September 25, 2018

I’m 89 today and kicking. Wow!

By John Guy LaPlante

With 1 photo.

Yes, Wow! And today is the very first day of my 90th year! I have reason to tag on that exclamation mark. Don’t you agree? But you know, I never, never expected to live this long. How lucky I am!

But a friend says I’m wrong about my age. Wu Bin in Shanghai, China, strongly disagrees.  We became friends in Nairobi,

Here I am still doing the work I’ve enjoyed decade after decade. Lucky me.

Kenya, more than 20 years ago. And we are friends to this day.  Back then he was just out of university as an electrical engineer. And he’s the whiz who got my Around the World Alone book published in China.

Wu insists that I am really 90 today. Now he is a big shot in a company developing and manufacturing LED lights that get sold around the world.

He just sent me an email. ““John, you’ve been to China four times now. You know that when we have a baby, we consider that little boy or girl one year old!”

“Yes, Wu, I do remember that. So thank you. But know what? I don’t like the idea of being a year older than I thought I was. Not one bit! And being in my 91st year instead of my 90th.. It was already scary. Now it’s even scarier!”

Well, I was joking a bit there. Now I’ll get serious, Yes, I’ve been most fortunate. My life, like the life of everybody else—which means yours, too, of course — has been imperfect. But it could have turned out more imperfect. As we know, so much in life is not within our control. All in all, I have great reason to rejoice and celebrate.

I’ve been fortunate in many ways. You may not be up to hearing all this, but I’m going to list the ways.

So no more joking. Here’s how.

I enjoy good health.

Of course, I’ve had sicknesses and accidents and serious losses. A great loss about five years ago was total loss of hearing in my right ear. It was more than loss of hearing. It was the loss of directionality. If I don’t see where a sound is coming from, I can’t tell if it’s from the left or right, in front or behind me, or from up above. Also—I didn’t realize this—our ears are the gyroscope that controls our balance. Lose one ear and you will have a balance problem. I’m constantly aware of that.

I live alone. I may fall because of poor balance, or trip on something, or slip in the tub. So I wear a Great Call medical alert device every minute I’m up. Inside and outside. It hangs on my chest. If I fall, I’ll press the button on it. Within seconds I’ll reach a 27 /7 Great Call respondent. He or she will say, “Are you reporting a medical emergency?” And I will say yes. They have my profile. Much info, including the name and phone number of my loving daughter Monique who lives nearby. If they cannot her, they’ll try others on my profile. Even  my primary care doctor.

If I fall away from home, through GPS,  Great Call can locate me. It will also help me if I get lost on the road somewhere, feel dizzy, and so on. It costs less than the price of coffee per day. It’s really a life insurance policy. More people should become aware of it.

As or my  primary care doctor, I just saw him. . He is excellent. He told me he feels I’m  doing so well I don’t have to see me till mid-July. How about that?! I’m aware a lot of old people have to see their doctor every week or two.

I take some credit. I watch my weight, don’t smoke, rarely drink alcohol, do limbering exercises, eat few sweets, do regular limbering exercises, and am a vegetarian. I make it a point to do fun things. It’s hard for me to walk now. I make up for that by pedaling my tricycle every day. Which I find great fun.

I had loving parents.

Arthur J. Laplante and Marguerite Bourke were immigrants from Quebec. They met at a church social in Pawtucket, R.I. Many French-Canadians in Pawtucket. He became a salesman in the Shartenburg Department Store. Mr. Shartenburg felt my Papa with his outgoing personality could attract Francos as customers. He was right. In just two years Papa opened his own store. Yes, it was small — just linoleum and bedding. But in six years it became a big one – two sprawling floors – selling just about anything you might need in a home. Then sold it and started buying three-deckers and renting them out. Then also started selling house and car insurance.

Maman, just back from their honeymoon, returned to work in the weave shop of a textile mill.  In two years she became a full-time mom.  In eight years they moved from a three-decker into their own home. Then, just as I was finishing college they moved into a lovely Cape Cod colonial with a fireplace in the living room. It had a fine lawn and beautiful white fence and trees and even an in-ground swimming pool. Unusual back then. They enjoyed a cruise to Bermuda. They bought a winter home in Florida. Yes, America, truly the land of opportunity!

They loved me. And all my siblings. Did a fine job of raising us. Pa had a temper, but it blew up seldom.

I grew up knowing I was loved. Maman showed it day in and day out in every way. He did, too, by giving me – all of us – wonderful opportunities. Back then I took the opportunities for granted. Then I smartened up and saw how blessed I was.

I grew up to have an enterprising streak – plunging into challenging projects and working hard to make them succeed. By example Pa programmed me to do that.

I’ve had the longest life span in my family.

Pa died at 73. Maman at 83. The one exception was her sister Bernadette – my dear Aunt Bernie – at 94.   I was the first born of eight children. Born in my parents’ bed on the second floor rented tenement in a three-decker at 18 Coyle Avenue.

Mr. Clark and his family lived on the first. Mr. Archambault and his family on the third.

Rose-Marie died at six months— obstructed bowel. I still remember her little white casket in the parlor.  Lucie was next, my dear petite sister, nine years behind me. She and I are the only two remaining. The eighth was Michel. He was born 16 years after me. Died at 55 in agony after having a leg amputated below the knee. Diabetes.

Lucie is now retired after a fine career as a high school teacher of French in West Hartford, Conn. We are close and speak often.

And here I am, the first-born and now the oldest survivor. How to explain this? How? Yes, how? Logic would insist I’d be the first to die. Then the others in the order of their birth. Ha!

I got a fine education thanks to my parents. Education they never dreamed of for themselves. We were Catholic. After four years in parochial school, I was sent off to a Catholic boys’ boarding school 30 miles away. I was 10 and went there for grades five through eight.

I was sobbing and screaming when they dropped me off. Came home only for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and summer. But I got used to it. I graduated first in my class. Had to get used to living with my family again. Well, that summer.

Why did Maman and Pa do that? They thought I’d get a better start in life. And in their social circle, it was an impressive and envied accomplishment for parents to be able to provide such a start.

Then eight years full time at Assumption Prep and College in Worcester, Mass., 45 miles away. The two were on the same campus, in fact the same big building. I went through the eight years with a 50 percent scholarship from a Franco fraternal society, the USJB. Won it in a competitive examination. Elected a class officer every year. Named to the National Honor Society in the prep school. Graduated with high honors from the college.

So 16 years in Catholic schools, with half the courses in English and half in French. We learned to think, speak, and write in both languages.

I entered college as a pre-medical student.  My mother dreamed of me as an MD. But in biology, I was queasy about dissecting a frog. Hated the lab work. I developed second thoughts. And I was chosen editor of our tiny college paper.

I had discovered I enjoyed writing. I found it was fun to think up articles and write them, hand out assignments, edit the stories, lay out the little paper. Some of the articles were in French, by the way. And that’s how I came up with the notion of journalism.

One of my priest teachers, hearing of my ambition, advised me to study economics and political science. He spent all of 10 minutes suggesting that. And I promptly took the National Graduate Record Exam, and on the basis of that got accepted by Clark University in Worcester and Brown University in Providence. I chose Brown because closer to home and was Ivy League.

The economics department had about 50 students. I was one of them, with a master’s degree my ambition. More than half were aiming for a PhD. Nearly all had majored in economics in college. I also took a couple of courses in political science.

The grades were A, B, C, D, and F.  For us graduate students anything below a B was a failing grade. A single failing grade and you were kicked out.

I had had only one one-semester course in economics. It was taught by a lay professor who had emigrated from Italy. Spoke broken English. He lectured In Italian-tainted French. We had no textbook. All we had were the notes we took.

I was good at math. Had courses in algebra, geometry, trigonometry, and calculus. But for calculus—again no textbook–I was out sick for the first three classes and never caught up.

I returned home to Pawtucket proud and optimistic. I would be living at home for the first time in 12 years. And commuting to my classes at Brown, taking two buses each way and trudging up and down steep College Hill. Now and then my Aunt Bernie, who lived bright next door, would let me take her Oldsmobile. I loved that.

Well, at Brown, I got a single C, in statistics, which involves calculus. I found out that this was an essential tool for an economist. But becoming an economist was not my goal, as I’ve explained. I got A’s and B’s in all my other courses.

One of my professors was Hyman Minsky. He knew I was planning to be a journalist. One day he called me in to talk about a paper I had written. He complimented me — said my style was a bit rococo and I felt he liked that though it was the first time I heard the word and didn’t know what it meant — and I walked out beaming. Professor Minsky became famous for an economic theory he developed. Google him if you’re curious.

Anyway, that single C ended my Brown career. Of course, many Brown graduates proudly graduated with a much lower yet honorable grade average than mine,

I wasn’t used to failure. That failure smarted.

Focusing on my true ambition, I applied to the Graduate School of Journalism at Boston University, was accepted, found myself in my element, enjoyed it, and graduated with a master’s. That was the terminal degree in journalism at that time. I made that 50-minute commute by train five days a week.

And went to work. Some call ii the business of journalism. Some journalists to this day, successful ones, never took a single course in journalism. But that’s rare now.

One of our professors was Donald Murray, an editorial writer on the Boston Herald. He gave us assignments on editorial writing.

One day he returned our papers to us. And said, “Who is Mr. LaPlante?” I raised my hand. “Congratulations!” He said. “There were some fine papers. Yours was the best.”

Interestingly, shortly before our class graduated, Donald Murray won a Pulitzer for his editorials at the Herald.

I had been named to Sigma Delta Chi, the professional journalism fraternity. And that’s what we felt we were entering, the profession of journalism.

Got to tell you my Papa paid for all that schooling with the exception of the scholarship to Assumption I had won. He and Maman encouraged and supported me whole-heartedly. How fortunate I was.

I wound up in the work I enjoy.

I went to B.U. with a single ambition: to someday own and publish a weekly newspaper in a small town.

On my own, apart from my journalism studies, I would read up on everything I could find about weekly newspapers. There were hundreds of them. And there were startling technical breakthroughs.

One was the Varitype Machine. It was a fancy, enormously sophisticated typewriter.  With it you could change type fonts. It had an interesting variety of fonts. And it could justify lines of type– make then fill out to be flush on both sides of the column. Just how it’s done to this day in all newspapers.

That was accomplished back then by highly skilled and well-paid workmen operating Linotype machines — huge machines using molten lead. Machines costing more than luxury cars. The Linotype operators had to apprentice many months.  Today to see a Linotype you have to go to a museum.

Well, within walking distance of our school was a business office machine store, Burroughs I think it was. And it sold the newfangled Varityper. And offered free lessons on using it, with no pressure to buy one.

The Varityper justified through a double typing. You would set the column width you wanted. Would type a line and then tab over and retype the line. The Varityper spaced out the words to make every line even. The double typing was clumsy and time-consuming, yes, but It did the job. The Varityper cost just a fraction of a Linotype. Any good typist could master it fast. I got good at it. The day came when I bought one. More about this soon.

At B.U. another professor was Evan Hill. He taught reporting. He had been wounded in World War II and walked with a severe limp. He didn’t let it slow him down.

Was a perfectionist. Preached objectivity, fairness, thoroughness, clear writing. Had worked on weekly newspapers and had edited a couple. He took a liking, to me, especially after hearing of my interest in weeklies. Most of our class wanted to work on dailies, the bigger the better.

Spring break was coming up. He took me aside, told me one of his graduates was the publisher of the Record-Journal in Amherst, Mass.  Amherst was the home of Massachusetts’ flagship state university, UMass. If I were willing, he – I believe his name was Timothy  Woodrow —would welcome me into his home with his wife, feed me, take me with him to the office,  and give me reporting assignments every day.

If I turned in decent copy, he’d edit my reports and publish them with my byline. How about that?”

I had a wonderful “spring vacation” at the Record-Journal. I returned to classes even more intent on owning a weekly.

As a class project during another break, Professor Hill took a dozen of us to a weekly in Lakeville In northwestern Connecticut for a week. Professor Hill knew that publisher, too, We’d put out a special supplement for the paper about historic houses in the community. He was our editor for that, giving us assignments, editing our work, and producing an insert that became a valued souvenir for many subscribers.  A great experience.

I kept in touch with him. He left B.U. and became a full-time freelance feature writer, getting published in the Saturday Evening Post and other quality national magazines.

A few years later, when I was a staff writer on the magazine of the Worcester Sunday Telegram, I drove up to New Hampshire to visit and interview him. I’ve forgotten the town’s name. He lived there with his family and had an office in a downtown building. I wrote a cover story about him as a big-time magazine article writer. He told me I did a good job.

Shortly before graduation, Professor Hill told me of a friend who was the publisher of the Thomaston Express in Thomaston, Conn. The town is famous as the home of Seth Thomas Clocks. He told me Cesario DelVaglio was looking for a new young editor. The job could be mine. I accepted on the spot, without ever meeting Mr. DelVaglio or getting to Thomaston.

Thomaston was a hundred miles from Pawtucket. I reported for work by thumbing to Thomaston.  It took me nearly five hours. And I met Del for the first time. That’s who he was to everybody, Del, a big, hearty Italian who was all business.

He sold all the ads for the Express, schmoozed with anybody who was somebody in Thomaston, and also operated a job-printing business at the Express—letterheads, brochures, business cards, and such.

“Make the Express interesting,” he told me. “Do a good job and in six months I’ll give you a raise.”

The Express occupied a small gray building. It was just a block from Main Street and the Town Hall, so I could walk there easily.

He drove me to a small, modest house three-quarters of a mile away.  Introduced me to Mrs. Beardslee, a widow, who lived alone. She would rent me a room and supply the sheets, blankets, and towels, $11 a week. She’d serve me breakfast if I wanted, 35 cents a day. Do my laundry. I said yes to everything. And started work.

Thomaston had about 5,000 people. It was a one-industry town, Plume and Atwood, a brass manufacturer.  Little news ever emerged from there. I never heard of labor problems, business problems, accidents, promotions, or lay-offs. I didn’t have the moxie to go probing. Anyway, didn’t have time for that.

The Express was a tabloid. The news hole was 500 column inches. That’s what I had to fill every week. I was editor and sole reporter. We had three or four outlying neighborhoods with a correspondent in each. They were elderly matrons who knew every soul, and sent in a column of neighborhood doings every week.

They were stringers. A journalistic word. They clipped out their column every week, then glued it to the tail of the previous one, and then to another couple and at the end of the month sent in their string. Del paid them so much a column inch. I’d check their spelling and amplify something if I felt it was needed.  We had a high school coach who wrote sports stories. The rest was up to me.

At the Town Hall, I introduced myself to the Town Clerk, the Police Chief, the First Selectman (mayor), School Superintendent, Librarian, and others.  All nice to me. They all knew this was my first week on the job right out of school, a total stranger in Thomaston, and saw I was as green as an unripe banana. They didn’t expect much.

Every week I went in looking for news — marriage intentions, police arrests or accidents, school announcements, all the bread and butter news of small town life.

In my third visit to the Police Chief, he said, “John, my boy, this is a nice quiet little town, you know. No need for you to come by. If something happens, I’ll call you.”  In my time there, a big police story never developed.

We published on Thursdays, and on Wednesdays I’d work till 10 p.m. wrapping everything up. Laying out the pages, cropping and sizing photos, writing headlines and captions, arranging the “jumps”—continuations to other pages – making sure the layout was clear and simple, and no goofs.

There were five of us. Del. Gus, the earnest, cigar-puffing compositor. Eddy, who ran the humongous Linotype.  Ray, who was the pressman. And myself. They too kept their fingers crossed about me. I was just “the kid.”

On Thursday morning Gus would call me to his “stone.” That was a big, heavy steel frame. He knew what and how many ads would be on each page. Only Page 1 did not have ads. I gave him a layout for each important page. He would fill it with all the metal components — headlines, articles, captions, and so on. Then he’d “lock up” the chase. The paper would be printed from that chase.

Gus would call me over. “John, this story’s too long by an inch and a half.” And I would duly cut out an inch and a half. It might take a bit of re-writing.

“John, this one needs another three quarters of an inch.” And I’d write three quarters of an inch more.

Then Ray would load the chases on the flat-bed press and get it running. The building would vibrate. He’d hand-feed one sheet of paper through at a time.  The page would print, then slip over a long horizontal pipe with many tiny holes along the top. They’d emit small, even gas flames. That would dry the ink. Then the sheets would pile up at the end of the press.

More than once I saw a sheet catch fire going over. Ray would grumble and curse, grab a broom and beat out the fire, clean the mess, then start the press again.

Every week we’d publish on time for the paper boys and taket a big canvas bag of papers to the Post Office for our mail subscribers.

I was a good photographer but Del insisted all pictures would be provided by Milo Puwalchek. Thirty-ish, smiling, a gentleman. Milo ran a portrait studio on Main Street.  Wedding photos, promotion photos for Plume and Atwood. He took the pictures we needed. His only pay was the printed credit he got for each one , “Photo by Milo.”

That was another swap Del had worked out. For Milo did it was his total advertising program.

I’d stop by to chat with him in his studio.  His wife and assistant was Maria, very able, very sweet. They became my closest friends. Milo did not have a car, but I did now.  We started going out to dinner once or twice a week.

One time my parents came to visit. They were dying to get a look a Thomaston and how I was living. I took them to Milo’s. He insisted on shooting portraits of them “on spec.” They’d pay for them if they liked them. They did. I still have a set of them. More than 60 years old. As beautiful as new. I treasure them. Impossible for me to ever forget dear Milo.

About that car. After my third week In Thomaston, my parents astonished me with a brand-new Ford Victoria sedan. A belated graduation present, all thanks to the prayers and cajoling of my Maman.

I had weekends off. Now I could drive home to Pawtucket on Friday evening, and next day drive 35 miles to Putnam, Conn., to date beautiful Pauline, my very first girlfriend. We had met in a blind date arranged by friends for her junior prom at Annhurst College. And I could do a much better job of reporting.

Once a week, a nice treat.  Del would take me to lunch at the White Fence Inn. A beautiful, long-established, four-star restaurant. Always a fine meal and a great chat. Del always picked up the tab.  Later I found out that was another of his deals. He was swapping ads for the White Fence Inn in the Express for dinners there.

One day a spectacular happening. After enormous rains, the river overran its banks. Some sections of town had a foot of water and it was still raining. Huge devastation. I went all out covering it. Worked endless hours. Got little sleep. I was a journalist. That’s what journalists do.

I transformed the Express. A full, no-ads editorial page, with one or two editorials every week. Plus a full, detailed feature story with photo on that page. Plus a column by me of chit chat and observations, “By JGL.” Interesting stories on Page 1 and inside. I gave the paper a clean, distinctive, appealing look week after week. I was proud of myself.

Lots of papers publish “boilerplate,” prepared news stories sent out by PR people pushing this or that. It’s a cheap way to pad out a newspaper. In my time not an inch of it got into the Express.

Came the end of my sixth month. Del had made no further mention of a raise. We had a fine relationship. I liked him and he liked me.  I didn’t waste a minute. I brought it up. “Yeah, John, you did a good job. You deserve a raise. $5 a week!”

I nearly fell off my chair. I had expected a jump from $50 to $!00 a week. Wow! A lousy $5. I gave him my notice.

My own weekly

I had heard of a paper for sale in Woonsocket, R.I. Not a town like Thomaston. A city. The Sunday Star. Just 12 miles from my home town of Pawtucket. It was a newspaper – it covered local news. But Woonsocket had a big daily, The Call. The Star couldn’t compete.

I was 25 years old. I had a vision for it. I would change it into a feature weekly   — lengthy articles, rich in detail, with lots of quotes, each with several photos – of interesting people, happenings, undertakings, lifestyle. The concept is commonplace nowadays. I had never seen such a paper. Then The Star could compete hard against The Call in a different way.

(I must say today’s concept has one added feature. You don’t buy the paper. It’s free. Advertising is the sole support.)

How could I afford to buy The Star? I could not. I didn’t have a dime. I convinced Papa, Sure, he was hesitant and doubtful and cautious. But he discussed it with a cousin, a highly successful businessman in Woonsocket. My father handled all the Pawtucket business for him—all clients that he signed up. The two interviewed me. Grilled me. They left the room. They came back. Papa said, “Well, okay … I guess.”

I went to work. The Star had a small suite in a fine, prestigious building.  I was owner of the paper, editor, employer, Varitype operator, well, for a while. Yes, I had immediately bought one. All the typesetting and printing were jobbed out. Now only the printing would be. I hired a trucker to get the paper out every Saturday afternoon to be available on Sunday.

I would live at home in Pawtucket, supported by my parents, bless them. And commute to Woonsocket.

I hired a secretary, Marie. I taught her how to use the machine. She was talented. Learned fast. I also hired an artist / paste-up man, low-key Lucien. Both hard-working. This would no longer be hot metal printing. This was new “cold type,” so called.

The Sunday Star would be supported by paid subscriptions and store sales. Store sales were 99 percent. And as always, mostly by paid ads. I knew nothing about newspaper advertising. Only that the more, the better.

One day a man, smartly dressed with brilliantly shined shoes, handed me a card and introduced himself.  He beamed, pumped my hand. I remember his name, even his middle initial, and I will never forget him, but I will call him Mr. Smoothy.  He had 35 years in the business.  Told me my concept for the paper was brilliant. Predicted a golden future. He would be my advertising director. Sure, of course, he knew I was just starting out but hey, he would work simply on commission.

My prayers were being answered!

I worked hard and late. I was elated.

I started writing features.  Very early I found a dandy. I met a guy who flew a small plane out of our local airport and would fly advertising banners around them. For pay, of course. A great feature.

Recalling Del’s business stunts back in Thomaston, I now pulled one of my own. If he flew a banner of The Star over the city till his gas nearly ran out, I would wow our readers with a super feature about him and how he got into that and does it.  (In fact, I would never charge anybody for a feature.)

I took the pictures of him at the airport, prepping the banner on the ground, attaching it, taking off. And it all happened. My story was the play story – two and a half pages, six photos.

I had found his banner could carry 24 letters and spaces. All big enough to be visible from 1,000 feet – I don’t remember the exact altitude. And he’d tow this banner around on Easter morning.

I composed the message: “SUNDAY STAR REBORN TODAY”. Exactly 24 letters and spaces! It turned out to be a perfect-weather Easter.  My ad was a perfect tie-in. Countless people must have seen it. I was watching, of course. Published it as the cover feature the following Sunday.

I had big bills. Rent. Staff. Routine expenses …telephone, electricity, supplies, and so on. Printing was the huge one. I took only walking-around money for myself. Pa made up the  deficit every week.

Mr. Smoothy kept breezing in. Always smiling. “I just landed another full-page ad, John! And I expect another!”

It was all bogus. He’d go to a prospect and say, “This guy LaPlante is hot. He’s creating a different paper.  A terrific paper. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a full page ad FREE. You’ll be impressed by your sale results. You’ll be happy to become a regular advertiser. And we’ll give you a good discount.”

And I paid him his commissions for those ads.

But none of those businesses ever signed a contract for more lineage.

I’m not sure what he told people exactly. But I think what I just wrote comes close.

I watched the circulation sales carefully. It turned out that even my distributor was falsifying the counts. In five months the game was up. One day Papa told me in French, “No more, Jean-Guy!” His voice reeked with pain and disappointment. “This isn’t working. You can’t keep this up.”

I lost my staff. My Varitype machine. My office furniture. All my supplies. Even my camera. My reputation with my landlord and the Woonsocket people I had been dealing with. I walked out with only the “Master’s Degree in Journalism” diploma that I had on the wall behind my desk. Oh, and my Ford Victoria.

It’s with the greatest difficulty that I write this today. Very painful.

I thought I was putting out a great paper.  Apparently not. I am positive Papa made a terrible mistake in supporting my idea. His love for me overcame his common sense. Sure, I was a hard, eager, energetic worker.  But I had zero business experience. And was extremely naïve in the ways of the world.

It was a full four months before I found another newspaper job.  A time of stress and worry for me. And though I never heard a word of reproach from them, for Pa and Ma, too.  I was still living at home and they were supporting me. I wonder whether I would be as supportive.

Then, thanks to my dear Aunt Bernie, I landed a job on a big newspaper, the Worcester Telegram and Gazette, a metro paper covering all of central Massachusetts. It took 850 people to publish the T & G seven days a week.  It was on the list of our 100 biggest newspapers.

I went on board as a reporter, and over some 16 years moved up through an interesting variety of editorial  jobs — a bureau chief, feature writer, columnist, and in due time the Sunday magazine editor, an executive position. Every step was a challenge. As a whole, good years.

Way at the top of this piece, I mentioned I have been fortunate because I’ve found work I’ve enjoyed. Very true. So many people go through life working at what I call bread and butter jobs. They can’t wait to hit retirement. And when they do, they never do that kind of work again.

I’m still doing this work today, as you can clearly see.

Gosh, I’ve written far more here than I intended.  And I still have much more to tell you about my good fortune in having reached ripe old age. I’m going to take a break and give you a break too, by stopping right now. And I’ll take up the tale again for you before very long.

And I’ll be very interested to know if you’ve read these 5,546 words right down to here. If so, I compliment you for your fortitude. Obviously you’re interested.

I hope you make it up to a happy 90, too.

~ ~ ~ ~

Again, I welcome your comments. I read them all, good and not so good. Email me at johnguylaplante@yahoo.com or johnguylaplante@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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