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patterns of ink

How fruitless to be ever thinking yet never embrace a thought... to have the power to believe and believe it's all for naught. I, too, have reckoned time and truth (content to wonder if not think) in metaphors and meaning and endless patterns of ink. Perhaps a few may find their way to the world where others live, sharing not just thoughts I've gathered but those I wish to give. Tom Kapanka

Saturday, January 27, 2007




These are my great grandparents (Wesley and Lura, who once shared a pair of heavy feather pillows).They built a new house on Forest and Riverview in Port Huron (circa 1915) where they raised my grandma (Charlotte) and her brother Bud. My grandma got married in the late 1920's, and times being what they were, moved back home with her husband to ride out the Great Depression, My mother was born in that house. Her sister and brother soon followed. With two households and three generations under one roof, My mom called her grandparents Mom and Dad (since that is what her mother called them). She called her own parents Mumma and Daddy. "Mom" Collinge died in 1949, about two years before my parents were married. My great grandfather, died about 20 years later, never having moved from his house. My grandparents remained there until my grandpa died in 1975, (Grandma had lived in her childhood home roughly 60 years.) Thirty-two years later, my grandmother is still very alert and active. We all celebrated her 95th birthday with her last July and New Years Eve with her last month. (Oh...It was about 1981 when a certain "fictitious" pillow was discarded.)

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