My Pigeons…part one

I was 12 years old in 1962.  I was watching either a documentary, or maybe it was a Walt Disney T.V. show, either way, it was about pigeons. There was this boy in a wheelchair who raised homing pigeons.  I can’t remember the name of the program, but by the time it was over, I was hooked, I absolutely had to have pigeons.

My father thought it was a great idea. Not so much with my mother. In those days, in Windsor Ontario, everyone did the laundry in the basement and hung the cloths out on the line to dry. If a bird dropped a turd on someones clean shirts then the guy who had pigeons was to blame. Granted, there were a lot of pigeon fanciers in the area in those times, but, I argued, don’t all birds crap; to place the entire weight on the poor pigeon’s butt didn’t seem fair.

I was persistent, I couldn’t understand how anyone could go through life without a loft of beautiful cooing birds in the back yard.

The old timers, who I visited on a regular basis told me to tell my mother that pigeons can’t poop when in flight. This is not true, but mothers for generations were told of this phenomena .

My mother, who I don’t think fell for it, but nevertheless relented, with conditions.  My birds were never to be let out on wash days, anyones wash days. The last thing mom wanted was to find 40 or 50 raging woman standing on the front lawn screaming for my blood.  I certainly didn’t want that either, I mean, with a younger brother and sister who rarely got into any trouble at all, mommy dear would likely throw me into the mobs claws in a heart beat.  My shredded torso would be much easier to live with than a neighbourhood scandal.

So, with the permission of the powers to be, I set forth to build a loft. The guys and me would search the alleys for scrap wood and the pile of lumber in the yard was growing. Then. as if a sign from God, St. Josephs church started building their expansion. I never seen so much wood. Two by fours, clean new sheets of plywood, oh it was a glorious sight to behold.

Under the cover of darkness, one by one, the gang and I dragged the pieces home. It’s kind of funny how adults actually ignore a bunch of 12 year olds hauling lumber down the alleys. I was sure to strongly suggest to each guy in the gang that this is to be kept a secret, and I mean not even to be brought up in confession with Father Campbell. I know the confessional is sacred but the wood was the property of the church, so why rock the boat, right.  Besides, I was sure it was God Himself who made this miraculous event possible.

Early every morning, to the annoyance of those who worked the midnight shift at Fords, I would be out back hammering away at my loft.  Being 12 my carpentry skills were limited , to say the least. Eventually, my father stepped in to do the job right. I remember clearly, him looking over this pile of brand new plywood sheets.  “Should I ask where this wood came from?” he said.

“Over there” I answered pointing in the direction of St. Joseph church.

He told me not to bring anymore home, the loft would have to be built from whatever wood was here. Turned out real nice too except it was only high enough for me to barely stand up in and I was 5 foot on my tippy toes.

To finish the inside with nest boxes and perches, pops told me to get a few more pieces of scrap wood. He looked me right in the eye and repeated “Scrap wood.”  The message was clear. Stay away from the church. That night I was off down the alley and in a few hours came back with enough wood to finish the job.

The next morning was a Saturday and as dad was putting the final touches on, I seen Mr. Naylor coming down the alley. I quietly slipped away to around the side of the house as he confronted my father.

“It seems” he said ” That someone tore apart my garbage can stand last night.” He looked over the work being done and pointed out that his house address was painted, as clear as the red on my dads face, on the newly build loft door.

” I’m pretty sure it was young Jackie. Wouldn’t you agree?” He asked my father. Apparently, the old man agreed and paid Mr. Naylor twenty dollars.

A short shrill whistle brought me out of hiding and after apologizing to Mr. Naylor I was sent to fetch the old man a beer. He just wanted me out of there , he could yell at me all day and night, but he wasn’t about to let someone else lecture to me.

My allowance was held back for a few weeks, which meant I got the better of the deal, since my weekly income was only fifty cents. Pops also fronted me one dollar to buy the first pair of birds.

With a whole buck in my hands I didn’t waste any time. I rode Trigger (my CCM bicycle) over to a man’s house that kept many breeds of pigeons and had plenty for sale. I took my time , this was exciting stuff, finally selecting a beautiful pair of mealy Roller Pigeons.

My real love was the Homing pigeon, but the older birds will fly home and I didn’t have the room or patience for raising and waiting on youngsters.

Rollers lack the Homing instinct that racing Homers have. They will return to their home loft from a few miles but keeping them prisoners for about two weeks will take care of that. I wanted to watch them fly, that’s what it was all about for me.

I’ll leave you here friends as I like to stay under a thousand words. In part two I write of about the time I was accused of stealing another fanciers pigeons. I was innocent, I had my own birds and wouldn’t sneak into another’s loft in the wee hours of morning and……. wait, I’m going to stop here before I incriminate myself.

Thanks for reading, Jack

Keep the faith friends, it get’s better. it always does.










pin boys

It seems that in 1964 anyone could find a job in Windsor, Ontario, Canada.  Quite a contrast to today when Windsor has the second highest unemployment rate in the country. Most of the moms on our block and maybe the entire city, were stay at home moms.  Every house had a car and every family took a vacation.

I was only fourteen years old but most of my friends had jobs.  We sold donuts door to door, or delivered groceries, tossed the Windsor Star or the Globe and Mail or Sunday Freepress up onto porches.  The older guys pumped gas , or washed cars at the car lots. If we needed a few bucks we could hang outside the corner bar and open doors for the ladies. First the car door then the establishment door. Tips were pretty good.

If it was a week-end night we could hang around later and get them coming out of the hotel.  If the guy was a nice drunk we got great tips, if not we got the “What do you want? A kick in the ass” routine. Went with the business.

We cut grass in the summer and shoveled snow in the winter. There was always a way to make a few dollars.

The toughest job around was pin setting at the bowling alley on Drouillard Road. Some of the smaller bowling alleys didn’t have the automatic setters yet. It was a hard way to make a buck.

Just getting to and from work was running a gauntlet of street gangs that just loved taking what little money we earned. None of the guys on our block would go near the place so I had no back up.  But I could run like a deer and relied on that for my safety.

When arriving at work you would leave your name with the boss and go into the pin boy room.  This room was a 12 foot square with a bared window.  It was like a prison cell.  While we waited for the leagues to arrive , Bruno, an older teenager, would point to two guys and they would have to fight one another.  Since I was so small, my competitor was always this little fat guy who was strong as a bull. My only defence was to keep climbing the walls, jumping over other pin boys and clinging to the bared window. I’d drop down to smack him and keep on moving. Sure was glad when my turn was over.

When the bowlers came in we’d go to our assigned alleys. We always set two alleys at a time so keeping track of which ball the bowler was on was crucial. Jumping down into the pit too soon could send you to the hospital.  Still, perched just a few feet from flying pins, was a risky trick at the best of times.  Every pin boy had bruised shins and knees, I seen guys get knocked out cold more than once.

After the game you would sit in the pit and wait for the bowlers to bowl you down a dime or maybe a quarter. Added to the nine cents a game we got it wasn’t a get rich scheme.  Most of the guys would spend most of their nights pay buying pop and burgers from the bowling alley restaurant.

Getting home was the next trick. The other pin boys were mostly from the street gang so it was safe to leave when they did. But, sometimes I’d get stuck with an ” old ” ladies team and they were terribly slow bowlers. Tipped well, but so slow. I’d be the last kid to leave work and it always seemed to be at night.

The shortest route home was a three-mile stretch down the railway tracks.  The box cars were parked here for the night on both tracks so the way home was a dark and scary corridor.

Sometimes, in the summer, hobo’s would sleep in the cars. Or the punks would stash their stolen goods and post a guard to watch over it. When I entered the tracks I would burst into a run and didn’t stop until I emerged, totally exhausted, at the park in my neighbourhood.

My father never liked me working at the bowling alley but he would never think of asking me to quit anything. When Bruno was stabbed outside the bowling alley one night pops was really concerned and then an older pin boy killed a girl and left her body in a junk yard next to the railroad tracks. That was the last straw for the old man and he offered to pay me whatever I made setting pins if I’d stay away from Drouillard Road.

So, I quit the pin setting game and every week asked dad for my money. The old man never paid up. He’s always say ” What do you prefer? Me owing you, or you owing me?” I’d say the first one of course. And he’d reply “Well then everybody is happy.” I really didn’t care anyway. I just needed an out for telling the guys why I wasn’t going to the bowling alley any more. Ya know, blame the “old man.”

That same summer dad paid a kid $50 for a Windsor Star paper route for my brother and I. The routes are supposed to be free but paying was the way to get to the top of the list. Brother Don and I made some decent coin delivering papers.

Looking back I shudder to think of how kids set pins, without knee pads or helmets or even a safe ride home. Sure wouldn’t be allowed today. Those times were different for sure. Not better, not worse, but definitely different. We survived and really, none the worse for it. I’m happy to say, I was part of it all. Thanks for reading, Jack

Keep the faith friends, it gets better, it always does.

Chickens and Eggs

For more than twenty-five years my wife Alice, and I have kept a flock of chickens.  We love to hear the roosters crowing in the morning, and ,of course, we enjoy farm fresh eggs.

The money we make on the eggs is used for feed, not only for the chickens, but also the pigeons and rabbits. What we make from selling young rabbits we purchase food for the dogs and for Eddy, the pot-bellied pig.  The dogs in turn, guard the homestead. Eddy, is just a pet that belongs to my youngest son Dave, who brought him home 12 years ago.  I always said that my son and Eddy are a lot alike. They are both strong, intelligent, friendly, and both run when they hear the lawnmower start up.

The pigeons are white racing homers and pay their own board by way of ceremonial bird releases at funerals.  Everybody,except Eddy, has a job on our farmstead.

Most of our chickens are Chanteclers , which is the only breed of chicken that is truly Canadian.  In 1919 the Government of Quebec commissioned Brother Wilfred Chantelain, a Trappist monk, to create a practical Canadian breed that would be extremely cold resistant, and a dual purpose animal for eggs and meant production. By crossing various breeds he was successful and by 1921 the Chantecler was admitted to the American Poultry Association Standard of Perfection.

We do keep others though, like the Light Brahma, the Black Rock and various mixed breeds.  They all lay eggs and they all taste the same.  Very good.

Our birds are all free range. I call it the “Real” free range.  The Government, who would never upset the commercial guys, has declared that a free range chicken is a bird that has access to the outdoors. Emphasis on access.

So, the big guys, who keep thousands of chickens, provide a run with several small openings. Some chickens never go out, but they have access to the outdoors.

Our flocks, three coops of them, are turned out every day and wander the yard and fields , making their way to their nests when the need to lay an egg arises. Each hen returns to her home coop at dusk, each to their own perch.

Since we don’t need the girls laying every day we don’t feed a laying mash. They get,corn,wheat, barley and oyster shells. An average hen will lay about five eggs a week on this ration. The eggs have a thicker shell and a beautiful orange coloured yolk. Just the way nature intended.

Still, some folks won’t eat farm fresh eggs ,fearing they may not be healthy . I’ve heard people say  because we don’t candle our eggs they may not be suitable as food. The commercial producers don’t candle either. Only hatcheries do that because they can’t waste time incubating eggs that are not fertile.  People are funny in some ways.  Eggs all come from the same place folks.

We also hatch our replacement hens by the natural way. That is , when a hen goe’s broody (wants to set) we put eggs under her and let the hens hatch their own. Though, we do take the day olds and put them in brooders (heated boxes) until they are feathered in.

Years ago we did use an incubator with about a 90 % hatch rate. With the hens doing the work, we get 99% success.

Another plus for us and our flock is that the same customers who purchase our eggs also buy raw honey from our own bee hives.  And most of them, can’t resist a jar of homemade jam, so one thing leads to another. Chickens, for us has been fun and profitable.  I couldn’t even imagine living in the country without keeping a flock of these practical birds.

Thanks for reading, so,until next time, cockadodledo.

Keep the faith friends, it gets better, it always does.            Jack





Nobody is perfect

First snowfall for us here in southern Ontario, Canada. It’s not much, won’t stay, but it doesn’t take much to get me in trouble.

While my wife , Alice, was getting ready for her doctor’s appointment , I decided to shovel off the porch and clean up her car. Nice of me , I thought. “Where are my gloves ?” I asked.

She said they were in the second drawer from the top in the back porch cabinet. I started to look but there in plain view was a perfectly good pair and I didn’t have to search around.

A nice pair too, brown suede, leather on top, and a good fit.  I removed snow from the porch and car , fed the chickens, rabbits, pigeons and pig.  I filled four five gallon buckets with fire wood and noticed that although quite dirty, the gloves were warm and held up nicely. A small tear in the thumb but that’s par for the course with me.

On way back to the house I noticed Alice looking for something in her car. She had on her ‘ going to town cloths’ and looked nice. Something about our generation I guess, we wouldn’t think about going to church , a funeral or to the doctors in jogging pants.

She hollered back asking if I seen her gloves, the brown suede pair with leather on top. The ones that matched her coat. My world went very silent for a few moments. It got very warm for a winter day.

I collected myself and slowly slipped my hands behind my back. Too late, she noticed my awkwardness and in a huff, placed her hands (cold hands) on her hips, and sharply stated “Those were new dress gloves.” Then promptly slid in behind the wheel and drove off.

I waited until the tail lights were a mere blur and sharply placed my hands (warm hands) on my hips and replied, “Well excuse me for living.”

Thanks for reading, click on ‘follow Jack’ for updates.   Jack

Keep the faith friends, it gets better, it always does.

My Horse Dixie, part two.

In 1966 my step-father,Dick loaned me one hundred dollars to buy a six-year-old palomino mare named Dixie , and another $200 for a Billy Cook saddle.  She wasn’t a quarter horse or a jumping steed or anywhere near a show prospect, she was just a big horse.  She stood 16 hands at the withers , trotted like a jack hammer and ate a lot.  But Dixie was loyal , and had a heart as big as she was.  The mare would do anything I asked of her, from crossing busy streets to jumping mud filled ditches to wading through waist-high water. The horse was bomb proof for me.

That is why my world came crashing down when a drunken friend of Dicks came over at night looking for booze.  When he was told ,by my mother and Dick, to shove off, he went to the barn and in a drunken rage, chased Dixie out.

The mare was spooked and not knowing where to go headed back to her old barn about 10 miles away.  She almost made it when a speeding car hit her from behind tossing her onto the side of the gravel road.

Thankfully,the driver was not injured , Dixie was.  It took over two hundred stitches to close the huge capes in her rump.  fortunately, her legs were not broken but her hock was swollen to twice the size of normal.  The vet said she would always be lame in the left hind leg.

About the same time, after a very hot debate with my father, I quit school. The idea was that since I already knew everything, after all, I was sixteen, that I would go to work (somewhere) and pay Dick back for the horse and then buy a huge sprawling horse ranch.

I ending up spending endless hours putting hot compresses to Dixie’s swollen hock and walking her.  Her first walks lasted minutes . Then hours, then twice a day. In four months I was riding her at a slow walk in the paddock.  Thank God, the vet was wrong.

Meanwhile, I was under pressure from all sides to start looking for a job.  I had milked the “poor me” cow for long enough I suppose.  To keep the hounds (parents) off my back, I told them I had a trail riding job at the local riding stable. Dixie was healing very fast now so I was leading out riders for the stable owner.  Which was true. Except, instead of cash, he paid me in food from the restaurant.

So, on my way home, under the cover of night, I would snatch a bale of hay from a huge stack and toss onto the saddle in front of me. Riding like this meant I couldn’t see or direct Dixie. I would just drop the reins and ask the mare to go home. She would always take a short cut across a field and when she came to a ditch I could feel her gathering herself for the jump and I’d hang on for all I was worth.  Dixie wouldn’t stop until she was in front of the barn.  I was also stealing bags of grain when I had the chance. At least the pressure was off me as Dixie and I were paying our board.

Dixie always had the swollen hock but she didn’t limp any more and turned out to be a great riding horse.  I spent that whole summer going to the riding stable, meeting a lot of city girls who came to rent horses.  Occasionally, I even sneaked a few smoochs from some of the more forward gals.  Out behind the barn wasn’t just for the horse manure.

Inevitably, those stolen kisses perked my interest in the opposite sex.

One bright night I rode Dixie up the hill behind the new Windsor Racetrack to watch the standard breds pulling the sulkies around the track.  Dixie would watch with great interest, her ears perked  and stomping her feet in excitement.  A light bulb went off.  Maybe I could get a job at the track.

Next morning I thumbed a ride to the raceway and sure enough I got hired to groom four horses for $10 a day. I could have Sunday off because I was so young.  Even after paying my loan with Dick I was stinking rich.  At least that’s what it felt like to me.  In a few months I bought a 64 Chevy Impala on credit for $55 a month.

I didn’t ride Dixie much now and that winter I went over to Detroit Raceway, following my four horses.

When I came home in the spring Dick had sold Dixie.  I can’t blame him though, I didn’t send any money home and really didn’t have much correspondence at all.  He was doing all the work and getting no appreciation.

Things, for me, had changed.  I had job, I was in dept, and I switched my interests from horses and pigeons to girls, and more girls.

A year later I tracked down Dixie to a farm not too far away.  She was in a huge pasture, and just for the fun of it, I called out to her.  I almost cried when she turned and galloped, and I really mean galloped, right up to the fence.

I  hadn’t any romantic notions to buy her and live happily ever after. I knew our time together had come to an end. I patted her neck and said my good- byes. Sadly, I was no longer a naive kid. I was in the system now.

In the years ahead I would own many other horses and was always very fond of my charges. I even went back to school and got my grade twelve.   But, for me, there will never be another 1966 and for sure, never another Dixie.

‘They’ say you never forget your first love.  I believe this to be true.


Keep the faith, it gets better, it always does.





My Horse Dixie

1966 I went to live with my mother and her husband, my step- father, Dick.  Everyone concerned figured it was closer to my school and I wouldn’t have to ride two buses twice a day.  Everyone except me that is. I hated school and had plans of my own, like quitting as soon as I legally could.

Living with my father was certainly a life with less drama, but, you can’t keep a horse in the city.  Mom and Dick had a place in the country and had a few ponies out back.  I was a horse crazy kid, horses and pigeons made up my world.  I didn’t care about sports or cars, although girls always had their own special place , but mostly,  I was quite content when I was around the animals.

I rode the ponies everyday after school but they were much too small for me and I starting hinting in the biggest way , that I should have a horse. “When you get a job” was always the answer.

Then one cold winter day Dick and I stopped to visit a drinking friend of his who was a horse dealer.  The guy was on the barn roof when we drove in.  He was tacking down a few roles of tar paper to repair a persistent leak, which always seems to be a problem with flat roofs.

Dick told his friend, Norm, to come on down and volunteered me to finish the job.  You ever hear the saying ‘ If looks could kill’ ?

So, while those two gangsters sat inside a warm kitchen drinking beer, I was thirty feet up hammering away at stupid stubborn, tar paper.  I wasn’t prepared for this and had no gloves, or hat, and only a light jacket, which had little resistance to the frigid north wind.

My bony fingers, redden ears, and throbbing toes were numb by the time I finished the job, but I knew this guy sold horses so I did as good of a job that a frozen pissed off kid could do. It looked ok to me anyway.

I climbed down a rickety ladder and went into the barn to warm up and check out the horses. As soon as I walked in a huge palomino mare turned toward me. She was in a common stall with four others but it was her that came straight over to me when I reached out my hand.  I warmed my hands on her massive neck and talked to her.  She was more of a draft horse than a riding mount , the other horses were obviously better bred animals , but I believe that mare and I clicked. I could tell that she liked me.

Eventually I made my way to the house and a soon as I got the opportunity I mentioned how much I liked the palomino mare.  Norm seemed surprised, he said that the mare was called Dixie and was better suited for pulling wagons than a saddle horse and that I should be setting my sights on something a little more flashy.  Even the owner has forsaken the animal and has not paid board in months.

I didn’t have a red cent to my name anyway so I sat in the corner and patiently waited as these two drank and bullshitted the day away.

They must have got bored with one another and turned their attention to me. Norm thanked me for repairing the roof, finally, and said that if I paid the one hundred dollars that was owed for board I could have the horse. I almost fainted. I gave Dick the biggest ‘have mercy on me’ look I could muster.

Dick hummed and hawed a bit , and I promised him I would get a job and repay the loan and buy my own feed.  And so there it was, as quick as a hound dogs honeymoon, the deal was made.

I suppose I should thank the brewery for this sweet transaction, because I’m sure alcohol had a lot to do with it, but I think I have thanked them plenty by my loyal patronage for the past 40 or so years.

Norm leant me a bridle but wouldn’t spring for a saddle. So, with the snow getting worse , the wind howling and me dressed for the spring Dick tossed me up onto Dixie and off I went. The ride home was about eight or maybe ten miles.  Dick followed behind with the cars four-way lights flashing as it was very dark and the weather turned into blizzard conditions.

Dixie didn’t like the car following so close and the visibility was almost zero, so she was throwing her head around and sidestepping all the way. My legs and bum were toasty warm from Dixie’s body ,but the rest of me was colder than a witch’s _ _ _ foot.

I was one relieved punk when I rode into the yard . Dick opened the barn door and when I slid off the big horse I collapsed.  Dick thought that was pretty funny. He took the mare inside and into a nice cozy stall. In a few minutes my land legs were back and I think I spent most of that night out in the barn brushing and talking to Dixie.

The next morning, I headed out for the two mile walk through the bush to school.  A short way in I ducked into the brush until Dick drove off to work.  Sneaking my way back hedge to hedge,  I slipped into the barn.  My mother knew I was there, somehow mothers always know whats going on, and she brought me tea as the barn was not heated.

I turned sixteen that year and figured that I had the whole world by the ass.

Little did I know tragedy was about to fall. Dixie would be hit by a car and severely injured.

I will leave this post here my friends ;  I don’t want to keep you too long, but in my next post I will write about that horrible accident and how Dixie and I coped.  Thanks, Jack

Keep the faith friends, it gets better, it always does.

Maggies last days

   This past summer my mother died.  Her last residence was a nursing home in Woodsley , Ontario.  We, her children, my brother and sister, knew it was coming, she had been slipping away for some time.

   When the time came we called the funeral home and Anderson’s in Windsor,Ontario provided a service with professionalism and dignity. We celebrated her life with friends and relatives at a luncheon afterwards. Just like most families do.

   I felt little pain or remorse and couldn’t understand that.  Shouldn’t one, no matter their age, feel terrible sorrow, grief, sadness?  I felt a smidgen of these emotions but not like I thought I should.

But I knew I would.

   Like when my father passed away, falling dead at home from a massive heart attack.  It wasn’t until about two weeks later when there was a documentary about boxers on the television and I went to the phone to call him, that the grief caught up to me. A hole opened up inside me at that moment.  Then almost as quick as it was felt I began filling it with memories, good memories and some not so good, but that was ok.  And in that reserved place, to this day, I continue to fill with thoughts of ‘the old man’.

   With Maw, the hole didn’t appear for a few months later when I got ill. As I laid in bed I couldn’t help but think of my mothers nurturing ways.  She really loved taking care of us.  And as a kid who hated school , I took full advantage of her soft side.

     You see, Mags had ears like an owl. Even the mice would tip toe through the house for fear of being found out.  So, I would wait for some very early hour and crawl out of bed. Make my way to the bathroom, maybe drag my slippered feet a bit, and jiggle,ever so lightly as to not over do my plan, the aspirin bottle.  Then make my way back to bed.  My job was done for now.  Several hours later she would call us for breakfast and I would softly eek out a tiny moan. She would then turn to the old man, who despised us missing any school, and say she’s keeping me home from school. “He was up all night” she would tell the old man.  Worked out a lot for me.

   And then, in a flash, this lovely person was in a nursing home. Where did the years go, I wondered.  At first we would take her to dinner on a weekly basis.  Bonnie ,my sister, visited Mags almost daily.  For the next several years Bonnie’s life was organized around Maw’s needs.

   Slowly Mags started to forget who we were.  I will admit that my feeling were hurt more than once when my mother didn’t recognize me.  I told myself not to worry about it and at least we knew who she was. So our visits continued, and Mom would smile and enjoy these strangers who came to sit with her.

   Then one day I went to visit and couldn’t find her.  I looked in the T.V. room and seen the poor souls staring blankly, some towards the television, some at the walls. I checked her bed, and the dinning room, finally making my way back to the T.V. room. There she was, I had walked right past her and didn’t recognize my mother. Carefully I pulled her wheelchair over to a sofa, then sat down to chat with her.  Mags wasn’t there anymore, her body was so thin and fragile. She did muster a tiny smile but the usual gleam in her eyes was gone.  It was heartbreaking.

    A few more days she slipped into a coma, she never recovered and struggled for life for the next five days.

   We sat with her faithfully and were joined by so many other caring relatives.  The staff from Country Village, every one of them, expressed their fondness for Maw.

   Bonnie was with Mom when she passed on.  Mags was never alone in her last days.

   Mags was cremated and her ashes placed next to the old mans on our vacation property in northern Ontario. We placed a plaque up for each of them.  I know they would be pleased, so I feel real good about that.

    Tomorrow , God willing, the sun will rise and life will go on.  People, animals and plants will die and brand new babies will be born. And us survivors, well, we go on packing those special holes with memories.  And, alas ,we feel good again.

   Jack Bennett Sr.

   Keep the faith friends, it get’s better, it always does.