Writing doesn't come easy to me. Even silly stuff takes me hours of thinking and editing to make it bearable. Someone has always done it better and funnier. Although I graduated with a B.J. I knew I would never work in journalism. I was not at all curious and preferred not to seek out the truth. So I opted for the next best thing to a career in the fifties and married an investigative reporter.

For $85 a week he searched out political crime in the Illinois state capitol. For $5 more we moved to Albuquerque where he reported on murders and rapes. And then on to Houston for another $5 to write about the space program.
Two children were born and raised without access to medical insurance.

But this is about me. Once I wrote a satirical piece and showed it to him. His eyes swept over the page and he placed it down without comment. Oops we're back to him. Well, while we are here let me say he was born with a black cloud over his head that never left. I was born happy. I never noticed his black cloud even when it was raining on my parade. Fortunately he found an even happier girl and once I figured it out, I came back to St. Louis and became a Social Worker. He eventually died. Watch for future post on " The Gypsy Curse."