Pretend you are here…
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
Pretend you are here…
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
Sunday, November 11, I visited Travis Christian for the second time. He’s a prisoner in Folsom State Prison, Sacramento. Prisoner I.D. BB8099.
As I drove to Folsom on backroads, the air was thick with smoke from the Camp fire 80 miles north. I noted extended areas of dry grass and dry trees along the way. Prison property, up to the visitors’ entrance, offered more dry grass and dry trees.
The Visitor’s Center, unlike my first visit, was empty. One mom, with her teenage son and young daughter, stood at the registration desk — the only other visitors in the room. I purchased tokens for photographs, registered, and boarded the shuttle bus with the family. The mom said to her daughter, “Let’s fix your hair so you look nice for Daddy.”
Once I arrived in the visiting room, I was told to go to Table Four. Two couples spoke quietly at nearby tables. A woman, sitting in a different area, talked to a man through a house phone. He stood behind glass. Travis would tell me, “He’s in the hole.” Solitary confinement.
Travis didn’t appear for about twenty minutes. “I was outside. I came in and took a shower. My cell door was open but no one told me I had a visitor. I had to ask.”
We hugged, sat down and began chatting away. Travis’s mom flew up from Orange County last weekend to visit Travis but she wasn’t allowed to see him. “We were on lockdown. We couldn’t leave our cells. I couldn’t call my mom to tell her not to come. That’s why nobody’s here today. Many are still on lockdown.”
“What happened? Why was everyone on lockdown?”
“No one tells us anything but we hear stuff through the grapevine. One of my fellow inmates (Travis is in a block for mentally ill prisoners) was attacked by mainliners from another block. They’re assigned yard duty and we have to walk by them on our way out to the yard. Four of them stabbed the inmate from my section. They must have severed his spinal cord. He’s permanently paralyzed from the neck down.”
“Why did they attack him?”
“I don’t know. Another inmate probably ordered them to do it.”
The attackers are now in the hole. Travis told me, “Every prisoner you see in the visiting room has been in the hole. I live in the toughest security area. I try to stay out of trouble.”
We talked a little about being in the hole. “When I was there and I went to group sessions, we were locked in cages. Think of a phone booth. A cage like a phone booth for each prisoner.”
I changed the subject. “I bought tokens to have our photo taken today but we can’t do it. The guard told me the camera is broken. We’ll have to wait until next time.”
I brought five photographs of Pat (counted at the inspection area) to show to Travis. I can mail photos to him but can’t give them to him in person. Travis studied the photos. “Pat looks like a movie star in this one.”
“Pat acted in community theater as a teenager and modeled professionally for about a year. That photo is from his modeling portfolio.”
Travis held another photo of Pat taken a year before he died. He was playing his guitar. “I’m feeling a real connection with him. He reminds me of me.”
“You remind me of Pat, too, Travis. He had blue eyes likes yours, the same coloring, glasses, and loved music and guitar.”
We were quiet for a while. Suddenly, Travis said, “I’m starving.”
I’d brought a “credit card” to use for food. Travis paused in front of some vending machines and considered his options. He spotted a selection of fried chicken pieces. “That looks really good.”
Travis pushed buttons for fried chicken and a coke. He heated the chicken in a microwave and we sat back down at Table Four. “This is so good. This is really, really good. We never get fried chicken in our cells. My mouth is watering. This is so good. Thank you.”
For the next hour and a half, we talked about everything — Travis’s getting a top score on a TABE test (a diagnostic test to determine skill levels and aptitudes), his anxiety and depression as a kid, his smoking marijuana to ease his anxiety, and how he thinks marijuana got him into trouble. “I had a prescription for medical marijuana and I was doing fine. It really helped me feel less depressed. I was managing a motel and a man offered me a bag of street marijuana in exchange for a room. I took a couple puffs and then I felt terrible. I thought the man was the devil. I thought a friend of mine was the anti-Christ. He’s the person I stabbed. Later, I asked the police to check the street marijuana for chemicals but I don’t think they did. That’s how I ended up in prison — for attempted murder. I took a plea deal because I was afraid to go to court. I got 10 years.”
Travis has about six more months before he’s transferred to a less restrictive prison setting. “I hope I get sent to San Diego or Los Angeles. I’d be closer to my mom. My mom spoils me. She flies up to visit me every month and lets me call her everyday. She got me a TV and a hot plate for my cell. Most prisoners don’t have those.”
Travis walked back to a vending machine to get a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup for dessert. “This is so good. Thank you.”
I asked Travis if he’s still receiving mail from readers of my blog. “I got a letter from your friend, Joan. She was a teacher. I wrote her back.”
(As I’m writing this, I receive an email from Joan: Hi Dede. I got the sweetest letter back from Travis after I wrote to him. He told me how much your friendship and support have helped him and he can’t wait to get out and find a way to help in his community. Very positive. Thanks so much for helping him. Joan)
It was time to go. Travis and I decided to continue our visits. We hugged goodbye. As I was leaving I turned, and, like last time, Travis turned. We waved.
A well-dressed Latino man was exiting as I was. He said, “I wish I could bring my son home.” His 22-year-old son has another year-and-a-half to serve of a three-year sentence. “He hasn’t been diagnosed with a mental illness. He had ADHD as a kid. He sees a counselor, not a doctor.”
Mmm? His son’s housed in the block for mentally ill prisoners.
“I hope when your son gets out, he’ll be checked for mental health issues.”
“I’m going to try. I’m hoping he’ll come back home and live with me for a while.”
Outside, a dark sky hung low. A van with two prison employees was pulling away from our waiting area. They offered us a ride to the parking lot so we wouldn’t have to wait for the shuttle. “Too much smoke out here,” they said.
So many mixed feelings on my drive home through the haze — sorrow, anger, hope, love. Travis had said, “I love you, Dede.”
Thank you, Travis. I love you, too.
You can write to Travis at the following address:
Travis Christian BB8099
C.S.P. - SAC
P.O. Box 290066
Represa, CA 95671
See posts about my previous visit with Travis:
10/17: Going To California State Prison to Meet Travis
10/18: Talking With Travis
My child was a 30-year-old man who still called me “Mama.” Several hours before his death, he said to me, “I can do this on my own. I’m a grown man. Love you, Mom.”
How to begin this story has been a struggle. My son died at the hands of our broken criminal justice and mental health systems. These systems are made up of people who have their own self-interests and who are discriminatory, indifferent, and ignorant. The man who was in, or who still is in, law enforcement was the vessel of this imperfect world and pulled the trigger. Victims. So many victims. My son is a victim and those who knew and loved him are victims.
The grief from losing a child is a roller coaster. So many what ifs and should haves as a mother who loves her child. All I wanted for him was to be good and happy in life and he was, when not afflicted with mental illness.
Ever since my son was killed by an off-duty detention deputy in Florida, I’ve been searching for the hows and whys of his life ending so tragically. Every parent’s nightmare for a child who is afflicted with a serious brain disease came true for me — a disease my son was born with through no fault of his own.
Because of HIPAA privacy laws, I had to get Ronnie, my son, to sign a release statement so I could access his records to try to understand what was wrong when he was involuntarily committed in July 2012, in Florida. I had called the police because I had no idea where to turn to get help. I was unknowledgeable about the signs and symptoms of mental illness. My son was seeing things that were not there, believing the FBI, CIA, and Coastguard were watching him from the sky with helicopters and drones.
Now I understand it was first episode psychosis.
It’s amazing. When someone has a heart attack, is in a car accident, or breaks a leg, help is easily accessible. But when a loved one has a brain disease, there are no signs advertising schizophrenia or mental disease care centers.
I knew my son was mentally ill and had a drinking and drug problem as well. For months before he died, I made phone calls to rehabilitation facilities to try to find a place that would take a dual diagnosis individual ($30,000 month or more). We were not wealthy and money was a huge problem. I spent hours on the phone looking into intervention companies as well. My son could not understand or comprehend how sick he was. He had grandiose tendencies.
The last week of my son’s life was sheer hell. I took him to a psychiatric hospital after a fiasco in the probation office. I was attempting to get him transferred to Alabama where I live, and where we had help lined up. (He got into a fight with his brother in Nov 2015 in the front yard. Police showed up and Ron went berserk and was charged with domestic battery and resisting with violence. Can you believe it? Brothers fighting.) When I got my son to the psychiatric hospital, I was informed it was a for-profit facility and the cost would be $1500 a day. Ron refused to stay and he couldn’t be forced.
I was sitting in our truck with my son and calling the Florida Mental Health Department to make an appointment for a mental health evaluation. There was a two-month waiting list so I called a private psychiatrist and got an appointment the following week. A probation officer said, “You could take him to an emergency room.” This is one of those should haves I didn’t do. My thinking, at the time, was in an emergency room you wait and wait. It’s triage and my son was not bleeding and, in his state of mind, I suspected he wouldn’t sit and wait. And, of course, he had no insurance. My son had lost his job.
A week before he was killed, I pleaded with my son to voluntarily commit himself. He was considering it. He asked me and I told him, “Yes, Ronnie, do it.” He didn’t. Fearing my son would do something to cause harm to himself because of his irrational talk and actions three days prior to his death, out of desperation I called the police to try to get him Baker Acted, which is an involuntarily commitment in Florida. The police got to his apartment too late. My son had just left for Daytona Beach. The policeman called and informed me, if he didn’t see the need to Baker Act him, he wouldn’t do it. Judgment by police is superior to a mother’s judgment. Later, I found out the police should have informed me that I could partition a judge to have Ronnie involuntarily committed.
After he died, I listened to the 911 calls and obtained the police investigation report. It was not an easy task — a lot of hoops to jump through. The morning my son left his apartment on a rampage, police had been in contact. They stated in their report he had no warrants and he didn’t meet criteria to be involuntarily committed — a danger to self or others. They let him go. My son was belligerent with them and was looking for his Bible on the side of the road. Ronnie stated to the police it flew off his dash and out the window. It was almost time for the police shift to end. In my way of thinking, they simply didn’t want to bother with my troubled son.
An hour later, my son was shot dead by an off-duty detention deputy who had no crisis intervention training. The man who killed my son stated in the investigation tapes: “I was confused about what to do. I have never been trained with this kind of stuff, you know. He hadn’t really tried to hurt me, at that point, but I was still scared to death.” On the news, the sheriff stated that the deputy was a professional and trained, and thank God his deputies were okay. What about my son? He was killed. Apparently, his life didn’t matter.
My son’s comment to the deputy, according to the deputy, was, “I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want to kill you. Just let me go. Let me go.”
As his mother, I knew my son. He would deliberately provoke and let the imminent events unfold. He was not comprehending this detention deputy pointing a gun, swearing, and screaming commands at him. At the time, my son had no weapon and wore a pair of shorts. There were no witnesses. A law enforcement individual and a dead man. In less than two weeks, justifiable homicide was ruled by the state attorney.
In the past, I had high regard for the judicial system and law enforcement. What happened to my son and how I was regarded changed my thinking. An internal investigation is investigating oneself. The state attorney is going to side with the uniform (law enforcement). It’s a brotherhood. Solidarity has its benefits but not when a wrong has been committed.
I attempted to find an attorney. None would take a stab at a case with no witnesses and the involvement of law enforcement. The deputy was not dual-certified. He only possessed a certificate as a correction officer from the Florida Criminal Justice Standards and Training Commission. He couldn’t take law enforcement action on behalf of the county’s sheriff’s office while off duty. Also, based on his off-duty status during the incident, the sheriff’s office order of limited authority did not apply to the incident involving my son and a sergeant. Bottom line: the sheriff’s office was off the hook and not responsible for what a lone off-duty detention deputy did. Therefore, there were no deep pockets to get money for lawyers. A lawsuit brought on my behalf was not economically feasible for law firms.
I didn’t care about the money. I was after any kind of justice. My son didn’t deserve to die. There was no report in the news of a tragedy on behalf of my son. All that was reported was that a bad man, a criminal was shot. He wasn’t a victim nor his mother, his brother, extended family, and friends. My son broke the law because he was in the midst of a psychotic crisis.
What other disease is there that society will justify killing someone because of their symptoms? My son committed a crime so he was punished with death. It doesn’t matter beyond those circumstances. His being psychotic and my not being successful in getting help for him is irrelevant. The sheriff and state attorney wanted to close my son’s case quickly. After all, one of their own did the killing. No improvements can be made when there is no proof of wrongdoing.
In my small part of the country since my son’s death, there have been several more mentally ill people killed by lethal force. I’m in contact with other parents who’ve lost children the same way as I have. The places and times are different but the stories are the same, and the tormented, agonizing pain of loss is the same. I will carry the burden of losing my child, barbarically, the rest of my life. You will see me smile and laugh, but under the surface, the heartache is constant. To help heal, I’ll do all I can for the severely mentally ill and their loved ones to prevent them from enduring the life I am living.
A longer version of Margie’s story, Her Son Was Fatally Shot After She Couldn’t Get Him Help: A Preventible Tragedy Claims Another Life appeared on Pete Earley on Tuesday, November 13, 2018.
West Coast autumn…
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
My son, Terrell Anthony Scott, suffered from schizophrenia and other mental health issues. At the age of five, Terrell tried to hang himself.
Terrell was incarcerated at Northampton County Prison located in Easton, Pennsylvania from 2009 to 2014 without having a warrant against him, and no jurisdiction either.
The prison medical team ignored Terrell's mental health issues. They ignored Terrell's cries when he was being raped, beaten, bullied, and asking for medical treatment for being exposed to another prisoner's HIV infected blood. Terrell's pleas to go to trial were all ignored.
Terrell was accused of sexually assaulting three girls, punching their faces repeatedly, striking their teeth with a claw hammer (not one tooth was damaged), and a list of other horrible crimes.
Terrell tried to take his life while in Northampton County Prison. He ended up on life support for over dosing his medication with his saved saliva. It took Terrell over four weeks to save up enough saliva to kill himself.
Terrell then spent two-and-a-half years at State Correctional Institution at Retreat located in Hunlock Creek, Pennsylvania. During his incarceration at SCI, Terrell tried to take his life again. He swallowed two razor blades, then took another razor blade and cut his neck from ear to ear three times and cut both his wrists, up to his forearms, 12 times. Again, Terrell's mental health issues were ignored.
Terrell did not commit the crimes he was accused of committing. This is how I know:
A) During the time Terrell was around the said victims, two Easton children and youth caseworkers came to the house twice a week. They made no mention of any form of abuse.
B) At school, neither the girls' teachers, the school nurse, nor the guidance counselor made mention of any form of abuse.
C) Mandated workers at the summer nights program, which a pastor ran, made no mention of any form of abuse.
D) My former boss, who is a hairdresser, saw the girls. They made no mention of any kind of abuse.
Terrell endured several years being away from his family, his only support system. He was held down by other prisoners while one inmate beat Terrell's head repeatedly, and suffered permanent hearing loss and loss of eyesight. He was paraded around naked at Northampton County Prison and thrown in the hole for months because other inmates lied about him. The list goes on.
Terrell completed his incarceration on August 8, 2016. He was registered as a sex offender under Megan’s Law, and put on special probation requiring him to pay for lie detector tests on a monthly basis. All the while, his mental health issues weren’t being addressed.
On August 20, 2016, Terrell took over 60 pills to kill himself. When his body rejected all those pills, he put a garbage bag over his head, secured it around his neck with jumbo rubber bands, and suffocated to death. Terrell's little brother, Amari, found him early that morning (the worst day of my life) but it was too late.
Terrell first asked me way back on December 26, 2009, "Mommy, if anything should happen to me while I'm in prison, please clear my name.” He said this right before he got beaten up. Over the years while Terrell was incarcerated, he would ask me the same thing again and again. Terrell's last plea, in his goodbye video, was to help clear his name.
Thank you so much for your interest in helping me clear Terrell's name.
Note: Click on link: Terrell Scott’s goodbye video, made two days before he took his life, is on Youtube.
Thirty-four years ago, this young man was born into a difficult world with a slew of problems. He couldn't catch a break. His first few years he struggled with upper respiratory infections, pneumonia, infectious croup, and bronchitis. He spent a great amount of time in and out of hospitals.
By age four, he had a developmental team working with him and was diagnosed with neuro-motor disability and learning disabilities. The doctors agreed this stemmed from injuries at birth. Mitchel was lifeless when he was born and had to be resuscitated. They (the docs) believed part of his brain had been damaged, even though the spinal tap done on my newborn baby came back inconclusive.
Skipping ahead to grade school, Mitchel was in special needs classes and did best when he was with a teacher one on one. If that schedule became disrupted he couldn't function. At the same time, Mitchel's gross motor skills were taking many years to develop. When riding a bike, peddling, or doing anything that required these skills, he became distraught.
Skipping ahead to high school, Mitchel’s paranoia started. He was afraid to enter the school for fear of getting lost and not being able to find his way around. I finally decided to look into an alternative high school for my boy. This was the best decision for him. He still struggled but not nearly as much.
At age 18, Mitchell joined the United States Army and other symptoms began to show — delusions, psychosis, paranoia, anxiety. I lumped it all into the fact that he was getting ready to leave for boot camp. But that wasn't the actual case. Mitchel made it through boot camp and was sent to Kentucky where he turned up missing. AWOL.
Mitchel lived, homeless, in Washington State and Los Angeles — underneath bridges and behind dumpsters. Two years passed before I saw him, again, in person. I didn't recognize him. His hair had grown down his back, he smelled terrible, and he was wearing two different shoes that looked like he'd found them in a trash can.
Moving ahead, we received the diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia after an extensive psychological evaluation. Puzzle pieces began fitting together. Things started making sense. For me, anyway.
These past ten years have been brutal on all of us. My girls didn’t have their brother to dance with at their weddings or, now, to shoot the shit with in general.
Hospitalization is much better than jail. Mitchel has been an inpatient since 2012 with a brief discharge, last summer, for about three months. We want, more than anything, for him to get better and we know it's possible his symptoms could go away, at least for a short time. We've seen it happen before. The scary part is not knowing where or when the symptoms will return. And we know they will. Eventually.
Another year of not getting to spend a birthday with my baby boy. He's 34. He was 25 when he was admitted to Utah State Hospital. Time and schizophrenia have been cruel to Mitchel John.
Happy birthday, sweet boy. I love you forever.
Note: On November 6, Sherry and her family were able to spend time with Mitchel to celebrate his birthday — one month late.
Hope you have a good weekend everybody!
I normally don't write anything about what is really going on in our family but currently I am more aware that I need to be a better advocate for our son. The following is an excerpt from an article by Liza Long in the Huffington Post that I want to pass on:
Recovery is an unrealistic standard for any chronic illness, including mental illness. We would never apply the blanket expectation of recovery to any other chronic illness or disability. With cancer and autoimmune disorders, we use the term “remission” to describe a life-threatening systemic illness that with luck and treatment has been stopped in its tracks. With other chronic illnesses like diabetes, we talk about managing the illness. But with mental illness, we expect people to “choose” recovery, even when they are experiencing psychosis, or when their disease steals their ability to make rational choices.
Behavioral health is an important concept for everyone. We should all focus on our behavioral health: on diet, exercise, mindfulness, good sleep habits. But behavioral health is not mental illness. Mental illness is physical illness. For people with serious mental illness, behavioral health alone will not “fix” or “cure” the chronic condition, and for us to expect otherwise is unrealistic and cruel. We need to focus on effective treatments, not inaccurate judgments about what we “believe” or “feel” mental illness is. It’s a very real health challenge, with real and sometimes devastating consequences for those who live with it and their families.
Let’s keep talking about behavioral health for everyone. But let’s stop talking about recovery for serious mental illness and start celebrating people whose brain disorders cause them to live with health challenges comparable to those experienced by cancer patients. The word we need, in the face of so much loss, is hope. Mental illness is not a choice. But hope is. Even in the face of tragedy, today I choose hope.
Our son, Mika, was diagnosed with schizophrenia this summer. We knew he was ill for a few years but didn't know what it was. He decided that he couldn't live with this disease and took his life Wednesday night. Time has stopped yet the world is still turning. My heart is beating but my body feels like stone. Everything feels like a contradiction. We are well acquainted with sorrow and know that grief is just love with no place to go.
Note: Monica lives in Montana.
My son, Joe, hasn’t been doing well. He’s off his meds and is psychotic.
We've had Joe 5150d twice in the last 30 days. This last time seemed like they were trying to place him in a long-term in-patient treatment. He was in a two-week facility. Last Sunday my son called because it wasn’t going well and he was arguing with staff. He said, “They’re going to discharge me.”
Long and short of it. I was under the impression that he would be either in the hospital for 72 hours or at longer-term treatment, but yesterday evening I got a call from the police. “Your son is in the streets and needs to get home.” He was an hour's drive away. So we went to get him.
Joe was discharged because the "professionals" couldn’t figure out how to deal with him. What a system. Now he’s talking his usual nonsense, but I’m just happy I know where he is and where he’s getting his next meal. He’s home.
Please pray for us all. It's what we’re all dealing with. No real help out there.
Since bringing Joe home yesterday, after he was discharged and homeless for a week, he’s been psychotic and rambling. Today, however, he’s becoming destructive. He screamed at my husband, pushed him, and said, “I have AIDS.” He took a queue ball from the pool table and threw it at the front window. He missed but it hit and shattered my work laptop.
We called the police but my son was gone when they arrived. The officer said, “Call us when your son returns.” We called the "non-emergency" number, as we were told, when we received location information about my son. The dispatch said, “We’ll assess him and move on if he’s not a threat.” I pointed out that Joe destroyed our property and is in need of treatment. I was told, "Statuses change. If he is evaluated as non-threatening, we'll move on."
I don't know what to do at this point because, if he comes home, we can’t have him destroying things and help doesn’t arrive when we call. In addition to his schizophrenia, Joe is using other drugs. I’m frustrated and heartbroken. I can’t help my son get the help he needs. We’re being refused, essentially. Why, why, why?
My son returned home after yesterday's incident. Once again, he was confrontational so I called 911 with urgency about the situation. A cop showed up. He was aware we’d been calling previous days and basically made the assessment that there’s nothing he could do. “The destruction of your property happened yesterday. Today he’s not a threat.” He offered the option of getting a restraining order against our son so, if he violates it, he can be arrested.
What’s wrong with this picture? My son can get a criminal record but no mental health treatment. This is a vicious cycle that can be broken but only with mandatory mental health treatment. Joe’s been psychotic at the hospital and in front of the cops, but nothing can be done. They tell me.
I received a call from a detention center. My son was arrested for petty theft and released. He’s not been seen or heard from since. All I can do is pray that, somehow, he manages on the streets.
A few days ago my son called. Finally. He was at a mental health hospital. He said he was there for four days, but I know they only hold for 72 hours. No word since then. I worry all the time. In the evening, when I'm in bed, random areas of my face tingle and swell. From the stress I'm sure.
As suspected, my son was discharged from the mental health hospital. When? They won't tell us. They say, “He's not a patient here.”
Praise God. Yesterday was a low point for me with worry, guilt, and heartache. I cried, I prayed, and this morning my son called. He said he was tired and wanted to come home. He was in Yorba Linda which is about an hour’s drive for us. Don't know how he wanders the streets in the wrong direction. We picked him up, got him a burger, and brought him home. He was discharged on Monday (10/22) and said he was making his way to the coast (beach) but just got tired. "When I’m homeless, I can't sleep, I’m afraid of what someone will do.”
I asked, “How do you get by on the street?”
“I drink a lot of water, mostly, and ask for money only when I’m extremely hungry. I don't ask people for money unless I really need to. It's hard being homeless.”
I told Joe he doesn’t have to be homeless, but he feels like he has no choice because we "harass" him at home. Of course, that is the perception for him.
Another positive, while driving home, there was a call from a nearby (to our home) behavioral clinic, where Joe has an appointment tomorrow morning. He looked better than I expected, so that’s a relief. He seemed calmer, though he was still having audible hallucinations and bouts of laughter. These last few months have been the worst for him. I hope we get him the help he needs and he complies.
No real treatment. This week we located our son, brought him home and took him to an appointment at a behavioral clinic. He refused to let us go in so we were shut out. His interaction at this appointment lasted, maybe, five minutes. He came out agitated.
Joe doesn't believe he needs treatment. He paces around the house 24/7, demands money, — we don't give any — and threatens to leave and be homeless. We tell him that’s his choice. I'm exhausted.
Today, he went to an AA/NA meeting somewhere and caused a scene, then went to a local bar and caused a scene there, too. He was threatening people. Police were called but never showed. My husband received a call from someone who knows my son's situation. He went to the bar to find out what happened and returned home. My son was home, too, by then. We asked, “How was your day?” He said, “I didn't do much.”
At the moment we’re just letting him be. Interactions are at a minimum. My son’s in his state of mind and not a thing we can do.
Note: Viviana lives in California.
Aspens on a cloudy day…
Hope you have a good weekend everybody.