Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Ghost story

Click to enlarge Anne's illumination of Dad's deathbed journals.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Mr. Fix-It: The Handyman’s Way of Living (and Dying) — Chapter 8

My earliest memory of my father took place soon after we moved into the new house. I was five or six years old. He woke me in the dead of night to see a comet. He had heard on the radio that a comet would be visible in the eastern sky in the hours before the dawn. Slippered and jacketed, dragging sleep behind me like a comet’s tail, I followed my father into the backyard. Together we stood on the new badminton court surrounded by black pines and searched our little patch of starry sky. I am guessing now, in the frail light of memory, that my father did not know exactly what we were looking for or where in the sky we might find it. He imagined, I suppose, that the comet would announce itself, trumpeting like an angel, trailing a train of light. He expected a sky on fire, and he wanted me to see it. Or at least that is how I remember his advertisement for getting me out of bed.

He was born on March 27, 1909, the year Halley’s Comet was recovered telescopically for its 1910 apparition. He liked to say that he came in with Halley’s Comet and hoped to go out with it too; after all, the period of the comet, 76 years, is about the same as the expected life span of an American male of his generation. He didn’t make it. The comet returned in 1986, twelve years after he died. The connection between the most famous comet and his birth seems to have assured his lifelong interest in all things astronomical. The return of comets, so precisely calculable by astronomers, appealed to his engineer’s sense of how the universe should run.

As I recall, we did not see the comet that chilly morning in the backyard. It was probably one of those dozen-a-year comets of interest only to astronomers, visible with binoculars or telescope. Or perhaps it was a faint naked-eye comet hidden from us by the pines. As I recall, we stood in the cold morning air and searched the sky until dawn lighted the east. I carry from that morning my first memory of the stars, nameless, uncountable, beautiful and frightening.

One memorable Christmas of my childhood, perhaps that very same year, my father received a star book as a gift, A Primer for Star-Gazers by Henry Neely. The book, now long out of print, is still in my possession. A glance takes me back more than seventy years to evenings with Dad in the backyard of our new home, gazing upwards to a drapery of brilliant stars flung across sky. As he used the book to teach himself the stars and constellations, he included me in his activities. He told me stories of the constellations as he learned them. Of Orion and the deadly Scorpion. Of the lovers Andromeda and Perseus, and the monster Cetus. Of the wood nymph Callisto and her son Arcas, placed by Zeus in the heavens as the Big and Little Bears. No child ever had a better storybook than the ever-changing page of night above our badminton court. He taught me the names of stars: Sirius, Arcturus, Polaris, Betelgeuse, and other, stranger names, Zubenelgenubi and Zubeneschamali, the claws of the Scorpion. The words were like incantations that opened the enchanted cave of night. He was a man of insatiable curiosity. His stories of the stars were more than “connect the dots.” He wove into his lessons what he knew of history, science, poetry and myth. And, of course, religion. For my father, the stars were the sublime contrivance of the Great Engineer, their contemplation a sort of prayer.

That Christmas book of long ago was a satisfactory guide to star lore, but as I page through it today I see that it conveyed little of the intimacy I felt as I stood with my father under the canopy of stars. Nor do any of the more recent star guides that I have owned quite capture the feelings I had as a child of standing at the door of an enchanted universe, speaking incantations. What made the childhood experience so memorable was a total immersion in the mystery of the night—the singing of cicadas, the whisper of the wind in the pines, and, of course, my father’s seemingly inexhaustible storehouse of knowledge with which he embellished the stars. He taught me what to see; he also taught me what to imagine. Behind the patterns, behind the names, behind the sweet sensations of the night, there were truths to be intuited, if only one had the tools and the talents to see and hear.

What else do I remember of the stars? I remember evenings on the sleeping porch of my grandmother Dietzen’s house on Ninth Street during the early 1940s. A screened sleeping porch might be found attached to any southern home of a certain vintage and substance, usually on the second story at the back; on sultry summer nights you could move a cot or daybed there and take advantage of whatever breezes stirred the air. I slept there when I visited because it was the only place to find a spare bed. I was usually alone in that big spooky space, with only a thin wire mesh separating me from the many mysteries of the night. Far off in the house I could hear the muffled voice of the big Stromberg-Carlson radio in the parlor, where grown-ups listened to news of the war or the boogie-woogie tunes of the Hit Parade. Outside was another kind of music, nearer, louder, pressing against the screen, which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a million scratchy fiddles, out-of-key woodwinds, discordant timpani. These were the crickets, whippoorwills and tree frogs of the southern summer night, but to me at that time they were the sounds of the night itself, as if darkness had an audible element. Some nights the distant horizon would be lit with a silent, winking illumination called “heat lightnin’.” And closer, against the dark grass of the badminton court, the scintillations of fireflies—“lightnin’ bugs”—splashed into brightness. The constellations of fireflies were answered in the sky by stars, whose names and constellations my father had taught me, and which on those evenings when the city’s lights were blacked out for air-raid drills, multiplied alarmingly. I would lie in my cot, eyes glued to the spangled darkness, waiting to hear the drone of enemy aircraft or see the flash of ack-ack guns. No aircraft appeared, no ack-ack tracers pierced the night, but the stars were themselves like vast squadrons of alien rocket ships moving against the inky dark of Flash Gordon space. That’s when my father’s stories truly came to life. That’s when the names of stars exerted their fairy-tale magic. I could almost hear him reciting the names—Polaris, Betelgeuse, Zubenelgenubi, Zubeneschamali. Just as he had taught me, there was the Scorpion creeping westward, dragging its stinger along the horizon. There was the teapot of Sagittarius afloat in the white river of the Milky Way. There was Vega at the zenith and the kite of Cygnus. As the hours passed, the Big Dipper clocked around the Pole. And sometimes, in late summer, I would wake in the predawn hour to find Orion sneaking into the eastern sky, pursuing the teacup of the Pleiades, just as I had been taught to expect.

Neely’s A Primer for Star-Gazers was my father’s kind of book, and I’ve come across nothing like it since. It employed an elaborate system of star maps and horizons, dates and times, the sort of gizmo-ization of the sky that only an engineer could love. I have it here on my desk as I write. I can see its affinity with the journals Dad kept as he died, and even in a funny way with the account book of family finances his mother kept as he studied engineering—get the numbers right and an elusive but gracious plan of the universe will be made clear.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Dream house

Click to enlarge Anne's illumination of Dad's deathbed journals.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Mr. Fix-It: The Handyman’s Way of Living (and Dying) — Chapter 7

Somehow, during his first year at university, while working part-time in Chattanooga, my father found the time to construct a three-foot model of a Spanish galleon. As I was growing up it sat on a shelf above his basement workbench. A thousand tiny knots in the rigging. Shellacked billowing sails, painted with the symbols of Christian empire. Rows of gun ports with upswung covers and the mouths of cannons sticking out. And on the deck, tiny cannons on their carriages with ceramic wheels. Ladders to the forecastle and aft upper decks. A golden bear inscribed on the stern. It seemed to me a thing of preternatural accomplishment.

Chester T. Raymo—Chattanooga, 1927.

Why did he keep it in the basement? Why not in a place of honor, on the bookcase in the living room, for example. I never asked. I would never have dared to ask. But I had an intuition that it had something to do with my mother, perhaps her claim of priority in matters of domestic decoration.

They were married in September 1935, almost exactly a year before I was born. She was the girl from across the street in Chattanooga, the oldest of nine children, eight girls in a row, then a boy. She too had recently lost her father, to pneumonia. Of the Dietzen siblings, my mother was something of the intellectual prodigy, the only one of the girls to go to university, where she majored in English literature and graduated in three years. Her intellect and her independence were formidable, and it appears she had some difficulty adjusting to the sometimes dreary plod of wifery and motherhood. Perhaps banishing Dad’s model ship to the basement of our new house in the Chattanooga suburbs established a bit of territory she could claim as her own.

Their honeymoon photograph shows a handsome smiling couple. They went off to Schenectady, New York, where my father took a job as an X-ray technician with General Electric, and was most proud, he later told me, of inventing a new kind of versatile mount for the X-ray machine. The stay in New York did not last long. Was it the cold weather or homesickness that send the newlyweds scurrying south? I suspect it was the latter, on my mother’s part.

The best record I have of this part of their lives is a little account book kept by Dad’s mother. On the inside cover is written: “Chester, as you know, our rule was, one family fund for all income and all expenses, until each child reached his or her 21st birthday. Here you will find a strict account of all loans made to you, and all credits due you, from your 21st birthday to date. I have kept a similar account for Arthur, Roger and Charlotte. Love, Mum.” Most of the early entries are outgoing expenses to my father, mostly “Cash for school” and small regular amounts for life insurance. There’s $25 for Tau Beta Phi, the engineering honor society, and other advances for suits, shirts and shoe repair. In December 1932 his mother writes, “Finished school, Thank God!” Still, there follow four months of advances while my father was out of work due to the Great Depression. In June, 1933, he starts working again for American Lava Corporation and regular monthly payments of $5 or $10 start flowing back into the family account. Then, more advances as the wedding approaches in September of 1935, including $25 to Father Sullivan of Saint Peter’s and Paul’s Catholic Church in Chattanooga for performing the ceremony. The ledger is blank for the next three years, as the young married couple struggles to survive on their own, but in 1938, two years after I was born, Dad’s “Mum” is still paying her son’s laundry bills and advancing 50 cents for a blue shirt and $1.53 for a lost library book. The Second World War and the industrial needs of the military seems to have at last conferred financial independence on my engineer father. The account book records that he was advanced $960.19 more than he paid back.

In 1941, on the eve of the war, my parents moved into a spanking new house in the suburbs of Chattanooga, Tennessee, the quintessential American dream house of the 1940s. A half-acre lot on a quiet street with a bus stop on the corner, white asbestos shingles, blue shutters, dormer windows upstairs, detached garage—what every middle-class American aspired to. In 1948, RKO released a popular comedy called Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, with Cary Grant and Myrna Loy; our house was a more modest version of what Hollywood in the 1940s imagined to be ideal. My father even had a little room upstairs for his photography hobby (which would soon be taken over as a bedroom for his growing family). I dare say he would have liked to have built the house himself if he had had the time, which he didn’t. But he did have the big backyard that he could improve at his leisure.
The Raymo house—Chattanooga, 1941.

The backyard would also be the American dream. A white picket fence around the whole thing. A badminton court. Rose bushes. A barbecue pit. Brick pathways. A Victory garden. I remember the tools. A manual lawnmower (was there any other kind?). A roller for the badminton court that you filled with water. A hand-pushed plow for the garden. There were lots of odd bits of wood too, leftovers from the picket fence, from which I could bang together toy boats and airplanes. The backyard was, for the duration of the war at least, a handyman’s heaven, for father and son, with lots of projects going on at once. I’m puzzled at this late date how he managed to get the wood he needed for the picket fence. Wouldn’t that have been hard to come by during the war? The bricks for the paths were no problem; on the vacant property next door was “The Brick Pile.”

A rather substantial home once stood where building lots were now being sold by the family that had once owned all the land thereabouts. The house had been demolished before my parents’ arrival on the scene, and the materials stacked and stored in “The Brick Pile,” “The Wood Pile,” and “The Shed”—all of which lay just beyond our picket fence. There was no end of things to do with the bricks, but most of what I built with my neighborhood pals had to do with the war—pill boxes, forts, gun emplacements. “The Wood Pile” became a battleship or PT-boat. “The Shed” was supposed to be off-limits, but we found our way in, and snitched ex-banister posts to use as machine guns. If my father wanted to pass on to me his handyman skills, he could not have chosen a better place to build his house.

As a promotion for the film Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, RKO built seventy-three full-scale replicas of the eponymous house in cities around the country and raffled them off. One of the replicas was just a few blocks from our home in Chattanooga. It was quite the hit when it opened, with half the city driving by to see. It was classy, all right, but it didn’t have a “Brick Pile” or a “Wood Pile” or a “Shed”. Or a workbench in the basement made from a dismantled coal bin. It’s hard for me to imagine Cary Grant as a handyman, although I’m sure he could have played one if the role required. He was just a bit too suave to do for himself what he could hire professional craftsmen to do. By the time the landscapers had finished with the Hollywood dream house around the corner, our backyard was already starting to show the first signs of a genteel decrepitude, a slight fraying of the American dream, but everything there—the brick paths, the picket fence, the badminton court, the Victory garden—was the product of a handyman’s hand.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Mr. Fix-It: The Handyman’s Way of Living (and Dying) — Chapter 6

Is a handyman born or made? Nature or nurture? Are little boys born with an innate desire to take things apart and put them back together? Is tool wielding, like gun-toting seems to be, enshrined in the male genes?

My engineer father, like his two brothers, Arthur and Roger, one older, one younger, seem destined for engineering from the first glimpses we have of them in the family records—handy, deft, intrigued with toys that test mechanical skills. There was a sister too, Charlotte, who became a bookkeeper at the Chattanooga Public Library.

Nature and nurture are always tightly entwined, perhaps especially so for handymen of my father’s generation. Boys got Erector Sets for Christmas and girls got dolls. It was assumed that boys would go to college and study technical subjects, and girls stay home and learn domestic arts. But was culture responding to innate male and female predispositions, or was “the handyman” a purely cultural construction? In either case, the word “handywoman” wasn’t in the dictionary. Like all questions of nature and nurture, then or now, the threads are devilishly difficult to pick apart. My father’s propensity for engineering, and that of his brothers, could have come from their own father, Arthur Elsworth Raymo, by either corridor.

Arthur Elsworth was a self-made engineer who grew up on a farm in Nankin, Michigan. In 1905, he married Margaret Merrow, the daughter of a tugboat captain on the Great Lakes, and four children followed in quick succession. The earliest census records show my grandfather as a “farmer,” but by the time the second of his children came along he is listed as “bookkeeper.” He had no formal training in engineering, but somehow his innate technical skills were apparent enough to win him a job managing a phosphate mine in Mount Pleasant, Tennessee, a typical small town of rural mid-America to which he brought his young family. Their snug, wood-framed home was not far from the mine, from which surface phosphate was extracted hydraulically. Photographs show the kids playing barefoot in the sluice water with the hustle and bustle of extraction going on in the background.
Chet's father, Chester (third from left) and siblings, Arthur, Charlotte, and Roger—Mount Pleasant, Tennessee, ca. 1915.

By all accounts, Arthur Elsworth was a consummate handyman. He made much of the family’s furniture—chests, dressers, tables and chairs—and play equipment for the children too—merry-go-round, seesaw, swings, climbing bars, doll houses, sleighs, kites and scooters. It would have been hard to grow up in that environment, I suppose, and not pick up some mechanical skills. Especially if you were a boy. Sister Charlotte had a role model too. My grandmother Margaret Merrow Raymo made all of the children’s cloths, from pajamas to Buster Brown suits for the boys and frilly dresses for Charlotte. Whenever she made a dress for Charlotte, she made one just like it for Charlotte’s doll. She was a good cook too, who always came up with special food and decorations for holidays. It would seem from the photographs that have come down to us that she was adept with a camera too, at a time when the Kodak Brownie era of personal photography was just beginning. Meanwhile, Arthur Elsworth proved he was not just a whiz with material things. He was a pretty good self-taught musician too, who entertained the family with violin, harmonica and organ. The family’s most cherished possession was an early Edison Phonograph, with cylindrical wax records and a diamond needle that never needed changing. Records cost 35 cents apiece or three for a dollar. The family bought six recordings each month, patriotic, humorous and musical. The kids learned from the recordings how to recite Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address and Longfellow’s Paul Revere’s Ride. I have a photograph of Chester as a nine-year-old boy, spiffily attired in a homemade outfit, proudly displaying an airplane he has made from a construction kit supplied by his father, a young budding engineer no doubt hoping his mechanical skill will please the paternal critic. Nature or nurture? In that place and that time it was all part of being male.
Chester T. Raymo Sr.—Chattanooga, Tennessee, 1918.

With a father who made chests and chairs for the family home, doll houses and scooters for the kids, and blasted phosphate out of the ground with water, it was perhaps inevitable that the boys would grow up to be engineers, or at the very least to carry on the handyman tradition. But if nurture inculcated mechanical aptitudes, nature had an anti-mechanical surprise in store.

In the summer of 1917, Arthur Elsworth moved his family to Chattanooga, a bustling industrial railroad center on the Tennessee River, just where the river makes an improbable deviation from its south-tending course along the East Tennessee Valley and cuts a deep gash westward through the Cumberland Plateau. He was hired to help build and operate the Southern Ferro Alloys Company, which would manufacture ferrosilicon for use in the production of hydrogen for observation balloons during World War I. My father was seven years old.

Ten years later, Dad was a seventeen-year-old student at Notre Dame High School in Chattanooga when his father, a farmer/bookkeeper now turned superintendent at the Southern Ferro Alloys Company, snagged the glove on his right hand under a moving conveyor belt. His body was thrown forcibly against a post and the arm ripped off at the shoulder. He was rushed to the hospital for surgery. A blood transfusion was desperately required, but by the time a suitable donor was found the patient had died, at forty-six years of age. Was my father there at the deathbed when his father died? Did the seventeen-year-old boy rush from school (it was a Friday) with his brothers and sister to join his mother at the hospital? I try to imagine how this traumatic turn of events must have affected my father, a bright, handy high-schooler who lived admiringly in the shadow of his father’s many mechanical gifts. Now a machine had cruelly wrenched his father’s arm and life away. One might think this tragedy would cause the son to foreswear anything to do with machinery. But no, a year later, as a new high school graduate, he gave up the promise of a good job and rapid advancement at the Chattanooga Boiler & Tank Company to go off, at his mother’s insistence, to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville to study mechanical engineering.

Arthur Elsworth Raymo’s death came out of the blue. One moment he was a promising young man with a fine job, a loving wife, four bright, healthy children and a world of promise before him. Then—a slip, a patch of cloth caught in a whirring machine, he turned to look, his arm running away with the conveyor belt, his shoulder gushing his life’s blood. The accident occurred at 10:30 in the morning; by late afternoon he was dead. Presumably, throughout those few hours he was in a state of shock. What thoughts flashed through his mind? For whom did he call out? My grandmother was left to see four children into the world, three boys and a girl. All were bright students at Notre Dame Academy. It seems to have been a foregone conclusion that the boys would go on to the University of Tennessee to study engineering, the profession their father excelled at even though he had not had a university education. A poignant letter remains in our possession from my grandmother to a Mr. Walsh, a person of some importance at the Chattanooga Boiler & Tank Company, where my father worked part-time while attending high school. Apparently, Walsh wanted to apprentice my father as an eventual replacement for his own job, and had made his wishes known to my grandmother. College was not in Walsh’s plan. In the letter, written not long after the death of my grandfather, my grandmother insists it was her late husband’s wish that his boys go to college, and she vows to spend whatever money her husband left to see that wish fulfilled.

All three brothers received engineering educations at the University of Tennessee, by taking cooperative courses—three months working, three months in class. Chester and Roger, the youngest boys and only a year or two apart, worked for the Chattanooga Boiler & Tank Company and the American Lava Corporation. They alternated on the job—one would work while the other went to school. In this way they were able to keep the same employment in Chattanooga and living quarters in Knoxville. Roads were bad in those days, and the 120-mile trip between the two cities in the family car took five or six hours. In spite of all the back and forth, my father was elected to the university’s honorary engineering society and served as editor of the Tennessee Engineer. If there was a mechanical gene in the family line, it expressed itself fully in the subsequent careers of the three Raymo boys. 

Meanwhile, Charlotte, the second oldest child, was required by her gender to forgo a college education to support her mother. She was bright, but there is no evidence I know of—and I remember her lovingly and well—that she possessed the boys’ mechanical aptitude. Nature? Nurture? Either way, theirs was the last generation bound so severely by convention. All of my own siblings—including four girls—went to college, and in recent months I have been watching my own scientifically-educated daughter building decks and remodeling her kitchen, expressing “handyman” skills that may or may not have flowed down to her in Arthur Elsworth’s genes.

Chet's grandfather, Arthur Elsworth Raymo, at the phosphate mine—Mount Pleasant, Tennessee, ca. 1914.

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

Imaginal cells

Click to enlarge Anne's illumination of Dad's deathbed journals.

Saturday, July 05, 2014

Mr. Fix-It: The Handyman’s Way of Living (and Dying) — Chapter 5

The first pages of that first red notebook from my sister Anne are ruled by my dying father’s pencil into rows and columns, looking for all the world like the cells of a computer spreadsheet application, VisiCalc, for example, usually considered the first spreadsheet, which came along a half-dozen years after my father’s death and revolutionized the keeping and analysis of data. He would have loved to have been there at the dawn of the personal computer age—when the Commodore PET and the Apple II appeared in 1979. He was a slide rule man—he owned several slide rules, linear and circular—and just missed the arrival of the first electronic pocket calculators. I would guess he would have been one of the first to grasp how quickly slide rules would become obsolete, and his death-bed journals, with their spreadsheet-like tabulations of data, suggest he would have been quick to have had a personal computer at work and at home—and at his hospital bedside.

What went into the cells of his “spreadsheets”? Horizontally, the days; vertically, the hours. He carefully entered: the times he received each medication, with notes on pain and sense of well-being. A code for each medication. PK=painkiller. C=cortisone (a steroid hormone). V=Valium. SP=sleeping pill. Then there was the morphine, and the laxative—a veritable pharmacy of pills and shots. He had no control, of course, over his mix of medications, at least not at the beginning; that was determined by his doctors. And initially no control over when he received them. What he wanted to know was their effect. From his spreadsheet he hoped to discover the patterns—the causal relations between pills and pain—that would yield the most beneficial effect: when, what, how often, in what measure. Even in those first weeks it is clear (to a reader of the journals now) that his disease has the advantage. His neat engineering script wavers in and out of legibility; for some parts of his medication cycles it is precise and familiar, at other times barely readable and full of misspellings. As the days pass, he adds more and more information to his tabulations: position of his body on the bed, food, drink, degree of paralysis, stools, urinations, flatulence (his euphemistic term is “degas”). And so the data accumulates, becoming, I would suppose, ever more intractable because of its sheer volume, and hiding the patterns he sought like the proverbial needles in a haystack, those correlations and consonances that would lead (he believed) to ultimate recovery.

Meanwhile, my mother was there at the bedside, spending most nights in the hospital room on a cot. She wasn’t under any illusion of light at the end of the tunnel; she was smart enough to know that the tunnel was a dead end. The last years of their marriage had not always been smooth. There had been a lot of sniping between them, and apparent resentment on my mother’s part. But now she was at his side, participating in his engineer’s illusions, helping him with the flexings, and pushings and pullings, and “log-rolling” of his body, cleaning up the messes that sometimes accompanied his barely controlled bowels. She may not have been exactly Mrs. Congeniality or Clara Barton, but she understood the obligations that come with forty years of marriage and six children. And he too shows nothing but tenderness in his journals, no doubt recognizing the emotional constraints of all those years together, of sharing the same bed, of following with the same attentive concern the lives of their children. “Margaret did a PERFECT job in turning me over by holding knees high and ‘logrolling’ entire body,” he writes, as always emphasizing her solicitation.

If he had had a laptop there by his hospital bed, with spreadsheet software, he would only have had to click a button to run the numbers, to look for the correlations. What he had instead was a red book with blank pages, which he filled from edge to edge with notes and numbers, continuously, day and night. On a typical page one might find entries for 6:40, 7:01, 7:05, 7:08, 7:14, 7:20, and 7:30. These might be as simple as “Mom in washroom. My back is tired. Legs out straight. Flat on back.”, or as quantitative as “Took PK at 7:13. Head 3" from top of bed.” It was all grist for the unceasing mill of his mind. He might have been Galileo taking down distances and times for a ball rolling down an inclined plane. Galileo’s data-keeping was more focused, and from it the Florentine scientist derived laws of motion. My father’s data-keeping was helter-skelter; he knew what he was looking for, but had no idea how to find it. The machinery of his disease was invisible and inaccessible; there was no way he could take the aberrant cells apart to see how they work. And so the journal fattens, line by line, entry by entry, page by page, and somewhere in all that tidy engineer’s hand or drug-induced scribble was hidden (he believed) the sort of miracle that might have taken a more pious seeker to a shrine of the Virgin, Lourdes perhaps. He believed in God, and he believed that God had a plan for his life, as he notes in his journal. But his God was not the sort who goes in for flashy showmanship, the throw-down-your-crutches-and-walk sort of thing. His God was the Great Engineer who had designed the whole shebang and set it going, the clockwork-maker of Isaac Newton, the deity who set the planets moving in exacting courses, for whom fixing a patient’s body would be as everyday a thing as repairing a short in an electric lamp.

Tuesday, July 01, 2014

Imaginary time

Click to enlarge Anne's illumination of Dad's deathbed journals..