Judy Garland sang about being born in a stage trunk in Pocatello, Idaho. My first days were less glamorous. They were spent in a two-room, wood-frame house in Newport Beach, California. I arrived there May 28, 1932. At that time, the United States was experiencing its first major economic depression of the 20th century. Newport Beach had already become Mecca for the wealthy, many of whom had weekend homes in the area. Our two-room house was not among the splendid, golden homes of the rich. My father, who was known as "Dutch," was a local commercial fisherman. He retired from formal education after the third grade so that he could go to work. My mother, who was known as "Jino," raised me and my sister, Karen. My mother had a severe case of poliomyelitis when I was about one year of age. She was handicapped throughout her life because of this illness. Her formal education ended after the ninth grade.

I have been star struck as long as I can remember. As a kid, I saw Billie Dove, Dick Powell, Joan Blondell, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Frances Langford, Fannie Brice and Eddie Cantor (in the famed Santa Claus Parade in Hollywood), Ida Lupino, Errol Flynn, Tyrone Powers, and others. Many movie stars either lived in Newport Beach or spent considerable time there. I loved the fact that they were there, and I wanted to be one of them. On one occasion, I found Dick Powell waiting to pick up his children outside the Newport Beach Elementary School. Without thinking of implications, I introduced myself to him and asked how much money he made. Years later, I saw him and a different wife, June Allyson, in a drive-in restaurant in Central Point, Oregon, but, sadly, was too intimidated to re-introduce myself. My dad once harpooned a swordfish that the same Dick Powell (who was cruising nearby in his yacht) pointed out to him. On another occasion, my uncle pulled Bette Davis from the Pacific Ocean, near Corona del Mar, where she was shooting a film. During my adolescent and later years, I managed to see Stewart Granger, Shirley Temple, Rock Hudson, Ginger Rogers, Anne Blythe, Vic Damone, Gloria deHaven, and others. I always wanted to be Judy Garland's best friend. Thinking about being her best friend kept me going when I allowed my life to get to me, which happened frequently. I still miss her.

I think I have digressed already. Back to the two-room house and the early 1930s. I was born in that place, although I can't remember what it looked like inside. It has been torn down since. I have no pictures of that house. I actually can't remember too much of anything about life there, but I do remember moving next door. The new place was a little larger, and it still exists. I have bad memories about the house, since the first episodes of harsh times between Dutch and me occurred there. That was also where we lived when Karen was born, and I got into big trouble for telling friends that a baby was expected in our family since my mother had told me the news in confidence. I was four years old when I got that news.

My maternal grandfather, known as "Gus," was a well-known gardener for the wealthy residents of Newport Beach and Balboa. He gave me support when times were difficult. He called me "pal" all his life. My maternal grandmother, Maybelle, was sweet and caring. I did not understand until I was an adult that a series of strokes had taken much of her strength and alertness from her. This happened about the time I was born. Gus and Maybelle lived half a block from us.

I do not remember my paternal grandfather, Marshall. He is reported to have been a good writer and story teller. He died when I was young. My paternal grandmother, Mamie, lived a few miles away. I loved spending time with her, too, and was always covetous of a huge bag of marbles she had kept since the time Dutch and his two brothers were boys. I don't know what finally happened to them, although I spent many hours on her living room floor playing with those marbles. They were beautiful. I still think about them.

I attended Newport Beach Elementary School from kindergarten through the eighth grade. I knew then and I know now that I had wonderful teachers, each of whom left an imprint on my life. Miss Heffren taught kindergarten. My best friend was Diane Patterson, who still ranks historically among the most important persons in my life. It is sad that we no longer see each other, even though she lives only a few hours away. My other teachers were Miss Spellman, Mrs. Bryan, Mrs. Porter, Miss Spellman for a second time, and then others as I advanced into the higher grades.

My family was poor, and I guess that many other neighborhood families were also poor. I didn't know about them, however. But I did know about the poverty of my parents, and I was ashamed of it and of them. I used to throw away my mashed bean sandwiches on my way to school so that no one else would know the kind of food we had in our house. I drank the free milk that was served and said that I needed nothing more. I have no idea how many others did the same. And I asked Dick Powell how much money he made. I knew even then that something was askew. I was not and am not now among those who find anything noble about poverty. A memory that has lasted is trudging across Newport Boulevard to Cottle's Grocery and asking that the total for the purchases I was making for my mother be placed on their list of creditors. When you charge food under those circumstances, you can't help but feel stigmatized. Dorothy Cottle recently told me that she thought her family was poor, not mine.

Yet these were golden years in many respects. My family was closely associated with two other families: the Pattersons and the Oquists. We hung out together, the parents and the kids. I thought that we would always be together; they made up my world. We are all over the place now, but I always think of them as dear friends, even the ones who have died. Newport Beach was a beautiful place in the 1930s. Even with our poverty, I loved being there. The ocean was one block west of our house, the bay one block east. We swam every day in the summer and did not wear shoes from the time school ended in June until it began in September. I could swim when I was three years of age. And I was always on the lookout for Judy Garland.

I was a good boy and a good student in elementary school, in high school, and in college. School was where I got my rewards. I guess it is not surprising that I am recently retired after 23 years of university teaching, in social work. It was the students and being the teacher that was the most important. Research and publishing were distant seconds.

As I saw it, I was ripped out of southern California when I was 15 years old. We moved to Ashland, Oregon, in 1947 to build and run a small restaurant. Not knowing better, the adults named it the "Dutch Gus Cafe." Gus and Maybelle moved with us from Newport Beach, since it was assumed that the closeness of the tie between Jino and Maybelle was so binding that one or the other would die if separated. We ran the damned restaurant for about seven years. We did not become rich but not because we didn't work hard. I generally worked the night shift with Gus. He had been a hobo, a vaudeville performer, even an employee and confidante of Joan Crawford's. He rolled his own cigarettes and was a born conversationalist. He called it his "gift of gab." I was much closer to him than I was to Dutch, from whom I kept a well-defined and obvious distance all of his life. Gus was a role model and mentor (to use the language of the mid-1990s) who advised me when I was 16 to move away from Ashland as soon as I could and not to identify with the parochial, family-bound perspectives of my parents, that the world was expansive and an adventure to explore. I heard him, but I always kept a close, if perhaps unhealthy tie, to Jino. I always thought it was my responsibility to guarantee that she was protected.

Of course, I hated Ashland. It seemed a hick town, compared to the status and allure of Newport Beach. I cried in private throughout most of my first year there. In my heart, I knew that I could never replace my childhood and early adolescent friends. Ashland High School was small, and I feared I could never fit in. I might not have, had it not been for Nina Graber, two Jackies (Pritchard and Wolcott), and two guys (Bob Simpson and Cash Perrine) who befriended me during my first year there. Later, I made other friends (Ted Weitzel, Jerry Langer, and Betty Clark from Medford) and settled in, but that first year was painful.  Much of who I am was molded during this era and with these people.

I returned to Newport Beach for a visit after school ended the first year away. While I still loved it there, it was much easier to return to Ashland than I anticipated it would be. Sometime later, I became an Oregonian. I would not now be anything other. But I still miss the ocean and the eucalyptus trees of southern California.

It was during my high school years that I began to realize that I was different somehow from my classmates. It is hard to put into words, but I seemed to lack the requisite skills to be like everybody else. My eye-hand coordination was terrible, which meant that I shied away from sports of any kind. Besides, the coaches favored the natural athletes and didn't care when I (along with the other rejects) went behind the gym to smoke cigarettes rather than follow their instructions to exercise or play some game. I hope coaches have changed their ways, but I doubt that they have. My body was probably under-developed, and I felt weaker than the other boys. I still dislike exercise and resist it, even though I know that it is good for me. In high school, however, I strove for recognition and finally found it when I learned that I could make other people laugh and that I could do well in the classroom without being a sissy. I also learned that I knew how to listen to other people, an ability which many have remarked about during the past 50 or so years.

I couldn't make any of the athletic teams, but I wanted to be where the action was. The best second choice was to be on the rally squad. In my junior year, following the basketball team to Klamath Fall as a member of the rally squad, two others and I got as close to the city jail as inside the front door after we got caught purchasing beer from a downtown tavern (Tats). I was 16. The incident scared me so badly that I could never have risked further crimes, no matter how minor they might have been. Besides, good boys don't do that kind of thing.

I received a $37.50 per term tuition scholarship to Oregon State College, where I enrolled in 1950. I was there for five years, and when I left I was Norm, not Norman. My years there changed me. Not only did I leave Oregon State with a focus on being a teacher, but I also felt that I had begun to join the human race by seeing that there might be a place for me. Friendships from that time have survived, and I will probably always have Beaver Fever. I had six majors and surprised my professors in the School of Education by doing well in my student teaching activities. I think they thought I was too uncertain or shy to be effective. I was on the Oregon State rally squad for one year and took part as well in a multitude of fraternity (Theta Chi) activities and roles. I had several romances and fell in love too easily.

I learned when I student taught that there is a professional self that each of us has, and I learned how and when to embrace that self. Even today, if I am down or tired before I teach a class (and that is less frequent than it was for the past two decades), I self-consciously adopt that professional self as I enter the classroom. My heart may be breaking or I may be experiencing anxiety or stress, but the other self comes out anyway. That is the obligation I have felt for students; maybe it is a way of paying back to my students what I know I received from my teachers in the past--all of them.

My years at Oregon State ended in 1955. Within a few months, and after squeezing in a summer as a builder on English Peak in northern California and an incredible trip to Mexico, I ended up in the U.S. Army at Ford Ord, California. Not long after I got there, screen star James Dean was killed in nearby Salinas. I grieved his death for days. I was selected for assignment to the Counter Intelligence Corps and went to Baltimore for training in early 1956. Even with such an honor having been bestowed upon me, I hated the military and still do. There has got to be a better way of solving problems. I remember running up a hill with my bayonet extended off the barrel of my M1 rifle, yelling "Kill, kill, kill!" At least, that is what I was supposed to be yelling. I think I was probably yelling to myself how much I hated violence and killing. If I had been stronger, I would have been a conscientious objector.

Spy training was absurd. None of us in my company learned anything about being an agent of counter-intelligence. We laughed at our training events, especially when we were taught, in downtown Baltimore, how to participate in surveillance activities. Luckily, I was assigned first to a personnel office and then to a mail room after arriving at the 66th CIC headquarters near Stuttgart, Germany. I would have been a pathetic spy.

The CIC headquarters company was rebellious. We all hated the U.S. Army. One time, we organized a demonstration to support the Naval Academy's football team when we were ordered to root for the Army team just before the 1956 Army- Navy game. For doing so, we lost our post bar. To this day, I remember the soggy paper mache anchor that dropped from its rope when we were being berated for our mischief the next morning. We also ignored all orders not to eat in German restaurants, when our company Captain (Tarbutton) told us that we would be poisoned if we ate the local food. He was one of my first contacts with xenophobia and paranoia and the cause of many empty chairs each night in the company mess hall.

But being in Germany was even more life-changing than being at Oregon State. I loved that country, even though hearing "Achtung!" in a railroad station sent shivers down my spine. One of my childhood nightmares was being machine gunned by Nazi airplanes as I tried to hide out in a ditch alongside a country road. I met a fine German family who all but adopted me. We have remained close since we met in 1956. I froze when the newborn Uwe was baptized in an unheated Lutheran church in December and laughed until I was giddy when we were all together and getting acquainted. The matriarch, Ida Bihlmaier, was the first truly internationalist I had ever met. She believed so strongly in the wholeness of our small planet that she later sent her son Richard to live with me in Eugene, where we were both students at the University of Oregon. She would have gotten along famously with Gus. The patriarch, Erwin, had his own reasons for being suspicious of me, an American, and it took him nearly 30 years to accept me. Richard's sister, Doris, and her husband, Robby, were an important part of the German connection, too, and still are. Richard's daughter, Britta, spent nearly two years at Portland State a few years ago, following in her father's footsteps.

I saved up my Army leaves and traveled great distances when I could, to see Europe and to get away from the military. I got to see France, Austria, Italy, Spain, the Netherlands, and Belgium. But I also visited many villages and cities in what was then known as West Germany. My favorite place was the Paul Greiner beer garden in Killesberg Park in Stuttgart. The park had been designed before World War II, and I still think it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. I have four glass beer steins that I stole from the beer garden. My favorite beer was Dinkelacker. I can buy it in Portland now. I think that is amazing.

In 1957, I returned to the United States and taught high school chemistry and biology in a small town, Eagle Point, in southern Oregon. I had a good experience but was frustrated at the administration of the school and the lack of educational interests on the part of some of the faculty. In silent protest, I left that high school and went to the University of Oregon (in Eugene) to pursue a masters degree in literature. It was there that Richard and I were fellow students, and the mixing of our two cultures proved to be both exciting and sometimes difficult for each of us. The friendship that evolved from that time has endured.

It was 1958, and I was broke shortly after I got to the University. Needing a job, I responded to an ad for a position as houseparent in the Lane County Juvenile Department. Because of my teaching experience, I was hired. Within a week I knew that I had found another profession for myself, and I shifted focus at the University and began to study to become a counselor. I was at the Juvenile Department four years, during which I obtained a masters degree in counseling and had an exciting if volatile time as houseparent and then juvenile counselor. After one year in the detention facility I was able to move into the counseling section of the department and was one of the nine juvenile probation officers (the entire staff) who resigned because of working conditions. We were called the "naughty nine" in the local newspaper. In 1962, I headed for the University of Washington to obtain a masters degree in social work.

I have viewed myself as a social worker since the early days as a houseparent in Eugene. Partly because I needed to be helped myself, and partly because of the sense of worth I found in trying to help others, social work fit me like a warm glove. I loved doing the work, and I loved learning how to be one. Once again, I was a good boy and a good student. My teachers liked me and I liked them in return. One teacher, Henry Maier, taught me as much about social work with groups as my former colleague in Eugene, Edna Betzsold, had already taught me about social casework. You see, my teachers were always instrumental in my learning and in my developing a better sense of self worth. I needed them. Over the years, I have remembered what they taught and have tried to live up to their expectations. Interestingly, however, at the University of Washington, I specialized in group work instead of casework and later, at Columbia University, I specialized in policy and community organization rather than clinical social work. These two decisions placed me in the minority ranks of the profession forever. To some, I am not a legitimate social worker because of my affiliation with the less-popular modes of practice and with low-income people.

My studies were completed in June 1964, when I received my M.S.W. During those two years in Seattle, I also met and romanced Dianne Powers, a juvenile probation counselor for the state of Washington. We met by accident but very soon began spending much of our time together. We got married in Spokane, Washington, on December 24, 1964. A major flood blocked the highways into Spokane the days before, and only a few persons were able to be present. The ceremony took place in Dianne's mother's living room. None of my family or friends could be there. But it was a nice wedding, and we followed the highways east of the mountains, which were by now blocked by heavy snows, to slowly wind our way to Ensenada, Mexico on our honeymoon. On our way north, we took in the Rose Bowl game of 1965, in which Oregon State played. Do not read that as "won."

Back in Seattle, Dianne continued her studies in the University of Washington School of Social Work. I struggled in my employment in the King County Public Welfare Department. It was a good first year: school for Dianne, work for me, and marriage for both of us. Like so many before us, we thought that life would always be good. Before long, however, it became clear that my group worker colleague Phyllis and I were unwanted in the welfare agency. We both resigned after one year's employment. I am not totally clear why we departed so abruptly, but we both chose flight over fight.

It appeared that Lady Fortune had intervened when I learned that a former professor of mine was developing a residential treatment program for delinquents in Marin County, California. I was offered a position in that program, and I accepted it. Dianne and I took off for a summer journey (1965) around the perimeters of the United States and then moved to Fairfax, California. I went to work in the Family Rehabilitation Center, Dianne in the Marin County Probation Department. Life seemed good again. My cousin Lynn visited us there. She was 18. We took her to the Top of the Mark (Hopkins), where she was served alcoholic drinks. That is something I only recently told her mother, Mildred. I was forgiven, but I carried that secret with me for many years.

Dutch died suddenly in late December, only months after we had moved to Marin County. He was the first of the children born to Marshall and Mamie to die. His heart gave out after too many years of hard work, illness, and alcohol. He was buried in a small cemetery in Ashland. Neither Karen nor I visited his grave again until 30 years after he died. I think we both wanted solace and some reprieve from our memories, as different as they were. It was Mildred, his sister, who had the grave marker made and put in place.

Jino was incapacitated, as much by not knowing what her next steps would be as by Dutch's death. She had never worked outside her home, except for the years in the family restaurant. Dianne and I moved to Ashland to help her get stabilized and figure out how she was going to provide for herself. For me, it was easier to do that than it was to worry about her from a distance. I was also miserable in my FRC job and happy to leave it. I am not certain what Dianne's true feelings were about having to give up a good life in California and move into my mother's home to help care for her. But she was a good sport.

Jino received training in a local business college and found work in the Jackson County Community Action Agency, where she worked until she died. She loved it, and those she worked with loved her. Her years after Dutch died were basically good ones. She eventually moved into a mobile home in Phoenix, Oregon, and provided a home for Gus, whose second wife had died. She also grew close to Mildred, who lived two doors down.

Dianne and I bought an old Victorian house in Ashland a few months after our return. I had found work with the Jackson County Intermediate Education District and Dianne with the Jackson County Child Welfare Department, as the child welfare supervisor. Not too many months after moving into the Victorian house, Peter was born. That was March 13, 1967. He was a charmer from the time he was born, although he waited 28 extra days to get that feat accomplished. We fixed up the house, painting its many rooms with bold colors and even stripping down all of the old woodwork. The kitchen was black and orange.

For about a year, we had a foster son named Paul Melvin Vickland. We helped him get reunited with his father. He came back to us several years later and asked if he could re-join the family. It was hard to say no to him, but we did.

It did not work out terribly well for Dianne and me, living so close to Jino. Her needs were sometimes excessive, and I felt that we had paid our dues. We decided to look for another place to be. I turned down job offers to do field instruction at the University of Washington School of Social Work and to do casework at the Oregon State Prison but accepted the position of social services coordinator at Sacred Heart Hospital in Eugene. After I took the job, we went to Eugene to look for a house, expecting that it might take several weeks to find what we wanted. We bought a house that day, however. We must have had the ability to make quick decisions then.

Abby was born on June 19, 1969. She was as docile as Peter had been boisterous, but she was also perfect as far as we were concerned. She cried very little and was patient, whereas Peter had cried constantly and was impatient about everything. Peter is now patient; it is Abby who is not.

We had made good friends with the director of the Community Action Agency in Medford; his name was Dick Engstrom. His friendship continued after we moved to Eugene. It has continued ever since.

It was exciting to be a father. It still is. Peter and Abby changed my life, totally, all for the better. Outwardly, they have become my friends, but inside my gut they will always in part be who they were when they were small: my kids.

Life changed again in 1970, when I entered the doctoral program at Columbia University School of Social Work in New York City. It was a tough but rewarding experience. I left direct practice behind and studied the social policy, community organization, and planning aspects of social work. I was so shocked to learn in an early class that many poor and immiserated people did not utilize programs for which they were eligible that I later did my doctoral research on that issue. Not many citizens care anymore that millions of people go without benefits or services. We seem to be concerned now that anyone uses services at all. In fact, our country is now "reforming" public welfare, which translated means that we are returning to Draconian policies that surfaced in Elizabethan England and that we thought were put to bed once and forever in 1935 with the advent of the Social Security Act. There are many who would like to abolish Social Security as well. I am not one of them.

New York City was a total experience. We hated it the first year we were there, mostly because we were frightened by it. The second year we made a decision to explore it. What a difference a year made. When it was time to return to Oregon, I wanted to stay in New York City. I had been offered a teaching position at the Rutgers University School of Social Work, where I had been a part-time instructor. Dianne did not think that raising two small children in New York City was a good idea. She was right, and we returned to Ashland, where I had been offered a teaching position at Southern Oregon College. I have wondered during the years how my life would be different had we stayed in the east. I am glad that we didn't.

Ashland was too small and too Caucasian after the Big Apple. Jino was there, too. More importantly, though, I wanted to teach in a school of social work, and the only game in town was in Portland. I remember standing on the side of Highway 101 along the Oregon coast, talking on a pay telephone with Gordon Hearn, who was dean at the Portland State University School of Social Work, about an interview. He granted me one, and within the month I was offered a one-year, fixed-term appointment at the School. That was September, 1974. I was there as a full-time faculty member (eventually with tenure) until June, 1996.

I can't remember all of the students or all of the other people who made my 21 years at the School so important to me. When I retired in June, however, and as many as 300 people came to pay their respects, I knew that I had made a difference. I tended to break rules and get closer to students than most other faculty thought was appropriate. At the same time, I was demanding of students and expected a great deal from them. Most students worked hard in my classes and let me know in multiple ways that they appreciated the high standards I tried to set. I served as Assistant Dean, as the first Director of the Masters Degree Program, as Coordinator of the Undergraduate Degree Program, and as the first Director of the Statewide MSW Program. In 1990, I was chosen Social Worker of the Year by the Oregon Chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. In 1996, I was given the George Hoffmann Award, an annual recognition made by the University for faculty excellence. I was also invited on five separate occasions by the social work students themselves to give the commencement address at the School of Social Work graduations. I will also remember, with great appreciation, giving those addresses. It is strange to note, though, that I never felt that I was a real part of the School. I don't think I valued academia in the same way that many do. I think that comes from my early years in a pro-union family and subsequent years working in public agencies that did not bestow privilege if it was not earned. It also has to do with what one scholar has referred to as the "hidden injury of social class."

My accomplishments at the School of Social Work helped to compensate for the turmoil I experienced in my private life. Within a short time after our arrival in Portland, issues between Dianne and me surfaced again. We had a couple of trial separations before I moved out. I eventually bought another house but moved back into Dianne's house to help her with child care when she returned to school to obtain her MSW. I stayed there until 1979, when I bought another house a short distance from Dianne's house. Our separations and eventual divorce were painful for both of us, and we had a difficult time talking about how to set up two separate lives. When I moved into my new house, Peter lived with me, Abby with Dianne. As I remember it, Peter stayed with me for about three years. He then moved back to Dianne's house at his own initiative. That was a major loss for me, although I don't think anybody knew how great.

Dick moved in with me before Peter went back to his mother's. We stayed together for several years, although the quality of our relationship seemed to deteriorate over time. Our individual struggles didn't always coincide. The ending of our relationship was also a major loss for me.

In retrospect, I lost or experienced changes in all of my key relationships within the matter of a few years. My reaction to those losses must account for some of my inability to find a place to settle into and my lack of clarity on how to live during the past decade. In that time, I have owned four houses, lived briefly at Dianne's on two occasions, and moved in and out of at least two apartments. I tend to perceive this frequent moving as instability, but a deeper reason must be my trying to learn how to be appropriately independent and at the same time to establish a home for and by myself. My tendency to be harsh with myself has been with me since I can remember. It has been a challenge to be respectful of myself. I sometimes smile when I play with the thoughts that the last 20 years of my life provide more than enough drama for a movie starring a male Bette Davis.

I have struggled as well with the notion of retirement. I became aware about a decade ago that my role as professor at the School of Social Work did not offer the same excitement and satisfaction that it had earlier. I was not tired of teaching, but I had grown weary of being a teacher. Even more, I had tired of conducting research and writing about it. I had also begun to disdain faculty politics and the nature of some of the relationships which I had had with other members of the faculty. I was and am also deeply disappointed about most of the changes that have occurred in social work, many of which have been thrust upon us by the conservative dogma and political decisions of the 1980s and 1990s. I searched for an honorable way out of my doldrums and finally retired from Portland State University, effective June 30, 1996 (eight years ago). Since then, I have taught several more classes during the 1996-2004 academic years, and I was also employed on a part- time, short-term basis to head up the Graduate Education Department of the Child Welfare Partnership. Once a few additional obligations have been met, I will sever all formal connections with the School of Social Work, where I received emeritus status when I retired.

I am 72 years old now, at a stage of life when it becomes increasingly important to assess debits and credits, to think about what is gone and about what is still to come. I feel 35 and do not see myself as old, however, which is a bit of a problem. My body has its aches and pains, but my brain is clear and my senses and emotions are very much alive. I am ready for the next steps, even though I am not certain what they will be.

What have I learned along the way? I have learned that living is hard but exciting, that human relationships take time, that compromise about who we are and what gives meaning to our existence is not possible, that laughing is so basic that we forget to do it most of the time, and that love regenerates us. Hate and violence destroy the potential decency of life. I have also learned that I have the capacity to forgive others for their transgressions but that forgiving myself is next to impossible. I have always wanted to be a good boy, but good boys are not supposed to make mistakes.  I have made my share of them, however.

I am discovering that the adventure of living is more important than the need to be virtuous. As I recounted earlier, Gus told me many years ago to shake the dust of Ashland off my boots and get out into the world. Thanks, gramps! You, too, Judy. You see, I finally figured out that you weren't really born in that stage trunk. 

Norm Wyers, 2002

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July 5, 2004