I had more “help” than I wanted or needed on my latest photography walk.

PK Piebean is suckling seven kittens in the house, but that doesn’t keep her from spending time outdoors.  She needs to get away from them sometimes.

She always has liked to go along with me when I walk, and when I’m getting down on my knees to photograph something low and small, she wants to get up close to see what’s so interesting. 

Last time we went out together, she found something new to interact with:  the lens cap dangling on its cord.  I was too busy trying to keep it out of her reach to get a picture of her batting at the swinging cap.  In the photo above, she is giving it a hypnotic gaze.

I didn’t know that I’d captured a shot of her whiskers and eyebrows until after I saved this and saw it on the monitor.

Those were the accidental photographs.  Below are a few of the ones I wanted to get.

It amazes me how just touching the tip of my tongue to a pretty little yellow mushroom can have such lasting effects.  These guys are strong medicine, indeed!  By mid-day yesterday, the tongue tip and spot on my lip felt just as if I’d burned them with a hot liquid.  The lip now has some peeling skin there, and the tongue is sore and slightly swollen just back from the tip. 

I still have not done an exhaustive search to try and identify this fungus.  One thing I know about it:  I have never seen it before.  I have been wandering in these woods for a quarter of a century, and have collected and identified many species of plants and fungi.  If these bright yellow pretties had been here, I would have seen them.  Either they are new to this region, or they are rare.

Kitten news:  To recap, we started with seventeen:  First came Linda’s first litter.  She had seven.  Then PK had her second litter, of five, and lastly there was Bagel’s third litter, also five.

On Monday, Greyfox took Linda and six of her kittens to town to find homes for them.  We kept Rasputin, the runt, because he wasn’t ready to be adopted and we weren’t ready to let him go.  PK had already accepted him as one of hers.

Then we discovered that Bagel’s milk had dried up.  Two of her kittens were dead in their nest and the other three were very skinny.  We moved them into PK’s box, she accepted them, and was contentedly nursing all nine kittens.

Yesterday morning, Koji, our big dog, jumped onto my bed and lay down on Rasputin.  Rasputin cried out, and when Doug came to check on him found him paralyzed.  Euthanasia.  Later in the day, Doug found another of Bagel’s little ones dead in the nest.  This leaves PK with a reasonable-sized brood of seven to care for.  Bagel behaves as if kittens are of no interest to her.  Greyfox has already found homes for two of Linda’s, and is considering keeping Tippy.

That was Greyfox’s assessment of my mentality last night after I shared with him my sudden flash of insight regarding the little yellow fungi (still unidentified) in my yard, about which I wrote yesterday.

The easiest way to lead into this story is to copy and paste some comments and replies from the photo here.

I hadn’t seen Ian’s last response at the time I was talking to Greyfox last night.  I told him about going out after I read Ian’s question about the scent of the ‘shrooms, picking one, failing to smell anything at all, touching the tip of my tongue to the fungus, tasting the sweetness, resisting the temptation to pop it into my mouth when it tasted so sweet, then having my tongue and a spot on my lip that I’d touched with my tongue, first go numb, then tingle, then burn, and having an uncomfortable case of stomach gas, belching a lot….

Greyfox and I went on discussing that for a while.  It was mostly him admonishing me about my recklessness and me agreeing in monosyllables, until I did a sudden sharp intake of breath and said, “AH!” (meaning, I suppose, “AHA!”)  Having gotten the Old Fart’s attention, I went on to explain the flash of insight.

I told him that those little yellow shrooms were pristine, the only intact fungi in the yard.  Nearly every other kind of fungus out there is either full of bugs or insect larvae, and/or have been torn apart or visibly nibbled upon by rodents, cats, etc.  Then here are these bright and showy little things growing there for weeks, undisturbed.

He replied, “…and then there’s the occasional crazy redhead who comes along and licks the damned thing.”  After that, he compared my sense unfavorably with that of an aphid, and we busted up in guffaws.

For the record:  I did have the good sense not to eat the damned thing, didn’t really even “lick” it.  I touched it with just the tip of my tongue.  I could hypocritically say I won’t do it again, but given my track record in such matters, I just might do something like that in future, in similar circumstances.  More than a few times since my early childhood people have remarked on the fact that often the first thing I do when I see something interesting is to grab it and stick it in my mouth.

Greyfox, my beloved Old Fart, said those words to me last Saturday.  He might think of me as an invalid.  I never had thought of myself as an invalid before.  Now that I’ve looked up the word — “someone who is incapacitated by a chronic illness or injury” — if we stipulate that the incapacity is relative, I’ll have to accept the label.  The label is easier to take than the incapacity, and I must admit that my physical capacity has diminished over the decades.

I have never thought of myself as hyperactive, either.  Frequently ill or incapacitated since infancy, I didn’t walk until I was two years old and spent much of my life in bed or on a couch.  In the supermarket, I ride the crip cart, and my doctor and the state of Alaska consider me qualified to park in handicapped spaces.  As soon as I heard the term, “couch potato,” I knew it fit me.  But I also dance when I can, make trips to the spring and help Doug get water whenever we need it, go up a ladder to work on the roof when necessary, and take as many short walks, with or without my camera, as I can manage.  After rearing a kid with ADHD, that does not seem hyper to me.  What I have, in my far from humble opinion, is ADD without the hyperactivity.

Here’s how Greyfox came to call me, “a hyperactive invalid”:

  Last week, on walks out to the rhubarb patch to mind what I somewhat grandiosely call my garden, I had noticed a few small yellow fungi growing beside the path.  Saturday, while tending the rhubarb, I noticed some brilliant red leaves on one of them, and returned to the house for my camera.  I took what was supposed to be a short trip out to get some photos of the yellow fungi and red rhubarb leaves, leaving my headset phone in the house.

When I turned on my camera, I noticed that the battery was low, so I turned around and went back to the house for a spare set of batteries.  As I was digging around in the clutter looking for them, the phone rang.   My headset phone was lying there because I hadn’t clipped it on me.  I grabbed it and answered.  Greyfox was saying something to me when he was interrupted by the arrival of a customer.  He said he’d call me back, so I clipped on the phone and went back out to take my photos.

I was pretty wobbly and shaky that morning.  I stopped on the way to the rhubarb patch to get some pictures of puffballs before continuing on to the little yellow ‘shrooms.  Bending to see my shot in the LC display, I keeled over.  I had promised myself and the guys not to lie down on the forest floor and inhale moss and mushroom spores any more.  That was what started the triple whammy of lung ailments that put me in the hospital two years ago:  atypical fungal pneumonia, followed by influenza, topped off with a colds virus.

I picked myself up off the ground and decided to just reach down with the camera and catch some shots, and then check the display to see if they were any good.  Reaching down with the camera, I fumbled it.  That is not a good thing to do with the lens cap off.  I knelt to pick up the camera, and just about that time, the battery went dead and it shut down.  Kneeling there, short of breath and trembling, wasn’t a comfortable position for changing batteries, so I resigned myself to a wet butt (it had rained during the night) and sat down.

  I had fumbled the new set of batteries out of my pocket and was removing the dead ones from the camera when my phone rang.  I pressed the button to take the call and went on changing the batteries while Greyfox finished telling me what he had been saying when he’d been interrupted.  When he paused and I knew it was my turn to talk, I told him I was sitting on the ground changing batteries.  I mentioned having fallen over once, and fumbling the camera.  I said I intended to sit there a while and catch my breath.

   He told me to do that and then get back in the house and take care of myself.  I said I surely would sit there a while, catch my breath, and, since I was down there already, get some decent shots of those small yellow mushrooms. 

Then, I said, I intended to walk on out to the rhubarb patch and get the shots I’d come out there to get, and on out to the road and around that way to the driveway, getting some pictures of fireweed fluff on the way.  That was when he sighed heavily and made the, “hyperactive invalid,” crack.

On my way to the rhubarb patch, I noticed many ripe bunchberries and lowbush cranberries.  While I was photographing them, I ate some.

I also noticed a lot of fall color in the understory.  The plant on the left here is wild Spirea.

I got my fireweed fluff shots (all the way down, left and right), and headed on toward home.  As I came up the driveway, I could see that my car was swarming with bees, butterflies and iridescent blue and green flies.

The defenseless flies and butterflies took off at my approach, but the bees stayed on, lapping up splatters of “honeydew” produced by the aphids that are everywhere this summer, up in trees as well as infesting fireweed and other wild and domestic plants.

The sun rises before I do these days.  Days are still reasonably long, but getting shorter fast.  Sunrise:  6:17 AM;  sunset:  9:47 PM — fifteen and a half hours of daylight today.  With clearing skies and the chill I felt in the air last night, I went to bed thinking we might have our first frost since the Summer Solstice — that’s right, our last frost of the previous winter was on the Summer Solstice.  That’s somewhat unusual, but not unprecedented.  We’ve had frost in early July some years, which made it hard to say if it was last winter’s last or next winter’s first.  Frost in mid-August is not unusual.

The first thing Doug said to me this morning when I awoke was, “I didn’t see any frost this morning, but we had some very cold dew.”  In my mind’s eye, I could see what he meant:  the droplets so pinpoint tiny the only visible difference between them and frost is that frost sparkles and the cold dew looks matte gray from a distance.

PICTURE UNRELATED
blast from the past
“my” muskeg 4 years and 1 month ago

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Topic jump –

I’m doing a lot of emotional release lately.  Some of it is my emotion, but most of it comes in from outside.  I’m an empathic sponge that occasionally needs to be wrung out, to use a dreadful and horribly deficient metaphor.  I hope somebody understands what I mean, but I don’t expect most people to get it.  When large groups of people anywhere, or individuals or smaller groups either mentally attuned to me or geographically near to me, are feeling strong emotions, I pick them up.

When these intrusive emotions resonate with me, either in harmony with my own emotions or in dissonant conflict with them, I could be in trouble — anywhere from mildly upset to madly insane — if I were not to let these feelings go.  A lot of my energy has gone into that lately, not so much in the release, which is effortless, but in monitoring my feelings and recognizing when I need to release.  I am grateful for my connectedness:  online news and search engines in general, Xanga and Facebook in particular, for enabling me to sort it out.  Years ago, discerning the source(s) of my exogenous feelings was an iffier and slower process.

Right now, my jaws and shoulders are tensed from the mental effort of finding words to express all that, and I’m not at all sure that I have done it adequately.  I’m going to stop trying now, and do some stretching to release the physical tension.  Seeya later.

I had a headache a little while ago.  Headaches were once a daily occurrence for me:  cluster headaches, migraines, hypoglycemic hammerings.  That was decades ago, when I was also depending on the medical establishment to tell me what was wrong and try to fix it.  They told me lots of different, often contradictory things, ran tests and scanned me to rule out things like brain tumors and cranial aneurysms.  They got me addicted to chemically dependent on painkillers and muscle relaxers.

Then something happened.  I went to the doc one day, complaining of headache, nausea, runny nose and shortness of breath.  He prescribed four drugs, one for each symptom.  I took them according to directions and went into seizure.  After some time to recover and think — plenty of time to think because while I was recuperating I lost my job — I decided to give the docs a wide berth.  I read a lot — learned nutrition and self-care, studied works such as A Barefoot Doctor’s Manual, Where There Is No Doctor, and Let’s Get Well.

If I didn’t need medication for asthma, I’d still be staying away from doctors.  One doctor told me that the reason I am dependent on that medication is because I was given it in the first place and it changed my neurochemistry.  I routinely go in every year or so to get my prescriptions renewed.  Fear of pain used to drive me to the doctor or the ER on a regular basis.  Medical and nutritional knowledge, and the Painswitch, allow me to decide intelligently whether I need a doctor or not, take care of the minor things myself, and not fear pain.

Some of the above ran through my mind this morning when my head was hurting.  Then I started asking myself:  was my blood sugar low? No.  …in caffeine withdrawal?  No.  Do I have a congested sinus or two?  No.  Is the pain a danger signal — something serious?  That required a bit of introspection and intuitive footwork, but the final answer was no.  It was just a headache.  It went away.

As an only child, I didn’t have as much early experience or training in sharing as kids do who have siblings.  It wasn’t entirely lacking.  My parents didn’t neglect that aspect of my development.  The issue just didn’t come up often in my early years.  Taking turns and sharing were challenges I was compelled to meet in kindergarten. 

I remember fighting over paints and being sent to sit in a chair facing a corner of the classroom, wearing the dunce cap.  It was the 1940s, and that was considered appropriate punishment.  But I digress….

Later in my childhood, when it was just my mother and me, “share and share alike,” was one of her favorite aphorisms.  She preached it a lot, and practiced it where food was concerned, but not much otherwise.  I would get in big trouble for getting into her toiletries, cosmetics and “stuff,” and if there was conflict over what to watch on TV, etc., she had the power and wasn’t inclined to defer to me or take turns.

The custom of equal divisions of food portions from my mother’s household did not survive in mine.  If one of us wants to have part of something set aside to eat later, he or she makes a point of saying so.  Otherwise, it’s common property and nobody gets any grief for eating more than a “fair share.”  Share and share alike would not work for Doug and me because our tastes are very different and his caloric requirement is greater than mine.  Our system works now that the household is just the two of us, because neither of us is greedy and we have plenty.

I’m having new problems with sharing now, and I’m not sure that even growing up in a big family would have prepared me for this.  It is a different kind of sharing.  I have observed the meaning of “share” evolving through my lifetime.  I was in my thirties before I heard anyone say, “Thanks for sharing,” in reference to a personal revelation or amusing anecdote. 

Now, social media have added new connotations to “sharing” just as they have to, “friend.”  The “friends” I have on Facebook are mostly strangers to me.  Although only a few of these people are really my friends, I’m going to omit the quotation marks for the sake of convenience.  I assume you know what I mean. 

I have been seeing conflicts develop because some people think that their FB friends are sharing things that are inappropriate, or that they are sharing too much of one thing or another.  I ran into a bit of that sort of judgment on Xanga while I was writing my memoirs.  One tight-assed Xanga Relic commented that reading my memoirs was like walking in on me as I stepped from the shower.  That’s me, the naked autobiographer.  Read me at your own risk.

I bridle at even the suggestion of censorship.  If my revelations are startling, annoying or offensive, nobody needs to be exposed to them more than once.  Anyone who subscribes to me here, or any friend who includes my input in his newsfeed on Facebook, has no room to complain about anything I “share.” 

Facebook makes it even easier to hide the output of a friend than Xanga makes the process of blocking or unsubbing.  I have concluded that those who complain about what their friends share are either ignorant of the ease of hiding people and blocking apps, or they have control issues, are afraid of offending the friends who have offended them, or just get perverse pleasure from criticizing and complaining.

I get many invitations, suggestions, and requests from Facebook friends that I choose, for one reason or another, not to accept.  I block and hide apps frequently.  Less frequently, I hide the entire feed from a friend.  Even less frequently than that, I unfriend someone.  If any of those actions angers or offends someone or hurts her feelings, that is her problem, not mine.  I’m exercising my admin-given prerogatives.  These social media are new enough that anybody’s idiosyncratic rules of conduct are bound to lack the force of tradition. 

I tend to live by my own rules anyway.  I have a simple rule of thumb that helps me decide whether someone’s egregious behavior warrants having her feed hidden or being deleted as my friend.  It’s based on how I feel when I look at her profile pic.  It is entirely arbitrary and capricious, my business, not hers.  I don’t make a production of it, no threats to hide or delete her if she doesn’t shape up and do things my way.  It’s perfectly okay with me if everyone goes on doing things their own way, as long as I have control over my exposure to what they’re doing.

I know I’m nuts.  It’s a given, useless to deny it.  Between a mind that doesn’t like to stop and a body that frequently comes full stop when it runs up against the wall of chronic fatigue, I sometimes find myself just sitting and spinning.  Being an imperfect perfectionist… let’s just say I don’t live up to my own standards all the time.

Some glimmers of light have begun to penetrate my fog of incomprehension.  I’m learning that mental stress and excitement contribute to the fatigue that lays me low physically.  I really have very little stress and excitement in my life, so I read thrillers and watch action adventure video.  I’m an adrenaline junkie with exhausted adrenals.  I know I’m nuts.  I said that.  It’s something to work on.

Last night, when I was too tired to stay up and do anything, I crawled in bed and asked Doug to find some decent video and put it on.  He dug down into one of the media bags Greyfox sent up the valley with me last week, and found a DVD with four episodes from the 2007 season of 24.  This is my first acquaintance with Jack Bauer and I was blown away by the character.  I was irate when the DVD ended with a 12-minute teaser from the following episode.  There’s not another flicker of 24 anywhere near here, and I was hooked.

I was also wide awake, mind running on adrenaline and body running on empty.  Doug and I kicked around various ideas for things that might wind my mind down, and I settled on volume 3 of The Ascent of Man.  I had fallen asleep the previous night, sitting up watching it, and awoke when Doug walked over to turn off the VCR.  This time, I asked Doug to stop the tape when I started nodding off in Macchu Picchu.   Then I slid under the covers and dozed off.

That was about the time that Linda Piebean’s seven kittens decided it was time to go on their first nocturnal adventure out of their nest under my bed.  One by one they climbed up the back of my bed and started exploring on and around my inert form.  I roused enough to speak and ask Doug if he could relieve me of the siege of kittens.  He tried moving them, but some of them cried and came back while others wandered around on the floor crying.  I guess their mother had gone outside, because she didn’t respond to their cries.

Linda’s sister, P.K. Piebean, did respond.  She started dragging the seven bigger kittens into the box under the coffee table with her own younger litter of five.  Concerned that P.K. lacked expertise in carrying kittens without hurting them, Doug helped her corral the whole bunch.  However, Rumble – the biggest of Linda’s litter – and one or two others crawled right back out of the box under the table and onto the bed with me again.  Around that time, Linda came back, jumped onto the bed – really, she jumped onto me – and started calling her litter together.

They didn’t keep me awake long.  Jack Bauer might have been able to keep me awake.  I dunno.  By the time I woke today, all was quiet, of course.  It’s daytime.  The kittens are asleep, recharging for their next nocturnal ramble.

I love books.  When I get sleepy, I stick in a bookmark, and take up where I left off whenever I’m ready.  Books don’t need to be rewound, and as long as the cats don’t remove the bookmark I can find my place without scrolling through “scene selection.”  That said, video can be enjoyable, if it is enjoyable video.

My Old Fart and I have markedly different views on what constitutes enjoyable video, except that we both like mystery and action.  His tastes tend towards horror, sci-fi and fantasy a lot more than mine do.  He does not like romance, straight drama or psychological thrillers, but a drama, romantic comedy or thriller with a good script, cast, direction, and production values, could be high on my list of favorite movies.  He doesn’t like westerns in general.  I like some westerns, if they are done well.  I generally view horror movies with horror, but make exceptions for exceptionally good movies.  Greyfox (aka Old Fart) has a category of film that he calls, “so bad it’s good,” but to me a bad movie is never good.

When we lived together, it was never much of a problem.  He would go rent videos and if Doug and I didn’t want to watch with him we would play games or read books.  Paradoxically, our differing tastes have become more of a problem between us since he now lives in town and we still live out here in subarctic suburbia.  I don’t get to watch the good ones from the videos he rents, for one thing.  I don’t go rent videos.  Renting a video means committing myself to making another trip to the store a day later, and M.E./CFIDS often prevents going anywhere or doing anything two days in a row.

Greyfox also buys cheap video from discount bins at Wal-Mart, used ones from Blockbuster or library discard sales, and even finds them in dumpsters sometimes, and that is where the real video problem between us got its start.  When I go to town for supplies or when he comes up the valley, he always has what he calls, “media bags,” for us.  They include magazines and books, the comics and selected interesting bits he has culled from newspapers, and various VHS and DVDs he has collected.  He says he chooses them with our (Doug’s and my) tastes in mind, but we often wonder about that.  In effect, other than what we get from radio and internet, Doug’s and my media exposure is filtered through Greyfox and his weird (to us) tastes.

A year or two ago, he saw an ad somewhere for a collection of 50 “horror classic” movies on DVD, but the ad didn’t list the titles.  He asked me to research it online and see if I could find the contents.  I did, and that led to the purchase of a collection of sci-fi B movies as well as one called 50 Drive-In Movie Classics.  He read off the titles and we rejected them, so he kept them.  Sometimes, for some reason none of us understands, he does send up video we say we don’t want to see.  Sometimes he sends them back to us several times after we reject them.  Go figure. 

More recently, he bought a collection called Box Office Gold, presumably because each film had at least one known name actor.  After watching a few of them, he decided I’d like them and even before watching the entire collection he sent it up the valley for me.  I judged a few by their titles to be watchable, and was wrong about as often as I was right.  We discussed it in one of our nightly phone calls and he said he’d had a similar experience.  I ended up going through the whole collection one-by-one, watching at least a few minutes of each movie, and writing brief reviews for him.  I titled my sheet of reviews, “The Chill Wills Film Festival,” because if my count is correct, Mr. Wills had supporting roles in seventeen of those 50 films.

The next time he had me searching Amazon for info for him, I decided I could use an antidote to his questionable taste, and I bought 50 Hollywood Legends.  For several weeks, I have been working my way through a bunch of wonderful and not so great old movies.  They include one of the best war movies of all time: A Walk in the Sun, which I had never previously seen.  It has Joan Crawford as Sadie Thompson in Rain, which I had seen when I was too young to get its significance.  I really liked Lady of Burlesque with Barbara Stanwyck, and didn’t even bother watching all of The Fat Spy with Jayne Mansfield and Phyllis Diller.  That last mentioned film, made in the ’60s, was apparently done to cash in on the popularity of James Bond and beach party movies.  It flopped.

This week, I saw two silent classics, Joyless Street with Greta Garbo and Blood and Sand with Rudolf Valentino.   I remember enjoying old silent movies when I was a kid.  My tastes are more sophisitcated now, I guess.  My purpose here is not to review the Hollywood Legends collection.  I have a story to tell.  These movies did to some extent get the nasty taste out of my mind from Greyfox’s B movie classics, but I had frankly been getting a little tired of old films.

I went to Wasilla yesterday, mainly for a “new” microwave.  The $15 thrift store oven works great, which is a grand improvement on the old one which would light up, make noise and produce some heat — but not in the food, just in the metal housing.  There was an unusually heavy bounty of media to be picked up this trip because the Wasilla Public Library had its bag sale and Greyfox had bought bag after bag of books, magazines, VHS tapes and DVDs.  I have, for example, all but volume 1 of The Ascent of Man to watch, sometime, when I’m in the mood for more or less obsolete anthropological theory.

But last night I was in the mood for some entertainment.  I started with something called The Killing, a Frank Capra film.  Why I started with that “old” movie, I don’t know.  When it was done,  I watched 2 episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation.  By then, Doug’s online game session was over and we started watching Shoot ‘Em Up with Clive Owen, written and directed by Michael Davis.  I liked it.  It’s surreal, stark, violent and funny, which is a combination that’s somewhat hard to pull off successfully.  It’s no fault of the film that I fell asleep before it was over.  I was exhausted.  I’m still recovering.  I don’t expect to spend all day at the computer.  In a while, I’ll nuke something quick to fix and easy to eat, then dig through those media bags, and then I’ll crawl into bed and watch some more video.

There was this tiny moth that landed near my feet out on the muskeg, folded its wings and nearly disappeared in the debris on the ground.  I managed to get down to its level with the camera without scaring it off.  Just as I was focusing on it, P. K. Piebean approached and I took the shot I had, knowing that if I waited another millisecond the moth would be gone.

The cat, of course, could not have cared less.

Nothing spectacular from the rest of my time out there… just some shots of marsh cinquefoil, Potentilla palustris, all but ready to burst into bloom.

I found four blueberries on my muskeg walk.  This suggests that the weather had been rainy when the flowers needed pollenators, and the insects were keeping under cover.  The few berries, of course, are fat and juicy.  …and I’m exhausted.

‘Bye.

Oh, by the way, I got this plea for help in comments on one of my old biker years posts  If anyone can help the woman, please do, because I wouldn’t know where to begin:

my name is michelle crawford and i am looking for my dad michael thomas crawford.  he has been a member [presumably she means of Hells Angels] since the 60′s, the last known chapter was the napa/ richmond chapter he said .  the last time i heard from him was 1999 he was in fairfield visiting his son, my half brother mathew. (reason i want to find my dad).

i have tried everything to find him, i have clled several chapters with no return calls.  i guess these guys dont realize how importaint is is for me to get in touch with my dad.

mathew is my dads first born child, he was young so mathews grforbid my dad to be apart of his life.

well my dad ( mike ) married my mom at 16yrs old and had me and my brother michael.

i am 43 years old now and i feel such a loss without knowing my half brother.

if my dad to pass away (god forbid)  than i would never have anyway to find mathew.

if anyone can help me i would really appreciate it.

lets see a little info about my dad,

blond hair blue eyes 240 back in the day and pretty good looking.

he lived in fairfield and married a lady named diane divorsed and so on.

hes had been living in arizona for about 14 or 15 years after govern brown kicked him out of california in 1984.

hope someone can help please email me back if oyu have any information

thanks so very, very much

god bless, peace out

michelle crawford

email: missygirl574@yahoo.com