S. in the early fifties to work in the printing industry. He met a graphic artist at the company—a big, beautiful, blonde Swedish girl who became my...grandmother. Their daughter, Ilsa, was a rebellious child of the late sixties. She protested and marched, and was even found chained to a tree in a national forest where they were going to log. That’s where she met Stew, my father. He’s a short dark half-Cherokee. A few years later, I came along and turned out short like my father, but blonde like. I was alone, blocked from view of the street and my neighbors. Somehow I had to get to the house. Then it hit again. My body curled in a ball as it was wreaked with a second wave of burning torment. I laid there. I could feel the erratic rhythm of my heart pounding in my chest, when off in the distance, I heard a voice. “I love you,” it said like a whisper in the wind. There was something familiar about it. It was almost like a dream, yet so real…no, not a dream, a memory. “I love you with all. More

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