Christmas, Loss, and Frosty

It’s January 1st. Time to strike the Christmas set. Time to strip the house of all of our little gee-gaws and doo-dads — the reindeer mugs, the Christmas Tree candles, the holiday tablecloth, the Christmas cards from our near-and-dear who are scattered hither and yon all over the world. Finally, it is time to take down the tree.

Every year when we take down the tree, I am filled with sadness. There is something so utterly poignant about denuding this beautiful, well — this creature, who has been a most hospitable house guest for the past three weeks. She has silently endured the indignity of being festooned with ornaments and strung with colored lights. She has endured countless hours of my playing the Beach Boys’ Christmas album. She has spread her branches like outstretched arms welcoming our brightly colored packages. She has allowed our cat, Henry, to sleep under her wings, peacefully enjoying her delightful aroma of earth and pine. She has weathered the unending hours of having the fireplace blazing only four feet away, literally sucking the life out of her by depriving her of her moisture. She has beamed her beauty for all, including our little neighbor, Stone, who came over frequently during the holiday season, I suspect, at times, just to feast his eyes on her. But now, it is time for her to leave us.

This year, for the first time, I actually cried as we undressed her. I had thought that this year we would be more lighthearted when it came time to say goodbye. We had made a point this year of spending lots of time with her and enjoying her company. And she never disappointed. So I thought when the first of the year rolled around, we would be able to part company with a sense of completion.

But this is the year that I lost my mother. Whatever that something is we feel when we have to let someone or something go, it was especially hard for me this year. The fact that we had tried so hard to honor her and treat her with the respect and admiration she deserved did nothing to ameliorate the sorrow of her loss. Am I talking about the tree or about my mother? For today, anyway, it feels like it’s all the same. Loss is loss. The harder I try to grab life with both hands and hold on tight, the more I feel it slipping away from me and vanishing into the Great Beyond.

But part of the joy of life, and of Christmas, is that it is not permanent. It has its season, and then it’s gone. But, as with just about anything in life I can think of, it reappears at some point, maybe different in some aspects, but also, thankfully, very much the same in others. Every year I say, “This is the most beautiful Christmas tree we’ve ever had!” — and every year it is true.

So now, I have dried my tears and just about put away Christmas for the year. I will miss our lovely green friend. I will try to remember the parable of “Frosty The Snowman”, according to the Beach Boys: “But he waved goodbye saying ‘Don’t you cry, I’ll be back again some day!’”.

Remembering Delaney Bramlett — R.I.P.

Play clip from rehearsal tape. Here!

I was saddened to learn that Delaney Bramlett has just passed away. It immediately took me back to the early 70s. I had just recently moved to Los Angeles from Newport Beach when I got a call from Delaney to join a band he was forming. He was about to record an album for Columbia Records titled “Mobius Strip”. Of course I was thrilled and flattered. (I think this was just after I had been touring with Nancy Sinatra — ahh — the life of a working musician!).
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So Sorry, So Tardy

Well, I recently noticed I have been very tardy at posting and keeping up our website. It’s all good as Robin and I are working on finishing up her new album. She is writing up a storm and that’s keeping me busy as well as my just completing a new quad core PC for my studio. Lots of little bugs in that bugger but I’m stamping those out slowly but surely! Stay tuned. Ill be back soon!

God Bless Us, Every One!

Well, it’s officially here — The recession that everyone has been predicting and wringing their hands over. I don’t know anyone, literally, anyone, who has not been affected. People in every walk of life, at every rung of the socioeconomic ladder, of every political stripe — all of us are feeling the pinch. Some, more than others, but we are all in this boat together, and the boat has sprung a leak.

It reminds me so much of the tales my mom used to tell from “the olden days”. Mom was born in 1927, so she remembers the Great Depression very well. My grandfather lost everything when the markets collapsed. He had leveraged loans which he used to buy several real estate properties with a partner. When the market crashed, the loans were called in. Of course, Grandpa had no way to pay them back. He lost the properties and all the income that he would have been earning from them. He developed a severe infection from a decayed tooth, had what was then called “a nervous breakdown”, and he never recovered, mentally or physically. My grandmother supported the family taking in washing, working part-time as a saleswoman, doing whatever it took to keep her family together. My father’s father, a roofer by trade, with a wife and eleven children to feed, woke up while it was still dark every morning to get in a few hours of selling apples or pencils (I can’t remember which it was) on the street corner before beginning his work day doing construction. (I suppose there wasn’t much construction going on at that time).

When Art and I talked to Mom last year about the economy and Art cited the dire predictions she listened attentively and answered thoughtfully in a very subdued voice, “People are going to be jumping out windows”. It gave me the chills. And as it happens, I just heard a story of someone who had been laid off of his job who did, in fact, commit suicide. I didn’t ask how. It doesn’t matter. It was dreadful, and for once, I wished Mom’s prediction had been a case of her being a drama queen.

But I also remember from Mom’s Tales of the Depression childhood that there was a general atmosphere of can-do spirit. She described people as being generous and caring to the less fortunate. In spite of her own economic woes, my grandmother always kept her door open for passing strangers in need of food or momentary shelter. This was in no way uncommon. People did not worry so much about being victimized by the homeless or the desperate, although there were plenty of homeless and desperate people everywhere you looked. There was a spirit of cooperation. People pooled their resources. Neighbors looked out for neighbors. Children found ways to play that cost little or no money. They made go-carts out of orange crates. They literally made lemonade out of lemons (and sold it for a penny). Mom remembered playing stickball in the street. She remembered kids finding secret caves where they would light a small bonfire and roast potatoes. She said they were the best potatoes she had ever tasted. Shoes were mended and resoled until they fell off your feet. Clothing was handed down from the oldest child to the youngest. Everyone cooked from scratch because it was the cheapest way to eat — and coincidentally, the best way to eat. My grandmother was a first-rate cook and baker, and she could do it all on a shoestring.

I am not saying that I wish we would actually experience a Great Depression of our own. I pray that we do not. But in the I-Ching there is a symbol that signifies crisis and opportunity, each being opposite signs of the same coin. The economic chaos right now is certainly a crisis, but we can choose, if we wish, to also see it as an opportunity to explore the edges of our ability to cope and to re-examine our values and our humanity toward one another.

The holidays are upon us. It’s going to be a rough time for so many. Maybe this is the right moment to quote Tiny Tim in Dickens’ Christmas Carole: “God bless us, everyone!”.

HOLIDAY SHOPPING LIST

Most every Christmas — okay, *every* Christmas, so far — I have been stressed out and overwhelmed. Every Christmas I vow not to do it. Every Christmas, I do. Oh, I start out with the best of intentions. I make a detailed list, not only for gifts, but also for cards. I study the catalogs as if I were studying for the final exam of my life. I discuss it all calmly and rationally with Art. I make sure to learn the identity of the adult whom I will gift in Art’s family early. Like, right after Thanksgiving dinner. I plan for the lights, the tree, and I buy plenty of Christmas wrapping paper. I brave the madhouse of malls and department stores, driving in endless circles looking for a parking space. I scour the stores for those elusive perfect gifts (which are never right, anyway). Every year the holidays become,”an orgy of excess and waste”, to quote our president-elect. (Anyway, I think I got that quote right).

Every year on December 25th, right after the exchange of our gifts, Art brings in a big black trash bag. Out go the beautiful ribbons and bows, the artful wrappings, the raffia and tissue paper, a couple of rolls of Scotch tape, and the mountains of boxes are, at least, recycled.

The gifts are always thoughtful, lovely, and certainly appreciated. But while we sip our Christmas tea while gazing into the 5,000 watts of electric lights and staring at our beautiful gas-lit fireplace — while the radio brings us “Away in the Manger no room for a bed. . .” or “The Little Drummer Boy”, I think about all of the people whose Christmas will be anything but merry. Then the guilt begins.

On top of the stress of the holidays that everyone talks about ad nauseum, I have a little green Christmas monster. I hear his whiny little ET voice: “You are so lucky and blessed. What have you given to the needy, to promote the cause of peace, to help save the planet. Well???”. I picture this little monster tapping its tiny feet, its green arms crossed over its chest, its mouth scowling as it waits for a reply. (I take it as a rhetorical question so that I don’t have to answer). Usually in the week between Christmas and New Years, I put on a good five pounds trying to stuff down the little critter with pumpkin pie and egg nog. And then I make my one consistent New Year’s resolution: Next year I will make charitable donations instead of buying way too many expensive and unnecessary gifts. Next year I will celebrate in a more responsible and compassionate way.

So yesterday I was staring at the great pile of catalogs on our coffee table. (Never mind that I have been steadily trying to stop them from coming in the mail. They continue at an alarming rate! One catalog company stops sending, but a new one always comes to take its place. One company spawns another company, and now instead of one catalog, I have two). But sandwiched between Land’s End and Plow and Hearth, obscured by Pottery Barn on top and Herrington and LL Bean and Lord knows what else, I found a very slim catalog with a picture of a llama on the front. It proudly announces itself as “The Most Important Gift Catalog In The World”. If I had blinked, I might have missed it. This is the Heifer International catalog.

The idea is simple: This organization provides farm animals, as well as much needed tree seedlings and honeybees, along with education for needy communities around the world. By providing families with such valuable resources, many people can lift themselves out of abject poverty. In turn, for example, if a family’s donated goat gives birth, the new kids can be donated to a neighbor, and so forth. What a wonderful gift! You can buy a “share” of a goat or a “share” of a tree seedling for $10.00. (You can find them on the Web at www.heifer.org/catalog).

There are many other worthy causes that have programs for sending holiday gifts to loved ones. I am especially drawn to Unicef, whose mission is to care for needy children all over the world. Unicef has gift “tribute cards”. Each card costs $25.00, but if your budget is tight, or you have too many people on your list, you can buy a package of five cards for only $75.00, which comes out to $15.00 each. (I did the math — which is saying something for me!). They also have more tangible gifts available on their Web site that help support needy children. You can find Unicef on the Web at www.unicefusa.org.

Oh, don’t get me wrong — There will still be some totally frivolous and unnecessary gifts to friends and family. And I’m not going to stop accepting my husband’s unfailing generosity. There will still be a certain amount of sheer selfish delight. (I’m still a long, long way from sainthood!).

But I always remember the end of “Schindler’s List”. The moment when Oscar Schindler discovers the heavy ornate ring on his finger, and he realizes too late that he could have pawned it to save lives, but that now, the opportunity — and the need — has passed. He shouts in frustration, “I could have done more! I could have done more!” So this is the year I am going to fulfill my long-standing new year’s resolution. Finally. And when you think about it, you’re getting so much “bang for your buck”. While you are helping an anonymous needy person or community somewhere else in the world, you are also giving friends and loved ones the warm glow that is truly in the spirit of Christmas, while finally, finally, getting the very same glow yourself. (And silencing that annoying little gremlin in your head — at least until next Christmas).

Our Little Black Box

About ten years ago at Christmas, back when we lived in Tennessee, I gave Art a radio. Art is not an easy man to gift – Whatever he wants, he simply acquires, and what he desires is usually pretty simple. But he had expressed an interest in a short-wave radio, which delighted me. Finally, a present I could buy that would make Art happy.

I went to Radio Shack at the Bellevue Mall, and there it was: a simple, black radio with an AM, FM and shortwave band. It stood about five inches high, seven inches wide, and maybe one inch deep. It probably didn’t cost much more than $10.00. I brought it home and wrapped it up with two double A batteries. When Art unwrapped it, you would have thought it was the Hope diamond. His whole face lit up. We installed the batteries immediately and found the BBC on the shortwave. So while we unwrapped our gifts, we could hear the lovely strains of a boy’s choir broadcast live from the cathedral in Oxford. It was such fun!

The radio has now become a fixture in our day-to-day lives. We never use the shortwave band – for some reason, I am not able to get anything on it anymore. But the AM and the FM work beautifully. We just feed it a couple of double A’s every six months or so, and it hums along obediently at the touch of an index finger. I turn it on every morning while I make breakfast, listening to “Morning Edition” on NPR. Again, while I’m making dinner, I listen to “All Things Considered”. On the weekends we tune in 790 KABC to hear “Money Talk” with Bob Brinker. Saturday afternoons it’s “Prairie Home Companion” and the news from Lake Wobegone. Sundays while I change the sheets I like to listen to “The Splendid Table” or “Speaking of Faith”. (Of course, we contribute to NPR. The guilt would kill us if we didn’t.)

But the humble little radio. What an instrument of magic! With its three-inch speaker, it brings the world to us. It sits quietly on the kitchen counter in the evening, patiently waiting for us to get through the evening’s entertainment on the bigger, gaudier appliance in the living room. Its little chrome antenna folds in on itself, much in the way that two little hands would be pressed into the prayer position. If it is admonishing us for our fickle behavior, it does so silently. And we do love our Netflix subscription. So we are “equal opportunity” media consumers. The radio knows that and indulges us, nevertheless.

Oh, I know. It’s silly bordering on insane to anthropomorphize a radio. And yet, what a good friend this plain little gizmo has been to us. Sometimes it goes missing when one of us has moved it into the office or the bedroom so that we could listen to it while we do our chores or answer e-mail. Then we shout across the apartment, “Honey, where’s the radio”? But it always shows up, eventually. I actually heard myself tonight declaring, “I don’t know what I’d do without that radio!” Then, before I had time to be embarrassed, I heard the love of my life quietly answer, “I know what you mean!”.

YES, TOGETHER, WE CAN

It was a miracle, plain and simple. The whole world held their breath Tuesday night as the election returns came in, state by state. First, McCain won West Virginia, Obama won Vermont. McCain got Tennessee and Texas, too. Texas was a very large red blob on the TV map. Lots and lots of red down the center of the country, the heartland, as it’s called. Too close to call in Virginia. McCain won Oklahoma. . . and so it went. But when Ohio was announced for Obama, I began to believe that maybe, maybe all the prayers of so many people had not gone unheard.

Art and I were sitting on our sofa when suddenly, there was a full screen with a large picture of Barack Obama and the words, “Barack Obama Elected President of the United States” (or words to that effect, I was frankly in a daze). I got a chill down my spine, and Art choked up. I couldn’t quite take it in, it was that massive. Art couldn’t stop dabbing his eyes. We held hands, spellbound in utter amazement.

Stunned, we listened to John McCain’s heartfelt and gracious concession speech. He did not acknowledge the angry outbursts from his disgruntled supporters. Sarah Palin stood by quietly, visibly shaken. We felt badly for them. It had been a long, hard-fought, hard-scrabble struggle for the soul of this country. But someone must win, and someone must walk away. I felt sad for the defeated McCain team. But I also knew that the best man had won.

Then the images of celebrations began to pop up on our screen. There were tens of thousands of people in Time Square, nearly a quarter of a million people, I have heard, in Grant Park, Illinois.
When Barack Obama and his family took the stage, I had a strange sensation of déja vu. Hadn’t I seen this movie once before? Oh, yes. Now I remember. This picture was superimposed upon a much older picture in my memory bank of a young, vibrant, charismatic man alongside his beautiful, elegant wife and their two sweet children. Of course. It was 1960, and the newly-elected John Kennedy was poised to take the reins of office. The whole country was in a celebratory mood. No one would have guessed a scant year earlier that a Roman Catholic could be elected president of the United States.

Once John Kennedy had been in office just long enough for the initial euphoria to wear off, he was subjected to the same kind of scrutiny all of his predecessors had experienced. His judgment was called into question. He was second-guessed. He was accused of nepotism for appointing his brother, Bobby, as attorney general. There were rumors of indiscretions with mysterious women. He had been brought up as part of the noblesse oblige, so how could he relate to the problems of ordinary citizens? His father had made his fortune running whiskey during prohibition. There were rumors of ties to the Mob.

Before long, we will begin to see all of the usual slings and arrows directed at our newly elected leader. Already, his choice of chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, has been called into question. The choice was called “ironic” and some sniff that this is not in the spirit of change and bipartisanship. There are voices heard that criticize Obama’s campaign for the enormous amount of money spent in winning the election.

We must remember that, as Obama himself once quipped, he was not “born in a manger”. He is a human being, just like the rest of us. He loves his wife and his children. He mourns the passing of his grandmother. And he is smart enough to know that he doesn’t know everything, which is why he is assembling a crack team of experts to guide him through the rough waters of economic recession and simultaneous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. He wisely chose Joe Biden as his right-hand man, and his wife, Michelle, will be his closest adviser and confidante. But he’s going to need more, much more than that.

We, the American people, the people who fought so hard to make Mr. Obama our president, see in him the person we all aspire to be; calm, self-assured, courageous, intelligent, wise, caring, and committed to serving a greater purpose.

So the question now becomes, as John Kennedy so eloquently stated it, “. . .what we can do for our country”. Should we get involved in our local government? Volunteer at a homeless shelter or in a school? Become a mentor to an underprivileged child? Join the Sierra Club or contribute to a food pantry? Or simply wake up every day with the intention of being the best person we can be.

It won’t be easy for some of us. As my sister and I discussed the other day, those of us old enough to remember the Kennedys and Martin Luther King have had to numb ourselves to the pain of losing so many of our cherished leaders in the ’60s. We then had to live through many years in the wilderness under regimes that, more often than not, were insensitive to our concerns. So we are going to have to reawaken slowly to this new dawn, then figure out the most meaningful way to spend the rest of our lives.

I am saying a prayer every day for Barack Obama, Joe Biden, and their families– that they be kept safe and healthy, and that they be blessed with the strength and wisdom they will need in these troubled times. And I am praying the exact same prayer for each and every one of us.

Back To “The Good Old Days”?

I am old enough to remember the “good old days” — before Roe v. Wade. It was not a pretty picture.

I had a friend, let’s call her Henrietta. Henrietta was 17 years-old, a senior in high school, and had a boyfriend, let’s call him Fred, who was 21 and worked in construction. Fred and Henrietta were deeply, passionately in love. They wanted to be married as soon as Henrietta finished high school and Fred could save up enough from his back-breaking work to make a home for them.
Inevitably, Fred and Henrietta couldn’t wait and became intimate. I know that they believed all of the prevalent teen-aged myths about conception: That she couldn’t get pregnant the first time. That if she douched immediately after sex she couldn’t become pregnant. That if Fred used a condom, however imperfectly, they were safe. Well, they weren’t safe. On his day off, Fred wound up driving Henrietta to a “back alley” abortionist out of state. Henrietta had to be home by supper time to avoid the suspicion of her parents, who were both unstable and given to wild fits of temper.

When I went to visit Henrietta that night, I found her in bed, crying, a heating pad on her abdomen, and bleeding profusely. She would not talk about her experience. She was ashamed, frightened, distraught, in pain, and burdened by a secret she could only share sparingly with her closest friends. She had been catapulted into adulthood abruptly, and with no safety net. The abortion had cost thousands of dollars — money Fred had been saving for their future, which was now in doubt, given the complexity of emotions brought on by this harrowing experience.

Some might say that Henrietta lost her innocence when she first decided to have sex with her boyfriend. Some might say that this whole trauma might have been avoided had Henrietta’s parents, or Fred’s parents, given them proper moral guidance or made themselves more emotionally accessible and compassionate. But here is what I take away from this very sad incident: We are all imperfect beings. Young people can not always stem the tide of roiling passion brought on by very real hormonal surges.

Although I did not know any woman personally who was killed or maimed for life by a botched abortion, I know that they existed.

I also remember Mom telling me that one of her affluent friends was going in to the hospital for a “D and C”. When I asked her what that meant she whispered, “A Dusting and Cleaning”, which was the code for “Dilation and Curettage”. I came to find out later that what that meant was that a woman could have a surgery wherein her cervix was dilated and the contents of her uterus were scraped or vacuumed out. Supposedly, this procedure was reserved for women who had suffered a miscarriage. But I came to find out that some women, women of means, who wanted to opt out of a pregnancy could appeal to a sympathetic doctor and, for a reasonable sum, could terminate the pregnancy in the safety and comfort of a reputable hospital or doctor’s office. Of course, this option was only available to the “country club” set, who not only could afford it, but also had the “right connections” to the “right doctors”.

I did know of one young girl who was in my geometry class in the ninth grade. Let’s call her Susie. She was a flirt and a great beauty and was envied by all of the other girls in the class. When her lithe figure began to change and she began wearing over-sized dresses and skirts, there was widespread speculation as to the reason. When she dropped out of school for a year “to live with her grandparents in the country”, the speculation became even more cruel and unrelenting. And when she returned a year later, she was subdued and kept to herself, no longer the vivacious flirt she had once been. And she was an outcast. I don’t know for sure, but I am guessing that I know what had happened to Susie. She had given birth. I will never know the full extent of the consequences in her life but some of them were evident, even to me. But what might have happened if Susie had been given more education, more access to birth control, or another choice should either of those have failed?

Oh, yes. I remember the “good old days”. If the next president happens to choose supreme court justices, which will very likely be the case, they will most likely carefully choose in keeping with their own philosophical views. Right now the balance in the court is such that the issue of a woman’s right to choose is still protected by Roe v. Wade. Just one supreme court justice could tip the balance.

When you vote on Tuesday for a president, you will also be casting a ballot for or against the rights of the already born. We can still make inroads into reducing teen-aged pregnancy with education and compassionate guidance. Still, young people will make mistakes, even in the most conservative and God-fearing families (as we have recently seen in the news), parents will be imperfect, and biology will sometimes trump common sense. The well-to-do and the well-connected will always have ready access to safe abortions, regardless of laws to the contrary. Nobody knows the “right” answer to the abortion question. You must search your own conscience and make your decision based on all you know and all you believe. Will you cast your vote to go back to the “good old days”? Personally, I will not.

Unchained Melody - Can you spot the bass mistake?

My friend Artie Wayne has put together some Halloween related music videos, two of which I happened to play on. They were “Unchained Melody” and “Hell Of It” by Paul Williams from “Phantom Of The Paradise”. One of the things that always amazed me on the “Unchained Melody” session was the bass mistake. I heard it at the session but in those days there was no “punching in”. It was the best take and that’s how it was released. To this day, every time I hear it, I still cringe a little. Can you find it? Play the below video, leave a comment and take a guess, if no one gets it I’ll leave the answer in a week or so.

The Quest

Much has been made of womens’ lust for shoes. Think Imelda Marcos or Carrie Bradshaw. But it’s not the Manolo Blancos that get me all fired up. It’s bags. Tote bags, shoulder bags, messenger bags, pocketbooks, purses. A bag by any other name would still be — a bag.

Art laughs at me. I have about 15 reusable bags for groceries. And yet, often I still manage to leave them all in the apartment when I drive off to do errands. Is a canvas bag still green, even if it’s hanging on a hook by the door when you check out at Trader Joe’s?

I recently ordered a “ketch purse” from a mail order catalog. I found it among the overstocks on sale for $14.99. Who could resist? A sturdy canvas bag with “lots of pockets”. I sent away for it. Loden green! I was so excited! However, when it arrived it was black. I was sure I had ordered the green. Oh, well. Back it went, and I quickly ordered its replacement in loden green. Finally, it arrived today. I could barely contain myself! Tore open the box, ripped open the plastic bag, pulled out half a ton of tissue paper, and then it hit me. It was perfect except: I couldn’t fit my wallet in it. Or, I could fit my wallet but not my keys. No room, either, for my oversized sunglasses. Definitely no room for a makeup case. I would have to make do with a lip gloss and a miniature tube of bronzer. I tinkered with it for about fifteen minutes, ran back to my closet to see if I had a smaller wallet. And when I looked up at the top shelf, there they sat, my last two “perfect” bags. The organizers to end all organizers. Both of them perfectly good bags, looking sad and abandoned, like two little wallflowers at a dance. I looked in the mirror, and I knew I had gone off the deep end. I carefully restuffed the tissue paper inside my teeny-tiny loden green bag, put it back in the same box it had arrived in, guiltily filled out the “return form” and admitted that I had misjudged the size (reason #31), slapped the return label on it, and resolved to drop it at the post office tomorrow. I pray I will never hear about this incident again. (But I have a sinking feeling that I will the next time I become infatuated with yet another bag).

The thing is, I am always in search of the holy grail of pocketbooks. I can see it in my mind: Just large enough to hold my wallet, my keys, my oversized sunglasses, a small makeup case, a travel size of Kleenex, my date book, a pen, and my cell phone. Nothing more, and nothing less. I would like it to look smart, but not pretentious. I would like for it to have the look of authority, but not pushiness. The sort of bag you could carry to work (even though I work at home), or to a night out on the town (although we mostly stay home and watch Netflix and Tivo). What I want, in short, is a bag that defines me and gives me an identity. You know, the identity I have always strived for and never quite achieved. The kind of bag that could be worn by a Vogue model along with a Chanel suit. Classic. Post-modern chic. (And of course, all for under $25.00).

And so, the quest continues, one bag at a time, always in search of the elusive enigma wrapped in a mystery. Will I ever find it? Perhaps not. Perhaps, as in so many other things, the joy is in the journey, not the destination. I just know, it’s out there somewhere. . . Maybe Macy’s?

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