On OneMorning85's "They Deem It ..."

to me: You inspire. Thank you for that. In another corner, I must fess up, my heart skips a beat when I see your name. You see, my son (Brian) died at 20, his life incomplete, unfinished, made dead and gone. It was in 1988. I still hurt from it. Thanx much, Chuck

Appreciate your read/comment. I'd consider it a sad day if you ever change your profile pic. It's always a comfort seeing your face at that angle, with that look, under that hat, wearing those glasses. Sleepy, relaxed, alert. All of it. Yours, Chuck

here, glad you've returned; hope you're here to stay. In your comment you've expressed well my motivations. Another would be as an attempt at further repairing/improving my brain. You know, the one that was so seriously damaged by head contact with concrete back in 1991. Still the residuals. They cling like leeches, won't release entirely. Improvement comes slowly, but convincingly. Early post-injury, and extending on for a couple of years thereafter, I couldn't even frame a proper sentence orally (of course the tongue didn't work, nor the brain) ... let alone in writing. I forwent professional therapy; instead designed my own. Writing's a highly significant part of my ongoing self-healing efforts. Thanx, Chuck

I was then a bit overweight. Not gross, mind you, but, yes, by my standards overweight. Played some tennis, took lessons, hoping to gain fitness and perhaps the lapse of a few pounds. I ran for a hard-hit ball, made the hit, but tripped over my own feet, and fell ... I was taken to Emergency. Who said they---their machines---could find nothing wrong. But ... I knew better. Oh, did I! I still know better. And did the moment I struck the tennis floor. Knew I'd lost something, that my brain had damage. Irretrievable damage. I got my self up, walked to the bench at the side of the court, sat down. And wept, mourning my loss. Feeling my loss. A friend took me to the hospital. Nothing, they said. And then they billed me. Oh, yeah. Nothing. Sure. It's been a long, long struggle ... but I'm here. I'm practicing. Exercising my mental works. Having fun (some would say too much), actually. Hugs right back, Chuck

loves being noticed/acknowledged. However unfortunately, I'm on a ten-day visit with my daughter, Barb, in Phoenix. And though Buster can hear me at home by phone, it's just not the same as passing a message to him in person. He's one helluva happy duck. And a wonderful, wonderful person lives under those pearl-white feathers. Thanx, Chuck

mine. Chuck