thought it was me she wanted to hang around with, but it
became clearer that it was actually the other guy. Shy as I was, I
was determined to assert myself. Then suddenly, we were called back
home and everything changed.
Summer 67....we were called
back to Michigan, ending our Kentucky trip. I did manage to get a
pet, a horny toad that looked like a Triceratops. I put it in a box
and took it with us. We stopped at a rest stop; I took it out still
in its box for air. A few miles back on the road I remembered where I
left it. We had to get to Michigan; my father couldn't take the time
to retrieve it. I still think of that poor horny toad, stuck in a box
at an Ohio rest stop.
Summer 67...we had to rush home early
from our Kentucky vacation because my beloved Grandma Martin was
hospitalized with a return of a cancer that we thought she had beat.
The doctors only gave her two months to live. I was determined to do
whatever I could to prevent that.
Summer '67....the doctors
gave Grandma Martin two months to live. But I knew the power of
prayer and positive thinking could change things. I prayed, I read
the bible, I was as good as I could be, I did everything methodically
and ritualistically. All in my belief that a miracle could
occur.
Summer 67...while Grandma Martin was desperately ill,
the teachers decided to strike. My Dad was a negotiator for the other
side. I thought unions were awful, pulling my Dad away at a time like
this. Without school, we continued to stay with Grandpa Martin at
their lake house in Howell, Michigan. Damn, selfish teachers.
Summer
67...Hospital rules must have been different then. I only remember
getting to see Grandma Martin once while she was there. She said so
you want to be an actor? I said no a lawyer. She said it didn't
matter. What was important was to be polite, respectful and caring in
whatever I did. And to the best of my ability, even with being bone
shy, I have always tried to do that.
Summer 67....the doctors
gave her two months. I prayed and did everything I could for a
miracle, to give her more time. Grandma Martin got two months. To the
day. Not one day less or more. Fair or not, this would put a major
wedge between me and faith in religion for many years to
come.
Summer 67...my father had taken us to the funerals
of two other distant relatives in order to help prepare Carol and me
for my Grandmother's funeral (he did not operate under the delusion
of a miraculous recovery as I did). It didn't really help.
At
the funeral, someone from the school system came up to my Dad and
told him that the teacher strike was over. My mother was furious that
someone would bring up business at a funeral. I have been cautious of
that ever since.
There was an outdoor luncheon after the
funeral. That was the part that disturbed me most. My Grandmother had
just died, and people were using it as an excuse for a social get
together. It seemed like people were laughing and talking about
anything but Grandma. I didn't understand. But as I've gotten older I
have come to a better acceptance of this. Everybody grieves in
different ways.
This all happened a long time ago, but I will
always remember her genteel spirit and unconditional love, and I like
to think that is an important part of what positive traits I have. I
will always remember and cherish you, Versie Martin.
My name is T.M. Strait. I hope to have more soon at Smashwords, but if you would like to see more while I try to accelerate on the learning curve, please check out my blog, www.thestraitline-tmstrait.blogspot.com