I’ve blessed with so many things and people in my life.  Here are a few snapshots from my heart.

The jeep was introduced to Congress in 1940. This photo shows a senator driving it up the Capitol steps.Cartoon from Louisiana Army ManeuversService Quote

Listen online at    http://www.kelbradio.com/

Johnson Bayou Library January 30, 2012

I’m writing discussion questions for book clubs and Accelerated Readers.  I’d appreciate your help on questions.

Chapter 7

Words and Letters

                                                                                                   Monday, August 18, 1941

 Elizabeth was startled awake by the creaking of her bedroom door. Bare feet padded across the floor and covers were pulled back. She waited before saying, “Kind of late, huh?” There was no answer. “What time is it?”

“After midnight.” Peg answered wearily.

“How much after midnight?”

Peg yawned. “Oh, about…two or three hours. Were you asleep?”

“Sure.” Elizabeth walked to her sister’s bed. “But it was a fitful sleep.”

“Worried about something?”

“You.”

There was a pregnant pause, finally broken by Elizabeth. “When you come in this late, it worries me.”

“Well, don’t.”

“I can’t help it.”

Peg shifted on the mattress. “I can take care of myself.”

“Are you doing anything that could . . . get you into trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you with a soldier tonight?”

No answer. Elizabeth tried again. “Are you involved with one of them?”

“What do you mean involved?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure I do.” Peg turned her back to the wall. “Listen, you’re the last person I need any love advice from.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do.” She put her hand on Peg’s shoulder. “But I need your advice.”

“Advice on what?”

Elizabeth lit the lantern and pulled out the teacher letter. “On this.”

Peg sat up and scooted into the light. “Caddo Parish School Board.” She squinted at her sister. “You’re not . . . ”

“Just read it.”

She watched her twin read the letter. It always irritated her how Peg mouthed words when reading. Peg stopped her oral recitation and looked up. “You applied for a job in Shreveport?”

From Curt: I received a critical letter this week on the two sister’s being fraternal instead of identical twins.  How would that improve or change the story in your mind? 

Elizabeth was startled at what she saw in her sister’s face: was it fear . . . or sadness?

“You’re gonna take it?”

“I am.”

Peg laid the letter in her lap. “Then why are you asking for my advice?”

“Because I want to know what you think.”

“Does that really matter?”

I imagine Elizabeth resembling the pretty teen on the cover. It's my mother, Mary Iles, from her DeRidder High School yearbook.

Elizabeth felt tears welling. “It matters a great deal. We’re twins. Few people can understand the bond we have. We were womb mates.”

Peg winked. “And now we’re roommates.”

Elizabeth stammered, “I’m serious. I need your advice.”

“I don’t have the slightest.” Peg held the letter up. “Why would you want to go up there and teach?”

“Because I’m dying on the vine here.”

“That’s the way you feel?”

“Look at me. I’m twenty years old and still sharing a room with my sister. Twenty years from now, I’ll be an old maid schoolteacher living in this bedroom, making muscadine jelly, and leading the WMU at church.”

Peg shook her head. “That does sound pretty bleak. But why Shreveport?”

“I like it up there.”

“Didn’t you stay there two years ago when you were . . . um . . . sick?”

“I did.”

“Is there a man up there?” Peg knitted her brow. “Lizzie, your hand’s shaking.”

“It’s because I’m worried about you.”

“Sounds like you’ve got enough to worry about without licking over my calf.”

“I’m worried that you’re going to . . . “ Her voice trembled. “I’m scared. Scared that you’re going to mess up your life.” Peg looked away, but Elizabeth moved into her view. “I’m worried that you’re going to get pregnant. I’m not sure Momma and Daddy would ever get over it.”

“I’m a big girl and can take care of myself.”

Elizabeth pulled out the second letter. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what I said when I got involved with . . .” Her body quivered. “When I got involved with him.”

“Him?”

“Him. The soldier that broke my heart up there.”

“In Shreveport?”

“No, in Natchitoches.”

“You never told me.”

“It all happened so quick.” She handed her the other letter.

Peg slid closer as she read it. “The soldier’s name was Bradley?”

“No, that was the baby’s name. Bradley.”

“Oh, my goodness. Elizabeth. I never knew.” Tears streamed down Peg’s cheeks. “I always suspected something happened to you up there, but I never dreamed . . . .”

A series of loud booms shook the house, setting off the dogs and chickens. Peg went to the window. “They’re shooting the big guns again.” She squinted. “Doggone, I see the first light of morning. We done talked the night away.”

Another loud explosion rattled the windows. Elizabeth trembled. The ground’s shaking beneath my feet, both literally and figuratively. I wonder what’s next.

#                #                #

Harry sat with the other two outsiders in their platoon—Shorty and Cohen—They’d been up since dawn.

An artillery barrage to the north had started before dawn, awakening everyone. The three G.I.s sat outside picking out ticks acquired during last night’s long march.

Cohen had rolled up his sleeves and was scratching his right arm. “This itch is driving me crazy.”

Shorty examined his arm. “When’d you get poison ivy?”

Cohen had scratched his arm raw. “It started yesterday. So that’s what it is?”

Shorty disappeared into the tent and came out with a cake of soap. “Rub this on it.”

“What is it?”

“Lye soap. I borrowed it from a farmhouse last week. Knew it’d come in handy.”

“Does it work?”

“Try it.”

Cohen lowered his voice. “I’ve also got it on my rear end.”

“How’d you get poison ivy on your behind?”

“Shh, I don’t want everyone to know.”

Shorty tossed him the bar of lye soap. “I’m not sure I’d use it there. It’s pretty strong.”

Harry, sitting in his underwear, stuck a hot match head to a tick. “Shorty, why don’t you ever get ticks or chiggers?”

“Because I go out prepared.” He lifted his pants leg, revealing green leaves stuffed in his socks and boots.

“What’s that?” Harry said.

“Merkle bushes. The leaves are coated with a wax that insects don’t like.”

Author:  Country folk have always used “merkle bushes”  (Wax Myrtle) in their dogpens and under houses to repel fleas and ticks.  The waxy leaves have a substance that does the trick.

“It works?”

“Do you see me scratching and picking out ticks?”

A whistle blew, followed by a voice, “Mail call. Everyone up.”

Shorty stood. “Let’s go, Harry.”

“Nope. I don’t get mail.”

“You never know.”

“Not me.”

Cohen put on his shirt. “Your family never writes? Do you have a mother or father?”

“I’ve got both. My father broke things off after a, uh, little problem I had. ” There was a familiar tightness in his chest. “My mother—she just does what she’s told—so she doesn’t write either.”

Cohen and Shorty trotted to the gathering circle of men at mail call. Harry eased back into quiet sanctuary of the tent, determined to ignore the jostling men and mail clerk’s loud voice. “Snider. Schwartz. Johnson.”

“Shepherd. Cohen. Nickels. James. Krakow. Watson.”

Harry closed his eyes and lay back on his cot.

“Knuckles. Newsom. Miller. Jagodinsky. Bridenhagen.”

After a pause, the clerk yelled, “Miller. Pvt. Harold Miller.”

Harry stuck his head out of the tent.

“Miller—Harold. Private Harold M. Miller.”

Shorty waved. “Harry, you’ve got mail.”

Harry pushed through the crowd, forgetting he was clad in his boxers until Nickels said, “Sure like your outfit, Miller.”

Shep slapped him on the back. “I can’t believe it—somebody wrote you. Maybe it’s Shelly, wanting to make up.”

“Her name’s Helen.” Harry thought about slugging him.

He grasped the envelope and caught the faint scent of perfume. I can’t remember the last time I smelled anything feminine. The address, written on the floral-patterned envelope, had a slanted handwriting. It didn’t bear a Wisconsin postmark, but a smudged Louisiana town. It was dated August 16, 1941—just two days ago. It was clearly addressed to him with his correct serial number and APO address. Letter in hand, he tried to pass nonchalantly through the crowd. Once past, he glanced at the return address.

 E.B.R.

 General Delivery

 Bundick, Louisiana

He sliced open the envelope. What’s a Bundick, Louisiana? The letter featured the same slanted handwriting:

Pvt. Miller,

Recently, your convoy passed through DeRidder,

you tossed a bulett with your name on it.

You through it and said, “Write me.”

After much thought, I’ve writen you.

I’m a schoolteacher living near DeRidder.

I’m an old-fashioned girl who enjoys making friends.          

If you’d like, I’ll gladly be your pen pal.

Send a photo, and I’ll send one of me.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Reed.

Harry held the letter up to the sunlight as if there might be some hidden message in it. Glancing past the mess tent, he saw The Three Musketeers—Shep, Halverson, and Nickels—watching him like three hungry buzzards.

Shep cupped his hands. “Is it the bow-legged one or the old maid teacher?” Harry walked behind a tent, re-reading the letter, wincing at the various misspellings and shaky penmanship. I sure thought a schoolteacher would write better than this. He tried to envision what ‘Elizabeth Reed’ might look like, but could only see Miss Crump, an old maid schoolteacher who’d spent a long career torturing second graders like himself back in Milwaukee. She was just the kind of person who’d happily write a young soldier, and she was just the type no red-blooded soldier would want to write back. Harry closed his eyes. It’d be like being pen pals with your own grandma.

He glanced again at the handwriting. It looked as if someone’s grandmother had written it. Stuffing the letter in his pocket, he tried to shake the image of an old schoolteacher contentedly passing her evenings writing lonely soldiers.

This image faded and was replaced by Shep’s vivid description of the leggy good-looking girl on the DeRidder street. One image nearly nauseated him; the other made his heart beat just a little bit faster. Which—if either—of these images most resembled the real Elizabeth Reed?

Harry wasn’t sure, but he intended to find out.

In Cahoots

Soldiers would stuff a note with their APO address in an used cartridge and toss them at young women. This practice was called "yoo-hooing" and led to numerous friendships and romances during the war years.

Ben heard the approaching footsteps and shoved the bullet under his pillow and began innocently singing:

“Do your ears hang low, do they flop, do they flop?

 Can you tie ‘em in a bow, can you tie ‘em in a knot?”

He sat on the edge of the bed as the doorknob turned.

“Can you throw them o’er your shoulder,

 Like a regimental soldier . . .”

His mother and twin sisters marched into the room as he slowly finished, “Do your . . . ears hang . . . low.”

His mother solemnly spread the money on the bed. “Thirty-eight dollars and twenty cents. Ben Reed, I cannot believe it.”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I robbed a bank.” Peg winked at Ben, rubbing her hands together as if she was counting money.

Their mother raked a pile of the contraband to one side. “Twenty dollars of this is going to the Lottie Moon offering at church.”

“Twenty dollars! Leave me some.”

Author’s Note:  The Lottie Moon offering is an annual mission offering made by Southern Baptists.  It underwrites foreign missions and is collected at Christmas.  Learn more at www.imb.org

“Oh, I’m just getting started.” She held up the five-dollar bill. “You’re taking this to Widow Young after supper.” She stuffed three dollars in her apron pocket. “And that’s mine for washing your clothes this month.” She raked the rest of the money into a manila envelope. “You’ll be getting three dollars and eighty cents later. That’s ten percent—and it’s all yours.”

Ben put his hands on his forehead. “Momma, that’s not how they figured it in the Bible. I believe that tithe was the other way around.”

“Not in your Momma’s math, and in this house, Momma’s math is the only kind that matters. Besides, all but fifty cents of that is going into a savings account at the bank.”

Ben’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve been robbed.”

“No. You robbed, making those poor soldiers pay a dollar for a coke.”

“Please, let me keep a little more.” He turned to his sisters. “Y’all are in cahoots with her.”

His mother’s fist slammed down like a gavel. “Case closed.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Appeal denied.” Satisfied that justice had been served, she turned on her heel. His sisters, still snickering behind their hands, followed in her wake.

Ben counted to five-Mississippi, listening for returning footsteps. Pulling the brass cartridge from under his pillow, he removed the folded note from the shell, re-reading the four lines of numbers and words slowly. He inhaled the faint smell of gunpowder in the cartridge and slid it into his pocket. He now had a plan and headed into the kitchen. “Momma, can I go over to Ma’s house?”

She eyed him carefully. “If you promise not to ruin your supper, and be back ‘fore dusk-dark.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

He sprinted out the door as her parting words echoed, “And watch for rattlesnake pilots in those leaves.” Blue joined him at the gate, loping along as they crossed the creek bottom. It was a quarter-mile through the woods to the home of his grandmother, Doshie Reed. Her family called her “Ma” and Ben loved her more than anybody in the whole world.

I picture "Blue" as a glass-eyed Catahoula Cur. What do you know about this unique Louisiana breed?

Arriving, he slammed the screen door to announce his arrival. “Got anything for a country boy to eat?” She was working in the kitchen, dressed in the only way he’d ever seen her: long, flowing dress, gray hair up in a bun, skinny arms working hard. In her sing-songey voice, she said, “Well, we don’t usually feed hoboes, but today I’ll make an exception.”

He began their ritual. “Ain’t your name Ma? What kind of name is that?”

“Oh, it’s an old Attakapa Indian word.” She gave him a big hug. “For the person who spoils you and pours a big dose of love all over you.”

Ben had gotten one of her flour hugs. “Ma, you’re making that Indian stuff up, ain’t you?”

She rubbed his head. “It sounds like me, don’t it?”

“Sure does.” As she hugged him again, he inhaled the smells that marked his grandmother: lye soap, talcum powder, and the faint odor of Garrett’s Sweet Snuff. These were mixed with the kitchen aromas of frying bacon and baking bread. He’d timed his arrival right.

“You’re just in time for a snack. Would you like Ma to get you a hot peach tart?”

“Momma told me not to ruin my supper.”

“Well, what your momma don’t know won’t hurt her, will it?”

“Not one bit.”

She took out a pan of hot tarts from the cook stove. “While they’re cooling, you use the fly-swap to keep the flies off.” After about a minute, she winked. “All right, a hot tart deserves a cold glass of milk. Go out to the well and bring in the milk.” As he raced outside, she warned, “Be careful and don’t break the jug.” He pulled the rope up from the well and untied the burlap sack that held the gallon of fresh milk, holding the cold jug against his face.

She poured him a pint jelly jar full of creamy milk and set it beside two steaming peach tarts. Between bites and gulps, he said, “How’s PawPaw today?”

She nodded toward the bedroom. “He’s been in there jabbering all morning.”

Ben chuckled. “Ma, he ain’t said a word since his stroke.”

“Honey, there’s lots of ways of talking that don’t take words.”

“What do you talk to him about all day?”

“Everything and nothing. He’s a captive audience, and I try to take advantage of it.” She lifted a pan of sizzling bacon. “Run in there and tell him hello.”

Ben eased into the room where his grandfather was sleeping. He’d never gotten used to seeing how this strong man—his hero—had withered down to what he was now. “Morning, PawPaw.”

His grandfather’s eyes opened and were joined by a crooked smile. He tried to form words, but what came out was gibberish, followed by a tear rolling down his left cheek. Ben kissed the tear and pulled up a chair bedside. “It’s good seeing you, Pa.” Ben rubbed his grandfather’s hand, filling him in about recent events in his life. When he saw Ma in the doorway, he said, “How do you and him talk?”

“We tell each other all day how much we love each other.”

“How’s that?”

“With our eyes, and with gestures, and our hearts.”

“Show me.”

Ma walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. She placed her flour-covered hand on his cheek, tenderly stroking his face and turned to Ben. “See what I mean?”

“Yes Ma’am, I do.”

She turned to Pa. “Spencer, do you wish you’d married Deborah Granger instead of me?”

He vigorously shook his head, a scowl spreading over his long face. She winked at him, “If you had it to do all over, would you marry me again?”

He dipped his head up and down, a lop-sided grin evicting the frown. Ma said, “He’s bobbing that head like a woodpecker on a wormy willow oak tree.”

“Ma, what’d he try to say?”

“It was ‘I love you.’”

“How do you know?”

She walked Ben to the kitchen. “I just know.” Dusting the flour off her apron, she said, “I hear-tell they’re dropping flour-sack bombs from them Army planes. Sounds like a real waste to me. Flour’s for making biscuits and tarts.”

“Especially tarts.” He finished his second tart, then pulled the bullet from his pocket and tossed it on the counter where it rattled against a pot. “Look at that.”

“What’s that?” She walked to the counter.

“It’s a bullet a soldier tossed at me and Elizabeth in town.”

See the note with Harry's address. Blue Army (3rd Army) soldiers received their mail at a Ragley address. The photos representing Elizabeth and Harry are my mother, Mary Plott Iles and Sgt. Leroy Johnson representing Harry Miller.

She picked it up and removed the note. “Baby, go get Ma’s bifocals off the settee.”

He returned with the glasses. “Lizzie said he hollered, ‘You’re beautiful. Write me.’ I’m not sure if he was yelling at me or Lizzie.”

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you,” She adjusted the glasses on her nose.

“What’s that note mean, Ma?”

She unfolded it and read slowly,

Write me!

Private Harold M. Miller

36630862

Company K, 127th Infantry 32nd Division

Ragley, Louisiana

Ben looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“Looks like a soldier’s address.”

He stood on his tiptoes. “So that’s why the soldier threw the bullet at us?”

“Not at us, but at your sister. You know she is one good-looking woman.” She held the bullet in her long fingers. “Did Elizabeth pick this up?”

“Not that I saw. She told me to leave it alone.” He finished the milk with a big swig. “But you can see I didn’t.”

“I can see that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who else knows about this?”

“Not a soul—nobody but me, you, and the Lord above.”

“Not even Peg?”

“She was gone when it happened.”

“Why’d you bring it to me?”

“’Cause you’re the smartest person I know.”

“I am?”

“Yes’m, and you make the best peach tarts in the whole world.”

“So that’s why you came.”

“Well, that and the bullet.”

She held the cartridge up to the light from the kitchen window. Ben studied her wrinkled hand and how the purple veins stood out on her hand. In the light from the window, he could nearly see through her thin fingers.

She addressed the bullet as if it was in cahoots with them. “Mr. Bullet, I’ve been worried about my granddaughter and her boring life.” She winked at Ben. “You might just be the answer I been praying for.”

“Ma, are you talking to me or the bullet?”

She said, “Both. This bullet might help us help her.” She carefully placed it in a pastel stationery box. “Every tub sits on its own bottom.”

“Ma, why do you always say that?”

“Because I like the way it sounds. I’m gonna keep this bullet. The three of us might just go into cahoots together and help Lizzie get some romance in her life.”

“But what about Peg?”

“Son, I’m most concerned with keeping her out of romance. That girl likes anything wearing pants. But your sister Elizabeth, she’s just too serious. We’re gonna try to help her.”

She peered out the window. “What time’d your momma tell you to be home by?”

“By dusk-dark.”

Framing his face with her hands, she kissed his forehead. “You best be going.” As he trotted off, she hollered, “And watch for snakes—especially those ground rattlers in the leaves.”

Ben was running as fast as he could. He turned to his faithful companion, Blue. “It’d take a mighty quick snake to bite us.” The dog barked twice and they picked up speed as they entered the swamp, seeing the lights of home through the trees.

Author’s notes:

“Every tub” sits on its own bottom” is a self-responsibility statement still used among old-timers in our piney woods.  How would you explain its meaning to an outsider?

What were the sayings and proverbs of your ancestors?

Well, children’s means one and we definitely want more than one child reading our books.

What’s your call?

Wednesday, January 25, 2012.

My Life Plan is made up of 10 components. Yours can and will be unique to you.

On Wednesday’s I’m trying to write about my Life Plan.  I’ve discovered that I need this written plan to keep me focused and on task. I hope you enjoy and are challenged by my thoughts on this.

I’d love to hear your ideas and comments.

I place my “6 Words to Live By” on Pin 1: my walk with Jesus. These are the current words that I’m passionate about.  I’m currently gleaning my final six for 2012 from these great words:

Commitment:  my keyword for 2012.

Focus

Passion

Hunger

Balance

Hospitality

Compassion

Gratitude

Prayer

Missional Living

I’ll be expounding on what I’m learning on each word in the coming days.

Still walking. Still growing.

Curt Iles

“We exist to bring glory to God by making disciples who treasure Christ &carry His name to the ends of the earth.”

This is our church (Dry Creek Baptist) Life Statement.

Scribblings from the home page of Journal #56, my current journal. I highly recommend keeping a Life Journal.

A life statement is simply a declaration of what you’re about… where you stand… why you exist.

It says,  “I’ve driven a stake in the ground and this is where I stand.”

A life statement helps us stay focused on what’s really important.

As “Curly” said in “City Slickers”,  “Boys, there’s just one thing that matters.”

Our Life Statement is a visible expression of that “one thing.”

My personal Life Statement is “I want to be a man God can use and be respected by wife, sons, and their families– especially my six grandchildren.”

As we say in the Piney Woods,  “Nuff Said.”

This is a RSS feed button. It allows easy subscription to blogs. RSS stands for "Really Simple Syndication."

I follow about ten blogs and Google Reader allows me to easily read and keep up.

My daily goal is adding ten new subscribers to my blog as well as ten to my newsletter signup list.  Please help me by clicking the RSS feed and Newsletter button on our home page.

Friday, Jan. 19

I’ve been blogging this week about my 2012 Life Plan.  It’s not a matter of thinking I have some great knowledge or insight.  I’m sharing because it forces me to implement and follow through.

If it helps you, that’s great.

I call my plan  “Ten Pins Life Planning.”  I used the outline of 10 bowling pins to help me remember.

My Life Plan is made up of 10 components. Yours can and will be unique to you.

Because my life verse is “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God …” and my life statement includes,  “Being a man God can use” I must have a clear first priority.  I call it “my daily walk with Jesus.”   I have surrendered my life and future to Jesus because I’m convinced He is God’s Son, bought my salvation with His death on the cross, and is worthy of my commitment.

In bowling, you cannot roll a strike if you miss the head pin.  Conversely, if I miss out on my Jesus-Walk,  nothing else will fall into place. So I must make it a daily priority.  Daily priorities must be done first thing.

As my friend Dore Langley says, “You know that you will always do what you want to.”

Therefore I seek to start my day with Jesus in prayer, Bible study, journalling, and meditation.  That is the foundation of my walk. I seek the guidance and counsel of Jesus in daily decisions,  actions, and my words.

I can do better on all of these.  It is the desire of my heart and prayer that I will grow in this area in 2012.

Still growing.  Still hungry.

Curt Iles

Home page of my current journal, #56

Keeping a life journal has been a rewarding spiritual exercise in my life.

I’d love to hear from you on your life goals, dreams, plan, and verse.

I also welcome your questions on my journal Home Page.

Curt

Yesterday I shared my Life Statement:

“I seek to be a man God can use and be respected by my wife DeDe, our sons and their families.”

"Sad Sack Curt" Cartoon If you can't laugh at yourself . . .

A second foundational stone in my life plan is my Life Verse.  This is the Bible verse that most closely resonates with my heart. For the last two decades,  Matthew 6:33 has been that verse for me:

Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you.

These are the very words of Jesus and serve as a blueprint for my life. It leads to the first of my “life ten pins” as “walking closely to Jesus daily.”

As you develop your own life plan, I’d encourage you to have a life verse.*

What is your favorite/life verse?  I’d love to hear from you.

Curt Iles

*One of the most important habits in my life is starting the day in prayer and Bible study.  I’m currently reading the Gospel of Mark, Proverbs, and the life of Elijah.

In the coming days, I’ll share about the Ten Pins that define my life plan.

We’re blogging this week about having a Life Plan for 2012.

A Life Plan is simply a short written document expressing what matters most in your life.  It serves for a compass on the journey of each day.

My life plan is 12 pages long and covers the ten areas of my life I deem as priorities. Later in the week I’ll make my plan available to interested readers.  My purpose in being transparent is that I want every friend I have to grow into the best person they can be.  For me, this involves having a plan that keeps me focused and from wandering off the narrow path.

Today, I’d like to share about my Life Statement.  This is what I seek to live by daily:

“I seek to be a man God can use and be respected by my sons, my daughter-in-laws, and my six grandchildren.”

That’s it but that’s enough!  If I take care of these two:  1. growing into the type of man God wishes me to be and 2. having the respect of those who know me best, everything else is “lagniappe.”

I “borrowed” my Life Statement from Dr. John Avant, pastor of First Baptist-West Monroe, La.  He gave me permission to use it and I believe it covers lots of ground in one sentence.

You can borrow it and make it yours or you can craft your own.

I’d love to hear from you.

Curt Iles