Contact Me

Any time - drop me an email
miriamhendeles@gmail.com
1-323-243-7116

Contact Me

Any time - drop me an email
miriamhendeles@gmail.com
1-323-243-7116

[breadcrumbs]

Farewell to Challah: An Open Letter

Dear Challah,

After many weeks of deliberating on my relationship with you, I’ve decided to say good-bye to you. I am putting this letter on a public forum in the hopes that others may also gain insight in what works for them.  I think it’s crucial that I finally address our co-dependent relationship. Hopefully, this will be the first step toward my recovery.

First, let me say that I appreciate all you have done for me over the years. Every Friday night at our Shabbat table, since my childhood, you’ve provided me with comfort, warmth and excellent taste. As my father would make the blessing on the bread with our entire family around the table, then cut you into even slices, and pass around a piece to each one of us, I’d wait with my mouth watering and eyes glazed with love.

Then, invariably, after everyone took their first bite, the compliments would flow. First my father would praise my mother for baking you so perfectly. My mother would smile and shrug, and kind of humbly say, “Oh it’s the new oven” or “It’s my friend’s recipe.” But we knew she was just being modest. You were great. Maybe she brought out the best in you, but still you were great and we all knew it.

Truth is, you were special and you excelled on your own, without anyone to help you out.  Your recipe was quite simple and accessible that when my mother bought me as a wedding gift a Kitchen Aid mixer, I learned quickly how to bake you almost as well as my mother.  Yea, I compared myself to my mother when around you, which was also a problem. But still, I felt good baking you so well and of course you were yummy to eat.

Your ingredients were so basic and earthly: flour, oil, eggs, salt, sugar, yeast. So even when you had a bad day and didn’t turn out as well as other times, you were still great to have around. Soft, sweet and tasty. The best comfort food around.

Over the years we’ve become attached at the hips – (mine, not yours).  I’d eat one piece, then two, then three. My mother would look at me with that expression of “control yourself, there’s a whole meal ahead of us.” But I was on a roll and I couldn’t stop. Back then, it didn’t matter that gefilte fish, chicken soup, brisket, salad, chicken and potato kugel were to follow. I wanted you and only you. I was willing to share my stomach with the others, but you came first.  Your aroma was enticing, your flavor and texture were wonderful. But you became addictive and  your calories were  way beyond my allotment for a meal.

These days I’ve evolved and have become more introspective than I was back in the day. But at some level, I’m still that little girl. I may tell myself that I’m big and grown-up and I can eat “just” one piece and stop. I may try to convince myself that “come on, just have the crust or end of a piece and stop right there.” And here’s the thing: I really like you. I think you are good.

But you don’t work for me. At least not right now. Dear Challah, no matter how many times I promise myself that I will just have one small challah roll (the equivalent of a few points on Weight Watchers) or just one end piece, I always go back for another. And another.

You’ve been calling my name for so long that I hear your voice calling out “Eat me, eat me…I’m here for you…” every week at our Shabbos table. I’m a mother and grandmother and I still find you very seductive.

I can no longer succumb. I have to say good-bye. Just as an addicted alcoholic says, “One drink is too many and a thousand is not enough….” I say the same about you.

“One slice is too many, and a thousand is not enough.” You are an addiction and I must let go.

A few weeks ago, I was at a wedding and a friend and we made a pact. We both promised ourselves that we would not eat the challah bread at the wedding. We were going to hold back, and just eat the meal. No challah for us. Well, it didn’t work. I found myself washing my hands, making the blessing and then eating it. I didn’t ask my friend if the pact worked for her, but for me, it was a no-go.

And so dear Challah, in spite of my efforts to cut down, to use portion control, to enlist a buddy to do it together, nothing has worked for me. Our relationship has become toxic.  We need a separation. I need to make that difficult decision to not even have a tiny piece of you. Because as much as you arouse those warm and fuzzy feelings of childhood, and as much as I adore you, our relationship is not working out well at this time.

I say this all with sadness. I admit you are delicious, charming, charismatic, warm and inviting, but I can no longer hang around you. Ironically, I can still eat your cousins – certain kinds of whole wheat breads and matzoh. For some reason, I am able to have them in my life in moderation. But not you.

You – my dear challah – I can no longer have you in my own life. Not for now.  Not when you’re clothed in whole wheat, spelt, white flour, or poppy seeds. Not your water recipe, nor your egg recipe. Not your raisin toppings, nor your sesame seed toppings. Not your round ones nor your oval shape.

None of you. I say good-bye.

Good-bye Challah. Farewell.

Your friend,

Miriam


Conversations With Grandparents

 

It’s  Chanukah and we’ve had a few family get-togethers with all grandparents (my husband and me!) and great grands (my mother-in-law), plus a few aunts and uncles and cousins. I always enjoy being with family, especially when the various generations get to mingle together on the holidays. During holidays, some grandparents reminisce about their past. Others are more quiet about their histories and need to be drawn out and engaged in conversation. And finally, there are those who try to reminisce and no one really listens. Or even worse, no one asks.

As a child, I was one of the few who had  grandparents. Most of my friends’ grandparents had passed in the Holocaust and my friends’ parents emigrated to the US to start new families.  My grandparents each survived the War and traveled to the U.S. with their children – my parents – in the late 1930’s and early 40’s respectively.

Many of my friends tell me that they didn’t grow up hearing stories about the Holocaust from their survivor parents.  Aside from the stamp that their parents  had on their arm indicating the years in concentration camps, there was little proof that they had experienced atrocities. These survivors were reticent to share their horror stories with their children and grandchildren.

And then there are those who do talk about their experiences. In his later years, my father-in-law who passed in 2001, freely shared stories of how he and his brother escaped from Poland and other interesting stories. My husband and his siblings lapped up these stories as well as those still being told by my mother-in-law who is well into her 90’s (may she live till 120).

Children ask a lot of questions but adults don’t always want to prod. They may have the dilemma of how much to probe, to ask, to engage in conversation. They may wonder: Do the elders really want to talk? Are their memories really accurate? Is this act of eliciting reminiscence really for their catharsis or therapeutic benefit? Or is it for us – so we can record it all for posterity?  How do we know if we are being sensitive to their needs?

This is the subject of a book that I’m reading now called The Conversations We Never Had by Jeffrey H. Konis.  Mr. Konis recalls his Grandma Ola whom he adored and spent a lot of time with, but after her death twenty years earlier, felt regret at not getting enough information from her about his family’s history.  His father never asked questions and he repeated the trend of not asking anything, despite having spent a lot of time with his grandmother. And so, he set out to write this book which is a recollection of his thoughts on his grandmother combined with what he did know about the Holocaust and his conversations here and there with his father. He weaves together all the warm and loving memories about his grandmother.

The book’s  title is somewhat self-deprecating if not self-critical. He wishes he would have asked more, started more conversations and he has a fantasy that his grandmother might have poured forth with story after story.

Notwithstanding his not having war discussions, the author had a most loving relationship with his grandmother.  His Grandma Ola –who actually was his “real” grandmother’s sister, raised his father after the war because the actual grandparents died in the War before his father turned nine.  Grandma Ola found her little nephew hiding on a farm in Poland and brought him  to America to raise him as her own.   Thus, Grandma Olga (“Ola”) was the only grandmother Mr. Konis  knew.  As a young adult, Mr. Konis spent time with Grandma Ola when he was in law school, living in her apartment which was close to his school. She doted on him, made sure he was comfortable and gave him the space to study, party, and be his own person.

Many of the elderly who went through the Holocaust do not want to relive their past. My own father (RIP) and my mother (till 120) were/are Holocaust survivors. Although their stories may be fewer and less dramatic than those of my in-laws as they did not experience concentration camps, they did not regale stories of their past. The only thing I remember is my father telling us bedtime stories about his childhood in Antwerp before the war. A few years before his passing, my brothers recorded him as he spoke on tape about some of the more fascinating escape stories – leaving Belgium, France and coming to the USA.

The opportunity to interview our elders – both informally and informally – are many but often we don’t grab the chance.  Either we think they aren’t interested in talking, or perhaps they really are not interested. Or maybe we aren’t asking the right questions to get them to talk and share.

Bottom line is that many of us go through our lives without having these important conversations with our grandmothers, grandfathers and even our parents.  Later we may regret those missed moments and conversations.

I think the message of Mr. Konis’s book is that we ought to delve into the situation with our elders and find out what and how much they are willing to share. If they are willing to share and reminisce, then we take out a pen and paper and write down what they say. Pull out the tape recorder or  video camera and record them talking. Make a collage or scrapbook using old pictures. Interview them, tape them and give out a CD to the cousins.

But if they are not willing to share, accept that reality. Enjoy their presence and glean your own stories from the time you had with them. That’s what Mr. Konis did and his story “Conversations We Never Had” is a testimony to his great love and memory of his time with his grandmother.

 

 


A Tribute to My Father on his YahrTzeit

What do you say when someone asks you for information that is readily available on the Internet?

Google it! That’s code for “Look it up. Figure it out. You can do it….”

My siblings and I reminisce that my father would encourage our independence in learning new things, by telling us to  “look it up.”

In honor of  the yahrtzeit or anniversary of my father’s passing two years ago, I write this blog post. This one’s for you, Daddy.

Shalom Stern, or Shalom ben Shlomo (the son of Solomon) Halevi (a descendant of the Levites) passed away after a diagnosis 14 years earlier of Parkinson’s Disease. My father passed on September 28, 2014 but the Hebrew date falls on today’s Hebrew date which is the day after Rosh Hashana (Jewish New Year). Today we lit a candle that lasts for 24 hours and my brothers recited kaddish in my father’s memory.

My father was a paradigm of punctuality. Descending from German ancestors, his motto was “a place for everything…everything in its place.” This time of year which precedes the holiday of Sukkos has a theme from the book of Ecclesiastes which reads, “A time to mourn, a time to rejoice…..a time for everything.” Similarly, my father believed that there is a time for everything and he stuck to a sensible daily schedule in his life.

My father was born in Antwerp, Belgium May 27, 1926. He attended Cheder (traditional Jewish elementary school) there along with his sister. He had a relatively uneventful childhood with his parents, many cousins and friends in the little town where they lived. In the early 1940’s,  the political situation changed and they left their home and moved from country to country, town to town, living over the next few years in France, Portugal, Cuba, followed by the U.S.

IMGThis is my paternal grandmother

According to stories we heard from my father and my aunt, “everything was an adventure” during these unstable times. Yes, they were afraid but it didn’t cripple them. They trusted their parents, prayed and continued on with their  daily activities and schooling in each place that they lived. Time to be afraid and time to move on. My aunt recalls saying the prayer “Shema Yisrael” in her bed as the war planes were flying in earshot. My father spoke about his countless stories of escape and survival into a recording and one of my nephews created a CD for all the family which I cherish.

When my dad came to the U.S. at age 16 (1942), he attended high school in Brooklyn and learned the English language rapidly. After high school he continued in with his Jewish studies in a local yeshiva while attending Brooklyn College to earn a degree in Economics. In 1949, my father met my mother and they married that year in June. He went into business while my mother stayed home with the children and together they raised a family of six children. They were the matriarch and patriarch of  many grandchildren and great grandchildren.

dadyoung

My father had a very disciplined and hard working nature. I was proud to have such a “perfect” father who was so smart, wise, kind, learned and accomplished. On the other hand, there was this pressure to keep up, to do things correctly. My husband spoke at a small memorial meal that we sponsored in my father’s memory last Shabbos (Saturday). One of my husband’s key comments was that he felt that our father was someone to look up to, to emulate and to aspire to be like.

He had a meticulous schedule in which he rose early, prayed, studied Talmud, ate breakfast, went to work and then came home at the same time each night. Looking back, it seems kind of idyllic in some ways. The predictability, the security and all that. At the same time as I said there was this pressure to do good work. It was sort of an unspoken expectation of “You can do it. You will do it.” Each one of us siblings has differing interests. But, we each try to do our best in whatever we do.

daddyThis is my father speaking at a family event in the final year of his life.

My father learned and studied Torah deeply and often could be found in his study poring over books either alone or with one or several grandchildren. Even in the last days when his PD had progressed to its worst symptoms of not being able to talk above a whisper, my father enjoyed listening to stories about Torah. This energized him. I believe this means my father was a very spiritual person.

Additionally, in his life, my father was active in founding a girls’ high school in our community and he gave charity to many institutions around. My father had a witty sense of humor, enjoyed being around people and socializing in the free time that he had. He liked traveling, people and words.

momdadMy Mom and Dad

Just this morning, I asked my brother a question and my brother’s return text to me was “as Daddy would say, ‘look it up!'”

I recall my father’s study with his unabridged dictionary and huge atlas along with many encyclopedias and books surrounding him, we always had to resources to “look it up.”

As we come out of the two intense days of the New Year and move forward into the 10 days bridge until Yom Kippur, I make that my new mantra. Whenever I struggle with something, I will think of my father and how he used all his abilities to look things up, to figure things out and to grow. I will remember his motto of a time for everything, a place for everything.

Whether I’m studying, reading, learning, blogging, working or socializing, I will be mindful of doing things carefully and properly to the best of my ability at the appropriate time.

My father was a tough act to follow – but definitely someone to aspire to. All in the right time.

May his memory be blessed.

daddymatzeivah

 

 


FAREWELL TO A HOUSE

IMG_3904

When a neighbor sold her house, her grown children complained. “How could you give up our childhood home, Ma?” they asked. My friend couldn’t understand what the fuss was. Her kids were already married and settled in their own homes with growing families. Why the guilt trip?

A few months ago, my mother sold her house of 53 years – the one my siblings and I grew up in — to a construction company.

Today, I’m that balking adult child who dislikes any change. I’m miserable at the thought of our house being demolished, unhappy that a huge apartment building will replace my childhood home.

I want to kick and scream, “No, No!” I am emotionally tethered to this home and I need some closure. Badly.

So I travel to Brooklyn from my home in Los Angeles to help Mom clear out some final things before she moves and to say my official farewells to… The House.

To me this is not just any house; it’s many things to many people.

For five decades the house was a constant, a symbol of sameness. So much happened there, yet so much stayed the same. This is the house where we laughed, played, sang, ate, (and sometimes dieted.) The one where we studied, learned, listened, cried, complained, talked, yelled, argued, and partied. The house where my father, the disciplinarian punished us and the one where my mother pleaded for mercy.

The one where we hosted friends, had sleepovers, welcomed guests and celebrated milestones like bar and bas mitzvah’s, sweet 16 parties, and engagement parties. The house where all six of us brought our respective spouses to meet my parents.

This is the house that was always there, while molding us all into the individuals we are today. Saying good-bye to the house signals the end of an era.

My sisters, who live a few miles away helped her toss, throw out, purge. Together, they’ve been sorting through her stuff, discarding, deciding, selling on e-bay, giving away, and packing up her life in the form of furniture, clothes, toys, games, books, pictures, appliances, and so much more.

Ma, you don’t need this. Throw it out,” my sisters told my mother about some yarn and fabric and other objects that have been there so long.

During my visit, mom and I are upstairs in one of the bedrooms. She hands me a bunch of photo albums, tablecloths, and artwork by my late Grandma.

Here, take these, Miriam. I can’t throw them out and the girls don’t want them.” By “girls,” she means my sisters.

I’m sentimental about stuff so I carefully lay the albums in the empty suitcase we dragged down from the attic. I take the lovely round, lace tablecloths even though my linen closets back in LA are full. I pack the art canvases that my then-90 year old paternal grandmother painted.

My father saved everything: Old report cards, New Years cards, some projects. We laugh and reminisce. I take a few and throw out the rest. I take some old sheet music from my piano lessons.

My parents built this house in 1962 when I, then the youngest of four children, was 2 years old. Two younger sisters were born there in that five-bedroom brick home of 2 stories plus a large basement. So many events took place there that our neighbor across the street used to say to my mother, “Eva, this house could write a BOOK!”

The last chapter in that long 53-year old volume reached its downhill conclusion when my father (after 65 years of marriage) passed away last year. Since then, my mother has contemplated the idea of living closer to my siblings. The idea became a reality and the house was sold. My mother began the packing process.

Soon, my mother, who lived and breathed her home, her hearth, celebrating days, months, years and decades of history will be moving – or “downsizing” — to an apartment a few miles away.

The thought of not being able to just pop in there anymore pains me. Till now, living far away, I could fantasize that things stayed the same. Whenever I came back “home” for family events, things were just a little different. My room became a computer room; my sister’s room, my father’s exercise room. My brothers’ room became the sewing room, after a room in the basement morphed from a sewing room into a speech therapy clinic for an acquaintance. Two of the upstairs bedrooms became guest rooms; the basement, an area for guests with a separate entrance.

But the four walls of the house and exterior pretty much stayed the same. The peeling paint and woodwork refreshed every so often, the outside shutters missing. The bathroom tiles, my father’s bookcase, my mother’s breakfront with china, the dining room table, the living room rug where the kids played stayed the same.

More clutter, progeny visiting on weekends and playing Legos and blocks on the living floor. I was now one of many many others who called this home their home away from home.

But that house with that driveway, lawn, front door, combination lock, code and extra set of keys hanging on the gold curly-bumped edges of the front mirror for anyone from the family who needed the car. And the coins and dollars in the “front hall drawer” for needing extra change for the bus or subway.

No longer will I be able to punch in the code on that combination lock on the wooden front door when my husband and I arrive from the airport and quietly take the luggage upstairs while shushing my children in middle of the night.

No longer will I go past the front foyer, down the hall and past my father’s study where he would be sitting there and doing his work. No more smile and wink and kiss. Even as my father has passed away 9 months ago, knowing his study with his desk and bookshelves were still there was comforting.

My siblings lived so much closer to The House all these years as adults, certainly spent even more quality time on a daily or weekly basis than my own long-distance family who came for family occasions, The house was a hub for everyone.

Many grandchildren would spend the night while passing through to summer camp or yeshiva. Neighbors would use the basement for overflow out-of-towner guests. Grandchildren would come by to spend a Sunday afternoon, take pictures, sit and shmooze in the kitchen, and run down to the “avenue” to shop for unique items.

Toddler grandchildren would throw things down the laundry chute and then giggle as the other one stayed downstairs to catch it. Oh what fun! Until my father (RIP) would shush everyone up. But not for long.

Parties for charity were held in the basement and/or the living room, school events took place in our living room, high school play run-throughs, color war projects and cooking classes for organizations were held in our home. My mother said yes to practically everyone or anyone who asked to use her house for an event.

An acquaintance psychologist used the guest bedroom off of the kitchen once a week so that he could be near his part-time practice in the area. A friend who had a speech therapy practice drove in every Sunday and used one of the large areas in the basement for her speech therapy practice. A separate entrance was designated for her clients, right through the basement. The waiting room was the room that used to be our “bike room” when we were growing up.

A cousin in Israel hears about the move and writes, “I can’t imagine that she won’t be living there – so many good memories – such a part of my life. I know it’s only a house – but what a house so full of warmth and love, not to mention good coffee…”

Soon, the house will be demolished – the one with memories of yarn turned into knitting or crocheting, fabric made into clothes, photos taken, old letters sent and received, smiles and tears, parties and homework, meals and friends, sleep-overs, visits, children, grandchildren, home-comings after camp, visits after marriage, baby’s nursed, and non-surprise surprise parties. Cousins coming by, places for our children to stay during school vacations, and places for others to drop by when just in the neighborhood.

It is the end of an era of punching in the combination into the front door to spend time with loved ones in a large and welcoming house.

All that’s left are the myriad pictures in our memories, on computer and in albums to show to future generations and say, “See? That’s where we grew up. That’s the house that could have written a book…”

I sit with my mother in the kitchen, eating salmon that she’s baked in her GE oven with the manual knobs. We talk about the baby grand piano, and that she has no room for it in her new apartment. She offers me the piano.

We research prices on piano movers. I take a look at the keys, some of which have been stripped of their ivories by wear and tear. We talk about moving the piano and restoring it. I visualize the baby grand piano of my childhood in my living room.

As each of us takes whatever material pieces of the house with us, we embrace lessons learned from living there in our hearts and minds. Kindness, flexibility and hospitality. Friendship, love. Knowing we can take those intangibles with us makes me feel just a little bit better about the loss of the house.

Letting go of The House becomes easier with the memories turned into lessons.

But still. No amount of letting go will enable me to walk down that block again.


A Grandmother’s Deja Vu Experience

dejavu.image credit/source

We’ve all had the experience. You’re standing somewhere, in a particular situation of your daily life, and suddenly you think, “hey, I’ve felt this feeling before. This feels so familiar…when did this happen to me? Where was I when it happened in the past….?”

It’s called “having a deja vu.”

Just this morning, I had a deja vu experience.  Except the difference was that I didn’t wonder “where or when.”

I knew exactly where. And I knew exactly when.

It was as if I was back several decades ago,  experiencing something in the exact same way.

Before I drive you crazy with wondering what in the world I’m talking about, I’ll tell you the story. Continue reading


Reflections on a Special Person

These days, with the Internet, social media and other forms of news, there is no shortage of information coming at us. In fact, much of the news is bad and sad. After all, does happy news sell? Not quite.

The truth is that in the community where I live, several people I know have suffered terrible tragedies the past few weeks. One woman, Avigail Rechnitz, an extremely kind, sweet, benevolent, intelligent and beautiful person, has succumbed to cancer last week after a two year battle. Continue reading


Picture Panic

As grandmothers and mothers-in-law, we often find ourselves in a tizzy.

Oh no! The kids did this…

Oh my goodness – what are they thinking?

It’s really not okay that they did this, that or the other thing.

I myself have been known to create drama out of simple innocent acts of those around me. Usually it takes a few hours or maybe a good night’s sleep for me to realize that I really need to chill out. Or, in other cases, we “work it out,” and all is well. Continue reading


Post Gathering Post

Here is my Post-Barbecue – my recap of the barbecue:

Firstly, I read my previous post and thought to myself how it does sound kind of “oy-ish” — (read: negative!) but hey, that’s my blog – the Bubby Joys and Oys…and what fun would it be if I – the Grandmother/Bubby only reported on the Joys all the time?!!  I was stressed today at the end of the day, and as much as I was looking forward to being with family and entertaining them, I was tired and a bit tense.

Enough excuses.

To report on the barbecue: The good news is: a) I didn’t overeat tonight. I had vegetables and chicken! Yay me!! And b) A great time was had by all. Everyone filled their stomachs, and enjoyed each others’ company.The baby charmed everyone with his adorable smiles and flirting with the adults. His five year old brother charmed everyone with his sweet comments and cheerful disposition. I had so much nachas having the kids around me, baruch Hashem. And we even snapped a bunch of family pictures.

Almost all the food is gone so that’s a good sign. And as it is now October 4th, I look forward to our future barbecues – in the autumn (which it is now!), winter, and the spring …(not summer anymore – although the weather has been in triple digits lately here in Southern California.)

For now: good night, and have a wonderful weekend and Shabbos!

 


All Fall Down – Part II

For those of you who read my blog post from yesterday, you will have noted that I talked about my Grandpa/”Opa’s”
German nursery rhyme that he sang to my siblings and me when we were growing up.

Well, this morning nostalgic feelings overcame me, and I just had to find the exact lyrics to that song online.   It turns out that the song has 3 full stanzas.

And here they are!! (I only included the first stanza…for the sake of brevity!)

Hoppe Hoppe Reiter

Hoppe, hoppe, Reiter,
Wenn er fällt, dann schreit er.
Fällt er in die Hecken,
Tut er sich erschrecken.
Fällt er in den Sumpf
Macht der Reiter plumps!

Translation:
Bounce, bounce, horse rider, if he falls, he’ll scream.
If he falls into the ditch, the ravens will eat him.
If he falls into the swamp, then the rider will go PLOP!

Now that I’m seeing the translation, I’m thinking that Ring Around the Rosey and Hoppe, hoppe…can compete for winner of the prize of the Spookiest Nursery Rhyme out there..

But never mind all that.

Let us grandmothers (and grandfathers) , grandkids and all our families get a leg up and let us move forward, and quit horsing around!

Have a great day!


Clueless Bubby?

I often find myself sitting amongst people at a wedding, class, bar mitzvah or any random event. The conversation that I involuntarily overhear goes something like this:

“So what camp are you registering your kid in?”

“I’m putting him in a backyard day camp – where there are 10 kids, and it goes till 12 pm, which works well…”

“Really? Who is in charge there? Does she take kids who are not toilet trained yet?”

“I’m not sure – you’d have to ask her, but she’s really great with the kids…”

As I’m writing the above dialogue, I’m thinking that some young uns out there will read it and think several things: First, why in the world is a grandmother placed at the same table as younger folks?  Good point. Don’t know the answer to that right now. Second, they will note that I got some of my facts wrong. Another good point. But honestly I only hear bits and pieces of the chatter. It’s a good chance that I am misquoting a typical convo.

I’ve been there and done that. I have moved on. And to tell you all the truth, I’m embarrassed to admit: I am somewhat clueless about all of that. Continue reading


Subscribe to Blog!

Would you like to be notified of new posts? ENTER YOUR EMAIL HERE please and then look out for an email to CONFIRM your subscription.

Proud Member of Midlife Boulevard

Proud Member of Midlife Boulevard

Community

View Past Posts

WP-Backgrounds Lite by InoPlugs Web Design and Juwelier Schönmann 1010 Wien