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serenity's interactive journal

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serenity blaze
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450 posted 04-09-2004 01:59 AM       View Profile for serenity blaze   Email serenity blaze   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for serenity blaze

Ethel?

Hugs are gladly given, but?

tsk...

the boy prefers food.

Sheesh.

It's like watching Wild Kingdom sometimes.



serenity blaze
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451 posted 04-09-2004 03:29 AM       View Profile for serenity blaze   Email serenity blaze   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for serenity blaze

*poof*

Damn.

I couldn't do it.

Actually though, on a technicality?

I did write the moment and post it.

I just couldn't leave it there....

But I suppose I just lost a bet.

grin.

So sue me.

I'm never gonna feel right about patting myself on the back.

Everytime I try I get a pinched nerve.  


[This message has been edited by serenity blaze (04-09-2004 04:48 AM).]

Sunshine
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452 posted 04-09-2004 06:31 AM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine

Well, poop.  You know Ihave to get a little sleep because they won't let me utilize my desk at work for that purpose, don't'cha?

So I missed the moment.

Ah...but you left it up for almost an HOUR!  I'm so danged PROUD of you!!!!

[Ah, were YOU my imaginary sister that always liked to hide when the folks came in to the room?  I SWEAR that in so many ways, I was raised so much like you... ]
Nightshade
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453 posted 04-09-2004 08:47 AM       View Profile for Nightshade   Email Nightshade   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Nightshade's Home Page   View IP for Nightshade

Ya know, I often wondered why my folks would sort of "push" me to try new things....even volunteer me for things that I had no idea of till the last moment. Then it was too late to quit. Hmmm...and afterwards, if I did well at this something, I wasn't to talk too much about it....don't be a bragart.
  It was almost like, they could be proud of me....but I wasn't to be proud of myself. Don't get me wrong, I loved my folks and miss them terribly, but seems I didn't have a voice till they were both gone. And then my own voice frightened me. Complicated this growing up can be in middle-age. Hugs!
serenity blaze
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454 posted 04-09-2004 11:44 AM       View Profile for serenity blaze   Email serenity blaze   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for serenity blaze

"Complicated this growing up can be in middle-age."

grin.

Not as complicated as trying to do it in your teens. Or your twenties. Or your thirties. LMAO...

OH BOY! *smackin' my head*



And then finally? When you finally get it right?

giggle...well as my Dad said, old age wasn't bad on the days he felt well. He could act like a kid again and nobody cared. They just figgered he was senile.
Ron
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455 posted 04-09-2004 12:01 PM       View Profile for Ron   Email Ron   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Ron's Home Page   View IP for Ron

Personal responsibility is important. Even, I think, paramount.

Accomplishments as mere gifts is an abrogation of responsibility because, after all, we can't be responsible for what someone chooses to give us. The trouble with that is that responsibility isn't an action you can choose to exercise here but not there. Responsibility is a state of being. You are female or you aren't female, you are healthy or you aren't healthy, you are responsible or you aren't responsible. States of being. We don't get to pick and choose. Accomplishment and failure, after all, are just different sides of the same exact coin. We have to accept responsibility for the coin, not just one side of it.
Sunshine
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456 posted 04-09-2004 12:13 PM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine

So that means...
Serenity should post her
achievements...

It's good to know you're reading us, Ron.  Thanks for speaking up!
Nightshade
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457 posted 04-09-2004 01:04 PM       View Profile for Nightshade   Email Nightshade   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Nightshade's Home Page   View IP for Nightshade

But, if you are told to keep quiet, and you live just to please and be a caretaker....it takes alot of hard work to become "responsible" for one's self. Don't ya think Ron?  I mean if childhood through teens and beyond is almost a type of brain washing, how can one easily accept the idea that everything we say, do, or think is totally up to us and us alone?
  If you are raised with a sense of inner-peace and a feeling of being "just a kid" with no undo outside pressures, the concept of the two-sided coin is simply.....life. Normal life that is. Am I making sense?
  I just know that it wasn't till maybe two years ago, that I finally found my voice. That was after it had almost been silenced. I am so glad you joined in Ron. Write some more!  
Ron
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458 posted 04-09-2004 01:36 PM       View Profile for Ron   Email Ron   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Ron's Home Page   View IP for Ron

I don't want to hijack the thread, but yes, the way you are raised is obviously a part of who you are today. The real question is whether it is responsible for the way you are today. Whether you follow the past or deviate from the past is still a choice. Most make that choice unconsciously, without thought or consideration, but it remains nonetheless a choice. What often makes it tough is that's it's really a whole lot of little choices, made every day, every hour, even every breath.

I think allowing your upbringing to dictate your life is like walking downhill. It's easy. When you choose to deviate from your past you can plan on spending the rest of your life walking up the hill. Initially, the incline is incredibly steep and hard. After a few years or decades it becomes less so. I don't think it ever becomes level again. The way we were raised is THAT important. But the direction we choose is still a choice.

The amazing thing, I think, is that we can often cover much more distance walking up the hill than we ever could have walking down it.
Cpat Hair
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459 posted 04-09-2004 02:44 PM       View Profile for Cpat Hair   Email Cpat Hair   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for Cpat Hair

Ron,
I'd say the way we were raised is responsible for the basis of many choices we make. We may always choose to deviate from the basis of our early belief systems or how we were raised, but must not forget that it often takes new skill sets to be able to even view those choices available to us.

Your analogy of walking downhill is apt. If we make the assumption that to deviate from the patterns of behavior we are taught early in life, we must learn new skill sets for decision making, then that uphill walk you describe comes only through also expanding our knowledge base. So... we must not only educate ourselves on how to see past our earliest learned behaviors and or circumstances, but we must also then know how to put the knowledge into practice.

my point???
  More opinion than point I suppose, but it would seem little in our society truly productively teaches people how to step outside of their own beginnings and it is little wonder to me that we see common thread of our past lives being thought of as 'responsible" for out present actions.
Sunshine
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460 posted 04-09-2004 02:55 PM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine

Until a person can step outside of their life and take an objective look at all that has created them thus far, as Cpat points out, not much can be done to change that slide downhill...

Yes, Ron C, it takes a great deal of effort to go uphill.  The scenery is great from the mountaintop...or so I hear.  I am still climbing...

I am certainly glad the men are reading...thank you.  Insight from all parties is extremely welcome by me, and I am sure I can speak for the others, but something tells me I won't have to, they'll be in soon enough, themselves.
Nightshade
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461 posted 04-09-2004 02:57 PM       View Profile for Nightshade   Email Nightshade   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Nightshade's Home Page   View IP for Nightshade

I think as long as we have the ability to pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off...we can stand upright and face the world in the way "we want" to. Sure, for some of us it means stumbling along the way, but we can retrain the sub-conscious to know the difference between "acting" and "actuality." Right?
So....actually...lol....Karen...you should delight us with another post.
garysgirl
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462 posted 04-10-2004 01:53 AM       View Profile for garysgirl   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit garysgirl's Home Page   View IP for garysgirl

It's good to see some of the guys joining in. We welcome you.


How are we supposed to handle being pushed all our lives....of being made to think that we aren't living up to our own capabilities? No matter what we might accomplish, it's never quite good enough for some of the people around us?

My Dad has done me that way since I can remember. Not only my Dad, but other people as well. When someone treats you this way, it makes all the times you stumble and fall seem that much worse. Sometimes it makes you wonder what is the use to even get up and try again?

It seems that after years of living and trying to please other people, without ever quite doing so, that a person could just say to heck with it and try to please themselves. Don't you think?
serenity blaze
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463 posted 04-10-2004 05:10 AM       View Profile for serenity blaze   Email serenity blaze   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for serenity blaze

I'm still unsure of how appropriate this might be--but yes, I figured it would be lacking without....

shaking my head.

sigh.

Here is my "deleted" post--as it were:

*  *  *

Okay.

sigh. I'm just going to type these to keys if you please, and forgive me folks?

(Sure you will..)

*wince*

woncha?

But anyhoo...

Let's get this over with.  

The first story that came to mind was a time I spent in the Emergency Waiting Room, of what is now University Hospital in New Orleans. My sister was undergoing surgery there, (she had a touch of cancer--and yep, that's how she describes it to this day--see? a bunch of stoics) and they were removing a tumor along with much of her womb that day as they performed a radical hysterectomy.

We were in a glass cubicle type sitting area.

(Yes. Nodding. We all know the kind.)

It was smaller than the usual hospital hospitality areas, and the seats were hard formed plastic, and trust me, after a few hours, I was more than squirming.

This was going to be a long wait and we came prepared. We'd packed my mother quite a lunch--she is diabetic and was also recently recovering from a heart attack. So we came armed with "plenties" to keep her happy, knowing the snack machine would be useless for her. We had brought things to read, and we came, stocked and ready to settle down for a few hours during my sister's surgery.

I couldn't read.

My mother, though, she can focus, dammit. And she sat there, and became engrossed in her novel--the clothespin that she uses as a bookmark moved closer to the last page with the passing of minutes into hours.

My father pretended to read, but I suspected he was watching me, just as I was watching him--watching the people sitting there draped within their private dramas.

We hadn't discussed it beforehand, but we alternated "smoke" breaks. He would go "take a walk"--and when he returned, I would then go off. We would smile in complicity, as if nobody noticed the cloud of nicotine that engulfed us. (Have you ever noticed how much cigarettes actually stink in a sterile environment?)

It was during one of his "bathroom breaks" that I began watching one particular couple.

She was a large woman, and the folds of her spilled over the formed chair, as she sat there, with her hands folded across her swollen belly. Her eyes were slits, half open aware, and I was sitting near enough to her to smell her gas eruptions, which were frequent, but gratefully silent.

I peered over one of my mother's "Star" magazines and observed.

She had worn a "houseduster" dress there, and slip on shoes, and her stockings were pale beige, showing her unshaved legs in curls.

The hair coiled under pressure.

Next to her was a thin man, and the bags beneath his eyes lifted up when we caught eyes--he smiled at me and I smiled back, but my mother frowned at me, so I returned my eyes to my magazine.

There was a talk show droning on the television that was positioned in the corner of the room and the woman began complaining to the thin man, who was apparently her husband.

She didn't have a pleasant voice, and her demeanor was abrasive as well.

Everything that came from her mouth, was an ooze of dark tar, and his response was always a steady, comforting,

"Yes sweetie."

or

"I'm sorry love."

My mother beamed and almost winked at me at me over her book.

(She loved him/hated her.)

I nodded slight and continued my pretense of reading too.

But then the woman became more and more barbed in her remarks to the man, and I could see my mom giving up the focus of her own reading agenda--this woman was pissing her off.

(This woman was unpleasant.)

So my mom ate her glad-bagged healthy snacks, and I think my father got alarmed at her agitation, because his inquiries at the desk regarding my sister became more frequent.

My mom then slid the brown bag of fruit over to me, saying "eat"--there was still a tuna salad and one of her prized apples, and a pear too! in the bag. I was hungry, but I couldn't eat.

Y'see?

I could hear the woman's stomach growling long before she complained of hunger. The thin man went off in search of food and came back, offering chips and soda.

Not good enough.

That woman tore into him, calling him names I can't repeat here, and his only answer was a question:

"Did you take your medication sweetheart?"

And she closed her eyes and replied, "I can't take it without food."

I wanted so much to hand her that bag, but my mother did not like that woman and I promise you, I didn't dare cross my mom.

I sat there quiet--staring at the floor then.

Then?

Grace!

We got news of my sister!

The surgery was a success, and she was now in "recovery". We could see her...in a couple of hours.

Oh.

My mom was ready to go.

"We'll be back." my father assured me.

Right now? We had to get my mom home.

She wasn't looking so good.

*   *   *

We left the cubicle then, as we bid relieved goodbyes to others there, still waiting.

As soon as we were out of earshot--my mother began railing on the woman.

She really was a bitch.

I nodded.

"But mom?" I said, "You have no idea if that woman was in pain sitting there or what--she could have been on medication..."

"There's no excuse for treating someone the way she did her husband..."

My mother was adamant.

"Well," I was being brave, "I remember when you were hungry in the hospital, and you weren't so sweet then either."

"And?" My father interjected. "She was too on medication."

My mom grumbled.

"Mom? Can I go back and give her your lunch?"

What???

"I paid a dollar for that apple and she doesn't deserve it."

oh.

"But didn't you give it to me?"

My dad was smiling now.

"If you gave it to me, then it's my lunch now. Can't I give her my lunch?"

Now he was covering a laugh.

It wasn't two steps later she said, "Oh for chrissakes, go ahead, but I wouldn't do it."

I ran back to the waiting room while my parents continued walking to the car.

I walked in the waiting room and I told her, "Ma'am? I couldn't help but overhear that you are hungry, would you like this? There is fruit, and the salad is untouched."

And there was a moment when I saw the edge leave her eyes, and her chubby hand touched mine gratefully.

"Thank you, dawlin'." Her husband looked at me relieved. "I'm not myself today..."

I nodded.

Then I had to double-time it to catch up with my parents because my mom didn't wait for me as I did this.

(She would still grumble about that woman today, methinks.)

*   *   *

She looked at my empty hands, appalled.

"You gave her the whole thing?"

um, yeah?

*wince*

"You gave her my good "tupperware" too!" My mother shook her head.

But my dad reached behind my mom's back to pinch my shoulder.

I looked up and he winked at me.

*   *   *

He was proud of me.

And why?

Because I did what-I'm-supposed-to-do?

No...

because that particular day, I did what didn't have to be done. Anyway.

*   *   *

Now that ain't something that deserves applause--it was a little thing to do--but when I was asked to think of a time when I was proud of myself, that was the first thing that came to mind.

It wasn't grades. It wasn't awards. It wasn't winning the lottery.

A simple act of humanity that oughtta be a given, but when I think about it now, I'm so glad I ran back. Had I not?

I'd have a very different memory.

I'd think even less of me than I do now.

*shaking my head*

"such a simple thing..."
But there ya go...


muted
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464 posted 04-10-2004 07:04 AM       View Profile for muted   Email muted   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for muted

that "small" deed would have sent ripples, an ever widening effect in your life and the life of others....that is what compassion consists of..thank you for for telling the story..and thank you for allowing us to read it.
Sunshine
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465 posted 04-10-2004 07:15 AM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine

You motioned a ripple, Serenity.  It is quiet, innocuous moments such as that, when a tree's limb is bent yet another way, and becomes a beauty...

and it is moments like that a young person should have around to read, in order to learn....

Nightshade
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466 posted 04-10-2004 01:46 PM       View Profile for Nightshade   Email Nightshade   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Nightshade's Home Page   View IP for Nightshade

Karen, what a sweet story that is.
I am so glad that you took the lady the last of your Mom's lunch. It is simple, random acts of kindness such as this, that makes your own inner child giggle and dance a little jig. Hugging you!!
serenity blaze
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467 posted 04-10-2004 05:01 PM       View Profile for serenity blaze   Email serenity blaze   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for serenity blaze

I'm laughing here, but I'm also wondering why I was so "spazzed" about posting that.

I am very transparent too, and easily manipulated. Sheesh.

I can (and prolly will) do damned near anything if some one dares me. (There's more stories in that, too.   )

But I guess my friend's point was to get me to admit that I actually liked something about myself.

It was harder than I thought it would be and it gave me alot to think about too.

It made me realize how negative I am toward myself, and yes, how very damaging that has been. So I chose that story because the thing that I do like about myself is my compassion.

I will give anybody a break--anybody--but me.

Tsk.

*shaking my head*

So thanks to "Deep Poet" for the challenge and food for thought.

And thank you all for putting up with my insanity. (<--see? There it is again...)



Stories, anyone?

My head hurts now.  

Oh. And special thanks to the "Rons"--ya'll helped me to sort a few things out, and the both of you have my total respect. And affection of course.

*smooch*

[This message has been edited by serenity blaze (04-10-2004 05:32 PM).]

vlraynes
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468 posted 04-11-2004 05:02 AM       View Profile for vlraynes   Email vlraynes   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit vlraynes's Home Page   View IP for vlraynes


It's Easter...

and I'm feeling the need to share something... but I don't know why... or what...

I don't have a story in mind... I don't really have much of anything specific in mind at the moment... or perhaps, to the contrary... I have too much on my mind...

It's been a reflective night... a 'thoughtful' one, if you will... and sometimes, I do tend to think too much... and I become my own worst enemy...

So, I guess I just needed to come to a 'safe' place... and this thread is one of the safest places I know... Friends live here...

And I don't seem to have the words for anything else... so please forgive me for my vagueness...

Happy Easter... I love you guys...
Sunshine
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469 posted 04-11-2004 08:30 AM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine

Vicky, sometimes all we need is to know we're reaching out and touching someone.  Reflection is good...action, better.  You will know when it comes time, what you have to do, m'friend.

And you are right.  As many threads as I have visited in my brief time at Passions, this has become my most favorite....

For several POETic reasons...
Enchantress
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470 posted 04-11-2004 09:14 AM       View Profile for Enchantress   Email Enchantress   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems  View IP for Enchantress

Vicky you don't have to really say anything..
Sometimes I come here just to sit and read, remember, and just think.

Happy Easter everyone!
vlraynes
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471 posted 04-11-2004 11:17 AM       View Profile for vlraynes   Email vlraynes   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit vlraynes's Home Page   View IP for vlraynes


Karilea and Nancy Lee?...

Thank you...

And, Karen?... thank you for re-posting that last story.  I had missed it the first time... and I couldn't help but smile at you while I was reading it... for multiple reasons... smile

Love you, lady...
Sunshine
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472 posted 04-11-2004 11:23 AM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine


Easter morning

It seems I haven’t shared this one yet.  I thought I had.

It was in Los Angeles, Easter, 1956.  The promise of the day held much, especially one happy four year old that was looking forward to her new Easter dress, her shiny patent leather shoes, her new hat, small gloves, a little white purse in which she would put a little handkerchief that would hold her quarter to give to the man with the silver plate when she went to church later that day.

Can you see her dancing?  It is a beautiful morning, the sun is shining, and her daddy had just prepared the thin pancakes she loved so much.  Her brother was being tended by her mother, so she had her father all to herself.  The Los Angeles Sunday morning was a bit chilly, as happens now and then in that valley, but the little pink stucco house was cozy and warm with the smell of maple syrup in the air.

At her father’s urging, he swung her up from the table and told her to “run quick, wash your face and hands, and put on your pretty Easter dress.”

In her excitement, she was skipping backwards from the kitchen and into the living room, saying,

“Watch me daddy!” and she skipped backwards into the hallway, and directly onto the floor register, which was hot from the morning’s furnace air.  Always careful to skirt around the hot iron, as she was going backwards she had not even thought [not at four years of age] of the danger behind her.

“Honey, stop!”

But the words did not come quick enough, and her little feet landed smack dab on top of the hot iron grill.  The scream that followed brought her mother out of the bedroom, as her father scooped her up.

“Get a cold cloth, hurry!”

“Daddy, it hurts!”

“Honey, I know.  Shhh….”

The ministrations began, and the pain intensified, both on the soles of her feet, as well as the painful thought that her own carelessness would mean she could not go to church this morning, and hear, once again, about Jesus.  For a moment, that inner pain seemed greater than her outward pain.

Her mother left to tend again once more to her brother, for her father had her safe in his arms, there on the couch, as he tended to her feet, and tried to soothe her cries.

Her little voice whispered, with tears,

“I won’t get to hear about Jesus saving us today.”

“You’re right, honey, you won’t be going to church today.  You will stay home with me.”

“Have mama take my quarter, please.”

A small clock on the wall filled in the quiet with its tock, tic, tock, tic.  She waited for the cuckoo to come and laugh at her, and call her cuckoo for being careless.

A light salve was carefully applied to the bottom of her feet by her father’s large, gentle hands.  

Then, he went and took an aspirin, cut it in half, and gave her a small glass of orange juice to help swallow down the dry pill.

She no longer sobbed, but the tears continued to fall.

“May I tell you the story of Jesus?”

“Yes, please.”

So in the presence of a Sunday morning sun, one tall, quiet man, and even through the pain that had resulted from an outpouring of joy, a little girl was lifted once more by the story of ever-lasting love.
Nightshade
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473 posted 04-11-2004 03:28 PM       View Profile for Nightshade   Email Nightshade   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Nightshade's Home Page   View IP for Nightshade

As I wait for my daughter, her husband and my two precious and comical grandsons aged 4 and 2 to arrive for Easter dinner, I am so glad that I took a few minutes to myself to come to this forum and read. A sweet memory you have gifted us with Karilea. Mommy and Daddy could always make things better.
  *sigh*

Well, I am off to check on the turkey and ham. Plus...maybe one more item could popped into the boys Easter bag.    The Easter Bunny is smilin' extra wide this year.
Hugs all !!
Sunshine
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Member Caelestus
since 06-25-99
Posts 67715
Listening to every heart


474 posted 04-11-2004 03:46 PM       View Profile for Sunshine   Email Sunshine   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to visit Sunshine's Home Page   View IP for Sunshine

Easter Hugs From Our Little Corner
of the World To Yours...



Christopher, Michael, Sunshine, Miss Emily
 
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