All I know I learned in Boy Scouts

17 Sep


All I know I learned in Boy Scouts

by L. Stewart Marsden

It’s not true, of course. I didn’t learn everything in the Boy Scouts. But pretty darn much. I learned how to:

  • Read a compass
  • Open and close a pocket knife safely
  • Assemble a two-part canvas pup tent
  • Dig a latrine
  • Cut a fuzz stick to make a fire
  • Basic first aid — including helping a drowning victim (which has since changed)
  • Pack a backpack
  • Sharpen an ax

and all those other essential skills.

I also learned that opening a large can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs and putting it over a fire is not cooking.
I learned it’s not safe to chop wood at night in the dark.
I learned that mixing aspirin and hot Coca-Cola does not get you drunk.
I learned that rabbit tobacco is not tobacco.
I learned that Morse Code is not easy to learn — especially the signal flagging part.

The two best parts of being a Boy Scout, besides the uniform and all that military regalia stuff?

Camping and summer camp.

I belonged to Troop 4, sponsored by the largest United Methodist church in town. It sprawled over what seemed to be a billion acres. We called it Vatican City. So big it even had a bowling alley. I guess that’s where the term “bowling for Jesus” came about.

Meetings were once a week at the church. We’d play games — dodge ball if it was raining outside; Fox and the Hounds if it wasn’t.

Now, that was a game!

We’d break the troop up into two equal sides. There were always between 20 and 30 boys at our meetings (before Boy Scouting fell victim to things like soccer leagues).

One half was the foxes, who would dash outside and find a place to hide on the church grounds. Five minutes later the other half, the hounds, would stream out of the church, baying to the moon, in search of the foxes. When everyone was caught, the sides would switch, and the chase began again.

Mr. Zimmerman, one of the adult Scout leaders, had a farm just on the edge of the town. That’s where we held most of our camping trips.

We lugged all our gear in station wagons and the beds of trucks out to the property drive way (a rutted dirt road), and hiked the rest of the way into a forested area that abutted a large field.

Once tents were pitched, fire pits were dug, and latrine sites were selected, the designated cooks pulled out thin steel cookware to begin dinner: usually some mixture of ground beef and Hamburger Helper.

Food had to be hung up by a rope because of the critters that might come late at night to steal it.

Nobody was ever constipated on a camping trip because the meals were so greasy. Everything slid right through.

When it got dark, it was time for Fox and the Hounds! Now, at the church, the game was somewhat benign as far as danger. In the woods on Mr. Zimmerman’s farm, however, there were troughs and tree limbs, spider webs — and old rusty barbwire to contend with.

Much practice of first aid skills resulted from those games. In fact, it’s amazing we didn’t lose a kid or two. Come to think of it, maybe we did.

Then, campfire stories.

Ghosts, ghouls, and other creatures that go bump in the night. It’s amazing how a simple tale or two, told with just the right voice — low and slow — can creep a kid out so he stays wide awake with his flashlight on all night.

The adult leaders lived in the lap of luxury. Zimmerman and our Scoutmaster, Mr. Ingram, “roughed it” in a Baker tent — a square, four-sided tent of heavy canvas. They also had cots and really thick sleeping bags. They cooked on a Coleman stove. And they sat back and smoked their pipes, perhaps listened to a Saturday night broadcast of an ACC basketball game. Cool, nonplussed sorts, they were.

When you first awoke in the early morning, the sound of crows cawing came to ear. Then you noticed that somehow a rock had crawled under your sleeping bag, and poked you in the ribs.

The metal clang of camp cookware slowly stirred you to sit up, and the smell of bacon frying in a pan wafted into the tent.

Those were the best parts of camping out.

But the very best part of Boy Scouts was summer camp!

Our troop went to Camp Uwharrie — the name of the council we were a part of. It was a short distance from town, out on acres and acres of land covered by pine forests and two lakes. One of the lakes was about 50 feet above the second lake. They were separated by an earth dam. The upper lake was for fishing, boating and canoeing. The lower lake was the swimming area, and was cordoned off into four swimming areas designated by swimming skill level: non-swimmers, beginners, intermediate and advanced swimmers. You had to have earned your swimming merit badge to swim in the advanced swimming area. It abutted a concrete dam, and had no bottom that you could touch standing up.

A typical Camp Uwharrie cabin.

A typical Camp Uwharrie cabin.

Camp was divided up into camp units of four to five cabins that circled a sheltered common area. The cabins were built of wood, with an open screened area at the tops of the two flank walls. Bunk beds were positioned against the walls.

I always chose a top bunk, as the screened opening was at mattress level. At night I would listen intently to crickets sing and the lake bullfrogs croak. At times a cool night breeze would blow into the cabin.

Camp was where you earned a boatload of merit badges — especially the ones that were more difficult in finding a merit badge counselor to pass you. Camp counselors were the instructors, and usually only a couple or three years older. And they were cool. They all wore the same T-shirt: a light blue shirt with the profile of an Indian chief printed in red, with the words Camp Uwharrie arching over the top. With the dark green summer shorts, green knee socks with red flags hanging from the tops, the counselors were the tops.

Nature, basketry, archery, riflery, swimming, life saving, canoeing, rowing, fishing and more were the courses offered. As well as needed skills for Tenderfoot, 2nd and 1st Class.

The lower lake with swimming areas marked by buoys. The cafeteria is in the background.

The lower lake with swimming areas marked by buoys. The cafeteria is in the background.

The cafeteria was a large one-level expanse with dozens of tables and benches. Best food in the world at camp! This is where you learned to mix grape jelly with your grits, and drink bug juice. Milk was served ice-cold in metal pitchers. Bread was hot and gone in seconds.

Once at camp, I was downing glass after glass of milk. I was working on life saving merit badge, and my body was dehydrated from being in the water so long.

One of the volunteer adult leaders, Dr. Nicholson — a junior high science teacher — warned me about overdoing the milk.

“You’ll pee in your bunk!” he warned.

Sure enough, that night I had the most realistic dream about peeing — then awoke midstream to discover I had saturated my sheets! Mortified, I quietly stripped my bed of the soaked bedding, and buried them under leaves outside the cabin. I unrolled my sleeping bag for the rest of the week. No one in the cabin said anything. I can’t remember what happened to the sheets!

Each night Kate Smith belted out a recorded rendition of “God Bless America,” which echoed across camp at its end. It was followed by a beautiful playing of taps — again recorded — by a bugler.

The night of the last day of a week of camp was designated for the Tap Out Ceremony. In Boy Scouts, there is/was a brotherhood of scouts who were selected by their fellow scouts. The Order of the Arrow members were tapped out as part of a very mystical production.

The ceremony began when the entire camp gathered in the main assembly area.

The ceremony began when the entire camp gathered in the main assembly area.

The entire camp assembled in the main square of camp, which served as a ball field as well. We were ordered to silence, and camp counselors, dressed as American Indians, with war paint and all, stretched a long hemp rope along the scouts. We grabbed the rope as told, and were led down to the waterfront, where we formed a large semicircle facing the lower lake.

From the waterfront lifeguard tower, a counselor, his face painted half white and half black, wearing a buffalo headgear, sing-songed the story of the Linni-Linape.

Then, a drum started to beat somewhere from across the lake, and a torch was lit on the far side, and carried by a swimming Indian, careful not to dip the torch in the water. He slowly swam to the near shore, and shouted loudly, shoving the torch into a large pre-built stack of wood.

A second Indian walked out with bow and arrow, and lit the end of the arrow in the crackling fire. He drew the bow, aimed and shot the flaming missile over the lake, shouting again as he disappeared.

Again, from the far side of the lake, a canoe appeared. One Indian held a large burning arrow, supported by a pole, above his head. A second Indian at the rear of the canoe paddled the craft across the lake. The reflection of craft and burning arrow was mesmerizing.

On shore, the arrow bearer began to march in front of the lined up scouts, the second Indian walking behind clutching several arrows. The tom-tom beat rhythmically.

Suddenly the arrow bearer would stop and swing the arrow down in front of a scout. The drum would beat frantically as the second Indian slapped an arrow across the collarbone of the scout, who grabbed the arrow and held it to his chest.

This went on until the last arrow was delivered.

The selected scouts were then bound together and led away into the dark night by Indians. They returned to their campsites much later, sworn to secrecy regarding where they had been taken and how they had been instructed.

Then the chief and his aide returned to the canoe and slowly paddled back across the lake, where the large flaming arrow was doused to a thunderfall of drum beats.

In silence, the camp returned to their campsites.

Kate Smith sang a little later, and taps blew across the camp.

So, not all, but some of the best of what I know and remember I learned in Boy Scouts.


15 Sep

Writing updates:

1. I’m re-editing my short-story collection, Through the Glass Darkly, and will add new stories and delete others. As with the 1st edition, this 2nd edition will be available on under my writing name, L. Stewart Marsden;

2. The Last Stand, a two-act drama based on Guy de Maupassant’s short story, Boule de Suif, and reset to December, 1864 in Savannah, Ga., is being read and reviewed by several (thanks, Clara, et. al.). Once back in with all suggestions, I’ll edit, rewrite, and format for submission in many directions.

3. Illustrations for Stinky and the Night Mare are undergoing final revisions and tweaking. The release for my first children’s story is still scheduled for sometime in October. It is written for young children (ages 4 – 6 or 7). I am very excited about the project, and have begun other Stinky stories. Thinking about producing an audio/video disc for distribution as well.

4. Another writer and I have launched a local writers’ group. One has not existed here for several years, and it’s a pain to drive lots of miles for critiques. We’re exploring what may be a different way of submitting and evaluating work. If you’d like to peek at our website, go to

5. Came back from a few days in the mountains where I hosted a military family. Actually, they are no longer in the military. The father of the family lost a leg in Afghanistan, and is giving me much-needed help for background for a young adult novel I put on the shelf a couple of years ago.

6. Gathering background for an eerie work (short story or novella) that combines the mountains of North Carolina, a banished Scottish clan, and the Cherokee for what I hope will be a spine-tingler.

7. Longing to get back to The Huguenots, but the stuff above needs resolution first. I think I juggle too many balls at once, and everything suffers.

8. And then there’s the poetry . . . still dreaming of a compilation of work.

Hope all of your writing efforts are progressing, and that you are reaching your objectives.


– SM

Cheap words

1 Sep




Cheap words

By L. Stewart Marsden

Cheap words.
Easy-to-use words.
Easy-to-lose words.
Easy-to-loose words
that end up
very costly words.

Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 1 September, 2014

Old words: new meanings

1 Sep

Old words: new meanings

By L. Stewart Marsden


Each day an old word takes a new hit
and is knocked about,
caroming and careening
until it no longer means the same as it did once;
standing in another place,
viewing from another point,
not safe to use by those confused
and stuck solidly in the past;
the long last understanding is lost,
and its once-fine and perfectly sound usage
spins slowly round the eddy,
and is finally flushed for evermore.

Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 1 September, 2014

Interracial Relationships

17 Aug



Interracial Relationships

by L. Stewart Marsden


I am an older white male (mid-sixties) who lives in the foothills of North Carolina, the United States.

I am a college graduate.

I am a writer. Poetry, short stories, plays, and a would-be novelist.

I play the guitar and harmonica.

I am an amateur actor — a thespian.

I like to think I can sing.

I like to draw cartoons and silly things.

I have a sense of humor — and am an advocate of puns.

I have five children and three grandchildren.

I am, ostensibly, retired (depending on whom you ask).

I live in an apartment complex.

I drive a Honda hybrid.

I have a drop-kick dog.

I’m a Duke basketball fan.

I’m overweight, and have launched a walking program to get rid of my barrel belly.

I’m balding, and sport a scraggly white beard.

I’m law-abiding, have served on a jury, and hate taxes.

I believe I am responsible for my own actions, and the consequences of those actions.

I believe in God, but am not a churchgoer.

I am heterosexual.

I am single.

If you are a non white, is there anything above that you can relate to? Is there anything that would deter you from at least considering a friendship with me?

I’ve just started a friendship via Facebook and email and WordPress with an African resident of Togo.

David lives in the capital city of Lomé, where he is pursuing writing, acting and comedy. He speaks French. That’s about all I know of him at this juncture.

He was the 800th visitor to my writing website, and I decided to send him a copy of Through the Glass Darkly.

I am looking with great anticipation learning more about David’s life, and sharing mine with him.

David, by the way, is black.

So why, I asked myself today, is it that I can make friends with a black man halfway across the world, and yet have virtually no black friends here in the neighborhood, city or state where I live?

Yes, I’m reclusive.

Yes, there are stereotypes of various ethnicities and cultures that I wrestle with.

If you are a non white, help me dialogue about just what it is I’m missing. I honestly don’t want to go down the last quarter or less of my life without closing what I think is a serious gap in my life.

When I lived in New York City years ago, I became a professional Scouter for the Greater New York Boy Scout Council.

In that capacity, my closest peer friends were from Puerto Rico and the Philippines. My area coordinator was black, and my council chief executive was black.

The latter two were distanced from me due, I think, to rank. Still . . .

The guy from Puerto Rico and I got along famously. He was always asking me to say something in Southern (I’m from North Carolina), and he would belly-laugh at my witticisms. Juan, from the Philippines, was a bit more reserved, but still approachable.

Of course, NYC is more metropolitan — more of a jumble of races and culture (the old metaphor was ‘fruit salad’).

It seems to me that the distance between races — in spite of all the laws and legislation that the government has enacted — has not decreased, but increased.

And I think sadly on King’s “I have a dream” speech, and wonder have I stepped on its potential to become reality through my own life?

In a course I took to become certified as a lateral entry teacher, one course instructor flatly said that all whites are prejudiced and bigoted.

I can’t argue with her, as I would invariably fall into those positions by virtue of disagreeing with her.

Whites wonder will they ever be released from the curse of being descendants of the South, where slavery and Jim Crow and segregation have occupied most of the history of southern blacks?

We wonder at the anger we sense from our black neighbors. The distrust. Perhaps it’s merely guilt on our part, and the anger isn’t there at all. I don’t think so.

But, you tell me.

The roots of racism and bigotry are long and deep. Are they too deeply rooted to ever rot and disintegrate?

Please, tell me what you think?

My dad thought that this separation would exist until the whole of mankind is one indiscernible color and race. A uni-race.

You have to then think that any difference is bad, and uni-this and uni-that — gender and sexuality and political affiliations — are the ultimate dystopic answer to all difference dilemmas.

But, please tell me.

Why is it I can establish contact more easily with a black man from Togo than I can a black man from across the street?

Update on Stinky and the Night Mare project

12 Aug

For the latest on how the Stinky and the Night Mare project is going, click here.

RIP, Robin

12 Aug

RIP, Robin

by L. Stewart Marsden


We have this tendency in the US to slam on our brakes over newsworthy events that rise to headlines and main stories in the media.

Babies left in hot cars by careless parents, guardians or caregivers.

Never again, we say, as if the mere thought or statement will stop it from happening again.

Campus shootings, or bullet rampages in public arenas where random lives are lost to those with severe emotional problems.

Never again, we say.

Police brutality, or profiling that results in a body on the street in the heat of the moment.

Never again, we say.

And Robin Williams adds his name to a growing list of celebrities for whom life has lost its allure and satisfaction. A victim of his own quiet containment of things too overpowering for him to face by himself?

Is this kaleidoscope of tragedy the makeup of daily life?

It’s certainly part of it. And, it has been going on since the beginning of time.

The difference?

Facebook. Twitter. Cable and satellite TV and a myriad of other electronic conveyances of events that, one hundred years ago (perhaps less) would have taken quite some time to travel the globe.

Here’s a small listing of those who attained fame of some sorts as a result of their profession/work/positions (no earlier than the 20th century) and then killed themself, compliments of Wikipedia:

  • Charles Boyer, famous French actor
    Freddy Prinze, comedian
    Earnest Hemingway, author
    Kurt Cobain, musician
    Don Cornelius, emcee of the television dance show, Soul Train
    Richard Farnsworth, actor
    Abbie Hoffman, political and social activist
    Jeret Peterson, American skier, Olympic medalist
    Junior Seau, NFL football player
    Bob Welch, musician and former member of Fleetwood Mac
    Lee Thompson Young, actor

We use words like shocking, and stunning. The world seems to swoon in unison over suicides, untimely deaths (that is a matter of debate), tragic events and accidents and more.

What ends up headlines is but a small percentage of the total of such happenings across the world in remote and isolated places, that will never get this kind of attention — or reaction, for that matter.

I personally enjoyed the work of Robin Williams, as did most who saw him perform. He was a rarity in talent and comic explosiveness.

But I didn’t know him. I didn’t know anything beyond his work, a handful of interviews on late-night television or the various entertainment television magazines.

He was younger than I by just shy of two years. That much hit close to home.

Yes, it’s news.

But, I don’t know what to do with it. Williams was here, and now he’s gone. What am I to do with that?

Perhaps — just perhaps — we want everyone to go on and live forever. We want our stars and those we admire to have never-ending fairytale lives because we certainly don’t. Not at our level.

So when a person like Robin Williams seems to throw it all away — the fame and the money and the talent — that we don’t have, we wonder at a personal level how can that be?

For the curious, here’s a link to that list of famous people who committed suicide. Most I’ve never heard of. Some, like Cleopatra and Hannibal and Socrates (albeit this one is debatable), happened long before the advent of instant, or even quasi-instant, communications.

Wonder how their contemporaries reacted? Wonder if the forums were filled with people who were shocked and surprised.

Or, did life just go on?

For a related poem, Life is Good, Death is Bad


New Dawning

30 Jul




New dawning

by L. Stewart Marsden


Something dawned on me today,
early in the bathroom morn,
while I was brushing, brushing, brushing
my teeth, teeth, teeth:
that I was not as bad as I believed,
which was — I say — hard to conceive,
since throughout my life I was deceived
to think myself
not quite,
less right,
off site,
and leaning just a bit in the wrong direction.

So, by my “erroneous selection” I selected to
decrease the number of those who saw me inept,
those who detected my failings and flaws,
and who “never” and “nahed” me down to my knees,
whom I could never and nahed ever please –
those infinite heights of high expectations,
where I floundered and pawed
with no realization –

Not that I did a single one bad –
but left, with whatever dignity I had
and planted that
where no one could disturb it,
and it grew
deep rooted to the earth and
now it has sprung to reveal
its sweet flower,
and I,
brushing teeth
in this early morn hour
have discovered
a new self-respect
that not very long ago
you would never detect.

There it is: so fragile and gentle,
seeking sunlight and moisture
and rich fertilizer;
I’ll nurture it
tender it
and watch it grow strong;

as I realize the truth of its truth –
and never,
no never
will I be ever that wrong.


Copyright © by L. Stewart Marsden, 30 July, 2014

Henny Penny and the last corn pone

29 Jul

Henny Penny and the last corn pone

by L. Stewart Marsden


So Penny Henny had a hankerin’ for scratch corn pone, and sallied forth into the barnyard.

“Who-all would like some homemade corn pone?”

“Why, I sure would,” said Johnny Jack-ass.

“Wee-wee-wee would,” said the muddy pigs.

The sheep, after asking each other, “Would ewe? Would ewe?” replied “Ya-a-a-a-us!” they bleated.

“Well then, who will help me plow the field?” asked Henny.

“Well, I don’t believe so,” said Johnny Jack-ass. “That’s a bit like work!”

“Wee-wee-wee won’t,” said the muddy pigs.

“Na-a-a-a-a-t us!” the sheep shouted.

“Then I’ll just have to do it myself,” said Henny. And she did.

“Who will help me hoe the rows?” asked Henny sometime later.

“Nope,” said Johnny Jack-ass. “My favorite TV shows are comin’ on!”

“Wee-wee-wee won’t either,” said the muddy pigs.

“Na-a-a-a-a-t us!” the sheep shouted.

“Then I’ll just have to do it myself,” said Henny. And she did.

After a bit, the persistent Henny came back to the barn yard to ask,

“Who will help me plant the seed?”

“Nah. My back pain has flared up again,” said Johnny.

“Wee-wee-we’re too tired from sleeping in the mud,” grunted the pigs.

“Baaaack off, Henny!” said the sheep.

“Then I’ll do it myself,” she said.

And she did.

Well, Henny Penny hoed and weeded and watered the rows of her cornfield, and, over time, cornstalks peeked through the soil and grew in the warm sun over the next weeks. All the while she gave her farm friends the opportunity to help every step of the way. And every step of the way, her farm friends refused to help.

The corn grew and grew and grew, all while Henny Penny tended her crop.

Finally, sprouting golden tassels, the fat ears of corn were ready to pick.

“Who will help me pick the corn?” she asked of the barnyard animals.

“Oh, Henny! I am allergic to cornfields,” said Johnny Jack-ass.

“Wee-wee-we’re too too short to help,” oinked the pigs.

“We can’t be baaaaa-thered,” the sheep said.

“Then I’ll do it myself,” she said, sadly shaking her feathery head.

And she did.

And she dried the corn.

And she shucked the corn.

And she ground the corn.

And she mixed the cornmeal into a fine batter, of which she made the most scrumptious corn pone ever! Ohhh, the wonderful aroma of that corn pone wafted throughout the whole barnyard.

One by one, Johnny Jack-ass, the muddy pigs, and the mewling sheep stepped forward, their noses perked up into the air, sucking in all the wonderful aroma.

“Hello, Johnny Jack-ass. Why are you here?”

“Why, I’m here to help eat the corn pone, of course.”

“And why are you here, pigs?” she asked.

“Wee-wee-we’re hungry and want to help eat the corn pone,” they squeeled.

“And, you ewes? Why are you here?” she asked the sheep.

“To chew-chew-chew the pone,” baaed the ewes.

“Well, guys — surprising as this might be to you all, none of you is going to get a crumb of my delicious homemade corn pone,” said Henny Penny.

“WHAT!!!” the animals screamed in shock.

“You heard me. I plowed the land; I hoed the rows; I planted the seed; I weeded and watered and did everything necessary for the corn to grow nice and high. THEN, I picked and dried the corn, shucked it, and ground it for corn meal. THEN I mixed it with the ingredients and baked the corn pone. YOU . . .. did NOTHING!”


So loud was their verbal displeasure that the ruckus awoke the farmer, who came out of the farmhouse to see what the matter was.

He listened to Henny Penny, and he listened to Johnny Jack-ass, the muddy pigs, and the sheep.

He looked at the cornfield, and the corn meal, and the corn pone — which he sampled.

Then he took his tractor and scooped up nearly 60 percent of all the results of Henny Penny’s efforts, and took that pile of food and distributed it between the jack-ass, the pigs, and the sheep.

“On this farm,” he said, looking at Henny Penny very sternly, “it is one for all, and all for one.”

He then turned and walked with resolution to the farmhouse, slamming the screened door behind him.

Stunned, Henny Penny turned back to what she had left from her efforts.

Time passed.

Winter came and the jack-ass, the pigs and the sheep had eaten all of their shares of the corn pone. Henny, who had carefully parceled out her food, had enough to last her until spring.

When spring came, Henny stayed in the chicken coop.

When summer came, Henny stayed in the chicken coop.

“Hey, Penny!” called Johnny Jack-ass into the chicken coop. “Aren’t you going to plant corn this year?”

“Yeah!” grunted the pigs.

“Yeah!” said the sheep.


“Why not?” they asked.

“I’m going to be satisfied with the chicken feed the farmer hands out,” she said.

“Makes sense,” said Johnny.

“Yup,” said the pigs.

“I agree,” said the sheep.

And there was no corn pone to be had on the farm from that time forward.

Why I no longer show who is following my blog

21 Jul

Why I no longer post who is following my blog


I really enjoy knowing that people out there in Blogland like and follow my work. It is gratifying, boosts my aging ego and encourages me to continue adding to my repertoire of writing.

What I don’t care for are the now multiple business blogs that like or follow my blog in hopes to pick up a customer.

When a person follows my blog, I make it a point to visit that blog site to thank that person for deciding my work is valuable enough to them that they want to get notifications of my uploads.

I know everything I write is not for everyone. Not even for me. For example, I’m not too keen on posting this particular blog.

What prompted this post is that I received a notification of a follow from a blog site that contains explicit pornography.

I just recently posted a piece my 9-year-old granddaughter wrote. If I publicized those that follow me, and she were to go onto my site and inadvertently click on that site’s symbol — WHOA! Papa Skip! What’s this?

I also had a teacher who wanted to use my poem “The first step” as part of the graduation ceremonies for her GED class. She wanted to post a link to my blog on her own teacher’s website.

Again — WHOA! Etc.

Unless you can tell me differently, there is no way to block someone or some company from following you. And if you use the widget that lists those that follow your blog, there’s a good chance that follower could appear on your front page. And if it appears on your front page, it’s tantamount to an endorsement by you.

So, if you are using the widget that displays followers, you might want to make sure that you are okay with the content of that follower’s blog, because it could work its way to your home page, and you would be endorsing that site.

To all the folk that have followed my work — or are not businesses or not explicit pornographic sites — thanks for the follow, but understand why I’m not opting to display the icons of followers.

I can’t do anything about those who “like” my work — but do wish I could. My granddaughter, you know.

No offense to those businesses and porno blogs meant.

SM (which does not stand for “sadomasochist”)



I did  comment on the pornographic site and requested that they unfriend me, and explained why. Within a few minutes they complied.


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