From Darkness a bit of Goodness

And charity.

As sure as the odds are of me popping a Happy Hour IPA, the US will surpass the million Covid related fatalities milestone in the near future. 

America’s Civil War was our last comparable infamous Death benchmark. Between the years 1861-1865,  620,000-750,000 Blue and Gray combatants were killed. (Most succumbed to disease rather than bullets or bombs). On November 3, 2021 the US Covid death count blew by that number in less than two years.

This is not something to be proud of. 

The US is now Numero Uno for Covid Deaths in the World. (Despite making up a mere 4.2% of Earth’s  inhabitants). Regrettably, many of these deaths were avoidable. Statistically speaking vaccines save lives. It’s mostly the unvaccinated and elderly who are ending up in the mortuaries. 

“Just since this summer, 150,000 unvaccinated Americans have needlessly lost their lives despite the widespread availability of vaccines,” Dr. Peter Hotez of the Baylor College of Medicine, in Houston. Source New York Times. 

So…the US will continue to stumble and stutter to the 1,000,000 mark.

Here’s what I’m proposing. People will make wagers on pretty much anything. How about a call the date of one million Covid deaths in the US?  

(This pool will make a charitable contribution to the hungry of La Plata county, CO.)

The rules are simple:

$5 entry fee/date.

Choose a date or a series of dates. 

In case of a tie, the betting pool will be split accordingly.

The “House” (that’s me) will subtract $1 per bet. Each and every George Washington note will be donated to the Durango Food Bank. In other words,  20% of your wager will go a worthwhile local charity. 

https://durangoareafoodbank.org/

The House (that’s me again) will accept cash, checks and PayPal. 

Contact me at: jeffsambur@gmail.com to place your bets and payment information.

My date is March 17th 2022. Saint Paddy’s Day.

Bets must be in no later than New Years Day 2022.

Feel free to forward this post to the other gamblers in your life. (More money means more donations to the DFB.)

I understand this is a dark post. I mean no disrespect to the victims of this seemingly endless pandemic. Some of the money will flow towards helping the hungry and the living of La Plata county. That’s how I’m justifying writing this.

On a personal note. I’ve become numb to the daily grind of Covid. 

Jennifer Nuzzo, an epidemiologist at Johns Hopkins University sums up my current feelings about the virus.

She was asked when the pandemic would end, she replied: “It doesn’t end. We just stop caring. Or we care a lot less.” She added, “I think for most people, it just fades into the background of their lives.”

Source Washington Post.

Stay healthy and safe out there. 

Jeff

“You don’t have to be a Pusher…

to attend a Pusher Party.”

This is how my neighborhood party invitation began. Here’s the rest of the invite.

“Hi Nice Neighbor,

I need HELP! That’s why you’re invited to the Pusher Party. I’m not big or strong enough to push my camper into the garage for hibernation season. 

When: Monday, November 1st at 5 pm

Savory hot veggie Minnesota Soup will be on hand plus garlic bread guaranteed to keep the vampires at bay. Bring a bowl, spoon and appetite. Cold IPAs will be available too.

Dogs can assist if they understand the “Mush!” Command. Owners will have to supply the puppies harnesses though.

Three or four more humans should overcome the laws of physics involved.

Thx in advance,

Jeff” 

With this neighborly 911 call for assistance, Sanctuary Too was docked into winter storage. 

Despite the lightheartedness of making a party out of a non-event, this simple act represents a verklempft moment (Yiddish for overcome with emotion) for me. 

 I named my Toyota Tundra and camper Sanctuary Too for a reason. In a world which seems to strive towards chaos, I’ve discovered campsites featuring silence, neighbors who are four-legged instead of two and sunrises/sunsets which leave me inwardly smiling. I can go days without speaking yet never feel lonely. While camping my life becomes simplified: eat, hike, read, write, drink IPAs then repeat. I sleep better too.

This temporary cessation of all the above makes me sad. But there’s another SAD going on inside of me. Seasonal Affective Disorder, AKA the “Winter Blues.” 

For those who are unfamiliar with this term, from the Mayo Clinic:

“Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is a type of depression that's related to changes in seasons — SAD begins and ends at about the same times every year. If you're like most people with SAD, your symptoms start in the fall and continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody.” 

Going back to my Syracuse, NY college days,  I began to notice a loss of energy and enthusiasm starting around Halloween. I felt “off.” The notorious winters of Upstate NY didn’t help either. The long nights, gray skies, cold and snow only exasperated my malaise. By around Saint Patty’s Day in March, I’d usually snap out of it. I’d begin to feel awake and rejuvenated at the same time.

 I had no explanation on why this yearly pattern happened to me. It wasn’t until the early 80’s while reading a newspaper, I noticed an article, “Maybe you are SAD for a reason?” It was an informative piece explaining SAD and it’s signs and symptoms. I clicked off the list. “Yes, that’s me. Yes, that’s me.” It was an OMG moment. “I’m not totally crazy! There’s a name for what I go through! I’m not alone!” 

According to the American Academy of Family Physicians 4-6 percent of our citizens suffer from SAD. (Lucky me). But there’s an easy remedy. A few mornings ago, I dusted off my light therapy gizmo. While most of my fellow Americans are asleep, I’m drinking coffee, reading the New York Times Morning Brief while soaking up the rays of my Happy Light. The half hour treatment fools my feeble mind into believing the days are longer. It smooths me out. 

Consider this a PSA on SAD.

Alas, long nights are only one facet of winter which I dislike. There’s the cold and snow too. To be honest, I fear winter. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/12/i-have-acute-chionophobia.html

By mid-January I’m hoping my neighbors and friends will participate in a “Pushback Party.” Of course, there will be Minnesota Soup and libations on hand. 

By then Sanctuary Too and I will be ready to fly south for the start of another camping season. 

Stay warm and be safe,

Cheers!

Jeff

If you are curious about what’s Minnesota Soup.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/01/minnesota-soup.html

Acuweather? Fahgettaboudit!

Punxsutawney Phil? Nothing more then a scamming, overweight and pampered groundhog.

The Weather Channel? This organization would go bankrupt if they were only paid for correct forecasts. 

So WW J, whom do you trust for the long term weather outlook? 

Glad you asked Dear Curious Reader. I consult Pika Predictions.

“You can observe a lot by just watching.” Yogi Berra.

This past summer I spent an inordinate amount of time hiking, camping and sleeping above tree line. In this realm of thin air, cooler temperatures and sparse vegetation you’ll find pikas. That is, if you know where to look. I do. 

But first! A thing or three about these mammal meteorologists. American Pikas are related to Bugs Bunny minus the long ears, fluffy tail and asking “What’s up? Doc!” They are heat weenies. Pikas will suffer when the temperatures approach 80 F. Hence they live at high attitudes. Unlike those sunbathing chubby marmots, pikas do not hibernate. That’s why marmots have the luxury of saying, “Pass the tanning butter, please.” Pikas are slaves to the seasons. There are no days off. During the brief snow free summers, they are collecting, stacking and storing grasses, weeds and wildflowers into their snug burrows. They are small, energetic and adorable. (Like me!) Between their farming gigs, they must be ever vigilant to the hawks, eagles, foxes, weasels, bobcats and unleashed dogs who might make an appetizer out of them. 

It ain’t easy being a Pika.  This is why they are my favorite mountain mammal. It ain’t easy being me either. 

Here’s some of my observations; i saw packs of  Pikas darting around in a frenetic, over-caffeinated state. Oftentimes those fur balls had green vegetation clenched in between their teeth. The Pikas were on a mission. They were telling me in a silent way, “OY! Jeffy! We are working our tuchases off (butts in Yiddish) so we can nosh (eat) in this upcoming meshuggenah (crazy) early winter. We’re sorry to be kvetching (complaining). 

But since you’re a Landsman (fellow Member of the Tribe) we’ll take a break from harvesting

to tell a joke. Jeffy! Do you know what’s a Jewish American’s Princess’ favorite winter wine is? “I wanna go to Miami!”

The Pikas spoke but are their predictions correct? Last year, our fall continued dreamily into December. Maybe I needed a second or third opinion before I quickly booked a VRBO this winter in Snobsdale, AZ. 

So I continued to observe and watch. 

In mid August I spied a pair of badgers. Their fur coats were heavy and thick, they waddled away instead of ran. 

By mid-September hummingbirds went missing from my feeders. My favorite birds must have caught a southern tailwind to Mexico. By now they are drinking a sugary form of Corona beer at some south of the border beach. 

In Durango, by mid-September our daytime highs dropped from 80’s to 60’s. There was no temperature decade of the 70’s. By the end of the month, the San Juan Mountains had a measurable amount of snow. Starting in mid-October Durango will endure a cold snap with nighttime lows in the 20’s. 

That diverse group of animals called this. We are in for an early winter. This is why I’m writing this post from the Utah desert. I’m not ready to come in out of cold…yet.

Stay warm and keep those home fires burning.

Jeff 

The Covid Summer of Not…

Quite Right.

When the  trifectas of Covid vaccines were made available in early 2020,  I White Man jumped to score mine. I received the two Moderna fixes in Cortez, CO. I gladly made the 100 mile RT drive to get jabbed. Hell, at that point I would’ve driven to eastern Kansas. I wanted out of Covid isolation. I desired a return to my old self. Being a Sociable Hermit instead of a 24/7 Covid Hermit.

I then sat back with a satisfied and protected grin waiting for my fellow Americans to climb on board the Vaccination Train. Well, that didn’t happen. As of this posting merely 55% of Americans are fully vaccinated. (Source CDC.) The US recently surpassed the 700,000 deaths due to Covid benchmark. This is not something to be proud of. 

Of course I had an opinion about this: 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/05/a-country-of-contrarians.html

As summer approached, I started out with high expectations of an increase in human contact. (After the shutdown of 2020,  that bar was set extremely low.) I made phone calls, sent texts and emails to acquaintances, possible dates and volunteer organizations as a form of reaching out. The reply rate was seriously underwhelming, as in mostly no reply. Neighborly talk of happy hours and dinners at brewpubs, remained just that. Talk.

Was this the result of Covid’s social distancing hangover? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’m a sensitive guy who deplores being ignored. After going through a period of feeling lonely again. I woke, took a sip of coffee and gazed at the rising sun and thought, “There’s no place I’d rather be than in Durango, Colorado on a sunny summer’s day. I’ll load Sanctuary Too (my truck and camper) for a high country hike and camp out.” My motto became, “Tis better to be alone outside in a pretty place, than to sit at home alone.” So that’s how I spent my summer. I slept more often in Sanctuary Too than in my bedroom in Durango. I chose campsites seven miles away and three thousand feet higher than my nearest neighbors. The sunsets and sunrises were  magnificent. 

For above tree line social encounters, I did a handful of gigs as a Colorado Trail Angel. I’m pretty sure I appreciated the act of giving more than the hungry hikers appreciated the PB&J sandwiches I provided. Here’s the blog:

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/08/its-830-in-morning-and-youve.html

Now as the days are perceptually getting shorter and cooler, I’ll set off and venture West behind the Zion Curtain of Utah.

There’s so many places to explore, so little time.

Which brings this post back to Durango and Covid. 

It’s been over two years since I gave up the “Homeless by Choice” lifestyle and settled down in Southwest  Colorado. In that time I’ve become quite fond of the vibe, energy and easy going nature of this small city of 19,000. It’s been a great fit for me despite a pandemic which,  I’ll just say it. Socially Sucks. 

But as much as I love Durango, I love the surrounding areas even more. Mountains, deserts

and the canyons in between. It’s all right here. Location. Location. Location.

Cheers and stay safe out there,

Jeff 

My Greater Sandhill Crane Escape.

from Durango’s Labor Day Weekend Four Corners Motorcycle Rally. 

Sandhill Cranes give loud, rattling bugle calls, each lasting a couple of seconds and often strung together. They can be heard up to 2.5 miles away and are given on the ground as well as in flight, when the flock may be very high and hard to see. They also give moans, hisses, gooselike honks, and snoring sounds.

Source: allaboutbirds.org.

I’m well aware that many of these bird vocalizations are similar to the noise emitted from Harley Davidson motorcycles and or their riders. But that’s where the similarities end. 

If those chrome pipes could speak, they’d be squawking, “Watzit to ya!” 

Whereas when a majestic Greater Sandhill Crane speaks, the sounds are ancient, inspiring and reassuring. Sandhill Cranes shout, “We’re still here! We’re survivors!” 

With this in mind, I did what I normally do when someone or something is bothering me. I leave.  I had to get away from the wrong kind of noise and the motorcyclists overly aggressive vibe. So… I attended the Yampa Valley Labor Day Weekend Crane Festival based in Steamboat Springs, CO instead.  

(By now I’m hoping Durango’s Hazardous Material Response Team mitigated the Bud Light and testosterone spills along Main Avenue.) 

I began my quest for Avian knowledge by attending Arvind Punjabi’s (an eminent scientist for the Bird Conservancy of the Rockies) presentation. His Thursday evening talk was sobering,. Since the 70’s  nearly three billion birds have gone missing in North America. They are the victims of climate change, loss of habitat, pollution and for many falling prey to domestic cats. Mr. Punjabi claimed birds might be the “Canaries in a coal mine” when it comes to our planet’s health. I don’t possess enough Doctorate degrees to doubt him. Earth is in trouble. 

On Friday, I found myself sitting on a shuttle bus at 5:45 am for a meeting with the Sandhill Cranes. I wasn’t the only Early Bird. The bus was packed with other yawning avian enthusiasts. En route, Van (a retired CO Division of Wildlife  Biologist) gave a Sandhill Crane quick teach presentation. There was a vast amount of information to absorb before first light. Between the bumps, grinds and engine noise, I gleaned whatever I was capable of hearing. Greater Sandhill Cranes top out at over four feet in height and weigh more than ten pounds. Their wingspan is equivalent to a small NBA player, (greater than six feet). They’re big birds who are capable of flying 200-300 miles per day. Sandhill Cranes are true athletes, not winged weekend warriors. 

Eventually, we all stumbled off the bus at the Hayden, CO residence of Nancy Merrill who happens to be the Founder of the Colorado Crane Conservation Coalition. (The same organization who sponsors this bird/birder friendly event.) During a solemn sunrise the Sandhills went airborne from the nearby wetlands of the Mighty Yampa River. Their destination was an upland feed zone.  Watching Sandhills in flight is as close to a religious experience I’ll ever have.

We got back on the buses and gave a  landlocked chase. Honestly, I can’t say the cranes chose their vegetarian restaurant for its scenic setting. There was a regional airport and Hayden’s coal burning power plant a short flight away. I suppose hunger conquers esthetics. 

At 9ish o’clock I boarded another shuttle for my scheduled bird walk at Carpenter Ranch. (A working cattle and feed operation preserved with the support of the Nature Conservancy. Be mindful of the cow pies). There we met Ted Floyd (editor of Birding magazine). Mr Floyd is as wired as a caffeinated hummingbird.  This bird authority knew his stuff though. Ted pointed to a retreating  mass of black specks.  “See that flock of Fuzzy Feathered Fussbirds? You can identify them by the whites of their eyes.” OK! It sort of went on like this  as my birding energy began to wane. Fortunately, two sightings occurred which grabbed my attention and woke me up. 

A) a Leopard frog. That was a BIGLY hit.

B) an adolescent slacker Bald Eagle who couldn’t be bothered to fly or fend for itself. It just sat in the same snag for about an hour. I dunno, maybe it was playing a video game. 

I wasn’t too bummed when this bird walk migrated back to Steamboat Springs. I had plenty of time to relax until Happy Hour. 

On Saturday, I had enough non-bird time to squeeze in a decent hike. Then I hustled over to the Steamboat Library for the keynote speaker presentation. Dr. Rich Beilfuss is the CEO and President of the International Crane Foundation based in Baraboo, WI.  He too has many Masters and Doctorate degrees. The good doctor spoke about the fifteen species of Cranes found the world over. Ten of these species are threatened. Including North America’s Whooping Crane. (There’s approximately 800 individuals.) On the other wing, Sandhill Cranes are considered a comeback success story of sorts. YAY! 

Saturday evening was spent back at Nancy’s bird friendly pad and paddocks for more Crane flights and feeding viewings. The undisputed highlight of the weekend came as the Cranes began to boogie to music only they could hear. Their dance is a bit of hip-hop, gyrations and wing flaps. Who needs “Dancing with the Stars” when you can view Cranes? 

The  Yampa Crane Festival whetted my beak to seek out these large, lovable winged critters at other festivals. As with all events though, Covid has changed the rules. Socorro, NM has already cancelled its November “Festival of the Cranes” over Covid concerns. The organizers for the Monte Vista (CO) Crane Festival suggest we check back again November for a Yay or Nay on whether or not it happens. 

Here’s the good news though. Cranes are illiterate. They haven’t read about social distancing, the advantages of being vaccinated or how to properly wear a mask. They are clueless in a great way. The Cranes will appear in the same wetlands at about the same time of the year. They aren’t on humanity’s schedule. Cranes are blessed in this regard.

In mid-November, I’ll spend my birthday at Bosque Del Apache Wildlife Preserve near Socorro, NM. I’ll be their at sunup and sunset and wander around in between. Join me and I’ll spring for dinner and drinks in Socorro after the Cranes turn in. 

I’m OK if the Cranes don’t bake me a birthday cake. For me the birthday present will be to see them once again.

Cheers,

Jeff

I’m not a Hut Guy.

If you’ve been following along since the 2014 inception of this blog, you’ve noticed my distinct disdain for hut to hut hiking. Oh! I have my reasons. IE: A nasty sinus infection from a Chilean hut super spreader event, the complete lack of privacy and the acrid odors and unique sounds of unrelated hikers in close quarters. Of course, I wrote about them:

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/01/a-hut-too-far.html

So why did I bid $400 in the Great Old Broads of the Wilderness Online Auction for a four night Hut to Hut Sneffels Traverse? 

I blame it on bidding under the influence of Double IPAs. The next day I woke to a caffeine high instead of a hop high, sadly I discovered the winning bid was mine. CRAP! 

The auction item was for two, in huts which maxed out at eight. I reached out to a few sort of locals to join me. They had legitimate excuses. “I’m planning on shampooing my hair on those days.” Or “I scheduled an oil change at Jiffy Lube. I can’t break it.” 

On a whim, I turned to the other member of the Sub-Eleven Foot Expedition Team. My forty-plus year buddy Nelson. (Between the two of us we don’t add up to eleven feet in height.) 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/10/warning-paria-canyon-is-not-for-the.html?m=1

I launched the invite and informational website to my brother from another mother. “I already paid for this. You’ll get a freebie.” 

His answer was pure Nelson-Speak. “I’ll look into it. I’ll get back to you ASAP.” Translation: I’ll begin exhaustive research into blogs, interviews, photo content, reviews and the Library of Congress. This might take awhile.

Weeks later, “I’m interested.” Nelson-Speak. He’s figuring out the logistics and running it by his wife Jude. 

“Take your time. If you aren’t coming, I’ll camp with Sanctuary Too and just chalk the experience up to an IPA senior moment.” 

A bit about Nelson. He’s generous, kind, well traveled, considerate, an award-winning photographer, smart, humble and funny. He too grew up in the Big Apple. Unlike me, Nelson managed to jettison New York City’s “edginess” trait. This is probably why he’s an All-Around great human being.

A few days later, Nelson had his game plan for a “GO!” He sent me the details as I marked the dates on my wall calendar. 

From time to time we checked in on each other with questions and concerns. (We’re Jewish so we both harbor Hebrew Angst.) Our biggest concerns were:

A) What if our hut mates weren’t vaccinated?

B) or Worse! What if our hut mates were Glock carrying MAGA hat wearing Trumpers! OY!

Just in case, I packed a tent, sleeping bag/pad and stove. I planned on sleeping under my nylon dome regardless of who was going to join us. I’m the world’s lightest sleeper. I need my space.

Our worries were all in vain. Four of the eight hut mates canceled which left Dwight and Joan from Salt Lake City. We all met in Ouray for our hour long shuttle ride to the trailhead. It didn’t take me long to realize I was the boring homebody in this crew. Name a country or an adventure and Dwight, Joan and Nelson probably played there. I didn’t consider stating, “Oh yeah! Well I ride my bicycle to the local brewpubs at least twice a week!” Sometimes even I know it’s better to keep my mouth shut and listen. I might even learn something. Seriously, they are both Cookie cutter versions of Nelson and Zen-like too.. We struck Kosher Karma on this one. 

As far as the hike went, it was sort of underwhelming. Nelson and I are connoisseurs of big views, even though we are quite small. Most of the miles were spent maneuvering through a green tunnel of trees. After awhile it became a walking joke. “WOW! Nelson check out that Aspen!” Or “Of all the Spruce/Fir forests I’ve been to, this is one of them.” 

As the Polly Anna cliche goes though, “It’s all good!” I got the chance to hang with my buddy for a week and met two inspiring and interesting people who are strangers no more.

I’m pretty sure a wonderful time was had by all.

Note to self: Don’t drink double IPAs and bid at the same time.

Cheers,

Jeff

PS the really great photos are Nelson’s.

“It’s 8:30 in the morning and you’ve…

already made my day.” Enthused Lydia, a Colorado Trail through hiker on a drizzly day in August 2020. 

So what did I do to deserve such an “Atta-Jeffy”? 

I handed this young, hungry backpacker a spare PB&Peach sandwich. That’s all, not a thousand shares of Amazon stock or health insurance for life, just a whole wheat sandwich. I walked away thinking, “Wow! That was an easy mitzvah.” (Good deed)

This episode got me thinking. I’m going to be a Trail Angel. 

From Appalachiantrail.org

A Trail Angel' is a term of endearment given to people who have provided Trail magic in the form of direct kindness and generosity to hikers.

Perfect! But I wasn’t going to settle for being a basic Wonder Bread Trail Angel. I was determined to be the one and best Jewish Mother in a male’s body Trail Angel. I decided to confine my efforts to the Colorado Trail/Continental Divide Trails in the above tree-line regions of the San Juan Mountains. 

As usual my summer has been racing by at Warp Eleven speed. “ He canna take anymore, Captain. He’s gonna blow!” June. Poof! July Poof Squared! 

It wasn’t until late July, I finally got my chance to don my yarmulke and wings. I chose Molas Pass for a shake down Trail Angel run. With a loaf of Multi-Grain Whole Wheat’s worth of PB&Boysenberry sandwiches, I set off towards the general direction of Durango. My bag of goodies didn’t last more than five miles on my outbound hike. It’s quite clear there are A LOT of hikers on the Colorado Trail!

My next gig was on Kennebec Pass in the La Plata range. I wasn’t  planning on being there, but the biting bugs chased me out of a nearby campout. I only had one loaf of bread. Sigh! I wasn’t prepared. Luckily for the hikers, I had enough ingredients to make the loaf into sandwiches. That bag of nourishment and calories didn’t last long either. When the sandwiches ran out, I offered up Clif Bars. (Definitely not as enticing as a PB&Blueberry sandwich.)

My next Trail Angel venue was on top of 12,650’ Stoney Pass. I was camped on the Continental Divide but by now those CDT hikers were long gone. Fortunately, I was on the home stretch for the Durango bound Colorado Trail hikers. My supply of sandwiches, oranges, Clif Bars and candy became depleted in a 12 RT hike. At least my pack became lighter.

So Jeffy, what’s it all about? I’m glad you asked. 

Here’s the demographics of the hikers. They are overwhelming white, young, educated, enthusiastic and incredibly polite. A few had the distinct smell of sweat and pot wafting off their soiled clothes. (Those Stoners really thought my sandwiches were AWESOME!) There was not one red MAGA hat among them.

They all have trail names. After introducing myself, (since it’s not cool to accept food from a stranger.) I asked a 6’12” hiker what his nickname was. He answered “BFG”In which I replied, “Big F—-ing Guy?” He turned away and laughed, “No. Big Friendly Guy!” Now that’s polite! And yes, he was friendly. 

I met Gazelle, Four Wheel Drive, Tea Bag, Long Fish, Cato, Moxie, Lazy Bear and others I can’t recall.

This is what I receive from those brief encounters.

As a jaded senior,  I score a twinge of hope. These youngsters will never look at an old growth forest and think, “I wonder how many board feet of lumber a clear cut would yield? OR gaze at a seemingly endless mountain vista and ponder, “maybe there’s mining opportunities out there.” No. They are now strong advocates for public lands, wild places, fighting climate change and Leave No Trace ethics. They are our future. 

On today’s mitzvah mission, I handed a sandwich to a young, fit woman hiker. She smiled, I smiled back. Then she said this to me. “You are so sweet!” It was 8:30 in the morning and THAT made my day.

Seriously, become a Trail Angel. You don’t even have to be a Jewish Mother in a male’s body to do it. I guarantee you will reap more than you sow.

Cheers,

Jeff

Last photos: I do provide pizza delivery too. For this I received a bearhug from Amy H. Her boyfriend Doug M (whom I once worked with) was OK with that.