Short Story Publication

So excited today. Fever, one of the stories from my Opal Pratt collection, has been accepted for inclusion in the Editor's Choice edition of Belle Reve Literary Journal. The journal is dedicated to Southern writers and Southern writing. It has an online presence in addition to the periodic hard copy publications. My Opal collection certainly falls into that category. In Fever, Opal, a plain, plump middle-aged spinster living in rural Mississippi, must confront a feverish illness, an ice storm, and familiar apparitions. I'll let you know when it's published. I'm very excited for this step toward my goal for the short story collection.

Taste of DeSoto And A Little Poodle. Really?

When Mike and I had been married (the first time) only a few months, he came home one day with a small, black, curly, ball of fur -- a poodle puppy. We named him Plunk's Pepper Pot and he grew into a good companion and, fortunately, a very un-poodle poodle.

Ab0ut a year later, during the Christmas season, Mike and I left the house one evening to go to a party. Pepper decided to have his own party.

When we left, there was a two-pound box of chocolates --with lid firmly secured -- on an end table. The first thing we noticed upon returning, was the box on the floor, lid off -- candy scattered about, but mostly missing. It appeared that some of the candy papers must be missing as well. I went to the kitchen looking for Pepper and discovered that his water bowl was completely empty. Then we found Pepper. He was sitting on his butt like a little person, leaning back into a corner and being held up by the convergence of those two walls. His little belly was fully distended and he looked miserable. I don't know that we actually heard him groan, but if he'd known how, that's what he would have been doing.

The little fool had decided to have some candy and had consumed most of the box's contents, papers included. He was miserable for the night, but recovered nicely.

And that's how I felt last night after Mike and I deliciously sampled our way through the Taste of DeSoto. Over-eating is fun, but I need to stop short of imitating Pepper Pot.

Legendary Etta James Dies

The great Etta James passed away this morning just five days short of her 74th birthday. She had battled leukemia and dementia for some time.

I’m proud to be one of her biggest fans. I was privileged to see her six times in concert, and I’ve read her autobiography twice. The best concert experience I had with her was at the LA House of Blues with Niece Shannon. We stood about 10 feet in front of the great lady and could see every wink, grin and eye rolling by Miss James. She gets pretty raunchy in live performance. She can slip gracefully from suggestive jokes and motions into the silky sounds of ‘At Last’ and ‘My Funny Valentine.’

I also had the opportunity to see her at LA’s House of Blues when she was being filmed for a DVD. I looked hard at the finished product and found myself a few times in audience shots. I doubt that anyone else could spot me, but it was a thrill nonetheless.

Miss James had a turbulent life – heroin addiction, alcohol, bad men, obesity, and other health problems. Her voice got huskier and more edgy, but it only made her better. She received four Grammys and was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I’ve said it before and am doing so again: Someone needs to make a movie of her life and Jennifer Hudson should play the lead. Beyonce played Etta in the movie Cadillac Records and didn’t even come close. She just doesn’t have the attitude.

The following link leads to a CNN story that provides more biographical information.
http://www.cnn.com/2012/01/20/showbiz/etta-james-obit/index.html

Naturally, I have to post a few of her songs, but if you only have time for one, this is it, my very favorite.
Damn Your Eyes - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INrYDcQCoxs

My Funny Valentine
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bt7eqkPXO8A

You Can Leave Your Hat On (a raunchy great)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01L21HayIcU

At Last – This is a wonderful concert video of probably her most famous song. We used her original recording of this as our wedding march when Mike and I married in ’04.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADDigK8LwyE

I join the rest of the world in condolences to Miss James’ family and friends. I will miss her, too.

'The Most Dangerous Chef in America"

I was completely offended earlier this week when I heard that Paula Deen has Type 2 diabetes. Yes, I'm sorry that she has this disease, but it's sort of like when a heroin junkie od's. Didn't they see this coming?

I was even more offended when I learned that she's known about her condition for three years while she continued to push recipes dripping with butter, cream, grease and sugar. I just think that's evil. So now she's hooked up with a big drug company as a paid spokesperson -- yes, now she's telling the truth and perhaps will back away a bit from the dangerous foods she touts. One of her own sons has a cooking show titled "Not My Mama's Meals."

She might as well be hanging out at playgrounds offering free tastes of her food to get our children hooked. Oh, excuse me. They're already hooked.

Anthony Bourdain, who once called Deen "the most dangerous chef in America," also had this to say: "When your signature dish is hamburger in between a doughnut, and you've been cheerfully selling this stuff knowing all along that you've got Type 2 Diabetes ... It's in bad taste if nothing else," he said.

Read the rest here:

http://www.idontlikeyouinthatway.com/2012/01/paula-deen-has-type-2-diabetes-officially.html

Legendary Etta James Nears The End

Lengendary Etta James -- Grammy winner, blues and R&B superstar -- has been termed terminally ill in Riverside, CA. Sadly, her husband and sons have been battling over her estate for some time as can happen in families. Here is the latest in her amazing, yet tragic story. God bless her. An incredible talent is slipping away from us.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2011/12/etta-james-christmas-in-hospital-.html

God Bless Us Every One

Merry Christmas

Etta James Sinking

Beloved blues singer Etta James is on her final journey. God bless her and comfort her family. Please ease her on her journey.

http://www.latimes.com/health/healthcare/la-me-1221-etta-james-20111221,0,915087.story

A Christmas Song

A good friend shared this link with me today. It's a beautiful Christmas song that I'm sure you'll enjoy.

Mary, Did You Know?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXK50lsrdq4&feature=related

Home From California

Mike & I just returned from our annual Thanksgiving trip to California and what a great time we had. First we went north to the bay area to visit Niece Marcy, Dryden and their precious son, Alastair.

Good parenting makes itself known, and it’s obvious in Alastair. He’s loving, personable, unafraid, funny and has an impressive vocabulary for a two-year-old. He also follows the family bent for music, occasionally halting whatever he was doing, calling out “dance!” and running into the living room griming broadly at a favorite song on the radio to perform an Alastair version of dancing. And all of this in his second week of pneumonia. All of the adults agreed that if we were as sick as he was, we’d be curled in a fetal position in bed. Ahh, to have a toddler’s energy and love of life.

The photos following those are of the next stop on our trip – LA County and time with my son, Alex. We did lots of fun things, explored a new mall, saw a movie, then were joined by Cousin Bill for our Thanksgiving dinner. On Friday we went to Venice Beach which, if you’re a Californian, says it all.

For the non-Californians, the simplest way to say it is that it’s an amazing place to people-watch. The first sign that we’d arrived was a not-so-young woman in a skimpy bikini covered with many tattoos, head shaved except for a top-knot, feet clad in combat boots, riding a skateboard that was being pulled by a large dog. Yep, that’s Venice Beach.

Then there was Botox by the Beach, an Oxygen Bar (to alleviate hangover, jet lag and other maladies), and many medical marijuana shops. The outdoor advertising at the marijuana stalls touted benefits for everything from cancer, depression and menstrual cramps. Forty dollars was the general fee which earned you an “evaluation.” If it was determined that your condition qualified you for the “medical” treatment, you’d be given a voucher that you would take to their dispensary a couple of blocks away. There you could buy whatever you needed and – oh, yeah – you’d receive two, free joints. So, basically, you’re paying $20 per joint. What a hoot. And from the aroma as we walked about, a lot of people were taking their medicine.

I also had Zoltar tell my fortune and we all had a great lunch. Alex’s big ah-hah moment of the trip was that there are foods other than burgers that are delicious and worth eating.

Next trip – after tax season is over.

A Really, True Ghost Story

In honor of Halloween -- --

This is a dream that my mother had and which she repeated to me in hushed tones. It took place back when the doctor mother worked for had moved his practice into a new, medical arts high rise just across the street from the Baptist Hospital on Madison in what was then the medical center. The building had a tunnel under the street to the hospital, a coffee shop on the main floor and adjacent parking.

In her dream, mother was in her car preparing to exit the parking area onto Madison. The area was deserted. No people on the sidewalks, no cars. She pulled out onto Madison and turned west toward downtown. She soon saw another vehicle coming in her direction, headed east. Mother recognized it as belonging to a friend of hers we’ll call Bob.

She stopped her car and rolled down her window. Bob pulled alongside her and did the same.

Mother said that she was happy to see him and suggested they go inside for a cup of coffee.

He said: “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He rolled up the window and drove off, continuing in the opposite direction that mother was traveling.

The next morning, mother read his obituary in the newspaper.

We were both certain that Bob had visited her dream to say good-bye.

Life as Lucy Ricardo - The Apartment

A golden oldie re-run that always makes me laugh.

I should be embarrassed to tell this story, but apparently I have no shame and no reluctance to laugh at myself. This “Lucy” episode took place in the fall before Mike and I married in mid-December, '66 (based, of course, on winter break at MSU and the date of the Liberty Bowl). We were apartment hunting and pulled up in the parking lot of a small complex near school that had potential. We were disappointed to find that there was no resident manager, but there was clearly an empty first-floor unit. We peeked through the living room and kitchen windows. You remember the starter apartments where the front door and kitchen door were practically next to each other? That was the set-up. By chance, one of us tried the kitchen doorknob – and it was open. It's not breaking and entering if the door's unlocked, right? So, in we went. The first strike against the apartment was the incredibly small size of the kitchen. The best example is that if the oven door was open, you couldn't fully open or close the back door. That's small.
They’d already painted and cleaned up the apartment and, except for the kitchen, it looked really good. But before we left to check out the next apartment on the list, I decided to use the bathroom there. Mike determined that everything was operable, so in I went. I suppose it was because I felt a bit like a trespasser that I flipped the doorknob lock as I closed the bathroom door behind me. I also suppose that the events that followed were the price for our criminal behavior. As I started to exit the restroom moments later, I unfortunately found that the doorknob was faulty. It had no traction. Just turned aimlessly. Naturally, that somehow affected the lock and I couldn’t unlock the door. So now we’re trespassing AND I’m locked in the bathroom. I did everything I could to get the doorknob to catch, but was having no luck. Finally, I just knocked on the door as if asking permission to leave would release me from the unfriendly room. Mike followed the sound and initially thought I was playing a game with him. Nope. So he started struggling with the knob on his side of the door and giving me instructions about what to do on my side in hopes that, together, we could get something to happen. No surprise – that didn’t work either. The door opened into the bathroom so the hinges were on my side. In hopes that they might be loose, Mike told me what to do to attempt pulling that watchamacallit out of that round thingamajig. And that didn’t work either. No use to look for tools in an empty bathroom either. We obviously couldn’t break down the door. That would add vandalism to our illegal entry, and rememberthat there was no resident manager who might begrudgingly provide help. Mike recalled seeing a window in the bathroom, so he told me to have a look, see if it would open and then describe to him what I’d found. Yes, there was a window on the wall next to the bathtub. It was small. It was high. It was one horizontal, rectangular piece of glass. I stepped up on the side of the bathtub and then crossed to the small side of the tub’s rim against the wall. I had to stand on tiptoe because there wasn’t enough room for the whole foot. In that position, I could see out the window. Its lower ledge was about at my shoulder level. I yelled to Mike that it would open. He said he’d go outside to check it out and that I should stay put. I thought to myself, “isn’t that the problem?” Around the building and to the back, which was fortunately sheltered from view from the street, Mike came to my aid and somehow popped off the screen. I peered out and saw that it was farther to the ground than I would have liked. And because of the window’s size and position above the tub, there was no way that I was going to sit in the window and jump down. In case any of you have a doubt, I might point out that I was never a tomboy. Hadn’t climbed trees. Hadn’t dived headfirst from anything except a swimming pool. I got off the tub and prayerfully checked the doorknob again only to learn that it was still broken. I could hear Mike outside telling me that the window was the only way and that he’d catch me. Yes, but would my broken neck heal in time for the wedding? I t helped that I was only 20 and fairly small. It also helped that I’d had a lot of dance and stuff in high school so I was pretty limber. Back over to the tub’s small edge, I started pulling myself up to push out of the window. I used the built-in soap dish as a foothold and was grateful that I didn’t break it. First good news of the last hour or so. I got head and shoulders through the window and started scooting my body forward. Remember playing on a see-saw? There’s a balance point in the middle and, depending on the weight that’s placed on both ends, the horizontal board will tip backward or forward. There was a period of time in going out the window when I became a human see-saw. I was pretty sure that there could be no good outcome. Mike was standing there, arms outstretched, encouraging me to keep pushing forward. And so I did. I finally got enough of me out the window that he could grab my arms, then my shoulders and basically drag me through the window and to safety. He gave me a big hug, told me I was brave -- -- and then we ran like hell. We rented a different apartment.

The Plunk-Pusser Connection

Yesterday was the annual Plunk family reunion, which assures each guest of three things: an abundance of good food, music from the talented Plunk clan, and good ol’ stories. I got to hear a re-play of one of my favorites.

The Plunk presence in Tennessee began in 1824 when Jacob Plunk, his wife, seven sons and one daughter traveled from North Carolina to McNairy County, TN. Also in the pilgrimage was Jacob’s brother, John, his wife, five sons and several daughters. Those Plunk sons each had large families and . . . well, you get the picture. That's a lot of Plunks, and that’s why Mike says that all Plunks are related. They can all be traced back to Jacob or John. The reunion Saturday was just for Plunks descended from Mike’s grandfather, David Simpson Plunk, who was the grandson of Jacob’s son, David.

McNairy County is most famous, however, for producing Walking Tall, club-totin’ Sheriff Buford Pusser. The Plunks are twice related to the former sheriff through his mother, Helen Harris Pusser.

The younger Pusser was first police chief of Adamsville, McNairy County, and then elected McNairy County sheriff. The six and a half foot tall Pusser immediately declared a one-man war on the area’s organized crime that ranged from bootlegging and gambling to prostitution. He was relentless and was making a dent in the illegal activities as well as the skulls of some bad guys.

During his campaign against corruption, Pusser survived a bombing of his home and several assassination attempts including an ambush that killed his wife and shot off part of his jaw. In 1974 he died in a mysterious, one-car auto accident. His family and many others believe that his car had been tampered with.

Sheriff Pusser’s story, and fictionalized versions of it, has prompted several books, movies and a brief television series.

Buford was not the first lawman in his family. His father, Carl, had also been the Adamsville police chief.

Roll back to 1937. Newlyweds Hercial (pictured above) and Eloyce Plunk, Mike’s parents, attended a dance in McNairy County, which was Hercial’s home turf although the couple lived in Memphis. During the festivities, Hercial noticed that Carl Pusser was dancing with pretty, young Eloyce, and, in Hercial’s opinion, Carl was holding her a bit too close. Hercial was certainly not a troublemaker, but did strongly hold his opinions. Hercial marched onto the dance floor, separated Carl from Eloyce, and took a swing at Carl that landed solidly. Mike didn’t know until after his father’s death that the crooked pinky finger on his dad’s right hand had been broken on Pusser’s jaw.

The Russians Are Coming

I love being descended from immigrants. Their lives were so interesting, their struggles so poignant. It places human faces and stories on history. I’ve written before (under the label “family”) about my father’s side, the Irish immigrants. Today, I want to share about the Bulgarian/Russians.

My mother’s father, Ernest Alexander Petroff Sr., was born in Sliven, Bulgaria. His parents had both been born in Russia, and some documents indicate that Russian was the first language of the home.

My grandfather arrived in this country at age 16. Stories surrounding that immigration are sketchy. We’ll go into that at another time. What we believe is that he managed to get to England where we’re told he was swindled out of his money, luggage and possibly his ticket of passage to the U.S. On the ship docks, however, he was told that he could work his way to America on board another ship. That was only partially true. He signed on, but the ship’s officers wouldn’t let any of the young men off. They’d been shanghaied. I don’t know the details, but at some point he jumped ship and made a rather casual entry into this country.

He worked many jobs, but just five years later he had become a Baptist minister.

Flash forward to 1914. My grandfather was 27. His younger brother, Boris (pronounced Bo-REES), was 23. Boris had already served two years in the Bulgarian infantry, was married to Elenco (Americanized to Helen) and was the father of their three-year-old daughter, Seika. Traveling with them was Helen’s 14-year-old brother, George Dimitroff. Their entry into this country was much more traditional.

The little family sailed from a port city in Greece on the Carpathia, which you may recall was the only ship to respond to distress calls from the Titanic just two years prior. The young Petroffs and George traveled in third class, or steerage, accommodations that likely provided them with a small, multi-berth room. They left Greece on Oct. 5 and docked at New York on Oct. 28.

Immigration records show that Boris and Helen could read and write and listed George’s occupation as “scholar,” which we presume meant student. Boris had $50 in his pocket and a job waiting for him.

This is the piece that just fell into place today. Hubby Mike and I had wondered what kind of communication there had been between the brothers – both before and after Boris and his family arrived. Today, it became clear that my grandfather helped pave the way for Boris to come here.

After the Petroffs and George were cleared by immigration, they boarded a train and headed to Granite City, Ill. That’s where my grandfather was a minister and his wife, Lola, was heavy with their first child, my Aunt Mary, who was born just three weeks after the young Petroffs landed. Since Boris listed on immigration papers the name of the Granite City company he planned to work for, we presume that grandfather had arranged the position for his brother.

Granite City, in the St. Louis, MO metro area, was developed as the company town for the St. Louis Stamping & Ironworks Company. Boris went to work as a mill worker, and they most likely put George in school.

Although grandfather, Lola and Aunt Mary moved three years later to Galveston, TX, the younger Petroffs lived in the St. Louis area for many years. Some time during my mother’s elementary school years, she was sent to spend the summer with her Uncle Boris’ family. She was most surprised to find that only the men who went out to work every day could speak English.

Boris and Helen’s next three children were born in and around that area: Mary – 1916; Olga Virginia – 1917; and Peter – 1919. Mike thinks he might have located a daughter of Olga and a grandson of Peter. Hopefully, they will respond to Mike’s emails and we’ll learn more about our family.

We lose track of Boris’ family, but know that Olga and Seika lived for some period of time in California and their father must have joined them. Great-uncle Boris died April 18, 1971 in Riverside County, CA. Olga also died in Riverside County on March 8, 2002.

Mike is an amazing genealogy detective. We hope to find some more Petroff cousins.

(The first photo above is of my grandfather. The group photo is of Uncle Boris and his family. I’ve also given you close-ups of his family – a very good-looking group.)

Neglected Blog?

In talking to Cousin Grace last week, I became aware that regular readers, such as she, have noted with curiosity that I'm not tending this blog as I used to. And, although I have in mind a couple of good stories coming up, that's totally true. So I owe you an explanation.

When I took early retirement and we moved back to the South, this blog became my creative outlet. I had written in a wide variety of specialties for all my career -- newspaper reporting, speech writing, corporate communications -- internal & external publications, magazine articles and even a couple of freelanced handbooks. And then -- boom -- I'm a retiree. So I created the blog.

That worked for a good while, and I enjoyed the challenge of finding new material to entertain a surprisingly diverse group of regular readers. But I had to do some soul searching. Although in the past, I'd written some poetry and even had some published, I have always wanted to write fiction. That's what I'm working on now. I've been studying short story writing and was invited to join a writers' group. I have four completed stories under my belt and I'm working on my fifth. My goal is to produce a collection and seek publication. I need 10-12 good stories for that. My short stories are related in that they all take place in the same location and some characters appear in more than one story.

I'm pretty excited about my progress. Creating hopefully good fiction isn't easy, but it sure feels good. It took all this time for me to kick myself into gear to undertake this project. Procrastination is the purest form of perfectionism. As long as I wasn't writing fiction, I couldn't possibly fail, right?

So, now when you notice that I haven't posted anything new on the blog, you'll know that I'm either studying someone else's work or pushing through my own. For my part, I'll hope that you're cheering me on.

A Distant Relative of Scarlett?

Our friend and kitty groomer, Kim, was so excited the other day on the phone. She'd been to see the new Harry Potter movie the night before and told me that there was a Maine Coon in the film. Our Kitty Scarlett is a lovely Maine Coon girl, and Kim loves her dearly. I can't deny it. Scarlett is a beautiful, sweet, funny, well behaved, 14-month old kitten.

Naturally, I had to see the cat in question. The Maine Coon plays Mrs. Norris, the companion of Filch, the caretaker. I learned that three cats played the part, but the one you see most on-screen is Tommy, pictured in formal portrait. Of course, the other beauty is our Scarlett in one of her baby pictures. Although the beauty of the Maine Coons was roughed up for the part, I suspect that one reason that breed was used was its size. Males, like Tommy, can easily weigh 16-18 pounds. Scarlett weighs a ladylike 11 1/2 pounds.

The attached article tells a bit about how they worked with the cats in the film and comments on what good housepets the Maine Coon can be. We agree. And we'll keep Scarlett at home resisting the urgent pleas for her to become a star.

http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.cattearoom.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/jghjhgj.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.cattearoom.com/uncategorized/the-real-mrs-norris/&usg=__u-NJ-QdsX9UV2YUgX5mn9-cEq08=&h=440&w=297&sz=66&hl=en&start=3&zoom=1&itbs=1&tbnid=mNptBhR12P04VM:&tbnh=127&tbnw=86&prev=/search%3Fq%3Dimages%2BMrs.%2BNorris%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DX%26rlz%3D1T4HPIC_enUS311US311%26biw%3D964%26bih%3D487%26tbm%3Disch%26prmd%3Divns&ei=kzMnTupx5NXRAZ7F0MwK

Memphis Metal Museum

About a week ago when Mike and I had been downtown for breakfast with out-of-town friends, we took the opportunity to make a first-time visit to the National Ornamental Metal Museum, better known locally as simply the Metal Museum.

What a treasure tucked away on a bluff above the Mississippi River south of the downtown area. Access is a little difficult to locate, but you’ll be glad you made the effort. Per the website, “The Metal Museum is the only institution in the United States devoted exclusively to the advancement of the art and craft of fine metalwork.”

Historic buildings on the site have been refurbished for a library and exhibition hall. There’s also a working smithy on the grounds. A gazebo and attractive tenting provide a perfect setting for special events with a dramatic river view.

Our favorite part, however, was the outdoor sculpture garden. This link will take you to some good photos and descriptions. The pieces were whimsical, dramatic and intriguing. http://www.metalmuseum.org/sculpture_garden.html

The photo posted with this entry was our favorite. It’s approximately six and a half feet tall and perhaps four feet wide. It’s titled “Sarah Palin.” I try not to be political here, but I must confess that it gave me quite a chuckle. Okay, truthfully I LOL’d out loud. The gaping mouth provides access to a grill/smoker. We were told that at a recent event, the evening meal was cooked in the Sarah Palin smoker. Seems as if the pork was seasoned with tea leaves. We were also told that the fire in the cooker made her eyes glow wildly. Would have loved to have a photo of that.

Check out the Metal Museum. You’ll enjoy it – and Sarah.

God Only Knows

This was fun before, so let's try it again. Same song -- four different artists. Interesting and sometimes scary. See what you think about God Only Knows.

The Beach Boys (original from their Pet Sounds album)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC_UILNwWrc

Mandy Moore & Michael Stipe (never heard of them)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGSyPlctIxE

Dale Earnhardt Jr. (The race car driver? Oh, yes.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJ8MSVLWTdw

David Bowie (This is spooky.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2OHP7jXowY&feature=related

Elton John (Always brilliant)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRMWGDyggSQ&feature=related

Cousins

Cousin Bill from California came to see us last week, so we decided to pop into the car so Bill, Mike & I could drive to lovely East Tennessee to visit our cousin Ernie and his precious wife Joyce. It was a short visit, but we talked non-stop and pieced together some gaps in our joint knowledge of family history. Mike, our genealogist, got on the computer and turned up some new info which may lead us to yet more info. Wish our cousin Grace had been there.

Zombies in Memphis

Last night was Trolley Tour night in Memphis' South Main Art District -- always a fun event. But this time, it coincided with the annual Zombie Massacre. We just missed the parade of zombies, but caught up with them on Beale Street. And strange things began to happen

Home From California

Mike & I returned Sunday evening from our spring visit to California to see my son. We swooped through Santa Ana in about 24 hours, but we managed to see a couple of friends who weren't busy. We had great outings with Alex -- mall & movie day, LA Zoo, Long Beach harbor and lunch at Bubba Gump's and, finally, the Autry Museum of Western Heritage, which was much larger than expected, very informative and had excellent collections. It's likely a hidden jewel in LA County. Here are some views of our trip.