The Good Man of Altadena

 

Subscribe to My Blog! January 21st, 2025 The Good Man of Altadena PREVIOUS BLOGS: TERRYBAUM.BLOGSPOT.COM PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO ANYONE WHO MIGHT BE INTERESTED. PODCASTS, EVENTS, INFO, POSTERS: LilithTheater.com LB and I were driving back from the Palm Springs International Film Festival. We were going to visit friends in Los Angeles, my hometown, on the way back. But we changed our plans because of the apocalyptic fires. Our friends agreed that was a good idea. One of them had a whole family of fire refugees moving into her house on the day we'd planned to get together. So we were going to drive straight through to San Francisco. At a certain point, we had to get off the freeway and find somewhere to pee. It happened to be Altadena. We found a cafe that seemed open. People were bustling inside. A woman came to the door. "We're not open," she said. "We're cleaning up. But are you okay? Do you need anything?" What?!? Did I need anything? Why was she asking? Then we understood that, even though nothing around us had been burned, we were near the pathway of the fire. Three women were bustling around cleaning up the cafe. The whole place stank inside of smoke, even though the immediate area had been untouched by flames. She warmly invited us in to use their bathroom. It was only when I came out that I noticed the sign "WE LOVE YOU ALTADENA & PASADENA" next to the cafe -- and all the boxes of clothes and water bottles. The evidence of disaster, and of people coming together to help each other, was painfully clear. That was Tuesday, January 14th. I came home to a pile of unread New York Times. I sat down to riffle through the pages, to see if anything caught my eye that I absolutely had to read. I came upon this story, published on January 13th. I read it over several times. And on this auspicious and terrifying day, the first full day of Trump's Presidency, I choose to focus on Anthony Mitchell, who lost his life when the Eaton fire consumed his home. I don't want to talk about the tragedy of Mr. Mitchell's death or whether it could have been prevented. I want to celebrate the life of The Good Man of Altadena. According to Claire Fahy, who wrote this article for the New York Times:   "Altadena, though minutes away from a large city, had a small-town feel, Mitchell's surviving son, Anthony Jr., said. The neighborhood was full of families whose homes had been passed down through generations. It had been a magnet for Black families in particular. The houses were in a picturesque spot, surrounded by hills and forest on three sides, but they were still affordable. Mr. Mitchell lived on Terrace Street in Altadena with two sons, both in their 30s. It was a modest white house wth a green front gate and green trim. Trees towered above the home's carefully tended garden. The edge of the woods climbing into the San Gabriel Mountains was just 10 blocks away. Mr. Mitchell used a wheelchair after his leg was amputated last year, a complication of his diabetes. One of his sons, Justin, was born with cerebral palsy and was 'bedridden,' according to Mr. Mitchell's daughter, Hajime White. Ms. White, 50, said that her father was 17 years old when she was born, the child of two high school sweethearts. Ms. White's mother moved to Arkansas not long after she found out that she was pregnant, but Mr. Mitchell always kept in contact with his daughter while she was growing up. 'He would call me a lot of times, and he would ask me, Baby, what do you want for Christmas?' Ms White recalled. 'He would sometimes start in June and July.' Her father would ask around about what the latest trends were. Big boxes of presents would then show up on Ms. White's doorstep, filled with the latest fashionable clothes and in-demand items, such as Air Jordan shoes, Reeboks and, once, a keyboard." My eyes, mind and heart were stopped in their tracks. A 17-year-old boy stays connected with the daughter he fathered who he had never seen. She lives across the country. And yet he showered her with Christmas gifts to remind her that he loved her and was always thinking of her. How many 17-year-olds would do that? Quite frankly, if I were in that young boy's shoes, I really don't think that I would. Mr. Mitchell was an extraordinarily loving man, even as a teenager. Loving and responsible.   " Ms. White first visited Altadena when she was 10 years old, in 1986, the first time she met her father and the extended family in person. It felt like home, she said. 'The first time that I laid eyes on my dad, it was the most happiest moment of my life,' Ms. White said." I savor that moment of reunion in my imagination. For 10 years, Mr. Mitchell expressed his love for his daughter in the only way he could -- with loads of Christmas presents. How amazing for the two of them to be able to actually touch. I imagine they hugged for a very long time. I imagine they could not stop smiling and laughing and holding on to each other, for the whole visit.   "Ms. White said that her children had called him 'Fafa' instead of 'Papa' because they lived far away from him in Arkansas. But though they were far, they stayed in close touch. In November, they had all gathered for Mr. Mitchell's 68th birthday. Mr. Mitchell was a fixture in the community -- always checking in with the neighborhood children to see how they were getting on in school and giving them advice, his family said. 'My dad was just one of those people, you would meet him and he would make friends with you real quick,' his oldest son Anthony Jr., 46, said. 'He was an old-school guy.' He worked in sales at Radio Shack and then studied to become a respiratory therapist. But the work was sad -- many of his patients, including children and older people, died. He quit and went back to sales." There's that tender heart again. I imagine Mr. Mitchell felt he could study to enter a profession -- to help people breathe! Of course it sounds wonderful. What could be more loving than helping people breathe? But many people who need that help must be close to death. And some of them do die. A respiratory therapist must want to love people by helping them to breathe. But he must also find a way to handle the deaths of some of these people. No, Mr. Mitchell was not the man for that job. Certainly, in his work, he went out of his way to befriend every patient, just like he befriended his neighbors on Terrace Avenue in Altadena. Mr. Mitchell was not going to distance himself from his patients. And so the grief piled up. He had to go back to sales.   "In his neighborhood, Mr. Mitchell was known for his skills at the barbecue and was often recruited to cook for a crowd. In the charred remains of his backyard , next to several blackened cars, were the tools of Mr. Mitchell's craft -- a gas grill, a charcoal grill and a smoker. His son Justin loved to read, particularly books ordered from Amazon. Whenever someone asked if he wanted a present, he answered simply, 'Amazon.' But he also liked reading the newspaper with Mr. Mitchell. 'They would both sit there, reading the paper,' Ms. White said. 'My brother was phenomenal, too, just like my dad.' 'He wasn't going to leave my brother,' Anthony Mitchell Jr., said. He would never leave his kids. We were his legacy. We were his diamonds.'" Thanks to reporter Claire Fahy, for bringing us a glimpse into the life of this beautiful man. I grieve the death of Anthony Mitchell, who regarded his children as precious jewels, and was a master of the barbecue and too soft-hearted to be a respiratory therapist. And I grieve the death of his son, Justin, who was devoted to reading the paper and books from Amazon. But most especially I celebrate the great heart and loving life of Anthony Mitchell, The Good Man of Altadena.

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Chappy Chanukkah from Moishe 'n Me

December 27, 2024 Chappy Chanukah from Moishe! PREVIOUS BLOGS: TERRYBAUM.BLOGSPOT.COM PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO ANYONE WHO MIGHT BE INTERESTED. PODCASTS, EVENTS, INFO, POSTERS: LilithTheater.com

Dear Bloggellinis: This is the same email from last year. I'm sending it so that those who have joined BAUMblog since then can get to know my dear Auntie Hannah. If you've already read about her, just click to see/hear the song. You know you want to. Yes, it's Chanukah! That means it's time to spend one minute and 18 seconds watching MOISHE THE GREEN-NOSED HERRING on Youtube! Really, you should. Carolyn is chilarious! I want to celebrate my religious heritage and make you laugh with MOISHE THE GREEN-NOSED HERRING. I want to rejoice in my reasonably happy childhood and my relatively sane family. And I particularly want to honor the memory of my wonderful Auntie Hannah, who rewrote the lyrics of RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER so that, in a world awash with "Silent Night," all us cousins would have our very own holiday song. Hannah's husband, my Uncle Bob, also made a crucial contribution to the celebration --- Latkes! Something fried in oil is essential to the Chanukah party, because we're celebrating the miracle of having enough oil to keep the eternal flame in the Jerusalem temple burning for eight days. In order to use lots of oil, my family, Ashkenazi Jews from Russia, makes potato pancakes -- latkes. Sephardic Jews, from Southern Europe, fry doughnuts. I must confess I had no idea how lucky we all were to have Uncle Bob cooking those latkes. They have rarely been equaled in my experience. Deliciously crispy, never greasy, cooked through and well and lightly seasoned -- Heavenly! Oh, where are the latkes of yesteryear?!? Perhaps right here! Click for Uncle Bob's Recipe.

I loved my Auntie Hannah. She was the one who not only wrote the song but also created the song sheets for the holidays. She was the one who put together the Haggadah for Passover -- a Haggadah, that I still use. A haggadah is the text recited on the first two nights of the Jewish holiday of Passover. It tells the story of the Exodus, when the Jews fled slavery in Egypt. After Uncle Bob died, Hannah continued living on her own in Los Angeles. Eventually, she and my mother were the Last Matriarchs

Still Standing. By that time, they were both well into their 80s. They talked on the phone every morning. Hannah used to joke, "We need to find out if we're both still breathing." Mainly, they worked on the L.A. Times crossword puzzle together, supplying each other with words that the other one hadn't guessed yet. Hannah adored Mom. And my mother could be prickly. Mom wasn't all that nice to Hannah. I think it was because she was insanely jealous of Hannah's plentiful descendants. While my mother had one (admittedly fabulous) granddaughter, Hannah had four grandchildren and ... five maybe?... great-grandchildren. AND Hannah had the jewelry to prove it! You know, one of those necklaces with a charm for each human descended from somebody who's descended from somebody who's descended from somebody who came out of your body. Hannah wore it all the time. How could my mother compete? Besides the aforementioned fabulous Rose, all Mom had was money! Once Mom complained to me, after we'd come home from eating out together, that Hannah expected my mom to foot the bill too often. I blew up. Here's why: During the Great Depression, my grandfather's furniture store in Omaha went bankrupt. His three children -- my father and his two sisters Sarah and Hannah -- were obligated to support their destitute parents. My father couldn't contribute because he was going to GRADUATE SCHOOL! He had to work to support HIMSELF when he wasn't studying. He couldn't contribute to supporting his parents. So big brother Macy went off to Columbia University in New York City to study journalism. Older sister Sarah moved with her new husband to Los Angeles to look for work. California had to be better than Nebraska! (It was.) Sarah's parents (my grandparents) followed, perhaps hoping to help with grandchildren soon to arrive. So younger sister Hannah, who was supposed to be starting college, was left in Omaha to work full-time and send money to her parents in L.A. It's an old story. The daughter has to sacrifice so that the son may advance and thrive. No one questioned such priorities at the time. After all, times were really hard. The family had to work together in order for the family to survive. Better to invest in a smart son than a smart daughter. So Hannah never went to college.She sacrificed her own future for my father's future financial well-being. In my opinion, my mother owed Hannah a hell of a lot more than a few lunches. Of course Hannah was a very sweet woman and held no grudge against my dad. He was, according to her, "the best older brother anyone could ever have, always looking out for me." She had always adored him. I fiercely monitored Mom's behavior toward Hannah. But Hannah herself never seemed bothered by anything Mom said or did. When my mother died at 92, Hannah was devastated. I think she felt the loss more than anyone. When it was time to decide what to put on the plaque for Mom's crypt, I was having trouble figuring out what to say. I knew the traditional word to use was "beloved." But I was having trouble putting that in stone. I asked Hannah's help. She immediate volunteered "Adored sister-in-law!" And I thought, Hannah adored Mom, certainly Dad did. So "adored" she shall be for eternity! A while after Mom died, Hannah had a bad fall at home. My cousins Miriam and Sam decided she needed to move to live closer to one of them. Hannah was reluctant to leave her life in L.A. She was surrounded by helpful neighbors, but her kids felt strongly that wasn't enough. So she agreed to move up to Modesto to an independent living setting near Miriam. Modesto is an hour and a half from San Francisco, so Miriam was able to bring Hannah to one of my giant garden parties. It wasn't so easy for Hannah to navigate down the half flight of stairs into the backyard. But once she'd ensconced herself at the large round table under the flowering tamarisk tree, she was set. She introduced herself to everyone the same way: "Hello, I'm Hannah. My name is a palindrome, which means it reads the same way backwards and forwards. That's perfect for ME, because I don't know whether I'm coming or going!" Needless to say, Hannah was the belle of the ball. Everyone wanted to sit near my auntie, the wise-cracking Jewish grandma, so often encountered in sit-coms but rarely in real life. Hannah stayed until the almost all guests had left. As she pulled herself up the backstairs with Miriam's help, she turned back to me and announced, "I'm coming back next year!" Hannah had come to watch Carolyn and me perform MOISHE at our December show, CRONES FOR THE HOLIDAYS, in San Francisco the year before. She was totally tickled by it and thrilled to be introduced in the audience as the brilliant lyricist. The next year, she was very much looking forward to attending CRONES FOR THE HOLIDAYS -- THE SEQUEL, to hear her masterpiece performed once again and to be honored as its creator. So when the doctor told her that her heart was giving out and she didn't have much time left, she asked him if she would live through the holiday season. Hannah told me, "And when that doctor told me I probably wouldn't live that long, I told him, 'To hell with you! I'm not dying until I see my song MOISHE performed onstage again in San Francisco!" This from someone who had made it very clear to everyone that she'd had enough of life! She was 94 and she'd told Miriam she did NOT want to stick around to see a cake with 95 candles. And yet, her desire to hear an audience laugh at MOISHE one more time was so powerful, she wanted to hold out a little longer. But in the end, it was not to be. While our show was having its run, Hannah was in a coma in a hospice in Modesto. I asked Miriam if I should come visit and say goodby, but she said, "What's the point? She won't even know you're here." I kept waiting to hear that Hannah had passed. I would call Miriam to check, but, nope, Hannah was still alive. She was not receiving food or water or medicine of any kind. But she just wasn't dying. The hospice people told Miriam that sometimes happens. I finally decided that I just had to see her. I rented a car and drove to the very lovely hospice in Modesto. I went over to Hannah's bed. Miriam stood on the other side. I sat down next to Hannah and told her about the performances of MOISHE and how much everyone loved the song. I told her that I loved her, that I felt a special connection with her. Not only was she a comic lyricist, Hannah was my most political relative and had contributed to my political campaigns. Theater, politics -- she and I had a lot in common. Then I said goodby. I don't think I hugged her. I don't remember even touching her while I sat next to her, talking. I hugged Miriam goodby and started driving home. I was on the road about 45 minutes when the phone rang. It was Miriam. "Hannah just died," she said. "I think she held on so long because she was waiting to say goodby to you. Thank you for coming." I pulled off the highway and cried, hugging Nikki, and and remembering my special palindromic auntie. And every Chanukah since, I sing MOISHE THE GREEN-NOSED HERRING and watch the video of Carolyn and me performing my auntie's song, and send out a link to that video, so all my friends can enjoy Hannah's song too. BELOW: Miriam, Hannah & Me in Modesto for Hannah's last Thanksgiving -- one of my all-time favorite Thanksgivings.

Bloggellinis: That's all for now. To my local Bloggellinis: I'm having a New Year's Day Party from 1-5, and you're invited! Address: 547 Douglass St., San Francisco. RSVP to this email if you can come. Bring something to eat or drink. Terry

 

I applaud Joe Pardoning Hunter!

 

Subscribe to My Blog! December 9, 2024 I APPLAUD JOE PARDONING HUNTER PREVIOUS BLOGS: TERRYBAUM.BLOGSPOT.COM PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO ANYONE WHO MIGHT BE INTERESTED. PODCASTS, EVENTS, INFO, POSTERS: LilithTheater.com What the hell is WRONG with people?!? Why is everyone making such a huge fuss about President Joe Biden pardoning his son, poor beleaguered Hunter, for the most minor of errors? What did Hunter Biden do? He lied on the ATF form 4473 when he bought a gun, because he did not mention he used illegal drugs. According to the National Criminal Justice Association: "Lying on the form is a felony punishable by up to 10 years in prison. For being a user of unlawful drugs in possession of a firearm, the punishment is up to five years. The odds of being charged for lying on the form are virtually nonexistent." Did you read that last sentence? "The odds of being charged for lying on the form are virtually nonexistent." Pardon me for repeating myself, but I am awestruck by the double standard this society seems to have for Joe Biden, on the one hand, and every other President, on the other hand. Didn't Trump pardon his sleaze bucket father-in-law? Were there countless outraged columns and op-eds about it? No! What about Bill Clinton's pardon of Marc Rich? In 1983, financier Marc Rich was indicted for evading more than $48 million in taxes, and charged with 51 counts of tax fraud, as well as running illegal oil deals with Iran during the 1979-1980 hostage crisis. During his last week in office, President Bill Clinton pardoned Rich, who had fled the U.S. during his prosecution and was residing in Switzerland. Rich's ex-wife had made "substantial" donations to the Clinton library and Hilary Clinton's campaign, and there was a suspicion that these donations had in fact bought the pardon. It was very controversial, but where is the equivalence between Marc (very) Rich and Hunter Biden? Marc Rich was accused of evading $48,000,000 in taxes and running illegal oil deals with Iran. Hunter Biden is accused of lying on a form and paying his taxes late. WHERE IS THE EQUIVALENCE? Oh, you say, but this sets a terrible precedent for the next guy and will probably lead to Trump abusing the Presidential pardon privilege! Are you kidding me?!? Has Trump ever needed any precedent to justify his actions? NO! End of subject. Oh, you say, but Biden said he was NOT going to pardon Hunter. Guess what! He changed his mind. Biden undoubtedly assumed that he would be President when his son was in prison, if it came to that. Would YOU want YOUR son to be in prison under the control of an unstable maniac who hates your guts because you had the temerity to beat him in the 2020 election? I have no doubt that Trump would behead Hunter Biden just to make his father suffer, if he could get away with it. There is no way Hunter Biden would have been indicted if his dad wasn't President. This was an appropriate use of a Presidential pardon, in my eyes. I'm glad President Biden pardoned his troubled son. Joe acted as a loving father, and I support him.

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What to do about Gaza NOW!

Dear Friends & Bloggellinis who want to stop the slaughter in Gaza: I'm sending this out now for you to act now. The point is, there atually IS a way for Congress to stop the funding of arms to commit war crimes in Gaza -- A Joint Resolution of Disapproval. Good old Bernie is using it to do precisely that. Admittedly, it is the longest of possible shots. But at this point, it is something we can do that is using the laws of our country to stop U.S. support of the slaughter of innocent civilians. PLEASE ACT ON THIS NOW, BY EMAIL OR PHONE. Thank you. Terry If you have already taken this action, please pass this on to others via social media and email forwarding. Diana, Next week, for the first time, the Senate will vote on directly blocking weapons from being sent to Israel. Your senators need to hear from you now! If you have not sent a message supporting Bernie Sanders Joint Resolutions of Disapproval to end military aid to Israel, now is the time to act. As the Israelis continues to decimate Gaza and its war of aggression in Lebanon continues unabated, Congress must send a message to Israel's leaders that we will no longer give them unquestioning support.  Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) announced in a Senate speech his plan to file Joint Resolutions of Disapproval (JRD) to block over $20 billion in offensive U.S. weaponry sales to Israel. The JRD is Congress's only means to prevent these arms sales. (Fact Sheet) SEND YOUR MESSAGE Senator Sanders is seeking Senate support and cosigners for these resolutions. (https://bit.ly/sanders-dear-colleague-letter) The Senate will vote on the resolutions the week of November 18. He needs our help!   Please take a moment now to send a message to your senators to urge them to cosponsor and support Bernie's resolutions?  **Your voice can make a difference.** A sample message is provided for you to send to your senators. You can use it as is, modify it, or write your own. Your message will be delivered automatically. Or you can transmit your message by phone (how to, below). Thank you for your continued support and solidarity with the Palestinian people. Together, we can help end this war and foster lasting peace in the Middle East. SEND YOUR MESSAGE P.S. You can also call your senators to share your message. Find their contact information at https://www.senate.gov/senators/senators-contact.htm.

LONG TIME NO BLOG

Subscribe to My Blog! October 22, 2024 LONG TIME NO BLOG PREVIOUS BLOGS: TERRYBAUM.BLOGSPOT.COM PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO ANYONE WHO MIGHT BE INTERESTED. PODCASTS, EVENTS, INFO, POSTERS: LilithTheater.com Below: A moment from the last performance of Lesbo Solo When last heard from (August 20), I had opened Lesbo Solo at the San Francisco Fringe Festival and received some delightful audience reviews. Since then, I performed two more times (sold-out houses) & received MORE delightful audience reviews! Click here to read any and all of the reviews. My favorite short review is: "Terry Baum — as always charming, goofy and artful — tells her personal tale and the story of a movement. Funny and surprisingly touching." Wow. Can you go any higher than "charming, goofy and artful"? Not to mention ALWAYS manifesting these qualities! I have never aspired to be goofy, but only because I never thought I could possibly achieve such an exalted state as goofyhood. I'm STILL not sure it happened, but I'm thrilled that one fan saw it in me. I will certainly be performing My Gay History Play (the new title of Lesbo Solo) as soon as possible. I am determined to do it during the first week of 2025 somewhere, possibly in my own living room, possibly my girlfriend's living room. WAIT A MINUTE. Did I use the word "girlfriend"?????? Have I ever before used words like "girlfriend" or "lover" or "love relationship" or "partner" in BAUMblog when referring to my own current life?? No, I have not. I have been single for more than ten years. I was always hoping somebody would ask me how I felt about being single, so that I could say "I hate it." I will now reveal the reason that -- even though the whole world has been busy falling apart -- your hyper-opinionated BlogMistress couldn't be bothered to weigh in on any of it. Yes, I admit I have deserted my Bloggellinis in your hour of desperate need. I have not supplied the analysis, the outrage, the links to activism, that you might rightly have expected of me. And it is all because: I have met someone. I have fallen in love. Falling in love can be very time-consuming. Perhaps it is even more time-consuming when one is 77. After all, everything takes more time to do when you're 77. Walking up a hill, making the bed. Why not falling in love?!? And not only does falling in love take an inordinate amount of time, reducing the amount left over for blogging -- it has the effect of making me less interested in, not only blogging, but EVERYTHING ELSE. For example, I have learned to my chagrin that I simply CANNOT begin a sexual relationship when I'm opening a new show. When this did happen in 2007, the new relationship caused me to lose my intense focus on my work. Unfortunately, there was a serious problem: Opening Night was nigh, and Baum for Peace wasn't ready to open. There were many songs and dances, which always demand far more rehearsal than mere words. My co-star, Scrumbly Koldewyn, urged me to face the problem. It was indeed my responsibility, since I was not only playwright and star but also producer. But I ignored his wise warning. I didn't care enough about the show because I was focussed on my new girlfriend. And on opening night, all the critics showed up. And every single review they wrote used the word "amateurish" to describe the performance. Every. Single. Review. The simple truth was that we weren't ready to open on opening night, and it was my fault. And that is the ONLY TIME in my very long theatrical career that the word "amateurish" was EVER used in a review to describe my work. So this time, with Lesbo Solo, I waited to get horizontal with my new love until after my last performance, so I could maintain my work focus. Actually, I had always planned to devote myself to the ELECTION as soon as Lesbo Solo was over. NOTHING is more important to me than being a good citizen! Absolutely nothing! I have been a full-time volunteer, for campaigns I believed in, many times. If theater kept me busy through August, I was very clear that September and October would be devoted to POLITICS ONLY! I told all my friends that, as a way to encourage them to make the same commitment. But although I do truly believe that it is my job (along with a few billion other people) to save the world, and the main way I try to do it is by: Volunteering long hours on election campaigns and... Writing BAUMblog... I seem to have temporarily lost my interest in saving the world. I do understand that this is the most crucial Presidential election in my lifetime. There is also a very important election for Mayor of San Francisco. But I have not done a damn thing about either of these races. This is how it is: I was walking home one evening after attending a fascinating interview with the Chronicle's classical music critic at Manny's, a cafe and civic event space. I met a woman on the corner of 18th and Castro. She had seen me perform six weeks earlier. She is a very wonderful person, and eventually, we fell in love. My beloved is the center of my life. Being with her, loving and being loved by her, examining in detail every little bump on the road we are taking together -- these are my priorities right now. So If the world is going to be saved at this perilous moment, it will have to be without my participation. All my energy, my passion and compassion, are directed toward this one human being. And after all these years of theater and activism, this feels so very right to me. I've introduced my girlfriend to all my friends, so she's no secret. But she's a very private person, the opposite of the exhibitionist she fell for. She doesn't want her name and picture sent out to all my Bloggellinis. But I'd like to share a photo of her that I took on the day I told her I was falling in love. In fact, she fell in love with Nikki first. She was not a dog person. But Nikki is an incredibly mellow dog. And he won her heart. He is her first dog love. And isn't that graffiti, on the concrete wall, beyond perfection? So, Bloggellinis: My goal is to write one BAUMblog a week on .... whatever grabs me. But I ain't promising anything. Terry

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