I was in Hawii. Specifically Maui, one of the most romantic places for couples. I was alone, to mend a broken heart.

Since its enactment Megan's Law has proved to be an exercise in futility, a quagmire of geometrically increasing quandries, and a study in just whose rights are guaranteed by the constitution of the United States. The tone and intent of the law are well-meaning, the enforcement is a nightmare.

Two hours later, that darn gray cat was still there, still crouched by the step as I cooked dinner.
Was he hungry? I couldn't help myself.

There is a picture in my attic that shows a young handsome man in the Air Force. My father missed my birth and as it would turn out, missed most of my life as well. My father is an alcoholic. Now I watch him dying at the VA Hospital.

On October 28, 1959, a baby was born in a Dallas hospital. Four there witnessed that birth. One said "Goodbye," one said "Hello," and two decided, "We'll call her Jennifer."