Alright;  I get it;  I am behind in destroying my blogs, so sweet publisher’s  you move more quickly on the book;  And I will erase my life faster, but for now;  I am just getting by, and I am looking at getting back out to the coast.  To whomever got on the plane from NYC, to Cincinnati, then on out to San Francisco;  He did not mean to, but he probably gave all of you the respiratory infection from hell  I am going to talk about it, because;  When one is ill;  You want to tell everyone;  “My throat hurts;  I get short of breath just walking doing minor chores, and all I want to do is to sleep, wake up, and find that I am imagining that I could have pneumonia!  I want to whine about having to take a shower to look humanoid again; whimper that I have to take care of myself, because my husband is out of town, and basically just sound irritated.  I do not like to be ill, and my husband got nailed with it first, probably made everyone on his flight sick with  the poorly circulated air, and I think that he should have a public flogging for leaving me in this condition.

I am a secret train traveler though, and all too soon will be headed back across the Rockies, away from the East coast and headed toward the Golden West.  Surprise!  San Francisco is not golden this time of year.  California goes in to a state of, “June Gloom,” so who wants to be there except in July and August when the rest of the countries citizens have clothes on washed with the sweat of the day before;  San Francisco thinks that it is fall.  The fog comes in, and it sort of eats up our hill last, but it cools the burning soul; And then I want to be there.

The Zephyr from Chicago is pretty easy, though I am begging Mr. Warren Buffet to fix up the tracks across the country which he kindly loans to Amtrak, so Here I go again;  “Mr Warren Buffet,”  I appreciate that you have good intentions with your wealth, but if you really own those Union Pacific tracks as I have been told;  Please sir;  My arthritis is murder as we cross those praries and desert country being thrown around like tuna fish in a water based can of tuna.  The track needs fixing; the workers need work; and;  Kind sir;  I beg you to see that we actually feel like we are on the streamlined and silver Zephyr heading West.  I just think you need to talk to a reasonable woman about this train thing.  I love trains;  Oh;  I love trains, so can’t we just get people from coast to coast with repaired rail lines.  Honestly;  We don’t even mind paying a little extra for our food;  And do not get me started on those teflon toilets again.  Only a man would have dreamt up something that non-user friendly and disgusting.

While I have been sick, I have been looking at catalogues;  and Ladies;  Here is some great news, and I am going to have to get one for my next train trip.  You can get a device that allows you to stand, “Cofortably,” so you do not have to sit on a dirty toilet seat and to void standing up;  “Comfortable,” and it appears that one size fits all;  then you discretely fold it back up and put it back in your great big granny bag after a good rinsing; and you have an empty bladder, and if you are hit by a deer while crossing the railroad track;  Then your relatives are going to discern that you were in to something really creepy.  “Yes,”  These are the kinds of things one thinks of when they cannot get over a sore throat,  and they can’t decide whether they want to stay East and to be a Granny, or go to San Francisco where one can wile their aging hours away worried about the landfill and realizing that such landfills should never be in a world where everything is recyclable, especially when you can put it out of your mind that poor Asian and third world children are apt to be pulling all of this recyclable computer wear apart with their bare hands being exposed to every carcinogen known to mankind.  We hate to face truth;  Now don’t we.

I forgot that I was supposed to be entertaining you with my illness and the mortifying fact that I have not yet sought midical help.  Strangely those antibiotics usually work like magic on me, but I haven’t got up the courage to call my favorite Dr. out on the coast.  Dr.  John Pierce takes care of us, and he takes care of poor people too;  so I think you should all stop right where you are at and give him a hand.  I am hearing too many physicians saying they wish they had of chosen another path;  What do you want to do;  I ask you, if you made it through medical school.  I tell you what;  I think you disgruntled physicians should be hand writing a bunch of letters to Mr. Warren Buffet, saying you would work for healthcare benefits and for a livable salary; and get those rail lines fixed up again.  Now,  I may be a lone wolf in calling for such action;  But if I am nothing;  I am full of ideas. 

I, the Pinkhoneysuckle Blogger, shall now erase another chapter in my book;  I tell  you; It is coming;  Ya’ll;  It is coming!!  We shall talk more about all of this on another evening.  It is time to be a good Xangan and see the sites.

Blessings, “Pinkhoneysuckle”

Hello Everyone,
I like many of you have to look at this day, see the new fathers;  My sons, My husbands, and all who are blessed with such gifts.  I also look back;  For between me and The Sacred Veil;  I cannot see my dad again until I finish this journey on whatever parallel universe we are on.  I can tell you that hi s heaven was probably a glass of ice cold spring water when he was filthy and damp from plowing, still had ten acres to go, but would only stop to sip from the dipper.  A water dipper was just there, and every home had one, because you needed them in the field, and I can remember the bucket of water being offered, and I would drink dipper after dipper until my  stomach was so filled that I was not certain that it would hold one other drop, but I did not want to let it go.

From the dipper shared communally, I have never had better tasting water.  Was it thirst;  or was it that it was shared from a single vessel when everyone would  stop to lean on a hoe or to pull up a cotton sack depending on whatever was the season.  I like to think that something happened to that water, a transendental act which nourished our spirits, blinded us from discomforts and helped us get through until the end of the day, and it was God;  The God of rain on crops too dry;  The rain on broken hearts remembering their loved ones, just washing away the tears, and the God who came when adults were so caught up in the misery of their own lives that they could not turn and see the children’s faces looking at them, not in shame, but with gladness, for they were the ones who saw to it that the bucket got passed around and thirst was quenched.

Maybe I will look in a catalogue of forgotten things;  Like Vermont Country store and see if dippers are still for sell, for I want to taste it, The springwater of my father’s field, and this time;  I want him to look at me and to see not what he was unable to give us but what he gave;  That voice which says;  All is well, for you have fresh water, clothes on your back, and I will see that you eat at school somehow.  I want that communion instead of the one of guilt which flows with the tainted well water that sits, that does not wash over the thousand stones to keep it pure.  I do not want my father to feel like a failure this time around.
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He and mother have decided to check on us disguised as a family of hawks now, and they come when they see need;  They go in circles, and the wind whips out the message;  “I am still here;  We are still here.”  They gives us signs swirling in circles, diving where hawks usually do not go, and sometimes they just stand there, and if you do not move; Then they will not move.  As of late;  One has had less than perfect wings ungroomed a little, and I want to reach out the window and call it to fix it, so that no one will know they are not pefect wings.  If they come again this week;  Then I will lay out bread to see if it is taken.  We do such things to communicate, and they have a message;  The wing is the clue; and they are circling together.

But Dad;  It is another Father’s Day, and you are still missed.  I would gladly go and tote  the bucket of ice and water and pass the dipper.  Worry not;  We have not forgetten the things you taught us,  and we know that water was transformed into something that would abide within us through our days here.  It seems long and lonely to have to wait to tell you that you were not a failure, that we did not know all that we were missing, and the smallest things others took for granted;  We found them to be majestical.

So fly on;  Our beautiful Hawks;  We know who you are, and as evening comes on;  the clouds are opening to show a blue sky that was hidden for a couple of days.  Tomorrow my throat will not hurt, and the fever will pass;  The ice in the old tin bucket will do its magic, and my day will be filled again.  You who did well, as did our Father;  It is the mercy of this, your day, the Father’s Day and we are counting on Father, God, to watch over you now.

Last night I wrote the names of 15 countries which had contacted my blog in one way or the other over a one weeks period;  And I will try hard to remember most of you: Pakistan, India, The Republic Of Korea, Russia, Brazil, Latvia,
Taiwan, Germany, Spain, Italy, Ireland, The United Kingdom, Canada, Ontario; Sweden, Peru, and So many states of The United States.  For those whom I have left out; I humbly beg your pardon, because I feel as if there is a gathering of nations from Japan and on to China.  It is somewhat my personal small olympics where with; Thanksgiving I meet the people of the world, and I talk about myself, an aging collegiate educated nurse, a wife, mother, and newly assigned from my heart, A writer who has been hiding in the closet of writers for many years.  Much of which I am writing now is in a holding pattern as we await, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” to be printed;  And have I ever been angry with that today.

One can tell when someone else has read enough of what you have written to make such things as, “Press Releases,” and to know you at all;; They should read what you have; either interview you on a personal basis which is easily done per phone, and were I computer skilled enough; Skype would be just great.  But the press release as presented sounded as if someone had glanced over a few words, put them together in a porage of fill in the blanks and had come up with a person that I hardly even know;  Needless to say;  It got sent back, and for the unhappy campers it will allow escaped into the mega new world of mass marketing writing;  I’m hoping that it causes someone to realize;  Assembly line books are way more than a car that you are going to drive off the lot with, Drive until the wheels fall off, and feel great about when you have to stuff your writing in the closet, because not one knew how to write a decent press release.

I get on a tirade, and then;  The monster comes out, the one usually hidden from the world;  Then you pick up a newspaper, and there I am;  “I Will be Fire Breathing, Stiffling the Urge To Curse LIke A Sailor, and the heat from my body will be so protected with scales that I am able to make it off Dragon Mountain, leaving scales in my path, and and roaring like the lioness who lost her lover to another member of the Pride.  Between the hear, the fire, and the flicking of the whip like tale that has immerged;  You will stay way out of the way, and little creatures of the forest and fish from all streams become my prey until I am filled like the water vessel men seek to fill before I come and crush your village;  If I start feeling guilty at all;  Then I stop and scarf down throrns and briars to show that nothing is spared my dragon days, and You;  Ha!  You thought that dragons and beasts were not real.  You have not met an irrate middle aged woman before have you.

We clothe ourselves in polyester made in special factories to cover scales, and some days we come out as sweet as lambs, and the sweet breath and face we carry are stolen from the nearby Eucalyptus tress and the one bee hive which the bear left, because we told him to.  Your right;  Bears do not cross us either.  We paint our faces, and we color our hair;  Some wear shoes that are the stilts of a Circus where all walking performers wound up in wheel chairs which read;  “I warned you about those spike heals;” But no one listened.  It is a fire breathing day when you know that not only have they not listened;  They have not heard.

I breath fire as I yell;  “Did I not tell you this book is not about me;”  “It is about them, and then I wave some knarly looking appendage,” and I ask;;  Did you look up there?  Did you look down there?  That is them;  Those people I wanted to talk about, and they are important;  very important!”  I dive and twirl and I look at the throngs gathered to see me in Dragon mode, and pretty soon;  I steal it;  The cloud which has my dressing parlor, and I cloth myself in gown and cloak and decide;  I am too tired to be a dragon more this day;  So I shall hide again;  And the fire melts away the water vapor; and there I stand in some old frock pretending that I had never seen a dragon at all;  “Me, You ask;  How dreadful; Surely not me.”  Meanwhile I load up of fireballs for the very next dragon breathing day. 

Last night I wrote the names of 15 countries which had contacted my blog in one way or the other over a one weeks period;  And I will try hard to remember most of you: Pakistan, India, The Republic Of Korea, Russia, Brazil, Latvia,
Taiwan, Germany, Spain, Italy, Ireland, The United Kingdom, Canada, Ontario; Sweden, Peru, and So many states of The United States.  For those whom I have left out; I humbly beg your pardon, because I feel as if there is a gathering of nations from Japan and on to China.  It is somewhat my personal small olympics where with; Thanksgiving I meet the people of the world, and I talk about myself, an aging collegiate educated nurse, a wife, mother, and newly assigned from my heart, A writer who has been hiding in the closet of writers for many years.  Much of which I am writing now is in a holding pattern as we await, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” to be printed;  And have I ever been angry with that today.

One can tell when someone else has read enough of what you have written to make such things as, “Press Releases,” and to know you at all;; They should read what you have; either interview you on a personal basis which is easily done per phone, and were I computer skilled enough; Skype would be just great.  But the press release as presented sounded as if someone had glanced over a few words, put them together in a porage of fill in the blanks and had come up with a person that I hardly even know;  Needless to say;  It got sent back, and for the unhappy campers it will allow escaped into the mega new world of mass marketing writing;  I’m hoping that it causes someone to realize;  Assembly line books are way more than a car that you are going to drive off the lot with, Drive until the wheels fall off, and feel great about when you have to stuff your writing in the closet, because not one knew how to write a decent press release.

I get on a tirade, and then;  The monster comes out, the one usually hidden from the world;  Then you pick up a newspaper, and there I am;  “I Will be Fire Breathing, Stiffling the Urge To Curse LIke A Sailor, and the heat from my body will be so protected with scales that I am able to make it off Dragon Mountain, leaving scales in my path, and and roaring like the lioness who lost her lover to another member of the Pride.  Between the hear, the fire, and the flicking of the whip like tale that has immerged;  You will stay way out of the way, and little creatures of the forest and fish from all streams become my prey until I am filled like the water vessel men seek to fill before I come and crush your village;  If I start feeling guilty at all;  Then I stop and scarf down throrns and briars to show that nothing is spared my dragon days, and You;  Ha!  You thought that dragons and beasts were not real.  You have not met an irrate middle aged woman before have you.

We clothe ourselves in polyester made in special factories to cover scales, and some days we come out as sweet as lambs, and the sweet breath and face we carry are stolen from the nearby Eucalyptus tress and the one bee hive which the bear left, because we told him to.  Your right;  Bears do not cross us either.  We paint our faces, and we color our hair;  Some wear shoes that are the stilts of a Circus where all walking performers wound up in wheel chairs which read;  “I warned you about those spike heals;” But no one listened.  It is a fire breathing day when you know that not only have they not listened;  They have not heard.

I breath fire as I yell;  “Did I not tell you this book is not about me;”  “It is about them, and then I wave some knarly looking appendage,” and I ask;;  Did you look up there?  Did you look down there?  That is them;  Those people I wanted to talk about, and they are important;  very important!”  I dive and twirl and I look at the throngs gathered to see me in Dragon mode, and pretty soon;  I steal it;  The cloud which has my dressing parlor, and I cloth myself in gown and cloak and decide;  I am too tired to be a dragon more this day;  So I shall hide again;  And the fire melts away the water vapor; and there I stand in some old frock pretending that I had never seen a dragon at all;  “Me, You ask;  How dreadful; Surely not me.”  Meanwhile I load up of fireballs for the very next dragon breathing day. 

I have only managed to erase two weblogs today down to sample size in lieu of the book being published down in South Carolina.  Get this;  You watch yourself as the stories fade away, and one knows there is a security lock on everything called, The United States Government, and they have copies of what will be my book, and the publisher is making some kind of drafts which I must approve while I go through and take away everything which I could share with you.  Maybe I did not believe that I could write a book, and maybe I am afraid of the criticism from the world outside, even though no one is in charge of truth except me and the angels that sat on my finger tips as I typed a major portion of my life time, and I watched it grow into a living, breathing thing; and that thing sounded a lot like me!

I would not mess with this thing too much were I you, because she is pretty strong headed, for she has had to be as a middle child, a middle of the road in so far as most things go;  But middles are places you can get stuck in, so I was stuck in my story, and it is proving very hard to make the muddy ruts as I erase what seemed to have order and promise, and now;  All of that is out of my hands.  Yall come over here and meet this fool who will write her heart out and erase it.  She luckily is not a bug, or she would have stepped on herself long ago and cracked like an old roach after the bomb had killed off all of human kind.

I know that I should be erasing faster, for there are people that actually were trying to follow some of the story.  I had other places to take them too, for we didn’t get down to, “The Assembly of God Church,”  No, we just got halfway somewhere.  I warned you that if you walked too far that pole cat was going to have you clothes smelling from here to Sunday, but do you listen to me?  Heck no;  You just keep walking in my story.  I called you out to shout some;  “Oh Glory;  I”ll Fly Away With Me;”  But you got hooked on this, “Middle Of The Roader,” and somebody got the nerve to ask you why you got stuck with me.

If you tell them our secret;  I will not trust you any more. “Yep;”  We just escaped the looney bin; and we are out here pretending to be ordinary.  There is not an ordinary thing about any woman who is going to think up a tale like I just told you and then go back and erase it.  NO!!! You best be getting yourself off the “Middle of The Road,” or before you know it;  You are not going to know how I got you this far anyway.  “I wonder about you girl;  Looked at myself this morning and said those words;  I wonder about you??”

I am surprised as heck as you are going to be that the mirror has not answered back.  I think it knows that I am having a rough way to go erasing, “Pinkhoneysuckle.”  He you people in Charleston;  Are you taking care of my baby, feeding it on time; calling around the magazine and newspapers and telling them that you finally landed one with just the right fly on your road;   I gave you a little grief, but then you lured me in, looked at me and said to my face;  “Well, I’ll be damned Zach;  You got yourself a “Middle of The Roader,” and I’d say that’s a first for you, and they live so damned long, so I guess we better get busy before she starts hissing like a snake, because we snagged her book.  You go boy;  What a catch!

Madness under a Pinkhoneysuckle Vine.
Barbara Everett Heintz

Hello my friends on this Sunday and start of the new week.  Without my book to work on, I am just taking in some of the world, and today I was marveling at all that was beautiful in the Ohio Valley even after the heat wave.  We used to walk in the shade and the showdows of summer evenings during all of our youth, and it was such a joy.  I was raising children then and did not see a lot of things, like how the shawdows play with the flowers at the end of the day and cast shawdows upon the grass, and as we came home these years later;  I just wanted to get out of the car and to be part of it. 

During late summer; Flowers seem to loose their splendid colors, but right now there are purples, blues, and whites and still some lilacs.  I must have been breathing down his neck when Walt Whitman wrote; “When Lilacs Last In The Door Yard Bloomed;” and I believe that sometimes when know where our breath was falling in now what seems like impossible years ago.  Late evening, and a new generation of children have gone in, and soon it will be time to leave all of this for the stucco and cement of San Francisco, a world deprived of green until one gets out into the parks where there is life again, but no homes to walk off the grass to go in for supper then to run back out and catch each other playing tag just once more. 

I must write about the green world while I can, for the golden of California, loved by natives is not my color;  However, that mountains appear purple in the west and from afar, and that Mendocino and Fort Bragg appers to be jewel boxes when the fog is not in;  I find redemtiion of a kind there for lacking the texture of our Back East.  It is this way;  When you get to be older;  You think that you belong somewhere, but when you travel back and forth; The sense of belonging seems somehow disturbed.  It has been that way for us for several years since we cast our lines on two shores going back and forth..

I think that I am more a part of one than the other, because I love the Atlantic coasts and even arriving in The Great Plains.  I like the homes which smell like Sunday dinner picked from the gardens and fried in the bacon fat of long ago, and I love the kids catching the fireflys while they can, winter and snow fully forgotten, young lovers at a lamp post just sweetly until they  go their different paths towards home leaving the copulation to the two village pups that are too young to be reproducing..  “You stupid dogs;  Do you realize how ridiculous you look.  Can’t you see that we humans are just taking in shawdows that play, and you are acting; Well, like dogs!”

I shall sleep this night and be pleased that I can enjoy  summer East of the Rockies a while longer, and there is something else special about this day that is so deeply ingrained that I can not find a word for it.  I think that it is the uncontrollable need to stop time when it has perfect moments, or that I just did not say;  “Stop this car, and let me out;  The transporter is waiting to take me back on the summer streets with the children I called my babies once.”  Next time I will be wise and follow the day as if we were a star.  Barbara Everett Heintz, Pinkhoneysuckle Blogger – Mid-June

IT HAS COME THE HORRIBLE DAYS TO TAKE OUT ABOUT SEVENTY FIVE PERCENT OF MY BLOG, THE TIME WHEN I HAVE SENT THINGS OFF TO THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, TO THE PUBLISHER, AND TO CYBERSPACE.  I HAVE ENTRUSTED TWO YEARS OF WORK TO LITTLE THINGS WHICH YOU CAN PLUG IN TO THE SIDE OF YOUR COMPUTER, AND; YOU]RE STORY IS SAFE!!!  You will be seeing it again sometime in late summer or early autuman, and it is going to have a beautiful cover.  You told your readers that this day was coming, for a book cannot remain a book when it is a blog or just on a word program;  Not unless you get lucky enough to become someone people order from Kindle;  And Amazon becomes your best friends by the way.

Right now it is my publishers, and I will not reveal them to anyone except individuals which I trust with all that is in me, for I know them only by the phone and e-mail, and the best recommendation a mother could have;  Beloved sons watching over me.  I am afraid as I go through and kick out my work;  Just leave a little here and there for you to read, and news is going to be going out to the four winds;  “Barbara Everett Heintz,”  finally published some of that stuff she has been keeping in boxes and worse, some that touches on other’s lives, for they cannot be as happy as me to reveal who I am, what I have gone about doing all of these years, and I even did research to get this book correct in some areas.

It is fiction with some fact, or is it the other way around.  How could I have been groomed to speak the King’s English of novels, this Pisgah,, Alabama and Sand Mountain girl; This Tennessee valley girl who became a woman at the food of the Appalachian chain which goes all of the way to main.  Surely I cannot know about such words and history;  So how are you to separate fact from fiction.

It is going to disappear fast now though, because I want this book to belong to the world, for I have some folks to talk about, An Appalachian tragedy that you need to digest and to find some investment in, because we came to allmost all of your cities.  I have had people ask me;  “Why don’t you talk funny?”  And sometimes, being reserved in character;  I chew on this one, and I think, but I do not respond;  “Why don’t you look funny,” and if you mean;  “Why do you not have a Southern accent unless I put one on?”  I would have to answer that Southern is a dialect;  Just like to be from New England, or the far North and upper Western states, and I do not remember much about speaking with the Southern purposefulness that makes words a little longer, and one syllables turn in to two, but I can try to fake it and to sound ridiculous, because it is not natural to me anymore.

Maybe I should just tell folks that I watch Saturday Morning Cartoons and let them wonder what that has to do with a stick of wood.  By the way, for those of you who got into any of my book;  I fear that it is true, that I speak with about the truth that I write, and if you desire pretention;  Sorry; but,  Let me say this Southern, “This dog ain’t gonna’ hunt for a explanation to that question.  If you want to keep up with the progress of my book’s publication;  I will give you the time you deserve. but that woman in the book;  Well, she is pretty much me:  She knows a lot of big words, loves word play, and I am a medical person, so I get to lay something on you medical now and then to add to the variety.

I am sorry to disappoint anyone that I am not your;  “AW SHUCKS HONEY;” you have been looking for.  However;  Perhaps I am the, Halleujah!! of “The Hallelujah Chorus,” because I do get excited about things,  and I am a little compulsive, a little depressed now and again; And I take on a new project if I really get interested about like a junkie after cocaine.  I just love learning things, and if that is putting on aires;  Then I am a pompous heathen,” so that is enough about me.

Yes, Daily, until almost all chapters are but a few sentences;  The book is getting taken from the blog;  But look what you get instead;  “Me,” and I am rarely without words.  I know your very first question; “How do I write a novel and get it published?”  I would start with this statement, that if you are willing to work day and night for almost two years for the possiblility of being fully rejected;  Then you are a candidate to write a novel.  If you have planned to do this all of your life;  You better get on it, because no one guaranteed you tomorrow much less two more years.  You will have writer’s block at times, and I would sometimes just sit with my laptop saying ABCs, and if nothing came;  Then I would read other’s blogs, and after a week or two of this;  I might take a trip, or I might decide that I was on the finish line heading home if I would just wake up;  But the number one thing you probably need is to be able to write a decent short story, and if you can do that;  then start thinking big and bigger, and write what you know about.

Now that you have listened to that tirade.  I want to thank you for engaging in presumming that I know what I am talking about.  Thank you for visiting, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” and I just know that you are already looking for that perfect Holiday present, the one that keeps on giving and that will make you look like the smartest person as you bring in a copy to display along with a Mennorah, The Holy Family, The Hand Of Help, and your homemade and jarred and stored chocolate chip, peanut brittle, fluffy stuff, and nuts brownines.  Get this list made right now.

Wishing you all love and kindness, and keep checking in on me; for I am going to be thinking of each of you.  If I get a good review;  I promise that I will go to the Castro District of San Francisco and find myself a Victorian Costume complete with leatherette sleeves to enhance my looks as a new writer drawing attention to herself.  You would not want to see this body in a bathing suit.  Blessings my friends,  Pinkhoneysuckle Weblogger

If you have ever loved anyone; And you have lost them just as we all must;  Then you may be closer to them than you think.  The red tailed hawk which swirled from my father’s grave before they covered his coffin with the soil to which all souls must return keeps visiting.  When I was gathering my, “Pinkhoneysuckle,”

, He will have weights upon his shoulders, because Dad needed those shoes for his journey, and all will circle and circle  awaiting the outcome of a daughter’s work.
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All is ancient, before it seems new in our line of vision, so do not question what is going on here;  Just know that the hawks are winnning me over to believe that things go on for which there are no words.  Blessings, “Pinkhoneysuckle blogger, Barb HZ

My Gracious Friends,

As the weeks progress;  I hope to be able to continue to update you on the progress of my weblog;  Beginning with the past nine days during which I have had the pleasure of the following nations come to visit my site:  Again let me express with the deepest gratitude that these nations, beginning with the good people of The United States have checked out, “The Pinkhoneysuckle,” weblog.   Most humbly, to residents of The United States, for everyone of you who say fit to support this book project with your friendship and inquiries through, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” 
.  I appreciate that Mrs. Obama felt there was purpose in this work; but from the pages of what will be my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle;”  Among the most challenging, and a great place to have begun instead of a plate chart would be going back to parts of this country where the skills of self preservation have been lost over the past sixty years,  and to help people relearn the skills of the World War II and previous families who knew how to live off of the land.  I am so sorry for her that she does not understand, undoubtedly, that this is a new tool, the portion plate to be used to beat up the obese child, to trend back to starvation of teeenagers, and just one more place for the elderly to feel that they are not beautiful enough to be on anything other than the cover of AARP”

I thank you all again for coming to my blog site, and I am aware that I am not necessarily a role model for disease prevention through diet control, but I am here for those who want to respond back.  Pinkhoneysuckle’s unsolicited thoughts…

Blogs will not be numbered from this point on, because; My friends;  My sponsors; People from across this great land, some countries which I am owing comment thanks too right now;  Get ready!!!  After 18 months; My book,