Erin's Journals

I hope you had a safe weekend and managed to survive those nasty winds yesterday. Rob and I had the warmest welcomes imaginable at Wooden Sticks Golf Club on Saturday afternoon and yesterday morning; we must have spent a couple of hours signing books both before and after. Last night was a bit of a different experience in that the first of our two nights in Oakville met up with two obstacles: awful weather and a tight deadline. 
 
As last night’s event wrapped up, I had my eye on the long line of people I trust wanted to (and eventually got to) meet and hug and talk. But the other eye was on my watch, with worries about the 7 am call time for Breakfast Television. I get to be on their post-Oscar show today in the 7 am hour!
 
But here’s the thing: I chose to make this an airtight schedule because, when one Oakville event (tonight) sold out, I said “yes” to a Sunday one, even though the Blue Heron Books (at Wooden Sticks) was all carved in stone. Or wood. So this is my doing! But I wouldn’t have this any other way. 
 
I was reminded of the term that so many bereaved mothers use for themselves: “Angel Moms.” I have never considered myself an angel anything…but I found myself humbled to meet the teary-eyed women who formed such a strong support group for each other and came together to share in these early events for Mourning Has Broken. The hour I spent on stage was met with tears and lots of laughter – just as I wanted it. 
 

 
After being introduced Saturday and Sunday in Uxbridge by the talented best-selling (million-plus) author Susanna Kearsley, I asked anyone who had lost a child to stand if they were able. Some 20 did. Then I asked everyone who had suffered a loss close to them to stand. That number included almost everyone who was still seated. And finally, I said “Anyone who knows someone suffering a devastating loss, please stand.” As you can imagine, all were on their feet. And there were plenty of sniffles.
 
The numbers are staggering and truly you don’t know how many Angel Moms are out there. But I do. I talked with them, we hugged, they teared up and we held hands. I listened to their pared-down-for-time stories of loss and love and sadness and recovery and could have stayed for hours. Maybe I’ll get a chance to do that one day. I would be honoured just to listen.
 
There were so many gifts (more about them later). We received cards and yellow roses, but most of all, the gift of these people’s time. These women and, yes, a few men, who joined us to laugh, to ask questions, to just share some time.
 
One of the greatest gifts of the past few days has been the chance to visit with dear friends: on Thursday it was with sweet Helen, our dear friend, then dinner at Benihana at the Royal York that night with Mike. We were having such a good time that I thought it would be appropriate to buy dinner for the mother-daughter pair from Ottawa who shared our cooking table. It just felt right on so many levels…
 

 
Friday night after a busy day of shooting back-up video for The Marilyn Denis Show (I tape our interview today and it airs April 26 – not a typo) and CityLine with Tracy Moore (airing March 13), we got together with Allan Bell, the longtime friend who’s truly our family’s angel in so many ways. We awoke to a beautifully and caringly written piece in the Toronto Star by Paul Hunter. Rob and I were touched and grateful. 
 

 
And later, the icing on the day’s cake (if I’d had time to eat any) was the pure joy of seeing my longtime broadcasting sister and friend Lisa Brandt at Saturday’s event. We shared dinner later and she has written her blog today about us. 
 
Thank you to New York Times bestselling author Susanna Kearsley for the wonderful interviews through Blue Heron Books in Uxbridge. I will bring you pictures as the week goes on when my editor (er, Rob) has a moment more to breathe. But today was a race against the clock and if I look tired today on BT or tomorrow – Tuesday – on CTV Your Morning (to air late in the 7 am hour) or at 8:30-ish on CP24 or just after 9:00 am on Global Morning, I hope you’ll forgive me.
 
I’ve more visits to make (live) tomorrow and I’ll fill you in later. There will be plenty of time to sleep next week – right? See you today on BT (or vice versa) and tonight in Oakville!
 

It’s here. I’m here. Back in the 416. We’re about to begin a brand new adventure, you and I, and we can hardly believe it. (And yes, things went way more smoothly between Victoria and Toronto than they did from Palm Springs!) 
 
As the pre-interviews and tapings begin today, it’ll be a blur of lashes and concealer, time cues and questions. I don’t think I’ll cry during any of these interviews; I’ve managed to package my pain in a very special box that I rarely open (at least intentionally).
 
When The Marilyn Denis Show revealed her son Adam and daughter-in-law’s baby’s gender on Monday, I cried with joy watching her. Next week I’ll have a chance to hug my radio friend and congratulate her in person: a granddaughter on the way, a new husband and life full of happiness. Who could hope for more? It turns out the interview will air April 26th, but Marilyn has graciously adjusted her vacation schedule to tape with me on Monday.
 
Today, I’m paying sweet Tracy Moore a visit as we shoot a Cityline episode to air on March 13th (again, she’s adjusted her schedule to accommodate me).  It was on Tracy’s show that this part of our story began: as I’ve told you here, it was on my final radio show day in Dec. 2016 that I was a guest of Tracy on her show (which we’ve seen in the US, too, by the way). Iris Tupholme, SVP of Publishing for HarperCollins Canada, happened to be on a “girls’ day” with her sisters in the audience. It was Iris who reached out and said, “I think you’ve got a book in you.” 
 
There is NO way I would have written this book – never mind trying to shop it to publishers and risk repeated rejection – without Iris’ encouragement and gentle, firm guidance. It’s been a true HC/Real Family team effort and Rob and I will always, always be grateful.
 
Yesterday we had a wonderfully warm afternoon reuniting with our friend dear Helen (who turned 89 last December) and last evening with my beloved Mike Cooper. Once again, it was a blurry blend of tears and laughter and, of course, the amazing Sam, who is such a friend to Debbie and Mike that he came to her memorial. 
 

 
Today we’re getting our body clocks turned around and gearing up for a big, big weekend. We’ve been told that my interview with Paul Hunter of the Toronto Star will go live on thestar.com as of 5 am, and is also scheduled to be in the Saturday paper. Tomorrow, my first official event happens, as Blue Heron Books hosts a weekend of events at Wooden Sticks Golf Club. I can’t wait to talk, to sign and to hug. I’m going to try my best to be present. 
 
I shall not walk this way again and this is a moment that some people live their lives dreaming of: a book launch. I never had the audacity of hope in that regard (I always had lofty broadcasting dreams, though) and this is something that I do not take for granted. It’s just…taking it in. I have to do that. Breathe. Sleep. Repeat. 
 
And I need to ask you this favour: because so many people have reached out and made a connection with me in the last 16 years of writing this journal, the 30 years in radio and the past two years of renewed and even new contact, I will not remember every story. When we meet, please say, “I’m Janice – I lost my dad last year and we wrote back and forth…” or “I’m Sharon. I put the brick in Lauren’s name in Orillia.” If you say, “Remember me?” I’ll just ask you to help me. So I’m asking now. 
 
I wish I’d made lists and kept details straight, but I don’t think I believed we’d ever really get a chance to meet. Please help me with your name and how we know each other and we’ll go from there. Thank you for understanding. The signings are going to be a blur. I’m going to want to spend as much time with everyone as I can, while also worrying about those people waiting patiently in line. I’m new at this and we’ll all figure it out together, okay? Thank you again!
 
After a second event in Uxbridge Sunday for Blue Heron, onward we go to Oakville Sunday night and, oh, yes, the PVR is set for the Oscars this Sunday. Please don’t tell me who wins ’til I get home March 4th. LOLOLOL. Like I could miss it!
 
A couple of notes: I’ll be on Citytv’s Breakfast Television on Monday in the 7 am hour (probably around 7:20) and then I go on to tape Marilyn. Tuesday is jam-packed with live appearances on TV and at Rogers, so I’ll be sure to fill you in on Monday.
 
If you’re coming to the CHFI event on Tuesday and plan to buy a book, I’m told they take major credit and debit cards, tap and cash. (A winner asked, so there you go!)
 
If it sounds like a whirlwind, it is. In between the things I’ve told you about are pre-tapes, a meeting and taping with a charity that helps bereaved children, podcast interviews and, next week, a series of CBC radio interviews to air across the country next weekend. 
 
Forgive me if this is all too much – I understand if it is and will ask you to bear with me, as this won’t last more than two weeks, I promise. But this is a week I’ve been preparing for, seemingly, forever. To every palm reader, psychic, listener or friend who said, “You’ve got a book in you,” I say, thank you. To Rob who asked, “Are you really sure you want to do this?” I say thank you for putting aside your worries about me and your own pain, and diving in with me as we rode out these waves of grief and remembrance together.
 
Hopefully this book will bring people like us – anyone looking for light – to a shore where they can look back in love and gratitude and look forward to a life where, yes, the sun shines again, laughter fills the air and the vision of the future continues to widen and brighten in ways we didn’t think would be possible ever again.
 
Here we go, my friend. Here we go.
 

*A ticket update: I heard from Blue Heron Books that the folks at Wooden Sticks have squeezed in two more tables. This means there are a handful of tickets to Saturday and Sunday’s events for those who were wishing they could have joined us in Uxbridge! Please call the store after 10 am today at 905-852-4282 with your credit card ready and Shelley and her amazing staff will do what they can to help you.
 
Journal readers are getting first dibs (I will post to FB and Twitter at 11 am) as my thanks for your loyalty here for all of these years. Hope to see and say hello to you this weekend in person! Now, to today’s journal. Get ready…
 
Okay, with regards to the quote from Ellen, this time you’re gonna laugh. You have to. I sure did.
 
Well, here we are: wheels up to Toronto on the 6:15 am flight out of Victoria. Of course, as I write this, we haven’t yet gone to bed on Wednesday and I am hoping for the best: that we get up on time (we will), that Sidney Taxi with its tiny fleet of five comes to get us at 4:45 am and that all goes well getting off the island.
 
You see, last Friday when my journal said I was safe at home, well, that was inadvertently a lie. I’d said farewell to Rob on Thursday and had left with him a journal that was to be posted that evening. Leaving California and not heading into, say, Calgary or Montreal, I couldn’t imagine anything that would throw a monkey wrench into my travels. What could go wrong with getting the journal (like today’s) set to publish in advance?
 
The short answer: everything.
 
My flight out of Palm Springs was delayed, but it still meant that once I got to Vancouver, I’d have well over an hour to catch the small plane to take me home to Victoria.
 
About two hours into the three hour flight, I got a message through my WestJet app that my 8:20 pm plane was cancelled. The next 15 minute flight to Victoria was set for about 12:10 am. Ugh. Great.
 
When I arrived at Vancouver International, carry-on in tow, I went straight to the WestJet desk. I asked them, if they were betting folks, whether they thought the midnight flight was going to go. After all, what would be worse than sitting for 4 1/2 hours only to learn your plane wasn’t going to be there for you? 
 
They both looked at me and shook their heads. A major dumping of snow had occurred in Victoria and the airport was struggling to get flights in and out. I took that as the clear sign it was that I should just rebook. I got a new boarding pass for the 10:30 am flight Friday and went off to find a place to spend the night. Here’s where things really go sideways.
 
There’s a Fairmont Hotel in the Vancouver Airport. I went to the airport information desk and asked the lady there how to get to the hotel; she offered me the phone to call first to see if they had rooms. After being transferred from a central 1-800 line to what I thought was the hotel just above us (it was loud in the terminal and there were folks next to me talking to the info officer) I heard that there was one room. It was going to be $550.
 
I gulped and asked if there was a “stranded traveller” rate, but I knew the answer. Besides, it was Valentine’s Day. You can bet they’d be busy with all of the snowbound (and lovesick) visitors and had no reason to offer a discount. I gave her my name and when she asked if I wanted to reserve the room and I said no, other people needed the phone and I’d be there in 10 minutes. I hung up and off I went through some doors and up an escalator.
 
I arrived at a busy front desk and waited my turn. Then the two women there said they never take “holds” by phone and looked through the system for any sign of me. There was none. The woman helping me disappeared behind a door, obviously to ask someone what to do in this case because there were no rooms at the rate I had stated. BUT! There was the Presidential Suite. It was a cool $1000 for the night.
 
Now let’s just stop for a second. $1000 a night for a suite the likes of which I’ve never stayed in (except in the Bill Clinton Suite one night at Sandals, but that was a one-off and it was really kinda creepy, if you know what I mean). $1000 a night on Valentine’s Day. Alone. For $1000 a night, I want company, dammit. And at that price, Rob would understand! 
 
I guess they were pretty sure some poor mook was going to step up and pay that for a night, or else they might have offered it to me at the previously promised rate. But that didn’t happen. I had no proof and they had no interest. So I said no and, visibly shaken, went to collect myself in a lobby chair.
 
I called Rob, who was just trying to have a beer and watch the hockey game between the Leafs and Knights, poor guy, and told him my situation. He said to just call a local hotel, take a cab and get a good night’s sleep. I hung up, promised to keep him posted and did better than that: I found a hotel, the Pacific Coast Gateway, and booked a room. Free shuttle, too. My luck was changing. Or so I thought.
 
I gathered my stuff once again and went down to the pickup area and called the shuttle. The lady who answered asked if my hotel was the Pacific Coast “something” and I repeated what she said, saying yes. The shuttle arrived in 6 minutes.
 
A nice gentleman came and got my bag and it was just the two of us for a ride that I thought seemed fairly lengthy for an airport-area hotel. But when we arrived, he kindly guided me through the ice and slush and brought my carry-on into the lobby. I gratefully gave him $5 (which he initially tried to refuse) and made my way to the desk. That’s where things went sideways again. Diagonally downward, if you will. 
 
The two pretty ladies at the desk looked at me like I’d come from another planet when I gave them my name. Not only did they not have a reservation from me, but they didn’t have any rooms available. (At this point, a broom closet was starting to look attractive.) One of them asked, “Which hotel did you book at, ma’am?” and I said Pacific Coast. Then she asked if it was downtown or Gateway? And I said I just didn’t know…Gateway?
 
I opened my computer to the page at which I’d found the hotel I’d booked into. And then we all saw clearly what had happened: I’d reserved a room in their sister property, but taken the shuttle to this one. I was laughing – clearly in a state. Luckily, the man who had driven me a few short minutes earlier was still in the lobby awaiting his next call. He said he could take me there. Now, he might well have offered anyway, but I’m sure that tip helped ensure that he felt more compassion for me than he had to – and I am grateful. Here’s to paying it forward – always. You never know….
 
As we loaded up into his small van, I felt pretty dumb. Some things that day were beyond my control, but getting the hotel and shuttle right are tasks that I think are within my limited travel skill set. And I blew it. As we drove, I said, “Two Coast hotels – this must happen all the time, right?”
 
I laughed when he said, “No, ma’am, you’re the first.”
 
“Wow!” I replied, “So I’m a SPECIAL kind of stupid!” and laughed again. You see? THIS IS WHY I NEED MY ROB.
 
Ten minutes later we were at the proper hotel. I offered him another tip and this time he vehemently refused. I think he was just a good, good man seeing a woman at the end of her rope. I stood in line behind a man who’d been travelling 30 hours from the Philippines and could barely string a sentence together, but couldn’t wait to have a Caesar in the bar. I felt about the same way, even after my relatively short and partially self-induced trials.
 
Instead, I grabbed some take out chowder from the bar and, grateful for the toiletries I’d brought along (since Rob was packing all of our clothes etc.), got into bed with my soup and CNN. What goes with chowder? D. Lemon! That’s what.
 
The next day went much more smoothly – except for the fact that upon landing, the friends’ car I was supposed to have use of couldn’t be dug out. I got in line for the bus to Sidney, but realized I wouldn’t make my 1:30 appointment so…reluctantly…went to the cab stand.
 
After getting another of the famous Victoria Yellow Taxis (I call them the Crabby Cabbies because they’ve waited so long in the queue, hoping for the long, expensive ride down into the city, that they take it out on the customer when they just have the $14 ride into nearby Sidney) I made my 1:30 appointment in the nearby town, schlepped the carry-on through the snow and slush and puddles, got a flu shot and a prescription filled, grabbed a few groceries and caught a FRIENDLY Sidney cab home.
 
I could have kissed the WELCOME mat.
 
Have a lovely day – we’re having dinner with sweet Mike Cooper tonight (after coffee with Lauren’s surrogate grandmother Helen) – that is, of course, unless things go sideways. As you know, there’s always that chance! You have to laugh or you’d lose it. 
 
Tomorrow I hope to have for you times for TV broadcasts and interviews and a few more notes as this great new adventure of a book tour truly begins. Thank you for understanding if I don’t answer emails etc. right away; things are about to launch, baby. And Thank GOD Rob and Melissa from HarperCollins are there to get me where I need to be, every single time. As for our anniversary, we spent it packing, doing about 742 errands and staying out of each other’s way, except for leftover pizza for dinner and bed at 9. Romance dead? NEVER!
 
Oh – before I go – there’s a new Walmart article that I’ve written for you to read and, in this one, I actually chose the right seats! You’ll enjoy it, and here’s the link. 
 

Welcome to Wednesday – and here we are on the eve of our trip tomorrow to Ontario. I still can’t really believe that this is all happening, but the flight itinerary in my iPhone tells me it is. Let’s just hope things are a little less bumpy than they were last Thursday when I flew home. Or, let’s say, than I inadvertently made them.
 
I got to PSP in plenty of time and sat in a gate area that felt overcrowded. The reason had to do with weather: while many travellers take advantage of the lovely open air areas of the terminal to wait out their departures, teeming rain of Biblical proportions prevented anyone from enjoying the outdoors. The second reason for a full terminal was a flight that was supposed to come in and whisk Canadians back home to Calgary was diverted from PSP because of thick, low cloud. So it was sent on to Phoenix and returned to take Calgarians home some six hours later!
 
About 45 minutes prior to departure, I heard a reminder that if passengers hadn’t checked in upon arrival downstairs (an open-air escalator away) they were asked to please do so with the gate agent. I made my way to Gate 6 and a man ahead of me inquired as to whether there were Plus seats available. There were, at a cost of $122.50 US. Then the man was told no one was in the middle seat in the row he was already assigned, so he said, “pass” on Plus.
 
When I showed the gate agent my information – seat 5F – I was told that I was the only person in my row. So I said “no thanks” to the Plus seat, too. Besides, we’d already paid an extra $35 or so upon check in the previous day to get moved up in the plane from 25th row or something. I anticipated wanting to get off the plane quickly, since I had to catch a puddle-jumper to Victoria 90 minutes later. (Delayed departure cut that time to 60 minutes and Vancouver’s a big airport, especially when you’re transitioning from international to domestic. But I could make it if I motored. My Fitbit loves airports!)
 
Well, that plan went sideways in TWO ways. First of all, I get to row 5 and I see these seat covers. 
 

 
I laughed to the folks behind the row “this never happens – I feel like I won the lottery!” so I sit in my window seat (which is what I’d booked) and settled in: my Michelle Obama book next to me, lumbar pillow perfectly placed, computer and phone plugged in and charging – everything was everything!
 
(NARRATOR – preferably Keith Morrison: But everything was not “everything.” Oh no, it was not.)
 
The chuckling people behind had settled in, we’d gotten our “safety dance” announcements in both languages, and the plane was slowly moving out towards the runway. That’s when an elegant flight attendant named Autumn came over and asked, “What was your original seat number?” 
 
Uh-oh. Right away you know there’s been a mistake and you’ve made it.
 
I looked up at the aisle numbers opposite me and sure enough, there it was: seats 5D 5E and 5F. I sheepishly told her as much, and that I’d made a wrong assumption.
 
She said, “You can’t sit here.” Pointing to the napkin covering an orange stain that I’d already explored cursorily and judged to be regurgitated Cheetos (or something like that; I didn’t examine) she explained the obvious: someone had thrown up there.
 
I’ll be honest: that news came as no surprise. In fact, when I finished using a napkin soaked in hand sanitizer to wipe down my personal area (um, around the seat, not on me), I made a point of putting it on the floor and stamping it over the napkin that was already there. I was trying to be a force for good! Instead, it seems that they only had two “Do Not Occupy” headrest covers, when there should have been three. As if to hammer the truth down even further, Autumn added “that area’s contaminated.” Great.

 
I could see the headlines now. But what area, exactly? Palm Springs? Victoria? Toronto? Damn, this story gets complicated. Please ask Jann Arden to sing at my funeral.
 
Well, Airborne Airhead Erin was gonna have to move. Fortunately, the young man who was alone in 5C in the aisle seat didn’t mind me climbing over him – charger cords and headphone wires snaking behind, a coat in one arm, laptop, Obama book and hand-written journal in the other – as I red-facedly and hurriedly took my seat on a moving flight.
 
I was mortified at having gotten something as simple as a seat number wrong, but it was so easy to do: I’d been told I had a solo seat, saw two blocked off, put two and two together and came up with 5F! I felt like someone who’d taken the best seats at a play, thrilled to be front and centre in the fifth row, only to find out my ticket said 25th row. Talk about the walk of shame! (Excuse me, pardon me, sorry, pardon me, was that your foot? Excuse me….)
 
At least with tomorrow’s YYZ-bound flight (which takes off in the 6am hour – we hope!) I know that Rob is with me to make sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. It really is what he admits is his “job description”: he’s always said it’s to make sure I can “show up and shine.” Or at least not make an ass of myself; I’d add that in, too, if his job evaluation ever comes up.
 
So thank you, Robbie. For 31 years (as of today) of doing exactly that. Mostly. Sometimes I get out on my own just to prove how much I really, truly, madly and deeply love and need you. We’ll recite our memorized wedding vows to each other and then get back to packing.
 
See you tomorrow, Toronto. And if confession is good for the soul, I have more to the travel stories about something ELSE that went hugely, horribly sideways in the style that only I can pull off. It was incredibly stupid and frustrating – and it turns out, because of it, I inadvertently lied here in Friday’s journal. More to come….
 

Welcome back. I hope that the past few days have treated you gently and that there was plenty of family in your Family Day – or Riel Day, or Islander Day or whatever you might call it – Weekend!
 
Rob arrived home safely yesterday after a partly rainy and snowy trip from California up to Washington State, then across on the ferry to home sweet home. I think he’s trying to get some hockey lined up this week in North Saanich; he truly missed playing. Luckily, at least we were  able to watch the Leafs from down south. His lucky Leafs PJs got quite a workout this winter.
 
He stayed at pet-friendly La Quinta motels along the way and there were no horror stories like the one we encountered in a four-star hotel in Whistler a couple of years back. I think so often about this experience that I thought, if you don’t mind, I’d share the experience with you here today. Now, thank goodness, we laugh about this story…hope you will too. Here it is, from May 2017. 

We were having a wonderful getaway – leaving Victoria Saturday morning, spending the day driving, taking pictures and then bunking down on Saturday night in a Whistler hotel – until we weren’t. As they say in a ski resort, it was all downhill from there.
 
A 20% discount was a nice surprise when we checked into the Hilton in Whistler. My #1 request was for a fireplace and this hotel provided eco-friendly logs to burn softly through the night. Little did we know that before the first one would be out, we’d be wide awake listening to weekend warriors of a whole different kind.
 
We awoke with a start. In a hotel filled with tweens and teens taking part in some kind of school band festival, we assumed that the incessant banging from the room next door (or was it above?) was kids being kids – hitting a ball against the wall, rough housing, doing whatever they shouldn’t be doing at 11:30 pm. So we banged back. And that was greeted by what sounded like someone on their back kicking the wall repeatedly. Okay…not kids.
 
Having been subjected to rambuctious hotel neighbours before, we knew not to call front desk. For one thing, it wasn’t that late; for another, complaining can only get you subjected to more noise as you’re “punished” for pooping their party. We put in earplugs and went back to sleep.
 
Until 3:00 am. I can only describe the sounds of what we were subjected to as someone trying out for So You Think You’re a Porn Star and giving it all she had. A woman – and at least two men – were producing such volume that we were awakened, not only by a shaking wall, but by her loud (and over-the-top) cries of “Ohwo! Ohwo! Ohwo!” It went on and on and on and on….and we got angrier and angrier at the sheer volume of it all.
 
I had an idea: I’d wail along with her, in case she could hear us as well as we could hear them and realize how ridiculous it all sounded. That didn’t work; maybe they thought they started something. Finally, as we were about to call down to front desk, I just stood at our adjoining door and – like the crazy woman I had become in that half hour – yelled at the top of my lungs: “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!!!!”
 
There was laughter. (No wonder). I hope somebody’s Viagra expired in that mother-in-law moment; some door slamming indicated maybe their loud “menage à who-knows-how-many” moved to another room. Or, in what I’m guessing is the most likely scenario, given the Meg Ryan calibre performance, somebody had earned their money and headed home for the night. I have no idea.
 
Jean-Paul Sartre once said that “Hell is other people.” I will add to that the words “…having sex.” It was. Like the ubiquitous careless door slamming that happens in hotels, people just completely forget – or don’t care – that other people don’t want to hear it. It’s not just boisterous boinking that’s at the heart of this. It’s the fact that we’re all in each other’s spaces.
 
Why is it so hard to remember that? Why is it so hard to think of anyone but yourself? Luckily, the next day we were out driving through mountains and blue skies. Away from other people, just as nature intended.
 
Gentler thoughts here tomorrow.