Wednesday 30 April 2014

I Get To Keep All of My Fingers

Many, many years ago, before Louise and I had kids we would go to things like Home Shows. Sure, you can go with kids, and we have over the years, but with kids your main focus must be on them and not the things you go to a Home Show for. To tell you the truth, in Calgary these kinds of shows really don’t offer much more than the big retailers do in their stores, so you can save the high price of parking and the price of admission.

Many years ago, these shows were free and the intention was to introduce the public to your company and products, demonstrating in person why they are better than everyone else’s product. I just like to see the new products that the manufactures would come up with every year.

One year, Louise and I watched Jon Eakes do a woodworking demonstration of a radial arm saw. In the hands of an expert craftsman it is a truly wondrous machine. There was very little Jon couldn’t do with the saw and he made some amazing things while we were watching. I came away from the demonstration knowing that if I only had one of these tools, there would be nothing I couldn’t make in my basement.

I suppose that I must have priced out a radial arm saw and decided that for now I could make do with the tools I already have. The years passed, kids were born, grew up and left home, I became greyer and somewhat thicker and I am still making do without a radial arm saw. The radial arm saw has fallen out of favour over the years, and many of its strengths can be done now with smaller and cheaper tools. It has mainly been replaced by compound mitre saws and contractor’s table saws that do the same jobs, better and much safe than the radial arm saw.

I have always wondered the direction my life would have taken had I bought a radial arm saw all of those years ago. I might never have stayed working in the Post Office, choosing instead to become a carpenter and possibly a maker of fine furniture. Would my house now be filled with the golden warmth of hand made bits and bobs? I’ll never know.

Over the past few days I saw a radial arm saw that looked in pretty decent condition for only $65 at the second hand store. My mind immediately travelled back in time and I was sitting in the stands watching Jon Eakes make little miracles on a radial arm saw. The first time I saw it, I told myself “NO!” The next day I gave it the once over, turning all of the knobs and sliding the saw back and forth along the support arm. I thought about it when I got home and for the rest of the day. I made a “pros” and “cons” list and the “cons” far outweighed the “pros”. It was settled, I don’t need the saw, I have no room for the saw and it would be foolish for me to get the saw.

The next day I decided that if it were still there (unlikely) then I would buy it. It was there and my buddy Ken and I loaded it into the back seat of my car. I stashed it underneath my workbench in the garage because before I could use it I have to make a stand for it. I was pretty excited!

I couldn’t decide if I wanted a stand on wheels or one that is built into a cabinet against the north facing wall. I am kind of leaning to the cabinet, but the mobile stand makes sense too. I went online to see what other people have decided to use for their saws. It was while I was searching that I read about the recall on Sears Craftsman Radial Arm Saws. Sears is/has recalled over 3.7 million Radial Arm Saws produced between 1958 and 1992 because they were sold without a blade guard and some people have been hit by wood kicked back by the saws, resulting in amputations, fractures and lacerations. 

It has been over twenty years…the recall can’t still be in effect. Can it? I knew it was a dangerous saw when I bought it, but really, any razor sharp blade spinning at 3600 RPM’s is bound to be dangerous. I called the company and yes, the recall is still in effect although the woman didn’t really seemed pleased about telling me. The deal is that they will send me a box via FedEx and I am to detach the saw and motor, put it in the box, drop it off at FedEx and once they receive the package, they will send me $100.

I made a profit yesterday of $35 and I get to keep all of my fingers.
It might even be US dollars…

Tuesday 29 April 2014


It’s not often that I will open one of the many cookbooks that we own any more. There are some tried and true recipes in those books that I will reference from time to time, but by and large, they sit in their cupboard, taking up space and collecting dust.

I guess that it is just easier for me to type “Chicken Recipe” on my keyboard and have 119,000,000 results to pick from. I may refine my search to “Roasted Chicken” to narrow the choices down to 30,100,000or even “Chicken Kiev” which gives me a mere 391,000 options. There is no way that I can read all of those results, but I can generally say that somewhere in the first ten or twenty results, I can find something that I am willing to cook and eat.

The trouble with cookbooks is that I either can’t find the recipe I am thinking of or I veer off on a tangent, looking at recipes for which I don’t have the ingredients. Sometimes, I spend ten or fifteen minutes looking for that pizza dough recipe only to realize it’s in some other cookbook. I am getting a little smarter, by typing the recipe up and saving it on a RECIPE file in my computer. Unfortunately, I will generally forget that I have it saved and still spend ten or fifteen minutes leafing through the book.

Louise came home today and told me about a great recipe for horseradish that a co-worker of Romanian descent told her about. Unfortunately, she didn’t get the recipe for whatever reason, even though he told it to her. Must be a Romanian thing. I figured that this would be the perfect time to dig out the “Romanian Way of Cooking” from the cupboard, blow off the dust and be a hero who found the horseradish recipe.

I spent the customary fifteen minutes looking through the book, but alas…no horseradish recipe. I did find something that the internet just doesn’t have, helpful hints and information sprinkled generously throughout the book.

I particularly liked this one, and remember the cookbook is from the Ladies Auxiliary of St. Georges Romanian Orthodox Cathedral in Regina.

How To Preserve a Husband

In choosing a husband, women should first be careful of their selection. Do not choose too young or too green and take only such as have been raised in a good moral atmosphere.

When you have decided on selection, turn your thoughts to domestic use. Some wives insist on keeping husbands in a pickle, while others are constantly getting them in hot water. This only makes them sour, hard and sometimes bitter.

Even the poorest varieties can be made sweet, tender and good by garnishing them with patience, spicing them with smiles and flavouring them with kisses.

For a finished product, husbands should be wrapped in a mantle of kindness, kept warm with the fire of devotion and served with peaches and cream.

Husbands prepared this way will keep for years.

Depot Five

I started work today at the Post Office again. I suppose that I don’t have enough things to complain about and need to fill my “This is Bullshit” bag to the top again. I am only there for a couple of hours a day counting the letters and magazines for the next two weeks. I have done this before and it is very easy money.

The work is at Depot 5 which is located in an area of the city that is difficult to service from any of the “Super” Depots they have built over the past few years. Depot 5 is a tiny place with 31 letter carrier walks and is wedged into the end of a cul-de-sac. Parking is at a premium and the city parking assholes are constantly ticketing the unwary motorist. We park about two blocks away and walk in, which isn’t too bad.

This depot reminds me of the way depots were back when I started at the Post Office 35 years ago. They still have the old rock maple cases, probably some of the same ones I sorted on in years past, not the new plastic and metal ones that lack any personality. The old cases have a feel to them and in some ways are almost living…almost. The carriers can talk to each other easily and pass mis-sorted mail back and forth as need be.

Each aisle is like one branch of a larger family. You get to know your aisle mates very well and over time, the rest of the depot is brought into the family. Mostly, you get to know them all on a fairly superficial level, but every now and then you make good friends. Over years, people come and go from the depot but new friends replace them and in time the postal family grows.

This is a depot that is lost in time. They still have an honour system for goodies, with the candy bars and bags of chips just sitting on a table. Coffee is just the same as the coffee maker you would have at home and there is a kettle for tea, hot chocolate and instant soup. There is a refrigerator to keep lunch and snacks cool and I would bet that special occasions in the depot warrant a cake and a present bought with excess money from the coffee fund. It will be organized by one or two people who couldn’t imagine not doing something for any ocasion. There is more than likely a ball team formed in the summer and hockey or curling folk get their turn during the winter.

The supervisors are probably ex-carriers that due to injury or temperament decided to move inside. Supervisors and carriers are just workers doing different jobs for the Post Office and the mind set is to fix the problem, not the blame. This depot is like the land that time forgot and it should remain that way.

Unfortunately, the reason I and about twenty-nine others are in the depot for the next two weeks will change things for them. The Post Office is going through a complete restructure and nothing is to remain of the old Post Office. The cases are changing, the focus of the Post Office is changing and unfortunately, the people will soon be changing. They won’t look forward to coming to work anymore, but will look forward to getting in and getting home as soon as possible. The friendly chatter will soon cease due to the new cases and the desire to get out as fast as possible. The coffee fund will inevitably die out and those that arranged parties will have their time taken up trying to get home before dark. It is all changing!

I’ve seen the change in all of the other depots in the city and the letter carriers are either marking time till retirement or are actively seeking another job. I suppose this is progress and the Post Office will make more money, but it is just sad for me to watch. I have my memories of what a good job can be and just what makes the job a place that you look forwards to going to every day. I get to go to a place like that for the next two weeks and for me it will be a trip back in time to when my hair was dark, my waist smaller and I spent time with people that made me smile every day.

Sunday 27 April 2014

I Don’t Like My Blog

I just took one of those Facebook quizzes about how many of the thirteen best Canadian movies I have seen. I had seen two of them and didn’t like one at all. I don’t generally like artistic things Canadian, I know that I should, but I just don’t. 

I shouldn’t say that I dislike all things artistically Canadian, I do enjoy a lot of the mainstream music. Basically top forty or “popular” music that is entertaining and not very deep. I think I have liked two of Leonard Cohen’s songs/poems, but those were the ones that were most unlike a Leonard Cohen song.

I can’t say that I like Canadian writing, it just seems far too pretentious to me. It’s almost like our authors are trying to be something they aren’t. They are of course, which makes it worse for me. They spend an inordinate amount of time describing how the sun comes up or sets and if what they describe is the way the sun works, no one would bother to watch another sunrise or sun set. Well, I wouldn’t! If the descriptions didn’t stop the flow of the narrative, then all would be right in Kenland, but it’s like our Canadian scribes are looking for ways to make the reader skim through the boring parts.

Unfortunately, most Canadian movies are written by Canadians. If they aren’t written by Canadians, they are written by foreigners that the pretentious Canadians admire. I think the only Canadian movies I have liked are by ex-pat Canadians living and working in the US. Maybe if our arts community strove for universal appeal, they would not only be successful (financially), but they would also have my stamp of approval.

I know no one gives a shit what I think and there is a very good possibility that I am wrong six ways to the middle. All I know is what I like and for the most part, I don’t like Canadian.

If I don’t like Canadian writers, then the chances are that I don’t like my blog at all. That might be why it isn’t very popular…

Friday 25 April 2014

Not the Water Thing

Some neighbours seem to want to be best friends and get disappointed when you aren’t really into the block party they want to throw on the next long weekend. They don’t really want to have a block party, but they are having a party which will be long and loud, so it’s best to get all of the neighbours behind them to avoid the inevitable call to the cops at 3:30 AM.

I like a neighbour that isn’t a lot of work to be neighbours with. You know the kind that you are on a nodding relationship with and every now and then you can have a nice conversation about the weather. I always tell them that if there is any time they need an extra pair of hands, don’t hesitate to come and get me. I know that the perfect neighbour will never come and get me, but will rely on his real friends for help. I’d still help, but it would be kind of weird.

We have been in this house long enough to have had more than a few perfect neighbours on both sides of us. They have all moved away, possibly because they wanted a neighbour that was more than the nodding kind. Their loss I suppose. The current neighbours on both sides are here for the long run. They may not want to be, but since they were foolish enough to buy in a sellers market and the homes they paid $400,000 for are worth $320,000 or less, they are staying.

I suppose they are nice enough. The ones on the right side of us are Muslim with two five year old twins. I exchange smiles with the lady of the house and she is nice to talk to…every now and then. She was involved in a tragic fire a number of years ago caused by a lovers triangle that resulted in her losing her children. Very, very, very sad!

Her husband is very nice and although he hasn’t quite mastered English, he is much better at it than I am with Pashto or Dari. He is of the opinion that I am an old man and insists on shovelling my walk even when I am in the process of doing so myself. He does mechanical and body work in his garage so his back yard is constantly filled with vehicles. I don’t care, we have a large fence in between us and for a guy doing body work, he is incredibly quiet.

The neighbours on the other side I have written about before in a couple of blogs, “Bob the Asshole” and “Bob the Assholes Wife”. Bob has disappeared from the scene, either through divorce, health reasons (death), terminal assholeness or it’s possible he is buried in the basement under a thin layer of concrete. The Assholes wife had spent a small fortune upgrading the house, having an arborist in last year to give the trees a cut and trim, major yard work, painters inside and out and they have just finished a kitchen remodel. It’s so recent; the old kitchen is still on the lawn.

I have never said a word to this woman. Well, I have said a word, but I’ve never heard a word from her. I’ve heard her yelling at her grandkids to “Get the Hell in the house!” I’m sure she is a lovely person. Well, I’m guessing she is a lovely person based on nothing. I think one of her daughters has recently moved in and maybe some old cat lady that is living in a trailer parked in the back yard. One of them brought two very large dogs and put up a chain link dog pen just by the fence under our bedroom window. So far they haven’t been noisy, and I am hoping they clean up the dog shit on a more or less regular basis.

I have the feeling that sometime in the not too distant future, I will be talking into a microphone saying something like, “She was really quiet, not the kind of person that would feed children to her dogs and poison the cities water supply. Okay, I kind of thought she might feed kids to her dogs, but not the water thing.”

Thursday 24 April 2014

Jack Rabbit

I was driving through an industrial area tonight on the way to my favourite tool store and a rabbit ran across the road just in front of me. To be accurate, it was a white tailed jack rabbit and this is not one of your cute, fluffy, cuddle friendly bunnies. This guy would likely be “mobbed” up and others of the animal world probably cross the street when he approaches.

Every now and then Buster and I will sneak up on one of these rabbits and it is a frozen moment in time. Every thing just stops! Buster looks at the rabbit wondering what the hell it is. It can’t be another dog; it doesn’t have the right smell. There is no way that is a cat! Way too big for a squirrel or any other kind of rodent. Buster just looks, because the jack rabbit is at least as big as he is. The rabbit doesn’t know whether to run, freeze or shit. He knows Buster is a dog and he also knows that dogs are bad news for rabbits generally speaking, so after that frozen moment, he bolts. I don’t think rabbits are very smart, because they don’t run with a plan; they are all over the place in a panic run. Eventually, it will stop under a bush or in the shade of a tree, thinking that the white fur on brown grass will conceal it.

Buster watches this and still hasn’t a clue what he just saw. Stupid dog!

It has to be a tough time of year for jack rabbits, they are still mostly white and what was good camouflage a month ago is worse than having a bull’s eye painted on your back. The guy I saw tonight was slowly turning browny grey, but even at dusk it is highly visible. I delivered mail in this area a number of years ago and I would see partial rabbit carcasses every now and then. It doesn't help that they are tasty as well as visible I suppose. Poor bugger!

I guess they just live in constant fear. No wonder their little hearts beat as fast as…well… a rabbits. From what I can see, in the rabbit world it is every Jack or Jill for themselves. The ground squirrels always have a sentry that will give a high pitched whistle whenever danger approaches, and anything that approaches is danger for them. I always see the rabbits by themselves, either shivering with fear or running away in terror. Nice life.

If and when civilization crumbles, I suspect I will be the human equivalent of the jack rabbit. Bigger than some, always living in fear that everyone else will find out that I taste sort of like chicken. I plan to organize all of the other cowards and we will have sentries ready to whistle when danger nears, and danger will always be near.

Wednesday 23 April 2014

I Could Have Both

The world is a subtle and amazing place.
You can be thousands of miles from where you live, in the middle of a city with millions of total strangers and when you look up from your sandwich in that tiny deli, you see a friend that you knew in high school. The chances of running into him must be astronomical!

I have a friend that this happens to all of the time. It has gotten to the point that he is kind of disappointed if he doesn’t run into someone in an out of the way place. It doesn’t happen to me very often, but it has happened. I guess what surprises me most is when I don’t run into people. There are places and stores that I go to on a regular basis and I have friends and acquaintances that also go to the same places and I very rarely run into anyone I know. I suppose it could be that I have a tendency to look down when I am walking and if I’m not looking down then I am focused on what I am doing. That explains why I don’t see other people, but not why other people don’t see me.

I have come to think that people do see me but for reasons of their own they don’t approach me. Maybe they don’t want to disturb me because I am so focused. Maybe they don’t have time for a catch up conversation with an acquaintance. Maybe they think I just look like someone they know. Maybe they do see me, know it’s me and are praying that I don’t see them. In those situations when you do see each other, if you are quick, you can notice their lips make the shape of “Oh SHIT!” just before the smile comes on their faces. It doesn’t matter, because if they don’t want to see and talk to me then I don’t want to see and talk to them, and I probably mouthed “OH SHIT!” too.

When we were coming back from Las Vegas, we arranged to meet the daughter of a woman that Louise works with and her soon to be husband in Salt Lake City. This wasn’t one of those astronomical happenstances but was arranged via email and confirmed with text messages. She happened to be coming down to Salt Lake City to visit her fiancĂ© and since the opportunity was there, why not take it.
The surprising thing is that these two people ever met in the first place. They seem to be soul mates from the hour or so I spent with them. They live in different countries have different back grounds and more than likely would pass each other on the street without a second glance. However, they did meet, gave each other a second glance and are now looking forward to making a life together. Amazing!

Louise and I met through boredom. She had a job pumping gas for the summer and sitting at the station during her breaks was pretty boring so she wandered over to Dallas Sportswear store to talk with the owner Tom to kill a half hour or so. I was working for the summer at the Post Office and generally finished work early in the afternoon. All of my friends had real jobs and didn’t get home till five o’clock. I had nothing to do for the afternoons which became pretty boring, so I would drop in on my buddy Tom from high school at the store he owned every now and then. One day I walked in and there was a pretty girl in tight shorts and a yellow halter top. Tom introduced us and I found that not only was she pretty, but she was far smarter than I was. That in itself isn’t much of an accomplishment, but I found it appealing. At the time, I had pretty much given up on finding a girlfriend, but I was always in the market for a friend.

Who knew that I could have both?

Tuesday 22 April 2014

Rain and Roads

We were supposed to get a good long rain tonight, but now it appears that it will skirt around Calgary and dump most of the rain in and around Edmonton. I’ll be the first to agree that Edmonton needs a good cleaning, but we could use some here as well.

Nothing says springtime like a lot of rain. It cleans the dust of winter off of pretty much everything and leaves that springtime fresh scent. It also is pretty good for all kinds of growing things which make the farmers happy. Well, as happy as farmers get between bouts of complaining. They want the rain, but not until they have seeded and not too much or it will wash away the seeds. Of course you need a good, long, steady rain, but not so long that the seeds don’t get enough sun. It just goes on and on, but since I am kind of attached to eating on a regular basis, I put up with the complaining.

I believe that our civic government should have programs in place to hire the emotionally and intellectually challenged, but why do they always seem to end up in the roads department? They have no idea how to remove snow from the roads, and because they over spent on snow removal, they are going to scrimp on the street cleaning budget. We have already had a motorcycle death that is attributed to the excess gravel on the roads. I ride a bicycle and there is so much gravel at the side of the road, you have to ride further out into the traffic lane than is good for your health.

Why does it seem that there is plenty of money for things that are unnecessary in this city, but why does the civic government decides to make cuts to the road budget? To be fair, this city is still reeling from the flood of last June. They are pretty concerned that we will have a repeat of last year due to a huge snow pack in the mountains and if the rains come like they did last year…

You would think that a flood would at least wash the streets clean, but instead it just dumps tons and tons of mud every where. We are all praying that the waters don’t rise and there is plenty of moisture and sun for the farmers. If possible, it would be nice if the streets I ride on would be swept clear of gravel sometime before the Stampede.

Monday 21 April 2014

Ten Pounds of Nails

The first job I ever had was in a door manufacturing plant. It was loud, dangerous and the sawdust hung suspended in the air just waiting for some young, pink lungs to breathe it in. The work force was mainly first generation Italian immigrants who were paid minimum wages, worked hard and focused on doing the best job they could. I suspect that those that didn't work really hard were let go.

My mom worked in the office and was well loved by the management because she also worked hard for little money. I was put on jobs that were incredibly boring, but not as dangerous as some. I would feed a machine with large pieces of wood that would make small pieces out of them which I then neatly piled on a pallet which someone else would take away. There was no such thing as safety equipment back then, no glasses, masks, hearing protection or even gloves unless you were lucky (?) enough to be emptying box cars of rough lumber.

I can’t say I learned a lot during my time there. I did learn how to swear in Italian and how to tell the supervisor that I wanted a blow job. That was funny! I can’t blame them; I would have done the same thing if I were in their shoes. I spent a lot of time trying to and succeeding in recalling the words from the theme song of “My Mother the Car”, a sitcom from the 60’s about a guy who’s mom died and was reincarnated as a car. There were only 30 episodes made, but for some reason I liked it. I didn’t like it enough to have memorized the song, but after hours and days, it is amazing what you can dredge up from your mind.
I also learned how to flip a hammer into the air and catch it by the handle. My record was seventeen rotations, but I was only comfortable at fourteen. I did break a few hammer claws during the learning process, but it was time well spent. I don’t actually know why there was a hammer at my machine; it couldn’t have been there for me to flip. The only other thing I used it for was to drive a nail into a piece of wood every now and then so that the blades would eventually need to be sharpened and I could spend an hour or two cleaning the machine and surrounding area. I needed that break!

I have stolen something from every job I have worked at, and my first job was no different. This place really had nothing worth stealing, there were large machines which I had no use for, lumber which I had no use for, sawdust which I had no use for and quite a few hammers with broken claws which were of no use. The lumber was stored in huge piles out in the yard and was covered with plywood which was used over and over again. The plywood kept the rain off and gave a flat surface to pile other stacks of lumber on. They nailed the plywood on with two headed nails, which were good for the job because you could drive the nail in to the first head and still be able to pull it out easily with the second head, assuming you could find a hammer with both claws intact.
The nails were all over the yard, and I chose to steal them. I suppose I was actually doing them a favour by cleaning up the yard, but to my 15 year old mind, I was raiding Fort Knox. By the end of the summer, I must have had ten pounds of these nails and I brought them to the cottage with me because dad and Gram were always using nails for something. It turns out that the two headed nails were only good for holding sheets of plywood on a large pile of wood. When dad and Gram nailed something, they generally wanted the nail to stay buried in the wood. Those ten pounds of nails ended up as filler in a hole made by taking out the root of a tree.

I look back on those days fondly, but I really shouldn’t. It was hot, dirty, mindless work that paid very little and the only things I took away from it was an idea for a blog and ten pounds of useless nails.

My Mother The Car
Everybody knows in a second life, we all come back sooner or later.
As anything from a pussycat to a man eating alligator.
Well you all may think my story, is more fiction than it's fact.
But believe it or not my mother dear decided she'd come back.

As a car ...
She's my very own guiding star.
A 1928 Porter.
That's my mother dear.
'Cause she helps me through everything I do
And I'm so glad she's near.

My Mother the Car.
My Mother the car.

Sunday 20 April 2014


I kind of have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.

I hate how some people feel that they have to report every minor occurrence in their lives as if anyone but they find it even remotely interesting. I hate how some people will post things that are interesting but they fail to go into any kind of detail at all. “I’m in the hospital and am so pissed at the guy in the Bronco!!!” Are you okay? Anyone else hurt? What hospital? What guy? What happened? Is there anything I can do? Yes, you are in the hospital, but if you have time to post on facebook, you have time to flesh out the details about what happened. I hate how people just assume that all of their friends play the same stupid games that they do. We have our own stupid games that we play and I don’t ask you for a nail or an orange or some kind of pretend money, do I? I hate how people go on vacation and will post 3482 pictures. Really? How about just looking at them first and only posting the ones that are in focus. Could we see a picture of you without a drink in your hand?

I love how some people will report every minor happening in their lives, because in their case I just can’t get enough. I do love that often I’m not subjected to an endless description of how your car got rear ended by a Bronco and you went to the hospital to document your injuries for the insurance settlement. I love how you can block those irritating facebook games that people post without de-friending the person. I love getting pictures of people (grandkids and family) when they are out and about. I would love to just once see a picture of a certain someone with her mouth closed and not making a gang sign with her fingers. Now the kids are doing it!

I recently got in touch with a friend from high school. I really liked June and I don’t know how I managed to lose touch with her for all of those years. She is/was a wonderful, fun person and I suppose if I did have regrets that would be one of them. I moved away and I suppose that we both got too involved with our lives to keep in touch with everyone. Someone or group of someone’s had to drop away I guess. To tell you the truth, I really haven’t started a big “Let’s catch up on forty years” thing. I don’t know if it would be welcome and there is always the rejection factor. What if I put myself out there and she just isn’t interested in keeping in touch?

No, I will just keep reading and commenting on her posts, and she can do the same with mine. Perhaps we will eventually do a newsy kind of correspondence, but not right now. First, I will have to discover if she falls into the “love” or the “hate” category of Facebook friends. So far, she seems to be in the “I don’t really get why anyone would waste time on Facebook” category. She’ll come around to the dark side eventually.

I just found out that her mom recently passed away and she is of course impacted emotionally. She sang a lovely version of “Let It Be”, and has posted a video of her daughter and her father dancing at the wake. I wish that I could be of comfort, but a friend from forty years ago is at best someone who sends condolences and best wishes for the family. I imagine I did meet her mom once or twice, but I really can’t say that I remember her. If she were anything like her daughter, the world is short a special person whether we are aware of it or not.

RIP Edith Caulfield