Posts Tagged With: life

That’s okay

I went to fitness this morning – and that’s about all I did – went.

And Vandie said, “That’s okay.  At least you got here.  Good for you for coming.”

I did half the fitness routine and had to stop.

And Janet said, “That’s okay. Listen to your body.  Some days will be better than others. Good for you for trying.”

I got frustrated and cried.

And Vandie and Janet said, “That’s okay, Stacey.  You need to be kinder to yourself, more gentle. Be patient.”

So, I got through the class – did the stretches and went home.

On my drive home I felt fantastic.

By the time I arrived at home I had decided to go for that walk I missed this morning with Kevin.

I walked slowly.  But I made it.

And I said to myself, “That’s okay.  Tomorrow will be easier.  Good for you.  You did it.”

Thanks, Vandie and Janet, for turning my attitude around so that I can have a great day!

Categories: cancer, inpsiration, learning, life | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 22 Comments

Apartment 1001 re-visited

Looking out onto Kempenfelt Bay, you would never know anything had changed.  The waters were calm.  No Serendipity – the local tourist paddle-boat – yet, but other than that it looked just the same as it did a year ago. 

I turned to my oldest son, Ben, and took a deep breath.  It was time to leave apartment 1001.

They say your life flashes before you just before you leave this earth – snippits of my life with my family flashed before me as I walked through the patio to the dining room where we were always so careful that Dad did not lose his footing while climbing over the step to return to his pink chair after enjoying the night air.  It was a ritual almost – Mom would cling onto his belt buckle (as if she could hold him should he fall) and I would hold on to his walker to secure it from moving forward un-expectantly. 

I walked past where the dining-room table was – where so many meals were served.  Here too, was the place where toasts were made to life, anniversaries, birthdays, births… even commemorations of deaths.  But I heard joy in the voices in my head – I remember the good times, the laughter, and the oh, so delicious food Mom had so lovingly prepared. 

I walked past where Dads pink chair had once been – where David climbed onto the walker in front of Dad so that he could be so much better positioned to hop on Poppas lap and give him a hug.  The pink chair was the focus – the inhabitant (my Dad) was always the centre of attention.  Was he warm enough?  Was he hungry?  Was he able to hear the conversation? Did he tune us out to read? 

I walked past the couch – where we had danced.  I watched my daughter, Katya, twirl and spin and laugh.  I heard David giggle with delight as Nana ordered a steak and baked potato from his make-believe restaurant.  I knew she hoped that his culinary interest would continue and be her own little legacy. I saw Katya standing there, dressed in Nanas black lace dress – hand-made so many years ago.  No one but Katya could fit into that waist line anymore… but three generations had worn that dress – and Katya was the last of the lineage…

I walked down the hallway to peer into Moms room as Dad had so many times before.  Was Paula there?  Was she asleep?  Was she ironing or sewing?  The room was empty – and full all at the same time.  I thought if I looked quickly I could see her smiling at me as she was waking up from a quick afternoon rest… rarely did that happen, but it always seemed to comfort me that she could rest.

I walked down the hall to Dads room – the room where it had all ended — I expected to see him there.  But, alas, neither bed, nor Poppa were to be seen.  Ben heard me and came to see if I was okay – my 6 foot son put his arm around me and we both stood there knowing how happy Nana and Poppa would be that he grew up to be such a fine, young man.  You done good, kid, I heard my Dad say.  And with that, my son Ben and I turned around and left.  Buenos noches, Poppa – hasta manana – TTFN.  Sleep well. I love you both! 

It was odd, locking the door for the last time.  I did not cry.  They were not there.  I did not feel compelled to open the door quickly to check to see if I could sneak a peek.  Bill and Paula had definitely left the building. 

And so it was that today was our last glimpse of what was once a very happy household.  It was now my turn to provide that stability, comfort, and sense of belonging in my  own home.  I always said to my parents that my home had been wherever they were – now it is with my family and I.  Apartment 1001 is now us.. my husband, three children, and I. 

Categories: Duff History, Life's Lessons, Mom | Tags: , , , , , , | 23 Comments

10 000 and counting: Thank-you

A toast to life!

Mom and Dad toasting at their 40th anniversary

Yesterday was Remembrance Day and to honour my Dad, Flight Lieutenant WJ Duff, I tried to promote readers to check out Dad’s WWII stories.  I made an appeal to have 1, 000 “reads”.  He never thought anyone would be interested in his stories.

Yet, yesterday, with the help of fellow bloggers, Dad’s stories reached 2, 000 of you and that brought his total reads to over 10 000:  my goal.

A million thank-yous to all of you who helped me to remember Dad and his efforts to establish peace.  What an honour it would have been for Dad to see this kind of response.

Although my heart remains heavy as it has only been since June that he has, “moved to a better address”, I know that he is a peace and thankful for his remembrance.

Today happens to also be the day – two years today – when Mom, Paula Duff (ne Malloff) passed away very unexpectedly.  It was very difficult on Dad to lose his bride of 61 years but he was a trooper.  He remembered her every morning when he got up out of bed – every meal at the dining room table – every glass of wine – every celebration – every night as he lay down to rest.  And so did the rest of us.  She was with us as Dad remembered her to intensely.  It seems that our memory of Dad remembering her is now imprinted firmly into my mind.

Mom.  Paula.  Wife.  Daughter.  Nurse.  Aunt.  Teacher.  She was beautiful.

Today – we will remember Mom.

We will, as my daughter Katya advised me, remember her for her warmth and security, for her caring friendship and the memories that will live on in our hearts.  She is in pain no longer.  She will cook and sew to her hearts content.  I think there is quite a bit of “Nana” in my daughter.

So – here’s to all of our Moms and Dads who we hold dear in our hearts.  And here’s to one day when we will all meet again.   TTFN

Categories: Family and Friends, Mom | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

My Thoughts on Nursing Homes… for you Chatter Master!

I just finished reading Chatter Master’s post, “I Just Hurtle”, and I almost replied.

Realizing, however, my reply was more of a rant I felt it best to just haul off and “post” my reply.

Why is it that Western society has offered nursing homes as a solution for our elderly loved ones?  The words, “she would be better off in a nursing home” are just so predictable that it makes me want to vomit.  Can we not come up with something better?

I remember feeling trapped in the same scenario when my Dad was recovering in the hospital from pneumonia.  The hospital staff and CCAC told Mom and I that they would not release Dad back to his home and the best thing to do was to put him in a nursing home.  He was simply, “too much” for my Mom to handle on her own.  Dad used to say to us, “If I ever get too unable to take care of myself – take me to the back 40 acres and shoot me.”  Well, that was not going to happen, but neither would it happen that I would EVER put Dad in a nursing home.

I’ll confess that there are some homes that have wonderful care – but so many of them are so understaffed that an individual resident is denied the full care they need and deserve… as Chatter Master commented… after working hard all their lives.

Thank God I work in a school that also offers PSW courses and so when Dad was put on the nursing home treadmill I got busy and solicited the assistance of Janine, the PSW teacher, to help us find home care.  And that’s when our journey began surrounded by angels.  Diane came into our lives first, followed by Tessie and then a barrage of other angels.  I refused to abandon Dad in a nursing home.

This home care was not without it’s pitfalls.  Mom lost her privacy somewhat, especially when Dad’s needs grew.  I was no longer able to just visit Mom and Dad – it was always Mom and Dad and … whoever was helping out that day.  But losing her privacy was such a small price to pay for keeping Dad where he wanted to be:  home.

Their home was wonderful and it was a place where my children would always want to go and visit.  They had sleep-overs.  Who can say they would send their children for a sleep-over in a nursing home?  I wouldn’t want to – I don’t even like going there to visit.

Dad’s bedroom at home was the place where he went to sleep for the final time.  Everyone was there.  What a blessing.  How peaceful that transition was!  He was home.

Mom taught me that we did not need to follow “doctor’s order” or hospital orders – that we could think for ourselves in terms of what we felt was right.

I refuse to believe our only option for caring for our loved “elders” is to put them in a nursing home.  Society needs to become more creative and not just do what we are told is our only option.  We need to keep our families united at home – not a nursing home.

How can this be accomplished?

I became my Dad’s primary care-coordinator.  I cooked for him, payed bills for him, cried with him, laughed with him, and changed him when I needed to.  It was difficult for he and I and it was difficult for my family to give me up.  This coordinator required that I was with Dad a lot.  But my Dad raised me and put his life on hold for me.  It was my turn to give back to him.  And I do NOT regret it.

I’d like to think I’ve taught my children that there are options.  I’d like to think I’ve taught my children that it is possible to die with dignity in your own home and that death is a natural part of life.  We tend, as a society, to hide death and believe it needs to happen in a “hospital”.  Death is something that needs to be addressed as a part of life.

Nursing homes must not be dumping grounds or considered the be all and end all solution for our elderly who are not able to care for themselves.

Mom and Dad were my teachers even through death.  And by keeping them home they were able to live a better quality of life until the very end.

I think we can do better than nursing homes.

What we need are caring homes and caring families willing to make some sacrifices.  Our seniors deserve better.


Categories: Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

To Whom it May Concern: Applying for the Position of “Teacher”

To whom it may concern:

I am applying for the position of “Teacher – Adult Learning Facility”.

I am entering into my 23rd year of teaching and, still, every year the night before classes begin I am a nervous wreck.  My stomach is in knots and I do not sleep.  Well, I guess I do sleep,= somewhat as my dreams are always of the same nature: I am completely lost standing at the front of the class and struggle to figure out what it is that I’m trying to accomplish.   The students either sleep or walk out.  Egad.  I guess my dreams are night-mares.  This is an annual happening even though I’ve been teaching for So long.

Why do I keep applying?  I love teaching.  It is one of the most rewarding jobs I could ever think of.  Teaching is the only job where you have the opportunity to “learn” everyday.  Of course, the job I’m to do is to “teach” but I have always clung to the notion that, “to teach is to learn twice”.

Teaching is such a rewarding profession.  There are challenges, I’ll admit.  Without these challenges, however, the job would be pretty dull and boring.  Adversity is the best teacher.  I learned that from my students.

I learned how to be resilient from my students.  It was because of the resilience I saw in them, that I was able to come back to work after the trauma of losing Mom.  I thought, if my students can survive broken relationships, addictions, abuse, poverty, trauma, mental health challenges, learning challenges… so can I.

I learned to embrace other cultures from my students.  Cussing is a language.  Tatoos are a language.  Piercings are a language.  I did not speak this language until I began working adult students.  I thank them for enlightening me, for helping me understand so that I do not condemn.

When I am teaching, I feel exhilarated.  I sometimes am even so bold as to think I can make a real contribution.  With only a little encouragement from me – students can find their talent, have confidence in their talent, and delight in their ability to use their talent.  In this case, I am a cheer-leader.  I am sometimes their biggest, loudest cheer-leader.  “Find your passion!”, I say.  “Love what you do.”, I say.  “Live deliberately.”, I encourage.  “Be purposeful.”, I advise.

Still, I have learned students who are much wiser, innovative, and capable to make decisions than I ever have been.  I have learned from students who were older, younger, and with far more life experience than I’ll ever have.  I have learned from  students who were able to juggle a job, children, addiction, problematic relationships, and money challenges all the while attending school with dedication and ability.   And all the while, I was supposed to be the teacher.

I sincerely hope that you will keep an open mind when considering me for this position of adult-education-teacher.  Give me a try.  I come to you with experience, a most sincere heart and a passion for learning.

Yours very truly,


Categories: Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Just a Poor Dirt Farmer’s Sweater…

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater began like this one, I’m sure.

It is a warm and cozy cardigan that goes with just about everything.

When I wear it I feel comfortable and secure.

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater felt like that to him too, I’m sure.

The original was warm and comfortable and, much to Mom’s chagrin, went with everything.

When he wore it, he felt comfortable and secure … I’m sure.

Dad’s sweater was probably 20 years old – or more, and the elbows had worn through on it.  Mom wanted to patch it – but Dad would have nothing of it – it was comfortable the way it was.

Most of Dad’s clothes were old – he was of the age when things would be worn for practical purposes – not fashion.   Again, this was much to Mom’s chagrin.  Mom was very fashionable – a bit of a diva in her time – without the attitude.

Cleaning out Dad’s closet today revealed an array of clothes that lay in testimony to this “practical” side.  I found his farmer’s hat, complete with sweat stains that were well established through his toils in the raspberry patch.  What to do with it?  Well, it went into a separate pile that just can’t be negotiated at this point.   I found golf shirts that dated back to the farm when he wore them for guests.  Yes, they may have been a little thinner and faded through use and time, but they were still functional.  “Don’t throw them out, Stacey.” , echoed in my mind.  “I don’t need any new clothes. The clothes I have are fine.”  But I HAD purchased multiple pairs of pants for him in the latter years that had an elastic waist – much easier to slip on and off in emergencies.  The Bay was not going to carry them anymore I found out last Christmas and, anticipating that Dad would never die, I bought 6 new pairs.  There they were – neatly folded waiting to be used.  sigh.   I can only hope some lucky person finds them as useful as Dad did.

Two of Dad’s sweaters came home with me.  I am wearing one now during this very rainy day.  I think I will wear them for 20 years or more.  The only issue is that I am not a farmer and so can only imagine what “my” title will be?  The Poor Dirt Farmer’s Daughter?  Ah.  I could only be so lucky.

Dad’s “poor dirt farmer” sweater began like this one, I’m sure.

It was a warm and cozy cardigan that went with just about everything.

When I wear it I feel comfortable and secure.

I feel like Dad is with me.

One day, my sweater may be a “Sunday” kind of sweater too – no holes barred!



Categories: Duff History, Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

The Video Camera

It’s almost too much sometimes.

Interested in whether or not Mom and Dad’s rather vintage video-camera , of which they had taken such great pride in when it was freshly purchased, was still working – I asked my son Ben to plug it in.  The battery pack – naturally (as Mom was so very well organized) was right where it should have been tucked neatly into a side pocket.  Ben plugged the battery into the wall – rewound the film that was inside and hit play.

There he was – Dad – smiling at the dinner table.  Ben and I didn’t get the sound on right away, but we could tell he was interacting with whoever it was filming him.  The camera panned to the mirrors in the dining room – and then back to Dad.

Then, it happened.  The camera moved into the kitchen.  There was Mom.  Cooking.  She was always in the kitchen cooking.  This time, however, not only was she wearing her neck brace, but also her body brace that supported her spine.  It was at this time in her life when she really struggled to walk.  Her spine had disintegrated through loss of calcium to the point where it was literally collapsing on itself.  There she was – cooking.  I remember so well how challenging it was to let her do that.  Any outsider would have scolded me for allowing Mom to cook.  But Mom found meaning and purpose in cooking for her family. To take this away from her would have been to sentence her to death.

BTW:  Shortly after this clip was filmed she received a “cement” injection that filled in her spine and allowed her to walk for several years afterwards without pain.

The movie-maker moved down the hall to capture Mom and Dad’s first care-giver “Rou” in the midst of trying to organize Dad’s bathroom drawers.

This must have been taken at least three years ago.

Oh, how time changes all.

Rou has moved on – and so have Mom and Dad.

How utterly wonderful it was to find this clip – and at the same time how utterly painful.  The images have immobilized me.  I am useless today – other than to express my experiences in this post in the hopes that this experience will help someone else to feel they are not alone.  Or maybe to help me feel that way.

How strange to have been in their home only this morning… no Mom.. no Dad.  And to see them in the same location this afternoon on film.  I don’t know if film is good or bad at this point.  I’m sure that time will offer me a more clear perspective on the truth of the matter – but my brain is fuzzy today – here and now.

What do I do with the camera?  That has pretty much been my rate-limiting-step today.  It has been the window to memories so far.  It has defined itself as quite useful – but disabling at the same time.

The camera will sit in the front room with the collection of other “don’t know what to do with items” until I get further “clarity” of mind.

Mom and Dad’s winter coats… I was able to pack into a bag headed for the Salvation Army today – but the camera will sit in limbo … for a while anyhow.

Really.  Sometimes, it is almost too much.

I know tomorrow is a new day – and if I’m lucky – I’ll see Mom in the sunrise and Dad in the sunset – and my life will be in synchronicity once again.


Categories: Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

A Sign?

Dad said, “I’ll make the light flicker”. 

At the condo two nights ago – all alone – I turned on Dad’s light – and the light flickered.  

I said, “Dad, is that you?”

He “flickered”.

I said, “Dad, that’s you isn’t it?”

He “flickered”.

I thought, “is the light bulb screwed in tightly?”.

I checked – it was tight. 

I thought, “Maybe the bulb is about to burn out.”

I changed the bulb – and there was no more flicker. 

What do I make of that… I had changed the bulb two months previously… am I looking too hard?  


I know you are with me.. bulb or no bulb.  


Categories: Family and Friends, Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

One Day It Will Be My Turn

I’ve had many sleepless nights since my Dad passed away, trying to decide what to do.  The questions seem so big and so endless.  The one question that has perhaps plagued me the most is… What do I do with his house… with Mom’s house… with the Dancing Nannies’ house… my quiet sanctuary and get away? This was the oasis where we met – our home away from home.  This was where meals were prepared, conversations were had, and sleep-overs abounded.  This was where Ben and Katya and David learned how to swim, to cook, to play cribbage, to dance.

Do I keep my father’s house or sell it?

Keeping it allows me to hang on to Mom and Dad a while longer.  The house is “their” home and it is full of memories.  How can I sell it and allow someone else into their own piece of Heaven? How can I move things that my Mom so carefully put into place so that it was “perfect” for her own style and taste?  The image of the “beautiful lady” that hangs on the wall screams a memory to me.  Mom loved this print that she saw hanging in Auntie Helen’s house so much.  Auntie Helen bought her a copy of her own and sent it to Mom.  Every morning at the breakfast table, Mom would admire the beautiful lady.

How can I move the Royal Dalton figurines that Mom had collected over the years?  They are a collection. Each holds a memory.  One came from Mom’s mom and was so carefully guarded over the years.  I remember that wherever “Autumn Breezes” was I had to be very careful to not knock it or bump it.  Every time I dusted I was cautioned, “Be careful with my figurines”.  Each time someone sat in the chair next to them, they were told, “Watch your elbow”.  In spite of every precarious living movement that family and guests made – the figurines have survived.  Here they sit – on the bureau – all together.  How can I pull them apart?  How can I randomly decide their fate?

The white birch painting by Jacqueline Algee… maybe she wasn’t so famous, but she was a friend of Mom and Dad’s.  Her paintings are wonderful.  I remember Mom commenting, “How beautiful those birch trees are!  They remind me of the farm.”  Her favorite tree was the birch.  How can I take it down from the wall facing her chair?  Will it be appreciated as much in any other home?  Do I give it to someone else or keep it so that it can re-create discussions in my own home with my own family?

And those dishes!  They are so carefully tucked away in the cabinet.  “They are hand-painted, Stacey. You can’t buy those dishes anymore.”, I remember so clearly was Mom’s message to me.  “One day, they will be yours.”  I’d really rather Mom than those dishes – but somehow the dishes had out-lived her. What will they be when they are removed from that cabinet?  Where will they go?  Will they bear witness again to so many wonderful dinner conversations as they did in our family growing up?  Will they sample such good meals as my Mom prepared for them during Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter?

The stereo cabinet.  What of that?  When Jamie, my brother, was younger he was into wood-working.  This cabinet was a gift from him to Mom and Dad.  Dad had cut down this beautiful tree when we lived on the property – black walnut – or cherry?  I don’t really know as Mom changed the type of wood each time she told the story of how Dad chopped the tree and then took it to a local mill to have it dried and cut. Jamie took the wood and formed it into “this” cabinet that Mom cried over when paramedics moved and broke it while trying to get Dad to the hospital after one of his episodes.  Tessie’s husband fixed it – months after Mom’s death – and it just felt like all was right again.  On top of this stereo cabinet sits a display of Mom and Dad’s travels:  the man from Quebec, the character from Marguerita Island, the Samovar from Mom’s brother who brought it back from Russia… and finally the photos of our kids growing up.  My children were displayed on the cabinet and Jamie’s on the end tables.  How can I split up this display of memories?

I went to the house yesterday (to be honest it is a condo, but it feels more like a house) as the first step in my journey to negotiate the decision.  I was alone.  I poured Dad a glass of wine and had one myself.  His pink chair was gone and so the ceremony didn’t seem quite so real.  I walked into his bedroom, but the sheets were piled on the bed beside his and the comfort quilt from the church had been removed and washed and so the visit didn’t seem quite so real.  I walked into the pantry where “Mom” had stored everything in God’s little acre, but some things were missing and there were empty spaces where the food steamer and the salad spinner had been – and the pantry had seemed to loss some of its charm.

After some time, Ana walked in.  And it suddenly felt much more like home.  Could it be that it was not the contents of the house that held the meaning as much as the people?  Where were Mom and Dad?  They seemed to be in the print, the figurines, the dishes… the cabinet.  But when Ana walked in – I knew they were still living in her and in me and in our relationship that had been forged through their lives.

My father’s house will be sold and the contents will be moved and the move will be very painful for me.  I will be closing the door on apartment 1001 on day soon.  I will be walking down the hall to Dad’s room, pausing to peek into Mom’s room to see if she is still asleep.  It will be, one day, my turn.  Image

Categories: Life After Dad, Life's Lessons | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments


When my husband and I were sitting in the delivery room at Collingwood General and Marine Hospital on July 28th, 1994, I remember asking Kevin, “Are we ready for this?”.  I guess it wasn’t really the time to be considering whether or not we were prepared, but the question begged to be asked.

Now, this day, July 29th, 2012, I am still not sure I can answer that question.  The only thing I am sure of is how blessed Kevin and I have been to have a son like our “Ben”.

He came into the world in the wee hours of the morning after a very long and difficult struggle.  Had it been days of old, the doctor warned, you would have both been goners.  As comforting as he thought those words may have been  – I was not so reassured.  The impression I have always been left with, though, is how lucky Ben and I have bee along the way.

Ben was named with the hope that he would grow into a “gentle giant”. Kevin and I knew he’d likely be tall – but the gentle part we knew was more of a gamble.  I don’t know that a name makes a man – but Ben has made the name his own.  And gentle he is.

Nanna and Poppa loved Ben’s visits.  She, of course, would appeal to Ben’s hearty appetite, and Poppa would appeal to Ben’s intellect.  Ben was a loyal grand-child right until the end.  He visited them faithfully every week as a regular participant of the Wednesday night dinners and then, as Poppa aged, Ben would take a week-end care-giving shift .. until it became too difficult as a “grand-child”.  I am confident that Ben would have always been able to do what needed to be done in terms of first-aid or emergency care, but I always preferred that Ben remain a grand-child rather than a caregiver.

Ben is kind.  He is one of the youngest “Elder” (kind of an ironic title) at our church and was a favorite partner of the Minister’s wife with whom she liked to deliver the church newsletter door-to-door.

Ben is SO good with older people and not afraid of the sick or the elderly or those less “able” than others.  He is a faithful member of the Jesus Walk crew – helping sing songs, lead in worship, dance, tell jokes.. whatever needs to be done – with handi”capable” participants.  I hear, “Ben, Ben, Ben” when we walk into the building.  I am asked, “Is Ben coming tonight? Is Ben coming tomorrow? You get the picture.

I admire my son.  He is strong, talented, and an overall good person. Truthfully, he is any parents dream.  Yes, I may be a little biased, but what the heck… I am one of his biggest cheer-leaders and fans.

Recently, our community suffered a grave loss.  A young lady of 17 was killed tragically while working at a camp for the summer.  She had been a class-mate of Ben’s and had traveled with him and several others on a unique educational program last year.  The loss of their daughter, has left the parents with a hole in the family that will never be filled.  This loss reminds us, once again, about how appreciative we must be of one another always.

I sometimes can get lost in my own grief for Dad – and Mom – and forget the lessons that he taught me not even a month ago – the lessons of appreciation.

And so, this post, is dedicated to “Ben”.  Thank-you for being such a wonderful son.  I am honoured to be your Mom and hope that your Dad and I were, after-all, “ready for you”.

I wish you a wonderful day, Ben, that leads into a continued wonderful and gentle life.

Happy birthday big guy!


Love, Mom

Categories: Family and Friends | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Create a free website or blog at