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[Cleaver] "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
by List user
From: Jan, <A HREF="mailto:unicorn@sun-spot.com">unicorn(a)sun-spot.com</A>
Beginnings (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
"We will begin again". How many times would the words be said in a
family? We can trace them back as far as we can trace and trace no
more. And we can know those words were said since time began. Those
words would have been spoken, or words very similar.
Were those the words my fifth great grandparents spoke as they boarded a
ship from Scotland and began the harrowing journey to America? Would they
have stood arm in arm on a deck gazing across unending gray roiling
waters, shivering, and wondering what was waiting? Would they have feared
for their children in the hold below, and hoped only that the choice they
made would yield a better life for those who could survive? Would the
feeling in their hearts not be the same that so many of us have felt, in
different times, under different circumstances, but making life choices
just the same?
"I will begin again." Were those the words an ancestor spoke when he fled
the potato famine of Ireland? Would he have been so desperate that he
little thought of what was waiting, and considered more the simple relief
of running from a place that held nothing but emptiness? Or would he have
believed the prevalent stories of the time, and thought of America as a
place of richness with streets lined with gold for the claiming? Would the
words "begin again" have had new meaning as he realized that the richness
of America could only be realized with hard work and the resolution of a
survivor? That must have been so, for I know his story, and he bent to
pick no gold from the streets. Yet he survived.
Were those the words another grandfather spoke when he indentured himself
to come to the same country? He must have been a strong young man, sure of
his capabilities to survive the hardships of indentureship he chose for
himself, sure that he would be able to emerge from those years
unscathed. And he would have seen the end of those years as his real
beginning, would have clung to the date and memorized it, repeating it over
and over like a mantra when times were hard. For this is what any human
making his choice would have done.
"We will begin again." Were those the words a Cherokee grandfather spoke
when he left his homelands in North Carolina and shepherded his family into
a white world? Were those the words other grandparents spoke to one
another as the eastern shores became thicker and thicker with settlers, and
the mountains to the west loomed with both dangers and promise? I suspect
those words, or words very similar, have been said many times in a
family. They would have been said always with a slight twinge of fear for
the unknown, and always with a well of the hopefulness that is the legacy
of all of mankind. They would have felt the same things we feel and have
felt, each time we have begun again.
This week my mother spoke of beginnings in the 1950's. "They thought we
were crazy," she said, as she described how my father had left a lucrative
job because he did not like it. It was the second time he had walked away
from a life that would have made mine very different. He had walked from
the ancestral farm knowing a living there would be hard to coax in the
times that were coming. He had walked from a factory job in the city
because it held no joy. He had taken a job at half the pay, and together
with his young wife and new baby, they had ventured to a town where they
knew no one, far from kinfolk, far from cultures they had known
before. And all they had to their name was a new car that would take half
their income each month to pay for. "They thought we were crazy," my Mama
repeated, shaking her head. But "they" were wrong. We will never know how
this family's lives may have turned out had other choices been made, but we
know that the choices made led to a good life for all of them. Perhaps
there was wisdom in the choices, perhaps there was an angel on their
shoulders, whatever, but it turned out. My parents were young, younger
than some of my own children are now. It is difficult to imagine how young
they were, how lacking in the wisdom of life they would have been, yet I
know it is true for I have long surpassed the age they were at the
time. They had much to learn of life, and they were making permanent
choices that would affect all of their life to come. They must have been
fearful, and hope must have outweighed the fear. They had decided to begin.
And I have decided to begin more than once. When one beginning waned to a
hopeless ending, I would look around for another path, and choose another
beginning. As all my ancestors have before me. And I suspect I have felt
much the same feelings with each choice for a new beginning. As you
have. As we all have. It is a time of new beginnings. And with the hope
in our hearts that is the legacy of all mankind, with the angel on our
shoulders that is ours to welcome, we will begin again many times over.
Happy New Year to all, and may all of your beginnings be bright hopeful ones!
jan
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 1 month
[Cleaver] "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
by List user
From: Jan, <A HREF="mailto:unicorn@sun-spot.com">unicorn(a)sun-spot.com</A>
The Overlooked Treasures within a Family (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking
series)
The bold headlines of a newspaper are tantalizing and suggest to us that we
might be "next". One often hears of "serendipity" in regard to treasures.
Someone cleans an attic to discover a priceless collectible. Someone will
make a wonderful find at a yard sale, and give pennies for something worth
thousands of dollars. A vase that sat for all of one's life upon the
mantle at Great Aunt Matilda's home turns out to be a rare antique. A
picture removed from a frame reveals a hidden masterpiece. Again and again,
we read and hear about the idea that treasures may be right under our very
nose, and we taking our treasures too much for granted to recognize them
for what they are.
My mother cried tonight. She cried more than once. She cried tears
because she was touched at the deepest part of her, and she cried tears
because her laughter brought them on. She cried because of the power of
another's memories, and she cried because of the power of her own.
The stories had lain dormant for over forty years, at least for those
outside of the vessel they were stored in. For that vessel, a cousin, the
stories had been cherished, held tightly, and contributed to the man he
became. For all that we have known him as a good man, I doubt many of the
family realized what a treasure he held within until a series of unexpected
happenings brought the stories gushing forth, willing to be shared.
I have known my first cousin Bruce all my life, and not known him
either. That is, I saw him on occasion and every time I did, I liked him
and was proud to call him cousin. But I did not know him. For that, we
can thank the world of technology and being able to get to know one another
on e-mail. Odd how something so modern managed to tap the very tradition
we both so admire. I fairly quickly learned how completely we were "kicked
by the same ancestral mule". The love of tradition and the past and
family elders came to us both naturally. I suspect we can thank the family
genes and our common ancestors for those mutual loves. But it seems my role
as the family storyteller better be taking a back seat; for cousin Bruce is
far more windy than I am and can flat tell a good story. Moreover, his
words can bring on a powerful lot of emotions within a few paragraphs.
It began when I asked Bruce to tell me stories of a side of my family about
whom I knew very little. Oh, I had the names, and I had the dates. I had
the places. I had the proofs, and I even had photographs and wisps of
memories. But I did not know this side of my family intimately. I could
not picture a face without the aid of a photograph. I could not hear in
some part of me a long ago voice. I could not paint a picture of a place
in my mind, could not "feel" a personality, and I did not feel as if I
"knew" these people. In short, though they lived in my time, many of them,
I had lost the chance for that sort of legacy. Bruce had not. When I
shared my pain at that loss, he offered to share his own memories.
He warned me that he typed with one finger, he warned me that spelling
might get in the way, he warned me that his keyboard had a habit of moving
around on him. He warned me he had never tried to write a story. It did
not matter. I was starved for the stories, and he was kind enough to take
the time to give them. What began as a few stories turned into many, and
before we quite realized what had happened, it was obvious that what this
very quiet cousin of mine had done was to add substance to wisps of
memories, to add flesh and blood to the bare bones of memories. What he
had managed to do was make them live again, not only for me, but for all of
the members of the family who either, like me had lost a possible legacy
living in the time it was lived, or like the younger generations, had no
chance to know the legacy.
His stories became a gift to a family this holiday season. His memories
became a bound book, to be shared with all of the members of a family. It
will be shared with the older generations who well remembered the people
and places he spoke of, and it will tap those memories and make them live
again. It will be shared with those of our own generation who might
remember or perhaps, like me, sadly did not. And it will be shared with
those of a younger generation who had never had the chance to know. I
daresay it will be kept, passed on and someday be shared with generations
yet unborn.
No doubt this Christmas many family members are going to be surprised, as
I was. Even as the author of the stories was. He had no idea so much was
stored within, bursting to be shared, to be remembered. For him this was a
catharsis of sorts, a reliving of the past, and I have no doubt he lived a
range of emotions as he told the stories, funny ones, sad ones. I have no
doubt because that is the way they affect the reader. I chuckled merrily
over his stories arriving daily in my mailbox, and many days I cried…but
good strong tears, the kind that make one glad of a heart, and glad of
memories to touch that heart. Tonight I gave Bruce's gift to my Mama…and I
watched her play out the same range of emotions I had gone through. She
cried more than once. She cried tears because she was touched at the
deepest part of her, and she cried tears because her laughter brought them
on. She cried because of the power of another's memories, and she cried
because of the power of her own.
Bruce is a quiet man, good hearted, loyal to his family. I believe he would
have been happiest had he been born to the world of a hundred or more years
ago. He has that sort of old fashioned aura about him, and his choices for
living would fit better in the world of a great great grandfather than they
do in the hectic bustling society of today. He would be the first to say
so, too. He does nothing to draw attention to himself, and he lives quite
simply. Nothing about him would suggest to anyone that so much was hidden
in his heart, that a virtual tome of stories were cloistered inside that
quiet exterior. Nothing would suggest the richness of the treasures he
remembered and turned to as he grew into a man, as he decided what sort of
man he would become. Yet, he alone, of all of us of this generation, had
clasped the stories of that family to his heart, had taken the time to know
the people are a part of those stories. And through those years that he
was taking time to know them, he was watching and listening. He was in
short, being molded by those years, and by that family. And he was storing
up memories. Those stories are priceless now, and they will be even more
priceless to a family with each passing year. He has managed to breathe
life into the past, and he has, with his stories now on paper, given each
member of the family an heirloom to pass on, a legacy that will never again
be simply the collection of names, dates, places in a family tree.
Newspapers will never announce in bold headlines the "serendipity" of the
treasure this family will receive this Christmas. Newspaper headlines tend
to tantalize readers with stories of rare finds only when those can be
measured in monetary terms. Yet, I think what we found is far more
valuable. How many of us, if we only stopped to take the time to talk, to
ask, to get to know an "unlikely someone" in our families, might find that
treasures may be right under our very nose, and we taking our treasures too
much for granted to recognize them for what they are? And how many of us,
if we only took time to think, are holding a treasure of memories inside of
us that could live after us and make a legacy for our families to come, if
only we would take the time to write them down?
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 2 months
[Cleaver] "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
by List user
Thinking After the Storm: A Collection (From the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
series)
Today's Sunday Rocking is a bit different from any you have received before.
It is simply a collection of some of my more recent writings and thoughts. I
hope you enjoy them. ~jan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Within this Issue:
Polishing Silver
Life is Good
What Fishing Really Is
What Happy Is
To My Daughter on True Love
I've Just Been Thinking
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Polishing Silver
I opened a box of trinkets,
And to my great dismay
Realized each was tarnished
And dull within the tray.
I had quite neglected to polish
The trappings of each gem
And so what once twinkled
Now lay dark and dim.
Shamed I was to wear
That others might see,
The neglect of my gems
And the laxity of me.
It took more than a few hours,
And effort through the night,
But at last the silver glistened
And sparkled with the light.
Our lives are like that silver,
The shine will dull and fade,
Unless time and effort
To polish is sincerely made.
Shamed we will be,
That others might know,
The tarnish that has dimmed
And darkened our glow.
It isn't really hard,
One should not despair,
But it takes some work
And some time to care.
The polish is prayer
It is faith and love,
It is giving to others,
Trusting the plan above.
And with such polish
We shall certainly be,
The glowing gems
God wants to see!
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life is Good
Life is good.
It is good in spite of scraped knees, and melted ice cream cones.
It is good in spite of mosquito bites, and canceled parties.
It is good in spite of goodbyes we don't want to say,
And hellos that are ones we would rather not welcome.
It is good in spite of lost loves and unrequited loves
And love that was not love at all.
When you push all the bad aside,
Shove it over to the pile of garbage
You will haul down to the street next
Monday night,
You know.
Life is good.
It is good because the sun shines,
No matter how many rainy days are sandwiched in between.
It is good because the grass is green
And the skies are blue,
As they have always been,
And always will be.
It is good because while you were crying
The birds were still singing,
and they didn't mind that you
Waited a while to join them.
It is good because there is always
Love somewhere that is real,
And unselfish,
And Just there.
It is good because when we truly examine our hearts
We know
We really feel a lot better if we sing
And things look a lot better when we notice
The grass is green and
The skies are blue.
It is good because after a while
We know the scraped knees
And melted ice cream cones
Just happen so that we learn
Life is still very good.
And if we ever really learn that
All the mosquito bites and cancelled parties
In the world
Aren't going to make any difference.
The sun will shine as the
Rain pours down.
And still be shining
When it stops.
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What Fishing Really Is
Here is something to know about fishing. Fishing is not about catching fish.
Fishing is about fishing. There is a world of difference. Hubby doesn't know
the difference except in his heart, but he speaks his mind because sometimes
he represents the segment of the male species that cannot verbalize the
language of the heart. And he thinks if he does not come home with a big
fish, he has failed, so he has to tell about the one that got away. Now I
know in his heart that really does not matter, because if every fish got away
for the rest of his life, he would still go fishing. Fishing is about
fishing. It is about rocking on a soft piece of Mama water in a boat cradle.
It is about silence and solitude with nothing but nature to sing you a
lullaby. It is about the soft patterned reflections on the floating carpet
beneath your cradle. It is about the breeze running gentle fingers through
your hair. It is about peace, friend. And you need to get someone to take you
fishing. Never since your mama's arms in a rocking chair have you known such
a thing as fishing.
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What Happy is
Happy is inside
And no one can touch it unless you let them.
Happy is figuring out
No one can make you that way
And it is your idea to be happy.
Happy is letting things go that need to slide out the door.
Happy is figuring out that "holding on to resentment"
because something was unfair is really
More unfair to you than anyone else.
Happy is building a little shelter of roses around the
Swing you are sitting in while you watch
The butterflies and listen to the birds sing.
Happy is saying nothing is going to disturb this.
Happy is knowing "God's in his heaven,
All's right with the world" (Thanks Mr. Keats!)
Even when things don't always look real right.
Because you know that He is bigger than you are,
And He is in charge of the outcome.
You can't taste happy
And you can't hear happy, or see it.
But you can FEEL happy
And it makes a lot of difference in how things
Taste and hear and look.
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To My Daughter on True Love
When you can let go As well as you can hold... When you can enjoy alone As
well as with... When you can stand Without leaning, And stand without Being
leaned upon... When silence can be Conversation, And conversation can Be or
not be... When you know without wondering Or having to ask To trust or be
trusted... When demands are no longer, And acceptance is always... When you
know the port in a storm, But are free to sail in the rainbow That follows...
When you learn No one can make you happy, And no one can choose Happiness but
yourself... When you are you, And he is he, And both like that just fine...
That, my daughter, Is true love.
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I've Just Been Thinking
Wonder what life would be like...
If we made a point to...
Stop ONE time each day to really look at the natural world around us. Notice
an ant busy working, notice the way the leaves sway in the wind, try to
determine exactly what shade of green the grass is, feel the wind on our
cheek.
Write down ONE thing each day that we are very grateful for in our lives, ONE
blessing that has come our way.
Be very still ONE time each day, block out all thoughts and just
"hear"....hear the bird singing we did not notice a moment before, hear a
child laughing we did not hear a moment before, just hear...
Make a point to do ONE kind deed no one is expecting us to do, for someone we
normally do not make an effort for daily.
Make a point to smile at ONE stranger and speak cheerfully.
Make a point ONE time to curb our tongue when we are about to say something
angry or negative or gossipy.
Called ONE person we know is probably lonely.
Made a point to stay STOP ONE time to a negative thought that wanted to enter
in, and tell ourselves "I won't go there"...and then not.
Thought of ONE person who frustrated us, aggravated us, made us angry, and
put ourselves in that person's shoes to try to understand it.
Stopped and sniffed of ONE flower.
Sat down for ONE ten minute period, took the phone off the hook, closed the
door, leaned back, closed our eyes and allowed only pleasant positive
thoughts to play in our minds.
Wonder what life would be like if we lived making a habit of doing even ONE
of those things ONE time a day...
Copyright ©2001, 2000JanPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 2 months
[Cleaver] Charles CLEAVER, born PA
by List user
Hello, listmembers;
This is my first posting to this list. I have not previously tried because
I have had such a small amount of information regarding the CLEAVER
connection to my family.
My great-greatgrandmother's first marriage was in about 1848, KY; to a
Charles CLEAVER, who had been born in PA. I recently found his death record
in Campbell County KY in November 1854, which says his parents' names were
William and Jerusha CLEAVER.
Charles and Sarah WHITE CLEAVER did have a daughter named Jerusha, also.
This is not my direct line, as Sarah re-married after Charles' death to Hiram
POTTS, who was my great-great grandfather. Will be glad to share any of
this CLEAVER family info, however, and I would like to get more information
about Charles' CLEAVER's birthplace, siblings and lineage.
Best wishes,
Ann Bergelt
Florida
18 years, 2 months
[Cleaver] Ray Cleaver
by List user
This is a Message Board Post that is gatewayed to this mailing list.
Classification: Query
Message Board URL:
http://boards.ancestry.com/mbexec/msg/an/GEJ.2ACEB/132
Message Board Post:
I am seeking info on daughter of Anna Penman, b abt 1875, married Herbert Brunner in PA. They had two daughters Margaret Evelyn or Evelyn Margaret and Virginia. Virginia married a Ray who in 1943 was a school administrator in Salix, Cambria County PA. There is some data suggesting Ray may have been Ray Cleaver. Ray and Virginia had one child as of 1943. He was then eight years old and was, in the words of his grandmother he was "a darling boy eight years old, a very bright fellow."
Does anyone know of this family. Anna Penman was the daughter of Charles Penman md Elizabeth and granddaughter of John Penman and Jean/Jane Ramage. Jane came to America from Scotland in 1854 as a widow and remarried a fellow passenger, widower James Snedden.
18 years, 2 months
[Cleaver] "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
by List user
>From Jan, unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
No Accidents (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
Nothing could begin until they all arrived. By this time, it appeared that
all were at least in the same country, but nothing could begin until they
all converged upon the same place within it. In 1801, most all were in
North Carolina/Virginia area, many near one another, but no marriage
records indicating they yet knew one another. Some were in
Pennsylvania. Some were already in Tennessee territory and some were in
route from Maryland. Some would be in the right spot within a few short
years, and some would not arrive for forty more years. Most would come for
the same reason: to own a spot of land they could call their own, to coax a
living from the soil. Some would come for other reasons, to find a "safe"
place out of the impending storm of white settler and Native American
clashes, or to bring their trade and talents to a rapidly expanding
frontier. In 1801, there would have been more than thirty of them in
various stages of their lives. All of them were my direct ancestors, but
nothing could begin until they all arrived. Until these ancestors of
Irish, Scotch, English, French and Native American roots could converge on
a small area known as "Land Between the Rivers" there was no chance for my
birth or the birth of my descendants. And obviously, they all arrived.
I have often wondered on that. In that time period the chances of survival
were not high anyway. The world would have been fraught with health
dangers, regardless of the intensified dangers of travel through a
wilderness and homesteading a frontier. If only one of those ancestors had
been in the wrong place at the wrong time, met with the wrong untimely
disaster, a family line would never have been, and hundreds of descendants
never have drawn breath. It is a wonder to me to think of it, to even
realize the miracle of being. It is a wonder to me to realize that this
"happen chance" has been, not just since 1801, but since the dawn of
civilization and the creation of humanity.
A very long time ago, when my son was having a very hard time of things, I
did a little homework and a little research, and I wrote him this little
piece to remind him in yet another way how very special he was. I was
astounded myself at what I learned. It became a lesson for myself, as well
as a lesson for him.
This is how special you are...
If you had been born in this country 200 years ago, you would have had less
than a 20% chance of reaching the age of ten. If you had been born in most
of the world today, the same is still true. But this is not the most
wondrous part of who you are. Listen...
For only a few hours of one week of one month in a certain year was it even
possible that your conception could even occur. There was one in 450
million chances that the sperm that created you did so. Had it not you
would have been another child. When you were conceived you received 23
chromosomes from your mother and 23 from your father, but all of those were
a toss up from millions. If one chromosome had been different, you would be
a different child. Theoretically, any one of 64 trillion children could
have been born...yet it was YOU. Add to that the fact that even after you
received the chromosomes that led to your creation, they have a quirky
little habit of "crossing over", changing pieces and parts of each other
and this made for eight million MORE possibilities of you being someone
different from who you are. If one chromosome had switched one part with
another...you would not exist...
And yet you do. You were born in this country in this time to this family.
You were conceived within the only few hours that were possible for you to
exist. You beat the odds of one in 450 million to receive a particular
sperm, you beat the odds of one in 64 trillion to receive just the right
mix of chromosomes, and you beat the odds of one in eight million that no
switching was done afterward except that which produced YOU.
Have you any doubt that you are meant to be, meant to exist? Have you any
doubt that there is some very special purpose for you on this earth?
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2000janPhilpot; Copyright ©1995janPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in
entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the
author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and
intent of the publication.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 2 months
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