The improbable dream

Posted by: Duane Hiatt in Commentaries Add comments

Every person’s life is worthy of a book. I hope you are writing yours, or saving and collecting the material to one day write it.

I am in the midst of mine.

For those of you who just tuned in, this is the next installment of my memoirs currently in production. The previous installments are available on my web pageduanehiatt.com I hope you find it interesting.

The book is titled, Live Long*,  Learn a Little, Laugh a Lot.

Basketball, girls, and cars were high priorities in my high school days. Unfortunately cars were more expensive than basketball or even girls. I had a better chance of getting a date with Miss America than of owning a red 1955 Mercedes Benz 190 SL roadster. In my mind this was the second most beautiful car ever created. In first place was a custom sports roadster showing its noble American heritage but with an exotic European and British flair.

Fortunately for me this car was parked in the driveway of our home. Unfortunately there was too much of it. It was too high, too long and too conventional. It was in fact a 1939 Mercury two door coupe. My brother Gordon bought it from our neighbor. A couple of years later he went on to newer things and sold it to me for $200.

In its native manufactured shape it was a modestly quaint old car, but living far below its potential in my mind. Mechanically it was also less than world class. Among its shortcomings was a battery that would barely hold a charge through the day and never through the night in the winter. On the other hand, the car was easy to start. In the winter I could come home, back it up into our driveway which had the tiniest bit of slope with a little dip as it met the road. Next morning hustling to get to school, I could toss my books into the car, push it down the driveway, jump in, throw it into second gear and pop the clutch just as I hit the dip. With my one chance I could usually catch a cough from one of the cylinders, nurse it into life and be off in time for school. If any of this choreography misfired I would grab my books and run for it. It was a mile uphill to the high school and I didn’t have a prayer on foot. But usually some friend or road Good Samaritan would see my predicament, pick me up and save me from the late bell.

Once I started my car in the morning the battery would turn the engine over a couple of times even during winter if I parked it in the sun. I also sometimes parked on the edge of the high school hill which gave me 150 yards of sloped road. A retarded orangutan could have started the car with that much momentum.

I have owned some Chevrolet products. They have served me well. But there is one thing in which Chevrolet couldn’t hold a candle to a Ford or Mercury in those days; the low throaty rumble produced when equipped with straight pipe Hollywood mufflers. On the Chev they would blat, but on the Ford products they had the deep throated hollow rumble of an animal breaking his chains. Even my Mercury sounded that way. But it was all sound. Those eight little pistons under the hood were not scaring anybody.

“Not enough power to pull your hat off,” as my father described Fords. I wasn’t concerned about raw power. I didn’t want to leave smoldering rubber on the road at every stop sign and traffic light like some of my friends. That was automobile abuse to me. But I did love the idea of a finely tuned engine purring under the hood waiting for the command from my right foot.

The car was bulbous and round like every car in the late thirties and forties. But inside lurked a lean, trim, muscular athlete of the road; a touch of the English Jaguar, Germany’s Mercedes, and Italy’s Maserati. But withal, it was a home grown American beauty. The old time patriotism in my soul liked that.

But, like an overweight athlete or buxom beauty queen, the car as it stood was simply too much body and not enough engine. So one day I parked the car in the back yard, took my hack saw and tin snips and started surgery. My father was amazed, amused and aghast when he got home from work. My mother wrung her hands, and wore a worried look, but was willing to go along with my dream. Later on she would even use up great numbers of needles and much of the life of her sewing machine creating red and white rolled and pleated upholstery for my vision.

In the months that followed I, in 1950’s custom car talk, “chopped, channeled, sectioned and shortened” the body. People who came to see my work considered me a strange and perhaps destructive child. If I had known it then, I might have quoted Michelangelo’s famous explanation of his work. “I took this block of stone and chiseled away everything that wasn’t Moses.”

In my mind I was chiseling away everything that wasn’t sports car. The body sat high above the fenders, as was the design of cars in those days. By cutting out six inches around the middle, I was able to set the hood and trunk down between the fenders. Having made the body so trim and sleek, the top looked sort of like the cupola on a Russian church. So I eliminated that altogether and made it a convertible. It wasn’t too convertible because it didn’t convert back to a top.

I was a jazz musician with hacksaw and tin snips. That is I was making it up as I went. When I got the top off and the body sectioned in the middle, my little car looked like a miniature stretch limo; interesting but not pretty. So behind the door I whacked out twenty-two inches vertically. Then I had to have an engineering shop shorten the drive shaft so I could get the wheels back under the body. Now the basic shape was there, but it was sitting way too high off the ground for my taste. So I “stepped the frame.” I lowered the middle part and built braces to connect it with the suspension parts over the wheels. I bought some plate steel and hammered it into shape, welded it on with a little welder I had purchased for 60 hard earned dollars.

But I wasn’t flying solely by the seat of my pants. Crowning the stacks of car magazines next to my bed was a book that had cost me a few lunch moneys. Inside was a dog eared page on which was a picture of the nearest twin to my vision I had ever seen. It was made from a 1940 Ford, but very close to my 1939 Mercury. I spent much time staring at that picture imagining what it would take to turn my car into something similar. I didn’t know then it would take more than I could imagine.

My mother seeing this potentially lethal white arc of my welder burning around my car in the backyard, said to me, “Duane do you think you should be doing that. People have to go to school to learn how to weld.”

I assured her I could weld it just fine. I had received instruction. I didn’t tell her my total education was a little pamphlet that came with my hobby welder. But with practice and by keeping it simple, I was able to weld the brackets so the frame held together.

My mother was right. There was some danger involved. I was welding too close to the car’s gas tank when my neighbor Ted Bjornson, an older and wiser gentleman came to see how I was doing. He worked in an auto body shop and was a great resource to me. He explained that even though the tank was empty, the gas had been absorbed into the metal. “An empty tank can blow higher than a full one,” he said. He told me in the shop a man was trying to solder a can that had once held gasoline. It blew both ends out of the can. He made me a believer. I removed the gas tank.

I learned many things working on my car. I learned a greater respect for people of the trades. In my mind to weld a beautiful seam, to pound out the dents in sheet metal, to engineer mechanical parts so they squeeze together in a “press fit,” these are awe-inspiring skills. Later working on our house I would gain the same reverence for people who can pour concrete flat and level, lay bricks with a ballet dancer’s grace, and throw up a wall that is square and true.

I also learned a number of lessons for life such as: big things are easier to do than small details. But it is the details that make or break the work and turn junk into art.

I love the song “The Quest,” from the musical Man of Lamancha. It’s better known as “The Impossible Dream.” Sung by the title character, an old man who takes upon his shoulders a quest to right all wrongs, lift up the downtrodden, and punish the wicked. He is considered insane by others, in the play and also in the original Spanish book Don Quixote written centuries ago, by Miguel Cervantes and, in Spain second in popularity only to the Bible.

One indication that the man is crazy is his old age. Dreams are for the young and impetuous. By that reasoning, I am certifiably loony. I had an, if not impossible, at least highly improbable dream in high school, and in a quieter form it has never left me.

The old Ford engine was too underpowered, and too high to fit under the hood, so later I replaced it with a Chevy V/8. The top didn’t fit anymore, so I cut off an old Studebaker hard top from a junk yard and stretched it to fit. I fastened it on with the locking device from an old ford convertible. Other adaptations included a hydraulic brake cylinder from a Chevy truck, tail lights from a Pontiac, steering wheel from a later ford (a mistake. I see now the original one looked better.) When I sectioned the body, the gear shift on the floor hit the dash board before it would go into second gear and reverse. I fixed this by sawing the stick off about six inches from the floor, and shifting with my foot. It was a nifty little dance, but kept my right leg busy working the brake, the accelerator, and the stub of the stick shift. I later replaced the stick with a spring loaded racing shift mechanism a friend gave me.

The whole project was going wonderfully until I hit a snag. I had to put it all back together. I discovered my destruction talent far exceeded my construction skill.

The custom car magazines kept the fire of my vision burning; especially the book with the dream car. I practically wore out that picture from staring at it. In my dreams the parts strewn around our back yard resurrected into this vision on the page. Like Ezekiel in the Bible seeing the dry bones rise up, join together and live again.

Finally I got the pieces assembled and running enough to drive about 180 miles to Vernal Utah where I had gotten a job at a service station. Along the way I was pulled over by a highway patrolman. Bless my innocent soul, I could not imagine why he stopped me. I wasn’t speeding. He opened our conversation. “What in h___ is this contraption?” Shortly into my explanation I sensed he didn’t really want to know.

Safety inspections had been invented a few years before, and my “car” was noticeably lacking a sticker, also the ability to get one. The patrolman was an understanding man who probably had a lunatic son of his own at home. When I told him how I needed the summer work for college. (Note the time passage. I had finished high school and some college and was still sawing, welding, bending, and figuring.) He told me to get out of his sight and never appear on his highway again. I kept my promise. I came home at the end of the summer at night, assuming he was off duty by then.

Life goes on at an ever quickening pace. I could still get a lick in between books, basketball, wife seeking, and other extra curricular activities of college. Later my patient wife and inquisitive toddler sons bore, even encouraged, my habit. But soon the spare moments got sucked up in the necessities of providing and presiding that come with husband and fatherhood. Also I kept squandering my car money on things like rent and food for the family.

I evaluated my shortage of time, money, and skill. I disposed of my adolescent dream and went on to mature responsibilities.

Sort of.

I put the car into a make shift garage near the house, out of sight, but not totally out of mind.

Years later I was presenting a program in Southern California. As is my daily custom I went jogging the next morning after my show. With no better option, I was running across paved parking lots and industrial building drive ways when I happened to glance to my left. An auto body shop happened to be in my line of sight. .It’s garage door happened to be open. Inside happened to be the car, THE CAR IN THE BOOK, the vision of my teenage dreams. Quick left turn, breathless dash to the car, stammered question, where? How? What?” I blurted.”

“This is a custom car from up in Pasadena,” the mechanic replied. “It was built from a Ford convertible back in the ‘40’s. Some guy had it stored for about half a century. He died. His estate was sold, and the new owner wants us to fix it up. You like it?”

I tried to explain. No way. I pictured myself behind the wheel. I came within an eyelash of breaking into a full throated rendition of Don Qixote, the man of La Mancha singing, “To dream the impossible dream, to love pure and chaste from afar…”

I thought better of it and ran off again at a revived pace humming, “This is my quest, to follow that star no matter how hopeless, no matter how far…”

What are the odds? The model of my dreams, the only one in the universe, hidden in a garage for almost half a century, shipped from northern to southern California, parked inside a body shop. I fly down from Utah, book a motel in the neighborhood, pick at random a direction to go jogging, the garage door happens to be open when I happen to glance left, and see the car that had inspired me decades ago.  Was it coincidence? One chance in a gazillion? Were the gods of dreams and custom cars toying with me? Was it a message sent to encourage me, or was it to tell me that this was as close to my dream car as I will ever get? I suppose I will never know until all mysteries are unraveled after the resurrection.

Until then I will join with the English poet Robert Browning. I can see him now customizing his carriage to go pick up his fiancé, and a fine poet in her own right Elizabeth Barrett. Robert sees that his custom work on the carriage is imperfect. He hopes she won’t notice. He sighs and utters to himself his immortal lines, “Ah but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for.”

Indeed Robert, indeed.

Back home I went to the storage/hiding place where I keep my improbable dream. I stroked its fender gently, looked with the eye of imagination at the singular sports car still hoping to stretch its wings and fly. I’m anticipating some day the vision inside my bulky 1939 Mercury will rise with all my youthful mistakes forgiven and corrected, and shine forth as the sports car of my dreams. In the meantime, I sing softly,

“And the world will be better for this,
that one man scorned and covered with scars,
still strove with his last ounce of courage,
to build the impossible car.”

Everybody I know is busy, including me.  Where are those golden years I was planning on of sitting on the back porch picking my guitar? So I will send just one little part of the book at a time. You can give it a quick read and tell me what you think if you would like.

I’ve slimmed that process down to two questions, and four strokes on the key board (six if you count “Reply” and “Send.”)

The questions are these:“A” How much did you enjoy this?

“B” How much do you think a person who doesn’t know Duane Hiatt would enjoy this?

The rating is:1. Glanced at it, printed it out and lined the bottom of the bird cage with it.

2. Sped-read it and filed it with my tax return receipts

3. Thought it was about as interesting as a well written obituary

4. Could have put it down, but didn’t want to

5. Couldn’t put it down. Put it in a magnetic frame and stuck it onto the fridge door

So your response would perhaps be A-4, B-3, (Or maybe A-5, B-5, I’m expecting a minimum number of those.)

Also feel free to add comments if you like.

Also, also, feel free to forward this material to anyone you want to.

Every person’s life is worthy of a book. I hope you are writing yours, or saving and collecting the material to one day write it.

I am in the midst of mine.

For those of you who just tuned in, this is the next installment of my memoirs currently in production. The previous installments are available on my web pageduanehiatt.com I hope you find it interesting.

The book is titled, Live Long*,  Learn a Little, Laugh a Lot.

Basketball, girls, and cars were high priorities in my high school days. Unfortunately cars were more expensive than basketball or even girls. I had a better chance of getting a date with Miss America than of owning a red 1955 Mercedes Benz 190 SL roadster. In my mind this was the second most beautiful car ever created. In first place was a custom sports roadster showing its noble American heritage but with an exotic European and British flair.

Fortunately for me this car was parked in the driveway of our home. Unfortunately there was too much of it. It was too high, too long and too conventional. It was in fact a 1939 Mercury two door coupe. My brother Gordon bought it from our neighbor. A couple of years later he went on to newer things and sold it to me for $200.

In its native manufactured shape it was a modestly quaint old car, but living far below its potential in my mind. Mechanically it was also less than world class. Among its shortcomings was a battery that would barely hold a charge through the day and never through the night in the winter. On the other hand, the car was easy to start. In the winter I could come home, back it up into our driveway which had the tiniest bit of slope with a little dip as it met the road. Next morning hustling to get to school, I could toss my books into the car, push it down the driveway, jump in, throw it into second gear and pop the clutch just as I hit the dip. With my one chance I could usually catch a cough from one of the cylinders, nurse it into life and be off in time for school. If any of this choreography misfired I would grab my books and run for it. It was a mile uphill to the high school and I didn’t have a prayer on foot. But usually some friend or road Good Samaritan would see my predicament, pick me up and save me from the late bell.

Once I started my car in the morning the battery would turn the engine over a couple of times even during winter if I parked it in the sun. I also sometimes parked on the edge of the high school hill which gave me 150 yards of sloped road. A retarded orangutan could have started the car with that much momentum.

I have owned some Chevrolet products. They have served me well. But there is one thing in which Chevrolet couldn’t hold a candle to a Ford or Mercury in those days; the low throaty rumble produced when equipped with straight pipe Hollywood mufflers. On the Chev they would blat, but on the Ford products they had the deep throated hollow rumble of an animal breaking his chains. Even my Mercury sounded that way. But it was all sound. Those eight little pistons under the hood were not scaring anybody.

“Not enough power to pull your hat off,” as my father described Fords. I wasn’t concerned about raw power. I didn’t want to leave smoldering rubber on the road at every stop sign and traffic light like some of my friends. That was automobile abuse to me. But I did love the idea of a finely tuned engine purring under the hood waiting for the command from my right foot.

The car was bulbous and round like every car in the late thirties and forties. But inside lurked a lean, trim, muscular athlete of the road; a touch of the English Jaguar, Germany’s Mercedes, and Italy’s Maserati. But withal, it was a home grown American beauty. The old time patriotism in my soul liked that.

But, like an overweight athlete or buxom beauty queen, the car as it stood was simply too much body and not enough engine. So one day I parked the car in the back yard, took my hack saw and tin snips and started surgery. My father was amazed, amused and aghast when he got home from work. My mother wrung her hands, and wore a worried look, but was willing to go along with my dream. Later on she would even use up great numbers of needles and much of the life of her sewing machine creating red and white rolled and pleated upholstery for my vision.

In the months that followed I, in 1950’s custom car talk, “chopped, channeled, sectioned and shortened” the body. People who came to see my work considered me a strange and perhaps destructive child. If I had known it then, I might have quoted Michelangelo’s famous explanation of his work. “I took this block of stone and chiseled away everything that wasn’t Moses.”

In my mind I was chiseling away everything that wasn’t sports car. The body sat high above the fenders, as was the design of cars in those days. By cutting out six inches around the middle, I was able to set the hood and trunk down between the fenders. Having made the body so trim and sleek, the top looked sort of like the cupola on a Russian church. So I eliminated that altogether and made it a convertible. It wasn’t too convertible because it didn’t convert back to a top.

I was a jazz musician with hacksaw and tin snips. That is I was making it up as I went. When I got the top off and the body sectioned in the middle, my little car looked like a miniature stretch limo; interesting but not pretty. So behind the door I whacked out twenty-two inches vertically. Then I had to have an engineering shop shorten the drive shaft so I could get the wheels back under the body. Now the basic shape was there, but it was sitting way too high off the ground for my taste. So I “stepped the frame.” I lowered the middle part and built braces to connect it with the suspension parts over the wheels. I bought some plate steel and hammered it into shape, welded it on with a little welder I had purchased for 60 hard earned dollars.

But I wasn’t flying solely by the seat of my pants. Crowning the stacks of car magazines next to my bed was a book that had cost me a few lunch moneys. Inside was a dog eared page on which was a picture of the nearest twin to my vision I had ever seen. It was made from a 1940 Ford, but very close to my 1939 Mercury. I spent much time staring at that picture imagining what it would take to turn my car into something similar. I didn’t know then it would take more than I could imagine.

My mother seeing this potentially lethal white arc of my welder burning around my car in the backyard, said to me, “Duane do you think you should be doing that. People have to go to school to learn how to weld.”

I assured her I could weld it just fine. I had received instruction. I didn’t tell her my total education was a little pamphlet that came with my hobby welder. But with practice and by keeping it simple, I was able to weld the brackets so the frame held together.

My mother was right. There was some danger involved. I was welding too close to the car’s gas tank when my neighbor Ted Bjornson, an older and wiser gentleman came to see how I was doing. He worked in an auto body shop and was a great resource to me. He explained that even though the tank was empty, the gas had been absorbed into the metal. “An empty tank can blow higher than a full one,” he said. He told me in the shop a man was trying to solder a can that had once held gasoline. It blew both ends out of the can. He made me a believer. I removed the gas tank.

I learned many things working on my car. I learned a greater respect for people of the trades. In my mind to weld a beautiful seam, to pound out the dents in sheet metal, to engineer mechanical parts so they squeeze together in a “press fit,” these are awe-inspiring skills. Later working on our house I would gain the same reverence for people who can pour concrete flat and level, lay bricks with a ballet dancer’s grace, and throw up a wall that is square and true.

I also learned a number of lessons for life such as: big things are easier to do than small details. But it is the details that make or break the work and turn junk into art.

I love the song “The Quest,” from the musical Man of Lamancha. It’s better known as “The Impossible Dream.” Sung by the title character, an old man who takes upon his shoulders a quest to right all wrongs, lift up the downtrodden, and punish the wicked. He is considered insane by others, in the play and also in the original Spanish book Don Quixote written centuries ago, by Miguel Cervantes and, in Spain second in popularity only to the Bible.

One indication that the man is crazy is his old age. Dreams are for the young and impetuous. By that reasoning, I am certifiably loony. I had an, if not impossible, at least highly improbable dream in high school, and in a quieter form it has never left me.

The old Ford engine was too underpowered, and too high to fit under the hood, so later I replaced it with a Chevy V/8. The top didn’t fit anymore, so I cut off an old Studebaker hard top from a junk yard and stretched it to fit. I fastened it on with the locking device from an old ford convertible. Other adaptations included a hydraulic brake cylinder from a Chevy truck, tail lights from a Pontiac, steering wheel from a later ford (a mistake. I see now the original one looked better.) When I sectioned the body, the gear shift on the floor hit the dash board before it would go into second gear and reverse. I fixed this by sawing the stick off about six inches from the floor, and shifting with my foot. It was a nifty little dance, but kept my right leg busy working the brake, the accelerator, and the stub of the stick shift. I later replaced the stick with a spring loaded racing shift mechanism a friend gave me.

The whole project was going wonderfully until I hit a snag. I had to put it all back together. I discovered my destruction talent far exceeded my construction skill.

The custom car magazines kept the fire of my vision burning; especially the book with the dream car. I practically wore out that picture from staring at it. In my dreams the parts strewn around our back yard resurrected into this vision on the page. Like Ezekiel in the Bible seeing the dry bones rise up, join together and live again.

Finally I got the pieces assembled and running enough to drive about 180 miles to Vernal Utah where I had gotten a job at a service station. Along the way I was pulled over by a highway patrolman. Bless my innocent soul, I could not imagine why he stopped me. I wasn’t speeding. He opened our conversation. “What in h___ is this contraption?” Shortly into my explanation I sensed he didn’t really want to know.

Safety inspections had been invented a few years before, and my “car” was noticeably lacking a sticker, also the ability to get one. The patrolman was an understanding man who probably had a lunatic son of his own at home. When I told him how I needed the summer work for college. (Note the time passage. I had finished high school and some college and was still sawing, welding, bending, and figuring.) He told me to get out of his sight and never appear on his highway again. I kept my promise. I came home at the end of the summer at night, assuming he was off duty by then.

Life goes on at an ever quickening pace. I could still get a lick in between books, basketball, wife seeking, and other extra curricular activities of college. Later my patient wife and inquisitive toddler sons bore, even encouraged, my habit. But soon the spare moments got sucked up in the necessities of providing and presiding that come with husband and fatherhood. Also I kept squandering my car money on things like rent and food for the family.

I evaluated my shortage of time, money, and skill. I disposed of my adolescent dream and went on to mature responsibilities.

Sort of.

I put the car into a make shift garage near the house, out of sight, but not totally out of mind.

Years later I was presenting a program in Southern California. As is my daily custom I went jogging the next morning after my show. With no better option, I was running across paved parking lots and industrial building drive ways when I happened to glance to my left. An auto body shop happened to be in my line of sight. .It’s garage door happened to be open. Inside happened to be the car, THE CAR IN THE BOOK, the vision of my teenage dreams. Quick left turn, breathless dash to the car, stammered question, where? How? What?” I blurted.”

“This is a custom car from up in Pasadena,” the mechanic replied. “It was built from a Ford convertible back in the ‘40’s. Some guy had it stored for about half a century. He died. His estate was sold, and the new owner wants us to fix it up. You like it?”

I tried to explain. No way. I pictured myself behind the wheel. I came within an eyelash of breaking into a full throated rendition of Don Qixote, the man of La Mancha singing, “To dream the impossible dream, to love pure and chaste from afar…”

I thought better of it and ran off again at a revived pace humming, “This is my quest, to follow that star no matter how hopeless, no matter how far…”

What are the odds? The model of my dreams, the only one in the universe, hidden in a garage for almost half a century, shipped from northern to southern California, parked inside a body shop. I fly down from Utah, book a motel in the neighborhood, pick at random a direction to go jogging, the garage door happens to be open when I happen to glance left, and see the car that had inspired me decades ago.  Was it coincidence? One chance in a gazillion? Were the gods of dreams and custom cars toying with me? Was it a message sent to encourage me, or was it to tell me that this was as close to my dream car as I will ever get? I suppose I will never know until all mysteries are unraveled after the resurrection.

Until then I will join with the English poet Robert Browning. I can see him now customizing his carriage to go pick up his fiancé, and a fine poet in her own right Elizabeth Barrett. Robert sees that his custom work on the carriage is imperfect. He hopes she won’t notice. He sighs and utters to himself his immortal lines, “Ah but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for.”

Indeed Robert, indeed.

Back home I went to the storage/hiding place where I keep my improbable dream. I stroked its fender gently, looked with the eye of imagination at the singular sports car still hoping to stretch its wings and fly. I’m anticipating some day the vision inside my bulky 1939 Mercury will rise with all my youthful mistakes forgiven and corrected, and shine forth as the sports car of my dreams. In the meantime, I sing softly,

“And the world will be better for this,
that one man scorned and covered with scars,
still strove with his last ounce of courage,
to build the impossible car.”

Everybody I know is busy, including me.  Where are those golden years I was planning on of sitting on the back porch picking my guitar? So I will send just one little part of the book at a time. You can give it a quick read and tell me what you think if you would like.

I’ve slimmed that process down to two questions, and four strokes on the key board (six if you count “Reply” and “Send.”)

The questions are these:“A” How much did you enjoy this?

“B” How much do you think a person who doesn’t know Duane Hiatt would enjoy this?

The rating is:1. Glanced at it, printed it out and lined the bottom of the bird cage with it.

2. Sped-read it and filed it with my tax return receipts

3. Thought it was about as interesting as a well written obituary

4. Could have put it down, but didn’t want to

5. Couldn’t put it down. Put it in a magnetic frame and stuck it onto the fridge door

So your response would perhaps be A-4, B-3, (Or maybe A-5, B-5, I’m expecting a minimum number of those.)

Also feel free to add comments if you like.

Also, also, feel free to forward this material to anyone you want to.

Comments are closed.