Brother Dan is A-OK.  The procedure took place late Wednesday.  I screwed up, went to the hospital at the wrong time, and didn’t see him Wednesday, and yesterday, Thursday, morning when I went in to visit him in the ICU, he was already up and around and getting ready to check out.  I took a walk with him and his attending nurse around the ICU—she was holding a monitor to check his blood pressure—and she said the procedure went just great.  So that’s a battle won though it’s still hard to tell how long the war might go on and if Dan’s recovery will be complete enough for him to keep his excellent job at Cetrix.  They will not make a decision on that till the fourth quarter of the year, October, November, December.


Maybe because I was too anxious on Wednesday to do much of anything else, I got Carol to come with me and we started in to trying to clean out our garage with its 13 years of collected junk.  True, we did some prior tossing, but not nearly enough.  We have books up the old wazoo.  We took three tubs of them to Planned Parenthood.  I have got books from college; for example, a copy of Vanity Fair for 1.25 from about 1966.  Damn.

I had trouble looking at them and sorting through them.  I tried to keep the books, some at least, that I wanted to read again, or hadn’t read completely the first time, or ones I had some sort of reading experience with the first time I read them.  I kept for example Jean Genet’s Thief’s Journal because that was the first book I read by an author that I knew was homosexual and who wrote about it.  I remember feeling sort of strange reading it, but after a while that feeling went away and I felt I was just reading about a guy with peculiar habits living in a world I would never fully understand.  And I kept another, a collection of essays, by Antoine Artaud, another French guy and the father of what they call the theatre of cruelty.  Quite a bit of the writing was done while he was in an insane asylum, and the book was given to me by a guy I knew in college who went insane himself.

I remember one line from that book.  He wrote, “Let the lost get lost!”  I think I know what he means.  Just leave the lost alone, and maybe they will find themselves.  They are the ones who will have to do it.  Trying to help the lost find themselves just mucks them up and doesn’t help at all.

And then I found stuff I had written.  Man, I have written a lot of words over the years.  Articles I tried to get published when I was still trying to get a job as a teacher of literature and from before that mounds and molding mounds of short stories.  Man, I wrote a lot of short stories, and I sent them out too, and got them rejected over and over, except for one that was published in the Kansas Quarterly.  I tried to read parts of a couple of the short stories, and I felt odd reading stuff I knew I had written, but I couldn’t remember having written at all.  I mean, I couldn’t remember a word of it.  The parts of the short stories I looked at were sort of funny in places, the plots weren’t too good, and overall they seem damn strange.

I didn’t throw any of that stuff out.  Who knows maybe someday I will read the stuff and try to get a feeling for who I was like 30 years ago. Or maybe I won’t.  But I couldn’t throw the stuff out.


Above.  I came across his piece of paper going through the junk.  When I got it back in 1971 I expect I felt very relieved.  Now I just stare at it and wonder why I was “rejected, physically.” Seems sort of redudant to me.  Why not just “rejected.”


Tingle Road

On my first trip back to the South in some 30 years, I set about locating Tingle Road.  I was surprised to learn there was a Tingle Road.  But Joan said there was one in Blount, Georgia.

We pulled off the interstate from Atlanta to Macon to see if we were headed in the right direction.  When I said we were looking for Blount, the kid behind the desk said, “What would you go there for?”  I said I had people there though I didn’t tell him they were all underground.

Blount is one of those places you wouldn’t know existed unless you had a map telling you it was there.  As far as I could tell it was just a crossroads with the Payan Baptist Church sitting there at the junction.  Church was just getting out, so I approach a fellow, and asked did he know where Tingle road was, and he said Mrs. So and So might know, her being the local historian.  Mrs. So and So was a really old, little lady and she said all I had to do was turn to the right at the first dirt road right past the church—that would be Gregory–drive on it a bit, till I crossed a little bridge and pretty soon after that on the left would be the entrance to Tingle road.

Sure enough we found Tingle Road and drove on it till we saw the chimneys marking the Tingle House of Archebald Daniel Tingle I believe that had burnt to the ground some time in the 1930’s.  The remains of seven chimneys suggest a pretty big establishment.  But we couldn’t see much beyond that because the undergrown was so thick, and I had heard there were plenty of ticks in there.

I wanted to drive clear to the north end of Tingle Road though Carol was getting a little freaked out what with us driving on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere and on private property too, though there didn’t seem to be a living soul anywhere about.  I insisted on driving a bit further, till we topped a knoll and saw that the road ahead was ankle to knee deep mud.  I decided to exercise a little prudence then.

I don’t if it was that trip or the next one but eventually we drove around and found the north end of Tingle Road near Mount Vernon Baptist Church located just across the county line in Butts.

Recently, checking out Goggle maps,  I learned to my disgruntlement, that Tingle Road is disappearing.  The road is still there but for some reason the people in the area have renamed the road especilly at the north end.  But maybe Google maps made a mistake because they call the north end of Tingle Road, Teagle Road.  Teagle is awful close to Tingle, don’t you think.

Here’s a link to a Google Map of the South End of Tingle Road.  The old Tingle place is located on what Google calls Tingle Road.


Tingle Territory: Part 1

I thought to distract myself a little from my worry about Brother Dan’s upcoming procedure (tomorrow) as well as channel my perpetual anxiety that I would recreate a website I had up a good while ago called: Tingle Territory.

This site consisted mostly of pictures of Tingle places I have visited in Georgia and SC in search of my roots. 

The last TT was a regular web page; you scrolled down the page to see the pics.  This time I am using some goggle freeware to create a webpage with thumbnails.  When you click on the thumbnail the pic gets bigger and some captions I have written should also appear.

This is sort of a test run.  This first page I call "Pappy Tingle’s House."

Click here to see the test run. 

  To the best of my knowledge this house was built at the turn of 20th century.  Back in that day, there was no air conditioning; so you had to build a house that helped you to cope with the heat.  The high roof and ceilings had apparently some cooling properties.  One big corridor runs right from the front door to straight to the back door, so you could let cooling breezes, if there were any, go right through the house.  Along the corridor were two big rooms on one side and two big rooms on the other.  And back when the house was first constructed the kitchen was out back and not attached to the house.  But the kitchen is long gone.

I don’t know if this type of house is called a shotgun shack or not. 

I visited the house first in 1963 when the family came back to SC for a visit.  I remember sitting there in the heat feeling I was in the middle of nowhere.  Back then there was a scupponan arbor along one side of the house.  I ate some.  They were good.  I think that is the one and only time I have eaten scuppons.

I visited the house again with Carol many years later in 1994.  We drove by, stopped, took some pictures.  Finally, I went to the front door and knocked.  Mrs. Webb came to the door.  I told her I was a Tingle.  She didn’t quite follow and started telling me a Tingle lived right down the road.  When I made it a bit clearer who I was, she and Mr. Webb invited us in and they let us take a look around the place.

 They seemed very proud of their big freezer that ran along one wall of the corridor.  They opened it up and I admire the stuff in it though I couldn’t have said what it was.

Mr. and Mrs. Webb are now both dead.  Mr. Webb, suffering from a prolonged illness, killed himself out in the backyard.  Mrs. Webb died some years later.  I don’t know who owns the house now.

Pappy Tingle was the father of William Berner Senior, William Berner Senior was the father of WB junior, Neal, Edith, Addie, Carl, Mamie and Doublas.

So he was my great-great grandfather. 









Vile and Venal

I am recovering from our trip, though slowly.  My internal clock was stuck on SC time, so Friday morning and yesterday morning I woke at 430.  Way too early, though I got to see the sun rise.

Going to sleep I found myself thinking about Brother Dan and realized that I will be emotionally tense and anxious until he has his procedure this very Wednesday.  As I said, he is optimistic, and he should be.  But I think I have what Henry James had, an imagination of disaster.  I intend to be at the hospital when he has the procedure, but I don’t know the time of it yet.

Also, among this huge pile of mostly junk mail that I found awaiting me upon my return, was a thick batch of paperwork from the lawyers in charge of the Tingle Trust.   I was happy to see it because it meant the lawyers are finally getting off their collective asses and doing something, but reading over the documents the list of things I should do and things I  shouldn’t do as Trustee of the Trust was perplexing and a bit horrifying.  I mean I don’t want to make some mistake.  But as far as I can understand what I read, I think I—and the rest of the brothers involved in managing aspects of Joan’s finances—have done a good job and are on the right path.

Some of the paperwork has to do with the government.  They want their piece of the pie.  I will have to file income taxes for whatever income the trust receives, while the money is still in the trust, from the time of Joan’s death until the estate is distributed whenever that might be.  Legally, the trust is considered some sort of separate entity and was given its own tax identification number.

A lot of the other stuff has to do with trying to clarify or negotiate or minimize possible fighting, suits and counter-suits, among the heirs over what I as the trustee did with the trust while it was in my trust.  In other words, the law anticipates that my brothers and I will start suing each other and wanting to go to court over the terms of the trust or how it was administered. 

The law is much like the rules established in a bureaucracy.  Decent people have to concern themselves with the rules because the bureaucracy makes everybody pay for the deeds of the incompetent, the vicious, the vile, and the venal.  The law is aimed at regulating, in other words, the lowest possible common denominator of the human race—the operative assumption being we are all already or potentially mean creeps motivated wholly by our own self interest.

All this is tension and anxiety making too and I won’t rest entirely easy till its over and done with.

Family Valued

I have gone back to SC four times now since about 1994 and each time I am grateful for the welcome I receive from my relatives.  My first trip back was amazing.  I was exhausted the whole time but woke each morning with positive expectations.  Going back was important somehow deep down to see the place and the people I had known when I was a boy.  And when I did finally, after some driving around in Georgia, get to my see my relatives I was enveloped in a sense of acceptance and warmth.





Why should they have paid such kind attention?  After all I had been in no real contact with them for about 40 years. I didn’t really ask myself that then.  But now I would answer by saying, well, we were and are family.  I was WB’s son and that was enough for them to go out of their way the way they did.  And perhaps they were curious a bit about me as I was one of those children of the prodigal son, WB, who had gone off to California while they had all stayed at home, many still living within forty minutes of each other by car in upper Carolina and now a bit in North Carolina.

When WB left in 1955 he lost immediate contact with all that family, and so did I.  We were in California very much the “nuclear” family, mom, dad, kids and dog, with no extended family anywhere about.  Back there though there’s lots of extended family, living in what politicians might call family values territory.  And family is valued, though I don’t think the family thinks about it that way.  Family is just there.

I don’t know how frequently the many members of the family get together or actually see each other.  But I do think they are always aware of each other and have a pretty good general idea of what might be happening in one portion or another of the family, who is having a baby, or who is getting married, or who has come down with something, and who has moved, and who got a new car.  And while it would not do at all to pretend things are all hunky-dory between individuals in the family or that they all like each other or something like that, I do think in times of trouble the individuals would try their best to overcome their personal feelings and help out if they at all could.

As I was told frequently while growing up, blood is thicker than water.  In a growing and changing world, where it becomes increasingly hard to be recognized by anybody, family recognizes family.  And being recognized is tremendously important, and additionally in places like SC where the government provides very little for the people; people must provide for themselves and family can take up the slack. Psychological recognition and, more in the past than today, economic need held family together.

I can see better the importance and the function of the extended family partly because I was not raised back there with all that extended family about.  At the same time, with all that family about, one could easily spend one’s every waking moment thinking about family, gathering news of family, doing for family, and visiting family, with the result as one relative suggested, it becomes easy to forget that there is anything beyond family, that there is a bigger or other sort of world out there of people who do not think, or feel, or believe as family thinks, feels, and believes.

In places like California.


On the way back from the services for Joan, a number of us stopped to take a look inside Grandma’s old house, built in the early thirties. 

Sweet Tea

South Carolinians, I conclude, take their eating damn seriously.  Their idea of lunch is my idea of dinner; and their idea of dinner is on a whole other plane.  We went with a cousin to a K and W’s near Simpsonville, SC, for lunch; this is a chain of cafeterias located in West Virginia, Virginia, North and South Carolina.  For about 3.50 I got a heaping plate of white rice covered with country steak and gravy.  For just over a buck I got a side of black eyed peas; I had something else too…maybe a little salad.





Carol and I ate with another cousin, at the original Stax in Greenville, home of the famous deuces wild breakfast, two apparently of everything.  I had a club sandwich that covered one half of a large platter and on the other half was a heaping mound of French fries.  Also in Fletcher NC, Carol and I had lunch with another cousin at a local place called the Acropolis where I ordered—over my cousin’s warnings—the lamb gyro platter with Greek salad. Damn, another huge amount of everything, and I ate it all for 7.95.

And sweet tea.  Wherever you go–sweet tea.  I grew up on sweet tea as a matter of fact, and the only place I have ever found it is back there in the South.  I order iced tea in California and they bring you this tea with ice in it and nothing else.  With sweet tea, you boil some water and dump three or four teabags in it and let it seep and boil till it is practically black, and then you put in a heaping cup of sugar and add water to stretch it out a bit, and put the whole thing in the refrigerator and let it cool. 

No wonder I am a caffeine head.  I started drinking sweet tea as a kid and drank it all through the time I lived with my parents.  I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee as a kid, since that was an adult drink and would stunt my growth.  But what the hell, pray tell, is the difference.  Maybe coffee cost more. I remember now I made sweet tea and our particular touch to sweet tea was adding to it, along with the sugar, a small container of frozen lemonade.  Clearly, this stuff was the original energy drink. 

I had a special lunch at Aunt Addies.  It was pretty hot, on a Sunday afternoon, as I recollect, and Aunt Addie wasn’t up to fixing lunch for everybody.  But earlier in the day, I had admired some of Uncle Ed’s tomatoes that were sitting on a sideboard ripening in the sun.  I picked one up said it smelled like a real tomato.  Uncle Ed said I should eat one before I left.  When it seemed like we were fixing to go, Uncle Ed said I should eat my tomato and did I want to make a tomato sandwich out of it.

Now I don’t remember having ever eaten a tomato sandwich, but I must have because as soon as he said, tomato sandwich I knew what to do.  Take two pieces of white bread, slather them both with mayonnaise; sprinkle pepper over the mayonnaise, slice the tomato as thin as possible, stack the pieces high so you use all the tomato (if it’s on the small side), salt the tomato.  And put it altogether.  Damn that was good.  Carol took a bite and wanted her own tomato sandwich.  So we ended up staying another hour as we all ate tomato sandwiches and drank sweet tea.

I am talking so much about food because I gained about six pounds in ten days in SC.


That’s Aunt Addie’s house on Chipwood off Lisbon Road right near Mountville, SC. 


I wanted to find something on local history so Carol and I went to an independent bookstore in Greenville SC.  I couldn’t find much but located a picture sort of book on Laurens County.  Honestly, how this book got published I don’t know.  I certainly don’t recommend it; it’s called Images of America: Laurens County.  It had pictures of the damndest things. For example the entire graduating class of ought 7 with no names just a picture of unknown people, or for example, John Langston, described as a substantial citizen but with no indication whatsoever as to why he was or what he did to make him so.





I did find out that Laurens was possibly originally called Laurensville and that it was divided into five townships, variously:  Laurens, Dial, Waterloo, Sullivan, Scuffletown, Hunter, Cross Hills, Jacks and Youngs.  So cousin Jacks Tingle was named after a Laurens Township.  Ora is mentioned very briefly as part originally of the township called Scuffletown.  No explanation is given for this odd name, though one supposes a family named the Scuffles lived there.

Mountville is mentioned as a community that sort of sprang up on its own and as having probably the oldest church in the county.  I think Uncle Douglas may be buried there. Anyway, don’t buy that book.  If you see it, just pick it up and look at the pictures while you are standing there.  And then put it back where you found it.

Healthful eating has not caught on in SC;  indeed the restaurants of SC seem to be engaged in counter-programming against all those healthy trends coming out of places like California.  How else to explain a restaurant chain that flauntingly calls itself Fatz?  I ate at Fatz; the food was medium good and the portions enormous.  They start you out free of charge with some flavored rolls that have been deep fried.  Carol ate all of them.

All of the visiting Tingle brothers ate breakfast at Ryans in Laurens right across from the WalMart; this is a chain of different styles of restaurants.  The one we went to was all you could eat forever and ever.  They had a separate room for smokers.  I went in there to take a puff and found myself in a room with four other smokers—all workers at the restaurant and all black—I don’t know how long it’s been since I was in a room with four other smokers. 

But laws are being passed and challenged and passed again restricting smoking in public places and bars.  One of the workers sitting there said, “Are they trying to take all of our pleasures away from us.”  Carol and I went back to Ryans at seven or so for dinner, and the guy who had defended his right to smoke was still working.  He looked really tired and had the horrible job of just standing there behind the steak and ham and waiting for people to come up and tell him what they wanted.

 All you can eat for 8.99.  With sweet tea or soda pop extra. 

According to the Laurens picture book, that’s the oldest church in Laurnens County, located in Mountville near Duncan Creek.  I don’t know though if the structure pictured is still extant.

Continue reading Miscellaneous


So I am back in SB, but Carol is not.  She stopped in Mobile, Alabama, to attend a conference of the National Dance Education Organization.  She will have a good time visiting with old colleagues she has come to know over the years.  She is staying she says in a terrific hotel, with a view overlooking a river.  I didn’t know a river ran through Mobile, thought now I do, but I don’t know the name of it.


I woke up at 430 AM CA time and try as I might couldn’t get back to sleep.  My interior clock is now set for SC time and thinks 430 is 630.  It will take a while for the interior clock to reset.  I remember this happened last year when we went back to bury WB; it took a week or so to reset but also started for some reason an unfortunate trend of my waking up at 530 AM that I could not shake for quite a while.  Of course, I have had a lot on my mind this last couple of years.

And now I have a bit more.  Brother Dan wrote to say that he will have the procedure for his stroke this coming Wednesday.  It’s called an Carotid Endarterectomy and involves cutting in, pulling out the carotid artery, opening it, cleaning it, putting it back together, and sticking it back in.  He will be in the hospital from Wednesday to Friday and for the month after he will have to limit what he does because he cannot put any strain on the sutures.  He is taking a very positive attitude towards the whole thing; the doc says there’s only a two percent chance or so that some really bad could happen.  He does hundreds of these procedures a year.

Still….I am anxiety prone and will be feeling that till the procedure is over.  He has been feeling anxiety too I think, and said he really wants to get it all over with.  He also sent along an email detailing his first few hours back in Ora.  He makes writing errors that he does not usually make, but over all his writing has improved immensely over a month ago…  He wrote the email, I think, partly as mental exercise to help work on the stroke.  I don’ think he would mind my passing it along as follows:

Ora was a trip.

We set out from the SB Airport at 4:30 AM and got the direct fight to Dallas, and then another direct fight to Columbia SC.

We made it there in 8 hours (5:36 PM). Got a car at the Avis place and set off on the road to Clinton where we were going to meet brother in law Nick and Carol, David and Tree, and nephew Brian. Steve and I set off down the road. And were met in Clinton by our brothers and nephew across the street from the Hardeys, the Wendys, and a gas station and a Waffle House.

It was green there. Green Green Green.

We made our way over to Hickories BBQ for and all you can eat a taste of the south. The table were rough pine and they but on a decent BBQ : oven hash, BBQ ribs, BBQ Chicken, Fried Chicken, Pulled Pork, Green Beans, Corn, White Gravy, Rice, Bread, Onion Rings, Chitins’, Corn Bread, Cole Slaw and Patoate Salad and Chocolate Ice Cream for dessert.

It was a time there, used to recalled times spend with the Tingles.

From there we went to rest for a spell.

Later I wound up in Nick and Carols and then later I wound up in Dave and Tree’s.

Both Nick and Dave had some thing to say.

Nick saw this as a path through to another room.

Dave saw it as a pass through Ora again after another year

I slept like the dead.

Woke up to my black pants and shirt on the table and wandering off in them to the Days Inn breakfast.

Every body else was up.

We all spent time in, or around are rooms. Nick was spent with Coffee and Cig’s.

Dave rolled around a Cigar, and lit it once, kept it going for a time.

Around 10AM we all got down to Ora.

I rode out with Dave and Tree.

We passed farms.

We passed nothing at all but trees.

And then we came to the Ora Church.

We drove up and parked.

It was not hot at all, just a breeze blowing buy.

All at once I came to feel it was time to rest the body of Joan K. Tingle.

By her side was the Infant Baby of W.B. and J.K Tingle.


Maybe I remember her as Ann, but there had to be a name there.

Back in the Church the Reverend went over how we could remember Joan.

All spoken in words of the Bible.

So be it.

And then we passed out of the Church and came to a grouping around her tomb.

Some more words of the Bible.

So it goes.

The Church Women put on a show for us.

Tasty Chicken, Mac and Cheese, Devil Eggs, another cheese pie, green beans, tuna salad on white bread, a peach set in jello, some biscuits and a cake made out of 6 slices of wrapped in thin chocolate, and oat meal cookies.

I got to hand it to the Church Women.

                                                The End



If you go through LAX to SB, you ride the last leg on a small plane that flies at about 60
00 feet.  We are lower than that in the pic above.  Up towards the top the point of land jutting furthest out into the Pacific is campus point where the University is.  Carol and I live just a mile or two beyond that. 


For the record

Last year about this time while in Ora, SC I spent a number of hours trying to locate the spot on a river or creek where I had nearly “drowned” when I was in second grade.  I thought I had located it on the Enoree; I even wrote a song about it with the word Enoree in it, but during this past year in a visit with Joan, I mentioned what I had done.  And she said, what did you do that for?  Thinking I guess that I made too much of having nearly died while she was supposed to be watching out for me. And then she said, anyway it was on Warrior Creek.





 So during our last day in the Ora area, I made Carol ride around with me while I tried to locate Warrior creek.  I found Warrior Creek Road and drove on it on and on through what appear some land of the Cherokee Nation (hence I guess, the name Warrior Creek) but had no luck at all locating any body of water near Warrior Creek Road; finally I came back out on the main road well above Ora, and driving back what do I drive across, but Warrior Creek.





So I got out of the car and took these pictures.  The Creek is low perhaps because of the extended drought, and this is not the spot where I nearly “drowned,” but this is Warrior Creek. And I must have nearly drowned on it somewhere nearby.  Indeed, I regret having not turned off onto a dirt road with the sign “Slippery Rock.”  I would bet that gave public access to the Creek.

Also I drove back to North Greenville Community College today and took these pictures should some doubting Thomas not believe there really is a Tingle Residence Hall.






I don’t know why—maybe it was money for gas, or time lost to make money, or a general inability to enjoy ourselves—but we did not when I was a child in Ora SC travel very much, if at all.  I don’t remember even having gone to Clinton which was maybe in those days 15 minutes away by car.  But I do remember us having driven a considerable ways to visit some relatives. I didn’t know where this place was back then, but I now know it was a place called Tigerville north of Greenville by 15 minutes maybe.  That would have been a lot of travel back then close to two hours, I bet, what with what the roads and cars were like back then from Ora to Tigerville.





Actually Tigerville is more a name than a place, or let’s say if you did not know the name you would in all likelihood not know you were in the place, since there isn’t anything to suggest that there is a Tigerville exactly.  But we went there because that’s where Uncle Neal lived with his wife and two sons, at that time back in the early 50’s.  Neal’s wife, Doris, was a school teacher and the sons were Rusty and Jacks (yes, Jacks).  They were roughly parallel in age to me and Brother Steve and I remember having enjoyed playing with them, though I have no idea what we did since we had none of what people might call toys.  I suppose we ran around and looked at things.

Carol and I went to Tigerville escorted by my cousin, Lucy, to find located, where once there had been nothing, the campus of North Greenville Community College, directly in front of Uncle Neal’s House.  I did not know fully understand the intensity of the relation of the Tingles to this college—a Baptist College—until driving onto the campus I read across the top of a building the name of my cousin, Jacks Tingle, and then further around back found the Tingle Residence Hall.

I don’t remember there having been any college there at all when I  was a child but there must have been something there or maybe it appeared after my time, but that is where Uncle Neal became an ordained Baptist Minister and later worked through the ups and downs of the college over the years as head of facilities, I think it was.  Later on, no doubt because of the location of the college and his father’s involvement with it, Jacks Tingle gave the college a lot of money.

Jacks has a lovely house located in a lovely piney woods right next to the college.  The house is situated in such a way as to produce what in California might be called a view.  Views are rare lower in the state, but around and north beyond Greenville one is heading into North Carolina and the Smokey Mountains. Jacks at one time was the owner of many, many Burger Kings and that’s where the money came from to help out the college so that now there is a Tingle Residence Hall.

Jacks has suffered several strokes so we did not drop in unannounced at his home, but earlier in the day, we did, down in Greenville, drive by Rusty’s nice brick house.  He was out front doing something to his car, so we stopped.  I can’t say had I seen Rusty on the streets that I would have recognized him; it has been 50 years more or less since I last saw him and people do change over 50 years. But as we talked I remembered his presence and understood why I had enjoyed playing with him and Jacks.  He is a good guy.


A road in the rain outside Charleston.