More than a Memoir

Tags

Brother, families, memoir, Sister, Tribute

Little Brother by Sallie Bingham

“Again” is even sadder than “was” — it is the saddest word of all.”

— WILLIAM FAULKNER, The Sound and the Fury

Thus begins Sallie Bingham’s latest book, a powerful, poignant account of her younger brother Jonathan, his life and  untimely death. Part of the prestigious Louisville, Kentucky Binghams, the author depicts her family’s life, one of wealth, accomplishment and privilege. Jonathan, adored by his sister, was of a loose thread in the tapestry.

The family comprised a socialite mother, an involved-in-politics father, and five children. The children were well cared for but seemingly not as consequential as the parents’ very important lives. Jonathan was born in 1942. His father, a friend of President Franklin Roosevelt, could not be around when his third son entered the world. Writes Bingham, “The birth of a third son could not compete with the possibilities unfolding for father.” It seemed, as I read on, often moved to tears, that Jonathan became an increadingly shadowy figure, part of the family but not really.

The Binghams owned both the Louisville Courier-Journal and Louisville Times newspapers. Their modus operandi was one of high-powered achievement and forward motion. Jonathan, it seemed, couldn’t keep up. It was at Harvard, his sophomore year, that the young man’s life appeared to begin unravelling. His biographer sister describes him as becoming “destabilized.” Jonathan dropped out of Harvard. When at home, he was moody and detached. He spent hours in the basement. He had, he claimed, “invented a cure for cancer.”

Jonathan was 21 and planning a party in the barn, a Boy Scout reunion. There was no way to have lights in the barn, so he decided to do it himself, He climbed an electrical pole, grabbed the wrong wire, and was immediately electrocuted. He joined what Ms Bingham titles “the dreadful list,” close family members who’d died before reaching age fifty. The deaths, she notes, were often suicides.

Bingham gathered notes and diaries, interviewed Jonathan’s friends, and wrote Jonathan’s story as only a grief-stricken and caring relative could. She wrote it so that Jonathan’s brief time on earth would not be forgotten,

Her book Little Brother will remain with me for a long time. It is a sensitive, loving commemoration. Bingham’s story of Jonathan will resonate with any reader who has a “little brother” relative in the family, someone who is not quite connected. The memoir, in addition to being a poignant and beautifully constructed read, serves as a reminder to pay attention, to be kind, to notice.

SALLIE BINGHAM: A long and fruitful career as a writer began in 1960 with the publication of her novel, “After Such Knowledge”.  This was followed by 15 collections of short stories, novels, memoirs and a biography, as well as plays. She is an active and involved feminist, working for women’s empowerment, who founded the Kentucky Foundation for Women, which gives grants to Kentucky artists and writers who are feminists, The Sallie Bingham Archive for Women’s Papers and History at Duke University,and the Women’s Project and Productions un New York City. She lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Join Elaine on Mondays for reflections on the writing, hiking and the outdoors, Santa Fe life, and the world as seen through adoption-colored glasses. Check out her newest novel The Hand of Ganesh. Follow adoptees Clara Jordan and Dottie Benet in their  quest to find Dottie’s birthparents. Order today from Amazon or http://www.pocolpress.com. And thanks for reading!

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Guatemala Gift: Part Two

Tags

adoption, child adoptee, family, Gay dads, Guatemala, international adoption, successful adoption, transracial adoption, two dads

CHAPTER TWO-by Kim Straus

Jose steps into his new life

Remember my saying that we as older soon-to-be dads were not prepared to take on the special needs of a special needs child?  And don’t get me wrong, I’m in awe of those parents who do and I’ve met adoptive parents who have raised multiple special needs children.  Well, we quickly learned of José’s special need.

José arrived in New Mexico sound asleep in his umbrella stroller.  He and Jack were met at the airport by me, Jack’s Albuquerque cousins, and our good friend and my boss, who would later become José’s godmother.  One of the reasons we felt so confident in becoming parents was the support network we had in Santa Fe.  As we went through the adoption process we met other adoption families, including several gay dads, with whom we formed a small support group.  We felt Santa Fe would be a great place to be gay parents and had read a statistic that Santa Fe had the second largest per capita number of lesbian and gay parents in the nation after San Francisco.

Not only did we get support from other gay dads and lesbian moms but also many straight friends, including a number of close women friends.  One of Jack’s former colleagues from his time teaching at Zuni Pueblo lived with us for a year before she bought a home down the street.  We still belong to an adoption group that consists of straight and gay families – and several Guatemalan children.

One recommendation we received from parents who had adopted internationally was of a pediatrician in town who understood health issues that might arise in these children.

We took José to see her a few days after his arrival for a good check-up which proved extremely, I mean extremely, fortunate.  She ordered a blood test and when she received the results, called us immediately.

José had hypothyroidism.  Basically, José’s thyroid wasn’t working at all.  This explained his small size and lack at seven months of some basic early motor skills. It may also explain why our adoption process went so quickly.  We speculate that the doctor seeing José for his check-ups in Guatemala either knew or suspected something like the hypothyroid condition and urged the process move quickly.

All babies born in this country get checked for this and perhaps those up for adoption in Guatemala do, too, but the diagnosis isn’t revealed for fear it would jeopardize the adoption. Most adopting parents want a perfect baby unless they specifically request a special needs child.

Our doctor said run, don’t walk to the pharmacy for medication which José takes daily and will probably for the rest of his life.  Our wonderful pediatrician also connected us with an amazing pediatric endocrinologist in Albuquerque; we all love our visits with her.  José’s development is on the normal scale although as a Guatemalan Mayan, he will never likely be very tall.

I won’t deny that becoming a parent later in life is a real challenge.  You get set in your ways, used to your routines, thinking about a future that never before included diapers, play dates, baseball practice, science fair projects, and PTA.  I admit that tucked way back in my brain was a bit of resentment about such drastic change in lifestyle.  But all this was greatly overshadowed by the joys that happened every day, some of these I think of as miraculous and magical.  When José would fall asleep in my arms as a baby, reading bedtime stories and singing songs, and, yes, going to baseball games.

José attended a pre-school in our neighborhood and every morning I would pull him to school in a wooden wagon made in the Wisconsin town where my mother, who turned 100 last year, was born.  The miracles and joys still happen and I am still amazed at being a parent.

José is thriving, as best we can tell, and so are we.  We are having unimagined

Jose says “Two Dads are better than one!”

adventures.  Last year we took José to Disneyland and I did something I swore I’d never to do again  — went on not one but several rollercoaster rides. What we won’t do for our kids!

One last adoption story for now, at least:  When we were going through the process, one of the forms for Guatemala Jack had to submit and get certified by the New Mexico Secretary of State was a doctor’s statement that he was “in good health and showed no signs of homosexuality.” 

Jack’s own doctor requested that he not have to do it, so I asked my doctor if he would sign the statement, to which he agreed.  My doctor was not only a hero in the gay community for his early treatment of people with HIV/AIDS but was soon to retire.  He was not worried about any ramifications.  Besides, the statement read, “shows no signs” and since Jack was not his patient, my doctor could truthfully say after an examination that Jack was in good health and ‘showed no signs.’  As Jack sat in the waiting room for the appointment, he casually picked up People magazine. Then he realized that might be a sign, and quickly picked up Sports Illustrated.

Warmest hugs to all you adoptive and adopting parents from two very lucky dads.

Guatemala Gift

Tags

adoption, family, Gay dads, Guatemala, international adoption

Guest Post: Kim and Jack adopt José Toxpop

CHAPTER ONE – by Kim Straus

Our adoption story may be like many others experienced by two gay men, but then every story is different.  Ours began in 2004, the year José was born.

It was early February.  I had just finished reading the book, Gay Dads.  My dentist, his partner, and their two sons were featured in a chapter.  As I closed the book that evening I turned to Jack and said, “We could do this.”  Well, the next day, Jack was on the internet looking up gay adoption.  When I made that comment I had no idea of the depth of Jack’s feeling about wanting to be a father, about wanting to start a family.  While we’re both from big families, his is very close; mine is not. He had far better role models for parents than I did; I likely always feared being the inept parents mine were.

And, you see, most gay men of our generation grew up thinking that we’d never be fathers.  For us adoption was still a relatively new and uncommon idea.  And when we did hear of gay adoption, it was often a news story involving discriminatory state laws and hateful attitudes.

Nevertheless, despite a few reservations, we plunged into the process of endless forms, background checks, home studies, parenting classes, affidavits, etc.  One of the first decisions we made was that we would do an international adoption.  We knew others who had made this choice and we felt it would be safer.  We’d heard those stories of domestic adoptions that had been reversed by distant relatives of the child.  And, sadly, we knew that there was the chance that a child put up for adoption in this country could have fetal alcohol syndrome.  Jack and I are not spring chickens – he was turning forty and I was fifty-one.  We did not feel we could truly handle a special needs child.  But then all children have special needs.  As it turned out, ours did, but it was something we could handle.

We connected with an adoption agency here in New Mexico that prided itself in helping gay people adopt (the same agency my dentist and his partner used) and we soon learned that New Mexico has one of the best records for gay adoption in the nation.  We examined the countries that would allow a single man to adopt a child  – no countries that I know of allow a gay couple to adopt.  Our choices were somewhat limited.  Fortunately, one of our best choices was Guatemala.  Jack had spent two years in the Peace Corps there.  He knew the people, customs, places and Spanish.  His Mayan dialects were rudimentary.  Because this was to be a single parent adoption at first, it was logical for Jack to be the adopting parent.  As far as Guatemala knew, I didn’t exist; or if they knew about me, it was that I happened to be another man living in the same house.  We didn’t have to hide our relationship in this country.

In August we received photos and a video of a small plump Kekchi Mayan boy named José Felipe Tox Pop from the Cobán region.  He was three months old and living with a foster mother in Guatemala City.  Jack and I were asked, would you like this boy to be your son?  How could we say no!

From there the process became one of Guatemalan courts and lots of money.  We began hearing stories of adoptions that dragged on for months so we figured it would be the following May at the least before we could dream of bringing our son home.

However, in November, nine months after conceiving this idea, we got the call from the agency that José was ready for us (Jack) to come get him.  Wait, we’re not ready!   Jack’s a teacher and wanted to finish out the semester.  And we’d just bought tickets to spend the holidays in Guatemala.  So we asked if Jack could pick him up at the beginning of January and the two of us spent ten days beforehand seeing the country Jack had told me so much about.  I returned to Santa Fe the day before Jack was to meet our son. We thought it best for me not to be there and, after all,  I had to assemble the crib.

I’ve heard Jack’s recollections many times of that moment when José was put in

Family life is a win/win situation

arms for the first time.  Scary, exhilarating.  But this man is lucky.  Who should be at the Marriott Hotel in Guatemala City where most of the adopting families stay but a woman he knew who had served in the Peace Corps a year ahead of Jack’s group.  She was there visiting the child she was adopting; she helped with that first diaper change and gave sound advice on bottle feeding and getting José asleep that first night.  As it turned out, José preferred sleeping in the umbrella stroller we had brought with us.

Two days later Jose and Jack were on a plane bound for home.  After a stay-over in Miami they arrived in Albuquerque on January 7, 2005.   One exhausting journey was over; another joyful one was just beginning.

Adoptee Stories —>Share YOURS

Tags

adoptee, adoption, Celebrating Adoption, Contest, Guest Posting, memoir, national adoption month, Pros and Cons, Reflections

This Fall, I am inviting first person stories to my site.

When the publisher of The Goodbye Baby suggested a Goodreads book giveaway, I seized the opportunity to relaunch my memoir. Rather than”A Diary about Adoption,” it would now be subtitled “Adoptee Diaries.” The book comprises four decades of my personal journals as I came of age, as I accepted the reality that the wounds of adoption had to be healed. It’s been a fascinating journey, one that has shaped my life and continues to impact future writing.
In that spirit, I am opening the door to the adoption stories of others. These must be first person accounts, submitted online (see instructions below). They can be written from the point of view of the adoptee him or herself, parents wanting to adopt a child, birthparents searching or in reunion with their biological children.
The submission period runs throughout the rest of September and early October. Acceptance for publication is up to the editor. During the five Mondays of November, I’ll publish the best of the stories, and I will also send you a present (one of my published books) by snail mail.
If you’re adopted, here are the questions to consider:
* How old were you when you were adopted?
* Was it an open or closed adoption?
* Were siblings adopted with you?
* In what ways has growing up adopted affected you? Why? Or, if being adopted has not affected you, why not?
* Did you meet your biological parents, and if so, how did that go?
* Do you feel that adoptions be open? Why or why not?
* What misconceptions about adoption have you encountered?
* What is the most positive aspect of your personal adoption? Negatives?

Story entries may also include accounts from those who want to adopt a baby or older child, birthmother/birthfather experiences, accounts by adoptive parents.

Your personal account can range from 250 to 400 words. Please edit carefully before submission. Avoid an angry or accusatory tone; keep your approach conversational. Humor is always welcome. Remember that your story may make all the difference to readers who might be struggling with “being adopted issues.” Deadline is October 20. The top five submissions will appear on TheGoodbyeBaby website during November, which is also National Adoption Month. Please indicate whether or not you grant permission for use of your piece in a future book.

Along with your story, include a brief bio and a cameo photo. E-mail queries and submissions to deardiaryreadings@me.com.

Adopt, Adapt

Tags

adoption, Gratitude, Guest Posting, Hurricane Katrina, Mother and Daughter, Natural disasters, Relocating

Editor’s Note: The following guest blog was contributed by Mary Bonney a remarkable, courageous woman who left New Orleans because of the damage from Hurricane Katrina and relocated to Santa Fe, New Mexico. It is a story of water – both destructive and healing – and of what it means to adopt a new home.

Mary Bonney had to start life over again.

“The biggest lesson I learned from losing one home and landing in another, is gentle acceptance of our physical space.”- Mary Bonney

Rain meant something quite different in Santa Fe, NM

The sounds on the roof woke me up, and as I lay there, bewildered and half asleep trying to figure out just what ‘that noise’ was, I realized – it was rain!
Sweet, soothing rain, the gentle spatter of noise on windows, the deeper swooshing noise of it rushing out of the gutter, and the more distinct pings as drops hit a pipe on the roof.
Desert rain, blessed and necessary water.  Water, out of context, in my newly adopted home of Santa Fe and such a profoundly different meaning it had here, than in my old home of New Orleans.  From there, from WATER, I fled. Just a few months before, on the day the hurricane hit, hundreds of thousands of people, myself included, whose lives were changed by water.
And here, now, sitting in the dark, tears streaming down my face as I recognize a forgotten sound, and note the difference of emotion it brings to me on this still night, my two year old daughter snuggled up next to me, finally asleep after the evening ritual of tears before bedtime.  I am grateful the sounds don’t wake her, and wonder how long it will take for her to get used to our new home, our new life.  At two years old, she can hardly articulate the pain and confusion and loss that she feels, that we feel, and the almost unspeakable fear of not knowing exactly how to start over in a new place full of strangers, of brown ground and brown homes – so very different from the bright purples and sky blues and warm oranges of our former neighborhood.  So she cries, always, and I carry her with me everywhere, as we navigate new terrain.  I find an art therapist for her, since she is too young to speak her thoughts, this gentle woman coaxes color and form out of her psyche, and with that, and time, finally – finally – her tears stop.

There are days, the earlier days, when I took it ’15 minutes at a time’.  If I could make it through those minutes, I could breathe and not give up, and perhaps do another 15 more.
Adopting a new life, I guess like adoption of any kind, is about acceptance and appreciation.  To be grateful for life, the most humble act of waking up to each new day, is a cornerstone of happiness for most people, and beyond that is what we make of it, I think.  Our own personal criteria for ‘success’ is our business and falls under the category of ‘to each their own’ in my book.  But the biggest lesson I learned, from losing one home and landing in another, is gentle acceptance of our physical space. That first rain, in Santa Fe, was at once foreign yet familiar; it rained almost daily during many seasons in New Orleans and one of the biggest shocks from moving to Santa Fe was the lack of rain – the DRY.  I hated it. I hated the dust and the cracked wood and the dirt.  Now I love the landscape, and the amazing desert flowers that seemingly bloom out of air. I was thinking the other day that I haven’t seen my umbrella in months and months, and the immediate thought after that was that in my past life I never went a day without an umbrella in my bag.  But the same sky that used to drench our streets every afternoon with downpours instead now offers me immense sunshine and joyous blue skies.  

One of my favorite quotes is by Robert Southwell, and it is
Not where I breathe, but where I love, I live; Not where I love, but where I am, I die”

I thought of this often, as I transitioned from one home to another – our journey on Earth is not defined but where we live, but what we hold in our hearts.  Our joy, our pain, our essence, is what moves with us, anywhere and with anyone. It is the power of ourselves to adapt, and to adopt – it is the energy of angels, and we have it as well.

-Mary and her daughter Lily celebrate Mardi Gras in Santa Fe, NM

Mary was born in Belgium, and ended up in New Orleans via a life path that journeyed through Missouri, California, Texas and New York City. Her 14 years as a gallerist continue in Santa Fe, as does community leadership as past President of Artsmart, the Canyon Road Merchants Association, and currently serving as a Mayor appointed Board Member of the Occupancy Tax Advisory Board for the City of Santa Fe. Her most treasured role is being Lily’s mom.

Poetry for Mind and Spirit

Tags

Art of Haiku, Conciseness, Imagery, Japanese Tanka, Less is More, Self-realization, Simplicity

Early morning freeze
Catches plum blossoms off guard.
Withered pink petals.
-Roberta Fine, 2014

My friend Roberta is an octogenarian whose appearance and mental liveliness seem to deny her age. A retired teacher, writer, gardener and poet, Roberta wrote her first haiku over five years ago. For the first year, she created a haiku daily, and now she creates several each week, collecting them in a daily journal.
Every Christmas, rather than sending an account of the past year’s activities, Roberta sends friends and families a collection of haikus in which she’s captured the seasons. She calls her creations “the joy of the day,” and appreciates the discipline of capturing northern New Mexico skies, mountains and weather in the spare, Zen-like style of haiku.
Inspired by a book titled The Art of Haiku by Stephen Addis, she has studied the form, even as her practice has developed. She describes Haiku as follows:
“In Haiku, the words are plain, everyday, arranged in three lines of five, seven, five syllables each, although that rule is not iron clad. It is a descendant of the Japanese Tanka, an earlier, more aristocratic form of poetry of seven lines. Tanka tended to concern itself with yearning, loss, the subtle maneuvers of court life. As civil wars receded, the aesthetic changed. Today, Haiku can express the Japanese aesthetic in whatever language one writes.
“Basho, a Japanese poet of the seventeenth century, provides the model still. His life reminds one of Francis of Assisi, who trod the by-roads of Umbria, espousing Lady Poverty, preaching the Gospel and singing the praises of Brother Sun and Sister Moon five centuries earlier.
“Like Francis in Italy, Basho roamed the mountains of Japan, staying in huts and temples, sometimes teaching, attracting acolytes. Brushed by Buddhism, with its emphasis on the transience of life, he incorporated into his poetry an allusion to the season, the beauty of austerity, a loneliness, mysterious depth, an instant of truth. The reader is invited in to contribute his own perception and share the moment.
Haiku eschews the conventions of Western poetry. It communicates what is, not what it is like. Two contrasting concrete images in the poem spark a recognition in the reader. “Yes, I’ve been there, felt that.” Its plain words invite a similar, simple response. We all have the souls of monk-poets; like Basho and Francis we respond spontaneously to Brother Sun and Sister Moon and sing.”
Roberta has been rewarded by the discipline of the form. Haiku, she concludes, makes you think carefully about words even as you enjoy their music. She’s embraced Haiku as a way of looking at the world and expressing her thoughts, observations, and emotions.

Roberta Fine creates a haiku daily, for discipline and pleasure.

Laura and her Mission

Tags

adoptee, Adoptee Recovery, Birth Family, Donations, healing, Helping Recovery, Korea, Origins, Poetry, roots, Searching

In a few months, 25-year-old Korean-American adoptee Laura Wachs will be traveling to Korea in search of her birthparents. She longs to  learn firsthand about her cultural heritage. Beyond that, she is launching a campaign to help other Korean adoptees.

Korea, the homeland that Laura has never seen.

Laura was adopted when she was six months old. As a young girl growing up in Seattle, she was told only that her birthmother was unwed, very young and wanted to give her infant daughter the chance for a good life. “Basically, that (a good life) was the outcome,” says Laura. “However, there are many questions about my origins that I need to research.”
In addition to her own quest, Laura is making great strides toward helping other Korean adoptees. Though donations gained primarily through a Kickstarter fund, she will be using art and poetry, mediums that have helped her in healing from the wounds of adoption and in leading a more authentic life. Her plan is an ambitious one, involving a workshop for Korean adoptees, a show of their artistic creations and the publication of two books.
The project is titled ‘The Voices of Korean Adoption.’ It will showcase poets from around the world who were adopted from Korea. Laura has raised nearly half of the required $10,000 needed to obtain the grant that will allow her to complete the project. She has a deadline of April 28th to raise about $6,000.
Editor’s Note:  After talking with Laura, I donated to this incredibly worthy cause. Laura has succeeded in previous art and poetry nonprofit projects and is well qualified to bring her plan to fruition. As an adoptee who was able to meet my birthparents, I know the value of such reunions.
Please join me in supporting ‘The Voices of Korean Adoption’
Contact: Laura Wachs
206-819-6398
laura_wachs@hotmail.com

Laura feels hopeful that donations will make her project a reality!

Mother-Daughter Reunion- Pat’s Story

Tags

adoptee, birthmother, Reconnection, separation, The Long Wait

Editor’s Note: Pat Goehe is a lifetime teacher who’s worked in all facets of communication and related arts. She teaches students at the secondary and university level. Perhaps the most meaningful communication of her life, however, occurred when her daughter Linda, after a 32-year separation, contacted her. In recognition of National Adoption Month, I am republishing her story.
*************************************************

In Pat’s Words:

I Knew The Day Would Come…and It Did. When I made the decision after much

Pat and her daughter Linda were reunited after 32 years

thought, to give my child up for adoption, I felt I had done the best thing for her and me. Because I taught Public Speaking, I would hear speeches of persuasion on the topic of why closed adoptions should now be open. I also heard from a student who was so upset because during her parents’ divorce she found out she had a half-sister somewhere. But it was not until one of my week long experiential workshops that I was forced to look at another reality.
I can’t tell you the workshop topic; I did so many over the years. But, in one of these we were doing an exercise in threesomes, exploring some concept. There were two women and one young man working together. How it happened I can’t remember, but at one point I was the apex of the triangle with the man next to me. The two women came each with a story. One was trying desperately to get pregnant and couldn’t. The other…. Hers was a story of “foster-care,” “adoption,”and one kind of abuse after another. It was at that very moment that I realized that perhaps I shouldn’t be so smug. Who was to say that perhaps my daughter had or was experiencing this horrible life as well? Just because I did “all the right things” and felt assured she would be in a good home with parents who couldn’t have children, how did I know for certain that this was true? From then on I was haunted with this possibility.
No one in my family knew that I had a baby and had given her up at birth to Catholic Charities. I didn’t want to have my parents have the burden of this news. I felt I shouldn’t try to track my child, but I knew that if she were trying to find me, I wouldn’t interfere. Within the next several years I found myself thinking that the day would come. There would be a knock on the door or a phone call, whatever. But it would come. Before long every cell in my body said this.
I had a major role in a play in a neighboring town. Because my Mom always wanted to see the things I acted and/or directed, I was trying to get my sister or sister-in-law to agree to drive her. I wasn’t having much luck and was somewhat irritated. I called to try again, and my sister-in-law answered. Before I could get into the “drive Mom to see the show” thing, she said, “Are you calling about that student who talked with your brother?” I had no idea what she was talking about. Later my Mom called me to tell me “Michelle called your brother and you are to call her tomorrow in California at ten a.m. their time.”

Who is “Linda”?
I had no clue as to who this might be. I searched my brain thinking I never ever had a student named Michelle. Oh well, I’ll call tomorrow from my office at school. Our offices were tiny ones surrounding a big open space. We often gathered there to chat. I was watching the clock the next day and waiting for the ten a.m. exact time when the secretary answered a call and said, “Why yes, she’s standing here close to me right now. Pat, do you want to take this call? It’s Linda.”
“Linda? Oh well OK.” I was upset because it was the time I was to call California and because there were two “Lindas” in my life then. One was a niece who would never be calling me at work. The other, someone who was dating my ex-husband.
I went into the office and with a gruff “Hello” was greeted with the following: “Are you in a place where you can talk confidentially? I need to ask you some questions which may be difficult for you to answer.” Well this wasn’t Linda for sure. I said “Anyone who knows me knows I’ll tell them anything.” So then she asked me questions about where I lived now; had I grown up in this Illinois town. All along I’m trying to figure out who the devil this is. I decided it could be a bill collector for my daughter who had been in California a few years back and probably did leave with bills uppaid or something. So I stopped and said, “You know, you really are getting personal now, and I don’t intend to answer another question until you tell me who you are and what this is about?” Bingo!

Part Two: tomorrow