Look! I’m playing with doggy at the train station. My name is Tatyana. I am four years old and live in a small town. My country is at war with Russia. Mama says Russia is a big country that wants our country too. Papa is in the army to protect me and Mama from Russians.

Today we are going on a train ride to a place called Poland where we will be safe from the Russian Army. Mama talked about the Russians in a bad way. They are bad people, she tells me. Some day I hope this war is over.

“Goodbye doggy,” I tell him. He looks hungry and sad that I am leaving him. I wish I could stay and play longer. Mama holds my hand and leads me inside the station. It is crowded with many people who live around here. There are many children here too. Some are even little babies inside their strollers. I see one baby being bounced up and down by her mama. She is laughing and giggling with glee.

In the distance I hear booms. They are from the war front, Mama told me. We are safe because Papa is there to protect me and Mama. I am still scared though. I often cry in my bed when I hear the booms come nearer to my house. I often climbed into bed with Mama and hug her tight to me. Today though, we will leave here and go to this place called Poland where we will be safe.

Yesterday, a nice police officer and a soldier came to our door and told us the Russians were approaching and we needed to leave. The soldier handed Mama a piece of paper, like a ticket and told us it was to take us to Poland. Then they left.

Today we are at this train station in this town of Kramatorsk. I see a smoke trail behind a long pencil way up in the air. “Look Mama! Look at the smoking pencil up in the air.” I laughed at it. Mama saw what I pointed at but did not laugh. She rushed my away from the door, from the window and pushed me to the tiled floor. I skinned my knees and cried in pain.

KA-BOOM, I heard it explode outside. KA-BOOM erupted another. Screams of pain and cries of fear then came outside along with cursing from the men and women inside the station. Mama tried to shield my eyes from what was happening. I moved her hand away with frustration and saw it all in front of me. I can’t wake from this nightmare as I saw cars in flames, people who once stood in groups waiting to come inside, laid on the ground, not moving. I saw it all so very clearly. It was the Russians! Wasn’t it? But we did not do anything to them. Why did they do this to us?

The little baby being bounced on her mama’s lap isn’t there anymore either. Both Mama and baby are lying on the floor very still. BLOOD! I see blood coming from both! They were sitting by the window when that pencil came and exploded outside. The window glass is gone now. Are they dead?

I look up at Mama, she too is bleeding but she is alive, and holding me tight to her. It suddenly occurred to me the Russians don’t want us to leave. But why? Why can’t we be allowed to leave at our own free will? If we aren’t happy, why can’t we go to this place called Poland where we are safe? I cried and prayed to God to save us from the Russians.

Reality Check

As many of you my loyal, readers know I am a big fan of Nova, the science-based series on PBS. The other day I watched an episode that for me is truly frightening and poignant. It was a study done by the University of Wisconsin, which is ongoing showing three participants how they are dealing with dementia in their lives.

Their parents suffered and died from its long battle with Alzheimer’s, going from the first stages of forgetting where they might have left their keys or their appointment with a doctor or misplacing their glasses, to later stages.

It is a sad and frightening aspect of becoming old, whether forgetting where one left their car keys, is just part of getting old or a more sinister sign of Alzheimer’s, which is a form of dementia. It is a reality all of us must face. With Alzheimer’s you can’t think, you lose your bodily functions, You lose the ability to eat or even know when you are thirsty. Finally, there is nothing left but death itself to finally end the suffering.

As the show explained, Dementia is like an umbrella, and Alzheimer’s is spoke of that umbrella, abet a very destructive spoke that eventually takes away every aspect of your life. There is nothing more frightening, I think, than losing your mind where you are just a caricature of what you used to be. You become less than human because your mind is no longer yours to control.

Because Alzheimer’s affects the brain, we don’t feel the damage it creates and causes. Unless we have a CT or MRI scan done on our brain, we aren’t aware what is happening until it is too late. There are cognitive tests participants perform in which the person is asked to recall a list of numbers or names or redrawing certain shapes such as ellipses or squares.

I hope that I am not suffering from that horrible disease. I hope my senior moments aren’t a harbinger to more serious issues to come. I sometimes wonder and I’m scared that I do, but then again I just don’t know. Whenever I am in a room, meaning to do something, but then forgot why I came into this room in the first place, then I remember, I often wonder.

The brain is a wonderful organ and an aging brain can still hold marvelous ideas, thoughts, and memories to share with others. The one thing that the study did convey was that we need to keep ourselves active, physically, and mentally so that those senior moments aren’t an omen of Alzheimer’s.

A New Approach to Marketing

My loyal readers, I’ve gone several months since I had to move back to Spokane not doing my due diligence when it came to marketing my books. Not only is it costing me time and effort needed but also money which has been less available with the cost of everything else going up.

The other day I was going through my voicemail on my cell phone and came upon a couple of interesting items that piqued my curiosity enough to call them back. One was a publicist for an advertising agency who bought and read my book, A Man’s Passion, and thought it worthy enough to call me and ask if I’d be interested in allowing his company to market my book in Canada. The other was an editor for a reference book company that does biographies of celebrities, politicians, business leaders and authors called Marquis Who’s Who.

I may have found my marketing niche, if I can afford the cost that it will end up being. For me it isn’t cheap, and because I have to figure out the best course to take, plus still invest money into the other books as of yet unpublished, it will be quite the balancing act.

If it does as promised though, I may have more than enough potential readers out there who want to buy my books and then I would definitely be in the cat’s bird perch.

Family Rest Room

Family rest room? What a joke! I don’t care about no family restroom and what its true purpose is. I’m a doper, a tweeter, and don’t give a rat about babies needing their diaper changed or someone in wheelchairs needing to have their moment of privacy. It’s about me wanting to get high here at this casino. After all, if you take out the “c”, the “a”, and the “o” and what is left is sin. I love living in sin!

I just lost a bundle on those slot machines and am jonesing for a quick fix. I go to this one restroom over here by the food court, but them stupid housekeepers keep locking it! Wait, there’s a sign. What does it say? I barely passed sixth grade you know and dropped out of junior high when I was 17. Assholes anyway! “Due to undesirables using the family restroom for other uses then intended, the Family rest room is permanently closed.”

“Closed? How dare they close the family rest room. Don’t they know I need it to do my drugs?”

“Hey you, security guard. Why they close this?”

The man was a tall, redneck looking dude in his blue uniform, polo shirt and badge.

He gave me this ‘I don’t like you already’ look. “You know it’s because of people like you we shut these restrooms down.”

“People like me? I ain’t done nothing wrong!”

“Yeah, right, tell me why you want to use the family restroom for anyway?”

I can’t very well tell him the truth. “I got to go really bad dude,” I tell this clown.

“Use this public restroom then.” He leaves me. I flipped him off as he walked away. Asshole! I go in and find the handicap stall is empty. Thank God for small miracles. My palms are sweating and my fingers tremble as I pull out my baggy of white crystal-like powder and pull out my foil from my back pocket and use my lighter to torch the foil. I used a straw from my courtesy soda pop to suck the smoke into my lungs.

“There’s no smoking in the rest rooms,” I hear some dumb housekeeper tell me. He sounds like he’s old, like in his 50s or 60s. I ignored him. He’s a loser, flunky anyway. “Yo! No Smoking in the restroom,” he tells me in a louder voice.

“Oh, my bad, sorry. I didn’t know,” I reply to this pencil dick housekeeper. You wanna get high too? I want to ask him just to see what he says. I feel the drug start to work. I can function now. I get up from the toilet and hear the toilet flush. I laugh at the funny sound the flushing toilet made like someone gargling.

I stepped outside the stall and not only is this big old janitor looking at me like my old man used to whenever I got home from my bro Jody’s, but two security clowns and a fricken cop are waiting for me. Jesus, I can’t get a break anymore!

Choice to be Made

The reverend finished his sermon and while talking to his fellow parishioners, came upon a thin, anemic and sickly wretch of a man. In India he may well have been casted an untouchable, but the Christian preacher felt a sympathetic tug toward him. He felt certain this beggar was harmless and went up to him.

Good morning to you,” the preacher introduced himself to the vagabond. “I don’t believe I have ever had the pleasure. I am Reverend Smith.” He offered his hand at the man with grayish beard and long black hair. Reverend Smith looked into his eyes. They seemed to peer through him and into his very soul. He instinctively took a step back. The eyes were coal-like, dull and black.

“I am Jeb Clark, Reverend Smith. I heard your sermon. I also heard you preach against those who dare to choose to have an abortion.”

“Sir, as you know in scripture, only God himself has that right to end a mortal life of us, his flock. We have the right over life and death of our livestock and our pets, but not a human, least of which an unborn baby.” Reverend Smith smiled a condescending smile on the ill-clothed, ill-dressed bum.

“Oh I definitely agree that God himself is the final arbitrator of life and death. You have no argument with me on that point. Tell me, that girl over there, is that your daughter?”

“The blonde with braces?” He asked seeing the O’Callaghan girl standing next to his actual daughter, Marisa.

“No, the one next to her. I want to pose a question for you. May I?”

“Certainly,” Reverend Smith replied with a hint of hesitation.

“In a few years your daughter will be old enough to pick a young man to be her beau. May I go on?”

“Yes, yes go ahead,” he insisted.

“This beau is not one you would have chosen but she did. One night the phone rings and your worst nightmare is realized when she calls to tell you that she was raped by another man; a criminal of the worst possible caliber. Tis man’s vary family are less than ideal; poor and prone to violent temperament. A month later, she admits that she is pregnant.” He allowed this to sink in. He remained quiet allowing the reverend to fully grasp what is happening. “Is it still her choice, or are you going to step in and make her raise that child, out of wedlock and possibly in less-than-ideal circumstances? After all you will most likely throw her out of your house because she committed sin. Am I right?”

His mouth went agape. A freight train could have gone through that tunnel. “I…I don’t know. It is so much easier to think of it if it is someone else’s daughter. But my own? I would still insist she allow that child to be born and if she can’t raise it herself, then perhaps put it up for adoption. “Abortion is not a choice but a cop-out, in my book, and in this book, the Holy Bible.” He held out high over his head for everyone to see including the transient.

“I see. You understand choices are made every day, including in Eden where the devil disguised as a serpent convinced Eve to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, though God forbade her and Adam. Eve could have obeyed God’s will but instead she chose to disobey. Did she still end up in Heaven? I think in my mind that God forgave her indiscretion and welcomed her into the House of the Lord. Don’t you think?”

“It has been a pleasure talking with you, Mr. Clark. I must get ready for my next service. You have a good day.”

“You too, Reverend, you too,” He smiled after him as he left the hobo in his wake.

The reverend turned around and saw to his horror his daughter go to that foul smelling vagrant. They talked quietly between themselves. Reverend Smith couldn’t make out what was said, then they departed. She gave her dad a most winning smile. He went her and had to ask, “You know him?”

“No, I have never seen him before in my life, but there is something about him. I don’t know; a certain charisma? I can’t really pin it down, but he affected me like I’ve never been affected before. Did you get the same impression too when you two were talking?”

“It’s not what I would call infectious charisma,” the preacher replied in an aloof manner.

“I bet if he cleaned himself up and looked more presentable, you would have more positive impression of him,” She pointed out to her father. “For it says in the Bible: 1 John 3:17, But if anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him?”

“Yes, but he will need to do more than be presentable for me to have anything to do with him. Look, I need to get ready for the next service and put him and his talk behind me. Do me favor though. Don’t date anyone until you are 40.”

“What? Dad!” He ignored her protests while he went into the oratory.

He prayed, “heavenly Father, please give me the strength to be a good father and your humble servant, amen.”

An Interesting Call From an Old Friend

I emailed my friend Greg a while back and then he replied to the question I asked. It was a question I had and since he was Truck Driver by trade, he could give me a reliable answer. It has to do with the present book I’m working on and the antagonist used to be a truck driver. I needed to know how to go about getting information through data bases, either through a state’s DMV or the Department of Transportation, or both.

Anyway, he wrote back the answer to my question and told me to call him at the number he had, wondering if I had his knew number. Well, I had to go into my contacts list and confirm if I had that new number, which I did. I was trying to edit the number as the primary default, when I accidentally pressed the number, automatically placing the call. I immediately hung up. Not more than a minute later my phone rings his personal ring tone, and his name appeared.

“Hey there Greg,” I began and we started at the place we left off in the email confirming that I should have the answers I needed through a clearing house the Department of Transportation provided for truck drivers nationwide. We then talked politics, both of us being respectful of our opinions since we are miles away on certain subjects yet think alike on others.

“You know you and I ought to run for President and Vice-President,” he told me half seriously. “After all you know what half the people want and I know what the other half want. We could put all together and get stuff done that the politicians just talk about doing.”

“It was done once,” I reminded him of the Presidency of Adams and Jefferson, who was his vice president from 1797 through 1801. “They ended up hating each other because their views on everything from trading with England and France to the subject of slavery turned them against each other. It was a disaster.”

We then discussed driving, which he of course has a very personal opinion on because that is his profession. At the time I talked with him he was hauling linseed oil from Minnesota to California. He was just outside Indianapolis.

“I had one guy flying between these three truckers. He was in some crazy hurry to get somewhere and all these trucks were in his way. He jetted between two, passed another, went clear across three lanes of traffic, bounced off another truck’s rear trailer tires and damn near went off the highway. He somehow recovered and passed him and just kept flying. I turned on my dash camera on my rig just for the entertainment value.” We laughed at that.

“Down in Southern Idaho on the I-84 between Twin Falls and Wendall, I saw these truckers taking turns passing one another. I held back and just hoped those guys weren’t in a road rage mood. The last thing I wanted was to get in the middle of that craziness,” I told him.

“When crap like that happens, I just stomp on the throttle and go pass them all. I don’t have time for that nonsense. You were right to stay back it sounds like that was exactly what was going on.”

The conversations turned why I bought a camper rather than a trailer or fifth wheel. “I’ll have to buy me a one ton dually if that happen because I intend to get a big fifty-footer and just live in it,” he said.

“I have issues with backing up trailers. If I’m not rushed and think about what I need to do, I can do it just fine, but my worry with buying a travel trailer is worrying about backing into another RV.”

“That’s when you use someone to guide you back.”

“Well, that’s why I thought it best for my sanity and Steph’s temperament to just get a camper. Now she’s talking about a motor coach.”

“Those are as much as a house, Jerry.”

“I know,” I agreed. “You ready to go back to West Richland and climb up the cross on top of Flat Top?” He asked me with a chuckle.

“Not really, I don’t think I could climb that even if I wanted to.”

“Well, I know I couldn’t. There’s no thinking about it,” he laughed. “How did we do it without falling off that thing and ending up dead at the bottom of that hill?”

“We were too stoned to care I guess.” Flat Top Hill is in the center of West Richland, the town I grew up at from 1971 until I embarked on my own in the early 80s. On top of the hill stood a cross to celebrate the Resurrection on Sunrise Easter Service. It’s made of I-beams and fabricated by a local Fabrication company there. It’s around six or so feet tall with the lateral beams around four feet up. So, when we were both in our 20s it was no problem hoisting ourselves onto the cross and smoke a joint and watched the traffic and street lights below on that mid-April evening back in 1981.

We talked a good hour before my belly began screaming that it was dinner time. “I got to go feed myself,” I told him.

“Yeah, I’m starting to get hungry too, but I’m gonna wait until I get past Indianapolis. I’ll talk with you.

“Later, Love you bro, bye.”

Confusing Meanings?

I read from a recent Quora editorial, which I call because mostly it is opinions from one political group to another, that put out the difference between liberal and conservative people. His view, and I wish I could find that article to quote from, was that liberal minded people tended to be more concerned about appearances than Conservatives, such as the environment, social justice and coexisting. He used as an example the analogy that people of a liberal quirk seemed more apt to have a nice yards and nice houses with clean and tidy rooms. Conservatives on the other hand could care less and would rather be left to their own individual choices. If they choose to be a lazy slob it is their problem.

Now I for one must disagree with that example because I have many, many conservative friends who are anal retentive, clean freaks who do believe in appearances and how other people perceive them. The only people I know of who don’t care about how they look or how their lifestyle is are sociopaths. My stepson is an example of that type of person. He is also apolitical. He does what he chooses regardless of what other people might think of him or his personal appearances. People who constantly break the law, who devote themselves to doing drugs and being homeless and on the streets fits the definition of someone who doesn’t care about appearances.

While it is true that liberal leaning people are more about the group and conservatives tend to believe more on the individual, it has nothing at all to do with this notion that liberals who hold certain jobs are more about how they are perceived, than conservatives who hold more blue-collar type jobs and don’t care how they look. The author apparently only saw a portion of that dynamic and tried to convince everyone that it is accurate. It can’t be further from the truth.

The military are a group of mostly conservative minded people who are very aware of how they are perceived, and many are punished for not being in uniform, not adhering to certain standards of conduct and esprit de corp. The individual is not important to the mission, but the unit or team is of utmost important so the mission is successfully executed.

The same goes with most companies including the lowly janitor or delivery driver. There are dress codes that must be adhered to, policies and procedures that must be followed and an attitude of fellowship that must be maintained for that company to be successful.

I think the author of this editorial he wrote needs to reevaluate what differentiates a liberal from a conservative because he doesn’t really understand what is going on. Appearances are what matters to everyone regardless of their political leanings.

Another Bad Day

Like that song from Daniel Powter, I had one of those days I would soon forget. I like to think that I’m reasonably stable as far as temperament goes, but the crap, literally and figuratively that I had to deal with has made me very angry indeed.

It all started last night when I received a letter from a credit union that has the loan on the camper informing me the February payment is late. This morning I texted my wife to see what he deal was. Her reply was in the form of a question mark followed by “It was paid.”

She then went on a tangent about wanting more money for her mom and that she was sick. Then she said that if I didn’t believe her call the bank; not easy for me to do at work. I replied that the letter was dated February 12th. I then told her as long as it was for her mother, fine. The implication more than clear, as she replied that I was pissing her off. And I said that makes two of us.

She ranted some more but I had to clock in and didn’t have time to respond.

I’m at work now, doing the hotel back of house where I normally am. I go to one of the restroom areas and discover someone had smoked there. Most normal people, I would think, if there were no available ashtrays, that no smoking is the rule of thumb. But apparently common sense at a hotel/casino is not required. There were cigarette ash everywhere on the carpeted floor, which I dutifully vacuumed up.

Then I’m walking over to the lobby area and look outside where I see cigarette butt on the ground behind a butt disposal. I go outside to investigate and find that someone opened the back door, dumped all the butts from an inside tin can and apparently took the cigarettes they wanted and left the rest for me to clean up. I did of course, then I go to the other restroom area. Just outside is a smokers’ area with the same type of butt disposal unit, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t tampered with too. It wasn’t, but…

On the entry mat by the door was a pile of dog crap. Apparently one of our wonderful guests thought it a good idea to take their Fido or Bowser for a duty walk but thought he needed a cigarette break too. The dog apparently was in no mood to wait around for ignorant master to finish his smoke and proceeded to unleash on the entry mat, an overabundance of fecal matter just in front of the doorway. SHHH, don’t tell anyone.

I called my supervisor on this just so that she could see for herself why I was angrily telling I needed help with taking care of this problem. No sooner did I call her than someone in maintenance called about a bio issue in the team member restroom downstairs. Obviously, I couldn’t very well stop what I was doing and take care of that problem. Another male housekeeper was tasked for that fun job. He told me it was delightful in a most ironic tone.

Two mats were removed and one was replaced, I cleaned out and threw away the doggy mess and went downstairs hoping that was the end of that problem. It wasn’t. Again, dummy me goes outside to the other smoking area just outside what is called the Spa area. Once again butts are strewn about just outside the butt disposal unit, its back door opened and the tin can out and up-side-down next to someone’s frozen vomit. Obviously that mess would have to thaw out first before I or anyone else could or would clean it up.

I was in a dark humor for the rest of the day, venting out my frustration to anyone who dared listen to my rant. I guess I must chalk this whole experience to how we are a culture have to deal with the ignorance of others, from the adle-minded druggy who thinks it must be okay to smoke anywhere, to an autocratic dictator who decides he can invade his neighbor and feel he can get away with it because he is Vladimir Putin. Hopefully sanctions alone will make him change his mind but I doubt it. The only answer for someone like that is what eventually happened to Saddam Hussain and Muammar al-Qaddafi.

Poetry in Motion

Wednesday night Northwest writers’ Guild did poetry for a change of pace. We are after all dynamic and always try to stay one step ahead so no one gets bored and stale. Linda the writer, our coordinator did some fact checking for us. She told us about the different kinds and types of poetry there is and the fact, which I already knew, that poetry went into music form and have remained so to this day with lyrical and ballad types.

I also know that poetry comes more internally, from the heart, whereas prose is more about what we the writer experiences on an external level where we describe the world around us. Poetry conveys emotions and thoughts, feelings and experiences that are within us. Where prose is driven by the writer to logically or ethically persuade the audience (logos and ethos), poetry speaks through our emotions (pathos).

I am much more persuasive writing from the heart, than I am trying to make an argument through reason or verifying facts as I know them. Invariably some will come along and tell me I’m wrong. But they can’t reason or disprove emotion such as love or love loss, seeing a newborn baby for the first time or going to a funeral. Those impactful emotions are what drives poetry to its very foundation.

Our group then set about reading our own poems that we’ve written some of which was published in journals or in a collection of poetry. I listened to some and they don’t always rhyme. Mine don’t. When I bare my soul, I can’t waste my energies trying to figure out a word that rhymes to another word. It is too much for me.

I was in a blue period in my life in 2009. Both my parents died. Dad was expected, Mom’s was a complete and shockingly tragic surprise just eight weeks after Dad. She hit another car head-on into a larger car and died instantly. I drafted several poems about her and the accident and about what happened to me and my sisters from my own internal perspective. They are not meant for anything more than therapy in dealing with sudden death, never to be published unless my sisters feel the need after I’m gone. Or my wife.

One of the writers uses poetry in his narrative. It’s something I have also done in a couple of my books I’ve written. I’ve even gone so far to include verses or passages from the Holy Bible that conveys or supports the theme of the story. He told us his more favorite poem and mine too is the “Love Song of Alfred Prufrock” by TS Eliot. It is a bittersweet poem that when first read, as I first read it in high school, made no sense. But then as I grew older and experienced that poem in other literature and poetry classes in college, the meaning conveys much more and that is the whole point of poetry. How it makes us feel as we read it. Another favorite is Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” I can’t tell you how often I read that poem, especially when I’m depressed and it appears to lift up my spirit and see life in a new light.

Poetry moves me into an emotional and spiritual direction that prose tries but sometimes comes up short, though I have read prose that are in essence poetic just by the way the author arranged the words and the tempo so that it is by its nature a verse of poetry. Sometimes it’s an accident and sometimes the writer does it on purpose to draw the reader further into the story.

If it weren’t for music in this day and age, poetry may well have been a relic of the early 20th and nineteenth centuries. The music industry is in essence poetry in motion. I understand what drives rap and hip-hop though I personally don’t care for it, the lyrics that drives it is a form of urban poetry whose writers point out hard core realities of living in an urban environment.

Songs such as ”Blowing in the Wind,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “American Pie,” are anthems as much as they are poems or song lyrics played out by musicians. “How Many Roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?” That is nearly prophetic in its scope considering when Bob Dylan wrote those lyrics. It awoken a generation and a movement to stamp out prejudice, racism and hatred. That is poetry in motion

Revolving Door

I texted my wife the other day because she texted me late last month that her son was kicked out from his grandmother’s house for drinking alcohol on her property. He went to Boise, a two hour plus drive from Gooding, Idaho.

“Who does he know in Boise?” I texted her.

The phone rang and I saw it was her. I also set the ring tone to her personal ring tone. That way I can answer right away know the difference from someone attempting to sell me ice in winter.

“He doesn’t know anybody there,” she said to me. What the heck? I thought to myself. His father lives in Twin Falls. I had thought he already made plans to live there at the first of the year, but apparently that plan fell through. She continued, “He was in a homeless shelter, got himself rolled. He got the crap beat out of him, lost his coat and all his money and wound up in the hospital with serious internal bleeding. Then he went back into his psychosis and is now at Black Foot, Idaho.”

I heard from Tom the stories, which the way he described it was probably mostly fabricated to try and instill fear into Terry. I’m sure, knowing what I know about Terry after twelve years, he most likely blew it off and continued believing the lies from women on the internet scamming more money from him. At any rate Tom told me they are a privately run hospital, though the website shows they are part of the Idaho Department of Health and Welfare. And that they could keep him there doing all kinds of experiments on him and get away with it forever.

I simply told Stephanie that “Maybe someday he’ll learn that rules are there for a reason. We don’t make the rules up because we are mean. When Lillie said no drinking on her property, she obviously meant it.”

As you all know I have chronicled his mental health issues since I started doing blogs starting in 2014. Every two years something snaps inside his head and it has become a revolving door of drug and alcohol over use followed by a bout of psychosis where he spends months there getting fed anti-psychotic cocktails until he gets back to a state of normalcy. Terry gets released and the cycle repeats itself. This is the fifth time in eight years that his mind has gone into his own zone. He likens it to a deep sleep and then he wakes up sometimes months later. He never remembers anything that occurred during this time, which is very scary.

I hope this time will be the last time, but again it is up to him to make that decision and stop the revolving door once and for all.