Renovating a House Remotely

Back on January 18, I bought a small fixer-upper house and had begun the process of renovating it so that I could add it to my rental inventory for community heroes. My partner and I had cleaned it out. We replaced the windows, including the frames. I was just about to tear out the old electrical system and install a new one when I fell and broke my leg.

During the time I have been stuck at home and unable to lift a finger to do any real work, I didn’t want the house to sit vacant and be significantly delayed in being lived in once again. I did what my best friend said that I should have been doing all along: I hired contractors.

I sent nephews, cousins, and some friends over to check on their work and to take pictures for me. I intervened twice when I thought some work was not being done correctly or to my specs. But most of the work was done quite well.

I saved the electrical work for myself. See, back in the time when I bought my first “Harry Homeowner Special,” (a local reference to an old house requiring significant renovation), I was a poor, newbie teacher barely making enough money to make ends meet. I couldn’t afford to hire an electrician. So I studied and took the exam for an electrician’s license and got one. I kept it current by taking occasional coursework and by doing a lot more actual electrical work on my own homes as well as for friends and neighbors. I even installed all of the wiring in the house that I live in while I was building it, which was no easy feat (my house isn’t enormous, but it isn’t a cottage, either.)

Since electrical work is something I truly enjoy doing and was my first successful experience in a skilled trade, I just couldn’t imagine hiring that work out. I compromised: yesterday, my partner and I went to the house and I explained to my partner what he needed to do, especially when it came to fishing wiring in the walls. A good buddy who is a Master Electrician also joined us for two hours. Believe it or not, you need two good feet for running wiring in a house (as well as two good arms, good eyesight, and patience.) I remained in the basement near the circuit panel box with a fluorescent flashlight helping me see what I was doing. I connected the wiring to circuit breakers in the box following the circuit pattern that I designed for the house.

Unfortunately, I pooped out earlier than I thought that I would, so I had to come back home in the early afternoon. I also got involved in watching response to the earthquake in Chile and the tsunamis in Hawaii.

Today, I plan to return to the house to finish up. I will lay on my side on floors to connect electrical outlets and face plates while my partner will install switches and a few overhead lights that I cannot reach because doing so requires climbing on a ladder.

My licensed master electrician buddy will come by late this afternoon to inspect my work, and then connect it to the power company’s line. We will not turn it on, though, until the county inspector checks it out on Monday. I’m sure it will pass inspection. After all, the work was done right and according to (and often above) the adopted code.

A cleaning contractor will come on Wednesday. I will have my partner bring me over on Thursday evening to check everything out. Provided all is well, then I will begin the process to identify eligible community heroes in need of affordable rental housing, and go from there.

Yes, it can be done remotely. It cost me a lot more than if I did the work myself, but … I did what I had to do.

Life is short: get ‘er done!

Not Castlessness

This case of a double negative means… sigh… while my orthopedic specialist who saw me yesterday said, “for a guy your age, you are healing well,” he didn’t authorize much change in my current condition. I still have that damn, heavy, lunky cast on my leg.

He did say that I can begin to put some weight on it, which means that perhaps mother-hubbard-partner will let me get out, even a little bit. He worries so much about me. I love him for that, but also will begin to put my (left) boot down and begin to assert myself in going out to some essential, critical community meetings provided a friend provides transportation.

I am doing okay, really. I have no pain at all. I am not sleeping well, but mostly it’s because the cast wakes me up since I can’t move while I am sleeping. If I turn, it twists my leg and just wakes me.

Oh well, so begins the three-week countdown.

528 hours
31,680 minutes
1,900,800 seconds

Life is short: three weeks sounds the shortest.


Okay, while I am on the “lessness” theme of blog posts, today, Friday, I am mudless. Or shall I say, my boots are in a state of mudlessness.

That is their usual state. And I presume all of my boots are mudless (save for some of my work boots that may still show some dirt in the lugs). In my current condition, I cannot see them. My boots are in the basement or my upstairs closets, and I am in between — safely situated on an easy chair in my family room which is on the middle floor of our house. Having a broken leg with a cast on it that weighs a ton prevents me from going up and down stairs to check on the status of my boots. Not seeing my alarm panel change from “all secure” status indicates that my boots must be where I last saw them a month ago — in their respective storage areas in their usual state of mudlessness — and are not walking out the door all by themselves to go play in what has become a mud pit of a back yard since a lot of our snow has melted.

Why am I carrying on about my boots being in a state of mudlessness? Well, had I not broken my leg, I would have gone on a business trip to Alabama this week. The event I was scheduled to facilitate would have ended at 3pm today. Then my good friend, Bamaboy, would have picked me up from the hotel and we would have gone to “play” and have some pair of boots become, shall we say, “a bit dirty,” or as Bama would say, “all mudded!”

What is it that as men in our 50s and grown adults that we like to go jump in mud puddles? Are we reverting to our childhood? Well, perhaps for play, fun, and seeing the results of the superb photographic work that Bamaboy does… sure, I’d love it! Last time I saw Bama, it was dry as a bone and no mud could be found. We kicked up some dirt, had a nice dinner, and enjoyed each other’s company as good buddies.

Well, alas, here I remain in Maryland, unable to put on a pair of boots, and only snuck (snow and melting mess) in sight. This is not quite where I wanted to be right now, but it’s what I have to endure.

Perhaps sometime in the future the stars will fall on Alabama again, align, and bring me back to enjoy some muddin’ with my buddy, his company, camaraderie, amusing humor, and gettin’ a little mud on our boots. That’s okay, the boots can clean up. Eventually. Returning to their usual state of mudlessness.

Life is short: dream on!

A Month of Bootlessness and Leatherlessness


  • Boot•less•ness. noun. The state of being without boots on one’s feet, as in “bootless.”
  • Lea•ther•less•ness. noun. The state of being without leather, as in “not wearing leather.”

One month ago, on a chilly, wet afternoon, this Boy Scout wearing a full leather uniform (consisting of leather jeans and a leather jacket) and strong, sturdy Chippewa Firefighter boots was escorting a little old lady from his truck to her home. He was burdened with some heavy bags of groceries.

The Boy Scout was lazy. He piled the groceries into two large bags, and put the lady’s arm in his arm. He could have spread the groceries out into three or four bags, and made two trips to the truck. But nooooo… he had to try to carry everything at once.

The Boy Scout felt the little old lady teetering, and he steadied her. She remained upright, and the Boy Scout was upsot. “Crack!” went the fibula. The rest, as they say, “is history.”

For a guy who enjoys wearing leather almost every day, especially in the winter, this was quite a way to test his resolve and to determine, once and for all, if leather is simply clothing or a fetish interest, or both. Since the leg was broken and there has been a progression from splints to a big, heavy, fiberglass cast on the leg, this Boy Scout has been both bootless and leatherless for the duration of his recovery so far.

Well, correction on that: I have been able to wear one boot on my good left leg. But I still can’t put on a pair of leather jeans, as the cast won’t fit through the leg. I guess if I were really having a bad case of “leather withdrawal,” I could wear chaps. But I have found that an old pair of bellbottom denim jeans works fine … much better than wearing PJ bottoms, that’s for sure (LOL!).

Do I miss wearing boots and leather every day? Well, let me put it this way: I miss having that choice. Since the cast prevents me from wearing two boots, much less standing on my own two feet, and it also prevents me from wearing normal pants, I’m kinda stuck with accepting what I can wear.

Does it bother me? Am I having serious leather withdrawal? Are my feet protesting being in a long-term non-booted state? Am I unable to have sex with my partner? …

Poppycock. Well, the poppy anyway. I’m fine. My partner remains as frisky as ever, and we’ve learned not to let the cast get in the way of some “fun” (evil grin). Since I am not using any pain meds, my performance is not affected. (smile.)

I would like to return to having the choice of putting on my own clothes, and choosing to wear boots and leather in this cold weather. But I’m surviving. I’ll be okay. Remember, to me, leather and boots are functional clothing and footwear. They’re really not fetish, as they are function.

I am climbing the walls, but only because the confinement during a period of really bad weather and NOT being able to get out (or anywhere even within my own house) on my own is driving me bats. But you know, it really could be worse. I keep telling myself that, and know it in my heart. I have a nice home, comfortable surroundings, a wonderful partner who cares for me deeply and tends to my every need. I have friends and neighbors who care and check in on me regularly. I even have some lovely casseroles of mysterious stuff in the fridge.

What more could a guy want?

I will be okay in my current state of leatherlessness and bootlessness. Thanks for your concern.

Life is short: wear your boots and leather if you can!

Re-Fryed in Frye Boots

I had ranted a while back about Frye Boots, where I had mistakenly said that since the Frye Boot Company was bought out by a conglomerate, that all of their boots were now made in China. I have learned that statement is not accurate.

To prove it, someone sent me a new pair of Frye Campus Boots, which were made at a plant in Arkansas, USA. I can see it on the box and in the label inside the boots — “Made in the U.S.A.”

I stand corrected, and this post was written not only to respond to the person who sent me the boots to acknowledge, publicly, the error of my thinking, but also because I really LIKE the Frye Boot style. Some of their boots are still made in the U.S.A., while some others are made in China. The person who sent me the boots said that some of the shorter boots and newer styles made in the Frye name are made overseas. But what we know as traditional men’s Frye Boots — campus and harness boots — are made here in the U.S.A.

I am uncertain, yet, if the quality of the leather and the boot’s construction is the same as I know from my vintage Frye Boots made back in the ’70s and ’80s. I can tell already that something’s amiss: a Frye Boot cardboard insert was attached with a string to a boot pull inside the shaft of the left boot. When I pulled on it gently, the entire boot pull came off. And this was on a new pair of boots! If I didn’t get them for free, I would have returned them. Yeah, I hate to say it, but new Fryes just aren’t made the way they used to be. Cheap, cheap, cheap….

These boots are very handsome, in the traditional Frye sense of style. Big clunky, rounded heels, and the traditional rounded toe. The height is 14,” which is also the traditional height that vintage Fryes had (though the current harness boot style remains only at 12″.)

The leather has the same colorations as found on the vintage styles, with some streaks of colour throughout. The new-to-me Fryes are in the “banana” color, which again is classic for Fryes. They are lined with leather and feel comfortable. The boots that I received are one size larger than I usually wear, but they do not seem to swim on my foot (as I can only wear my left boot right now since my right leg is in a cast.)

I am glad to be “re-fryed,” and to celebrate the nostalgic occasion, I put on a pair of bellbottom jeans to go with the boot (fortunately, bellbottoms have a wide opening, so they’ll fit over the cast on my right leg.)

Nothin’ like a pair of traditional Frye campus boots in their style. And it’s a good thing, too, as my buddy FBLSD has joined the Boots Wiki Team and has updated the Frye Boots section of the wiki. Check it out!

Life is short: enjoy your Fryes!

Recovering Drug Free

Ongoing readers of this blog know that I broke the fibula in my lower right leg on 24 January, and I am recovering in a cast, waiting for it to heal while at home on disability leave from work.

Some people have inquired about how I am doing. I appreciate the inquiries, and caring concern.

I am doing okay. Really. I am finding ways to keep busy, from preparing income tax returns for senior pals (40 out of 50 completed), to getting the Boot Wiki going, to continuing to support my current job, to searching for a new full-time job, doing some consulting which keeps my brain busy with new challenges, and writing a book (I won’t give away the plot just yet).

I don’t like to have to be confined to sitting in a chair all day with my leg propped up, because I cannot walk… yet. I am uncomfortable sitting in an awkward position using a TV tray as my laptop computer’s “work station,” but it works. I have burned up more cell minutes than I want to, and am finding a way to make my regular home phone more accessible, so I can use it as my primary means of communication and avoid cell overage charges.

Most of all, I am not in any pain. I would say that most of what I am feeling is soreness, as the use of crutches and relying on my one good (left) leg and hip just makes me sore. By late in the day, the soreness and confinement both make me a bit grumpy. Some of my family and friends have noticed that when they have spoken with me on the phone, so I have to work on that.

However, soreness isn’t the same thing as chronic pain or bone pain. I have none of that. My leg was painful for the first few days, and last week when I accidentally bumped hard in the bathroom and fell (but didn’t break anything), my left side was painful with a big bruise. But generally speaking, I am not in any pain now that a couple of aspirin can’t handle.

I am glad about that. I like my mind (what’s left of it) to remain clear, and my gate to be as stable as possible as I hobble on crutches to the bathroom and to the kitchen, plus once a day to and from the bedroom. Narcotics have a funny way of messing with your head, as well as with your physical strength.

The doc gave me a prescription for enough narcotics to take 4x/day for a month. I really wondered why. That’s an awful lot of pain pills. Everything I can find on the internet says that the pain that occurs with the type of break that I had lasts for perhaps as much as one week, unless you have to have surgery, which fortunately, was not required in my situation. I am fortunate that my pain didn’t last but a few days.

Unlike prescription antibiotics, which are to be used as prescribed until gone, with prescription narcotics, you should take them only when you really need to do so. And I really don’t.

I searched on the internet, and respected government agency websites specifically say that the type of drug that I was prescribed should not be flushed down the toilet. It is a very popular drug with abusers, so it shouldn’t be discarded in the trash, either — though some sites say that if you mix it with kitty litter or coffee grounds, that might be an option. Well, not having a kitty nor being a coffee drinker, that is not an option for me.

I called my local health department, and couldn’t find anyone who could tell me what to do. I decided, then, to call my tenant who is a police officer, and ask him. He said that when they seize drugs from nefarious people, they enter the drugs into evidence. Since I am not a drug-dealer and have these drugs legally, he said would ask for me. He called back later and said that our county has a program where drugs could be returned to a pharmacy and they would dispose of them properly. So that’s what I will do.

I will remain, “drug free.”

Life is short: be drug free and live it as fully as you can.

Buying New Boots via the Internet

People have asked me how I get the best deal possible on the purchase of new boots. Following are my “secrets” which aren’t really secret, but may not be known or practiced by some.

1. If a pair of boots comes to my attention that I would like to have, I get the manufacturer name, model name, and stock number (if I can find it).

2. I use a search engine, like Google, and enter the information about the boots. For example, “Justin Bent Rail Buckaroo.”

3. I read the results that are presented on various websites, but I generally avoid the first three results at the top, which are paid advertisements and not necessarily the least expensive source.

4. If I find a good price, I note the seller and I bookmark the page. But I don’t buy YET!

5. I visit the websites of my favorite boot retailers. Links to these boot retailers are on my website. I check to see if my favorite retailers carry the boots and what their price is. They may or may not carry the boots, and if they do, they may not always come up in a search. So it’s always a good idea to check your favorites when you have something with which to compare them. (From Step 4.)

6. I generally avoid buying boots from retailers that do not offer free shipping. However, sometimes retailers that charge for shipping are the only source of a certain brand and style of boots, so I shop around and check shipping fees during my searches.

7. When I have narrowed the potential sources down to two or three, I then use Google again and type in “Discount Coupon XXX” where “XXX” is the name of the on-line retailer. Many times, I have come up with an active, working, on-line discount coupon from a retailer that gives me an additional 10%, 15%, or even 20% off the listed “sale” price. This step is important, and can save you a LOT of money!

8. I then compare shipping charges among the top two or three on-line retail choices. Sometimes the boots may cost a little less, but the shipping will make the final total higher. Factor in all costs, including whether you have to pay sales tax. (For example, if you live in California and buy from or, you have to pay sales tax. Go through the motions of placing an order to determine what the final price will be, including all taxes and shipping fees, as well as applicable discounts.

9. If the on-line retailer that offers the best price is not one with which I have experience, then I will take an extra precautionary step. I will go back to google, and enter “XXX consumer complaints” where “XXX” is the name of the retailer. I want to see if there are serious complaints about the company from multiple people. A single rant from one dissatisfied person is not enough to scare me away. But multiple legitimate complaints may cause me to order elsewhere.

This process can be a little arduous or time-consuming, but it can save anywhere from US$20 – $100 on a pair of new boots. Since boots will last a long time, the time you put into shopping for a good price is worth it.

Life is short: enjoy your boots!

My Home, My Community, My Life

As I continue on the path of recuperation to care for my recently broken leg, I have a lot of time to think about a lot of things. I truly feel that one can have the advantages of “small-town community” within suburban sprawl if he wants it to happen.

I know a bit about growing up in a small town. When I was a kid, we lived six months each year on my mother’s family horse ranch in rural Oklahoma. The nearest town was 14 miles away. And even then, “town” was one traffic light, one lower school (grades 1-8), one high school, one grocer, one “druggist,” and one library. Everybody knew everybody. You couldn’t snitch a cigarette in the back of the hardware store with your buddy without someone tattle-taling to your Mom. You couldn’t have your eyes on a pair of boots in the western store without the store owner having “a chat” with your Dad. You weren’t really “from” there unless your grandparents were buried in the local cemetery. You always bought or traded everything you needed with your neighbors. It was just that kind of place. Everybody knew everybody, and there was a strong sense of “community belonging” and cohesion.

When someone was down on their luck, sick or injured, or someone died, all of the neighbors would rally around and offer help. True help — the kind you needed when things went wrong. They brought food, helped do housecleaning, provided childcare, did laundry, or whatever needed to be done. That is what neighbors in a small town do for each other, even to this day.

Some people love that kind of life. Some others do not. There are trade-offs. You have no privacy. You have no sense of individuality. It is very hard to come out and be accepted as a gay person, especially if the majority of the community residents are “Christian” (quotes on purpose.)

I began to live permanently within suburban sprawl, north and east of our nation’s capital, when I was ten years old, after my Dad was stationed permanently in Washington after working in Europe six months of the year for a long time. We lived in Maryland, which borders Washington, DC. We visited Oklahoma in the summers instead of half a year.

Almost one million residents call our county “home.” There are few defined cities. We ramble from one zip code to the next. There is a lot of history here, but you have to know where to look for it. Most people who live here came from somewhere else. I am among the few who can point to the local cemetery and show the graves of my parents and paternal grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins….

It is easy to be anonymous among all of this sprawl. Rent an apartment or buy a house, then go to work, come home, go out to eat, make friends of co-workers who live in outlying suburbs. This is the common way of life for many of my neighbors. The anonymity happens due to the dearth of local connections. Some people like that. Personally, I don’t.

I have always felt that the small-town feeling of closeness to your neighbors is important. Therefore, throughout my life, I have worked hard to make my sprawling ‘burb a “home.” I have gotten involved in community life. I was elected to a non-partisan position that works on many community issues. I have gotten to know all of my neighbors, not just those on either side of my house. I have grown deeply involved in a large retirement community that is near where I live. This is where my “senior buds” and my aunt live. I’m over there all the time.

Over 40 years of local “community building” has resulted in my truly having a home where I live, with a casual and mature kind of tolerance. My partner is accepted completely, as I am — as gay men among the local residents. We are not the “token” gay couple by any means. Good thing about living around here is that most folks “live and let live.” I know my neighbors. I know their kids. I know the names of the regular employees at most of the local stores at which I shop (but can’t tell you the names of the barista at the Starbucks or the server at the local chain restaurants frequented by the yuppie set, ’cause I choose not to go there).

I can tell you the names of the cops on the local beats, and the firefighters at the local station, and the faculty in the local schools. I mean, this is my home. This is where I live. This is my community. This is MY LIFE.

Man, I’m so lucky to live in such a wonderful place. Rich with life, with diversity, with ideas, with acceptance, with community spirit. Both my roots and my boots are planted deep.

When I had my recent set-back in breaking the bone in my leg, my house has been a non-stop beehive of business — of neighbors getting to work to help out. It brings tears of joy to my eyes, and a song to my heart, to know that we can and we do have a strong, vibrant, local community because we have made it that way.

It is possible…even while living among suburban sprawl. It is what you make it to be. And I can show you the rich rewards that the investment of community-building has brought to me, and to my neighbors, friends, and senior buds.

Life is short: love where you live!

One Year Ago Today

My, it’s weird how things can change in a year’s time. One year ago today I was visiting my best friend, AZ, in Phoenix. I had rented a Harley and we saddled up and went for ride to Sedona, Arizona. Within that year, my best friend bought a house and moved (still in Phoenix), and I broke my leg. On the bright side, his “condition” is permanent, while mine is temporary (or better be!)

I can remember that trip as if it were yesterday. The scenery was gorgeous. The ride was fun. The roads were great. The weather was perfect. What I recall the best, of course, is the fun I had with my best buddy, and his warm charm, smiles, and delightful way of making you feel good about yourself and life, in general. He has that way about him — a unique gift that makes everyone around him feel great.

Today, I sit at home with my leg propped up, still, and I am not able to walk. I couldn’t ride a bike if I wanted to. I am uncomfortable, cranky, and longing to get out of the hole in which I am stuck, albeit temporarily. I look out the window at mountains of snow in my yard. We still have at least two feet of snow in the yard from the back-to-back attacks of Snowzilla we endured not that long ago.

Instead of dwelling on my desire to be out of this predicament and be anywhere — ANYWHERE — else in two boots on two feet, I close my eyes and think of the long weekend that I spent with my best buddy, a wonderful host, and my best friend. Those memories bring serenity and smiles.

This is yet another reason why my partner likes AZ so much — because try as he might to snap me out of it, my partner hasn’t been happy that I’ve been grumpy. Having “mental diversions” like this help me relax, and makes my partner feel better, too. He hates it when I’m unhappy. Bless him — he’s always caring for me however he can.

Life is short: enjoy your memories!

Count Your Blessings

If you can wake up in the morning, get out of bed, and stand up on two feet…

If you can go into your bathroom and brush your teeth all by yourself…

If you can stand at the toilet and pee all by yourself without having to have someone steady you so you don’t fall while in such a compromising, personal position…

If you can take a shower and wash your body and hair all by yourself…

If you can dry yourself off…

If you can stand at the sink and shave…

If you can go to your clothes closet and pick out your own clothes to wear and put them on all by yourself…

If you sit at the end of the bed and put on a pair of boots all by yourself on both feet…

If you can make your way down stairs all by yourself while upright (that is, not have to sit and come down on your rump stair-by-stair while your partner holds your crutches and hovers over you to make sure you don’t fall)…

If you can make your way to your own kitchen and prepare an actual breakfast with real food, pulling juice from the fridge, put toast in the toaster, cook eggs or waffles or pancakes on the stove…

If you can walk to the end of the drive to get the daily newspaper that was delivered…

If you can get into a car or onto the saddle of a motorcycle and drive yourself somewhere…

If you can ride public transportation and not be afraid of someone knocking you over and actually finding a seat in the zone reserved for people with disabilities…

If you can walk to work without worrying about climbing over mounds of snow or ice and potentially slipping, falling, and breaking something (again)…

If you can go to work and be productive all day…

If you can drive yourself back home and perhaps stop at the grocery store to run an errand or mail a card…

If you can stop at the home of your family member whom you adore and want to make sure is alright, parking in a distant visitor’s space and walk quite a distance to her building…

When you get home, if you can get the mail from your mailbox all by yourself…

If you can fill the backyard bird feeder all by yourself…

If you can plan and prepare a nice home-cooked, satisfying meal for dinner at home with your mate…

If you can get to an evening meeting in the community, speak at a hearing, collaborate on a political campaign, or just visit with friends at their home…

When it’s time for bed, if you can get yourself up stairs in an upright position, not having to go backwards up on your rump one stair at a time while your partner holds your crutches and hovers over you because he’s afraid you will fall…

If you can brush your teeth, use the toilet, and wash before going to bed all by yourself without help…

If you can change out of your clothes into what you wear when you sleep all by yourself…

If you can go to sleep without the necessity of taking sleep aids, pain medication, or other drugs and actually fall asleep…

If you can be comfortable in your own bed, without having to prop your damn leg higher than your heart on a bulky pillow…

If you can sleep next to your mate who isn’t afraid of hurting you or being hurt by sleep-kicking of an unwieldy, heavy, bulky cast on your leg…

And if you don’t have to repeat the entire process the next day, day after day after day…

And if you have a partner, spouse, mate, or close companion who will help you with all of these tasks of daily life that you no longer can do for yourself…

And if you have competent health care that ensures you actually WILL recover from a severe injury or illness…


I do, every day. I am so deeply appreciative, thankful, and blessed to have my man by my side as I continue on the road to recovery from this broken leg. I appreciate that I do have health insurance and good doctors and a pharmacy plan. The teabagging morons who could give a shit about their neighbors just don’t get it…and unfortunately, they never will.

I think of all the people I know who have a permanent condition where they can’t fend for themselves any more, at all … and who have limited health care through Medicare or Medicaid, or no health care access at all. They put up with a lot more than I have had to deal with… and it’s a life sentence for them. Such a “life.”

While I am annoyed at being temporarily hobbled and confined, there is light at the end of the tunnel and I’ll be back into two boots and on my feet soon, while some of my elderly friends don’t have that option. They’re alone, lonely, and abandoned. This is why I go out of my way to care for others. I’ve seen it, and now have experienced it with my own bum leg! I’m no saint. I’m no angel. I’m just a guy who cares, and acts on his passions.

I can truly understand now better than ever why my Uncle Charlie just wanted to die at the end of his life’s winter. It’s miserable to be completely dependent on another and be so unable to do … what you once could do.

Life is short: count your blessings!