Family History and the Census

One of the great things I’ve been doing, particularly this week, has been working on our family history with my sisters. We discovered some anomalies in the information we have looked at.

My grandmother, Gertrude Yates, was born in 1897. Her father, Edward Yates, died in 1911. Her maternal grandfather, James Archer, died in 1912. In the 1920 Census, we discovered that Gert’s widowed grandmother, Harriet, had living with her formerly widowed daughter, Lillian, Lillian’s four children by Edward Yates, and her new husband, a gentleman named Maurice Holland. It’s this guy who caught my eye.

Now in the 1910 Census, Maurice Holland came from Texas, but in 1920 he came from Mexico, and his first name was Mauricio. This suggests but one thing: he lied in one of these Censuses, probably 1910.

Up until the last half dozen Censuses, the Census taker would record all the information, rather than having individual householders do so. Sometimes, the Census taker did it incorrectly. Listed in 1920:
Harriet Archer (head)
Maurcio Holland (son-in-law)
Lillian Holland (wife)
Gertrude Yates (daughter)
Edward Yates (son)
Earnest Yates (son)
Adina Yates (daughter)

It should have had Lillian as daughter of Harriet, and the children as grandchildren of Harriet. As is stands, it appears that Lillian was Harriet’s wife. I’m fairly sure same-sex marriage was not counted in 1920. Also Earnest should have been Ernest and Adina, Adenia.

From looking at the family Bible, it appears that my mother may have had a sibling, who died in 1929. With no date of birth given, one has to assume that the child died in infancy, maybe at birth. My mother knew nothing of this.

In the 1910 Census, my grandmother Gertrude Yates was listed as Gertrude Archie, a variation on the family surname. What was THAT all about?

Relatives I checked for the 1870 and 1880 Census had the children (Lillian and her siblings) whose births changed 10 years over the decade, as they should, but the adults, James and Harriet Archer, aging only about six years over the period.

My great-great-great-great grandmother’s name was Phylisia Wargner. Or Phyllis Waggoner. Or other variations such as Wagner. She was born on April 3, 1807 and died on July 8, 1865. She married William Edward Bell on March 2, 1832. These are the oldest ancestors I could find so far. From Census records, I can tell that Harriet was born in Virginia, and her parents were as well, but that they didn’t know where their parents were born, which suggests slave trade.

I have been watching this show called Who Do They Think They Are?, a genealogy show on NBC. They do a search for the personal histories of celebrities. So far Emmitt Smith found his slave roots; Matthew Broderick discovered ancestors who served in the Civil War at Gettysburg, dying the following year in Georgia, and as a medic in a bloody World War I battle; and co-executive producer Lisa Kudrow found the place where her grandmother died during the Holocaust, but found alive a cousin who had initially brought the news. I’m finding it interesting but irritating. There’s too much “Coming up next” before the commercials, as though it weren’t interesting enough to stick around for, and too much recapitulation after the ads, as though we all have ADHD. I’ve seen similar shows, on PBS and elsewhere, but this particular program seems to have has rekindled this search for my roots.

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ROG

The 50th Anniversary Celebration

I can only blame it on the fact that I was feeling lousy – still feeling lousy, actually – that I forgot until Friday night that Friday was ten years since my parents’ 50th anniversary. It would be their last one.

My sisters and I decided to surprise them for the event. We called their church, trying to arrange for a room. There was only one problem; someone else wanted the room for the same day. This was months before the date; couldn’t the other party change the date? This is our parents’ 50TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY! Well, no, because the other party, it turned out, was our father, wanted to have a surprise gig for our mom himself. So we decided to join forces.

I came down with my wife and my parents-in-law, who had met my parents at Carol’s and my wedding only the May before, when my father did all the decorations and floral arranging. We all wanted to help, and did somewhat, but he had a vision, and it was difficult for us mortals to fulfill it in the way he had in mind. So he did most of the church hall decoration himself, with my sister Leslie’s help since she had worked with him on these types of things decades earlier. The rest of us did some of the heavy lifting. The difference between this event and the wedding ten months earlier was that my father had to rest occasionally, maybe more than occasionally.

Sunday, March 12, 2000, we all went to church, diverting our mother from the building’s assembly hall. We attended the church service, during which a peculiar thing happened: my parents were invited to renew their vows. I don’t know if my father knew about this, but my mother, my sisters and I certainly did not. I think my sisters and I gulped a bit. Would she actually say yes? My father could be…well, let’s say, five decades of marriage always has its complications. There was what seemed to be an interminable pause before she replied in the affirmative.

Afterward, we had the party. There was singing and tributes from various folks. My sisters and I had put together one of those video montages of photos that ran throughout the event.

The next day, the wife, the in-laws and I went home. Well not quite home. We left Charlotte at 6 a.m.. got to the in-laws’ house in Oneonta, NY, 715 miles away, at 9 p.m. and just crashed.

What had been a family tradition was to get a family photo every time the Greens got together if it had been a while. The last one we sat for was on their anniversary in 1995, but for some obscure reason – probably the contentiousness of that day (but that’s another story) – we didn’t in 2000. Since my father died that August 10 from prostate cancer, the lack of the family photo became one of those “coulda, shoulda” things in the family lore.

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ROG

How Not To Fly

With all this recent attention to airlines and flight safety, I thought I’d share my most recent flying experience.

It was June of 2009. My sisters, my mother and I were having some only-occasionally-productive talk at my mother’s home in Charlotte, NC. My mother left for her adult day care, and my sisters and I continued on, though I was trying to end the conversation at every opportunity.

One of my sisters was driving my daughter and me to the airport. She asked me the night before when I wanted to depart for the airport. I said that I wish to leave the house by two hours before the flight leaves. That would be 9:25 a.m. for an 11:25 a.m. flight. With a 20-30 minute trip to the airport, this seemed reasonable at the time for a domestic flight.

Except the talking continued, though I was no longer initiating any of it, but rather, periodically, whirling around my arm like an NFL field official restarting the clock. Finally, at 10:10, we left.

We’ve both been to the Charlotte-Douglas International Airport before a number of times, but somehow, this trip, we miss the exit. We end up four miles away and have to double back. I do not panic. I do not shout. I do, however, say, in the most rational tone I could muster “I am now officially concerned about this situation.”

She drops me off at the airport and suggests that I check my luggage in at the kiosk in front of the airport. I considered this a useful suggestion. The only trouble was that none of the kiosks were for Delta, my carrier. So that was not an option.

I go inside and go to the the first Delta counter. Unfortunately, and it was marked, though I didn’t notice in my haste, that first line was only for three cities, Minneapolis and two others. But not Albany, NY.

By then, my sister has parked the car. I am in another long line waiting to get to either a person or a check-in machine. By the time I DO get to the machine, I have no idea how to operate it. It is asking for my password. I HAVE A PASSWORD? Fortunately, some kind gentleman suggested that I ought to swipe any of my credit cards. Sure enough, that worked. Scary, but good.

Not so good was the fact that it was, by then, 11:03. As I said, our flight was at 11:25. So my daughter and I could get on the flight, our carry-on luggage could get on the flight, but our checked bag could not. Was there another flight I could take? Not that day.

What took then was probably very comical to watch. My sister and I are switching items from bag to bag in the TSA line. Books, dirty clothes and whatever else I were schlepping. I didn’t NEED my worn underwear at that moment, so that went into the suitcase staying behind, whereas some medicines, except for the liquid ones we knew wouldn’t get past the screeners, went into the carry-on. I think that any sense of possible mortification was trumped by panic and adrenaline.

At one point some TSA guy barked at me, “You’re holdin’ up the line.” I replied in kind, “No, I’m NOT.” Which I wasn’t, actually. Still, note to self: don’t yell at TSA screeners, even if they yell at you.

My daughter and I are running to our gate as they are calling our names at said gate, and we got home together in one piece. I did forget a couple things I wish I had taken, but we got them eventually, as my sister sent the suitcase to the Greyhound bus station, and I retrieved the bag when it arrived two days later.

Not recommended.
***
Since I’m thinking about flying, I should note that I’ve been hearing a lot about the potential change of rules, but I’m not clear exactly what I that means, even after looking at the TSA website. Of the ideas that have been floating around, I particularly hate the idea of not getting up during the last hour of the flight to go to the bathroom. Do any of these people suggesting this have a five-year-old? It doesn’t make me feel safer; nor the “nothing on the lap” rule. And I must wonder: If the government can somehow create safe air travel, will this mean that the other forms of transportation are at greater risk? I have to think so.

Maybe I should just stay home? Nah, but air travel, which I’ve long described as a flying bus – remember the old days, when flying was considered special? – can only become less comfortable. What is the tipping point at which travelers will consider increased security and restrictions to be unacceptable trade-offs? I don’t fly enough for it to be a large issue for me personally. But I must believe that frequent fliers and the airlines that serve them must be worried what this will mean to the industry’s bottom line.
ROG

ROG

The Girl in the Middle

Oh, no, remember, remember
The fifth of November.
Remember by John Lennon

I have alluded to the trip that I took with Lydia to Charlotte, NC back in June, and how peevish some things made me. The thing that made me the most angry I never wrote about, in large measure because I was SO ticked that I thought I would write some characterization of the event that was full of bile and venom.

So now I’ve counted to 100 (1000? 10,000?).

On my mother’s wall are three pictures of her three granddaughters. Although she’s by far the youngest, Lydia’s picture is in the middle. It’s a photo from a couple years ago, and I wasn’t positive that she recognized her own image. So on that Saturday afternoon, I said to Lydia, “Who’s that girl in the middle? Who’s that pretty girl in the middle?” This was a conversation I was having with my daughter, and I wasn’t even particularly aware that anyone else was around, not that it would have mattered.

OK. So on Monday morning, while we’re having a conversation ostensibly about my mother, one of my sisters says to me: “Do you know what’s bothering me? When you were talking to Lydia about the pictures.”

Though it was only two days earlier, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“You know, when you were saying that SHE was the pretty one, as though her cousins were not.”

I said, “You’re KIDDING!”

“Well, you can see how I could see how we could think that.” Now to be fair, I don’t know if the other sister was party to this.

Well, no, I don’t see how you can see that. Not if I had NEVER said anything uncomplimentary about my beautiful nieces’ looks. EVER. Not only did I find it absurd, I felt it was insulting to my integrity.

“I wasn’t even talking to you. I was talking to my DAUGHTER to see if she could RECOGNIZE herself.” My voice got louder, and probably, a bit shrill.

I was so angry that for the next several days back in Albany, anyone I talked to, whether I knew them or not, I told the story to. One was a woman from the Red Cross, who told me that the sister’s reaction was the “silliest thing” that she’s every heard. Another said it was like a game of peekaboo you’d play with a child.

And I can finally tell the story now because it no longer burns a hole in the pit of my stomach. And writing about it reduces the power it had held over me.

I have my theories about what the conversation was REALLY about, but I’ll withhold that for the foreseeable future, except to say that I’m guessing that it REALLY wasn’t about what I said at all, but rather some of her internal stuff, something I can see now but couldn’t in the moment.

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ROG

The Beckster

My niece Rebecca turns 31 tomorrow. Since my sister Leslie was kind enough to share some photos of Becky’s 1st year, when they lived in Jackson Heights, Queens, NYC, NY, this seems like an appropriate time to post them here:

Leslie and Becky

Becky with her paternal grandmother, I believe

I always liked that quilt

With her Daddy Eric

The woman to the right was Leslie and Eric’s neighbor Maria

The ultimate before picture

Held by grandma

Maria (left), Becky, Maria’s mom(?)

Having babysat Becky, I can attest that she would put herself in the drawer

Mother and child

Maria, Leslie, Eric with bundle o joy

May have been 1st birthday party. My great aunt Charlotte is in the rear center; I’m at rear left.

Child with her daddy

Here’s Rebecca (third from the right) with her group Siren’s Crush. You can check out “exciting new 100% Live Video Footage” here. The band’s MySpace page is here.

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The Middle Child

I was the eldest of the three Green children. Leslie was the middle child, and Marcia the “baby”. However, more than a few people who have assumed that SHE is the eldest because she’s much more outgoing, while I have always been bookish, keeping to a far fewer number of friends and associates than she has.

She really enjoyed being the only girl/the younger for the four years that she was, until she wasn’t. This led to all sorts of odd sisterly stuff that I tried to stay out of but would inevitably get sucked into. (One date in particular: March 12, 1995). I got along with both sisters most of the time, especially Leslie, with whom I sang with our father. Yet about once a year she’d goad me so much that I’d get really angry and some unfortunate outcome would take place. (When she was about 12, and I was 13, she and her friend Bonnie kept opening the bathroom door while I was sitting on the toilet – there was no lock – and I was trying to keep the door shut with my arm or leg; the end result was a broken bathroom mirror.)

I realized long ago that if I don’t have a strong opinion about something Leslie cares about, I tended to cede to her position. That was not the case, though, when she wanted to bury our father in a casket but the rest of us preferred cremation. The tension over that lasted a couple years.

Meanwhile, Leslie seems to have drawn closer to Marcia, as they both deal with my mother. (I do too, but Marcia lives with my Mom and Leslie is currently looking for a job, having been laid off after 18 years working for Long’s Drug Store after it got bought out by CVS.)

One of the good things about the last trip to Charlotte was, frankly, listening to Leslie kvetch about the CD that her church put out – she is on its music Praise and Worship team. Her name was misspelled as Lesley – thrice. I was going to plug the CD but can’t find the particulars. Did, though, find this YouTube video about the church.

Another highlight, oddly, came from watching TV. Lydia, my five-year-old, is watching Wonder Pets, which I admit to liking myself (Just saw “The Wonder Pets Save the Beetles”, which was full of Liverpudlian puns.) Turns out that Alex, Marcia’s 18-year-old, remembers Wonder Pets fondly. Then Rebecca, Leslie’s 30-year-old calls (or is called by her mother); come to find out, much to Leslie’s surprise and chagrin, that Rebecca and her husband Rico ALSO are big fans of Wonder Pets. Leslie watched and actually sussed out its charms.

So, it’s Leslie’s birthday, and even though she occasionally makes me crazy (and you don’t know the half of it), I still love her very much.
***
For all you folks in the San Diego area, here our the upcoming dates for Rebecca’s group, Siren’s Crush.
July 24th-Valley View Casino
July 31st-Valley View Casino
Aug 7th-Valley View Casino
Aug 8th-Viejas Dreamcatcher
Aug 21st-Viejas V-Lounge
Aug 28-Valley View Casino
Also, they have been asked to perform at a “VERY exciting event coming up on Sept 26th” in which they will be “opening up for Teena Marie, Lisa Lisa and some other favorite Old School artists for Magic 92.5 and Viejas Casino! This event is free and for the whole family!”
Click on this link for more information.

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ROG

The In-Laws

Talked about my family a couple days ago; time to talk about my in-laws.

Actually I may get along better with them than my birth family. and in the main, I see them more often, since they’re located in New York and Pennsylvania rather than North Carolina and California.

Still, I was quite nervous about this scheduled family vacation. It was to be my parents-in-law, two brothers-in-law, their wives and, collectively, three daughters who are 7 and 8, plus Carol, Lydia and me. The plan, as it shook out was that we would all travel to Williamsburg, VA for a week. i thought that much familiarity would surely breed contempt. But it was to celebrate my parents=in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary that was back in March; we’d done something then at their church, but this was actually planned in the fall of 2008.

Separately: Williamsburg in July wasn’t my idea of a good time. I’ve been to Virginia in July with an ex-girlfriend. We went out early in the morning but spent most of the day in air-conditioned comfort.

As it turned out, my wife had too much reading to do and too many papers to write, details of which will be forthcoming.

Then Wednesday, my wife’s sister-in-law (does that make her my sister-in-law as well?), who lives a little over an hour from Albany, had thyroid surgery at an Albany hospital. I actually never saw her; I spoke to, though never saw her husband. But their eight-year-old twins were at the house, and the parents-in-law were up to support their daughter-in-law and help watched the girls. In fact, My wife, her mother, my daughter and the twins all went to Saratoga for a ballet matinee on Thursday.

Now today, is the Olin family reunion, and I’m likely to see the whole tribe that was in Williamsburg, save for the recovering surgery patient.

we don’t usually spend THAT much time together, but it certainly a different relationship when the distances are smaller.
ROG

ROG

Don't Tread on Me

Ever have something seemingly minor drive you utterly bonkers? Well, that happened to me last month. But in retrospect, it was building up for a while.

My five-year-old daughter and I were flying from Albany, NY to Charlotte, NC on Friday, June 12. I was pretty sure I couldn’t bring the six-ounce juices my wife packed – I looked up the 311 rule and she stayed near enough to the security gate that the TSA employee could hand the drinks back to her. Then we did the shoes-off thing. They determined that my daughter and I did not meet the profile of terrorists. In any case, as a society, we have tacitly agreed to allow the process. Still, I fly infrequently enough for the process to be disconcerting anew.

Monday, my mother, two sisters and I go to my niece’s high school graduation. It is held at the Bojangles Coliseum, formerly the Charlotte Coliseum; the naming rights are from the food chain. We’ve received instructions on what not to bring into the venue, which included balloons (understandable – could obstruct the view of others) and noisemakers (likewise a reasonable decision). The sheet also said, vaguely, “no gifts”. So we go through security. Something about these quasi-official folks doing stuff similar to the TSA screeners, including us going through both the metal detector AND being wanded, was mildly unsettling.

Then I was told that my daughter could not bring in her stuffed kitty cat. Why not? Because it’s a gift. It’s not a “gift”; it’s my child’s toy. Doesn’t matter. Thus, I had to schlep back to the car – and having gotten there early, it was some distance away – to return the forbidden feline.

Monday, after the graduation, we go to this – I guess you’d call it an outdoor mall in downtown Charlotte that had a variety of stores, restaurants and activities, including a movie theater.

My sisters, mother, niece, niece’s boyfriend and niece’s friend all went to this burger joint. But the daughter and I couldn’t go there; the food is cooked in peanut oil and the daughter is allergic to peanuts. (The first tip-off that this venue would be a problem: the barrel of peanuts in the entryway.) So she and I ordered from a nearby competitor then sat down at the table outside, soon joined by my sisters, with food from the peanut oil place.

Some young woman comes out of the place where I had ordered my food – not the person with whom I placed the order – and announces, “I’m sorry but I cannot allow you to sit there.” One sister asks why, and she’s told that it’s a space for their customers only. But my brother IS a customer, and he’s waiting on my food from YOUR establishment, and he’s waiting with my family to do so, one sister explains. Confused, the young woman went back into the establishment, never to return.

Actually, I was mildly sympathetic to the employee’s position. I’m sure the establishment pays rent for the tables in front of the place; this was not a common food court setup. And subsequent to that interaction, ANOTHER woman from the peanut oil place sat in front of the place – one could tell by the distinctive red and white cups. However, there was NO signage either on the tables or in the windows of the establishment, so it’s their failing, I say.

After eating, we wandered around, seemingly aimlessly, waiting for niece and friend to drop off the boyfriend. They ultimately return and I come across a little shop that is selling, among other things, snacks I could take on the plne the next day. A bag of Cheetos – $1.29 plus nine cents tax.

We come upon a bowling alley, and people decide to go in. I have the daughter in one hand, my drink from supper – actually just ice at that point (it was hot and humid) in the other; one of my sisters is holding the Cheetos. Apparently, though there’s no sign outside and I didn’t see one inside, there’s no “outside food” allowed. So my sister hands over the Cheetos. I walk over to the person at the desk, snatch the Cheetos back, and say, “I don’t agree to this,” and walked out with the daughter.

When the rest come out of the bowling alley, my sister asks why was I making such a big deal about a bag of junk food. I couldn’t really articulate it, and I just snapped, “Because I just don’t like it.”

In retrospect, it’s quite obvious what the issue was: control, or lack thereof.

[Musical interlude]

My sister had inadvertently ceded to a dubious authority what little power I had in the situation.

And not only in the circumstances already alluded to, either. Dinner at 8:30 pm when my daughter should have been in bed the first night. I forgot my daughter’s glasses at the house on Sunday, but after two church services and after-church receptions, instead of going to the house to get glasses, we’re at Wal-Mart (Allah help me) for 3.5 hours. Now part of that was waiting for a photo shoot that, because the photograph never even acknowledges us 45 minutes after the appointment time, we never have taken. And there was other stuff. As I was losing control of my circumstances, and more importantly, my daughter’s circumstances, I was losing control of my temper as well.

[When I explain the scenario to people face-to-face, they seem to understand. Wonder if I seem like a crazy person as I put it in the written form.]

I try to make a point not to go to places that have signage that makes you leave your bags at the door. Their message: we want your patronage, but we don’t trust you. I especially hate the stores that check your store bags on the way out. Their message: we HAVE your patronage, but we STILL don’t trust you.

I haven’t been to Crossgates Mall, near Albany, in years. Last time I was up there, there was a sign at the movie theater entrance: no backpacks allowed. I thought this was fine; they don’t want people sneaking food in. And since I almost always have my backpack, I just won’t attend movies at your theater. Everybody’s happy. I have control of the situation.

Thus ends my report, My Summer Vacation. At least Part 1.
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My grandfather and his brother

I never knew my maternal grandfather, Clarence Williams. He died when I was two or three years old.

But my mother didn’t really know her father as well as she ought to have, either. Apparently, my grandmother’s mother Lillian had a whole lot more control on her kids, even as adults, than she should have, and somehow essentially caused the breakup of Clarence with my grandmother Gertrude, though my mom knew her dad to some degree. My mother was primarily raised by Lillian, Gertrude and Gert’s siblings, my great uncle Ed and my great aunt Deana.

My sister was going through some photos and came across these:

Top row-4th from left is Clarence Williams
Seated on right end is his brother, Charles Williams

I had heard vague stories of my grandfather and his brother playing in the Negro Leagues, but I never got any sense of the time frame. And, as this article notes, there were LOTS of teams named the Giants.

Top row 2nd from Left is Clarence Williams
Top Row 4th from left is Charles Williams

This is Charles. He has a daughter, Barbara, who my mom has befriended only relatively recently.

If, by chance, someone knows more about these guys, I would love to hear about it.

ROG

ROG

June Ramblin'

My goodness, I have been EXHAUSTED lately, ever since I got back from visiting family in Charlotte, NC last week. Not just a little tired, but wiped out. I HAD to mow the lawn when I got back – nine days and lots of rain since the last time, but it felt as though the mower was holding me up.

Part of it is the constant use of the automobile. In the course of a week at home, I’ll bike or play racquetball or at least walk to the supermarket or the pharmacy. I took one walk with Lydia in Charlotte, and I was uncomfortable with that. No sidewalks and people drive way too fast, especially on the curve near my mom’s house.

I was so tired that a call I got on Friday it took me until Monday to call back. Calls from the weekend I STILL haven’t returned. Lydia too had been sick three or four days.

Eating at 8:30 pm is contraindicated for my five-year old. Indeed, some of my frustration wasn’t about me being stuck for 3.5 hours at Wal-Mart(!). It was that, on Sunday, we went to church, then a cake thing for the niece and another girl graduating from high school, then ANOTHER church service, then ANOTHER cake thing. we went to eat at Mickey Ds, then to the Wal-Mart. we were supposed to get photos at 4 pm, but when the photographer hadn’t acknowledged us at 4:45, we left.

We were out from 8:40 a.m. to 5:20 p.m, and Lydia without her new glasses, which she reminded me of at 9:30 a.m. I had no idea that we’d be out ALL DAY.

It went on like that with increasing frustration, about which you’ll undoubtedly hear more. That said, I was glad my niece and my daughter got along so well. And a highlight of the week was when my 30-year-old niece called and shared with her mother her love of The Wonder Pets; my sister was momentarily slackjawed, but ended up appreciating it herself when she watched with Lydia.
***

Running stop light = $100.00
DUI = $5,000.00
Not wearing a seat belt = $50.00
Putting you AND your girlfriend on your fake driver’s license = PRICELESS
(Allegedly, an actual driver’s license from a traffic stop.)
***
Beautifully stated insults
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Tapping your cell phone
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Covertube: Toto’s “Africa” performed by Perpetuum Jazzile. Even if you don’t like the song, at least watch the percussive first 90 seconds.
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Weird Al channels Jim Morrison
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Han Solo, P.I.; the side-by-side comparison is astonishing.
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When Scottish Sheep Herders get bored
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Getting your child to sleep. This is of particular interest to me because it’s being offered by an apparently local pediatric sleep expert named Dr. Roger Green.
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The Joy of Less
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Budget Travel hosting a contest to vote for “America’s Coolest Small Town”, and Owego, the only town in NYS nominated, won. It’s the county seat of the county next to my home county of Broome. My grandma owned property there years ago.
***
This spam pleased me:
The Fondation De France(FDF) would like to notify you that you have been chosen by
the board of trustees as one of the final recipients of a cash Grant/Donation of
$1,350,000.00.This is a yearly program, which is a measure of universal development
strategy.
To file for claims…
Please endeavor to quote your Qualification numbers (FDF-444-6647-9163) and always
check you inbox, spam or junk for our emails and updates.
***
I’m not older than dirt…yet.
ROG

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