I just tried to open up a package which contained a brand new, chrome plated razor. Nice to have sometimes since the razors get all gunked up with the soapy residue and stubble. A fresh one is a wonderful experience first thing in the morning.

Wonderful if you get it out of the package without injuring yourself and the neighbors, or even get it out of the package at all. I understand the whole concept of theft prevention, but this packaging would have survived a direct hit from napalm.

Of course this brings the holidays right into the front of my consciousness. I shiver to think about helping my nieces and nephews with opening their Christmas presents. Every year it kind of sneaks up. The the packaging mocks me when I try to open it. Doesn’t really make a difference what you go at it with. Something is getting busted. Like your fingers.

One time I put the item between my legs and maneuvered a sharp knife into the package. Yeah… ummm…. don’t do that, ok? I still have the scar from where I almost gave myself an appendectomy. Significant scar too. About 9 inches long, but wasn’t too deep. It stopped bleeding after a day. Just don’t do it.

My sister takes pity on me now. She bought the most sturdy pair of kitchen scissors that I have ever used. Like a freaking tank with all kinds of black ridged plastic all over it and rubberized handles, too. A fine instrument for slicing through a bone, or opening a package which are probably equally as difficult.

Aside from actually getting into the package, the thing I despise the most is those huge twist tie things that are impossible to decipher. Just when you think it twists one way, you have to twist it the other way. And then after you get 2 twists untangled, you have to go back in the original direction. I really hate that it makes adults look like court jesters to kids….’do you want me to open that?’ Ummm, no. No thank you. I’m the adult here. I shall open the package that a bunch of sadistic ‘elves’ have made impenetrable, thank you very much.

I am thinking that there are far better ways to make people look stupid. Plus, all that plastic has to be bad for the environment. I try to recycle as much as possible but screw the packaging. I recycle the paper parts of that stuff, but really. With all the hacking and picking apart it would take you forever to gather up all the slivers of plastic blinking a reflection of Christmas lights perfectly.

Do you remember when you were a kid? It seems to me that the worst thing that I ever had to contend with was that packaging tape with the strings of groaning pain woven into it. I’d always think that I was a bad ass and always tried to rip it open with one of my mighty Hercules fingers. I usually needed some rolled gauze to bandage up my finger and some pain reliever for the throbbing. But back then you could (if you were anyone less then a demigod)just grab a butter knife and zip through it like nothing. Now you have to use a small warhead or some kind of freakishly strong plastic eating acid.

Ahhhhh. Why bother stressing over it. The sadistic elves won’t change the packaging. Kids already think that adults are half superhuman, half decade old computer which is pretty much useless to them, plus it has insufficient memory.

I don’t know about you, but that pretty much sums me up…I say with a smile.

Well, I don’t think it’s getting into the package that counts. I think it’s what we get out of it: A conquest. An achievement. A wonderful sense of having a small bit of control over the world we live in.

Either way, I’m so damned tired after busting into the package that I need a nap as soon as I free the contents. Well, guess I’ll go lay down.

This question strikes terror into the hearts of men across the world.

But….I was recently outside smoking with a group of women and somehow we all got into quite a revealing conversation about boxers or briefs.

They looked at me and asked. I retorted with ‘why in the hell is that important?’.

‘Just answer the question’ is why it’s important by the way. This is also one incentive, in a growing list, to give up smoking.

I answered (wouldn’t you like to know? ok, probably not…).

So why is it important to know? I personally believe that there is an inherent need in some women to know exactly what goes on around them at all times. That’s not a bad thing, per say. It’s just a thing.

I find that the question makes me think too much. I already think about my crotch way too much. Now I have to think about how to dress it up too? As long as ‘little’ red bows aren’t one of the options, I’ll be fine. That’s too much work and if I tell you why it would be too much information.

I don’t know why there are only 2 options presented in this question. There are many possibilities. For instance, the ‘neither’ option exists. Although there are a couple of different options for this too; sub-options as it were. The occasionally tempting ‘Commando’, which means wearing no underwear at all. I will admit right this very moment that this is only a last resort for me. Seams kill my sensitive skin. This may be appealing for some, jiggling around all day free to roam about the fabric, but for me it just sucks.

Another option would delve into a wide range of possibilities. You know, boxer briefs are nice. But let’s not be narrow minded and eliminate wearing the Speedo like underwear…man thongs, as it were. Of course I don’t understand thongs in the first place, but that’s another blog. Some wear lacy underwear. Hey, I say don’t throw stones, right? Others need to wear those pull up things for incontinence or anal leakage or whatever. That must be mortifying to be asked boxers or briefs. Here’s the answer: ”I feel as though that question objectifies me in every way and doesn’t take into consideration or appreciation the person that I am. But if you must know, I wear briefs.” So there.

Yes, I often wonder why it’s important to know. There’s that whole fertility thing where, if a guy is wearing boxers, it’s supposed to help increase the sperm count. I don’t know about that. I don’t analyze sperm. So wearing the boxers has an advantage with women who are looking for not only a husband, but also a family.

Briefs are nice and tidy. Well, usually briefs are nice and tidy. I have been know to wear underwear that’s stretched out with holes and stains which were able to be identified in the year 1987. I have been getting better at keeping my underwear more modern. I even have a new pack that are still brand new and unopened.

Still, a nice pair of tidy whities is very visually appealing and also comforting to wear. At the very least you feel comfortable knowing that if you do get into that accident you will make your mother very proud. I am of the personal opinion that the Commando method would be the best option in an accident, though. It eliminates at least one step in the caring.

Well, I am no closer to understanding why the question is important. I’d never ask, strapless or sports bra? And not because it’s inappropriate of would be the catalyst for many slaps across my face. Nope. The real reason is that I don’t care. And I never think about it. I see no reason to. I have way too much clutter in my head as it is. The knowledge does not identify one marker that would be even remotely important to me.

The only thing that I can even think of as to why it would be important is that people are attracted to different things. THAT I understand. I love seeing a woman fresh out of the shower with her hair wet and in a white button down shirt. So maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just an image of a face that they like attached at the bottom to whatever they find attractive. Hmm. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I sort of like the idea of being objectified.

Now that I think about it, it has been a while since I’ve been to the gym but I’d be willing to guess that my trainer is wearing the sports bra.

Do you like talking to humans?

Do you hate navigating the computer controlled phone mess that you usually get whenever you try to call some customer service line to ask the simplest question?

Well…try Bringo.

I just stumbled on to this parody of porn sites.

It is pretty funny, I’ll tell you….right down to the ads which scream at you to satisfy your furniture fetish.

Yeah, bah.

I’m having a moment. I’m not sure why, but there it is. My moment.

I’m not sure what kind of moment either. Kind of happy, sad, pissed off, indifferent, passive, aggressive, waiting to see what happens kind of a moment. With pressure in my head which is dying to turn into a full blown spasm in my brain which would result in a bout of unconsciousness which would probably last well into next week.

Ever had one of those moments?

Like I said, I have no clue as to why I’m feeling like this. My heart feels heavy, but my soul feels light. The base of my brain is numb but my mind is buzzing. If I wasn’t having a moment, this would be kinda cool.

Anyway, I’ve already confirmed that I am over worked. I have already confirmed that I am on the verge of collapsing from stress and exhaustion.

Am I old? well, i suppose that’s besides the point. I am fried. Irritated that i have to be polite and reserved. All i want to do is scream at the top of my lungs.

Ever have a moment like that? Where you are nodding and smiling at someone while you are talking about some inane bullshit and then you have a flashing thought of slapping them in the face? Yup…that’s the moment that I’m having.

But, at the same time, I could sit and listen with determined indifference to someone bitch for hours. I just wouldn’t care. I’d nod…probably not smile…and just listen. And just to be passive aggressive, I’d play the devil’s advocate during the entire conversation. Until they thought of slapping me in the face. Ha. That gives me a bizarre sense of justice.

I think that i just might be a bit edgy. Hmmm.

I guess i’d be edgy if i wasn’t bored out of my mind. Bored like watching the Lifetime channel because that’s what was on when the TV came on and I couldn’t be bothered with changing the channel. Come to think of it, I suppose watching the Lifetime channel is edgy…with a dull edge, that is.

Please…forgive me for my last statement…I’m used to watching football, baseball (go Phillies…yeah, I know, but I have announced here before that they’ve been my baseball team since I was born), and surfing on tv. I’ve even been known to watch a rousing round of golf or curling match. Since my father retired, he’s the one who leaves the channel on. He watches it before he goes to bed.

That kinda pisses me off actually. Why can’t he leave PBS on? Or the Sci Fi channel. My parents sit and watch that for hours. They get giant irradiated bees and I get a stay at home mom returning to the work force, who’s being sexually harassed by her boss.

Freaking moment.

And it doesn’t help that my personal life is ‘interesting’. Work is way too stressful. They fired Pirate because of the budget, which makes it twice as hard to accept. And Ninja moved to Vegas. I’m the only one left from our ‘original’ team.

There are people that I like still around, but I do feel alone. Really alone without them. My moment started before that all happened, but now it’s bigger. like the difference between a party balloon and a hot air balloon.

Sigh. Big, alone moment. Alone and far away from everyone and looking down onto life moving around me. And the air keeps getting hotter. Now all I need is one of those PILS (People I’d Like to Slap), and I’ll be just fine.

I lived a big chunk of my life with spooky, unexplainable stuff happening. A lot of traditional ‘ghost’ things were happening. Things missing after they were just put down. Footsteps up and down the stairs and then no one is there. The oven’s temperature being lowered or boosted up. Good times.

So things were pretty calm. Every once in a while something really freaky would happen. Like the year that one of the Christmas parties that my grandparents had (it was their house and we all lived in it - long story and another blog), anyway that’s the party where 6 people saw a face peering into one of the living room windows. Only odd thing about that is that the house is really high off the ground. The person would have had to have been at least 17 feet tall in order to look into that window.

Yet not only did 6 people swear that they saw it, but several people ran outside to chase ”the guy” that they saw. They were all astonished and freaked out when they didn’t see anyone outside. They all came back inside shivering because they ran out of the house without coats and saying that there was no way that ‘the guy’ could have gotten away. The guys all swore that they saw it. The wives all swore it was the whiskey sours, boilermakers, and high balls…it was the seventies.

But, onward….

There was that stretch of time when there was a lot of ‘activity’. Kinda like Poltergeist Lite. The first thing to that started to happen was the disappearances. Weird stuff was going away, like a sterling silver charm bracelet and silly putty. Apparently the ‘ghost’ had diverse tastes or some sort of unusual fetish.

Ah yes. The Ghost. My Grandmother named it Andy after the man that they bought the house from. He was alive and well when they signed the bill of sale but then he caught a cold and died. At least that’s what I heard, but that was always followed with ’so you better keep your hat on in the cold’. Yeah, yeah. I know that the stupid hat with the stupid bushy thing on top wasn’t really keeping me alive, so it usually went right into my pocket.

So now Andy has moved in…or never left. He continues to lurk in the shadows. Well, he continues to be a shadow. And after a while we got used to him. He never did anything malicious. He turned up the volume on televisions. He took things but usually brought them back. He liked to say hi by walking through the house so that everyone could hear him.

After a while, he was comforting. And coming home meant being greeted by him too.

‘Hey everyone I’m home! Whoops….there goes a shadow…Hey Andy! how ya doing?’

Andy was usually fine. He was also very tolerant of most of the people that were invited into our home. Of course he disapproved of some people. We always knew it too. The ‘disapproved’ always seem to have some misfortune fall upon them while they were visiting.

‘The case of the missing car keys’ was a standard ‘Andy Game’. A good one, too. Based on the dislike, this game could go on for upwards of a half an hour. There was the time that I figure he really hated the one guy because we found his keys behind the downstairs toilet. Now that was a fun conclusion to the game. Andy was certainly the busiest after-life worker bee that I’ve ever known.

Well, friendly little after-life worker bee. There was this other ‘entity’ who was nasty and ill mannered. Liked to put his scowling face on the wall. Not a nice gentlemanly entity at all. Even a little hostile…I think that’s why we never gave him a name. There’s nothing worse than an uncivilized entity. Seriously…like the kind of person who slurped their soup when they were alive (insert a grunt of disdain right here). If it were polite, I would be rolling my eyes at this entity.

Hmmmm. Maybe he’s upset because we never named him. And it’s definitely a him. I’ve seen the face on the wall and must say that he is a bit creepy. Nice name for him…’Creep Face’. Right then, I like it.

Actually, that house is a hotbed of activity. As a result of having the pleasure of having lived with Andy and Creep Face and others, I am now very skeptical when it comes to paranormal stuff. That’s pretty funny, isn’t it? Well, I just have a hard time believing some of the stuff that’s out there now. Photoshop can turn President Bush into a Buddhist Monk, so how am I supposed to believe that the Evil Minion of Satan that I’m seeing isn’t just Uncle Earl in cheese cloth and bad lighting?

I’d have to say that the Deity powers are slightly more subtle than to just shove a lot of evidence down our collective throats. Otherwise I’m thinking that we would all would be running from the flaming debris falling out of the sky. Nope. Me thinks that the business of Heaven and Hell takes up too much time for such theatrics.

Although I guess that it would make sense that there would be freelancers. Ones that haven’t perfected that debris trick. Yeah, I guess that’s what the Andy’s and Creep Faces are. Freelancers. Resistant to the idea of being bogged down by so many flames or clouds. Just happy go lucky and content with their mischief.

I wonder what the qualifications are for an After Life Freelancer?

Excuse me…I have to go and work on my resume.

www.2dvalley.com

Ever wonder were stuff goes when you throw it out?

Apparently there is an abundance of mattresses to find and post online.

I haven’t found any of my old mattresses yet, but I’m still looking.

Hey! I just realized. I’m a blog!

Well, that just sounds stupid.

What I mean is that without being known to the world, the only things that are apparent are the words and images that I fill this blog with. That’s all I do.

It’s you the reader who takes these words and breathes life into them. You read them, bring them into your conscious and sometimes subconscious and animate everything in your minds eye.

For me, when I blog, I am an ancient warrior. A Samurai. Sam I Am. My sword is my keyboard. My fighting abilities acquired long ago, mostly to defend myself. Looking out across the vast universe that is known as the World Wide Web.

I absolutely love to take the words that swirl around in my head like driftwood and slash them out onto my electronic stationary. Some days being profound, other days being very not profound, and some days being down right incoherent.

That’s ok with me. I’m a blog. Not meant to be anything more than what I type out. Well, unless someone is moved to comment. I do like comments. Whether positive or negative or indifferent. I’ll post them. No reason not to post them. They are other people. Others blogs.

I am blog because it lets me purge out everything that would be stuck in my head. And I don’t have to look like I’m completely out of my mind and go around talking to myself all the time. I am blogger hear me roar! Yeah…now that’s a little outta hand.

Well, I like to blog my little blogs on my Smartphone first. It’s very convenient and allows me to carry around unlimited numbers of blogs and blog ideas. I lie in bed with my phone in my hands tapping away on the keyboard. Ideas flow in and sometimes hit brick walls as I type. I just move on to the next blog or last blog.

Yes. I write and write and write. I have written since I was young. But this writing is very compatible with my ADHD. Turn on a dime. Get another idea and off to fresh stationary. Hey…think I’ll blog about mustard. Hmmm…I think that I’ll tell the world about my Mary Tyler Moore dream.

I have no idea where all this stuff comes from. I don’t even think that I’d want to know. It’s just the way my brain is wired. And I have no problem sharing the information as it comes at me. Why should I? It’s just my mind.

Scary. Yeah, sometimes. But not scary in a criminal or sociopath kind of way. At least I hope not. Just scary in the normal thoughts of a normal…ok….Well, maybe not terribly normal… Ok…well, they are thoughts.

So. I am blog. And I am at peace with that. Wow. All this writing has made me hungry. Off to the land of the fluffer nutter.

Oh yeah. The Shadow People. It was my Grandmother who first started to see them. Good thing too. The rest of us had just thought that we were suffering from some sort of visual or mental disorder. But my Grandmother? No chance in hell that she ever would have had any kind of disorder, and if she did, she’d be so stern with it that it would flee to the Vatican for safety.

Nope. Isabelle was not the kind of woman who would have made up the Shadow People. Her idea of fun was cleaning the entire house with bleach and afterward balancing the checkbook. So naturally we all knew ’something’ was going on when the Shadow People arrived.

It was weird too. It was a day when their were a lot of witnesses. A dinner for the Italian side of the family. Usually they were the only ones who crowded into the house until it kinda bulged at the sides. I want to say that they brought their own silverware too, but that would be a bit of an exaggeration. But they did bring massive amounts of food. They probably could have fed all the kids in China that were starving every time I didn’t want to eat the rest of my dinner. I was a smartass when I was a kid, so naturally I brought up this little thought in my head once. Yeah…that was the last time I used adult logic on adults in my childhood.

Onward. The Shadow People were about to make a grand entrance. Everyone was kind of mulling around and, naturally, everyone was hovering around the simmering sauce pot with their chunks of crusty bread in their fat little fingers waiting for their turn to criticize the cook. Needs sugar. Needs oregano. Needs more bay leaf…maybe a bigger leaf. Eh….the Italians were a catty bunch. A ‘discussion’ would always ensue. That’s how I learned how to curse in Italian. Screw that Berlitz course. He only teaches you how to say ‘the sauce is cooking in the pot’. Nope….I got way more colorful phrases regarding said pot and sauce.

Eh. Back to the Shadow people. My Grandmother turned around to begrudgingly get the oregano. Just then, her eye caught a fleeting figure in the living room. ‘Who in the hell was that?’ she said out loud.

All the Italian heads whipped around. It looks like Bruno sitting on the couch one comedian blurted out. My Grandmother would have said a couple of things in response…perhaps in Italian if they were _really_ colorful. But instead, she just walked into the living room and looked into the hallway where she saw the figure going. Nothing. Too much sauce steam getting into her head she said.

The Shadow People settled down that night and it was business as usual at the dinner tables. I sat at the kids table, of course. My Grandmother always cleaned the house with bleach shortly after these dinners since the red splattering of the sauce seemed to create evil smiling faces on the walls which seemed to torment her until she wiped the nasty little grins off their faces.

Well, shortly afterward there was another Shadow Person whipping through the living room. Then another one in the kitchen. Then another in the downstairs back room of the house. Everyone in the house was visited by them and then people who didn’t live there started seeing them. Spooky stuff. Imagine stopping by someone’s house to visit and finding out that The Shadow People were boarding there. No one minded since they seemed well mannered and didn’t smell like body odor.

But then one night it all took a turn for the creepier. My sister had 2 of my cousins visit for a sleep over, which by most definitions could be described as a ‘no’ sleep and bother your parents all night over. But anyway, there they were. All of them huddled in her bedroom. Every once in a while there would be shrieks of little girl laughter. The kind that makes you want to find something to do instead of investigating to see if they were ok. Of course they were ok. Well, as ok as little girls can get when they are talking about the little boys that they think are gross.

So naturally I retreated to my own bedroom and shut the door tight. To hell with the ‘ew! he’s so gross!’ followed by the giggling muffled behind their hands. Not my idea of fun in the slightest little bit. So I got into bed and hoped that when I woke up they would all be collapsed from lack of sleep. Soon after I fell asleep, though, I heard my Grandmother yelling up the stairs to my parents. ‘Go tell those girls to settle down. It sounds like they are going to come through the ceiling!’

Ok well, then my Mother investigated. I didn’t hear anything for a little while after the door to my sister’s room opened. At first I thought my mother had lost her mind and went in to talk about how gross my father was. She had been ticked off ever since my father called her fat, but no that wasn’t it. I heard her gently shutting the door and returning to the hall. ‘They’re all asleep.’

My Grandmother went back to where ever she was before and there was an eerie silence surrounding my bedroom. But, whatever. It _was_ nighttime. So again I shut my eyes. And again I was awakened. This time by my Grandfather’s heavy feet stomping up the stairs. He never did try to be light on his feet. Would have been useless anyway. He’s a big man with a big pasta belly.

He walked right to my sister’s room and opened the door and then shut it one second later. My parents followed him downstairs and you _know_ that I snuck down to listen.

‘It sounded like they were dancing up there. Listen!’ And yup….there was a lot of noise downstairs. Like elephants practicing ballet on trampolines. And it sounded like it was coming from upstairs. Everyone was ‘be damned’. I’ll be damned for good measure too.

First the Shadow People and now Dancing Girls. Or elephants on trampolines. An idea which appealed to me more then the dancing girls at the time. It was at this moment that we all knew that regardless of how you looked at it something strange had settled in to stay.

Have you ever had Silly Putty vanish into thin air when you were holding it in your hand? I have. When I was a kid I was playing with the Silly Putty and I was rolling it into a ball. Then, impulsively, I shook it between my cupped hands. Suddenly I had no more putty.

Stop. I hear you thinking….and no, I was not allowed to have mixed drinks until I was well within the legal limits of the law. Ahem. But I certainly wasn’t drinking at ten. I wouldn’t have remembered the Silly Putty if I was. Anyway…..

So there I was. At first I thought that it flew out of my hands, so I went on a frantic search for it. My Grandmother could have taught a drill sergeant something about how to make their troops fall into line so I knew that if she found the Putty melted into the carpet before I found the Putty and put it away I would have been sitting in the punishment chair for hours. And that was hell…you just do NOT sit a kid with ADHD in a chair facing the corner of the room and say ‘now think about what you’ve done’. Just beat me. It is way more humane in my eyes.

So after scouring the living room and recruiting help from my sister, then eventually my mother both of whom were in the living room at the time of the disappearance, we turned up no evidence whatsoever. The case was getting cold. After a through spring cleaning of the house orchestrated by my grandmother (and a lot of praying by me) it was still no where to be found.

My sister, mother and I were all scrunching our faces up and kind of looking at each other. My grandmother, who could tell that you were up to something like Sherlock Holmes could tell you everything about yourself at a glance, asked ‘just what in the hell is going on?!’

Of course my ‘nuthin’ was met with a look of disdain. I nearly dropped to my knees and confessed to every crime in the 20th Century. Three seconds later after my sense kicked in, I told her everything. ‘Well it couldn’t have vanished into thin air’.

Three and a half hours later, we had added my father, my grandfather, and an uncle to the search party and had found absolutely nothing. ‘Are you _sure_ you had the Silly Putty in your hands?’ everyone kept asking. Yup, I was sure. My mother validated my word by saying that she was watching me play and it happened exactly like I said it did.

Oh well. The search was called off for the day. For the longest time we looked everywhere on whims. Under cabinets, in drawers, in the light fixtures on the ceiling, behind a picture of my great grandmother hanging on the wall. We looked everywhere. Eventually different things stole our attention away from looking inside the Grandfather Clock, the gutters, and in the basement…don’t ask me…I was just a kid. I have no idea why we looked in the gutters.

Vanished.

Now, I gotta confess, after the house was thoroughly searched - and we uncovered some interesting facts about the house - I completely lost interest in the Putty. After all, knob and tube electrical wiring was much more fascinating than looking in the birdcage and finding nothing again.

So as my father, grandfather, and I were brandishing our tool belts and going around the house tightening pipes, spackling the back of the closet where the hole was from when I had thrown my skateboard into it, and painted the back porch just because my grandmother said so.

Months went by and slowly the house was fixed, inch by inch. Weird stuff kept happening. I don’t think that we paid attention all that much. Then one day, my grandmother noticed that a charm bracelet seemed to just vanish. Another, smaller scale search commenced. This search was called off quickly and far less ground was covered. Life as unusual got back to unusual. We all settled in.

Then, one day, months later, I was called into the living room. I ran to see what was wrong because it was a loud, sort of excited voice. It belonged to my father. He, my grandmother, and mother were all in the living room standing by a window. ‘Come here, Bear,’ my father said. ‘Oh shit,’ Bear thought. ‘It’s ok. I just want you to look at this.’

Uh huh. I’ve been tricked like this before. I get closer and I’m grabbed out of my shoes so fast that the Alien Abductors would have missed me if there was a race to snatch me. That’s when I saw myself being plopped onto the cushion of that damn forest green punishment chair, spun around, and spending a lot of time staring at the corner of the house. Just for good measure I had decided that I would absolutely NOT think about what I’d done this time. Huh. They could sit me down but they couldn’t control my mind, man! I shall overcome!

Ok. Maybe a little dramatic and a little paranoid. That’s why I take medication now. But anyway, I worked my way over to where they were standing. They were looking down at the floor. For a split second I thought that this small, but authoritative group had dropped their collective nuts, lost all sense of time and space, and perhaps even had too big of a lunch.

I looked down. I saw a tiny flower and the flower pot that it was in lying on it’s side. Apparently the result of a floral suicide. A scattering of soil around it. It looked like it should be outlined in pink chalk. And then I saw the strangest thing. A little gray, round ball all embedded with soil and it looked nasty.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

The three of them looked at each other for a moment. ‘Silly Putty’ my father answered.

And that was just the beginning….

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