This column originally appeared on Sunday, April 26, 2009
Maxwell Perkins, the New Jersey man who edited Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Lardner and Wolfe, was married to the same woman for 37 years. Louise Perkins and Max raised five daughters and honored one another faithfully until his death.
But Louise was not max’s “ideal woman” and at some point he met and fell head over heels for a Virginia born beauty named Elizabeth Lemmon. He wrote her constantly, viewed a visit from her as an occasion better even than the Fourth of July or his birthday, and carried on a platonic love affair with her, under the accepting gaze of Louise, for 25 years – again, until his death.
Which is a roundabout way of saying I’ve been spending a lot of time in Downingtown these days.
Look, we all know how I feel about West Chester – the county seat, the home of the Henderson Warriors, the only place I know where you can eat a hot dog you bought from a guy who can stop a table fan with his tongue in the shadow of a statue named “Old Gory.” I love this place. I honor it daily. I have lived and paid parking tickets here for longer than max knew Elizabeth Lemmon.
But, well, sometimes things change. Eating even the best mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert every day can lead one can lead one to gaze expectantly over at a bowl of Rocky Road. I started going to Downingtown on a regular basis when I began attending the Quaker meeting there. Then I started eating breakfast on Sundays there, and doing a bit of shopping there, and getting my car serviced there, and well, before you know it, I’m going to be entering my own duck in the annual Good Neighbor’s Day Rubber Duck Race along the Brandywine.
It is not as though Downingtown hasn’t caught my eye before. Downingtown was one of the first places I ever visited in Chester County, and I can still recall the sight of the Trestle Bridge as I drove into town on Route 322 in 1979, listening to the Phillies blow another game on my friend’s car radio. (“If these pitchers hang another slider over the plate, I’m going to stop listening to them for ever,” my friend promised me. He lied.) My dear friend and colleague, the late Elene Brown, lived there pretty much all her life, and she loved it so much she didn’t move even after she tried to drive the family van though a flooded section of town and ended up replacing the engine.
I have even suggested in this space that it would be advantageous for West Chester to switch places with Downingtown, since we have no navigable body of water and it does. I wrote, “We get the East Branch of the Brandywine Creek, they get the Goose Creek Waste Water Treatment Plant. We get an easy drive to Wegman’s, and they can have the entire campus of West Chester University, kegs included.” Idea hasn’t gone too far forward, truth be told, but I’ll be willing to give it time.
Here’s what I know about Downingtown:
It was initially called Milltown because it had a lot of mills. The name was switched in 1812 to Downingtown, because one of the mill owners was named Thomas Downing. The Quaker settlers in the borough were, I suppose, hewing to their spiritual quest for simplicity and so didn’t see the value in coming up with a more, shall we say creative name, like Elk or Toughkenamon or Tweedale, but when you live in a town that dropped the vivid moniker “Turks Head” for the bland “West Chester” (“We’re WEST of CHESTER, see, and CHESTER is EAST of us and, well, oh never mind…” ) you can’t really throw stones.
Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Irish patriot and martyr, lived in Downingtown for a while. Jim Croce lived up the road from Downingtown in Lyndell, so technically he had a Downingtown mailing address when he was writing “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” I think if you asked a teenager today who was more famous, Jim Croce or Theobald Wolfe Tone, they would not be able to hear you because their ears had been permanently damaged through repeated iPod use.
Lincoln’s funeral train passed through town, which is somewhat convenient since Downingtown is located along the Lincoln Highway, which is strangely referred to mostly as Lancaster Avenue by the folks who live in Downingtown from what I can tell, but Abe was dead at the time he passed through so I don’t believe he was put off by the slight.
If you go to the “Downingtown” page on Wikipedia, you get a picture of marsh Creek State park, which is not in Downingtown, is located a good five miles from Downingtown, is closer to Dowlin and Glenmoore than Downingtown, but does have a Downingtown address. I suppose now the Wiki folks are going to start putting photos of Longwood Gardens on the Modena page as an illustration to dress things up a bit, and I don’t blame them. But there’s the Log House, circa 1705, just sitting there screaming to be pictured, and they go to a man-made lake that destroyed an entire village.
If you type “Maxwell Perkins Downingtown” into Google, you get a link to the JoBlo.com movie site. Don’t ask me why.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Every Day Is Record Store Day
This column originally appeared on Sunday, April 19, 2009
The time was 1969. The place was Air-Waye Records on Ludlow Avenue in the Clifton neighborhood of Cincinnati, Ohio. And the album was “Disraeli Gears” by Cream.
There you have the basic facts behind my first solo purchase of a record album, and the start of a spending spree at local records stores that has continued unabated to this very day. I just picked up copies of Radiohead’s “OK Computer” (Remastered Version)” and Lady Gaga’s “The Fame” (don’t ask me why) on Friday at Mad Platter Records on West Gay Street in West Chester.
I’d like to encourage you to join in my consumerism. Yesterday was Record Store day across the United States and Great Britain, a day set aside to celebrate, promote and sustain the local independent record stores that still exist in this age of downloads and file sharing. Although lots of such retailers have shut down in recent years, about 2,000 are still putting music out there for us to gather up, and many—like the Mad Platter -- are thriving. Maybe you should go out and see.
Record Store Day was the idea of Chris Brown, a long-haired, goateed music guru from Bull Moose, a chain of 10 record stores in Maine and New Hampshire. Now in its second year, Record Store Day is being celebrated at more than 1,000 independent record stores in the U.S. and in 17 countries.
"I wanted to have a fun kind of party event at Bull Moose where we could thank our customers and just have a fun time," he told the Associated Press.. "I realized that it would be a much better party if we got the other stores involved, just make it a national thing."
I like the idea of a day that gives me an excuse to do what I love doing anyway – going to a record store and shopping through hundreds of titles – but in a way I think it is a shame as well. In my mind, every day should be Record Store Day.
To be sure, I’ve spent a lot of time in record stores that could have been put to better use, but what of it. As they used to say about Midnight Basketball, lurking in records stores kept me off the street when I otherwise would have engaged in socially destructive behavior, like spray painting graffiti on neighborhood walls or studying for the law school entrance exams.
Air-Waye Records was about a mile from my home and I could easily ride the Schwinn there with my friends. Before “Disraeli Gears” with its “Sunshine of Your Love” hit came along, I’d picked out dozens of 45s to buy and badgered my parents into picking up copies of the latest Beatle or Beach Boys album, so my life was not without the sounds of the ‘60s before then.
The phrase “kid in a candy store” does not begin to describe the hours I could spend at Air-Waye thumbing though the racks of LPs, trying to imagine what it would be like to own each and every one of them. Those were the days when album art covers were just starting to come into their own as a cultural medium, and I am sure the owner of the store got used to the sight of me flipping the albums over and over the better to read and stare and contemplate the figures on “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” or the Bob Dylan painting on the cover of “Music From Big Pink” by The Band.
Not that I’m obsessed with the subject, but I can tell you that I still remember there were two prices for LPs at Air-Waye -- $4.19 for new releases and $3.49 for older ones. Don’t ask me why. When folks of my parents’ generation start moaning about how they knew the country had gone to hell in a hand basket when a gallon of milk went above $1, I smile knowingly and think of the number of albums I could buy with a $20 bill and some loose change these days if we’d stayed out of that hand basket.
I understand that we cannot as an economic system cling to businesses that are outdated, and that sometimes things just don’t last. I haven’t seen too many haberdashery stores opening along the avenue lately, and frankly I’m not sure I care. But if record stores are going to disappear from the face of the earth, I would simply rather that they do so after I’ve shuffled off my mortal coil so that I won’t have to know about it.
Meanwhile, I think ‘m going to stop by Mad Platter and ask Debbie if she’s got an extra copy of “This Mortal Coil.” It’s not “Disraeli Gears,” but then what is?
The time was 1969. The place was Air-Waye Records on Ludlow Avenue in the Clifton neighborhood of Cincinnati, Ohio. And the album was “Disraeli Gears” by Cream.
There you have the basic facts behind my first solo purchase of a record album, and the start of a spending spree at local records stores that has continued unabated to this very day. I just picked up copies of Radiohead’s “OK Computer” (Remastered Version)” and Lady Gaga’s “The Fame” (don’t ask me why) on Friday at Mad Platter Records on West Gay Street in West Chester.
I’d like to encourage you to join in my consumerism. Yesterday was Record Store day across the United States and Great Britain, a day set aside to celebrate, promote and sustain the local independent record stores that still exist in this age of downloads and file sharing. Although lots of such retailers have shut down in recent years, about 2,000 are still putting music out there for us to gather up, and many—like the Mad Platter -- are thriving. Maybe you should go out and see.
Record Store Day was the idea of Chris Brown, a long-haired, goateed music guru from Bull Moose, a chain of 10 record stores in Maine and New Hampshire. Now in its second year, Record Store Day is being celebrated at more than 1,000 independent record stores in the U.S. and in 17 countries.
"I wanted to have a fun kind of party event at Bull Moose where we could thank our customers and just have a fun time," he told the Associated Press.. "I realized that it would be a much better party if we got the other stores involved, just make it a national thing."
I like the idea of a day that gives me an excuse to do what I love doing anyway – going to a record store and shopping through hundreds of titles – but in a way I think it is a shame as well. In my mind, every day should be Record Store Day.
To be sure, I’ve spent a lot of time in record stores that could have been put to better use, but what of it. As they used to say about Midnight Basketball, lurking in records stores kept me off the street when I otherwise would have engaged in socially destructive behavior, like spray painting graffiti on neighborhood walls or studying for the law school entrance exams.
Air-Waye Records was about a mile from my home and I could easily ride the Schwinn there with my friends. Before “Disraeli Gears” with its “Sunshine of Your Love” hit came along, I’d picked out dozens of 45s to buy and badgered my parents into picking up copies of the latest Beatle or Beach Boys album, so my life was not without the sounds of the ‘60s before then.
The phrase “kid in a candy store” does not begin to describe the hours I could spend at Air-Waye thumbing though the racks of LPs, trying to imagine what it would be like to own each and every one of them. Those were the days when album art covers were just starting to come into their own as a cultural medium, and I am sure the owner of the store got used to the sight of me flipping the albums over and over the better to read and stare and contemplate the figures on “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” or the Bob Dylan painting on the cover of “Music From Big Pink” by The Band.
Not that I’m obsessed with the subject, but I can tell you that I still remember there were two prices for LPs at Air-Waye -- $4.19 for new releases and $3.49 for older ones. Don’t ask me why. When folks of my parents’ generation start moaning about how they knew the country had gone to hell in a hand basket when a gallon of milk went above $1, I smile knowingly and think of the number of albums I could buy with a $20 bill and some loose change these days if we’d stayed out of that hand basket.
I understand that we cannot as an economic system cling to businesses that are outdated, and that sometimes things just don’t last. I haven’t seen too many haberdashery stores opening along the avenue lately, and frankly I’m not sure I care. But if record stores are going to disappear from the face of the earth, I would simply rather that they do so after I’ve shuffled off my mortal coil so that I won’t have to know about it.
Meanwhile, I think ‘m going to stop by Mad Platter and ask Debbie if she’s got an extra copy of “This Mortal Coil.” It’s not “Disraeli Gears,” but then what is?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Turning Over An Old Leaf
This column originally appeared on Sunday, April 12, 2009
Keeping life simple is a concept that many people try to embrace, even though that can be somewhat problematic in a world in which pirates suddenly reappear among the various and sundry dangers that travelers must gird themselves against when going overseas. But I aspire to that lofty goal and put it at the forefront of both my long term and everyday decisions.
My list of New Years’ resolutions, for instance. I try to keep them simple and thus easy to attain. “I promise this year that I will not take a dog’s temperature in church,” is one I have found easy to adhere to. “I will avoid giving my neighbors a gift of Haggis for Easter,” is another. "No space travel for me this year" is a sure winner. I realize that you will consider these to be an example of stacking the deck, but since I’m dealing the cards only to myself I feel no shame in loading the aces on the top.
I will now, given the events of last weekend, be able to add another such resolution to the list: “I promise not to attend the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington D.C.”
Do not get me wrong. I have nothing against the blossoms themselves. They were wonderful. Delightful. They were everything you would want a blossom to be. And the venue for their blossominess was a treat as well. As many times as I have visited our nation’s capital, I never found the opportunity to walk the Tidal Basin area. As basins go, I’d rank it up there among my favorites.
The trip to Washington last weekend also gave me a chance to stop by the Vietnam Memorial, a place I had avoided in the past out of fear of being overcome at the stark emotion it might give rise to. But I found it inspiring in its beauty, and stood in awe of the imagination that must have gone into its creation. The connection it offers to both the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument made me think about how we now recognize that the ordinary among us are as worthy of timeless respect as the extraordinary.
But unfortunately for me, I had to experience all of that in the presence of a crowd that I would conservatively estimate approach one billion, many of them speaking loudly into cell phones. It was the time of the season – peak blossom time, I’m told – as well as the blue of the sky and warmth of the sun that brought everyone out and I can’t blame them. But in their presence I was once again reminded of that snippet of conversation between Wanda and Henry in the film “Barfly,” when she asks him if he hates people. “No,” Henry replies. “But I seem to feel better when they’re not around.”
When Yogi Berra said, apocryphally, “No one goes there anymore, it’s too crowded,” the person he was referring to was me. Some people recharge their emotional batteries in a big group of strangers they can turn into friends; others do the same by themselves. I belong to the latter.
Now, don’t get the impression that my resolve never to attend the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington D.C. again will have any impact on my cultural and/or aesthetic development. In the cherry blossom department, I’m pretty much covered.
You see, I live on what has been proclaimed by pretty much everyone I have talked to as the second most perfect flowering tree spot in the country, West Miner Street. Take a drive down my way sometime this week and you will see what I mean. Spring along this stretch of road simply bursts with blossoms pink and red and white and variations in between. In a short while as the wind picks up and the blossoms loosen their grip on the boughs, the street looks like a colorful snow squall had struck.
And I’ve got a little bit of the Washington experience right outside my front door. You see, back in 1912, U.S. Rep. Thomas Stalker Butler received two Japanese sakura, or cherry, trees as a gift, from the same lot that ended up being planted at the Tidal Basin. He took them home with him and planted them in the front yard of his home in the 200 block of West Miner where one has grown fat and fit and tall and its blossoms bountiful and beautiful.
And I resolve to enjoy them again next year when they come again.
Keeping life simple is a concept that many people try to embrace, even though that can be somewhat problematic in a world in which pirates suddenly reappear among the various and sundry dangers that travelers must gird themselves against when going overseas. But I aspire to that lofty goal and put it at the forefront of both my long term and everyday decisions.
My list of New Years’ resolutions, for instance. I try to keep them simple and thus easy to attain. “I promise this year that I will not take a dog’s temperature in church,” is one I have found easy to adhere to. “I will avoid giving my neighbors a gift of Haggis for Easter,” is another. "No space travel for me this year" is a sure winner. I realize that you will consider these to be an example of stacking the deck, but since I’m dealing the cards only to myself I feel no shame in loading the aces on the top.
I will now, given the events of last weekend, be able to add another such resolution to the list: “I promise not to attend the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington D.C.”
Do not get me wrong. I have nothing against the blossoms themselves. They were wonderful. Delightful. They were everything you would want a blossom to be. And the venue for their blossominess was a treat as well. As many times as I have visited our nation’s capital, I never found the opportunity to walk the Tidal Basin area. As basins go, I’d rank it up there among my favorites.
The trip to Washington last weekend also gave me a chance to stop by the Vietnam Memorial, a place I had avoided in the past out of fear of being overcome at the stark emotion it might give rise to. But I found it inspiring in its beauty, and stood in awe of the imagination that must have gone into its creation. The connection it offers to both the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument made me think about how we now recognize that the ordinary among us are as worthy of timeless respect as the extraordinary.
But unfortunately for me, I had to experience all of that in the presence of a crowd that I would conservatively estimate approach one billion, many of them speaking loudly into cell phones. It was the time of the season – peak blossom time, I’m told – as well as the blue of the sky and warmth of the sun that brought everyone out and I can’t blame them. But in their presence I was once again reminded of that snippet of conversation between Wanda and Henry in the film “Barfly,” when she asks him if he hates people. “No,” Henry replies. “But I seem to feel better when they’re not around.”
When Yogi Berra said, apocryphally, “No one goes there anymore, it’s too crowded,” the person he was referring to was me. Some people recharge their emotional batteries in a big group of strangers they can turn into friends; others do the same by themselves. I belong to the latter.
Now, don’t get the impression that my resolve never to attend the Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington D.C. again will have any impact on my cultural and/or aesthetic development. In the cherry blossom department, I’m pretty much covered.
You see, I live on what has been proclaimed by pretty much everyone I have talked to as the second most perfect flowering tree spot in the country, West Miner Street. Take a drive down my way sometime this week and you will see what I mean. Spring along this stretch of road simply bursts with blossoms pink and red and white and variations in between. In a short while as the wind picks up and the blossoms loosen their grip on the boughs, the street looks like a colorful snow squall had struck.
And I’ve got a little bit of the Washington experience right outside my front door. You see, back in 1912, U.S. Rep. Thomas Stalker Butler received two Japanese sakura, or cherry, trees as a gift, from the same lot that ended up being planted at the Tidal Basin. He took them home with him and planted them in the front yard of his home in the 200 block of West Miner where one has grown fat and fit and tall and its blossoms bountiful and beautiful.
And I resolve to enjoy them again next year when they come again.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Saturday Night (Flashing) Lights
This column originally appeared on Sunday, April 5, 2009.
“So who’s the cook?”
To tell you the story behind that quote, I’m going to have to tell you another one first. Stay with me here. That Villanova score isn’t going to change anytime soon, and you’ll still be able to turn to it in the sports section.
In 1977, I worked for the U.S. Forest Service in the Uinta Mountains of northeastern Utah. We, a bunch of students from Earlham College and counterparts from schools in Utah, worked in the Wasatch National Forest about 100 miles east of Salt Lake City. Although some of us did heavy-duty forest service work, like cutting down trees, my job was mainly to empty trashcans from the campsites in the area.
But on July 16, a Saturday as I remember, we were told that we would be driving a few hours to the south to help fight a forest fire that had gone out of control in another forest – the Ashley National Forest. The fire was near the Flaming Gorge, quite a tourist attraction.
When we arrived at the scene, we were handed Pulaski fire tools to carry and fire-retardant shirts to wear, and given sleeping bags made out of paper and told we would be heading out to the fire scene soon, ferried there by helicopter. But we were also told that there had been a tragedy before our arrival: Three firefighters had been killed when the fire turned back on them and blew over the top of the tree stand were they were standing. They tried to outrun the blaze, but couldn’t.
I did not know their names then, but do now – thanks to the wonder of the Internet: Gene Campbell, Dwight Hodgkinson and Dave Noel. Even though none of s had known them before that day, they were all we thought about as we went about the business of containing that burning forest. I was just 20, and never thought until then that I could have such admiration and fear at the same time.
So on Saturday, March 28, 2009, I was at home reading when I decided a snack would be nice. Something simple and easy to make. A piece of toast. About half way though the process I noticed that there was an unusually large amount of smoke coming from the toaster – which would be nice in a barbeque pit but not in a third floor apartment. Somewhat experienced with smoking kitchen equipment, I opened the nearest window and the hallway door to get the smoke cleared. Which is about the same time the fire alarm went off.
I had noticed the alarm bell when I moved into the apartment a few months ago but hadn’t real paid it much mind. I imagined that it was there left over from some previous incarnation; what did I need with a bell, after all? I had smoke detectors. My first thought was to muffle the bell while the smoke cleared and everything went back to normal and I could finish my toast. Which is where the landlady found me, on the landing, gripping the metal clanger, when she ordered me out of the house.
We gathered on the street in front of the apartment, my landlady, fellow tenant and I, as I learned that the alarm was hardwired into an emergency service that would contact the fire company, which would be here soon. “But al I did was burn a piece of toast!” I explained, sheepishly. I don’t know whether my fellow evacuees’ laughter was directed at me, or at the situation. Nevertheless, that’s what they were doing when the pumper truck arrived.
A person I can only imagine must have been the chief --- since he stood about 14 feet tall, six feet wide and built, as they say, by the same firm that did Stonehenge – got off the truck and walked into the building like he owned it. I tried to stutter something about the toast, but it seemed he had more important things to do, like make sure the building wasn’t on fire.
It seemed as if hours passed as I stood on the sidewalk thinking how I was going to explain this one when the firefighter finally emerged from the house, having ascertained the level of my stupidity and shut off the alarm.
“So who’s the cook?” he asked, a wry smile crossing his face. I raised my hand. I explained the situation, he gave me some advice about what to do the next time the toast gets too crispy and then said, “Friend, you are not alone.” He walked back towards the truck, and we turned to go back inside.
There’s been a lot of news in the paper these days about firefighters, and some of it has not been great. But as the fire truck left the scene, all three of us turned to those who were inside and said, “Hey. Thanks. You guys do a great job.”
“So who’s the cook?”
To tell you the story behind that quote, I’m going to have to tell you another one first. Stay with me here. That Villanova score isn’t going to change anytime soon, and you’ll still be able to turn to it in the sports section.
In 1977, I worked for the U.S. Forest Service in the Uinta Mountains of northeastern Utah. We, a bunch of students from Earlham College and counterparts from schools in Utah, worked in the Wasatch National Forest about 100 miles east of Salt Lake City. Although some of us did heavy-duty forest service work, like cutting down trees, my job was mainly to empty trashcans from the campsites in the area.
But on July 16, a Saturday as I remember, we were told that we would be driving a few hours to the south to help fight a forest fire that had gone out of control in another forest – the Ashley National Forest. The fire was near the Flaming Gorge, quite a tourist attraction.
When we arrived at the scene, we were handed Pulaski fire tools to carry and fire-retardant shirts to wear, and given sleeping bags made out of paper and told we would be heading out to the fire scene soon, ferried there by helicopter. But we were also told that there had been a tragedy before our arrival: Three firefighters had been killed when the fire turned back on them and blew over the top of the tree stand were they were standing. They tried to outrun the blaze, but couldn’t.
I did not know their names then, but do now – thanks to the wonder of the Internet: Gene Campbell, Dwight Hodgkinson and Dave Noel. Even though none of s had known them before that day, they were all we thought about as we went about the business of containing that burning forest. I was just 20, and never thought until then that I could have such admiration and fear at the same time.
So on Saturday, March 28, 2009, I was at home reading when I decided a snack would be nice. Something simple and easy to make. A piece of toast. About half way though the process I noticed that there was an unusually large amount of smoke coming from the toaster – which would be nice in a barbeque pit but not in a third floor apartment. Somewhat experienced with smoking kitchen equipment, I opened the nearest window and the hallway door to get the smoke cleared. Which is about the same time the fire alarm went off.
I had noticed the alarm bell when I moved into the apartment a few months ago but hadn’t real paid it much mind. I imagined that it was there left over from some previous incarnation; what did I need with a bell, after all? I had smoke detectors. My first thought was to muffle the bell while the smoke cleared and everything went back to normal and I could finish my toast. Which is where the landlady found me, on the landing, gripping the metal clanger, when she ordered me out of the house.
We gathered on the street in front of the apartment, my landlady, fellow tenant and I, as I learned that the alarm was hardwired into an emergency service that would contact the fire company, which would be here soon. “But al I did was burn a piece of toast!” I explained, sheepishly. I don’t know whether my fellow evacuees’ laughter was directed at me, or at the situation. Nevertheless, that’s what they were doing when the pumper truck arrived.
A person I can only imagine must have been the chief --- since he stood about 14 feet tall, six feet wide and built, as they say, by the same firm that did Stonehenge – got off the truck and walked into the building like he owned it. I tried to stutter something about the toast, but it seemed he had more important things to do, like make sure the building wasn’t on fire.
It seemed as if hours passed as I stood on the sidewalk thinking how I was going to explain this one when the firefighter finally emerged from the house, having ascertained the level of my stupidity and shut off the alarm.
“So who’s the cook?” he asked, a wry smile crossing his face. I raised my hand. I explained the situation, he gave me some advice about what to do the next time the toast gets too crispy and then said, “Friend, you are not alone.” He walked back towards the truck, and we turned to go back inside.
There’s been a lot of news in the paper these days about firefighters, and some of it has not been great. But as the fire truck left the scene, all three of us turned to those who were inside and said, “Hey. Thanks. You guys do a great job.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
