Christmas Memories

Every Christmas, I create a little pink shrine in memory of my mum.  In another life she could have been an interior designer with a great eye for style.  Years ago we could only afford an artificial silver tree and simple baubles from Woolworths.  Somehow Kathleen, my mum, managed  to turn the tree into a work of art with a magical ‘snow’ village at the base.  I think she brought some unique ideas from her years living in the USA.  Over the years the tree became barer but she cleverly disguised this with silver tinsel.

After I was married, she gifted me all the original decorations except the pink and silver baubles.  My aunt in San Francisco had died and left her siblings a small legacy.  It was enough for my mum to buy new sofas, curtains and carpet for the living room.  It was a tasteful mix of pink and white – so the Christmas tree had to match.  My mum barely survived on a disability pension for her chronic mental illness.  Although I said nothing, I was irritated that she had spent all the legacy on luxury and didn’t save any of it.  It took me back to my teenage years when I used my scholarship money to buy the extended family gifts just to ‘save face’.  I felt that she should have at least offered me a part of the legacy (which I would have refused) to make up for the worst years of neglect.

I inherited the pink and white baubles after she died in 2002.  They included a hilarious yet sad collection of cigarette packets which she had covered in luminous white craft paper and wrapped in pink ribbon (to resemble tiny wrapped gifts).  At least there were no little miniature whisky bottles.  I am quite sentimental and our little tree is decorated with the old family decorations and others that we have collected on our travels.  There are red Peruvian engraved seed balls and little camels from Abu Dhabi.

I have some wonderful memories of Christmas, before and after my mum’s mental breakdown.  We lived with her mother, Nana, and she stabilized life.  Our whole extended family would gather on Christmas Day and it was really enjoyable, although there may have been the regular undercurrents at family reunions.  It couldn’t have been easy for a defeated married woman to live under her mother’s house again but they got on quite well given the circumstances.

One Christmas I caught them both laughingly knitting tiny clothes together.  I was chased up to bed but on the 25th, I unwrapped a beautiful French baby doll with an adorable knitted layette.  The gift was ostensibly from Santa Claus but I had spotted the busy elves who made her clothes.  I wonder how many hours they spent knitting the layette with love and affection.

Another year, my mum, Nana and uncle (who still lived at home) collaborated on decorating a dolls house.  My mum flirted with carpet salesman to get sample books for tiny rooms.  My uncle put in electricity, then they fully decorated it with furniture and wallpaper.  It was occasionally a little fraught in our house with two adult siblings living together with their mother and ‘the child’, but they shared a delight in giving me the best Christmas they could.  Sometimes they could have been a bit more practical as I often had holes in the soles of my shoes, filled with cardboard.  In retrospect, my inner child would always have preferred the magical Christmas gifts.  My uncle was very good at paying for my expensive ‘special’ shoes since I was born with a club foot.

Then there were the bad years.  Nana had died and it was just me and Mum who was considerably more unwell.  Too much of our household income went on cigarettes and booze.  I was ashamed of our deteriorating situation and went to great lengths to save money for Christmas.  The gifts I received then were essentials – night wear, bath products, gloves and hats.  I have no memory of the gifts my mum and I exchanged at that time.  Eventually she stopped drinking but kept smoking and got her finances in order.  I was proud of her for achieving that but still resentful of the unhappy times.

I left home as soon as I could; met and married Teddy in under a year.  Miraculously, Christmas became delightful again.  Teddy and I are both only children, so we decided that we would always celebrate Christmas together – his mum and dad, my mum and us.  His parents were aware of the previous circumstances and were so generous.  For years there was a mountain of presents under the tree, many for my mum.  We reciprocated as best we could.  After a few years, I took over hosting Christmas and everyone traveled to our house.  My mum had started getting obsessive about having a perfect Christmas; it had to be the perfect Xmas pudding or side dish.  She relaxed when she was in my house and the vibe was calmer.  Then Teddy’s mum started behaving strangely with paranoia and obsessiveness.  It was the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.  Around this time, I finally was diagnosed with a mental illness – a mixture of OCD, anxiety and depression.  Talk about a dysfunctional family!

I managed to keep up the tradition of family Christmas for about 20 years until my mum suddenly died.  To this day, I still feel relief that I don’t have to stress about Christmas.  All the planning would take a toll of my health.  Even arranging our simple Christmas decorations can wipe me out.  I do miss my mum but not at Christmas.  It is a struggle not to become morose, dwelling on some deeply unhappy occasions with too much liquor and harsh words.  Before she died, we spoke to each other every day.  I miss talking about simple stuff; shopping plans, what color suits me best, sharing gossip and her excellent advice (that she rarely followed).

I create the little pink shrine to honor her love for me and mine in return.  Both wavered at times but that’s life.  There is no need for forgiveness but sometimes I wish I could forget more.  Teddy and I still laugh at my mum’s craziness at Christmas time – we named her the Christmas Nazi.  To be honest, I have inherited her irritating ‘everything has to be perfect’ traits.  Learned or inherited; who knows?

If you take anything from this post, please to be kind to yourself.  No great expectations, lots of laughter to distract from uncomfortable family conversations and most of all LOVE.  It doesn’t matter if you are on your own, volunteering , going out to a swanky restaurant or surrounded by a gaggle of relatives.  Teddy will be volunteering with wolves on the 25th and I will stay in my dressing gown all day.  We will watch a movie or two and eat too much sugar.

Rest in peace, my dear complicated and special mum.  May you be surrounded by beautiful pink baubles in the hereafter.

Mum on the right with her sister Gretta in Miami

Talk Therapy

Life has been busier than normal recently.  My husband was scheduled for a cardiac procedure but after much thought he decided to cancel and/or delay it.  At the same time, a family member from Scotland was coming to visit us in Texas.  I haven’t seen my family in over 3 years and was so excited about his visit.  Every part of the house was cleaned, over and over again.  Anticipation, stress and then fatigue…  In a brief Zen moment, I lingered in the discount corner of our local supermarket.  It had been stocked with wonderful organic potions that caught my interest.  Then, I was aware that another shopper was hovering nearby.

“Gosh, I am so sorry!”, I said. “Please come in and have a browse – I can’t make up my mind which wrinkle cream to choose.”  She was a pretty younger woman in her 40’s, perhaps?  I noticed she was very slim and looked a bit harassed, although smiling.  Inevitably, we started chatting about various bargains we had gotten at our two supermarkets’ discount corners.  We both had found fabulous discontinued products that we later had to hunt for on Amazon and pay full price for the second purchase.  Then she asked me if any wrinkle creams work.  I started laughing, pointing at my face and saying, “Of course they don’t!”

Suddenly, the conversation took a turn.  The lady said, “I have aged so much over the last 2 years since my husband left me.”  My counselling skills automatically clicked on so I just adjusted my gaze and fully focused on her.  “He won’t leave me alone but it was his choice to leave.  I guess he has to see the children.”  I hope I chose the right words and soothed her somewhat but she saddened me.  The Pandemic has been bad enough without a separation or divorce.  It is often easier to talk to an anonymous lady about deeply personal problems.  While I am honored that she picked me but I hope she has someone else to talk to.  Or perhaps a blog?

Our family visitor came for a lovely but brief visit.  We went out to dinner at a local restaurant and I ate gluten, wheat and walnuts.  That gave me gas that was incredibly painful, if laughable.  Note to self; keep to your sensible diet or suffer the consequences.  My cousin is our genealogist and we had great fun looking at old photographs.  We currently have a mystery about our great grand-parents.  We both thought they had lived their whole lives in Ireland at the farm but an Ancestry DNA link is intimating that they moved to Maine (I have a photo of great grandma taken in Rhode Island) and then went back to Ireland.

My cousin had jet lag, woke up at 5 am and I found him reading out on our deck when I got up.  He said there was an odd smell wafting from the deck.  Aghast, I looked beside him and there were glittery decomposition flies – gah!  All that cleaning and my guest is sitting next to a (very small) dead body on our equivalent of a Body Farm.  I blame Baby Cooper Hawk.  Did he drop injured prey on our deck that fled under the deck?  So…I have asked our handyman to come and dismantle the deck.  We are getting too old to deal with our Body Farm so we will have it dry landscaped.

After Cousin left, I lazed around for a couple of days before going to early voting at the library.  When I arrived, there was a small queue outside but the weather was glorious – not humid or warm.  Two very elderly people with sticks were asked if they would like to jump the line but the old man said he had nothing else to do anyway.  Then he told all of us (about a dozen) that his wife had died recently and life was difficult.  We all made reassuring noises (and I felt sad again…)  Another lady about the same age told us she was glad that her husband died before her and her eyes welled up with tears!

So many people need some talk therapy these days or just a cozy chat.  The lady right in front of me then turned around to chat to me about the electoral process.  Did I look knowledgeable?  She asked me how mail-in voting works and is it secure?  I said I had no idea and hoped she didn’t hear my accent behind my mask.  I was the only person wearing a mask.  This brings me to my favorite funny story about voting in the States.

Some years ago, British friend of mine, in Texas, went to vote in our township.  The election worker noted her English accent and asked to see her ‘papers’, despite her voting card and driving license.  This provoked my friend to say, rather sharply, “I have been an American citizen for 30 years and this is the first time anyone has asked to see my papers”.  Quite rightly, she was outraged at the query, especially since the greater Houston area has a wide array of legal immigrants – many first generation with accents.  Unfortunately, for the election worker, there was a lady with a strong Russian accent behind my friend.  Her comment was, “This place like Stalingrad!”  (You have to read it with the accent.) My friend and the Russian/American lady bonded, they voted and we all lived happily ever after in our suburban bubble. 

Keeping smiling at people and chatting.  You never know who might need a shoulder right now.

Update – Manuel deconstructed the deck. It was a decomposing raccoon leg – a perfect Halloween scene and mystery. Who ate the rest?? Not Baby Cooper but perhaps a hungry possum. The circle of life…🦝

The Last Postcard

This is the last postcard that my Dad sent to my Mum when he left us in 1962. I found it in a folder of old photographs that we have been scanning. Over the years, I had wondered how my Dad returned to the States. As a family we flew from San Francisco to Glasgow via Iceland on KLM in 1961. His departure was rarely talked about in our house because he had asked my mum’s family for money to return but then abandoned us. The money was never returned and it was a source of contention.

The written text on the postcard reveals so much about my Dad’s personality. He was undoubtedly narcissistic. He referenced the minor difficulties of boarding the SS America – ‘WHAT WITH STRIKES’ in unnecessary uppercase. There seemed to be little affection for his only daughter who was just two years old. I contrast this note with letters that my own husband sent over the years. Teddy would have expressed how desperately he was missing his wife and family.

My Dad may have felt trapped by my unwanted impending arrival in 1960. There is no excuse for his behavior but behind it lay a family history of alcoholism with both my paternal grandparents. As I gazed at the image, I wondered if my Dad felt huge relief sailing back to his homeland or regret at leaving his family. Perhaps he had fully intended to send for us and repay the borrowed money. Who knows what vicarious pleasures or habits led him astray?

Then I mused about my mum. Was she longing for him to contact us again or was there cold comfort in his absence? It must have been very hard to endure the mostly silent reproach of her family members. Of all the men in America; why did she have to marry a conman? She worked long hours to support us both until her major mental breakdown in 1971. It touched me that she never threw the postcard away, even after the divorce in 1976. She must have felt bitter about him sailing back to her beloved America on a luxury liner. Interestingly, SS America had a fascinating history of military service ending in destitution which uncannily mirrors my Dad’s life.

Then I found this telegram.

Do I sense some excitement in my Dad’s brief words in the telegram, even if he spelled my name wrong? I was born prematurely, underweight and put in an incubator – it would have been a very stressful time for both parents. My mum, who also had TB during her pregnancy, said that I looked like a skinned rabbit and I really did! If only we could go back in time and ask the right questions, there might be an answer.

Not a pretty baby….

Holding Hands

Don’t we look adorable?  This is my ‘cousin’ Craig and I on the wall of our boarding house (B & B) in Portrush, Northern Ireland.  It was my first vacation since we traveled from San Francisco to Europe when I was a toddler.  My mum, dad and little Kerry traveled around Europe like hobos before landing in Glasgow at Nana’s house.  Dad disappeared back to the USA and that was that.  It was hard for my mum, as a separated yet married lady, to get a decent job.  She was well qualified but unable to work for a bank (because of her marital status) despite having been a foreign exchange teller in San Francisco.

Eventually she found a strange new career as a Private Investigator for a company that would ultimately be bought out by the Pinkerton Agency.  She specialized in corporate retail fraud and was particularly gifted as she could switch accents (from UK to US).  She was also as sharp as a whip. At the agency, Mum became life long friends with a lady in a very similar position.  She too was separated from her husband, had two young boys and was living with her parents.  They bonded immediately with each other and our families.  Marie, my mum’s friend, adored my Irish Nana and my mum adored Marie’s mother who was Greek. Ironically both of them found living with their own mothers difficult, which was understandable.

The salary at the agency was below par but they saved up enough money to go to Ireland in 1964.  I was 4 and Craig was 5 years old.  I think the older brother was 8 years old.  We stayed at this lovely three-story house.  My mum and I had one room; Marie and the boys had the one next to it.  I was at a perfect age; not yet old enough to be intimidated with school and full of exuberant zest.  One evening after Marie and my Mum were having a drink in the lounge downstairs, they came up to find me in the middle of the boys’ bed.  I am certain they did not invite me…they were well behaved, shy little boys.  On another occasion, at the beach, the boys were horrified or amused when I ripped off my swimsuit and rocketed into the waves stark naked.  I can remember my mum laughing and chasing me with a towel.  This was a regular habit in our house and the phrase my mum used to keep me in line was, “The Moon will catch your bottom!”

Recently I was clearing out boxes and found old birthday cards from my ‘cousins’ when I was 5, 6 and 7 years old.  Over the years we went on at least one more joint vacation in Dumfries.  My mum and Marie often went on two-week work projects, mostly to Aberdeen and Belfast.  They must have loved being alone and yet together.  After my mum died, Marie confided in me that Mum had already started drinking too much on their trips.  Marie would leave my mum alone with her whisky while she went to bed.  There was no alcohol allowed in our house except at New Year.

I don’t think I had come across the photo above until I opened an envelope of my mum’s.  It could have been sent after her death.  If you look closely at our hands, you can see that I am firmly grasping Craig’s hand in my little paws.  We were probably told to hold hands so they could get a cute photo.  I laughed out loud, looking at the image, vaguely remembering that I snuck into bed with them.  If I was young enough for Tinder, I could have tagged myself…warm, affectionate and dominant! That irrepressible Kerry did not reappear until my late teenage years.  Below is a photo of Marie and my mum (right) on an evening out in Glasgow.

Mum on right with faithful friend

Outstanding Blogger!

My friend Ruth, aka rkontheroad, nominated me for Outstanding Blogger Award.  I am always honored to be nominated for an award and this one was new to me. Ruth’s blog Musings from the Mountains is full of the most fantastic photography.  She has had an amazing life, living around the globe and now settled in Colorado.  Our lives have segued in some ways with our love of travel, writing and volunteering.  Thank you for the nomination, Ruth!

Ruth’s questions for the nominees

1 Why do you blog?

At first, I created the blog to provide a conduit to my book, Memoirs from Cairo on Kindle.  Once I started to connect with other bloggers, I shared travel posts and eventually very personal posts about my mental illness.  One friend advised me not to share so much but I felt it was therapeutic not just to me but to my readers who felt less alone with a stigmatized illness.


2. What themes do you blog about?

Generally I blog about travel (fond memories), mental illness, fairy stories, fashion and my ancestry.  There is no real rhyme or reason, just following the strange patterns in my head.  I enjoy vlogging too, especially during this Pandemic.  After a while it feels like other bloggers you connect with are real friends – and they are.  We find each other through shared interests, passions or beliefs.


3. What do you like to read?

My favorite genre is fantasy/science fiction.  When I was younger, I read most of the books in our local library, even other genres.  I have belonged to book clubs over the years and I like that it introduces you to books you would never have chosen.  I feel it is my personal mission to introduce people to really good science fiction and fantasy.  My choice one year was The Martian and everybody loved it!   My illness or perhaps my medication for (OCD, depression and anxiety) sometimes affects my ability to concentrate and read a whole book.  It is a real loss in my life but I read other blog posts or article of interest on my laptop make up for that.  That’s why I am on/off with blogging – I have to have the muse.


4. Who or what is a person or event that has influenced your life?

I had to think long and hard about that question.  In truth, it was my mum.  My mum also had a mental illness and a bad relationship with alcohol.  Although she has been dead for 18 years, she still affects my every step.  I loved her and she loved me but we both resented each other at times.  I admired that she had immigrated alone to the States in her early 20s, traveled from east to west.  When she returned to Scotland, alone with me, she worked as a private detective for an agency that got taken over by the famous Pinkerton agency.  Life was much harder after her major breakdown and it has probably molded me into a caretaking person.  She was a beautiful, smart and kind woman whose illness/alcohol use made her narcissistic and critical at times.  That contrasted hugely with the funny loving mummy that I lost.


5. What’s one thing that’s important to you in your non-blogging life?

This was easier – my husband.  We have been married for over 38 years and had our ups and downs.  For the most part we are a very good match and really make each other laugh.  He is incredibly supportive of me and I know he always has my back.  I always wanted to marry someone who was genius smart, good looking and incredibly funny.  He still makes me laugh so much that my body farts without control which makes me laugh louder.  Despite that he still thinks I am his baby bunny…albeit with digestive problems.

Teddy on a fjord in Norway in the 90s

6. If you could go back and choose a different career, what would you do?

Speech Therapy.  I longed to do something in the para-medical field.  My family were very insistent that I spoke clearly with a neutral accent.  No slang dialect was allowed in our house.  At high school I joined drama and debating clubs and realized the pleasure in making your voice heard.  I was rather shy as a young teenager and the whole school was asked to write an essay for a Glasgow wide competition.  I chose to write about social equity, corruption in the Catholic church and other ambitious topics.  My teacher asked me to read it aloud in class and I blushed red.  At the end the whole class applauded – it was overwhelming and eye opening.  I came second in the school competition to someone who wrote about Scottish Nationalism, a very popular subject at the time.  The English principal whispered to me that I should have won.  The topic cost me dearly as one of the rigidly Catholic assistant Headteachers refused to give me a referral to college.  Our bank manager gave me one. This is why it would have been a joy to help people use their voices to the best of their ability.


7. What would you rather be doing right now, instead of writing your answers to these questions?

Despite the pandemic, there is nothing I would like to do other than answer the questions.  Scots are like the Dutch – they don’t do anything they don’t want to do! I have kindly demurred many awards, mostly because I have already been nominated for them.  This was a new category and I was delighted that Ruth asked me.  To be honest, the pandemic has stopped me talking to so many people.  I chat briefly at the grocery store but my Scottish accent sounds like Klingon behind a mask.  This post has given me the opportunity for a wee gabfest, as they say in the old country.  On a final funny note, I phoned one of my neighbors, during our deep freeze in Texas, to ask if I could take out her wheelie bin.  In her New York accent, she queried, “What now?” and I had to go through all the alternatives – big green thing for the rubbish, yellow recycling, trash can, garbage.  It was hilarious – and that was without a mask…

In turn I would like to nominate

Bonjour from Brittany

Tanja Britton

Mabel Kwong

Pit’s Fritztown News

Our Crossings

The rules for this award:                       

  1. Provide a link to the creator’s original award post.
  2. Answer the questions provided.
  3. Create 7 unique questions.
  4. Nominate up to 10 bloggers.
  5. Ensure that they are aware of their nomination.
  6. Now let’s continue to support and cheer each other throughout 2021 for the Outstanding Blogger Award!

My questions are these –

1 What continent are you from and how does that influence your blog?

2. What is your least favorite place in the world?

3. What do you enjoy most about your blog?

4. How is the pandemic affecting your writing, if at all?

5. What other species would you like to be (including alien)?

6. Are you a geek or non-geek?

7. What would you like to happen in 2022?

Please feel free to demur this nomination or not!

Naughty Kerry with Clippers

This is a funny little tale about my compulsion with scissors and clippers. For reference – Lourdes Water is Holy or Blessed Water from the shrine of Lourdes, France that Roman Catholics visit. Enjoy!

The eyes are the windows to your soul

cutting-cake.jpg

In my last post, I mentioned that I thought I had mislaid my parents wedding photographs.  Once I found them, and breathed a sigh of relief, I sat and looked at them.  I never really knew my father – he was a creature of legend both good and bad.  When I was young, my Mum tried her best to paint a balanced picture of Dad despite the unpleasant comments from family members.  These photographs were never displayed but I had seen them many times.  I was fascinated by the glamour of a professional shot and thought they were both attractive.  As a youngster I really looked much more like my father with our dark Mexican roots.

As I gazed at the shots, I realized that neither my Mum nor Dad looked happy.  They married after a couple of months of meeting but they were in their late 20’s, more than capable of making a sensible decision.  My theory is that they were pregnant with me and I know that my dad asked my mum to have an illegal abortion.  I had admired these photos for years, longing to have similarly glamorous wedding shots, but had never noticed the lack of happiness in their eyes.  The social mores of two Catholics not marrying after a pregnancy were overwhelming.  My mum told me that a distant relative offered to adopt me so the circumstances must have been dire.  Eventually my mum divorced my dad in 1976 on the grounds of mental cruelty.  He had already remarried in the States.

KathleenAndBeau

Then I found a photograph of my mum with a previous American boyfriend above.  If anyone recognizes him, you might have been my sibling!

My mum had mentioned that he was a really nice guy, Italian American, but that she hadn’t fallen for him.  Maybe she wasn’t ready but my mum looked truly happy in this simple photograph.   How I longed for a normal father like him when I was young.  As the years have passed I have come to terms with my Dad probably having some mental health and addiction issues (as did my Mum).  I have so enjoyed meeting members of my Dad’s family – seeing distinct resemblances both in appearance and also personality.  My mum’s bridesmaid, who has stayed close to me, told me many times that my Dad had a fascinating charismatic side that I had inherited.  To the right is a photograph of Teddy and I signing the register 38 years ago – now that’s a real smile.

We had not a single professional wedding shot…❤️

Sam Houston Dellinger — Stories of My Family

As most of you know, I am obsessed with finding new family members. For the most part, they are long since deceased but within the last few weeks a new, and very much alive, cousin has come into my life. Sarah’s great grandmother was my paternal grandfather’s sister (Nelle and Raymond Dellinger) so we are Dellinger 2nd cousins, one generation between us. We have been excitedly sharing information and photographs to help build a picture of our most interesting family. Sarah had never seen a photo of Raymond, or I of Nelle, so that was very exciting. If you look at Sarah’s gravatar image you will see a resemblance in our smiles. To my astonishment, Sarah thought that I look like a Dellinger. As an only child with little connection to my paternal side, this is all manna from Heaven. Curiously, we both have WordPress Blogs and write similarly. Now we are pondering whether the writing gene comes from the Dellinger side…and why do we have so much Swedish DNA???
Please enjoy this beautifully researched genealogy post below on Sam Houston Dellinger (my great-grandfather) and have a look at Sarah’s blogs – Stories of my Family and A blog dedicated to my love for books

The Dellinger side of the family is full of of fantastic stories. Samuel Houston Dellinger and his wife, Lillie (née Dillingham) were quite the characters and it is not surprising that their independent, pioneer spirit rubbed off on their children (though it manifested quite differently in some of them).

via Sam Houston Dellinger — Stories of My Family

The Bed

Her bed was an object of degradation. It reeked of alcohol and sweat. Too drunk to make it the bathroom, the bed was stained with urine. Sometimes it smelled of sex and the repugnant odor of her boyfriend. He hated my looks of disgust and barbed comments. It was all too easy for him to look past the sad eyes of a 15 year old girl whose life was falling apart. Mental illness and self-medication had turned her home into a hovel. There was no safe haven.

She had transmogrified from a caring, beautiful, working single mother into a burden for the only person she always loved – me. We went from fairy stories about my missing Prince of a father – handsome but troubled – to the drunken ravings of a mad woman. What made it worse is the ravings were true. My father had asked her to abort the unwanted fetus, me, and if she hadn’t had me her life may have been so much better.

My heart broke into crystalline pieces like a shattered fairy castle. The truth was there and I just chose not to see it. Perhaps I never needed to know all the intimate details of how my father betrayed us. One revelation was that an American relative wanted to adopt me but my mother refused to consider such a possibility. I longed for Aunt Jackie to rescue me but by this stage we were no longer in contact.

Sometimes I reacted with kindness to my mother’s sad life but mostly I became remote with sarcastic comments. After a neighbor asked me to take her home, she was drunk and incapable of walking the few hundred yards, I shoved her into the wall of the house in frustration. She just sobbed and asked me to forgive her. I could not.

In anger I looked at the bed and tore the filthy bedding from it. I recoiled when I realized that it was soaked in urine. Lifting up the mattress to see if it was as bad on the other side, I saw that she had torn open the lining of the bottom divan and it was filled with dozens of mostly empty bottles of whisky. My temper flared and I started pouring the remaining whisky down the bathroom sink to the sound of her plaintive sobbing. She knew that I had been checking to see how many bottles she was drinking. At her worst it was a bottle of whisky a day.

Post Cards from Kerry by Chatty Kerry

My lovely Antipodean friend, Calm Kate, interviewed me for her new website, “Meet the Bloggers”. It really made me think hard about myself and what I reveal. Now you know almost everything about me… Please go and check out Kate’s site and her other WP blog, Aroused.

Meet the Bloggers

Met Chatty Kerry early on and really delighted by her fresh openness on her personal matters.  She shares her health issues, voluntary work at the airport, family, travels, thoughts and insecurities .. she is totally herself in a very personable way.  She shares great photos of gardens, buildings and scenes both locally and during her exploits into other areas so it’s not surprising that she has published in magazines … must ask her how much they pay?  So if you want personal, travel and variety it doesn’t get much better than Kerry!

[Apologies to everyone for my lack of tech skills, Kerry decorated her interview with a delightful collection of photos to illustrate her points but I have no idea how to down load them from PDF or word document … maybe I will work it out and add them later!]

Where were you raised?

SanFran_CUSAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

I was…

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