Sly One

It was 3:55 am when I heard the clank of wood and metal hit the bottom of the tub. Definitely, not the time of night to see a decapitated mouse, so I did not get up, but Phoenix and Diablo were off the bed in a shot. Ah, my guard cats. Actually, I think they used the incident as an excuse to rouse me for a feeding. Having nothing to do with this, I turned over and pulled the sheet up over my shoulder only to be disturbed by an early morning hot flash and later my 5:30 alarm.

It was after my morning run, the first cup of decaf, and a shower before I ventured to see what dead varmint lay beneath the tub. Unbelievably, the trap had been sprung, the cheese was gone and nothing was in the jaws of death. That had to be a cockroach.

Mouse in The Wall

I did not want anything to do with the killing and felt awful that my roll in the whole affair was that of the informant. I expected the trap to break its neck as it would have my finger, as this was an industrial strength mousetrap. Instead, the animal was left fighting for its life when the metal bar snapped off the latch. It was a large mouse (not a rat) and it managed to carry the trap under the drain pipe. The trap wedged between the pipes and the underside of the tub where the struggle to escape caught the attention of Phoenix and Diablo. I knew what happened and did not want any part of its end.

I called Joe, the landlord, to remove the mouse and kill it. Then he reset the trap. Although I provided the cheese for the new setup, every time I heard a noise in the bathroom I banged on the sheetrock or kicked the porcelain hoping to scare the potential victim from taking the bait.

The only noises I hear now are coming from the ceiling vents.

Last night the emotion caught in my throat. I felt guilty and sad about the death of the mouse in the wall. Worse than a Democrat. Geez, next thing I know I’ll dream up some story that the whole incident contributed to global warming.

Hippo

Maybe it was brought on by the unknown beast that lurks in the walls, crawls through the vents and poops under the tub in the bathroom. Whatever it is, it has the strictest attention of Phoenix and Diablo. I haven’t been too concerned about the scurrying noises I have heard. Most of the time the two cats are in close proximity, but lately I have gone looking for the missing felines to find them patiently sitting in the bathroom facing the wall behind the toilet or peering through the slats of the air vent in the closet. But it might be playing subconsciously on my mind.

I had a dream. I was lying in a bed in the bedroom of a Tudor-style house built on the shores of a beautiful shallow lake. From the window I had a panoramic view of the water where small boats sailed across the way. On the near shore which was right outside the window stood a low black rock retaining wall. A disturbance on the water caused the boats to change their course. Suddenly a hippo rose out of the water and came crashing over the wall and through the window sending broken glass across the room. Its huge pink mouth gaped before me, leaving hippo slobber all over my face. The hippo head thrashed so close I could see the hair follicles around its stubby snout and nostrils. Its fat legs kicked into the room and I knew I was going to be trampled if not gored to death on its ugly yellow stained teeth. I woke up and found a heavy cat sitting on my chest waiting for her breakfast.

One Demerit

I got my first condo ding. It came as a bright red note placed underneath the wiperblade of my Jeep. It suggested that I should not park over the sidewalk. The front end of my Jeep extended over the curb protruding into the path of the walkway an obtrusive three inches, if that, apparently making it difficult for anyone in a wheelchair to pass. The odd thing is I have ridden my bike around the complex only to find two sidewalk ramps, both located at the far end of the complex, making it difficult and inconvenient for any wheelchair-bound person to get on to the sidewalk in the first place.

Nevertheless I backed my Jeep up and now feel like the rear end is hanging out in the driveway waiting to get clipped.

Were You There?

It seemed like a good thing to do…help me begin connecting with others in the community. Having never been to one before, I did not know what to expect. Nevertheless, I had some notion that the authors would read what they had written while the others critiqued the work. It is a very vulnerable place to be.

The Palm Harbor Writers’ Group met at the library and began promptly at 6:30 pm to give those who had something to read plenty of time within the hour and a half meeting. Monitored by Joy, most of the attending members read for five minutes—poems, essays, working chapters—then listened to feedback from the others. I offered very little.

I noticed that if the speaker did not speak up a few attendees could not hear, spoke louder than needed and a few times spoke during the presentation and feedback. Yes, the group’s average age was considerably drawn down when my age was added to the equation. There was good natured banter, some helpful comments and some interesting readings including a radio play where I was recruited to read the part of a character who quoted lines from Shakespeare. Needless to say, those lines were not read too smoothly, but I think I did a fair job despite the fact that I can’t read out loud.


I saw the osprey catch a fish. Cool.

Raptor

Its powerful wings beat the surface of the water. The great fish eating bird of prey looked like it was trying to avoid its own drowning. Either that or the osprey was taking a bird bath in the canal outside my condo’s sliding glass door. Moments after I saw it in the water and before I could get up to go “rescue” the drowning bird (Now how in the hell that was going to happen, I don’t know.) it lifted its brown and white body from the water, a large silver fish captured in its talons. With water dripping from feathers and fins the medium sized raptor took to the air and disappeared only to be seen circling even higher moments later. Wow! Maybe one day I’ll catch its dive into the water.

Book Buzz

Look at something cool. Click on this link - logbord. It is exposure. I would prefer English, but what the heck. I wanted to email the place, but couldn’t figure out what to click on. I found this link when I did a search for Cosmic Muffin at blogger.com.

And then there is Amazon Japan!

This piece of advice was found on the current The Book Marketing Expert (mini) Newsletter. It was item number 8 in the list of 10 things to do now that you are published. “Get your book reviewed. Maybe this sounds like a no-brainer yet you’d be amazed how many authors forget this step, but it’s important and here’s why: people like what other people like. What someone else says about your book is a thousand times more effective than anything you could say. Do reviews sell books? Well, yes I believe they do, and here’s why: if your book is up on Amazon or some other online portal and no one’s talking about it, a potential new reader might not be motivated to buy. Readers rarely buy “naked” books.”

I was surfing through blogs the other night and came across a couple of mentions of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Glenda Larke’s blog’s entry titled Want Review Anyone goes on…

"Amazon now has a Print On Demand division, called Booksurge. and Booksurge offers - for a mere a $US 399, a wonderful book review. It doesn't matter what your book is like, the review is gonna be great. (For that price, it had better be.)

Of course, I immediately thought "Just what I need". I mean, how could one resist such deathless prose as this:

"We are drawn into this seaboard existence, seeing the stars pronging the sails at night, the flying fish that land on deck, and even the birds that fly, unaware, into the mast," offered by the reviewer about a book called The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. "

Glenda, it is all about promotion, promotion and more promotion. Book marketing is all about creating a buzz. Thank you. While a review is a review - a good review doesn't hurt. Was it worth it? Well, I have found several blogs talking about my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Pick up a copy from my site and do your own review. I won't pay you for it so feel free to provide your candid and honest opinion.

Glenda goes on… “Now let me think. If I was a POD author, just how many copies of my book would I have to think such a review would sell in order for me to get my $399 back?

And readers, if you buy a book based on a paid-for review, then I have a lovely set of twin-towers for sale, situated at the present moment in downtown Kuala Lumpur, but easily portable to a new location, bargain price...drop me an email. Don't be put off by the fact that I live in Nigeria.”

Ouch Glenda – the wit of an environmentalist wacko.

10° to 70°, 1503 miles

I’m here.

At the end of the second day, the cats settled into the sparse and lifelessly decorated room at Microtel, a hotel voted best economy hotel for the past five years. Why? I can not tell you. Everyone on the TV was some shade of purple, the towels were as thin a sliced bologna in a Russian soup kitchen and as rough as a farmer’s hand, and the door had a gap near the floor big enough to intrigue Phoenix in to figuring out how to escape the room when she wasn’t sitting behind the drapes staring out the window at the tractor-trailer idling its engine all night long in the parking lot. But I slept well, exhausted after two ten hour days of driving and worrying about the cats. They did not drink, eat or use the litter box the whole time they were in the Jeep.

I set out early on the third day aiming to reach Tarpon Springs before dark and to escape the bad weather sweeping out of Birmingham. Middle and South Georgia were due for strong winds, thunderstorms and possibly hail. That morning a tornado hit New Orleans and the same system was due across north Florida. It looked like I was headed right into it, but as I got further south blue skies stretched out before me. The rains past before I got to the Billboard Alley promoting every tourist attraction from “See Disney Free” to “Free Girls” at the next exit. All that free stuff and gas has gone up about ten cents a gallon in the ten days since I was here last.

So begins the next year.

It is not about an RV trip.
It is not about a book tour.
It is not about sailing across the ocean.
It is not about living in Hawaii.
It is not about drowning.

It is about removing the anchor and writing.

So what will you find in the coming months on this blog? Hell if I know.

A Year Without a Toad

Actually, it's been a pretty darn good one.

Photo Log

ice rocks
three chairs
one gull
swamp
blue ski

ice on windshield

Artic Invasion

A biting wind swept off the roof carrying a swirling dust of crystallized snow. It blew across the yard as if a baker shook out the flour from his apron. The wind-powered cat vane endlessly pawed at the tin butterfly its silhouette contrasted against the blanket of snow. The flight of the chickadees resembled leaves tossed about in the updrafts as they rode invisible waves of artic air on their determined way to the feeder that hung under the skeleton branches of the maple tree which rattled in the wind with the somber sound of dead bones. Any bee or bear or bud that stirred from their dormant state during the warmth of December has retreated to the hive and den to wait out the last six weeks of winter—at least according to the over-stuffed rodent Punxsutawney Phil. The air was so cold that any thing more than the shallowest of breath froze nose hairs.

One week of winter for me.

When was the last time I watched the Super Bowl with my Dad? Weren’t those commercials just awful?

Almost Normal

When a cold air mass meets a warm air mass conditions become ripe for tornados. I knew a cold air mass was coming to Florida, so I left not wanting to spend any more money for the pleasures of being cold in South Florida. Fortunately, I beat a path to Tennessee before the tornados struck central Florida.

I bogged down in Tennessee waiting for a mixture of snow, freezing rain and sleet to pass. The forecast did not materialize, but the time gave me a chance to rummage through my storage unit looking for my roller blades.

Few of us choose where we end up living. Usually circumstances of birth and later economics determine our geographic anchorages. We ended up in places like Manhattan, Kansas because of an employment opportunity (there isn’t any other reason), or we tagged along with a spouse, other person we thought to be significant enough to uproot with everything we own and cram it into the back of a Honda Element or Volkswagen Bus or even a Datsun Honeybee depending on how old we are.

While some people just plain run away to the big city lights or the oil fields of Texas or the wilds of Alaska, it is usually a situation of an over active imagination or the result of not having much of a plan. Once the sense of adventure runs out and the reality of the situation sets in, going home or someplace else may not be an option and the choice to move to a more “appropriate” place is not available because of economic reasons.

Most people just don’t relocate for no go reason. Most stay put for no good reason.

For me, I am almost normal. For the next year I’ll be in Tarpon Springs, Florida. I know my heart was set on Hawaii and I had an opportunity to go to Kauai and housesit, but I gave myself a week or two to ponder the logistics of the move and concluded that the costs were not adding up. It nearly killed me to say no.

It wasn’t all about economics. I applied a bit of logic to my options. I outlined my four—Saratoga, Bean Station, Kauai and Tarpon Springs. I came up with a list of the pros and cons for each. Then I assigned points, added up the totals and threw the results away when it said I should live with Dad. The most compelling reason to live at home was economics, proving my theories.

The other day I ate at a Chinese restaurant and my fortune cookie said, “This year your highest priority will be your family.” But my decision-making mantra I adopted was to take care of myself. It would be hard to focus on writing if I stayed in New York and eating three meals a day with Dad would not do me any good.

Sticking to my logical approach, the second outcome was Tennessee. Again economics weighted the result. But if I moved into one of my apartments, I’d find myself standing in the kitchen with a hammer and a strong inclination to tear the cabinets out. Another kitchen renovation, as fun and appealing as that might be (I know that is weird), would distract me from writing and while I’d lose weight, I would not exercise beyond hauling building materials up and down two flights of stairs.

My serious contemplation was stressing me out. I had driven 1600 miles south and never got into a pair of shorts or a t-shirt. I needed to make a decision. I had to surrender.

In the scheme of things this is not really a big life decision. Yes, it is a major event—moving. But it is not a major decision. Hell, I have lived in 11 states and 16 cities and two foreign countries.

The fact was I was having a hard time making a commitment to living in one place for any length of time. My problem is I want to see so many places and I only have so much time and money. I’ll run out of both before I run out of places. Being "stuck" in one place was making me...ill?

Why Tarpon Springs? I found a large one bedroom condo on a canal, close to paved trails, where I can roller blade, run and bike for $795 (cable included) and it is completely furnished. I can kayak on the river, in the bayous or in the Gulf of Mexico. I’ll be able run, bike and swim with gators and stingrays. And I’ll sit on the screened in porch and write while looking out over the canal where heron and seagulls will tease Phoenix and Diablo.

That is taking care of myself, even if it is not as warm as Hawaii. The islands are not going anywhere and now maybe I am.

Forty-nine Felines

They are descendents of Snowball, the seven toed cat belonging to Ernest Hemingway. This one is named Ragamuffin. Get it? Muffin? Last Voyage...

Last night I slept at the KOA near mile marker 70. My enthusiasm for this drive south ran out about three hundred miles ago, but since I had come this far I might as well finish the trip south and see the place where Hemingway lived with over fifty cats. Visit the website and see if you think this cat is Ragamuffin. (I don't think so.)

It continued to blow all night, hard enough to rock my Jeep. It was a good night for sailing--moon is nearing full and wind ripping across the gulf. I spend the night curled up in my sleeping bag and slept okay, but woke with a stiff back that I wasn’t able to work out all day. For the $77 dollars it certainly was the most expensive campground I have ever stayed at. No telling how much a night in an RV costs. I got up and headed south to the end of the road–Key West
and the southernmost point in the Continental USA. I have also been to the southernmost point in the USA, South Point, Hawaii. (I have no desire to go to the northernmost spot.)

Ninety miles away across the milky green waters lies Cuba. Sixteen hundred miles back to New York. I’ll need another oil change by the time I get back to Saratoga Springs. 310586 miles on my Jeep.


Key West is the Last Resort, eclectic and wild, except when the cruise ship comes in. Then the town turns a shade of gray and settles for gawking mild.

I spent $16.00 to park for four hours as I meandered about the streets and shops. After a while one junky tee-shirt-souvenir shop looked like the next and looked like the ones found everywhere else in Florida except the ticky-tacky items for sale all said Key West. Come to think of it they looked like the same stuff found in shops from North Carolina and California.

“And then, there were the reefs. Long established trade routes came close to the Florida coast and the reefs just seven miles offshore of Key West. Stormy weather, or a captain's inexperience with this treacherous area, could easily cause ships with valuable cargoes to founder just off shore. As a result, wrecking and salvaging soon became the island's primary business and its citizenry became wealthy on the proceeds.

Storehouses and chandleries abounded, and people came from all over to bid on the valuable salvaged items. Between 1828 and the 1850s, Key West was considered the richest city, per capita, in the United States.”

For more History visit www.floridakeys.com.

I found the Keys a bit shabby, devoid of tropical color and way over-priced. Probably lots of mosquitoes too when the wind stops blowing.

Kayaking with Chuck

Key Largo

“When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses.” Frank McCloud

What about the heart? Doesn’t that influence the outcome?

The Keys did not start looking like my 1948 Key Largo image of the Keys until I reached Long Key. And like the movie, a storm is coming. It is blowing a good one. A cold front sweeping down. It is like I had one tied to my Jeep’s bumper and I dragged it all the way down from New York. In South Florida, it could go as low as the upper forties. A good night to keep your Indians on the front porch.

There is a windblock for my campsite, but there is no doubt that the winds are strong and kicking up white caps on the Gulf. Once I parked my jeep, immediately I appreciated the living offered by the RV. No refrigerator to plug in, radio to tune in, no stove to cook a bowl of soup and no lights after sundown. No heater. No cat to keep me warm. I just brought the tent, sleeping bag and pad with me. I won’t pitch the tent, but sleep in the back of the jeep. Warmer, I think.

Florida verses Hawaii. For the most part, it is warmer in Hawaii.

Southbound

I left for Florida last Wednesday, when I left for the boat show in Philadelphia. After spending the weekend in Harrisburg with my brother, so I could see the Colts take on the Patriots on Sunday night, I headed south to Tennessee driving through heavy fog, but fortunately no ice, snow or freezing rain. I arrived at the office to camp out in the training room for a couple of days so I could get a hair cut, pick up my kayak, pay a few bills and respond to every state on the eastern seaboard about unpaid, unreported, uncollected and otherwise what they perceive as delinquent sales tax. Between the possibility of getting collared in New York for outstanding traffic violations and chased for tax evasion from Maine to Louisiana, I might give a more serious consideration to relocating to the remoter reaches of Kauai. (Okay, there is a lot of kidding here. It is up to you to figure which is jest and which is half the truth and in some cases, a complete fabrication.)

Tomorrow, I’ll slip down through Chattanooga and into Atlanta. From there, I’ll travel down to Tampa, then Sarasota, Ft. Meyers and down into the Keys. Warmth, at least for a couple of days.

Fusion of Food and Conversation

As a New York Giant fan I had not much use for Philadel- phians—the Eagle fans born of rowdiness at best and pure hostile rudeness at worst. But if you go to Philly and mention you are from Tennessee, well they just about roll out the red carpet. Charles the bellhop at the Hilton Garden Inn gave me a warm embrace at curbside when he learned this was my first overnight trip into The City of Brotherly Love.

I thought I might do a little site seeing around the city. It had been a warm January day when I made plans to visit and attend StricklySail at the Philadelphia Convention Center. But true winter dropped in fast. The Jeep was still covered in ice when I reached the city—a five hour drive from Saratoga Springs. It was 6 above with a "feels like" temperature of minus 10. The back hatch to the Jeep froze shut, requiring an ice pick and hair dryer to free the hatch. After loading the Jeep, I went back inside to warm up with a cup of tea. By the time I shoved off, I had to thaw the latch again. Dad told me to take the hair dryer.

It was warmer (not by much, but warmer) in Pennsylvania, but I could not bring myself to go see the Liberty Bell. The aquarium sounded interesting until I realized it was in Camden, NJ and unlike George Washington I really did not have a burning desire to cross the Delaware River.
So my taste of Philly occurred at The Market on Market Street, specifically on the corner where Tommy DiNics, John Yi Fish Market, Martin’s quality meats and sausages and Mezze Mediterranean bring together a collection of regulars and locals mixed with tourist and conventioneers in a fusion of food and conversation.

At DiNic’s conversations across the cream and maroon ceramic tile bar exchanged opinions on the weather and local news, gossip about friends and no-good sons of bitches, and ailments maligning mothers and lazy cousins. Customers dressed in white shirts and ties conversed with those dressed in khaki and topsiders. Behind the counter Tommy served up advice while his staff donned in maroon aprons prepared the house specialties of roast pork, roast beef, Italian sausage and scallopne, a thin cutlet pounded and floured.

It was all business at the sparkling clean glass case displaying John Yi’s scallops, squid and mountain trout. The neon sign “Eat Fish Live Longer” gleamed above on the glass curvature that separated the fillet and flounder from customers, but allowed passer-bys to inspect the neatly presented fish.

Enter a train of preschoolers decked out in toboggans and jackets. With little mittens dangling from their sleeves each ran their hands against the cool smooth glass surface as they trooped pass the case. “Who needs to go to the bathroom?” A chorus of little voices raised up, “I do.” As they paraded off, one little munchkin pointed toward a bronze casting and announced, “A cow.” Spotting the statue the teacher corrected, “That’s a pig.”

When in Philly, eat local. I ordered a steak and cheese with onion rings from Rick’s.

StrictlySailing

It’s all about sailing. You want it, need it, see it, touch it, smell it, got to have or dream it. It is here.

Quit dreaming and do it.

Photo: by Eric J. Gana. To purchase visit Philly Pictures

Ice Storm

Tree limbs cracked like rifle shots. Crashing branches took out roofs, houses, cars, other trees, bird and squirrel nests and of course, power lines.

By 1:30 PM I was starving and ready for a bowl of cabbage soup. The main road, between Glens Falls and Saratoga was clear, but heavy with traffic diverted from the Northway were trees heavy with ice splintered and fell across the interstate bringing the southbound traffic to a stand still. Dad and I had ventured out into the crystallized landscape to buy gas for the generator. We hooked it up after the power went out mid-morning when the half inch coating of ice began to bring down tree limbs and power lines. We had lights, the furnace, refrigerator and water pump. The only ting we couldn’t run was the stove and range, but heck, when you got a microwave…

I was ten in 1963 when upstate New York fell into a deep freeze that gripped many communities for days if not weeks. Without power we relocated our sleeping quarters to the living room where the fireplace became the focal point of family life much like in the days when French and English settlers were still convincing the Indians to take sides with unknown foreign nations.

We stoked the fire with wood gathered from the surrounding woods or donated from the Skidmore College’s camp located about a half mile down the road. Borrowing a neighbor’s toboggan, Mike, Robin and I dragged the loaded sled over a road still covered with snow and ice. We melted snow for water so we could cook, drink and flush the toilet. To this day the bathroom floor in my parent’s house remains cold regardless of the time of year—haunted by the cold that seeped into the house during those days without power.

We survived playing games; scrabble, monopoly and domino brought the family together at the card table where candles provided a dim light. We told stories, shared experiences of the day or listened to Mom read to us. We didn’t miss TV, as we did not have one. And we went to bed safely, securely each night wondering when the power would come back on. I never remembered being cold except when I went to the bathroom.

Other families in the neighborhood were not so lucky. One evening while Mom and Dad were out shopping, a red glow lit the sky to the north. Robin and I knelt on the couch and gazed out the picture window at the eerie light shimmering on the night sky, knowing it was a fire, but not knowing what was burning. Mike left the house to investigate and came back to report that the Helenek’s house was on fire.

Mom told me to write about these experience, but I never did.

Buy the Numbers

I have been tracking my Amazon Ranking every since The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin was published back in early July. I don’t remember the exact numbers (the numbers are only worth remembering when they jump from seventeen to number one on the best seller list). My numbers were more in the 1,234,567 or so range. The ranking hovered there all summer long.

It had been a while since I last looked at the numbers. Last week, I checked them and discovered I broke the Million Mark—994 thousand and change. I was impressed, but since I have yet to see a royalty check I wasn’t too excited. I checked today I had reached less than half a million. Some one is buying my book. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I was curious to see what kind of internet coverage I had, so I did a search on Metacrawler. (I don’t use Google unless I am looking for aerial photos of al-Qaeda terrorist training camps.) The usual suspects came up(my website, yahoo, authors den, blogging authors, author zone, gloucestertimes, etc..). Then I found a listing for Latitude38, a prominent west coast sail magazine.

I discovered back in December they had a list of suggested gifts for that “hard to buy for” sailor on your Christmas list (everyone has one—a sailor that is, not a Christmas list). Low and behold there was my book with the website www.valerieperez.com.

I sent the following email to their editors.

I wish to thank you for mentioning my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, on your “All I Want for Christmas” wish list (December 4). I appreciate the mention. It must be why my book has rocketed to 430, 981 on Amazon’s book ranking. Took a long time to break the million mark. Maybe best sellers like You: On A Diet: The Owner's Manual for Waist Management by Mehmet C. Oz, Michael F. Roizen can inspire only so many dreams, while the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin can inspire a few more.

Keep up the good work and have a great sailing year.

Valerie Perez
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin


Now don’t go rushing out to buy my book on Amazon.com. Okay, go ahead, but be aware that The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin is available on my website for $25.00 which includes tax and shipping. Yes, it is cheaper to get it at Amazon, but you can only get a personalized autographed copy from me. Hell, I’ll even toss in a good looking bookmarker!

Last Photo

Dad usually makes a point of shooting a photo or two whenever I’m about to hit the road. His "one for the road". In July the morning I left on the book tour for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin he got out the little instamatic camera to take a photo of me in front of the RV. As we headed out the door he took a photo of Mom and me. Of all the photos Dad took on the roll, many of flowers found in his flower beds and hanging pots, this was the only one that wasn’t focused. It was the last photo of me with Mom, taken on the last day I would ever see her as my Mom.

Last night I sat on the bed holding an old photo of Mom and her two sisters. I don't know how old she was in the studio photo. It captured her youth, her dreams, her promised future...an innocent time for the three young girls captured in black and white.

Photos never reveal what is ahead. They hold moments paused as a memory. In the photo of Mom and her sisters I will never know what memories mom had of that time. In the photo of Mom with her daughter, I know she had a lot of faith and confidence in my summer's adventure.