It's All in My Head

I've had a very nerve wracking two weeks. Things were pretty darn stressful and then something catastrophic happened at my church.

I chose to be part of helping with the healing process. It was hard but it was an honor. This past Sunday was absolutely glorious - but still stressful for me.

Along about last Tuesday I began to have some scary physical symptoms. I was already scheduled for a medical check up. After an exam the doctor said: "There's nothing wrong with you. It's stress."

Along about the same time I developed a rash. Some kind of dermatitis. Hard to sleep. I developed big red bumps and welts all over my arms and legs.

Yesterday I went to the dermatologist. I don't have a rash or dermatitis. I've apparently done this to myself by scratching in my sleep. I asked the doctor why I would do that. He said, "It's stress."

You can imagine how attractive all these bumps, welts and scratching are to those around me.

But this is a new day in a new week. Things are looking up. I have wonderful plans for the near future.

To quote one of my favorite writers who was also under a lot of stress much of the time, I'm ... Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead."


***

The Minister's Widow's Boyfriend's Discount

The old time traditional "Minister's Discount" was mostly on the way out as we came along. I was happy to see it go. It was demeaning all the way around.

I'm not talking about you wanting to give your clergy person a box of oranges or a car for Christmas. That's your business.

I'm talking about an old system where ministers and other professionals didn't make enough money to live on so they had to go begging.

And merchants had to (begrudgingly) give them a break. This system was humiliating to most ministers and abused by some others.

I was talking with an old friend (and daughter of a minister) this week and she told me how embarrassing it was for her and her sisters to go shopping and have to listen to their mother beg for discounts.

This system needed to be changed in the country as well as the city. You can no longer get away with paying your doctor with chickens - nor should you pay the minister that way.

And it just doesn't work to ask the manager in the big box store to give you a break on your lawn mower because of who you are.

I'm glad that this part of our history is over.

But when my Boyfriend picked up his dry cleaning the other day and noticed it didn't cost as much as it should have, the lady said:

"You're a friend of Miss Cess, we gave you the Minister's Discount!"



***

Five Rooms and a Path

On Tuesday I went to a retreat center in the middle of the state to spend a few hours with a group of retired Methodist ministers.

Because of unrelated events of the day before, I was under a lot of stress when I arrived. But within a few minutes I began to feel better. A big reason for going was to participate in a morning workshop called "Telling Our Stories." Most of these people are older than I am and I'm afraid that when they're gone the personal stories of what it was like to be a Methodist minister in the old days will go with them.

The stories about early parsonages are pretty scary. Traditionally, in the Methodist Church a minister and family go where the bishop tells them to go and live in the parsonage (furnished house) that is provided.

In the past I've heard wild stories about outhouses. A couple of years ago a couple told about living in a little house with no running water. The minister shaved every morning on the front porch in front of a mirror that had been nailed to a post for that purpose - while waving to his parsonioners walking by on their way to the fields.

A woman told about living in a house that "slanted." The first night they piled boxes against a wall and the next morning they were against the other wall.

And then another person said, "Yes, I remember, I lived in that house too."

There's a church in Florida where, for many years, a lady baked a lemon cake for the minister and delivered it to the parsonage. Every week. For many years. To every minister. Sometimes at this gathering there's talk about how many lemon cakes must be buried in the back yard of that parsonage.

On Tuesday there was talk about "dunking." In the Methodist tradition converts are sprinkled but occasionally - especially years ago - people would request immersion. Lots of funny conversations from these old ministers about how many people they almost drowned before they got the hang of it.

One wife told about how a family in the church just didn't like her so they went to the bishop and asked that SHE be moved - but they wanted her husband to stay. The bishop told them, to their disappointment, that the system didn't work that way.

My Real Husband and I came along a little later, when parsonages had much improved and Methodists hardly ever asked to be dunked.



****

An Old Florida Story

A wagon rumbled up a sun drenched trail. A black preacher drove the team of horses. You would know he was a preacher because, seventy or so years ago, nobody but preachers wore black suits in Florida in the middle of a weekday afternoon.

Two little boys were in the back of the wagon. Twins. They looked just alike.

Then there was the sound of other horses. Momentarily three riders galloped up to the wagon, guns drawn. The preacher quickly pulled in the reins.

The men were laughing.

The preacher climbed down from the wagon. The little boys, wide eyed, huddled in the back. One of the riders shouted, "Dance, N........, dance" and they began to fire shots at the man's feet.

The dignified looking black man in the black suit began to shuffle his feet and they shouted "Faster, faster" and shot the guns two or three more times.

I first heard this story about thirty years ago when I was facilitating a racism seminar. It was told to me by one of the twin sons who was in the wagon.

Last Tuesday I saw him and asked if I could tell the story here. He agreed. He, along with his twin brother, became United Methodist ministers. In fact, he's celebrating is 50th year in ministry. They have made a tremendous contribution to the Church and to the state of Florida in their long, distinguished careers.

In fact, he's a very distinguished man. When I saw him last Tuesday, he was wearing a black suit.



***

The Best Choir I've Ever Heard

The Bethune-Cookman University Concert Chorale is the best choir I've ever heard - and I've heard plenty.

B-CU is a traditionally black college in Florida that I've admired for 40 years. Now they have students from all over the world but the vast majority of them are on scholarships. There is no other way most of these young people would be in college.

Their marching band is excellent and highly entertaining. They've been invited to many bowl games and parades. But the Concert Chorale is the best.

The last time I heard them was this past year. My Boyfriend, my son and I traveled to the campus because my Real Husband was being honored. It was founder's day. The place was packed. The Concert Chorale sang. It was glorious.

At the end of the program we were to walk across the campus to another site for a short presentation. We gathered there. But then we had to wait.

The Concert Chorale "strutted" that slow rhythmic strut all the way across campus while singing a spiritual. We could hear them low and then loud - as they slowly made their way - all one hundred of them. I'm getting chills just thinking about it.

The Bethune-Cookman University Concert Chorale will be at my church this Sunday morning - all one hundred of them.

I hope you'll come see them.


***

A Norman Rockwell Life

I've always liked Norman Rockwell's work. It was on countless covers of the Saturday Evening Post. I've taken the Post off and on for many years even though it was way farther to the right than I could stomach sometimes.

I take it now because it's almost totally a medical magazine for us oldies. And it's headquartered in Indianapolis, my home town.

The first time an art critic, with his nose in the air, explained to me that Rockwell was "an illustrator, NOT an artist, I was intimidated.

The next time I was ready for him.

Rockwell was both America's premiere illustrator for more than six decades - and an artist.

He painted sweet scenes of Americana and he showed us the ugly side of America's complex social issues.

Yesterday my Boyfriend and I attended the Norman Rockwell exhibit at our downtown art museum. The display is huge. It's also heartwarming, funny, sad and frightening.

In the early years Rockwell had to eliminate African Americans from his work because the Post's policy dictated showing black people only in service industry jobs.

Later on he painted the most famous cover to come out of the civil rights movement. Titled "The Problem We All Live With," it depicted a beautiful little black girl in a beautiful little white dress walking to her first class in an integrated school, accompanied by U.S. Marshals. All of them were being pelted by rotten vegetables.

The painting made grown men cry. It also generated death threats for Rockwell.

That picture, along with several others including the famous "Murder in Mississippi" helped us Americans see who we were - warts and all.

Every one of Rockwell's illustrations/paintings tells a story.

I love to tell stories in pictures. For me, the story is the first thing and the last thing. Norman Rockwell

For me too!



***

Nature or Nurture?

More thoughts on the "Murky Gene Pool" concept.

We all know how important it is to have a perfect egg and perfect sperm come together in a perfect fashion - and then to start the Baby Einstein and Beethoven goin' within the first couple of weeks of conception. Because if we don't, the kid will never get into an Ivy League College - and that, of course, would be the end of the world as we know it.

Not to mention the guilt. One of the things stressed out moms think when the baby ceases being perfect is "Nature or Nurture - it's still my fault."

But the reality seems to be that great men and women emerge from all sorts of situations. It would make sense that the children of super achieving parents would achieve even more. That's not generally been the case. Think about the sons and daughters of presidents. Think about the siblings of presidents.

Throughout history great things have come from an odd assortment of people.

For every story you know about the "perfect kid" with every advantage who went on to greatness I can tell you 10 stories about "hard luck" kids who did even better.

Jesus picked for his disciples guys who couldn't make it into Rabbinical school.

What's the point? Maybe we get caught up in worrying about the wrong things.

I never worried about my kids coming from a murky gene pool. I never worried about them getting into the right schools. I never worried about them not having designer clothes. (But they did and they do.)

Growing up they didn't know what a sense of entitlement was.

But we raised them very purposefully - and, while they're not perfect, each one is a power for good in the universe.



***

Murky Gene Pools

We have a saying in our family. We all come from murky gene pools. Well, maybe the Royals don't - but their blood line doesn't seem like much to write home about.

My skin is olive like my dad's. As he grew older he developed all kinds of interesting spots on his skin - especially his face.

I'm growing more spots as I write this.

We've often wondered and teased about my dad's ancestry. He was raised by an elderly couple in Indiana. He didn't know much about his family - and much of what he told me I suspect he made up.

All I know for sure is this: I'm not a candidate for the DAR.

I know many, many people who've discovered along the way that the guy they called dad wasn't their biological dad and I know a few people who discovered the same thing about their moms.

And then there are the people who reinvent their past. Sometimes that works out and sometimes it has tragic results.

If you do this, don't go into politics.

And there are those who think Jesus was Swedish (with long, blond hair.)

One time a woman called our home around Christmas time. She was furious! Somebody sent her a Christmas card depicting one of the wise men as black. I suggested that maybe he was from Ethiopia. That explanation did not calm her.

I don't know much about my ancestry on my dad's side - but I pretty much know who I am.



***

Babies

I had four babies. The baby part wasn't my favorite part of parenting. I was exhausted for ten years. All of my babies were colicky. I think I held them pretty much all the time for the first year of their lives.

That would have been fun (and most of the time was) if I hadn't had other obligations. I remember one time spending the first couple of hours of the morning with a baby over my shoulder. Later, when I was in a meeting I noticed a familiar aroma. When I was finally about to get to a restroom I saw that he had spit up all the way down the back of my jacket.

But the truth is that if I had it to do over again I would have worked even harder at it. Raising my children was, by far, the most important thing I ever did - or will do.

This past Monday my Boyfriend and I toured the Florida United Methodist Children's Home. I've been familiar with the Home for 40 years, and I worked there for a short time a decade ago.

I didn't work with the children. I was part of fund raising.

Let's be honest, almost every kid would prefer to be with his or her mom no matter what. But when a child has to be somewhere other than with family, the Children's Home is a very good place.

The children live in beautiful brick cottages with houseparents. They receive counselling and everything else they (and their families) need in order to get back together - if possible. Traditionally the Home's kids have been school aged.

But a couple of new components have been added since I was there. One is a foster parent program. Couples care for babies. Sometimes straight from the hospital.

Sometimes babies who are a few weeks old but come straight from the hospital because they've been abused. Some babies in casts.

I'm grateful for the Children's Home. But I'm also grateful for every mom and dad who hold their babies and loves their kids - no matter what.



***

Hormones

Years ago, in the excellent movie "Fried Green Tomatoes" the Kathy Bates character is frustrated and sad and finally takes a sledge hammer to her house. When she visits her new, old lady friend in the nursing home, played by the great Jessica Tandy, and tells her she thinks she's going insane, Jessica says:

"Honey, you just need some hormones!"

About six years ago I, along with millions of other women, threw away the hormones that I'd been taking for many years. Tests that had been done with Prempro proved that, not only did the drug not guard against cancer, it could cause cancer we might unknowingly have, to grow.

I was taking Premarin but, after reading all the reports, I decided that the risk was too high to continue. Besides, most doctors said that,

• Hot flashes lasted only a minute or so
• They would go away completely within three years

The result was six years of intense hot flashes - day and night - rapid cycling.

During the night I would wake up at least three times feeling like I was suffocating. I'd get up, douse my entire body with cold water and lie under the ceiling fan until things calmed down. Twenty minutes to a half hour.

During the day I wore layers of clothing because when the flashes came I had to throw off the top layer fast.

I tried every alternative. My new gynecologist was the Pakistani guy at the health food store.

A few months ago my female internist said "You can't go on like this."

So I'm now taking a tiny dose of hormones 3 times a week. I still have a few light hot flashes - but they're manageable. I can sometimes sleep 6 straight hours - something I haven't done in many years. My life has changed immeasurably for the better.

I should have listened to Jessica.



***

Sunday Is A-Comin'

It seems like people are dropping like flies! My niece has written a sad, hysterically funny, insightful blog called "Living with the Oldies" for the last couple of years.

Her in laws, who were dying at the time, moved in with her and her husband about then. They received such excellent care that they got better. Not well - but better enough to cause trouble on a daily basis.

The Oldie mom died a few weeks ago. The Oldie dad on Friday.

I had shared the blog with a friend who's been caring for her elderly parents. Her mother's memorial service was last night.

My Boyfriend is back after attending his sister's memorial service in North Carolina.

Hole Week is upon us. We experienced such a powerful worship service this morning that we barely spoke on the way to the restaurant to meet "My Oldies" who showed up late and worried us.

This is the week we who call ourselves "Christian" are to dwell a bit on the agony of Christ's last days. I have friends of other faiths who are in solidarity with us on this.

This morning's service ended with a video of Jesus on the cross. An African American minister did the voice over - describing the anguish, pain and suffering in great detail but interspersing the phrase "They didn't know that Sunday was a-comin'."

So when I'm allowing myself in this Holy Week to be introspective and sad or worried sick about various things - I need to remember.

Sunday Is A Comin'.







***

How Could It Happen?

The news is dying down about Eliot Spitzer, the disgraced former governor of New York. But people are still full of opinions about how a man like Gov. Spitzer could get caught up in such shenanigans.

It reminded me of some mainline, highly respected ministers I've known personally who've been caught up in similar things and ultimately destroyed their careers and their families and broke the hearts of countless other people.

I think those who isolate themselves become vulnerable. They start out headed in the right direction but as they become more powerful they begin to surround themselves with only those who listen and follow their orders - but never question them.

We all need people in our lives who say "Hey, knock it off!" from time to time.

Years ago I knew a lady who started her adult life and her career full of good dreams and ambitions. She became an elementary school principal. She ruled her school with an iron fist. She never married. There was nobody in her life to call her into question.

She got weirder and weirder. She ended up without a job and friendless.

We all need people - who love and respect us - to tell us the truth.

My friends, family and colleagues sure don't let me get away with any shenanigans.



***

Pricey Purses

Designer bags seem to be mandatory for a certain segment of the population. I, myself, have a nice purse. But it's almost three years old and I never change purses to match my outfit. Fortunately almost everything I wear is black and my purse is black. When it wears out I'll get a new one.

This morning after a meeting with some people who are extremely worried about the economy, I stopped by my neighborhood mall to walk two miles.

Dillard's has a nice size section of Coach purses, most of them behind glass. Macy's has a nice section of Coach purses, most of them behind glass. Just down the mall from Macy's is a Coach Store.

I can understand a high end mall - but this is my neighborhood mall. I counted 5 women in the Coach store.

Who buys all of these purses? Especially in this economy.

Louis Black, one of my favorite angry comedians, was ranting last night about Eliot Spitzcer spending the $5,000.00 on the call girl. In referencing the mini bar he said, "I can understand the other stuff but spending $18.00 for 9 almonds is obscene."

In this economy, I agree with the latter part of that statement.



***

Big Bad Dogs

The mayor of Orlando was out jogging a few days ago and saw his neighbors' dog being attacked by a pit bull. He immediately jumped in the fray, tackled the pit bull and saved the little Jack Russell terrier.

This made the headline of the paper the next day.

Needless to say, the mayor has experienced a lot of good natured kidding. My favorite columnist, Mike Thomas,' piece this morning was a tongue in cheek listing of how other prominent leaders might have handled the situation.

Our state attorney (who some people think starts out strong then loses steam) would "charge the pit bull with 12 counts of attempted murder, reduce it to one count of unintentional biting, and release the dog from the pound with a monitoring collar."

Mel Martinez would "embargo the pit bull and wait 50 years for it to let go."

Bobby Bowden would "still let the pit bull play against Miami."

You get the idea.

What would you do if you'd been in the mayor's shoes? I'm pretty terrified of big, bad dogs. Always have been. You're probably thinking, "But, Cess, if it attacked someone you love you'd do what the mayor did!"

About 18 years ago I was walking in my neighborhood with several family members, pushing one of my new grandbabies in a stroller. All at once a big, snarling dog came charging out of his yard. I immediately abandoned the stroller and ran behind my husband.

I'm not proud of it - but I did it.



***

Clean Kitchen Floor

I slept well last night. I'm an early riser but this morning I woke up all groggy. Went to the kitchen. One of the first things I do in the morning is take my medicine (like a good girl.) Then, I make a cup of Lipton's Brisk Tea with 175mg protective antioxidants. It's fast and easy using my little instant boiling water spicket. Then I turn on some music, sit on the couch and read until I'm fully alive. If I'm lucky that can sometimes be three hours.

So I opened the cupboard and grabbed the plastic pill box but immediately dropped it.

It fell into an opened box of diet, caffeine free aluminum coke cans that was sitting vertically on the floor of the cupboard. Don't know how it could have happened but this plastic pill box punctured a coke can. First thing I did was grab the pill box because my B/P meds are quite pricey.

I got a paper towel and dumped the pills that were exposed on the towel and began dabbing at them. Then I noticed the faint hissing sound. So I grabbed the box of cokes - with the one can sprouting a little volcano - and put it in the sink.

But in doing so I dripped coke all over the kitchen floor. I emptied the box, wiped down the coke cans and put them in the fridge - all but the punctured one. In doing so I found some more pills at the bottom of the box but they were goners.

I took my morning pills then scrubbed the entire kitchen floor. It needed it. Then I changed out of my coke sprayed robe and threw it in the washer.

When I sat down on the couch with my tea I was no longer groggy.



***

Short Poems

I like poetry. I write poetry. To the amazement of many, I sold much of my poetry when I was younger.

I loved writing short poems. Many of them had titles as long or longer than the poem. Here are a couple of popular ones I wrote when I was a young woman.

INFORMATION I WISH I DIDN'T HAVE

Part of Adolf Hitler's
personality problem
was due to
Poor potty training


WHY WOMEN'S LIB
CONFUSES ME

Am I the cause of all
my problems
Or is he?


RAMIFICATIONS OF STATIC CLING

As he stood up to ask
the mayor's wife to dance.

A little baby sock
fell from the leg of his pants



***

My Boyfriend's Back

Ya, Ya, Ya - My Boyfriend's Back.

He's been away for a few days playing golf with his guy friends on some island. When he got in last evening the very first thing we did was play two hands of cribbage. Later on we ate soup in a restaurant by the park - then lingered to listen to the Philharmonic Orchestra performing 40s music in the band shell. Still later we sat on the couch and watched the controversial 1959 film "On the Beach" on PBS.

Very romantic movie even though every person in the world dies in the end.

All of the above are things that I wouldn't have done by myself.

Today is a work day. We got out a mailing to 700 people for a project I'm involved in - then came home to do 8 loads of wash for another project. (Several years ago I helped start a ministry in my church where we house homeless families from time to time. Now there are 50 to 100 volunteers doing the hard work. I sometimes do some laundry.)

This evening my Boyfriend is getting ready to leave again for a few days. He's going to his sister's memorial service. When he gets there he'll will get people back and forth to the airport - and do whatever else needs to be done. His children and other relatives from other parts of the country will be there.

We've had a lovely 24 hours and I'll miss him. But we both have big lives and big obligations.

And my Boyfriend will be back.



***

Breakfast with the Celebs

I think my 17 year Saturday morning breakfast date with my Fake Parents has settled into a new place. Well, new for me. We've eaten there the last three Saturdays, including today. It's across the street from the old restaurant that they can't seem to find anymore.

But, before I get on with this I need to digress by saying that my niece has gotten after me about my name for them (Fake Parents.) So, in her honor, I'm changing their name to "My Oldies."

When I called them (My Oldies) last night to remind them that about breakfast the conversation got a little complicated so I finally ended up saying "You go to breakfast and I'll find you."

They did and I did.

It wasn't hard because they've been eating breakfast 6 days a week at the same place. As of three weeks ago it's now 7.

It's fine with me. This place doesn't serve eggs but I just take my own. When we're seated I surprise them by whipping my boiled egg in a baggie out of my pocket.

Breakfast is entertaining because a parade of people drop by our table. No, it's not to visit with me. Everybody knows My Oldies.

They always buy an extra pastry for a person who stops by to chat but obviously can't afford his own breakfast.

Today we had a long visit from the charming former owner of a former french restaurant that they frequented for many years.

Then a guy stopped by who was very funny - the one liners never stopped - who turned out to be a stand up comic who met my Oldie friend 20 years ago when he went to Comedy Driving School.

This restaurant costs (quite a bit) less than the one across the street and that's a plus but I've been fussing about paying $1.25 for cream cheese at this one. When My Oldie forgot to order his cream cheese this morning I magnanimously offered him mine but a restaurant employee hurried over and gave him one - for free.

I felt like Shecky Greene eating with Frank Sinatra at Jilly's.



***

Natural Acts

A young person dying is an unnatural act. Not supposed to happen. Doesn't make sense.

Old people, however, are supposed to die. But how old is old? And just because it's "natural" why do some people think it's easy?

In the last three days:

• Someone I love's grandmother died. She was 95 years old and in many ways her death was a blessing - but it's also the end of an era. She was an exceptionally strong woman until just a short time ago.
  
• Someone I love's father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. Not only do I love her but she loves her father like crazy - and I love him as well. He is the epitome of a Southern Gentle-man.
  
• My Boyfriend's sister died. What a life she had. Born on the other side of the world, superbly educated and gifted in many ways.

When I told my young neighbor about the death she said "How old was she?" When I answered "70." she said, "Well she had a long life."

That's one way to look at it. Another way is that she died 25 years younger than the grandmother I mentioned above. Age is relative.

Growing older has its problems but there are also great blessings. We all know many people over 70 who are making their best contributions to this planet.

My friend sent me a note this morning in response to my Boyfriend's sisters' death. She said:

...the obit describes a lovely life, full of beauty and peace building... Every well lived life helps to heal the world.

I want to always value and mourn those who are declining and leaving before me - even if it is "natural."

***

Velvet Elvis

When I was doing consulting work, occasionally a friend would ask:

"Isn't it frightening to work with such smart people?"

No, it wasn't. It's frightening to walk into a group of 2nd graders. Or, worse yet, teenagers. Working with a bunch of Ph.Ds was fun and fulfilling. If you do it right the truth comes from the group - and they credit you!

I've attending this class on Wednesdays at noon. We have a yummy lunch and sit in a great big square. About 40 people, young, old, male, female.

• All smart.
• All embracing mystery.
• All searching for truth.
• All respectful of other's thoughts and feelings.

Our leader is super smart but - much more than that - a sensitive listener.

He recognizes truth when it pops up from the group.

Our book is Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell.

I'm learning more from the questions than the answers.



***

Into the Woods

This morning I woke up not feeling so good. Yesterday we had a lesson in Sunday school on "Introspection." We're supposed to think that way during Lent.

After being up a while this morning I had a phone call that made me a little sad. It caused me to be introspective.

Then my Boyfriend and I had a very serious conversation about our "feelings."

Then we decided to go to a state park for our walk.

We walked many miles through wilderness trails. We walked up hills and around fallen trees. We walked over a stream, stepping on rocks. I lost my balance and one foot went into the muddy water up to my shin. We started out cold but got very, very warm.

When we'd gone as far as we could possibly go without passing out we discovered that the only way to our car was to turn around and do it again.

I was getting dizzy. My foot and leg were itching. We saw a snake.

We finally reached civilization in the form of a spring lake with a concession stand near by. We bought cold drinks and dangled our feet in the cold spring water. Sand flees began biting us.

Then we found our car and drove home.

How do I feel after all of this? I feel great! I feel alive! I feel at peace with God, other people and nature. I feel like The Strongest Woman in the World!

I feel like my two year old granddaughter when she stands on the dining room chair, raises her arms and says:

"I KING OF DA WO'LD!"


***

Movie Review

Last night my Boyfriend and I saw "Bonneville," staring Jessica Lange, Kathy Bates and Joan Allen. You could call it an older chick flick.

The chicks - not the flick.

Also three of the finest actors around.

It's very much a road movie - but not as brutal as "Thelma and Louise."

Jessica Lange is a new widow. Her husband's daughter by another marriage wants his ashes and is willing to let Jessica stay in her home if she gives them up. Jessica promised him before he died that she'd spread them.

She, Kathy and Joan take off for the daughter's fancy memorial service for her dad in California - in his '66 Bonneville. You guessed it! They end up spreading the ashes over his and Jessica's favorite places along the way.

It's slow moving and predictable. But that's not my problem with the movie.

My problem is that she risks everything to grant his wish - while he (through carelessness) left her homeless.

I'm sure everybody in the theater was thinking "What a loving wife."

I was thinking "What a dope!"


***