Home Beckons

It was the fall of 1970. I was ready to go. My shirts, skirts, and dresses were packed – all protected by the name tags I’d sown into them (ready to fend off laundry thieves, I guess). I was headed from Wyalusing to Meadville for my first year at Allegheny College. I was a bit nervous about meeting new people, not realizing how much “new” there was to learn.

Not long after arriving at Allegheny, my first clue that home was far behind me was those items in my suitcase. My high school in Wyalusing still required all girls to wear skirts or dresses. – no pants allowed. Surrounding me that first day on campus were girls in blue jeans and other pants. Apparently, the women’s liberation movement ushered in this change, but the news hadn’t reached the countryside.

Another early eye-opening situation involved meeting the first Negros I’d ever talked with (The term Negro was just beginning to change to Black, but the change hadn’t reached Wyalusing yet). This was also a new situation for Allegheny which had made a concerted effort that year to admit more Black students. This followed the volatile protest marches, sit-ins and riots of the 1960s, including the riots across the country following the murder of Martin Luther King in 1968.

Also late to come to Wyalusing, but not to Allegheny was the open presence of homosexuals. Growing up, I don’t remember knowing anyone who was, but surely there were some behind closed doors. I was also naïve about kids in high school calling other kids queer or fairy, thinking they were just terms guys used to harass or bully anyone they didn’t like. By 1970, the gay rights movement was in full force leading to the first Gay Pride Liberation march in NYC in June of that year.

Naïve? Yes, my friends and I were pretty naïve about a lot of things that first year. In 1969, psychiatrist David Reuben published a book, “Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask”). My friends and I met one night to eat pizza and discuss the book. All four of us were clueless and confused about the little we had learned in 10th grade biology class. After all, we had grown up in a more sheltered time and place without the internet or social media to answer every question.

Even the weekends provided new challenges – alcohol and marijuana. My closest high school friends and I didn’t drink or do drugs. I had never even smelled marijuana. Suddenly, both were everywhere, at parties and in the dorms. Fortunately, I disliked the taste of liquor and was too cautious to try marijuana at the time. I was in the minority!

I did allow myself to get drawn into protests of the Vietnam war. The shooting deaths in June 1970 of four Kent State students during a protest of the war struck a chord. Also, by this time, 40-some thousand U.S. soldiers had died. That seemed like enough. I participated in a peaceful day of cutting class to hold a sign emblazoned with “STOP THE WAR” in front of the administration building. My decision to protest the war caused me great stress because of my upbringing in the countryside where you trusted your president and government to do what’s right.  Fifty-five years later, I’m still torn about my actions that day..

1970 brought upheaval to those of us still living as though the chaos of the 1960s had never happened.  The anti-Vietnam war protests, women’s liberation activities, civil rights riots and protests, gay rights protests, the youth led counterculture movement (with its free love, long hair, drugs, and anti-government positions) all came into clear view for me that first year at college.  It was a crazy time – culture clash for sure.
 
 

My sister-in-law Gila loves to paint. The family jokes that the rooms in her house keep getting smaller and smaller as the paint on her walls gets thicker and thicker each time she decides to repaint! I, on the other hand, would rather dust than paint and that’s really saying something! There’s a history …

My cousin Tracy started it all, I’m pretty sure. We were four, maybe five years old in the mid-fifties when we slipped away from our folks and went down to the cellar to explore. My mother’s home-canned jars of food on the shelves shared the cellar with old broken-down wooden chairs, forgotten flowerpots, rusted tools, and many other items headed to the dump someday. But we found a couple of items that interested us – a can with a little bit of thick paint and a couple of dried-up brushes.

What to do? What to do? What we did was what any kid might do. We painted.  We painted the side of my uncle’s new truck! It must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but apparently it wasn’t. I don’t remember getting into trouble, so my uncle must not have seen our artwork until they got home. My cousin, his son, on the other hand …

A few years later, Tracy and I made another stab at painting, this time trying out a new medium. Our farm in Bradford County is just a mile or so from the Wyoming County line. One hot, sunny summer day, we rode our bikes out to the line. It was so hot that the tar on the road was soft and gooey. We used our fingers to scoop up the tar and filled in the letters on the county line sign – the B, the R, the A, the D, the O, the R, the D, and the O in Wyoming! They replaced the sign years ago, but I wish we’d taken a picture

Along about the same time of the sign painting, I spent a night with my cousins at their house on Oak Hill. When I got there, my Aunt Marie was just finishing painting the outside landing and steps. Later in the day, she hollered at us kids, “Who stepped in the paint?” We all denied doing it. Smart lady that she was, she asked us each to show her the bottoms of our feet. I’m not proud to admit that only my feet showed faint signs of gray paint. My cousin Suky never let me forget it!

Many years later, when our youngest son left for college, my husband, Gary and I decided to paint his bedroom. We wanted a warm color that would be welcoming to visitors. I spent a long time choosing a good color, settling on a lovely shade of pink, or so it seemed! By the time we had two walls painted, I told Gary we had to stop. My lovely shade of pink turned out to be more of a shockingly gaudy shade of raspberry. So, we reluctantly repainted with a lovely shade of neutral tan.

The “lovely” shade of pink

One final paint-related story happened just a few years ago. We decided to have our niece paint the inside walls of our new house, so we went to Lowes to get ceiling paint. With no need to worry about picking a color, I quickly found the paint that we wanted and pulled the gallon can off the shelf. Unfortunately, the can below it stuck to my can and went crashing to the floor with the lid popping off. My black leather shoes and blue jeans took the biggest hit while Gary laughed and took pictures. I just waited for the clean-up-on-Aisle-5 people to arrive.

The Accident

Fast forward to today. Our bedroom and bathroom need to be repainted. I wonder what my sister-in-law is doing next week. I don’t have time to paint; I will be dusting!

Getting a diagnosis of Parkinson’s can be confusing, upsetting and even scary. I got the diagnosis six years ago and have learned a whole lot about the disease since that time. You can find vast resources on the internet to help answer questions about Parkinson’s, but not everyone has access to or interest in computers. Also,, some doctors may not give you these tips. So, I’m writing these tips based on my research, discussions with neurologists, conversation with other people with Parkinson’s, and from my own personal experience.

Tips that might help you in that first year or two:
1.    Exercise is important for everyone, but particularly for those of us with Parkinson’s. The disease typically causes our bodies to slow down, stiffen up and plays havoc with our balance. My hope and belief (and the medical world verifies) is that exercising will keep me upright and moving longer than without it. If you have trouble with your joints or balance, get a stationary bike or rower or do exercises sitting or lying down. If possible, find a group exercise program in your area, like Rock Steady Boxing. With your doctor’s approval get off the couch and push yourself!

2.    Protein is necessary for optimum health, but many of us must be careful when we eat it versus when we take our carbidopa/levodopa (for many, the first medication prescribed). Apparently, protein and carbidopa/levodopa compete for absorption when they get to the colon. It can be very challenging but try to wait about an hour after taking your meds before eating protein and wait about two hours after eating protein before taking your meds.

3.    If possible, choose your doctor carefully.  Not all neurologists are created equal. Try to get hooked into someone who is a movement specialist. The neurologist that first prescribed medication for my Parkinson’s never mentioned exercise nor the challenge of protein. When I quizzed him about these two important activities, he said, “You can do that if you want to”. I didn’t go back to him. Change doctors if possible if you aren’t comfortable.

4.    I hesitated to write this one because it might sound overwhelming but think it’s good to know what to watch for – you probably will only experience some of what follows as Parkinson’s affects everyone differently. The four main symptoms of Parkinson’s are tremors, slow movements, stiffness, and balance problems. Unfortunately, there are several other potential symptoms: freezing (times when you can’t move), constipation, sleep difficulties, nightmares, brain fog, muscle cramping, unintended movements, anxiety, drooling, weight loss, swallowing problems, facial tension, loss of voice, fatigue, loss of hand dexterity, restless legs or arms, excessive sweating, and skin problems. Sometimes it’s difficult to sort out the impact of Parkinson’s versus just getting older!

5.    Keep track of your own symptoms. Write them down and update the list once a month or so or after you change medications or dosages. It helps you to keep track of how your medication is working and makes for more effective doctor visits.

6.    Don’t give up. There’s a whole lot of ongoing research to find the causes of Parkinson’s, to find more effective medications, and to alleviate the symptoms of the disease. A cure? Maybe not in our lifetime, but in the meantime, don’t give up the fight to slow it down!

Last week, I drove by farmland along the Susquehanna River, thinking about how beautiful the newly plowed rock-free dirt looked. Our own farmland on Sugar Hill was a different story. I remember an every-spring requirement – picking rocks. After the fields were plowed, my brother or I drove the tractor and wagon around the fields, while my father and cousin Terry picked up the biggest rocks that had come to the surface every year when the plow kicked them up. It’s easy to see why all our fields are lined with stone walls mostly created with back-breaking work by my grandfather Potter and his brothers before tractors arrived on the farm.

My father used to tell me how he and his father farmed before they purchased their first tractor in 1942. They used horses and mules to pull plows, planters, cultivators, mowers, wagons and more. He said that the mules were better workers because they knew enough not to drink too much water when they were hot, unlike a horse that might get sick from drinking too fast. Also, a mule was more aware of his footing – dodging woodchuck holes while a horse was more likely to step into one. I can’t prove either claim, but my grandfather and father were convinced.

That first tractor was a John Deere B. With only 17 horsepower, it still must have seemed like they’d added several hired hands. The old B was still in use in the 1950s and 60s when I was a kid on the farm. I remember three things about it: the hard metal seat, how difficult it was to steer, and my father’s relationship to it. Not normally a swearing man, the air often turned blue when he cranked that

old flywheel over and over and over without successfully starting the tractor.

By 1960, my father added a John Deere 520 to the farm, with power steering, a cushioned seat, double the horsepower, and no dang flywheel. By then, I was a diehard John Deere fan. My bubble was burst one day though, when my uncle Reuben challenged my father to a pulling contest – our 520 against my uncle’s new Farmall. The Farmall won and I was crushed!

My brother and I also took turns driving the 520 and a wagon during haying season. One of us would drive while the other pushed bales together. That way, the tractor didn’t have to stop so often for the men to pile the bales on the wagon. Pushing 50-pound bales together made my summertime legs

look like I’d been attacked by a porcupine – no long pants for me!

Field work on the farm changed over the next sixty years. My father quit farming a long time ago, so there’s no plowing and not many new rocks to pick. The fields no longer produce oats, wheat, or corn. Only hay remains. In another week or so, our neighbor will start haying our fields, but with no more horses, mules, low-powered put-put tractors, nor need for manpower or kidpower. He’ll use his 150 horsepower Farmall to make giant 1200 -pound round bales that can be made and moved without a man or kid on the ground,

Time marches on. Technology improves. Things change. It’s fun to remember the “good old days”, but my father and grandfather probably would have appreciated that 150 horsepower tractor. And, who knows what’s ahead? One thing hasn’t changed and probably won’t – love that John Deere green!

I looked into the mirror one dark and dreary day,
And suddenly discovered I’d aged along the way.
 
My hair was grey and thinning, my wrinkles clear to see,
Brown spots upon my saggy arms, an urgent need to pee.
 
Another sleepless night has passed, I’m ready for a nap,
It’s time to take another pill but I can’t remove the cap.
 
I fumble for my glasses, false teeth and hearing aids,
They should be where I put them, but memory quickly fades.
 
Getting dressed is really tough, my balance’s not too great,
Aches and pains in every joint, I shuffle toward the gate.
 
The gate to heaven’s open, but I’m not ready yet,
There’s ice cream in the kitchen and the table’s always set!
 
 
This is a half fun / half serious poem about aging – things we’ll all face if we live long enough! The last two lines were written with my wonderful mother-in-law in mind. She loved her hot fudge sundaes right until the end at 92!
 

“Yuck, I got my hair stuck in it again!” I looked back and saw the yellow fly sticker swinging back and forth from the middle of the kitchen ceiling with the dead and mostly dead black flies stuck, unable to free themselves. I gingerly felt my hair to be sure none were there and reminded myself again to duck next time.

That was the Sugar Hill farm kitchen in the early 1960s. It’s hard to imagine today hanging one of those nasty things in our kitchen, but back then, it was a necessity. The farm animals and crops drew lots of flies. Plus, with no storm windows, we placed expandable screens in the windows, which didn’t always close tightly against the windowsills and sides, allowing somewhat easy access by those little black wretches (as my brother called them) into the house.

The old farmhouse was built in ~1906, and as per the times, had no electricity, running water, nor indoor bathroom. Electricity arrived for the first time in the late 1930s and by the end of the 40s, water and

indoor plumbing were in place. By the time my brother and I came along in the early 1950s, we were spoiled by all these modern luxuries!

We did witness one new fangled home improvement in the kitchen. When I was four or five, we got our first automatic washing machine. I can still remember standing on my tiptoes watching in wonder as it filled, agitated and spun.

Of course, our main focus in that old kitchen centered on food. We ate breakfast, lunch, and supper every day at home except for lunches at school, and except Friday nights when we went to town to get groceries and sometimes a burger and fries (for ~30 cents) at Ruth Brown’s Chattaway Restaurant. After eating, my brother cousins, and I played on the sidewalk outside after dark while the adults nursed coffees and sodas inside.

At home, my mother fixed big hearty meals. Most everything came fresh from our garden, orchard, or pond (beans, beets, corn, carrots, peas, cabbage, peppers, squash, potatoes, onions, cucumbers, radishes, lettuce, watermelon, tomatoes, apples, peaches) or from hundreds of quarts of canned goods she prepared each summer and fall.

Our meats came fresh too – deer, squirrel, rabbit, chicken, beef, grouse, pheasant, turkey, pork, and fish. Add to this, homemade bread, rolls, or baking powder biscuits dripping with real butter and homemade strawberry or blackberry jam. Finish up with hot, bubbling apple, cherry, blackberry, or huckleberry pies made from fruit picked on the farm or on the local mountain or sometimes hand-cranked ice cream with milk straight from the cow.

My favorite kitchen food memory though happened one late afternoon when my mother was making spaghetti sauce for supper. She started it and then realized that she didn’t have any salt so she sent me to the barn to get a cup full. She added it to the sauce and let it simmer. A while later she tasted it and added some more salt and left it to simmer. A bit later she tried it again and added more salt, but this time with an inkling that all was not well. She sent me back to the barn to get the bag of salt. Sure enough – Epsom salt! I don’t remember, but we might have eaten baloney sandwiches for supper!

• So many good memories …

I used my kerchief to wipe the sweat off my face, but the back of my shirt was soaked as I leaned against the hot adobe wall. We were sitting side by side in the shade while the afternoon sun beat down on the poor woman sitting against the opposite wall of the compound. She groaned and tried to change positions, but the ropes around her hands and feet kept her pinned down in the dust with no chance of relief. I reminded myself that my only chance of avoiding the same fate was to act relaxed and talk quietly as though nothing were wrong.

Sitting next to me in that Mexican courtyard was El Chapo, drug lord and leader of a huge international crime syndicate. I laughed at his jokes and talked about what we’d have for dinner, hoping that my voice didn’t give away the wild beating of my heart. One last look at the woman on the wall and I woke up.

Yup, it was a dream – not the recurring kind like forgetting my high school locker combo or being abducted (I’ve learned that if I shout out, my husband will save me every time by waking me up). But, it wasn’t the first time I’d traveled far and and wide during my sleeping hours.

One night, my high school friends, Laurie, Kathy, Kay and I attended a business conference in Yemen. The next morning, I had to get a map out to remind myself where exactly in the world Yemen is.

Sometimes, my dreams take place much closer to home. A few years ago, the weathermen predicted tornados in our area. That night, I dreamed that my cousins and I were in their basement waiting to see if a tornado would hit. I looked out the window and saw a huge fireball barreling down the hill toward the house. In a panic we tried to get out of its path as fast as possible. The only trouble was that I chose to hop on the back of a little kid’s tricycle being peddled by my 6’ 3” cousin. I just couldn’t get him to peddle fast enough!

Another night found me at the Arnot Mall in Elmira. In the men’s department of Penney’s I saw my father-in-law, Al (who was 93 at the time), in his pajamas, practicing kickboxing kicks. And then, fast forward as many dreams do, I found myself immediately at the top of the steps in the food court. Rather than taking the escalator to the first floor, I slid down a giant display of women’s’ underwear. At the bottom, the clerk gave me a disapproving look!

A few years ago, I witnessed (in a dream) a young man drive his motorcycle over the bank of the road down past my father’s house on the farm. He was unconscious and hidden from the road. It seemed so real that I drove to Sugar Hill the next morning and searched for him. I didn’t find him, but I couldn’t ignore the dream.

I couldn’t ignore the dream because of another dream I’d had near the same time. In real life, our cat, Mutton, jumped out of the car six miles from home and was lost. Six months later I dreamed he came home. Two days later he came back home in exactly the way I had dreamed it – coming onto our back porch as I walked toward him. Just a coincidence or premonition? I’m not sure, but just in case I’m glad that El Chapo is serving a life sentence plus 30 years!

You may remember the catchy Jimmy Rogers tune about not being able to roller skate in a buffalo herd or take a shower in a parakeet cage. It goes on to say:

But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to
All ya gotta do is put your mind to it
Knuckle down, buckle down, do it, do it, do it

I’m typically a glass-half-full kind of person, but on days like today, the being-happy bit isn’t any easier than rolling through a big herd or splashing around in a birdcage. Today is too hard. Today feels impossible.

“You have Parkinson’s,” the doctor said five years ago. I wasn’t really surprised, since I’d spent the prior four months plugging my symptoms into Google – a slight tremor in my left ring finger, slow movements, and difficulty writing and typing. It’s a lifetime sentence meted out to about 90,000 people in the U.S. every year, so I have lots of company. Some days that helps, but not today

Today I need time to cry because I don’t feel good. To take a break from trying to act “normal.” To mourn the loss of abilities like playing guitar. To worry about what’s coming in the years ahead. And yes, to feel sorry for myself for just one day.

Tomorrow, I’ll count my blessings and knuckle down, buckle down to find that happiness. My life is still filled with family to love, kind friends who care, familiar routines that matter, and thoughts of new adventures ahead. Tomorrow will be OK, but not today. Today is just too hard.

• * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Note: I wanted to start writing stories around my experiences with Parkinson’s from a positive point of view. It seemed a bit disingenuous since there’s much about the disease that’s not so rosy and just dang hard. I’m pretty sure that most people who are dealing with this disease or MS or fibromyalgia or depression or other chronic issues face days where their problems seem overwhelming. I wanted to validate that reality before writing more hopeful stories.

Aunt Claire and Uncle Ern Hunsinger lived out the Back Road in the 1950s, first house on the left if you’re headed to Sugar Hill from Hollenback. Aunt Claire, like my grandfather, had red hair, and I would sit on her lap on their front porch to count the freckles on her arms. My mother used to tell a story about Aunt Claire’s cooking. She came to our house one day when the men were filling silo and “helped” my mother fix a

hardy lunch of chicken and biscuits for the crew. She took a butcher knife and hacked up those chicken pieces, bones and all! (Fortunately no one died that day!). I also remember her cake made from scratch. It had lumps of baking soda visible throughout the cake; with icing so thin you could still see the chocolate cake through it. Thankfully, what she lacked in cooking skills, she made up for with her kindness, hard work and good sense.

My memories of Uncle Ern are sketchier, probably because he kind of scared me. After all these years, I can’t remember why, other than that he seemed ancient and had scruffy whiskers. Uncle Ern kept bees and a parakeet and liked to take a nip now and then. My father told of the time one winter when they heard a strange sound down by our barn. Uncle Ern, headed home after having a nip, fell asleep, ran off the road and crashed into a huge pile of manure! Aunt Claire was miffed. Apparently, he really was a good man, so I wish I’d gotten to know him better. He and Aunt Claire sold their house and land to my father in 1960 and moved to Towanda.

My father farmed the fields out the Back Road and rented the house to the Salsman family for a few years. He sold the place in 1967, but whenever I walk or drive by, I imagine Aunt Claire in her rocking chair on the front porch and Uncle Ern down below the house tending his bees. Amazingly, I realize now that my “ancient” uncle was only in his 70s!

The Champluviers lived just a little further out the Back Road. They moved to Wysox in the 60s, selling their place to the Zakrzewskis. One fine summer day as I was riding my horse, Topper, down the hill near the Back Road, I heard our German Sheppard, George howling horribly. He had gotten

his front paw caught in a steel trap set there by a neighbor to catch fox. I wasn’t strong enough to get it open, and knowing that no one was home at our house, I ran the half mile to the Zakrzewskis’ house and got Mrs. Zak. We ran back out the road and together were able to free George. With hindsight, I realize how brave she was to approach a strange German Sheppard in such obvious agitation. She will forever be my hero!

Mrs. Zakrzewski’s granddaughter and her husband live on their old homestead. They established and operate Deep Roots Hard Cider. Check them out at www.deeprootshardcider.com or visit them at 348 Back Road, Sugar Run, PA 18846. Then, follow the old dirt road as it leads you on a pleasant ride through the woods to meet up with Sugar Hill Road. You won’t be sorry you took the time.

Aunt Claire and Uncle Ern lived out the Back Road in the 1950s, first house on the left if you’re headed to Sugar Hill from Hollenback. Aunt Claire, like my grandfather, had red hair, and I would sit on her lap on their front porch to count the freckles on her arms. My mother used to tell a story about Aunt Claire’s cooking. She came to our house one day when the men were filling silo and “helped” my mother fix a hardy lunch of chicken and biscuits for the crew. She took a butcher knife and hacked up those chicken pieces, bones and all! (Fortunately no one died that day!). I also remember her cake made from scratch. It had lumps of lard visible throughout the cake; with icing so thin you could still see the chocolate cake through it. Luckily, what she lacked in cooking skills, she made up for with her kindness, hard work and good sense.My memories of Uncle Ern are sketchier, probably because he kind of scared me. After all these years, I can’t remember why other than that he seemed ancient and had scruffy whiskers. Uncle Ern kept bees and a parakeet and liked to take a nip now and then. My father told of the time one winter when they heard a strange sound down by our barn. Uncle Ern, headed home after having a nip, fell asleep, ran off the road and crashed into a huge pile of manure! Aunt Claire was miffed. Apparently, he really was a good man, so I wish I’d gotten to know him better. He and Aunt Claire sold their house and land to my father in 1960 and moved to Towanda. The Champluviers lived just a little further out the Back Road. They moved to Wysox in the 60s, selling their place to the Zakrzewskis. One fine summer day as I was riding my horse, Topper, down the hill near the Back Road, I heard our German Sheppard, George howling horribly. He had gotten his front paw caught in a steel trap set there by a neighbor to catch fox. I wasn’t strong enough to get it open, and knowing that no one was home at our house, I ran the half mile to the Zakrzewskis’ house and got Mrs. Zak. We ran back out the road and together were able to free George. With hindsight I realize how brave she was to approach a strange German Sheppard in such obvious agitation. She will forever be my hero!

.Out the back road. Down by the swamp. Over along the lane. Up behind the house. Across the apple orchard. Each of these phrases conjures up memories from our Sugar Hill farm when I was young in the !950s and ’60s. Lately, I’ve been thinking about what happened down below the barn.

A small stream, about 60 yards down below the barn, feeds into the swamp. Before electricity came to the farm, my grandfather’s cows had to lumber down the hill for a drink in the stream. In 1938, Claverack brought electricity to the barn, so by the 1940s, the cows could easily drink from water cups hung right by their stanchions. My father told me that milk production doubled with the addition of water in the barn. Why? Because the cows were too lazy to walk down the hill to the stream – often only drinking water every other day.

Unlike the lazy cows, my brother Lanny, cousins, and I raced down the hill to play beside, and often in, that same cold stream of water. We built dams and cautiously caught small crawfish being oh-so-careful of their tiny pincers. When we got too wet, too cold, or too hungry, we trudged back up the hill toward the barn already planning our next great adventure.

One of those great adventure we planned wasn’t nearly as much fun as it sounded. I can’t remember who came up with the big idea, but I was elected to sneak the raw materials that were needed for the plan out of the house. Once gathered up, my brother, cousins, and I met down below the barn to try smoking what was left of my mother’s partially smoked cigarettes. Just a few puffs convinced me that I’d never walk a mile for a Camel, that a Winston doesn’t taste good like a cigarette should, and that I’d never come to Marlboro country!

Despite the many fond and fun memories from down below the barn, it also marked an important place in the cycle of life for our farm pets. In the days before veterinarians figured out how lucrative small animal care could be even in rural areas, most centered their care on cows and horses. These were income-producing animals and most people didn’t spend money on pets. So, when one of our dogs or cats got hit by a car or got sick, my father took it down below the barn, and with his .22 rifle, sent it on its way. In today’s times, it may sound harsh, but as kids, we understood and accepted these swift and sad endings. ❤

Now, let me tell you what happened out the back road when…