We drove along the deserted forest road without speaking, taking in the majestic beauty that surrounded us. We hadn't been here in over 25 years. Things had changed in that time making things appear new like we were seeing them for the very first time. We carried no map, no GPS, only the direction indicator that lite up on the pickup's rear-view mirror. We stopped and ate lunch in the sun along side the vanishing creek; roasted chicken from the grocery store deli and BBQ-ed beans from a can while sitting on the tailgate of our daughter's little Chevy. Memories of our life together washed over us in waves as we recognized familiar looking places. "Somewhere along here is where we went on the trail ride. We crossed the creek and rode up an old skid road," my husband Dennis said. I had no recollection of that but I did remember trips up here with my parents and once with Dennis's mom, Arlene. That was before we were parents. Arlene and my dad are both gone now...the memories where sweet.
We stopped without concern of time to take photographs of God's splendor...color spots of glittering gold. In the bottom of the draw, five lone surviving aspen trees stood 40 to 50 feet tall surrounded by a thick grove of young suckers, the rebirth after a massive forest fire a few years back. While we strolled amongst the spindly white bark the sun peaked through the branches. A symphony of golden instruments softly played overhead in the gentle breeze showering us with tender leaves that settled into a carpet below.
Mule deer doe with their fawns gathered together in small bands basking in the sun, taking in the unusually warm October day. They stood in pose long enough for me to adjust the settings on my new digital camera, allowing me to capture their beauty.
I appreciate the time...alone once again with my husband and friend of thirty years. Our only child, a girl, is away at her last year of collage preparing to begin her life on her own. We adjust to her not being here with us. Unlike so many other couples that became parents soon after marriage, Dennis and I had 10 years together, just the two of us before we started our little family. We already know how to be alone with each other and are comforted by each others presence. I enjoyed the opportunity...being surrounded by natures spectacular golden treasures...and I don't just mean the aspens.
The tepid air brushed our faces as we walked silently single file through the normally crunchy sage. Rain alternated between a steady drizzle and spontaneous showers building up on the brim of my cap before dripping down onto my face. I turned and looked into Michelle’s unsuspecting eyes and smiled as I gave a hard flick of my finger to the underside of the bill to clear the heavy drips from my hat. Large droplets of water spattered her face. She giggled and shook her head like a dog fresh from a bath slinging water back at me.
“I’ve never had to deal with rain dripping from my hat during deer season before.” I said.
“I know,” she replied, “it’s cool, I love this. The rain makes everything look so new and interesting, and it’s so quiet. I just love walking in the rain.” Then I turned away and we continued our walk in silence.
We awoke on opening morning to the sound of pelting rain on the metal trailer roof. I slowly opened my eyes; surprised to see it was already quite light, then I glanced blurry-eyed at the tiny travel clock sitting at the side of the bed. I could barely make out the time without my glasses, but it appeared to be nearly seven o’clock. Dennis, my husband stirred beside me and looked at the clock.
“What time is it? I can’t read it,” I asked.
“It’s time to get up,” he said, “it’s seven.” The rain had started on Friday, the day before season and continued nearly all day and well into the night before letting up. It was great that the parched earth was refreshed. I was excited about being at deer camp in the rain. Dennis and I prepared our espresso and poured a bowl of cereal while our daughter Michelle rolled from the bunk, taking our time for the first hunt of the season. At 9:00 am we climbed into my sister Karen’s truck and headed down the road towards the cinder butte to make our opening morning hunt. Mom left with Karen’s kids in the orange truck and headed south to get on her stand down by the Holey road, our destination.
“As late as it is, I hope we don’t just follow someone through the woods,” Dennis said, knowing that most hunters hit the woods at the crack of dawn. “We need to get out earlier.”
“What do you expect hunting with a bunch of women and kids?” I said with a chuckle.
Silently we walked as I scanned the darkened terrain off to my left. The only sound was the patter of the rain as it continued to fall at a soft but steady pace. Something felt familiar, and then I realized that we were approaching the same area where Michelle and I had jumped the big buck from his bed two years ago on opening morning, the last time we hunted here. I envisioned the large buck and a doe running away from me in the wide open as I stood searching for the safety on the lever of my 30.30 rifle forgetting that I had decided to carry my 30.06 bolt that day. By the time I located the safety, the buck was out of sight, I hadn’t fired a shot. Michelle stood watching in wonder “why isn’t she shooting?”
“Deer! Bucks, bucks!” Michelle shouted at a whisper with urgency; her words jolting me back to the present. Startled from my thoughts, I panned the landscape searching for the bucks-bucks that she was obviously so excited about. Spotting the movement off to my right, just 35 yards away, two large bucks had jumped from their bed in the wide open and ran single file, now in the scattered ponderosa trees. I raised my rifle...
EXCERPT from A Sacred Place, Memoirs of a Female Hunter.
Creative Non-Fiction By Sherrie Gant
I just read an article, well part of an article, about a hunting technique called "still hunting". According to the writer, still hunting is not a hunter sitting still and waiting for their prey to come to them but when a hunter slowly moves through the woods and marshes on the prowl for prey using the wind to their advantage and blending into the environment. They are an expert tracker that moves very slowly and quietly taking one or two steps then standing silently for several minutes waiting and watching for sign of game. The writer said that a "still hunter" can take as long as an hour to cover 100 yards.
Well I'm not sure what category me and my family fall into. We walk slowly over mountaintops and slopes and wide open deserts. I've crawled on hands and knees under thick branches of pine thickets and climbed over windfalls that look like a pile of discarded Pick-Up-Sticks. We attempt to walk silently, but in the dry desert during deer season, it is nearly an impossible task trying to avoid stepping on dry branches, brush and dry pine cones. Each step crunches and snaps as we slowly but steadily walk on usually covering a couple miles per hunt in a two hour period. If the wind is blowing our noisy steps are masked by the howling air current as it passes through the tall treetops, but the scent of human swishes around in all directions. So we adapt to the desert conditions by slowly walking while keeping a keen eye out for fleeing deer. Does usually aren't as skid-dish and often trot or bounce through openings at a pace slow enough to allow us to get our riffle sites on them to scope them, confirming they don't have any antlers. Young bucks often stay with their mothers during season while the older larger bucks hang out together in small bachelor herds. We walk along keeping a watchful eye and ready hand to raise our rifle in a moments notice as the bucks jump from their day beds often only yards away. They lay in the open, watching us approach until they catch our scent and jump up hitting the ground at a full on run. They always startle the cr#p out of me and they are extremely wise about the route they choose to flee. I have jumped bucks in the wide open only to have them place themselves behind a large tree and run straight away making it very difficult to get a bead on them before they are tiny specks in a cloud of dust.
In the description of a "still hunter", it said they are expert trackers. I'd say we fall into that category. At least, without bragging, my mother and I do. My husband is colorblind and often has difficulty seeing blood. I have done it for a life time learning from Mom who is one of the best I've ever seen using all her senses to locate. I once tracked a wounded buck for four hours and several miles into the desert before pushing him out to my mother who finished with a single shot what I attempted with six. I connected twice but not in a good spot to keep him down, plus I forgot to pack my extra ammo that morning and ran out of bullets. I call that story a miracle. I did a lot of praying during those 4 long hours and God answered. Knowing the landscape was monumental in the success of this story because I radioed Mom and told her which way the buck appeared to heading so she drove the five miles and met him there.
I'm more of a "still hunter" during elk season because I'm often plowing through one or two feet of snow. Other then the swish, swish of the snow falling away from my shins as I walk, it's pretty quiet. I take a few steps then stand and listen then begin walking again. I'm usually the one on the mountain top crawling under the trees and over the snow covered logs on the steep slopes, attempting to flush out the elk that I tracked there. Last year it took me three days to modify my actions before I out smarted and finally flushed the branched bulls. I had jumped them and caught glimpses of them for two days before I finally moved them down the correct side of the hill into the lap of my sister. She got the bull, a nice six-point, with a single shot then watched two four points pass by. While she reaped the fruits of my labor, I ticked off a huge black bear who growled at me and then I reached the kill in time to spend the next several hours packing it off the hill. Am I ungrateful? No way, I wouldn't give up my role for anything. We work as a team and after hunting together for a lifetime...we do pretty well.
As I am awakened this morning by the drumming of rain pounding on my rooftop I'm reminded of a story I have heard throughout my life many times on this day-Columbus Day.
We left the warmth of our tiny camp trailer nestled beneath the tall trees, it's size minute in comparison to the old growth pines which towered hundreds of feet above us. The wind howled as Daddy drove down the narrow dirt road heading out on our daily hunt. Mom looked through the window watching for deer as the tops of the giant ponderosa trees whipped and swayed overhead. My sister Karen and I sat between them on the bench seat of the old Chevy pickup truck completely unaware of our parents growing concern.
We spotted deer huddled together moving quickly out towards the open desert country in large herds. Excitement grew with their sighting. Tall clusters of antlers jutted up into the storm darkened skyline like naked tree branches amongst the sage as massive bucks surrounded themselves with harems of doe, making it impossible to harvest a buck.
The winds gained strength as gusts broke tree branches with the ease of snapping green beans freshly picked from Momma's garden. Momma voiced her opinion to Daddy and he quickly agreed as a small pine tree toppled to the ground beside them; they needed to get out the forest and head for safety of the open desert, fast. Dad picked up speed until they finally reached the treeless desert and the shelter of the tall rock formation near Fort Rock.
According to Wikipedia, "the Columbus Day Storm of 1962 (otherwise known as the Big Blow,) was an extratropical cyclone that ranked among the most intense to strike the United States Pacific Northwest since at least 1948, likely since the January 9, 1880 "Great Gale" and snowstorm. On a larger scale, the Columbus Day Storm of 1962 is a contender for the title of most powerful extratropical cyclone recorded in the U.S. in the 20th century; with respect to wind velocity, it is unmatched by the March 1993 "Storm of the Century" and the "1991 Halloween Nor’easter" (aka "The Perfect Storm"). MetLife named the Columbus Day Storm the nation's worst natural disaster of 1962. Wind gusts measured throughout Oregon from 58 to 170 miles per hour; in less than 12 hours, over 11 billion board feet of timber was blown down in northern California, Oregon and Washington combined. This exceeded the annual timber harvest for Oregon and Washington at the time."
Hours later when the winds had subsided, we headed back toward camp. Momma worried if our little 14 ft. camp-trailer survived the storms wrath. Dad tediously worked his way through the brush around large branches and trees that had blown down blocking the narrow roads. Huge pine trees that once reached hundreds of feet into the sky now lay defeated and broken with their large webbed footballs exposed, awaiting a slow death, looking like the aftermath of war. After hours of travel, we finally reached camp to the surprise that our little sanctuary of deer-camp had survived. All of the tall trees that surrounded our camp still stood tall, sentinels, protecting from Nature's fury.
Even though I was just a baby on that day, I heard the story repeated over the years many times. I am still reminded today when I walk through those woods climbing over some of the very same trees, now logs, victims to the storm. Many nothing more then rotting bark with those eerie twisted arms of roots with fingers that reach out in distress in all directions, nothing more then grey weathered skeletons left behind to remind us of Natures power and strength.
The Columbus Day storm was actually on October 12th, 1962. I'm not sure why today, Oct. 10th is Columbus Day. Go figure?
Ok guys, this book, A SACRED PLACE, Memoirs of a Female Hunter, isn't just a "chick" book. I know the title says Memoirs of a "Female" Hunter, but we are all alike basically when comes to the passion of hunting, right? True there are some emotions involved, and guys don't usually like to show emotions Well, there is that one part about a "monthly" and yes I talk a little bit about love and there is a tiny bit of romance, but men like romance, especially when it's at deer camp, wouldn't you agree? I know my husband would agree. It must be something about the smell of sweat after a two hour walk and the lack of shower, or the way I carry my rifle and help him drag a buck or pack a 75lb. severed bull elk head off the mountain top. There is nothing more sexy than a chick in the woods with a gun, and she knows how to use it. My husband must agree with that. After all, we've been married nearly 30 years. (I was very young when we married.) He hunts with me, my mom, my sister, our daughter, and my niece. He and our 10-year-old nephew are the only males in this hunting party.
I agree that this sort of sounds like a chick book, but trust me it's not. Throughout the pages I share my passion for the hunt, talk about God and my faith in Him. But I also talk about fast trucks and running from the law and rifles and ammo and hand guns, a lot about guns and ammo actually; and the thrill of seeing "the big one". There is tracking involved, following a blood trail, and field dressing and a little more blood, but don't worry readers with a light stomach and non-hunters, I try to tread lightly in the gore department. There are a few guy experiences, and horse experiences. I talk about deer and elk and big fish stories and fast horses and family and kids, great big bucks and massive bulls. Now that sounds like a GUY book to me.
It's not a book about bragging what a great hunter I am, or what a fabulous shot I just made, I personally hate those stories. It is a book about learning, and growing, and believing, and trusting and overcoming, and love and passion and family and heritage. It's a book about 50 years worth of memories.
I've had non-hunters read this book and love it. And I've had fellow hunters read it and love it. I've actually had more men readers then women that I know of. One non-hunting, animal loving, heterosexual man told me it was a great book. He said he didn't want to put it down to go to work and couldn't hardly wait until he could read again just to see what happened next. That was quite a complement.
So there you have it in a nut shell, what ever that statement means, my personal review of my new book
A SACRED PLACE, Memoirs of a Female Hunter. Now don't just sit there...Order it now and get busy reading. I want to hear your opinion.
Also Available on Kindle
"Summer" age 25 grazing in her pasture.
A couple of weeks ago I had to make the difficult decision to euthanize my equine friend of nearly 31 years. We had been together since his birth and I was merely a child. His heath was quickly deteriorating and I wasn't going to let him suffer from a fall or something traumatic. I wouldn't have been able to handle the stress. So my husband of 30 years and I prepared ourselves and arranged an appointment with the vet to humanely do the task. On the eve of the appointment Bo lay down in the corral, too weak to get back up he lay there slowly fading. I wasn't going to wait for the vet and make my dear friend suffer for hours before any vet could arrive. My husband reluctantly offered to speed the inevitable with a firearm. I didn't want him to have to go through the trauma and I certainly didn't want to do it myself, so we called our equine loving friend, a horse trainer and Bo's farrier of 25 years.
We promptly let the three mares out of their paddocks turning them out to green pasture to graze and to remove them from the corral where Bo lay. On a warm sunny September morning and a single muffled pop of a strategically placed 25 caliber bullet, it was done. Bo would not suffer.
While the mares looked on between bites of the tender grass, my husband promptly removed Bo from the premises. While my husband was gone I looked out the window and saw that the horses had returned to the corral. They left the grass and wondered around the dirt corral. After a twenty minute stay, they returned back to the grass for more grazing. Not once did they call out or vocalize for Bo's return like they always do when one horse is taken away or moved to another pasture. They remain silent, just looking off in the direction that the flatbed trailer had gone. Even that night when all were stalled and Bo's stall and paddock remained empty, they surprisingly remained silent.
The Winds of Summer, our 25-year-old Quarter horse retired race mare shared the barn for over 20 years stabled along side Bo. And Glory, Summer's foal 11 years ago has been Bo's neighbor her entire life. Since Bo's departure, Summer has been very unsettled. Where she once stood quietly in her paddock waiting to be released daily out to pasture, she now paces in circles wearing a deep path in the dirt. She circles nervously, around and around the large paddock. From the looks of the churned up ground she paces for hours. I know she must be mourning the death of her friend. It is the only thing that is different. She must smell his death. There was blood shed unfortunately. I'm saddened by her reaction. I know animals mourn the lose of a fellow animal friend as do we. My dog Bear moped around for 2 months after the tragic death of his kitty, Simon.
Now each morning when I let Summer out of the her paddock, what was once an ampted up race horse galloping up the lane to the be the first to reach the pasture, is now a lack-luster mare that trots or barely reaches a slow lope often bringing up the rear.
Yesterday was a very sad day. I had to say goodbye to my horse Bo that has shared my life for the past 30 years. I had been preparing myself for this day for a year now but if became clear that time had arrived. God had chosen this day to begin the task that can often take days. We were forced with the difficult decision of speeding up the process to prevent any long suffering. With the phone call to a friend and Bo's farrier of 25 years, the dreaded task was done. It was finished in seconds.
The day was filled with waves of overwhelming sadness. You see, yesterday was my deceased father's birthday. This month marks the 10 year anniversary of his untimely death. Thirty years ago on the day of Bo's unexpected birth, my dad scooped up Bo's tiny underdeveloped body from the dirt and carried him to the safety of our barn and reunited him with his mother whom had been beaten off by a herd of Thoroughbred mares. The horses belonged to a neighbor who didn't even know his prize Quarter-horse mare was in foal. An Arabian stallion had jumped the fence and did the job that no other stallion had been able to do. This scrawny little unregistered half breed was not wanted so on that day he became my own and I named him Mr. Bo Jangles.
I had lost my mare of 14 years to colic the previous year and Bo filled the void...we needed each other. We spent the next 25 years trail riding and competing in gymkhana (barrel racing) and also racing. Bo was the great-grandson of the famous race horse Go Man Go, and he had the speed to prove it. However our racing wasn't very successful. We entered a saddle race (no starting gate) and was on the heels of the lead horse (which cheated by false starting and getting a lengths head start,) when the rocks and mud started pelting our faces like a summer hailstorm. We quickly slowed our pace and breezed across the line in fourth place. We never raced again.
We enjoyed hunting the most. I never shot my rifle from Bo's back. He was afraid of the gun fire after the incident during deer season when he ran back to camp, leaving me in the woods when I shot a buck. You can read that story at this link; https://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150299654525759.
Bo was so silly. When he was 21, I put my 11-year-old daughter on his bare back without a bridle (in a contained area). He bucked her off. She landed on hands and knees in the soft dirt of the arena unharmed. We laughed...who knew?
Bo Jangles you will be greatly missed, thank you for filling my life with joyful memories. You will never be replaced or forgotten.
This prayer hung on my wall since my youth and helped me get through this painful decision.
THE HORSE PRAYER
To Thee , My Master, I offer my prayer:
Feed me, water and care for me, and when the day's work is done, provide me with shelter, a clean dry bed and a stall wide enough for me to lie down in comfort.
Talk to me, your voice often means as much as the reins.
Pet me sometimes, that I may serve you more gladly and learn to love you. Do not jerk the reins and do not whip me when going up hill.
Never strike, beat or kick me when I do not understand what you want, but give me a chance to understand you.
Watch me, it I fail to do your bidding, see if something is not wrong with my saddle or feet.
Examine my teeth when I do not eat. I may have an ulcerated tooth, you know is very painful.
Do not tie my head in an unnatural position or take away my best defense against flies and mosquitoes by cutting off my tail.
And finally, O my Master, when my useful strength is goon, do not turn me out to starve ot freeze or sell me to some cruel owner to be slowly tortured and starved to death; but do Thou, My Master, take my life in the kindest way and your God will reward you here and hereafter.
You will not consider me irreverent if I ask this in the name of Him who was born in a stable. Amen.
While taking a moment to sip a mocha and browse over my web-site, I see that I haven't blogged since June and the arrival of spring. Now, the few flowers that bloomed have turned brown and frost threatens to settle on my lawn, fall is knocking on my door and I realize that time flies by way too quickly. I've been so busy during my time away yet I don't feel like I have anything memorable to tuck away. I've moved my daughter four times since June. I helped move her home from college for two weeks then 1000 miles away for a summer internship then home again for three weeks now just last weekend back over the mountain and back to school for her final year in collage. It's been quite a whirlwind; however, during this time, I have learned some things about myself.
The most important thing I've learned is that I'm often a whirlwind when I should be a gentle breeze. A gentle breeze soothes the sole where as a swift wind stirs things up, often leaving them in a shamble and unsettled mess.
I've learned that I often want my own way. And that my way isn't always the best way, it's just my way. I thought I left that trait behind in my childhood but I think I only disguised it dragging it along into my adulthood. I've known all along that I'm a control freak but I often cower down with intimidation and let others have their way, leaving me feeling insecure and often unworthy.
I've learned that I say too much...too much...too quickly...way too often, then I walk away wondering why I said all that, afraid that I just left the person standing in the wake of a storm; left them in the aftermath of the whirlwind that hit unexpectedly.
So here it is, nearly fall and I stand and look around at the rubble I've created and try to figure out where to start the clean-up. I think that I have dumped the first load just by realizing and admitting the source of all the debris...I tell myself that I can become that gentle breeze. I'm unsure when the next squall will occur, but until then I will try and keep the storm at bay.
It's taken long enough but I think it's finally arrived, spring that is. Here it is already nearly summer, according to the calender date but not by means of weather. We are about two months behind schedule. Normally daffodils bloom in march, this year they bloomed in may followed by the tulips and just now lilacs. I am usually only blessed with lilacs here on the Gant Ranch every five years or so. They usually are consumed by frost before they can open their fragrant blossoms. They are hidden this year behind the aspen trees tender greens which normally are bare branches when they begin to bud. I picked a large bouquet and placed them on my table indoors so I can can fully enjoy their presence.
It's finally warm enough to sit on my porch in the fresh early morning air. As long as I wear a sweater or my robe and place my chair just right on the corner that the sun kisses this early. The breeze is cool, too cool really but it's not too bad. I have to move my chair as the sun rises and moves behind the huge pines and blue spruce tree that adorned my back yard. I just keep shifting a little to the left to capture it full warmth.
So here I sit, sipping my morning mocha while being embraced by the warmth of the sun and caressed by the cool breeze. Two days ago I spotted the resident doe. Only the tips of her large mule ears were visible as she nibbled on the tall bitter brush. I watched her for an hour or more. She finally disappeared then suddenly reappeared in full view. She has given birth to twins annually in the wooded area just beyond my yard for several years now. She stops between bites and looks this way glancing at the dog laying on the porch beside me. She has learned not to fear him. Then she strolls out of sight again.
Soon I catch a glimpse of a tiny spotted fawn as it dashes across a small opening satisfying my curiosity of whether or not she has yet given birth. A little disappointed that there were no twins this year.
Yet only day, again I sit and wait and watch, then suddenly there she is, in full view appearing out of no where. Minutes later she is joined by two tiny spotted fawns. I only get to see them for a moment before she jumps the fence to join them on the other side and again disappears into the trees.
A red tailed hawk sits perched up high in the top of the forked pine tree. Her size dwarfed by the height of the tall tree. But in comparison to the tiny squawking female bird that dive bombs the predator, disapproving of her presence, she is quite large. The attacks are ineffective. No baby ducks pass below on the water so the hawk soars away minutes later at will.
It's such a gift to witness natures beauty, and all from my back yard porch, in my bath robe drinking my morning mocha. What a blessing. Would you like to join me for a second cup?
I know, it's been a while since I've had anything to say. I've actually been working on getting my book re-released. After my friend, writer Jane Kirkpatrick, read my book and made the comment that she was disappointed I hadn't told the story of how my husband Dennis was woven into the fabric of my Sacred Place I decided to add the chapter.
If Jane wasn't so busy all the time writing Novels and doing speaking engagements she could have read my book before I published and pointed this out. But no, she was too busy with her own writing to critique my work. I say that lightly, I didn't ask her to read it in advance. Hmm...maybe that would have been a good idea.
Anyway, I wrote the requested missing chapter then contacted the publisher to find out how to go about adding it. I figured I could just upload the new chapter and tell them where to insert it and all would be good. No it didn't work out that way. The adviser told me I needed to upload a complete new file. I thought that seemed strange and a lot of added work because they would have to reformat the entire book and basically start from scratch. But on the other hand it allowed me to correct some mistakes that were missed, like five times, in editing. While I was at it, I thought it would be a great opportunity to add a few things that I should have included the first time.
And so I began, not paying any attention to what or where I made changes because I was submitting a brand new file. After weeks of waiting for a new digital proof I discovered that the file was corrupt. I had recently gotten a new computer with updated software and things were hinky. Panicked, I called Abduar, one of my advisers. Abduar quickly realized that I had been given the incorrect information about having to upload a complete new file. Only the changes should have been uploaded, not the entire file. Well that's what I thought in the first place. Due to the fact that I had no idea what or where I had made changes we had to start all over and re-upload the complete file...again. After a waiting period of two weeks I finally received the digital proof. I skimmed through it seeing multiple mistakes, totally stressed out, I knew I was going to have to print out all the pages and go over the entire book again with a fine tooth comb.
After printing all 279 pages I realized that this was the same digital proof that I had recently received just weeks ago, but with minor changes. Again I panicked. Had I messed up my entire file? Did I upload the wrong file, did I download the wrong file? I searched every where on my computer and couldn't even find the new downloaded file so back to the phone I went and called the adviser. She quickly realized that they had resent me the old corrupted file. She assured me that they would get it taken care of promptly. And the new file appeared to be just fine.
So now each day I impatiently wait for an e-mail telling me to review my digital proof, for the fourth time. I hope and pray that it is perfect and all I have to do it hit the "accept" button. I had no idea when I added the one tiny little chapter about my husband, that it would cause me so much grief. I'm beginning to tire of this story.
Sherrie Gant is a writer, photographer, and