Rita Jo

1951


My earliest memory took place a few days after December 26, 1950. My parents introduced me to my brand new sister, Rita Jo. I can see myself looking over the classic crib which had multicolored balls at the end, which were there not for just decoration, but to spin as soon as the enclosed baby learned to pull itself up. I was totally taken in with a sense of amazement. There was a certain smell of the infant that calmed me. Today my sister Rita Jo turns 70. Happy Birthday~sis you are a gift not only to me but to our family and the world.
When I turned 30 it did not bother me, but 18 months later when we had Rita’s 30th birthday, it made me realize that the sands of my hour glass were speeding up. Growing up with me as the “big brother” was not all fun. I could be a jerk, a tease, and I confess that I still regret the day I aimed a BB gun at a 45’ angle and about 100 yards away, and the BB landed right on her rear. Today Rita has her own story about why she is so committed to MOMs Demand Action for responsible gun laws. Rita is a warrior for sane gun laws, environmental justice, racial inclusion, and recovery. She is also a commissioned minister in the Disciples of Christ. Rita Jo is my hero!!!
Let’s back up to 1953. Soon after the birth of my brother Charley, my mom Pat sunk into a severe postpartum psychosis. She was institutionalized on and off for a year. Rita and I were put in the care of friends and relatives. At one point we spent a month or so going to a place Rita affectionately renamed—PUEBLO Day Penitentiary—It was not pretty. I would not leave her sight. As a result I have a very clear memory of a “care giver” in a white uniform taking me into a stair well and kicking and punching me. I would not stop yelling until they let me stay with Rita. I only share this because I know these kinds of things happen to kids.
In 9th grade I tolerated Rita showing up as a 7th grader at Heaton Jr. High with her “cat eye glasses” and ponytail. However, when she showed up as a sophomore at Pueblo East High, I figured out really quickly that she had a covey of very cute friends. We began a much more mature friendship that goes on to this day.
I was privileged 22 years ago to perform the wedding for Rita and Dave. Together they have built a remarkable partnership that is blending a son

apiece, and four grandkids. To be either Rita’s grandkid or nephew or niece is to blessed. Rita cares, Rita listens, Rita is fun. She was a master teacher, and if you were fortunate enough to have her as a kid or the parent of kid, you know what a fantastic educator she is.
One final story— I was in the 6th grade and Rita the 4th. We were both taking piano lessons and we were playing a duet at a Christmas recital at the old Central Christian Church. I don’t know if it was stage fright or what, but Rita froze. I, being the jerk that I could be, elbowed my sister ever so slightly in the ribs. She started crying. We limped through the song.
I could not ask for a more special sister. She has an amazing sense of humor, a pastor’s heart, and was smart enough to survive me.
Onward and Upward, Mark

The Sweet Spot


The metaphor “Sweet Spot”, I first heard in reference to that place on a baseball bat where the ball pops off the bat with the greatest velocity. It is the place on a golf club where the ball does what you want it to. It is that time on a vacation or trip where everything comes together. Today I am talking Swedish Tea Rings.
My grandpa Joe Anderson, was a full blooded Swede whose parents immigrated to the US and settled in SW Iowa. My mom Pat, who would have turned 100 in three weeks, loved her Swedish heritage. She could say the Lord’s Prayer in Swedish. She was a great story teller and had many tales of her Nordic heritage. What I remember best, is that this time every year she would make four Swedish Tea Rings. This was no simple task. It took her all day. There was the dough prep, the rising, prepping the filling that consisted of walnuts, currents, cinnamon, honey, and who knows what else. She would bake them two at a time. When they were cooled they would get just the right amount of frosting.
“Don’t you dare touch these Mark, they are for Christmas morning breakfast”. They sat there for a couple of days talking to me. Then after the joy of “unbridled materialistic avarice” (to quote Ralph from A Christmas Story), we headed to breakfast. My mom was a world champion homemaker. Christmas at our house was a combination of chaos and grace.
Well, the Swedish Tea Rings were warmed up to perfection. Now something I had learned in my yearly consumption, is that, as much as my mom achieved perfection, there was always about a three inch section where the juicy best found its home. So believe it or not, I became an expert at spotting that “sweet spot”. I would carefully plot my selection where I aimed for that most amazing concoction of Swedish perfection, oozing with extra moist goo. In my well honed proclivity for “tasty” this was a grand slam over the center field fence.
Sweet spots are harder to come by this year, but all the more joyful when discovered. I will share two with you. One, my wonderful daughter Amy and family, sent me the most amazing slippers, along with the best homemade Christmas card. If you want a peek just connect with me and I

will send you a picture. Two, my grandson Miko made his second short film. He has the gift of both heart and mind.
So enjoy your ‘sweet spots’ whatever they might be. I would love to hear from you as to where you found, tasted, heard or observed your 281 yard drive, which rocketed right out of the perfect place on your club.
Onward and Upward, Mark

Light


In eight days we will experience another winter solstice. In terms of daylight it is the shortest day of the year. It is 4:55p here at my dining room table and it is almost night. I am looking out over a snow covered view and I am greeted by a gentle variety of Christmas lights at each of my neighbor’s homes. My fireplace is gently waving to me with radiant warmth that comes as close to perfect as I could imagine. I plan to drive out before sunrise tomorrow just to watch it happen again. When the sun is way south, the daylight radiates and creates sunrises that go well with Handel’s Messiah. When I get to the the crest of the hill on 120th, I can see downtown Denver to the right and Boulder to the left.
Like everything else, this is a very unique Christmas time. The Pandemic has seemed to motivate my part the of world to be even more festive, and I am grateful. I have been thinking about light and dark all day. I remember going to the Cave of the Winds near Manitou Springs when I was about eight. Somewhere on the tour we were asked to stand still and the guide turned out all the lights. I was not scared, it was too dark even to imagine any scary thought. This total darkness was probably no more than a couple of minutes but I got the point.
A right of passage in my youth was to “walk the storm drain”. This 1/2 mile corrugated steel passage went from Belmont park to the Fountain river. It was about four feet tall which meant you negotiated it bent over. My first time through was this side of terrifying. I was last in a line of about five boys. The tunnel was straight for about 250 yards, then it made a turn which meant the light behind us disappeared. For the next few minutes you were in cave darkness. Then at about the time I asked myself why I did this, light appeared as a tiny round opening in front of us. We got to the end, where we threw rocks and chased lizards. The trek back was a piece of cake.
I have been thinking this week about a quote from Leonard Cohen. “The cracks are what let the light shine in”. Life is breaking my heart open again. The realities of solitude which can become loneliness has broken me open. The sadness of watching the Covid “death ticker” hit nearly 300,000 hurts. And then I get the message on my phone that Charley Pride died today of Covid. He had a great run!!! He would perform every

year at the Colorado State Fair in Pueblo. My parents were huge fans. They would put on their western gear and head to the Fair in red cowboy boots (mine now) and my mom in a classic cowgirl skirt and vest. “Kiss an Angel Good Morning” Charley. I cried when I thought of how this unlikely man crossed the racial divide with music, which began when he was in the Air Force singing in Montana. The light from this crack of grief is a gift.
Tonight I will put on the Nat King Cole Christmas album and think of the bubble lights on my parent’s tree by our fireplace on Alexander Circle. My mom would light a couple of candles and a 10 year old boy would sit on the couch for hours and bask in the lights of a winter’s night.
Onward and Upward, Mark

Johnny A. AKA Quail

Jonnie A. (AKA Quail)—

A Man of Peace

Soon after JFK’s assassination, I began to slip into what I now recognize as a deep and dark depression. In May that following year I lost my friend, Larry E., to a tragic drowning. I was then told by my father that I was going to work at the family business. There would be no baseball, hanging out at the pool, or riding my bike for endless hours around Pueblo. The work was very hard, as we cleaned carpets in two homes a day, and picked up 20 some area rugs. We brought those rugs back to the plant to scrub, and hang from a 25ft ceiling for forced air drying.

I worked 50 hours a week, which I am sure is some violation of child labor laws. It was mostly solitary work as I was a helper to an adult specialist. I had hours to think. I spent a lot of time thinking about death, listening to Country Music, as the men that worked for my dad and uncle loathed Rock and Roll. It was KPUB and never KDZA. The good news as I look back, is that it was the golden age of Country and I know all the songs. In August football started and I was freed from that summer of indentured servitude.

I headed off to my Sophomore year, never once telling anyone about the fear and sadness that lived inside of me. That year the East High Eagle football team was loaded with Senior talent. I was a clumsy but eager kid who lived in a body that looked far more grown up than I felt.

At East we had two Junior Highs funnel into one High School. I came from Heaton, which was brand new, very privileged, and other than the kids that were bussed in, it was 99% Anglo. Risley was the other Junior High. Those students were mostly blue collar, poor and it had many Hispanics. I now realize how fortunate I was to have had that experience. They had great teachers at East, and I learned a lot. Between going into 20 homes a day while working my summer job, and now schooling in a very diverse context, my world expanded.

I was scared and lonely but never said a word to anyone. I was nearly 6 feet tall and 190 pounds, which made be stick out as a Sophomore. It was probably the third week of school and I was in the cafeteria standing alone, and all of the sudden I was surrounded by three guys who began to bully me into a fight. I had no idea who they were or what I had done. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnny A., who was known as Quail, get up and move towards us.

Quail was our starting defensive end on a team that just beat Poudre from Ft. Collins 6-0, to take over #1 spot in the top high school foot ball rankings. Quail was a man among boys, a tremendous athlete and a fierce competitor. He put himself between the three of them and me. He looked at them and said “What’s your problem??? Leave him alone, he is my friend”. Mind you, he had never said a word to me on the practice field or locker room. He smiled at me and went back to his table.

What I share now I do with Quail’s recent permission. Fast forward to the early 2000’s. MK and I were visiting our many relations in Pueblo, and we went to a 7am AA meeting. There in the circle of recovering folk was Johnny A. His strength and gentleness of character oozed from him still. Many times we went to that meeting while my mom was still alive. Often we were met by Quail.

This Sunday is Peace Sunday in our Advent world and I have thought a lot about what peace is. When I think of how Quail intervened on my behalf, at a time in my life when I needed hope, sometimes peace is an action and not a state of being. The powerful act justly on behalf of those who are vulnerable. There is also a second peace and that is internal.

Quail’s health is not so good, but the peace that passes all understanding flows out of him. Thank You Johnny A., my brown skinned hero, you are a peaceful peacemaker who is obviously at peace with yourself and the world. I close with this prayer that Quail and I have shared in the circles of AA.

From St. Francis

Lord make Me an Instrument of Your Peace,

Where is there is hatred let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may

not so much seek to be consoled as to console,

To be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

It is in pardoning, that we are pardoned,

And it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life. Amen

Onward and Upward,

Mark

Johnny A. AKA Quail

Jonnie A. (AKA Quail)—

A Man of Peace

Soon after JFK’s assassination, I began to slip into what I now recognize as a deep and dark depression. In May that following year I lost my friend, Larry E., to a tragic drowning. I was then told by my father that I was going to work at the family business. There would be no baseball, hanging out at the pool, or riding my bike for endless hours around Pueblo. The work was very hard, as we cleaned carpets in two homes a day, and picked up 20 some area rugs. We brought those rugs back to the plant to scrub, and hang from a 25ft ceiling for forced air drying.

I worked 50 hours a week, which I am sure is some violation of child labor laws. It was mostly solitary work as I was a helper to an adult specialist. I had hours to think. I spent a lot of time thinking about death, listening to Country Music, as the men that worked for my dad and uncle loathed Rock and Roll. It was KPUB and never KDZA. The good news as I look back, is that it was the golden age of Country and I know all the songs. In August football started and I was freed from that summer of indentured servitude.

I headed off to my Sophomore year, never once telling anyone about the fear and sadness that lived inside of me. That year the East High Eagle football team was loaded with Senior talent. I was a clumsy but eager kid who lived in a body that looked far more grown up than I felt.

At East we had two Junior Highs funnel into one High School. I came from Heaton, which was brand new, very privileged, and other than the kids that were bussed in, it was 99% Anglo. Risley was the other Junior High. Those students were mostly blue collar, poor and it had many Hispanics. I now realize how fortunate I was to have had that experience. They had great teachers at East, and I learned a lot. Between going into 20 homes a day while working my summer job, and now schooling in a very diverse context, my world expanded.

I was scared and lonely but never said a word to anyone. I was nearly 6 feet tall and 190 pounds, which made be stick out as a Sophomore. It was probably the third week of school and I was in the cafeteria standing alone, and all of the sudden I was surrounded by three guys who began to bully me into a fight. I had no idea who they were or what I had done. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnny A., who was known as Quail, get up and move towards us.

Quail was our starting defensive end on a team that just beat Poudre from Ft. Collins 6-0, to take over #1 spot in the top high school foot ball rankings. Quail was a man among boys, a tremendous athlete and a fierce competitor. He put himself between the three of them and me. He looked at them and said “What’s your problem??? Leave him alone, he is my friend”. Mind you, he had never said a word to me on the practice field or locker room. He smiled at me and went back to his table.

What I share now I do with Quail’s recent permission. Fast forward to the early 2000’s. MK and I were visiting our many relations in Pueblo, and we went to a 7am AA meeting. There in the circle of recovering folk was Johnny A. His strength and gentleness of character oozed from him still. Many times we went to that meeting while my mom was still alive. Often we were met by Quail.

This Sunday is Peace Sunday in our Advent world and I have thought a lot about what peace is. When I think of how Quail intervened on my behalf, at a time in my life when I needed hope, sometimes peace is an action and not a state of being. The powerful act justly on behalf of those who are vulnerable. There is also a second peace and that is internal.

Quail’s health is not so good, but the peace that passes all understanding flows out of him. Thank You Johnny A., my brown skinned hero, you are a peaceful peacemaker who is obviously at peace with yourself and the world. I close with this prayer that Quail and I have shared in the circles of AA.

From St. Francis

Lord make Me an Instrument of Your Peace,

Where is there is hatred let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may

not so much seek to be consoled as to console,

To be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

It is in pardoning, that we are pardoned,

And it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life. Amen

Onward and Upward,

Mark

Hope 2020

Dear Friends,

There is nothing I could say about the year 2020 that each of us have not experienced, thought or shaken our head’s about. Here is a thought that is guiding me through Advent.
“The Light Shines in the Darkness, and the Darkness did not overcome it”
John 1:5
This is John’s Christmas story. No angels, shepherds, mangers, wisemen, or bucolic scenes. Just this profound statement that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. In this Advent season a lot will be stripped away from what we are used to. That is not all bad. My plan includes lots of music and watching A CHRISTMAS STORY at least twice.
I have a friend who spent Christmas in a prison, in Czechoslovakia, in 1974. He could never quite explain why he ended up there (said he got drunk), but Time Magazine implied that he worked for the CIA. He shared a story with me about befriending a prison guard who brought him Double Mint gum. He kept the foil wrappers and fashioned a complete Nativity set in tiny sizes.

He was released and headed to seminary at Phillips U in Enid, Oklahoma. In my imagination I constructed what his miniature Nativity looked like. Here is the best part. He shared there was a hole in his ceiling from which a beam of light shown in the corner each night. Guess where the “8 pound 11 oz. Baby Jesus in a manger” was??? Keep the faith…that light still shines.
A couple of weeks ago I came home from Greeley and MK (who was heading off the next day to “Grandma duty” in California, for a couple of months) had gotten out my favorite Christmas decorations and yard lights as a gift to me in her absence.
My light is shining from the inside out as each day the kindness of friends and strangers touch me.
Onward and Upward, Mark
ps, My bucket list is down to 1– Don’t kick the bucket!!! (Wear your mask so we don’t kill each other)

Dear Friends,


Hope 2020
There is nothing I could say about the year 2020 that each of us have not experienced, thought or shaken our head’s about. Here is a thought that is guiding me through Advent.
“The Light Shines in the Darkness, and the Darkness did not overcome it”
John 1:5
This is John’s Christmas story. No angels, shepherds, mangers, wisemen, or bucolic scenes. Just this profound statement that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. In this Advent season a lot will be stripped away from what we are used to. That is not all bad. My plan includes lots of music and watching A CHRISTMAS STORY at least twice.
I have a friend who spent Christmas in a prison, in Czechoslovakia, in 1974. He could never quite explain why he ended up there (said he got drunk), but Time Magazine implied that he worked for the CIA. He shared a story with me about befriending a prison guard who brought him Double Mint gum. He kept the foil wrappers and fashioned a complete Nativity set in tiny sizes.

He was released and headed to seminary at Phillips U in Enid, Oklahoma. In my imagination I constructed what his miniature Nativity looked like. Here is the best part. He shared there was a hole in his ceiling from which a beam of light shown in the corner each night. Guess where the “8 pound 11 oz. Baby Jesus in a manger” was??? Keep the faith…that light still shines.
A couple of weeks ago I came home from Greeley and MK (who was heading off the next day to “Grandma duty” in California, for a couple of months) had gotten out my favorite Christmas decorations and yard lights as a gift to me in her absence.
My light is shining from the inside out as each day the kindness of friends and strangers touch me.
Onward and Upward, Mark
ps, My bucket list is down to 1– Don’t kick the bucket!!! (Wear your mask so we don’t kill each other)

November 22, 1963


A couple of weeks ago in my blog called Elections, I made reference to this date. This Sunday will be 57 years from that mark of time. I want to expand on the ‘death of innocence’ that occurred that day. It was my first of several “I remember exactly where and when” moments. I was walking down the hall after 4th hour Gym. We had the third lunch and like most 14 year old boys, we were tripping each other, punching, joking and hungry as badgers after hibernation. We were met in the entrance to the cafeteria by our coach and gym teacher Mr. Clay. He was crying, “President Kennedy has been shot”. That was all he said. We went on into the cafeteria and it was eerily silent. It was Friday, and in Pueblo which was half Catholic, that meant fish sticks. They sat on my tray staring at me.
A few minutes later Mr. Wilkerson our principal, came on the PA and said, “We have received confirmation that President Kennedy is dead”. Mrs. Kline our math teacher, burst into tears right in front of us. “Excuse me, just put away your work and please be quiet”. We were. The next thing I remember doing was going to basketball practice. It was weird. What was usually noisy and raucous was lifeless. Finally our coach said, “I need to go home and I am sure you do too”. I got home and my dad had already come to be with my mom. They were Republicans, but John Kennedy was their age, a WWII vet with a family. Although they did not often agree with his politics he was our President. That was a Friday and Thanksgiving was very late that year.
We never had a chance to really find out why Lee Oswald did what he did. Books and movies galore have speculated, but on Sunday the 24th right in front of our eyes, Jack Ruby took revenge into his own hands and killed Oswald and took away any chance of finding out the why. Conspiracy theories abound ~ so what? Tomorrow is the 22nd and like many of my generation, I revisit this marker in our teen years.
Today’s youth don’t have a day, but rather a year—2020. No school, life on the screen, families stressed to the breaking point, and an election where the truth has been sacrificed for power and political courage is in very short supply.
I call my grandkids and kids often. I need to hear their voices and see their Face Time faces. I am totally alone this week in our home. MK is in

California helping our daughter Stephanie and family move from a small condo into a home. I am thrilled for all of them. I am not feeling the least bit abandoned but grateful.
On Thanksgiving day my plan is to go to Burger King and buy two Impossible Burgers with a large order of fries. I will eat one for lunch as I FaceTime my various family units around the country. The other will be my ‘left overs’ that will comfort me for the third and final football game I watch. I will find myself wondering more than once how the world might have been different had Lee Harvey Oswald missed his target from the sixth floor of the Texas Schoolbook Depository. Ironically, I was in the exact spot with my son in law Christian on a November 22nd not so many years ago.
Tomorrow around noon I will take few minutes and ask God for direction in these uncertain times. I suspect the answer will sound much like Micah 6:8 “What does the Lord require of you? Do Justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God”. Amen
Onward and Upward, .
Mark

Cutting My Own Hair


Every two weeks MK pulls out our $19.99 hair trimmer kit that came complete with a black and yellow guide, “Haircuts for Dummies”. Other than a couple of nicks on my ears, we have learned over seven year—a drill that works. A #2 all over—and to quote my mom I am “Slick as a whistle”. I am amazed at two things after my haircut—how much hair I grow in two weeks, and how much of it is gray.
Well, MK is getting ready to respond to Grandma 911 out in California with our now 18-month-old Sofia. They are moving and the baby’s mom, Stephanie, is trying to work full time—Grandma MK to the rescue. She has left me a two page list of all the things I need to remember and do. She left out cut my own hair.
On my way home from swimming this afternoon, I decided that I needed to try to cut my own hair. I had hit the two week threshold, and if I really screwed it up she could do a repair job with a #1. That would put me in the almost bald category. I was remembering the last self haircut story told by my nephew Jed. Both of his kids tried their hand at styling with “Oh my God what have you done”? My great nephew Westin did a reverse Mohawk—actually I would call it a horizontal look.
MK tells of her brother on brother barber story. Her mom Betty, let out a “You look like the wrath of God”. Like I said, my hair grows fast.
So my theory was to stand in the shower and just keep buzzing until there was no more hair falling. Game on!!! I have provided a picture for your viewing pleasure. I then finished it off in front of the mirror. Unless I missed something I think I did it. I have yet to tell MK as she is on a ZOOM meeting in the basement and I am going to play dumb until she notices.
I am all about self help. I will admit I hope this is a short lived adaptation. However, I have calculated the number of two week spans I have alone, and this could be the first of five self buzz cuts. If I do need help I will just bring in five year old Westin from Longmont—he has experience.
Onward and Upward,

Mark
PS As of Press Time MK has not noticed my slick new look.

Elections


It was the autumn of 1960, a monumental election year that has not been equalled for 60 years. I was in the sixth grade at Ben Franklin Elementary in Pueblo. I decided to run for Student Body Vice President. You had to prepare a speech and make some posters. The entire student body then heard your speech and voted for their choice back in their rooms. I gave what I thought was a pretty good speech, where I promised to have two field days a year. One in the Fall and the usual one in May. I lost by one vote. It was pretty devastating, as my opponent, mainly just said, “I will do a good job, please vote for me”. The next day I asked Jimmy, a fifth grader, who lived on my block, who he voted for. “I voted for her because her posters had sparkly glitter”—100% true.
Well, that defeat was followed by Kennedy/Nixon debates, and election night, which was on November 8, 1960. We were Republicans in Pueblo, a rarity as it was a labor steel town. As with most kids I followed my parents lead. I stayed up until 10 and headed to bed not knowing who won. I woke up the next morning to find out JFK had won. I said at the breakfast table, “He probably had glitter on his posters”. Three years later I found myself crying in the cafeteria on November 22, 1963.
My next election was my sophomore year at Pueblo East. It was Johnson vs. Goldwater. I had joined the Young Republicans at East. In a student body of 1600 there were about 25 of us. I suffered a lot of ridicule for my support of Goldwater— “He is going to blow the world up”. Today Barry Goldwater would be a refreshing voice in a party that seems to have been hijacked by QAnon.
Next came 1968 and like a lot of 19-year olds I began to think for myself. I already had two friends come home from Nam in body bags. I was working a summer job at a piston plant in Pueblo and I had a Eugene MacCarthy. (Anti-War guy) bumper sticker on my 1956 Oldsmobile. One evening at dinner break about 10 members of Local 294 surrounded me and simply said, “College boy, take that bumper sticker off”. I said, “None of you have to worry about Viet Nam, I do. I won’t take it off”. They left me alone.

In the subsequent years I have never missed a vote. I now describe myself as a “political homeless person”, an image I borrowed from my buddy Arnie, a pastor in Oklahoma.
I don’t recognize the Republican Party. My dad Bill, one of the smartest and best read men I have ever known, said in 1994, “Mark-this marriage between right wing Christianity and the Republican Party will be the undoing of the both of them”. It has only gotten worse. I am not saying you can’t be a Christian and a Republican. One does not equal the other.
I have a host of concerns about the Democrats too-at the top of the list “There is no such thing as FREE anything”. So I bounce back and forth voting for who I think will do the best for the most. Integrity and telling the truth matter.
Today we have a new President Elect. I am remembering an interview by Walter Cronkite with a farmer in Iowa over, 50 years ago. “I see you have a picture of President Nixon over your dining room table. You must be a Republican”? “No sir, I am not but that is our President”.
Thank you President Trump for the work you have done. Blessings to you President Elect Joe Biden for all you have ahead of you. I still wonder how my life would have been different had I put some glitter into my campaign.
Onward and Upward, Mark