This is how I feed my love for jewelry . . .

A new blogging buddy down in New Zealand, Janet's Gems, recently asked me to post pictures of some of the jewelry I make. I'm totally inept at photographing my stuff, but here are a few examples for you, Janny. I use sterling silver, cultured pearls, Swarovski crystals, erinite (looks like jade), coral, gold filled beads, onyx, jade, mother of pearl and other semi-precious stones. I also work with teeny-tiny seed beads which make me cross-eyed after a while, but the effect they make in jewelry is worth it. I don't like to see exposed stringing material. There's always a price to be paid, eh wot?! Thanks for stopping by and do visit Janet's blog. She makes some cool fabric pieces, including special dolls for Haitian children. She has patterns and information on her blog.

A welcome coolish front rolled through this evening.

It brought with it dark clouds I hoped would drop some rain and fire works on us, but no such luck.

As I sat on the balcony, basking in the very brisk breeze, I thought I caught a whiff of someones barbecue -- just the hot coals.

Light colored leaves torn from their trees

rolled and fluttered like tiny canaries.

Crows seemed to bask in the power of the wind to hold them aloft with no effort on their parts.

Swallows were less graceful as they precariously swooped,

searching for insects that

probably had taken shelter.

Passengers on planes landing at National were probably experiencing some exciting turbulence though I couldn't see it from my vantage point.

I could imagine those daring passengers who unbuckle seat belts and stand in the isle well before they reach the gate were feeling a little foolish -- for once.

Since D.C.'s ban on plastic grocery bags, I didn't expect to see the one that went wallowing by, settling in a pretty, little cypress bush.

I look forward to the day that no more trees, shrubs or buildings will be decorated thusly.

As darkness descended the night noises started -- little chirpers and peepers.

Haven't seen many lightning bugs this year. Hope that's due to my fading eyesight and not that they are disappearing.

D.C. is magical at night.

The amber colored street lights mellow the white marble buildings that appear so grand during the day.

Townhouses and apartment buildings

lit from within humanize a city that is all business during the day.

Sidewalk cafes come alive, offering passersby savory aromas

and good cheer.

Dogs walk their owners.

Thanks to the low profile of our city, the Washington Monument is

like a beacon

reminding everyone where we are --

Washington, D.C., the Capitol City of the United States of America.

Who's Minding the D.C. Treasurey?

I'm worried that the Commander of D.C.'s Office of Tax and Revenue jumped ship a long time ago. I'll explain. Last January I was shocked to receive an unsigned letter from a "tax auditor" at the OTR. It was to inform me that the department had no record of my every filing D.C. income tax forms! [FYI: Since 1971, I have diligently filed D.C. and Federal tax forms.] Once the angry/nervous hot flashes settled down, I immediately phoned the guy to inform him of his misinformation. I also corrected the spelling of my name which he had spelled two different ways in his letter. Normally, I have no problem talking with people who have an accent. My own Spouse has one. Over the years, I've learned to listen more carefully to folks for whom English is a second language. However -- this guy mumbled so badly I had to ask him to repeat information several times. It was embarrassing! After all that, he did follow-through on my request to put in writing the fact that I had filed jointly with my husband for the past three decades. That letter arrived without a signature or date and without the old OTR office address crossed out. [maybe I'm just being petty about the out-dated letterhead . . ?] Our lovely CPA always does a superlative job for us, so it was a surprise when we didn't get our refund right away. The mystery was solved when I read in the Washington Post that about 3,000 D.C. residents were erroneously sent tax bills including sizable penalties and interest for non-payment. It was because someone had put the decimal point in the wrong place. Our letter was dated June 9th and received three days before this news came out. When I couldn't get anywhere near someone by phone, I immediately responded in writing including copies of pertinent information. I knew it was a D.C. OTR mistake and expected a refund check soon afterwards. Spouse kept bugging me about the refund check so, again, I tried calling OTR last Thursday. I won't go into the ugly details about time spent on hold and being cut-off. When I finally reached a human being, I explained the situation. Of course she grilled me for information and put me on hold again. After holding perhaps 12 minutes, she came back on the line, giggling I'm guessing about what someone in the office had said to her. No apology for the long hold just: "Your refund has been approved and will be mailed in the next 7 to 10 days." WHOOPEE!! I'm left to wonder if OTR would have bothered to correct their mistake if I hadn't called. When I asked about my letter and corroborating evidence, she said there was no record of it having been received. So I'm thinking we'd still be in limbo if I hadn't persevered on the phone. Maybe if OTR had to pay fines, penalties and interest when THEY were late with payment, they'd be a little more careful, eh wot?

Tribute to a Guardian Angel

My college roommate, Mary and I have remained good friends though we seldom see each other. Last summer she brought a French couple over to tour parts of the U.S. When they came to D.C. I had the pleasure of showing them around my favorite city. It always amazes me how we can reconnect as if no time has passed. I wish we lived closer, but her home is in Michigan and I can't imagine leaving D.C. The first time I met Mary was during move-in to the dorm room we would share for two years at a small, liberal arts college in Iowa. We weren't exactly fish out of water, but neither one of us had lived anywhere near livestock. Nevertheless, we came to enjoy the curious dairy cows in a pasture a block from our dorm. As we unpacked I realized I would be rooming with a clothes horse. The saving grace was that she made most of her clothes. She even covered shoes with the same fabric as a couple of the outfits she'd made. I made some of my clothes, too, but it was evident even to non-sewers that I had. On the other hand, Mary's suits, dresses, blouses and slacks looked like they came from boutiques. Was I jealous? Well, yeah! One of my biggest regrets during my two years rooming with Mary was convincing her to start smoking. Once I was free from my parent's smoke-free rules, I let loose, so she almost had no choice. The dangers of cigarettes hadn't sunk in yet, so there were lots of us puffing away in dorm rooms, lounges, hallways, wherever we wanted to, except in classrooms and the chapel. I quit in 1985, but Mary still smokes and it's my fault. Beer drinking was another avenue we explored together. During our second month on campus, we somehow got invited to a kegger at a local guy's house on the edge of campus. Trying to be cool and hip, we quickly chugged 4 big cups of beer from a keg in the middle of the living room. The next thing I remember is lying on a stack of coats on a bed with some guy groping me. If Mary hadn't noticed I was missing and come looking for me, I could have lost a whole lot more than my dignity. Two impossibly handsome brothers -- not college students -- were famous for "breaking in" freshmen women. The brother trying to get into my pants was so angry he pushed both of us out the front door leaving us to stagger back across a major highway and to our dorm. In the late 1960s, colleges had curfews which were probably a good thing for inexperienced, gullible girls like us. I don't remember signing back into the dorm in front of the dorm mother. We must have held our breath doing it because we never heard about it from her. I have to disclose that alcohol was strictly prohibited on our Methodist campus and, of course, we were both under-age, but that didn't stop anyone from binge drinking. Not much has changed over the past 40-odd years. Mary's biggest role was putting-up with my waxing and waning in an impossible relationship I had with an older man. The trauma lasted for a year and a half and she was always there for me. When the break-up finally came, she stopped me from slicing my wrists. She was and is rock solid and wiser than she believes she is. I feel so lucky that she came into my life and remains an important, cherished friend. If anyone reading this has their own guardian angel, I'd love to hear about it.

My Home Town on Independence Day

The Fourth of July always is special for me because of the fireworks. When I was a kid, the history behind the holiday was strictly peripheral. Real pyrotechnics came to town only once a year. Sure, we lit snakes, those black discs that put out lots of smoke and bloomed into fragile, long tubes of ash. But fireworks that exploded high in the air were forbidden to private citizens. My home town had a large private country club to thank for our annual display. It was a short drive from our house and attracted nearly everyone in town. Club members sat in Adirondack chairs on the huge veranda, served frosty drinks by the help, smoked cigarettes and cigars and schmoozed. We plebeian masses parked the family station wagons on the polo field and sat on old blankets or bedspreads. As the time drew near to shoot off the first shell, excitement among the children had grown to fever pitch. Then it happened -- one big burst of color in the sky followed by shrill screams from the kids and dignified oohs and aahs from the adults. Then we waited what seemed an eternity for the next burst. Only for the finale was more than one shell shot off at a time. Between each one, we'd hear babies crying and the occasional dog howling in terror. In the end, the club members retreated into their clubhouse for more refreshment and socializing while the rest of us jockeyed for a spot in the exit lines. The memory of open car windows, glaring headlights, choking exhaust from hundreds of cars, fussy children and frustrated parents is an indelible memory of the Fourth of July in my home town. Thankfully, now I can enjoy the show down on the Mall from the comfort of our balcony. I even feel a little like one of those high-rollers on the veranda -- sipping a cool drink of my choice, sitting in a comfy chair, then watching the masses as they fight traffic to get out of town.

Happy Independence Day!!

Lovely Memories

In my previous post I was thinking the heat couldn't get worse. I was WRONG! The next few days will remain in the high 90s. We haven't planted our balcony flower boxes yet because of the excessive heat. We miss them. The sparrows that used to eat our petunia blossoms also miss them. Following are pics I took of previous flower crops. Thanks for stopping by!

It Could Be Worse

The temperature outside is in the high nineties and what I call the misery index is considerably higher than that. As if that wasn't enough, the air quality has been poor for several days. It's too early in the summer for the cold tap water to be as warm as bath water, but it is. And what should be cooling breezes are more like siroccos rolling off of the Sahara. Being happily sequestered in our air conditioned apartment, I started thinking about summer in D.C. during my parents' generation. During the build-up to and the actual U.S. engagement in WWII thousands of office workers migrated to D.C. and it's surrounds. They were crowded into small and un-cooled office space. Paper weights, now quaint reminders of bygone days, were a necessity against electric fans that were a nuisance and mostly impotent against the heat. Perfume was useless against body odor once it was sweated-off. I cannot imagine trying to handle paper and carbon paper with sweaty hands. Heading home after such a stressful day just continued the agony. Buses and street cars were not air conditioned and few houses or apartments were either. Some movie theaters installed coolers. It must have felt heavenly to sit in a cool, darkened room enjoying a get-away from real life and the heat. How office workers during the days before air conditioning were able to think straight and actually accomplish any kind of work is beyond my imagination. There must have been alot of frustrated, grouchy people walking our streets. This picture has been my PC's wallpaper since it got stinkin' hot. My sister, Patty took it a few months ago. Her husband, Tom and the family dog, Tucker took a breather from shoveling and cavorting [respectively] to watch the plows come through yet again to fill the end of everyone's driveway. As much as I like the changing seasons, I wish Spring and Autumn lasted much longer. I must remember to be grateful for a roof over my head, heat in the winter and cooling in the summer. Each season comes with good and bad points over which we have absolutely no control. I guess that's a good thing. HAPPY SUMMER!!

Fathers' Day 2010

Fathers' Day is bittersweet since my Dad died in 2007. There is virtually no photographic documentation of his childhood with his dad. I can only imagine how this adorable little guy made his parents feel. He had an older brother and later on a sister joined his small family. He then became the middle child. I never had the nerve to ask him if that position bothered him. He was reluctant to discuss personal stuff life that. Looking at his baby picture, I can sense that he was a quiet child and went out of his way not to make trouble for his parents. Too bad none of his own children were like that! We were challenging to say the least. Sibling rivalry ran rampant til we got considerably older. A little of the "pecking order" still exists, but it's all in fun now. Dad adored his grandchildren. Some were a little put-off by his cool, rather formal demeanor and droll sense of humor. Now that they've grown up, I hope they realize he would have given his life to save any one of them. Today, I wish I could cuddle this little guy, ruffle his perfectly combed hair and make him giggle. Sentimental tears still sting my eyes, but I'm also smiling.

Kaleidoscope

Spouse is working tonight and I'm sitting here wondering if I can sleep without him. Not so much . . . Anyway, in an effort to entertain myself I turned to my trusty PC and started diddling with a picture Spouse took of me last weekend. I'm not one who likes having her picture taken, so this a rare exception. I get a kick out of tweeking pictures with the Microsoft Picture It program that came installed on my PC. [I'm too tight to buy one of the costly, cool programs.] When the picture reached this point, I thought it had a distinctly Picasso-esque-ness to it. It's also kinda creepy looking -- WAY COOL! BTW --the turquiose blob on the end of my nose is not a giant zit! I think it was a shiny spot that ended up taking that color. Y'know, I could have erased that, but it would have been dishonest. The title for this post is something a former boyfriend said about me. He thought I was a kaleidoscope because, in my youth, I was a little crazy-fun. I loved that he thought of me that way! Hope y'all have a great weekend and, please -- don't hate me cuz I'm beautiful . . . ;-}

Love in a Hospital

Yes, I was in the hospital for another procedure yesterday. Fortunately, I came out of this one not feeling as if I'd been in a wrestling match that I'd lost. For whatever reason, I fight anesthesia and it's normally calming affects. This time I was able to get by on twilight sleep which uses fewer and gentler drugs. While I killed time waiting to be hauled away for my procedure, I observed others in the pre-op area. Being in the heart of Washington, D.C. I heard several different languages. Couldn't translate any, but I'm sure they were all expressing about the same thing -- it will be fine, don't worry, we'll be waiting when you come out, we love you. Across the spacious room, a couple who looked to be in their 40s arrived and were shown into a curtained cubicle. Both were tall, slender, wore glasses and Bermuda shorts. The same nurse who helped me, gave Wife a plastic wrapped gown, a pair of those ugly, nonskid booties and a plastic bag for her street clothes. She then closed the curtain on the patient and Hubby. A small gap in the curtain allowed a glimpse of Hubby helping Wife undress and tying the back strings on her gown. When he opened the curtain again she was up on the bed. She fiddled with a tiny little shoulder purse then handed it to Hubby. They chatted quietly, he stroked her hair a couple of times then the nurse was back to do some other prep on Wife. Hubby waited right outside the curtain, awkwardly holding Wife's tiny shoulder bag as if it was a talisman. He wound and unwound the narrow shoulder strap, took one or two steps, but never away from the curtain separating him from his beloved. Next thing I new, my curtain was closed and my adorable nurse was back to start my I.V. I hoped against hope it would not be necessary to drill it into the top of my hand, but no -- that's where the anesthesiologist wanted it. Warning: if you ever have to have this done to you do not look while it's being done! Inside a large hollow steel needle is a serrated plastic doo-jobby that is inserted into the tender, blue vein on the top of your hand. Taking it out is equally painful, so you have to prepare yourself. Anyway, once that had been accomplished, my curtain was pulled back again and I was left to mutter to myself about the pain that had just been inflicted on me all in an effort to prevent pain during the procedure. I sometimes wonder if a swift bop with a baseball bat wouldn't be more humane, but I digress. Hubby was still shuffling in front of Wife's curtained cubicle, winding and unwinding the shoulder strap that had now become just something to do with his hands. At times, he would face the curtain, standing very close to it and I'd wonder what was happening behind it. Thankfully, I couldn't hear anything they were saying from so far away. Before Wife's curtain opened again, I was trundled off to another holding pen, awaiting the finish of my surgeon's previous procedure. He'd done several that morning, making him more than an hour late to start mine. I didn't want Spouse to accompany me through pre-op because it's too hard on him. Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing that I hadn't "been under the knife" all that time. Then, when I was awake enough to be released, someone forgot to notify him so that he could bring our car around to get me. After waiting for quite a while, I begged the nurse to let me go on down to see if Spouse was there already. The waiting area is on the first floor and the entrance/exit on the Lobby floor below that. The nurse said patients weren't allowed to leave on their own, but I convinced her I could handle it. She let me go after I explained how long Spouse had been waiting. I was a little wobbly, but made it to the elevator and across the lobby to where I hoped to see him in our car. After waiting there about ten minutes, I decided to check the waiting area. When the elevator doors opened, Spouse saw me before I saw him and came running. No one had notified him of my release. He was as distressed as he was angry and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Spouse doesn't enjoy driving and this trip was made even more exciting by his angry tirade. He got us home safely then went off to work. I guzzled about 1/2 gallon of water and slept off the rest of the anesthesia. All's well that end's well. As for the other couple, I pray that their day ended well and that they too got home safely. I've been on both sides of the curtain many times and know how worry and love mingle to turn your heart into a mass of quivering jelly. There's nothing better than going to bed at home, wrapped in your lover's arms after a day like that.

What is it?

We've been enjoying a truly scrumptious day today. The weekend was hot and stormy and today a cool breeze blows just enough to freshen the air and my mood. On days like this, I like to hang out on our balcony with a good book.

Minutes ago, I noticed this critter clinging to the balcony wall. I watched it for a while, but it never made a move. I have no idea what it is, but it looks totally cool.

Fame -- who needs it?

Though it is absolutely none of my business, I felt compelled to comment on the separation of the Gores. My first reaction was sadness that any family has to go through such a thing. My second was hoping that they would be protected from public scrutiny and comment. Of course that is unlikely in this day of instant news. Again, no one asked for my take on their decision, but I do have an opinion and then I'm finished commenting on them. Both Gores are honorable, decent people who fell in love and did the natural thing: they got married and started a family. I think the disconnect started when Mr. Gore decided to run for public office. I don't think that was something Mrs. Gore had bargained for. The constant attention and traditional role of a political wife may have been the very last way she would have chosen to live her life. I, for one, have never had a desire to attain fame, notoriety or celebrity. Anonymity and privacy are among the things I cherish most in my life. No amount of money could make up for the loss of either of them. Frankly, I cannot understand why anyone wants to be famous. Part of my job at one time was to liaise with an organization started by a former movie/TV star. His program was and remains worthy of support. However, meeting with the founder in person was always off-putting. One incident that stands out was a meeting scheduled in the restaurant at the Hay-Adams hotel. The local rep. of the organization was late leaving me to entertain Mr. TV. I don't exactly have the gift for gab, but I made a valiant effort to engage him in conversation about his organization. The entire time, his eyes roamed around the crowded room. I took turns wondering if he didn't want to be seen alone with me, or if he was looking for recognition. I was relieved when the local guy showed up. But then they ended up talking to each other, leaving me out of the conversation. That was so typical in those days. I hated it when I asked a man a question and he answered it to my date! It's as if women were superfluous and merely decoration. Tipper Gore may well have been subjected to years of such dreadful behavior during her marriage. Political wives have long been the butt of nasty jokes and innuendo. Honestly, I'm surprised that she could put up with it as long as she did! Once all the commotion dies down, I hope she can live the rest of her life as she wishes and without intrusions from strangers like me or anyone else. I wish them both good luck and a speedy resolution.

What He Missed

In my previous post, I told you about a young man from my home town who died in Vietnam about a month before his 21st birthday. He was special to lots of people. Then I started to think about all the things he missed since his untimely death in 1967. I'm sure there are additional significant milestones, events and developments that I've forgotten, but these are what I came up with. Carl never had the chance to: -graduate from college and start a career; -hold a newborn son, daughter or grandchild; -enjoy the freedom of a cordless telephone; -watch a flat screen television in HD; -vote for our first African-American president; -use a personal computer or cellphone or GPS; -serve as best man at his best friend's wedding; -mourn the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. or Bobby Kennedy; -see a single Star Wars movie; -write the great American novel; -ride in the Concorde or an ultra light plane; -watch the first human step onto the surface of the moon; -behold any of the space shuttle flights or the international space station; -celebrate the end of the cold war and demise of the Berlin Wall; -celebrate his coming-of-age 21st birthday; -figure out what LED, LCD or IDP mean; -worry about covering a bald spot; -watched CNN or cable television; -drive a front-wheel-drive car with ABS; -witness the dissolution of the U.S.S.R.; -buy a CD or DVD or even a VHS tape; -use a key card to open a door; -burn popcorn in a microwave oven; -drive the snazzy new VW Beetle or a Mini-Cooper; -shop at Ikea or Trader Joe's; -spend our new, colorful paper money; -use an electric toothbrush; -dance at a discotheque; -see auto manufacturers ditch the tailfins; -view awe-inspiring pictures from the Hubble telescope; -have a blog where he could opine at will; -try in-line skates; -see Lake Erie make a comeback from near death; So many things didn't exist and hadn't happened yet in October 1967. Life has been made easier by some inventions and more complicated by others. We waste more time fiddling with electronics than we do interacting with each other. Too few of us remember that our lives or those of people we care about could be snatched away before we take another breath. I can only guess how Carl and others of his lost generation would have reacted to life these days. I so wish they had the chance to engage in long, productive lives.

What might have been . . .

In October 1967 a twenty years young man's life was brutally taken from him in a Vietnamese jungle. One tribute I recently read about him said that he was our generation's JFK. At first I thought it was an exaggeration, but the more I thought about it the more I had to agree. Carl Thorne-Thomsen was one of thousands of America's best who went to war in Southeast Asia. At the time, he was a popular, top student at Harvard. I learned recently that two of his friends and classmates, Al Gore and Tommy Lee Jones, were among those deeply affected by his death -- just three months after he was deployed. In high school, Carl and my brother were seniors when I was a freshman. Carl was the epitome of the straight arrow student -- clean-cut, intelligent, cute, great sense of humor incredibly popular yet humble. I don't think anyone there at that time would disagree that every girl had a crush on him and every boy wanted to be him. He was the definition of a gentleman and scholar. My 1964 yearbook reminded me that had presided over several organizations, participated in several sports, was elected king of the junior prom and won awards for scholarship and leadership. In short he did everything to make his parents proud of him without tooting his own horn. The premature death of a young person can never be justified. It wasn't necessary for Carl to die before his 21st birthday. He had a deferral from the draft. But he couldn't stand the idea that other guys were paying with their lives so that he could stay in school to earn a degree. The summer following his junior year he walked into a recruiting office and volunteered. Within three months, he was dead. I began to wonder what might have been had Carl survived and completed his degree. He could have done anything and been successful. Carl was one of those guys who would have touched many more lives in memorable and positive ways. Now when I read reports and see pictures of our casualties [such a polite sounding term for the dead] in Iraq and Afghanistan, I wonder who among them might have been their generation's JFK. Today, the young men and women who volunteer to fight our country's battles may have different reasons for enlisting -- financial, family tradition, an educational opportunity, occupational training or -- simply, heartfelt patriotism. Whatever the reasons, they know they are putting their lives on the line to protect the rest of us. Some say there is great nobility in their sacrifices. While that is true, the loss of each and every life is tragic. Who knows what impact any one of them might have had on our world. Their families and friends believe they know and grieve their losses. In the late 60s and early 70s, I was out in D.C. protesting the Vietnam War. I was tear-gassed and pepper-gassed on the U of Md. campus in College Park. When this happened, I wasn't protesting, just trying to get to classes or to my part-time job. What some still fail to realize is that we were not out there because we didn't support our troops. We didn't want them sent to Southeast Asia any more than many of them wanted to go. The military draft was a scary, demoralizing fact and ruined many lives. Guys did horrible things to avoid it. One friend shot off his own toe. The Vietnam war was a mistake and everyone knew it, but we were in too deeply to admit it. The war machine -- the military/industrial complex -- was more powerful than any gaggle of college students. We were accused of being disloyal and unAmerican. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Very simply, we wanted to stop the bloodshed and chaos inflicted on combatants and civilians alike. It was a war no one could win. The war in Iraq will not end because Americans bring it to an end. It will end when the Iraqis have had enough and send us packing. Afghanistan is a more difficult proposition because the Taliban and Al Qaeda have unlimited funding thanks in part to our bumbling and misguided allegiance to a large, oil-rich Middle Eastern nation. "Death to America" is chanted in nearly every Muslim country because we are perceived as the infidels that are trying to eradicate Islam. The United States didn't exist during the Crusades of the 4th Century, but stories of the atrocities against Muslims are still taught in their schools. Somehow we need to acknowledge the mistakes our ancestors made in the name of Christianity. The Islamist extremists believe they are avenging the crimes committed against their forefathers by the Crusaders. My incentive for posting this was not to rant about past mistakes. Rather, it was to encourage every American to take at a minute this weekend to remember people like Carl whose dreams and lives were cut short by war. Who knows what impact any one of them might have had. Maybe a young corpsman in the Korean War might have gone on to discover a cure for Lupus, or an Army nurse during World War II might have gone on to become a concert pianist. For each life lost to war, dozens if not hundreds more are affected by it. For some of our wounded warriors, death sometimes looks preferable to life as they now must live it. Suicide among veterans is a shameful legacy. Only during recent history has the military taken a stab at recognizing and treating post traumatic stress disorder and survivor guilt. How our fathers and grandfathers managed to thrive after what they saw will remain largely a mystery. My own Dad waited until weeks before his death from cancer to mention a few WWII experiences. These came out only when I asked what he thought about a PBS special on WWII. Those of us who have not served in the military owe more than we can ever repay to our active military, their families and veterans. Rolling Thunder comes through town to remind us of this obligation. These guys realize how lucky they are to have survived. They also crave support as they agonize over lost buddies. So, for Carl and so many others whose chances to contribute to society were stolen before they could even offer their service, I will take time to reflect on what might have been and what is. It's the very least any of us can do.