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Death Of A Lover



Dearly beloved, why did you go,

And where?


The pleasures we shared when you

Were here -

Touch me if you are near.


Darling is it pleasant where you are



The beating of your heart pressed

Against me in the night


Stay with me again until first light.


My soul mate, what do you feel there

And Know?


How I miss your sweetness and your

Flashing smile.


Touch me if you are near

And stay with me a while.





Being from Texas, I make a lot of Mexican food. It also happens to be my first choice for dinner anytime. Poor Dick, he probably longed to have Yankee food more often when we first moved in together and I chose the cooking chores, but I have converted him. Mexican food became his favorite.  Each fall we found a vendor to sell us a year’s supply of roasted Hatch chilies. I made chicken green chili each year and many other chili flavored dishes and we considered Hatch the best. For some reason, we did not get our local supply of chilies the fall of 2011 so, we decided the following summer to go to the July Hatch Chili Festival in Hatch, New Mexico for the harvest. We drove down to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico and stayed in a quaint, delightful little motel and started for Hatch the following morning.

The festival was in an open field. Blowing dirt, no trees, no grass, just rows and rows of tents. We stepped out of the car and 120 degrees sucked our breath away. We struggled across the wide field towards those booths lined up in rows with huge ristras strung inside and out. So many hot peppers were piled and hung and stacked they made my eyes burn as we strolled along between the many vendor stalls. One could barely breath. Away from the booths, a giant tent where food and live music was available was set up and we staggered over hoping for a cool drink.

We bought cold drinks and sat in the big tent and listened to the Mexican bands for a while, but just could not take the heat. We chose the closest booth to the parking lot and picked out strings of peppers for us and several relatives who had asked us to buy for them also. The ten-year old boy at that booth loaded our peppers onto the back of an ATV, motioned for me to get on behind him and drove me to the car where Dick had already sprinted to open the trunk. We drove away, grateful for the air conditioning blowing at top speed.

We soon began to choke. The chili fumes filled the car. We rolled down the windows but were still very uncomfortable by the time we made it to the cabin we had reserved in old Georgetown, New Mexico. The cabin was very nice and Dick strung the ristras on a long rope from the overhang on two sides of the cabin to get them out of the car.

We had a delightful stay, but had another choking ride to Taos where we met up with two of Dick’s granddaughters, Haley and Ashley, and their families. Haley’s significant other, Cal, was a super nice man with two handsome sons. They lived in Cortez, Colorado. Ashley had divorced and remarried a wonderful man, Kurt, who had five teen age boys. Ashley loved, loved raising those boys on their land with log cabin and many, many animals in Utah. There were nine of us to camp for a few days along the Rio Grande canyon in the Wild Rivers Area. We loved, loved that camp ground and had camped there many times with family as well as just the two of us. Scrubby juniper and oak stretched along the rim of the canyon. A steep, mile long switch back trail to the river below put one under big oaks shading the sandy banks of the Rio Grande. We also loved, loved these family members and had a wonderful time with them. They unloaded some of the chilies, but the drive home to Golden with the rest of them stinging our eyes and nose convinced us to never visit the Hatch Chili Festival again. 


Mike began to suggest a surprise birthday party for my eightieth birthday to his siblings. He and his wife Maggie manage million-dollar vacation rentals in the mountains of Colorado and said he could have three of the houses available for family members. They began to discuss weather issues that might cause problems in December and decided on October. They wanted to surprise me but realized there was a huge possibility that Dick and I might buy airline tickets and fly away, unaware that people were flying in from across the country for a surprise party. They called it a reunion and gave me the dates. I held my breath to see how many family members could make it.

That Friday in October, Dick and I picked up some of the family that had flown in from Texas at DIA and drove to the mountains. The big log vacation homes in the forested mountains were beautiful. Local families brought food. Everyone brought photos, old movies and memories. By 2012 I had nine grandchildren and eight great grandchildren. Not all of my extended family could attend the reunion but thirty-two of us, including husbands, wives and significant others, shared, cooked and ate together for three days. They surprised me with a birthday cake and gifts. One of the greatest three days of my life.



As we drove into the garage after an 8,000 plus mile drive through the Yukon into Alaska July of 2013, we did not experience, “Whew, so good to be off the road and home.” We were ready to go again. The trip had surpassed all expectations. The week we had spent in Sitka a few years back had given us a taste of the beauty and history of the state which motivated us to plan this four-week adventure.

Trip Through the Yukon Journal

It is Sunday, July 17th and we have driven 5,250 miles on the highways and byways of the Yukon, Alberta and British Columbia. Often there has been no traffic visible in either direction for miles and miles. Our approach has been to drive for two days and then spend two days visiting some special place. Starting from Denver, Colorado we have visited Glacier Park, Montana, Waterton Park and Lake Louise in Alberta, Canada. We stayed in Dawson Creek and British Columbia, the starting point of the Alaskan Highway then on to Muncho Lake, British Columbia which is half way to Whitehorse, the picturesque and interesting capital city of the Yukon. We also spent two days at Kluane Lake, a magnificent area of high, glaciated mountains and huge lakes.

Glacier Park is so spectacular one has a hard time describing it. The extremely rugged mountains of sharp peaks, sheer cliffs and crumbling rock present a startling picture of the action of the Lewis Overthrust that started pushing this area upward 170 million years ago. The massive glacial action that carved out the valleys and lakes added to the chaotic landscape, but alas, only 25 active glaciers remain of the original 150.

Lake Louise, the moraine lake for which the hamlet of Lake Louise is named, a bright turquoise lake that sits at the base of 8,000-foot Victoria Mountain reflecting its brilliant snow covered peak, derives its waters from the mountain’s huge glacier.  Sheer cliff walls of the 10,000-foot mountains on each side of the lake plunge into the water.

We had stayed at Deer Lodge close to the lake several times. It is a beautiful old rustic hotel built in 1923 offering upscale modern comfort. We love having breakfast in the gracious dining room with a view of the lake. Excellent coffee and croissants.

Next on the drive was Dawson Creek, British Columbia then on to Muncho Lake, BC. Muncho Lake is breathtaking as you come round a curve. The 7.5-mile lake is bright turquoise and smooth as glass. The road cuts into the mountains at the shoreline right at water’s edge and we snake along between water and cliff until the valley opens up and there is our Northern Rockies Lodge. The lodge is a three-story structure made of huge caramel-colored logs. It was built in 1987 along with multiple log cabins among the trees between it and the lake. Two bright yellow float planes bob at the docks waiting for the next day’s tours.

We had an excellent dinner in the two-story dining room with windows from floor to vaulted ceiling overlooking the lake. Our German waiter’s girlfriend is the chef and they and most of the staff have rooms on the premises, nowhere to commute from. Groceries and other supplies are trucked in 800 miles twice a week. The lodge has many Scandinavian touches since the owners are from Switzerland. Their two sons attended high school in Vancouver rather than commute 40 miles each way each day. A fascinating place staffed by friendly, helpful people from all over Europe.

Across from the lodge are huge gravel and rock moraines that were carved out by glaciers. They are like dry river beds, some 100 yards wide, some with steep red cliffs on each side. The multi colored rocks, all soil washed away, are from the size of a pea to boulders as big as a house scattered here and there. In this inhospitable, dry place one can find tiny plants nestled beneath a rock or an old dead log. Most sported a tiny bloom or two. Fragile little things.

On to Whitehorse. We have lovely accommodations and Wi-Fi. This is no small town. It is a beautiful big city. The architecture of the municipal and cultural buildings is very creative and handsome painted with native American designs. The low, two- or three-story buildings are freshly painted in beautiful, muted colors. Hanging baskets of flowers and flower beds are everywhere.  The wide rushing Yukon River runs deep and dark blue through downtown. There is a paved walk along the river that is heavily used by local runners, tourists, bikers and skateboarders. A yellow tram (from the early 1900s) runs along the path beside the river from one end of town to the other.  It is fun to ride but one can walk faster than it travels.

One morning we rode the tram to the end of the line and hiked three miles along the wide, rushing, roiling Yukon up to the fish ladder at the dam. The river is powerful with swirling, strong, swift current. We walked through beautiful woods of pine and birch, ferns and wild flowers. The fish ladder, to allow the spawning salmon to get past the dam, was interesting and the facility there has a viewing window with Park and Recreation people to explain how it all works. It was too early for Salmon and no fish were going through that day because a beaver had gotten into the ladder from the top at the lake and got stuck. They had to open gates and assist him through to the bottom and into the river, fascinating place.

In Watson Lake, after we left Whitehorse, we stayed at The Air Force Lodge, quite an experience. The building was a barracks built during World War II when the U.S. was building the Alaskan Highway. It is now owned by a big, smiling, fun German who has you take your shoes off at the door. The rooms are tiny but spotless. We had two very hard, sagging in the middle, twin beds pushed together with individual bedding on each. The lady’s and men’s showers down the hall were pristine as well as the lady’s and men’s toilets. Since one cannot check in ‘til three, several guests arrived at once waiting in our cars out front. We were first, then two couples from North Carolina with southern accents thicker than butter. Once we were finally allowed to enter, I asked the owner for a Wi-Fi password. He had all seven of us come back to the lobby so that he could tell all at once the rules and regulations, where to find him up to midnight then where he would be after 12:00 and what our password was. He explained extensive rules for the showers and how clean we were to leave them. He was a character and we enjoyed talking to him at length about his life that had led him to Watson Lake from Germany. The town itself is a rundown, sad looking place and the recommended “best” place to eat was one of two cafes in town. It was a café/gas station where we cringed, but had dinner as well as breakfast the next morning at greasy tables over curling, stained linoleum. There was no other option. One would not have gone near the place in Denver let alone go inside.

July 13th, we drove the Alaskan Highway almost 200 miles from Watson Lake through wilderness with no sign of wildlife or any life for that matter to Kluane National Park, Yukon, Canada. The Indian word is pronounced Klu-ha-ne (e as in egg) and the area is as beautiful as its name. Ohmagosh!!! What a place.

The elegant mountains are sharp and tall with snow and glaciers at the top. The tectonic action is very active in this area so these mountains are still growing and are new and steep. We drove three miles down a gravel road lined with flaming fire weed to the blue lake at the foot of those mountains. We had reservations to stay two nights at the camp on the banks of the blue lake. The tiny, A frame cabins were very rustic, no water, no mirror, no paint on the walls and certainly no coffee pot or phone but, very clean and a  very comfortable double bed with lovely quilts as covers. We did have a tiny old-fashioned TV. The very plain, linoleum floored communal building at the end of the row of cabins was spotless and attractive. It housed a big dining room and kitchen with big windows and a view of the mountains. One could cook his meal, sit at the long, wooden dining table or move on to the overstuffed sofa and chairs by the window. Down the hall were three very nice clean washrooms with sink, toilet and shower in each. Bring your own towels.

The owner had warned us to bring food from Whitehorse because it is cook-your-own and there is nowhere to buy food in the area. Cecile, a large, plain, matter of fact woman has been there 34 years and has many return guests that come from all over the globe. That was one of the perks of being there. We met people from Germany, Scandinavia and Alaska. We cooked elbow to elbow with others and sat by a huge bonfire on the beach in the evening until the sun finally set at midnight. It never got completely dark so one learned to sleep anyway. It was unusually warm our entire trip. We had bought warm clothing to round out our wardrobe for the cold north and wore very little of it.

The shore of the lake was tiny gravel, colorful stones and sand and like Muncho Lake the rocks were of every color in the rainbow worn smooth. Dick and I hiked three miles round trip along that beach our first evening. There were strict instructions to watch for the Grizzlies. The locals warned a lot about the bear population. The second day at the base of a very steep mountain trail we were about to ascend along with the clouds of mosquitoes, there was a sign. It was a marker in memory of a woman who had been killed by a grizzly two weeks previously. Oh dear. We went anyway and it was worth the steep, forty-five-minute climb where a cool breeze blew the bugs away. We could see mountain sheep and the huge valley all the way across to another mountain rage in the distance.

Dick and I built a small fire on the beach the first night to roast our hot dogs and the five guests from Berlin joined us. They added to our fire so that we all sat around that big bonfire ‘til midnight when the sun finally went down. They were friendly, charming and interesting. They come to stay with Cecile every year and had for many years. Their friends, a couple from Whitehorse, were staying there also so we had a great time both evenings with them. It was hard to leave the next morning.


We drove to a little town called Teslin to spend the night. It has the largest indigenous population of any place in the Yukon. It is like driving back into 1930. We were the only Caucasians in town that crowded and busy day. The Teslin Lake is huge, four to five miles wide running along the highway for about 30 miles then it veers off south for another 30 miles and it is not the largest lake in the area. There are so many rivers I don’t know how they ever mapped them. There is hardly room on the map to print all their names. What an amazing trip. We have been out of touch with the world for days at a time, no phone coverage or internet access or TV. We have gone days without news of the outside world.

The drive into Stewart was probably the most beautiful of the trip so far. Tall rugged mountains swept up on both sides of the road decorated with huge waterfalls from the snow and glaciers on top. We drove amidst thick groves of sixty feet tall firs and birch trees interspersed with beautiful lakes and rushing, wide rivers. There were wild flowers everywhere along the road of all color and sizes. Huge, red, stone cliffs hugged the highway just before we drove into Stewart. It seemed a typical small town in the Yukon. Old, old buildings, some boarded up, some refurbished, some being used but you wonder how they are still standing. No curbs, sometimes the remains of a sidewalk of asphalt and everything thick in dust and dirt. The glass tipped gas pumps in the only service station were very old and streaked with mud and oil. Huge trucks the size of buildings, some hauling giant field equipment, roared through the main street. Our hotel in Stewart, the King Edward, was styled in red velvet, gold trim a la 1800s. It was worn and the carpet was crusted with dirt. The crews for road repair, logging crews and oil field workers stayed there so keeping a clean carpet was impossible and painting or polishing was just a waste of time since the guys were going to stay there no matter how the place looked. Our room was adequate and clean with a window overlooking main street. That was especially interesting at night since the bar was on the first floor right under us and the very relaxed (can you say drunk) patrons would sing or talk into the morning right under our window. The restaurant was clean (except for the carpet) and food was filling. 

Our first morning in Stewart, we drove 24 miles across the border into Alaska and up a mountain to see the Salmon Glacier. We were amazed by the glaciers we had seen in Glacier Park, MT and along the road into Stewart but the huge Salmon is stunning. The narrow dirt road up had been blasted out of the side of the mountain with barely room for two cars to pass and it was under massive repair. To pass one of the many huge trucks going up and down was quite harrowing with a 1000-foot drop to the river on one side and the sheer cliff of the mountain on the inside. The mountains across the valley rose 2000 to 3000 feet above us. Road crews had much of the road torn up which restricted our space even more. No guard rails, just gravel road and lots of dust. Then the glacier came into view. We couldn’t stop taking pictures of that wide white swath snaking down the mountain.

The next morning, we hiked a couple of trails in areas that made us think of Sitka. The forests were filled with giant fir and birch trees with moss hanging from the branches. Ferns, lichen, mosses and flowers grew by the brooks of clear water. Many plants in the underbrush had leaves that would cover my whole body. Just like Sitka, in the wet, cool quiet one expected to see a great dinosaur cross one’s vision and stayed alert to be certain a grizzly didn’t.

We found the people very nice in Canada and our stay at the King Edward proved that true. In this seemingly grubby town with huge, dust covered trucks constantly blowing through town, we found an antique shop that served breakfasts to rival any French restaurant. Excellent baked goods and jams while sitting in antique chairs surrounded by collections of old, old toasters and coffee pots. Our final evening there we dined at the other hotel in town that was said to have been the best hotel in the district during the gold rush days. The facade was old and grey like all the other buildings but the elegant restaurant inside with its glass chandeliers and fine china was beautiful. We had an excellent meal served on white table cloths with exceptional wine and candles. Stewart, another place we hated to leave.


Yesterday, July 24th, we drove from Puntzi Lake, headed for Tweedsmuir Provincial Park where we had reservations for two nights. We had spent the night on Puntzi Lake in a little cabin that took me back to 1945. Couldn’t believe the old, “make do” things in a not too clean cabin with no bath room and the faucet in the little kitchenette was an outdoor type hydrant.


The couple running the camp was nice and there were nice cabins with baths, but we got in so late we took the only cabin they had left. The showers and toilets were across a field in a building made of plywood. We had planned to have dinner then buy groceries on the way to the lake but the little towns we drove through were boarded up. Merry and Andrew, the owners, took pity on us and made us dinner as well as breakfast the next morning in their lovely home.


Merry and Andrew warned us about “The Hill” on the road to Tweedsmuir, telling how years ago the government had refused to build a road from the coast through the Bella Coola Valley between the coastal mountains and the Rainbow range so the population took it upon themselves to bulldoze one out for themselves. A road was needed for logging and mining traffic. It used to have some 18% grades but the government finally took it over and the steepest is 14%. No guard rails, one car wide in places for 16 miles.


Wow! The view was unbelievable, huge mountains plunging into deep tree filled canyons as we drove down and down into a wooded valley surrounded by soaring mountains. Tweedsmuir was a surprise! The beautiful Lodge nestled within the forest. A wide river runs through the property and the grizzlies feed here when the salmon run, so the lodge has a viewing platform built by the river. They ask, when you call for a reservation, if you are interested in seeing the grizzlies or hiking because the months the bears are here you don’t want to hike, but the trails are beautiful for those months the bears are scattered. This place is elegant and modern and our log cabin was beautiful. There are about 20 adults and children staying here from all over the world, mostly Scandinavian and German. Our meals were served in the big log lodge dining room overlooking the property. Dick and I are going to roll home we are eating so well.


Today we drove on to the Bella Coola Valley at the coast. The village of Bella Coola is an Indian village, small town atmosphere, with only a few paved roads and small run-down houses, but along the road getting to the village we saw beautiful homes with manicured lawns and flowers and several lovely gardens. Once there, we hiked a trail that had been recommended. We walked a path through giant cedars seven and eight feet in diameter stretching up 150 feet tall. The rain forest has ferns and large leafed plants, service berry patches and wild rose. The cathedral like area under the tops of the trees is covered with moss and the air is moist and cool. It is soooo quiet.


We lunched on the coast in a nice hotel’s restaurant. There are many boats of every description moored at the marina, a busy place with crowds of people coming and going. We walked a short trail along the shore where the wide, pale blue, chalky Bella Coola River flowed slowly through town. We watched Otters fishing in that river of glacier and snow melt. The bordering mountains across the bay, reaching heights of 9,000 feet, were blanketed with fir, red and yellow cedar, spruce and western hemlock. Closer to shore, cottonwood, birch and willows grew in thick profusion.


While in Bella Coola we signed up to take the ferry the next morning for the trip to Port Hardy on Vancouver Island. That “milk run” would stop at several villages getting us into our destination the following morning. No cabins, so we will sleep in recliners but think the scenery and possible sighting of whales, will be worth it. Mid-day we will drive down the coastline of the island to take that ferry across to the mainland to continue our journey out of Vancouver, along the border towards Montana where we will visit Karen, Dick’s daughter and her son Kacy. 


Once again, we had a delightful ferry ride, but slept very little. The drive down the Vancouver Island coast line seemed to go on forever simply because we were tired. We just missed the first ferry to the mainland and had to wait a couple of hours for the next one. It was late afternoon as we approached Vancouver, Canada. The afternoon sun shown on the glistening white city like a spotlight. We were eager to get in our car, get off the ferry and find a room for the night. There was a convention of some sort going on in Vancouver. A very large, important convention evidently because there was no room to be had. There was no room to be had in the next three small towns. We were exhausted. We had only breakfast and light snacks to eat all day. By then it was 9:00 at night. Restaurants were closed in the small towns and still no room. I begged Dick to park in a lighted parking lot, get some sleep and move on the next morning. He was afraid someone would attack us in the parking lot of a restaurant or motel. He just could not stop driving and driving hoping to find something. I was close to hysterical from fatigue and hunger and threatened to jump out of the car and sleep on someone’s lawn. He finally pulled into the well-lighted parking lot of a police station and parked. We slept until 4:00 a.m. and continued down the highway. Within a few miles, no town, no village, no other buildings in site, we saw a small glowing sign in the dark that said Café. The place was filled with the aroma of fresh baked bread and we had a most delightful bacon and eggs breakfast with strong hot delicious coffee to send us on our way to the U.S.  




Dick and I traveled so well together. He planned everything down to the last detail so that trips went smoothly. And then we would get home. At home we have always had issues. I spent my adult life in charge. I raised my children, I paid the bills, I was in charge as part of the management team at work. Dick spent his adult life in charge. He paid the bills; he made all family decisions and was at the top of the management of McDonald Douglas. Suddenly, unintentionally we would hurt one another’s feelings unaware of how or why.

So, home from our wonderful drive through the Yukon, Dick and I were disagreeing about something one night as we got ready for bed (read, quarrelling.) As I got into bed, I heard a loud crash in the bathroom and turned to see Dick collapsed on the floor, back and head against the cabinet doors, totally unconscious, his long legs straddled the bathroom door. I rushed to him calling his name. I rubbed his face and hands trying to wake him to no avail. Panicky, I rushed to my cell phone and dialed 911. The calm voice on the line asked questions as she assured me help was on the way. “Don’t hang up,” she repeated.

I laid the phone down, rushed to grab a robe and unlock the back door. Five or six young men were immediately rushing in and down the hall. There were firemen in huge rubber boots, black emergency gear flapping and ambulance guys opening their bags as they knelt beside Dick. A fireman grabbed Dick’s robe off the chair and covered Dick’s naked body as the others were already testing his vital signs. As one fireman began to ask me questions, Dick was coming around and was confused and bewildered by the crowd.

Dick repeatedly assured everyone he was just fine, but the medics and I insisted he go to the hospital. I quickly called Dick’s son and followed the ambulance.

Dick really was just fine. By morning the doctors agreed that Dick was very healthy and the only reason that might have caused the fainting episode was that he had a “Left Bundle Branch Block,” a supposedly harmless condition of the heart. Harmless? Scary!

Frightened I might lose him, I had to evaluate my relationship with Dick. In spite of his controlling ways, in spite of his quick anger, I did appreciate the life he provided for me. The lovely home he shared with me, the life style and travel were all in excess of anything I would have had on my own. I bought my own clothes, cars and paid all insurance and medical bills, but was able to save while having an exciting life because of him.

Were the material advantages the only reason I lived with Richard Randall? No. We had fun together. Richard was an amazing lover and once again, I was learning much about myself being with him. 


                                                                                                ****                                                                 Dick and I were skiing often. Snowy Range was a longtime favorite. Often just the two of us, but a couple of weekends Dick’s family members joined us at V Bar Ranch, the dude ranch just out of Centennial where we unwound after a day of skiing. There would be a dozen of us splashing in the hot tub and playing pool in the self-serve John Wayne bar. Just leave your name and money on the bar. Help yourself. The sign read. They had no idea how much booze the Randall clan could consume long after I had gone to bed in one of the multiple, rustic, log cabins along the river. The dining room, within a huge log cabin that also held office and rooms, was a two-story room with vaulted ceiling and big, floor to ceiling stone fireplace with a roaring fire. The family cat greeted us, sat in our laps and expected handouts as we ate our breakfasts of bacon, eggs and biscuits.  

Before Snowy Range, we had skied many, many times at Winter Park and Monarch. We flew to California one winter to ski Mammoth with a longtime friend from McDonald Douglas days and his lovely wife. She, an excellent skier, gave me some great pointers. Eventually we discovered Ski Cooper, near Copper Ski Resort, and began to ski there almost exclusively since it was so close to home and had wonderful wide slopes. We did ski with Dick’s family one week at Steamboat. Four generations from eighty plus to five-year-old great grandson and granddaughter. We began to plan Dick’s eightieth birthday celebration while there.

We invited the softball team and their partners, LoDo and neighborhood friends and our families to celebrate that 80th birthday. We spent hours over good food and drink. Our house lent its self well to a crowd and guests remained long after the birthday cake was cut and consumed.

Dick and I followed a bass jazz musician we admired. He kept us informed where he was playing and when. We enjoyed an evening out with dinner while he and his friends played. A past neighbor of Dick’s when he lived in LoDo was a trumpet player and we attended his jazz group’s performances

occasionally. At one of those performances, we met Frank Nichols, a jazz aficionado, who invited us to his home for a jazz concert. Frank had been a producer of jazz events before retirement and now held jazz concerts once a month in his home. He drew amazingly talented groups to play on those weekends.

One weekend the crowd was heavier than usual in Frank’s living room, the air was warm and close. The jazz group for the day was extremely loud and in minor key. I felt Dick began to slide out of his folding chair. We were on an isle and I held him as others noticed him and helped ease him onto the floor. Someone had already dialed 911 so as we placed a cold, wet cloth on his forehead emergency personnel was coming in the front door. He was awake almost as soon as he hit the floor, but once again we drove him to the nearest hospital with him protesting that he was just fine. And once again, he was. Tests found no problems with heart or head. His only problem was embarrassment that he had disrupted Frank’s concert.


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