UPAVIM (Unidas Para Vivir Mejor – United to Live Better) is a women’s community service organization located in La Esperanza, a squatters’ settlement in Guatemala. These courageous women formed the group to better their children’s lives and help their community. Their accomplishments are nothing short of amazing. For more information go to:


When I was a kid I wanted to be a nurse and go to Africa to work with Dr. Albert Schweitzer and save the world. Of course I also wanted to be an actress, and a director, and a writer, and a forest ranger, and a biologist, and a teacher, and a cop, and a detective, and a lawyer, and a cowgirl, and a firewomen…among several other things.

In college, even though theater still had top billing, I heeded my father’s advice and majored in a subject with which I could earn a living: History. Why I imagined I could earn a living with a History degree was not something I thought about. I was going to examine humanity’s stories and come up with a way to pave the way to world peace.

But Dr Schweitzer was still calling and I left college and headed off to nursing school. A year later I was back in college and to theater where I belonged. Besides that, Dr. Schweitzer died. With my many career choices I ended up with a double major: Theater and History, with a minor in Science.

A lot happened between then and the summer of 1993: marriage, children, teaching…and the fulfillment of the biggest dream of all: my own theater. For ten years I directed kid, teen, and adult productions in a tiny once-vacant movie house. With the help of my family and hundreds of parent volunteers, we built a tiny paradise with shows that would rival any theater in the world.

But dreams don’t always last and, when grants dried up in the 1980s, the theater closed. After directing ten shows a year, I was left without a stage. And Dr. Schweitzer, even though quite dead, called again.

After the theater closed I decided to study Spanish. I enrolled in a once-a-week adult education Spanish course. After eight weeks I decided to go to South America or somewhere. Maybe I couldn’t save the world, but maybe I could contribute something.

On Monday I called Leslie, my Spanish teacher.

“Where do you want to go?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

On Tuesday she called back. Help was needed in Nicaragua, El Salvador, Peru, Guatemala…

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

On Wednesday she called to say there was a women’s group in Guatemala that needed volunteers.

On Thursday I went to the Guatemalan Embassy to apply for a visa.

On Friday I called the airlines.

On Saturday I packed.

On Sunday I took off from Dulles Airport leaving a bewildered family behind. “She’s going what? She’s doing where?” Fortunately, Jerry was supportive and happy for me to be following my dreams. Being away from him and our now-grown kids was the hardest part, but it was something, for some reason, I had to do.

I have a lot of stories to tell about my seven summers in La Esperanza. It is located down the hill from Mezquital, a small pueblo thirty minutes from Guatemala City. I went there as a teacher, but I learned so much. I learned about the courage and determination the women of UPAVIM showed every day in spite of appalling conditions and abject poverty. I learned how caring and loving they could be in spite of often brutal treatment. I learned of their pride in themselves and in their community. Most of all I learned what a privileged life I had been living in my safe little world.

Of course, language was my biggest problem. In spite of my once-a-week Spanish course I was really only comfortable with eight words: hóla, taco, burrito, sombrero, and Dónde está el baño? I spent a lot of time and energy trying to communicate—often with embarrassing results.

A few of my faux pas:

I have to fix my horse.  (el caballo = horse; el cabello = hair)

I’m tired and I need to shave.  (afeitarse = to shave; acostarse = to go to bed)

I got my shoe stuck in the wolf.  (el lobo = wolf; el lodo = mud)

I need to buy a penis.  (el pene = penis; la peine = comb)

Oh! I’m so pregnant!  (embarazada = pregnant; desconcertada = embarrassed)

One situation haunted me every year. I lost my fanny pack and with it my lipstick. I checked my dictionary and practiced how to say, “I want to buy lipstick.”

I took the twenty minute bus trip to the nearest shopping center and found a drug store. “Yo quiero comprar pintura por mi vaca,” I said to the store’s owner, which roughly translates to “I want to buy lipstick for my cow.”

The owner said, “Para su vaca?!”

Sí. Por mi vaca.” I pointed to my lips.

He laughed and called to a fellow salesperson. “La señora quiere comprar pintura para su vaca!” (The lady wants to buy lipstick for her cow)

The other salesperson relayed the message to every customer in the store.

I didn’t know what I had said, but the way everyone was laughing I knew it was something bad.

The owner took pity on me. He pointed to his lips. “Es boca. Vaca es moooooooo.”

Every year, from then on, as soon as I got off the plane, I was greeted with “Mooooooos” and “Vas a comprar pintura para su vaca?” (Are you going to buy lipstick for your cow?)

They laughed a lot at my feeble attempts, but it was never a mocking laugh. It was fun and I laughed right with them. The women never made me feel stupid, in fact they did everything they could to help me through the day.

I spent the first three weeks teaching in our tutoring center: a sheet of rusted corrugated metal mounted on top of 2 x 4s. Log slats and cardboard tacked to the 2 x 4s kept the rain out, but holes in the metal roof let it in and the dirt floor was often ankle deep in mud. I would point to something and look up the word. El libro = book. La mesa = table. I would spell the word and the children would write it on their (often soggy) papers. Fortunately 2 + 2 = 4 in any language, so I was able to help with math.

But theater was never far from my mind. One day, through an interpreter, I asked the children if they would like to do a show.

“What’s a show?” they asked.

“It’s when you sing and dance and people clap for you.”

They were all for it and so were their mothers. And so we were off.

But that’s a story for another day.






CHANGING CORNERS: A Young Adult novel based on racism in 1950s New York

51rFe6m0YsL._AA160_.jpg   51rFe6m0YsL._AA160_.jpg

Available on Amazon: Kindle and in print:

Bobbie doesn’t believe the southern attitude toward people of color applies to her northern world. Phillis lived in Mississippi and endured the worst effects of racial hatred, generating a mind filled with fear, distrust, and bitterness. Friends when they were five years old, the two reunite in a late 1950s Long Island high school and find that an interracial friendship is not as easy as it was when they were unaware toddlers. Phillis longs for the innocence she once had, but she must convince Bobbie to confront the reality of racism even as they fight for the right to be friends.

With humor and drama, Phillis, Bobbie, and a diverse group of teenagers wage battle to change their corner of the world. At first they succeed. They share high school highs and lows and first romances: Phillis with Leonard and Bobbie with Frank.

Outside influences interfere and the girls end up facing the obstacles Phillis foresaw and Bobbie never expected, from hateful words, to vandalism, to outright violence. Their lives collapse when officials accuse Phillis of arson, a riot ensues, and police arrive, guns drawn. The two girls and their friends must bind together in an intricate plot to trap the true culprits and clear Phillis’s name before she faces undeserved years in prison.


1950s teenagers are often called the “do-nothing” generation. Consumed by their cars, poodle skirts, and dance parties, they appear to be an unconcerned lot. However, their seemingly nonchalant, selfish lives had more to do with lack of awareness than lack of caring. Many, when confronted with the truth about racial inequality, became activists in civil rights issues—sometimes with tragic results.

Now, in the 21st century, the struggle continues. There are parallels between the underground racism in 1950s northeast United States and the behind-the-scenes prejudice of today. It was there then; it is here now. We can’t fight it if we don’t own it and accept that it exists.

An Open Letter to Dr. Laura Schlesinger

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God’s Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination… end of debate.
I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God’s Laws and how to follow them.

1 Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighbouring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?
2 I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
3 I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual unseemliness – Lev. 15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
4 When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord – Lev. 1:9. The problem is my neighbours. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
5 I have a neighbour who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2. clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?
6 A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination – Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don’t agree. Can you settle this? Are there ‘degrees’ of abomination?
7 Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?
8 Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?
9 I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
10 My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev. 24:10-16. Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I am confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God’s word is eternal and unchanging.
Your adoring fan,
James M. Kauffman, Ed. D.
Professor Emeritus Dept. of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education
University of Virginia



A few years ago I was asked to launch a theatrical program in Baltimore City’s middle and high schools. In one high school, I was not welcomed with open arms. In fact, the authorities seemed to resent my involvement. They reluctantly agreed to take part in the program and told their teachers to send a couple of students from each of their classes to participate. I later learned some of the teachers took advantage of the opportunity and sent me the most difficult and most disruptive kids they had. It made for a challenging group.

At the first rehearsal, twenty sullen and unmotivated teenagers slumped into their seats, arms folded. They were glad to be there—anything to get out of the classroom—but firmly opposed to participating in a program that might open them up to peer ridicule and derision.

I asked them what kind of music and dance they would like. Their answers were predictable: Rap and Hip Hop. I told them I was not trained in either, but we would include them in our program along with other music they might enjoy. I promised I would find someone to teach Hip Hop, and they could write and perform their own raps. I kept my promise and found a professional Hip Hop teacher willing to volunteer her time. She came once. The kids were so nasty and uncooperative she never came back.

We plugged on. I found the kids’ exposure to music was limited to Rap and TV commercials. Slowly, I introduced other genres: classical, rock, Broadway… In spite of themselves, toes started tapping. They particularly liked the Beach Boys beat. For a long time I didn’t tell them the group was composed of a bunch of white boys. They also liked the Bee Gees and their disco version of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. I didn’t tell them Beethoven was popular in the 19th century. They really went for Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. I didn’t give them any details about George Gershwin, either.

Gradually, a show came together: an eclectic mix that proved to be as wonderful as it was strange. We began to bond a bit, to trust each other. At the time I was directing another show in a community north of Baltimore. Bad traffic made me late for rehearsal. When I finally reached the school the place was empty, except for one of my kids sitting alone on the steps. She ran to my car and stuck her head in the window.

“They told me not to bother to wait,” she said. “But I knew you’d come.”

The kids did their show for the school. It was a difficult performance. I had never had a group so full of stage fright. But the kids did a beautiful job and their peers showed appreciation for their talent and courage with a standing ovation.

We decided to take the show on the road.

It wasn’t hard to find gigs; everyone loves a free show. The kids performed for elementary schools, community centers, retirement homes, and churches. Our last performance was at a hospital that specializes in children with birth and traumatic neurological disorders. I made reservations at a local pizza place for a celebratory cast party following the show.

We arrived at the hospital and went to the room reserved for the performance. The kids stopped at the door and looked in. It was not a pleasant sight. The patients in this hospital are some of the most physically challenged children in the medical world. Their birth defects and traumatic injuries cause jerky, palsied movements. Their attempts at speech often result in moans, high-pitched squeals, and stutters. Most were in wheelchairs; some were in cribs with guardrails pulled high.

My kids turned and fled.

I found them in the parking lot, huddled around the bus.

“No way we’re going in there,” one of them said.

“They’re a bunch of freaks,” another added.

I was furious and made no attempt to hide it. “Those children are waiting for a show and you’re going to disappoint them?”

They wouldn’t look at me.

“You’re afraid of them,” I said.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” one of the boys said.

“If you don’t go in there and give them the show you promised, you are cowards,” I told them. Actually, my words weren’t that polite.

Finally, they agreed. “We go in, do the show, and get out.”

So, we set up and did the show. During the performance there were several places where the actors went into the house to interact with the audience. Several of those moments passed before one of the braver performers approached one of the children. The child smiled when he came close. Others followed, and soon all of the actors were in and out of the audience, touching the children, playing with them, and making them laugh.

After the kids took their final bow, I started on the laborious task of loading out our equipment: flats, set pieces, props, sound system… After a few minutes I realized I was alone on stage—unusual because the actors always helped with the task.

I looked out at our audience. There were my kids, playing with these sick children, teasing them into smiles, returning their smiles with big grins.

I finished the load out alone. When I had everything packed up, I called for my kids. “Time to go, guys. Our reservation at the pizza parlor is for 4:30.”

One of the girls stopped hopping a frog up a giggling boy’s shoulder long enough to say, “Can’t we stay? We can have pizza anytime.”

I’ve had many proud moments in my career. This one is in my top ten.

FACES Imprisoned Women and Their Struggle with the Criminal Justice System
FACES Imprisoned Women and Their Struggle with the Criminal Justice System


The names are changed, but the story is true.

Even as I was working on this piece, I was questioning my reasons for writing it. After all, it’s not an unusual story in our turbulent times: a beautiful young woman murdered by her immature? drug addicted? mentally unstable? jealous? boyfriend.

But maybe the fact it is not unusual is the best reason. What does it say about our society when we read the newspaper’s page 18 one-paragraph account of another tragic murder, and our only reaction is to turn the page?

When did we stop caring?


Twenty-five-year-old Lily was a daughter, a sister, a mother, a granddaughter, and a great-granddaughter. In 1996, her twenty-seven-year-old boyfriend, Casey, murdered her.

In Lily’s obituary, her mother, Katherine, wrote

She was warm as the sun, caring as a human being, free as a spirit, and so full of life.

She sometimes moved fast as the wind.

Most of all, in a world full of violence, little morals nor values, Lily was a lady. She loved to take care of people that could not help themselves.

Lily loved to dance, loved to write and read, and write poetry. Lily modeled sometimes, and yes, was always colorful!

Three weeks before the tragedy, Lily left Casey and moved in with her mother.

Three days before the tragedy, Lily went back to Casey.

One day before the tragedy, Lily spent the day at her mother’s house. As Katherine was leaving for work, Lily said, “If I leave a Phillips Seafood glass on the dining room table, you’ll know everything is all right.” When Katherine got home, there was no glass. Frantic, she called her daughter. No response.

The day of the tragedy, Casey told Lily he was going to a training session for his job and needed a ride to the airport. No one knew the training session, if it existed at all, had been cancelled.

Lily called Katherine. “I’m looking out the window. Casey and his sister are in the car. They have a gun.”

“Leave!” Katherine screamed into the phone.

But Lily didn’t leave and, at 3:00 that afternoon, there was a knock on Katherine’s door. It was the police. “There’s been an accident.”

“They all came in,” Katherine said through tears. “It was like a TV show. Then they told me: ‘Your daughter has been killed.’

“At the morgue they tried to stop me from going to Lily. There was no stopping me. I felt like an undershirt pulled inside out. All my skin came off my body – like somebody threw acid on me. Lily’s face was smashed and swollen. After Casey killed my daughter he threw her into the car like trash and dumped her on the highway. I told the police to take me to my grandson.”

Donnie, Lily and Casey’s seven-year-old son, was home when Casey returned after shooting Lily and dumping her body.

“Daddy’s shirt was bloody and he told me something bad happened,” Donnie told the police.

Casey took a shower, and then called the police. “I shot my girlfriend.”

“Donnie knows his mother’s dead and his father’s in jail,” Katherine told a reporter, “but he’s seven years old, you know. He still loves his parents.”

“I talked to Mommy last night,” Donnie told Katherine days later. “She says she’s okay and she’s watching over you.”


At the trial, one of Casey’s attorneys said, “I can’t help Casey. He was uncooperative. He just kept staring out the window.” Casey’s lawyers tried for an insanity plea and asked for mercy. They called the murder a “crime of passion.”

The judge was not impressed. He told Casey he was appalled by the brutality of the crime. “I can’t imagine anything more horrible than what happened here,” he said.

“She was my daughter and my friend and you took her away from me,” Katherine screamed at Casey.

“I don’t even want to breathe the same air that he breathes,” she told the judge. “I don’t want to breathe any air without Lily.”

At first, Katherine wanted the death penalty. “But I didn’t want Donnie to lose both parents, so I requested Life Without the Possibility of Parole.”

Casey was sentenced to Life plus 15 years.

So those are the facts. Murder committed. Perpetrator tried, convicted, and sentenced to live the rest of his life in prison. The End. Cut to commercial.


But the nightmare for both families was just beginning.

At first, Katherine asked herself the questions that plague so many victims’ loved ones: “Why?” and “What could I have done?

“I sat in my room with a gallon of wine. After the fifth glass I threw the bottle across the room. The son of a bitch shot her. This was not a crime of passion. It was a murder – a killing. There was nothing I could do.”

Over and over she thought about Lily’s relationship with Casey.

“Lily was fifteen when she met Casey. He was seventeen. At first Casey was like another son. He had dinner with us, went to movies – lots of family stuff.”

But over the years the relationship changed. Casey had children by other women, two of whom lived with Casey and Lily.

“Lily neglected her appearance and that was not in character for her. She was a hairdresser.”

Katherine never saw signs of physical abuse, but she didn’t like the way Casey talked to Lily. “After a while, Casey was no longer welcomed in my house.”

She reminisced about her daughter’s dreams for the future. “Lily wanted to establish a ‘Hairdresser on Wheels’ business serving homebound people – maybe open her own shop someday. She was set to get her cosmetology license a week before she was murdered. She wanted to be a cop, too. She applied for the police academy.”

At Casey’s trial, the assistant state’s attorney told the judge: “[Lily] was someone who was definitely trying to build a life for herself.”

“Lily grew out of Casey,” Katherine said. “He was a good father, but he couldn’t handle Lily living her own life.”

Both families had to somehow cope with the murder. Some succeeded; others never recovered.

  • The evening of the murder, Katherine’s parents were at a restaurant waiting for her to join them for dinner. Katherine had to tell them what had happened. They are gone now, but they never stopped grieving for their beautiful granddaughter.
  • After years of suffering, Casey’s mother now dedicates herself to prison reform. She has nightmares about what is happening to her son in prison.
  • According to Katherine, “My other daughter and my son want nothing to do with Casey. They can’t believe he did that to their sister. My daughter is doing well. My son spent five years in prison on drug charges, but he’s out now and reclaiming his life.”
  • Katherine lost touch with Casey’s other children. She prays for them.
  • Casey remains in jail with little hope for release.
  • Growing up, Donnie was protected from the details about his mother’s death. When he finally learned the truth he cut off all ties with his father. He is twenty-six years old now and has yet to find his place in the world. He spent time in prison on drug charges, but he is out now and working. He is married and has two children: a girl, eight, and a boy, six. Katherine allowed Donnie and his wife to live rent-free in her town house for a year, but, according to Katherine, “they move around a lot.” To this day, Donnie talks to his mother.
  • Katherine went back to work. Her co-workers had no idea what to say to her in the face of such a devastating tragedy. Katherine had to be the nurturer. “I understood. What is there to say?” She went on with her life, earning enough money to allow her other daughter to graduate with a Masters Degree in Finance. Retired now, Katherine volunteers for an organization that assists ex-offenders with their reentry into society.

Lily is never far from her mind. As we talked, her tears flowed. “Lily had dreams—simple things. She wanted to get married, walk her son to school…

“I still wake up to my daughter’s face. My daughter and I would go to the market and hold hands. We always held hands. We had family time with hugs and kisses.

“I hug my children every day. We have to hug. If my son jumps out of the car without hugging me, he’ll jump back in.”

“I can breathe a little. But sometimes I can’t breathe at all.”


Three months ago Katherine attended a meeting. She looked across the room and spotted Casey’s mother. Katherine hadn’t seen her since the trial nineteen years before.

Casey’s mother approached Katherine and asked to speak with her. “I didn’t know what to say,” Katherine said. “What do you say to the mother of the man who killed your daughter? I took the initiative and hugged her to ease the tension.”

The two mothers, both of whom, in different ways, had lost their children, bonded.

At home that evening, Katherine was “…outside of myself. But I began to see we have to have compassion for people. It takes truth and wisdom to get beyond the loss of a child. Every day I think of Lily. There is no loss like the loss of a child.”

Now Katherine wants to teach people to forgive and heal—to see crime through the eyes of other people. “We have to be gentle. We have to put our own feelings aside for the sake of the children.”


Katherine concluded Lily’s obituary with these words:

Lily was only with us for a short time, but left a lifetime of love and memories. We will miss our beautiful wildflower.


Lily had committed what was to Casey an unpardonable sin: she grew up. She was thinking of her future, of her son’s future. Katherine is right: she grew out of him.

But why kill her? We will never know. Casey’s not talking.

All we know is two families died that day.





We may not have broken the record, but almost 800 people attended and we raised $5000 for Bridges to Housing Stability.

Pie-throwers came early for the pre-fight family fun: Circus Shows, Music, Stilt Walkers, Juggling school, Balloon Sculptors and More! Everyone had a wonderful time.



Benefit for

Bridges to Housing Stability

Every Family Should Have a Home.




6770 Oak Hall Lane, Columbia, MD 21045.





The Rock

In 1973 we lived in a townhouse here in Columbia, Maryland. Route 175 was under construction and our house was up the hill from the construction site. Everyday chain saws cut down trees and bulldozers dug up ground in preparation for this road that would connect the east and west sides of Columbia.


On one particular day the bulldozers unearthed a rock. No, not just a rock. A spectacular Rock. The most beautiful RockGibralter the world has ever seen.

Jerry fell in love with The Rock. So did Earl, Paul, and Greg. Julie was a baby at the time, unimpressed by The Rock. Jerry and the boys decided The Rock had to become a part of our townhouse’s landscape. They set out to move The Rock.

Taking their cue from the Egyptians and the ancient inhabitants of Easter Island,Unknown they gathered six logs and lay them horizontally side by side in front of The Rock. They tied a rope around The Rock and pulled it onto the makeshift pallet. Easter Island As Jerry pulled the rope over the logs, it was Earl and Paul’s job to run around The Rock, take the freed back log and place it in front of The Rock so Jerry could pull it the few inches onto the new front log. Greg’s job was to sit on The Rock and get in the way.


It was a team effort, with pushes and pulls and lots of grunts and groans. But they made it, and for three years The Rock stood guard at our front door.

Then we moved. And we left The Rock behind. We said our goodbyes and promised to visit. Unbeknownst to the rest of us, Greg made a promise to The Rock. “I’ll be back to get you.”

We loved our big new house,

changes to house

but we missed The Rock. Periodically, we would drive by the townhouse to make sure The Rock was still there. It always was. Waiting.

Two years ago, Greg and his wife bought a house here in Columbia – not far from the townhouse and The Rock.

I went to our old townhouse and knocked on the door. “I would like to buy your Rock, please” I said to the owner when she answered the door.

She blinked. “What?”

“My family and I used to live here. We love The Rock. May I buy it, please?”

She had no attachment to The Rock and was willing to sell.

I went home, picked up a small rock from my front yard, wrapped it in the Washington Post Sunday’s funny papers, and put a bow on it. I drove to Greg and Sheryl’s house.

“This is your housewarming present,” I said to Greg as I handed him the funny-papers-wrapped rock.

Greg opened it. “It’s a rock.”

Sheryl was first to catch on: “It’s THE Rock,” she said.

“Really?” Greg said. “You got The Rock?”

“Yes,” I said. “I got The Rock.”

Then came the moving process. I had planned to use the services of a local stone company. Greg wasn’t having any of that. Now that he owned The Rock, it had to be in front of his house. Now! That Day!

He called his best buddies, Chris and Aaron, and they met at the townhouse. They gazed at The Rock.

“That’s a big Rock,” Chris said.

“Sure is,” Aaron said.

They gave it a push. It didn’t move.

“Sure is a big Rock,” Chris said.

rock on dolly

Greg has a dolly he uses for his circus equipment. The three of them managed to roll The Rock onto the dolly and roll the dolly with The Rock to the back of Greg’s station wagon.

Chris Aaron rock on dolly.JPG

That wasn’t too bad. But then came the real challenge: how to get the dolly and The Rock from the ground into the car.

rock by car They pulled on the dolly.

The dolly didn’t move.

They pushed from the front and pulled from the back.

The dolly still didn’t move.

They gathered around the dolly, their hands planted underneath. “1-2-3-Lift!”

It didn’t budge.

Tried again: “1-2-3-Lift!”


They sat around The Rock and the dolly discussing their options.

Could they put a chain around The Rock and haul it into the car?

(How do you put a chain around a lopsided Rock?)

Could they tie the dolly to the bumper and pull it the three miles to Greg and Sheryl’s house.

(The dolly would never make it.)

Could they put it into a wagon and pull it the three miles to Greg and Sheryl’s house?

(How could they lift it into the wagon?)

Could they put a rope around The Rock and drag it the three miles to Greg and Sheryl’s house?

(No way Greg was going to take a chance on harm coming to his precious Rock.)

rock on ramp

The owner of the house came up with the solution. He had a long, strong board they could use as a ramp. Perfect. And it only took an hour or so to roll the dolly and The Rock up the improvised ramp and into the car.

rock in car

With a sad wave, the townhouse owners bid goodbye to The Rock and Greg drove it to its new home.

Now they had to get The Rock out of the car. At least now they had gravity on their side. They used the ramp to roll The Rock and the dolly out of the car and to the ground. But The Rock took a detour and trapped Greg’s left arm against the side of the station wagon’s back door.

Chris and Aaron didn’t realize Greg’s predicament until they noticed his mouth opened in a silent scream. Without speaking, Greg pointed to his arm with a frantic right hand. Chris and Aaron managed to unlodge Greg’s arm. Big bruise, but no broken bones.

Greg and me

They got The Rock out of the car and rolled it into place. Tears in our eyes, Greg and I embraced, remembering that wonderful day so many years ago when The Rock first became part of our family.

Greg Aaron Chris Sheryl on rock
L to R: Aaron, Greg, Sheryl, Chris




Hail to rock.JPG

And so The Rock stands guard at Greg’s house, just as it did at our townhouse.

Greg on rock

It truly is a remarkable Rock.

rock alone



A Little Bit About a Lot of Things