There were two men. Each had a backyard with a half-acre. One planted beautiful flowers all around his house. The other planted some flowers to share with the neighbors, but in the back, he planted potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, onions and fruit. The first man was gratified by the praise of the neighbors. He never shared his flowers.
The second man, although not growing the most beautiful flowers, shared his seeds and wisdom. When the crops came in, he bottled and canned, sharing some of the produce with people in the neighborhood. Some of these people snickered behind his back, “What pathetic apples! They aren’t smooth and shiny like the ones at the market! Look at these tomatoes. They are so tiny!” The first man secretly looked down upon the second man and sneered.
A couple years went by. The first man brought home a trophy wife after a long honeymoon in some foreign country. Weeks later, the second man married a pretty girl in a small church ceremony. They spent their honeymoon in cabin. The first man and his wife looked down upon their simple neighbors. While the first couple showed off their possessions and fancy yard, the second couple spent their money on necessities, planning for a family. The second wife became large with a baby. That child was followed by another and yet another. She was fertile like her husband’s garden. The first wife wiggled her little behind and caught the attentions of every person on the block, with her beauty and the latest fashions that she wore.
The second wife shared her skills with the neighbors: how to save money during hard times, how to can. She tended to the sick and kept confidences. She was a true friend to all. Her children helped the elderly and were a joy to many. The first wife’s hands were smooth and she feared marring them with the hard work that comes with helping the needy. She was put off by the thought that people might think that some of these deprived souls were her friends and wouldn’t be seen near them.
One year, there was a drought. It continued into the next year. The markets had little food and what little there was cost an unprecedented amount of money. The first couple soon ran out of funds. The second man shared what he had with the neighbors but the first couple was too proud to take the canned goods he offered.
Every day, the second family walked all the way to the little stream that was once a broad river and carried back large buckets of water for their plants. There was not enough to nourish the flowers, but they knew what was more important than the blossoms’ beauty: it was the harvest. The crops had their own appeal, from the petals in the spring to the variety of colors and flavors in the autumn.
The drought went on for a decade. All the while, the first wife grew old and restless. Her skin no longer had the dew of youth. The resentment for her living conditions began to show on the woman’s face. Yet, the second wife’s happiness seemed to radiate. The woman’s husband and children were her joy and together they helped the neighborhood make it through.
In the end, everyone acknowledged that the second man and his wife were wise and kind. They were remembered long after the first wife left her husband, long after he died of heartache and loneliness and was lowered into the ground.
We are not statues to be worshiped, but basins full of water.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Merry Memories
(Originally written 2009)
(You may reprint this only with permission from the author. Please, contact me via this blog or facebook.)
Oh the joys of growing up in Michigan. That statement might sound like it’s dripping with sarcasm but I truly mean it. I was fortunate enough to be born into the Hungarian neighborhood of Delray in Detroit where I was introduced to European cuisine at a very young age. I teethed on Kolbasz, a kind of sausage similar to the Polish Kielbasa. However, my true cravings were for Pinkelwurst and Hurka. A true passion developed for chicken paprikash, a Hungarian style dumpling dish. Christmases were filled with Lebkuchen, a German ginger bread, and my mother’s delectable homemade fruit cake. People that state they don’t enjoy the pastry and would rather regift it or use it as a doorstop have never tried my parents' recipe. After having delivered the Christmas cakes to neighbors and friends, we would open our gifts on Christmas Eve, German style, and eat more ethnic goods like Eastern European cheesecakes or Kolache, a poppy seed roll.
My neighbors, German like my mother, loved to hunt. One occasion they cooked up some venison, which I enjoy. This time it was greasy which was unusual but nevertheless, very tasty. Then I was informed it was bear meat. I didn’t want to even touch it after that. I’ve since learned, according to one book I read, that bear meat is a Cherokee’s favorite food. That explains why I liked the taste, I guess, because my papa is Scots-Irish and Cherokee.
As a preschooler when we first moved Downriver, my Arabic neighbor Amelia who lived next door, served my family flatbread and lamb. She was born in Lebanon. I soon learned to call her “Grandma”. More than the unfamiliar taste of Kibbe I enjoyed sneaking out of my house before my parents woke up to enjoy a breakfast of coffee and donuts at Amelia’s. Of course, my drink was mostly cream with just a dash of coffee to warm it up!
Despite my childhood protests, my mother made me try a little of everything. If at first I didn’t like a flavor, if not pressured into tasting it, I’d eventually grow to love it. I grew up with Chinese, Italian and Southern cooking, in addition to many other styles, due to the varied cultures that had settled in Detroit. I listened to Rock-and-roll, Mariachi, Polka, Country and of course, Mo-town.
While some people dip into ice cream or grab chips for comfort food, I heat up a jar of sauerkraut or drown my tears in Southern Beans, my American Grandmother’s recipe. Also handed down for several generations is what my Grandmother’s family called biscuits. They are actually called “scones” in Scotland. Grandma also made a true cornbread from white cornmeal. It is unlike the sugary cake-like bread made from yellow cornmeal. It has an almost popcorn taste and is not sweet, but comforting to me nevertheless. I absolutely love Asian food too! My sisters are of Japanese descent (as a result of my mother’s first marriage). My oldest sister taught me how to make wontons, Korean style. Additionally, my mother taught me how to make Japanese fried rice. As an adult, living part-time in the southwest, I’ve come to love Tex-Mex cooking. I actually can do these recipes in my home kitchen as the ingredients are found in abundance at my local market, unlike most other goods I need to make European fare. I guess I can chalk that up to supply and demand?
I have Scots-Irish, Cherokee, German, Polish, Hungarian, Arabic, Asian, Filipino-Creole friends and relatives. Is it any wonder why I love all these fantastic flavors and foods? I can talk to virtually any ethnicity or culture and for the most part I love them all with few exceptions. Whatever cultures are not in my family will most likely marry into it in a generation or two. What we like about each other comes from the heart. What we dislike stems from petty grievances and past mistakes that are, as yet, unforgiven and have nothing to do with our ethnicity nor religion.
I feel fortunate that I grew up in metro-Detroit and met all these wonderful people from a variety of cultures. Simply put, we all have the ability to live with each other peacefully. That is, after all, the mission of a tiny baby that was sent to us over 2000 years ago. May your family be blessed with peace, may your home me filled with traditions and may your table be laden with delicious foods. Happy eating and Merry Christmas.
(You may reprint this only with permission from the author. Please, contact me via this blog or facebook.)
Oh the joys of growing up in Michigan. That statement might sound like it’s dripping with sarcasm but I truly mean it. I was fortunate enough to be born into the Hungarian neighborhood of Delray in Detroit where I was introduced to European cuisine at a very young age. I teethed on Kolbasz, a kind of sausage similar to the Polish Kielbasa. However, my true cravings were for Pinkelwurst and Hurka. A true passion developed for chicken paprikash, a Hungarian style dumpling dish. Christmases were filled with Lebkuchen, a German ginger bread, and my mother’s delectable homemade fruit cake. People that state they don’t enjoy the pastry and would rather regift it or use it as a doorstop have never tried my parents' recipe. After having delivered the Christmas cakes to neighbors and friends, we would open our gifts on Christmas Eve, German style, and eat more ethnic goods like Eastern European cheesecakes or Kolache, a poppy seed roll.
My neighbors, German like my mother, loved to hunt. One occasion they cooked up some venison, which I enjoy. This time it was greasy which was unusual but nevertheless, very tasty. Then I was informed it was bear meat. I didn’t want to even touch it after that. I’ve since learned, according to one book I read, that bear meat is a Cherokee’s favorite food. That explains why I liked the taste, I guess, because my papa is Scots-Irish and Cherokee.
As a preschooler when we first moved Downriver, my Arabic neighbor Amelia who lived next door, served my family flatbread and lamb. She was born in Lebanon. I soon learned to call her “Grandma”. More than the unfamiliar taste of Kibbe I enjoyed sneaking out of my house before my parents woke up to enjoy a breakfast of coffee and donuts at Amelia’s. Of course, my drink was mostly cream with just a dash of coffee to warm it up!
Despite my childhood protests, my mother made me try a little of everything. If at first I didn’t like a flavor, if not pressured into tasting it, I’d eventually grow to love it. I grew up with Chinese, Italian and Southern cooking, in addition to many other styles, due to the varied cultures that had settled in Detroit. I listened to Rock-and-roll, Mariachi, Polka, Country and of course, Mo-town.
While some people dip into ice cream or grab chips for comfort food, I heat up a jar of sauerkraut or drown my tears in Southern Beans, my American Grandmother’s recipe. Also handed down for several generations is what my Grandmother’s family called biscuits. They are actually called “scones” in Scotland. Grandma also made a true cornbread from white cornmeal. It is unlike the sugary cake-like bread made from yellow cornmeal. It has an almost popcorn taste and is not sweet, but comforting to me nevertheless. I absolutely love Asian food too! My sisters are of Japanese descent (as a result of my mother’s first marriage). My oldest sister taught me how to make wontons, Korean style. Additionally, my mother taught me how to make Japanese fried rice. As an adult, living part-time in the southwest, I’ve come to love Tex-Mex cooking. I actually can do these recipes in my home kitchen as the ingredients are found in abundance at my local market, unlike most other goods I need to make European fare. I guess I can chalk that up to supply and demand?
I have Scots-Irish, Cherokee, German, Polish, Hungarian, Arabic, Asian, Filipino-Creole friends and relatives. Is it any wonder why I love all these fantastic flavors and foods? I can talk to virtually any ethnicity or culture and for the most part I love them all with few exceptions. Whatever cultures are not in my family will most likely marry into it in a generation or two. What we like about each other comes from the heart. What we dislike stems from petty grievances and past mistakes that are, as yet, unforgiven and have nothing to do with our ethnicity nor religion.
I feel fortunate that I grew up in metro-Detroit and met all these wonderful people from a variety of cultures. Simply put, we all have the ability to live with each other peacefully. That is, after all, the mission of a tiny baby that was sent to us over 2000 years ago. May your family be blessed with peace, may your home me filled with traditions and may your table be laden with delicious foods. Happy eating and Merry Christmas.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Happy Thanksgiving
What is Thanksgiving? It is supposed to be a celebration of autumn, gathering in the food we labored to grow and harvest; showing gratitude for it. One of this holiday’s first incarnations was when the tribes of North America's east coast shared their corn and venison with the starving Europeans that had recently landed upon the Atlantic Ocean's western shore. Many of these newcomers feared the possibility that a state religion might impose its beliefs on what they hoped would become a free thinking society where a variety of faiths and tenets could be expressed in many ways. Several groups coming to the “New World” had only just escaped religious oppression. Additionally, in the 1600’s one of these assemblages decided that gluttony and gift giving on the commemoration of the Lord Jesus's birthday was not appropriate for humble people.
They believed a non-sectarian Holiday where a person may give thanks to the one true creator of our existence was more appropriate. They chose a day in the early fall to celebrate a festival that the Native Americans were already accustomed to.
In the 1800’s President Abraham Lincoln encouraged the citizens of the United States to enjoy their Autumn Feast and give thanks in the month of November, much later than harvest time. By the early twentieth century, Thanksgiving was observed just about any time in November, usually the last Thursday of that month, although some communities still held festivities at other times during the autumn season. In fact, some American towns in states bordering Canada celebrated the holiday in October, which was when our neighbor to the north holds a similar feast. During the Presidency of Franklin D. Roosevelt, there was much confusion as to the exact time when Thanksgiving should take place, due in part to Roosevelt moving the date to accommodate retail businesses that hoped to gain more shopping days before Christmas.
On December 26, 1941, an act of Congress officially named Thanksgiving as a holiday that would take place the fourth Thursday of each and every year. Now, in the twenty-first century, there is barely a distinction between Thanksgiving and Christmas. They’ve become a huge two-month long celebration of excess and materialism that climaxes during a bacchanalian tradition known as New Year’s Eve.
These days, the real history of why there is a Harvest Holiday is clouded by an onslaught of advertisements used by corporations encouraging individuals to purchase objects assembled by foreign labor; things that could have been made by American citizens. Kids spend endless hours before, during and after a gluttonous feast, playing video games and texting each other while they sit in the same room. Families that could have been spending quality time together are instead separated by a gender gulf where the men watch hours of football in lieu of playing with their children and the ladies are grouchy because they fought with their neighbors in big-box stores trying to snatch the latest electronic gadgets. This latter activity takes place during a riotous mob-gathering called “Black Friday” --an event that in recent years begins on the very day of Thanksgiving itself. It is sad, and I will have no part of it.
I just want to thank my Heavenly Father for another year of life and enough healthy food to get me through the seasons; for a husband with a strong back and healthy heart; intelligent children with morals; and a profession that provides a little extra money to help us enjoy life. I give thanks for another year of bountiful blessings and the Harvest.
Thank you Heavenly Father. I am blessed and I am grateful. Amen.
They believed a non-sectarian Holiday where a person may give thanks to the one true creator of our existence was more appropriate. They chose a day in the early fall to celebrate a festival that the Native Americans were already accustomed to.
In the 1800’s President Abraham Lincoln encouraged the citizens of the United States to enjoy their Autumn Feast and give thanks in the month of November, much later than harvest time. By the early twentieth century, Thanksgiving was observed just about any time in November, usually the last Thursday of that month, although some communities still held festivities at other times during the autumn season. In fact, some American towns in states bordering Canada celebrated the holiday in October, which was when our neighbor to the north holds a similar feast. During the Presidency of Franklin D. Roosevelt, there was much confusion as to the exact time when Thanksgiving should take place, due in part to Roosevelt moving the date to accommodate retail businesses that hoped to gain more shopping days before Christmas.
On December 26, 1941, an act of Congress officially named Thanksgiving as a holiday that would take place the fourth Thursday of each and every year. Now, in the twenty-first century, there is barely a distinction between Thanksgiving and Christmas. They’ve become a huge two-month long celebration of excess and materialism that climaxes during a bacchanalian tradition known as New Year’s Eve.
These days, the real history of why there is a Harvest Holiday is clouded by an onslaught of advertisements used by corporations encouraging individuals to purchase objects assembled by foreign labor; things that could have been made by American citizens. Kids spend endless hours before, during and after a gluttonous feast, playing video games and texting each other while they sit in the same room. Families that could have been spending quality time together are instead separated by a gender gulf where the men watch hours of football in lieu of playing with their children and the ladies are grouchy because they fought with their neighbors in big-box stores trying to snatch the latest electronic gadgets. This latter activity takes place during a riotous mob-gathering called “Black Friday” --an event that in recent years begins on the very day of Thanksgiving itself. It is sad, and I will have no part of it.
I just want to thank my Heavenly Father for another year of life and enough healthy food to get me through the seasons; for a husband with a strong back and healthy heart; intelligent children with morals; and a profession that provides a little extra money to help us enjoy life. I give thanks for another year of bountiful blessings and the Harvest.
Thank you Heavenly Father. I am blessed and I am grateful. Amen.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Born Again
Today marks the thirtieth anniversary of the day I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’d graduated from high school earlier in the year, 1982, and my parents graciously allowed me to make whatever adult decision I felt was important to my life. I hadn’t grown up with any particular religion, creed or dogma although I was richly blessed with friends who invited me to their churches throughout my school years. After looking into several religions, I decided to look more closely at the “Mormons” more out of curiosity than anything else.
I’d heard so many rumors and wanted to discover the truth for myself. I was pleased to find that this religion was: A. Not a cult B. Answered all the questions I had and C. Most of all Jesus, the son of God, my Savior is at the head of the Church.
Detractors may want to twist the truth and put a spin on the history of the Church or skew what we believe versus the styles of modern reasoning, but for me, this is where I want to be. I admit, I’m not perfect. No human being is. That’s why we have repentance and forgiveness. This is why Jesus is our Redeemer. We are here to serve one another with love, politely and kindly. Jesus Christ wants us to “feed His sheep”. If any people ask me what the Church is all about, I’m happy to tell them and I do not expect to convert them. That’s between each individual and the Holy Spirit. I am proud to tell everyone that I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
It’s been a wonderful, blessed thirty years. I’m so happy to share the news with you!
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Oh how I Wish Again, that I was in Michigan
I’ve lived half my life in the desert and the other half in Michigan.
I recently returned to the desert, for many reasons. One justification is I’ll be signing my books at several locations in the southwest. I keep asking myself why I returned to the desert. I absolutely love the Great Lakes, woods, songbirds and green grass. Okay, I realize there are some of you old folks out there who enjoy retirement living in Arizona, but let’s be honest; your summers are spent on cruises or at some casino. I’m so glad you enjoy the air conditioning. I have to be out there, moving and doing, enjoying fresh air.
You might argue that sitting in your living room with a cold beverage beats dealing with snow and ice. Believe me, the few months a year that the desert becomes somewhat bearable, I’m missing a hike in the woods or a good snowball fight.
I can always put on more clothes. You can only take off so many layers before you’re stark naked! (Please, I don’t want to see that!)
I could have been taking part in a “Pure Michigan” commercial campaign this weekend. Instead I’m living in what I can only describe as the closest thing to Hell on earth.
Let me give an example of my Welcome Home:
Day one – Drove down I-15 toward Las Vegas. The air in Utah was so thick from forest and brush fires I couldn’t see the mountains!
My husband later showed me a scorpion he caught in the house. I hoped that would be the only one I’d see.
Day two – Wanted to have a romantic evening with my husband once things ‘cooled’ to the low 90s, only to discover there were black widows all over the porch swing. That night, we had the air conditioning on but the bedroom stays a constant 85 degrees no matter what we do. Even with the fan on, I was having killer hot flashes. Guess who woke up grumpy?
Day three- Stepped on a scorpion in the kitchen and screamed so loud that both my husband and daughter came running! Wanted to go home to Michigan right then.
Day four- Went to church and was having hot-flashes-from-Hades until I got into the building. Once I stepped out a few hours later, I was swimming in sweat inside my dress. Went home and hid in the basement where it was only in the upper 80s and watched the cats chase sun spiders.
Day five- Walked into the garage to get something from the deep freeze. Wandered into a black widow nest and startled its occupant. She startled me as well and I went screaming up the stairs.
Day six – Got the house sprayed. Didn’t even know there were roaches around. That evening we had dead roaches all over the porch and walk. Another night of tossing and turning.
Day seven- Wanted to go on a walk since it was only in the 90s. It was also humid, which didn’t bother me, but that should have been an indication of things to come. It isn’t called “monsoon season” for nothing and we had a flash flood in a matter of minutes streaming down the street. The neighbor was even stacking sandbags! His yard still flooded. Spent another evening suffering through what can only be described as my own personal trip through an oven. I slow roasted all night. No matter how I set the fan I could not get cool enough to sleep. Every couple hours I was up and down, up and down. At least I got some exercise.
Day eight-Today, I finally took that walk. I was beginning to get cabin fever. I put some cold water into a bottle and set off. I watched kids at the park surrounding the fountains and running in the water feature. That made me smile. I walked down a sidewalk for a few blocks and thought a little girl was saying “Hi!” Instead she was hopping up and down in bare feet screaming, “Hot! Hot! Hot!” Her toes could find no respite. A little farther up the road, I took a sip of my water. It was as warm as soup.
As I write this my family is asking me what’s for dinner. The kitchen is closed. I don’t know about the rest of them, but I think I'll eat a salad (or a gallon of ice cream).
Please, tell me why I’m here? I miss Michigan.
I recently returned to the desert, for many reasons. One justification is I’ll be signing my books at several locations in the southwest. I keep asking myself why I returned to the desert. I absolutely love the Great Lakes, woods, songbirds and green grass. Okay, I realize there are some of you old folks out there who enjoy retirement living in Arizona, but let’s be honest; your summers are spent on cruises or at some casino. I’m so glad you enjoy the air conditioning. I have to be out there, moving and doing, enjoying fresh air.
You might argue that sitting in your living room with a cold beverage beats dealing with snow and ice. Believe me, the few months a year that the desert becomes somewhat bearable, I’m missing a hike in the woods or a good snowball fight.
I can always put on more clothes. You can only take off so many layers before you’re stark naked! (Please, I don’t want to see that!)
I could have been taking part in a “Pure Michigan” commercial campaign this weekend. Instead I’m living in what I can only describe as the closest thing to Hell on earth.
Let me give an example of my Welcome Home:
Day one – Drove down I-15 toward Las Vegas. The air in Utah was so thick from forest and brush fires I couldn’t see the mountains!
My husband later showed me a scorpion he caught in the house. I hoped that would be the only one I’d see.
Day two – Wanted to have a romantic evening with my husband once things ‘cooled’ to the low 90s, only to discover there were black widows all over the porch swing. That night, we had the air conditioning on but the bedroom stays a constant 85 degrees no matter what we do. Even with the fan on, I was having killer hot flashes. Guess who woke up grumpy?
Day three- Stepped on a scorpion in the kitchen and screamed so loud that both my husband and daughter came running! Wanted to go home to Michigan right then.
Day four- Went to church and was having hot-flashes-from-Hades until I got into the building. Once I stepped out a few hours later, I was swimming in sweat inside my dress. Went home and hid in the basement where it was only in the upper 80s and watched the cats chase sun spiders.
Day five- Walked into the garage to get something from the deep freeze. Wandered into a black widow nest and startled its occupant. She startled me as well and I went screaming up the stairs.
Day six – Got the house sprayed. Didn’t even know there were roaches around. That evening we had dead roaches all over the porch and walk. Another night of tossing and turning.
Day seven- Wanted to go on a walk since it was only in the 90s. It was also humid, which didn’t bother me, but that should have been an indication of things to come. It isn’t called “monsoon season” for nothing and we had a flash flood in a matter of minutes streaming down the street. The neighbor was even stacking sandbags! His yard still flooded. Spent another evening suffering through what can only be described as my own personal trip through an oven. I slow roasted all night. No matter how I set the fan I could not get cool enough to sleep. Every couple hours I was up and down, up and down. At least I got some exercise.
Day eight-Today, I finally took that walk. I was beginning to get cabin fever. I put some cold water into a bottle and set off. I watched kids at the park surrounding the fountains and running in the water feature. That made me smile. I walked down a sidewalk for a few blocks and thought a little girl was saying “Hi!” Instead she was hopping up and down in bare feet screaming, “Hot! Hot! Hot!” Her toes could find no respite. A little farther up the road, I took a sip of my water. It was as warm as soup.
As I write this my family is asking me what’s for dinner. The kitchen is closed. I don’t know about the rest of them, but I think I'll eat a salad (or a gallon of ice cream).
Please, tell me why I’m here? I miss Michigan.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Woman, who art thou?
What makes a woman, a woman? Is it her beauty? Then what is beauty?
Some men like soft features, an elfin-like waif with fine bones. Other men like a muscular, athletic, healthy-looking female. Some cultures have worshipped robust, full-figured females, the ones with large hips, full breasts and bellies, in hopes of having many children, ensuring their way of life for generations to come. Is it her breasts? So what happens when time and motherhood ravish this beauty, or disease takes them? So is it fertility? Then why do so many men stay in love with their women past the child-bearing years? How about when these ladies no longer have a uterus because of a “routine” hysterectomy? Is it taut glowing skin? What about when wrinkles appear?
Is it blue eyes like a summer sky, brown eyes like fertile earth, green eyes like a lush meadow? What if the woman has cataracts or no eyes at all; and what about the old men who likewise cannot see, yet love their women dearly? Is it the amount of children she bears or the acts of kindness she does for the people around her? What if she is childless, yet wherever she walks, miracles follow? Dear Mother Theresa never carried a baby in her belly, but she carried many of God’s children in her heart.
(Excerpt from the book "A Sideshow Journey" by Liesa Swejkoski copyright 2012)
Some men like soft features, an elfin-like waif with fine bones. Other men like a muscular, athletic, healthy-looking female. Some cultures have worshipped robust, full-figured females, the ones with large hips, full breasts and bellies, in hopes of having many children, ensuring their way of life for generations to come. Is it her breasts? So what happens when time and motherhood ravish this beauty, or disease takes them? So is it fertility? Then why do so many men stay in love with their women past the child-bearing years? How about when these ladies no longer have a uterus because of a “routine” hysterectomy? Is it taut glowing skin? What about when wrinkles appear?
Is it blue eyes like a summer sky, brown eyes like fertile earth, green eyes like a lush meadow? What if the woman has cataracts or no eyes at all; and what about the old men who likewise cannot see, yet love their women dearly? Is it the amount of children she bears or the acts of kindness she does for the people around her? What if she is childless, yet wherever she walks, miracles follow? Dear Mother Theresa never carried a baby in her belly, but she carried many of God’s children in her heart.
(Excerpt from the book "A Sideshow Journey" by Liesa Swejkoski copyright 2012)
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