Of Mice and Me, Both Skewered at the David Sedaris Reading at Mercyhurst College, 10-22-11

During my last semester of college, I was introduced to the work of David Sedaris in a Creative Non-Fiction class. While it was a writing course, we read several books in order to give us an idea of the different memoir styles out there and integrate techniques employed by the writers into our own work. Of all the writers I encountered in college for the first time, Sedaris is one of my favorites. While some of his essays get pretty off-color, there’s just something so irresistible about his pointed observations about the absurdities of how people interact with each other. Much of what he says rings very true to my ordinary experience, while some of his more outlandish stories make me wonder how he ever survived his 20s. He’s a riveting storyteller.

However, my experience of Sedaris is almost entirely limited to the page. I’m not much for audiobooks and I’ve rarely caught him on National Public Radio, where he often reads essays, but those who have listened to him more than read him have insisted that his work is far more entertaining when he reads it himself. Thus, when my brother Nathan told me that Sedaris would be giving a reading at Mercyhurst College, it didn’t take a lot of persuading to convince me to go too. Also attending were his girlfriend Morgan and my mom, whose exposure to Sedaris was very limited. I wasn’t sure what she would make of him, but while some of his discussion topics made her squirm a bit, she mostly found him very funny and astute.

We bought our tickets in late August, and by the time of the reading on October 22, the theatre, which accommodates several hundred, was sold out. It got started a bit late, allowing time for stragglers to make their way in from the lobby, and lasted just over an hour and a half, with Sedaris reading four full-length stories, followed by excerpts from his diary. He also took a little time out for questions from the audience at the end.

His first selection was The Squirrel and the Chipmunk, the story from which the cover illustration of his latest book is taken. This collection of animal fables is a departure for him, as he mostly writes of his own experiences. However, the tales here certainly have applicability to people, and that’s especially true of this story, which deals with prejudice, peer pressure and fear of the unknown getting in the way of a relationship. It’s a bittersweet story, yet it is not simply a case of a perfect relationship being ruined by disapproving relatives. It also demonstrates how much better things tend to look in hindsight, especially when they have been, to some extent, forcibly taken away.

The longest and most riotous of the stories was the second, Easy, Tiger, a New Yorker piece in which Sedaris discusses the oddities of the Pimsleur language instruction tapes that he has used to help him navigate other countries. In it, he shares several actual conversations used on these tapes, commenting on the uselessness of some of the banter and what the differences in dialogue between languages reveals about the countries in which they are spoken. For this, he played us samples of actual Pimsleur tapes and also demonstrated his skills in Japanese, Italian and German. The impact of his expressive voice, whose timbre is remarkably like that of John Fiedler, who played Piglet for about four decades in various Disney projects, is amplified by his impeccable comic timing. While this essay was mostly funny, it also posed some interesting questions about how and why we learn foreign languages and whether, as more and more people around the world learn English, Americans will cease to bother trying to bridge the communication gap themselves.

Atta Boy, which comments on today’s tendency toward over-indulgent parenting as compared with the brutal but effective tactics employed by his father and, to a lesser extent, mother, resonated strongly with many in the audience. Looking around, I could see a lot of people nodding in agreement with his disgust over the parents who threaten to sic the police on a man who lays a hand on their son to apprehend him after catching him at spray-painting a mailbox. His description of his own parents is howlingly funny, particularly his aggressive dad who hoards after-work snacks, threatens to pummel neighborhood smart-alecks and removes his pants during dinner – and, when the doorbell interrupts the meal, insists on answering the door himself. I think a lot of people felt pretty grateful for their families after hearing this essay.

The final essay focused on Sedaris’s experiences with various doctors, including one whose response to medical issues is too lackadaisical for his liking and another who subjects him to bizarre travel shows on mute while he is poking around in his mouth. This was the essay that inspired my brother, who recently graduated from college with a Fine Arts degree, to draw a mouse on a skewer for him as a gift in exchange for his autograph. It was as funny as the others, and we got to hear him speak French, but I was glad when it was over because all that medical talk was getting rather icky.

The diary entries were taken from the last two years and mostly commented on individuals who struck him as unusual or related jokes that people had told him at readings. These were invariably crude, as was a quip about a quiz show that most of the audience didn’t get, and it kind of worries me that I did. The funniest bit was probably his baffled description of the Occupy Wall Street protesters he encountered in the organic hipster wonderland of Burlington, Vermont. Most of these were very short, sometimes only a couple of sentences, and it was fun to get these quick laughs after the much longer stories.

The question and answer period wasn’t all that illuminating, especially since one of the questions was incomprehensible, but his recollection of the crummy Bangor, Maine motel where he stayed during this tour was hilarious. On the more serious side, he encouraged everyone to go out into the lobby and buy a copy of Peter Kessler’s River Town, a piece of immersion journalism about life among Chinese schoolchildren that particularly impressed Sedaris.

After the reading, the audience had three options: leave, head for the book table or line up for the signing. I’d brought a book, so I got in the signing line, though it took me a while to get there, especially since we bumped into a friend on the way out of the theater, and as a result, Mom and I wound up near the back of the line, which barely seemed to move at all in the first half hour. Nathan and Morgan opted to lounge around the lobby, where they had a good view of the signing table where Sedaris was engaging each person who came up to him in conversation. After more than an hour of waiting, Mom got Nathan to take her place in line while she found a bench, and I gave him the pen and notepad for him to draw his skewered mouse while we waited. As we drew closer, we caught snatches of his conversation with other attendees. I especially liked his request to the 13-year-old pianist ahead of us to, after his concert the next day, “Go out and do something autumnal. Rake some leaves, do something with an apple… I don’t know. Just go outside and be autumnal!”

When we finally made it to the table, I presented my book, the copy of Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk that Nathan had bought me for Christmas, and I mentioned that I had bought it for Nathan as well and that we’d snapped a picture of us holding up our identical books. He made a comment about the dangers of that happening in a family at Christmas and how he and his sister had bought each other the same CD or DVD on occasion. He signed the book “To Erin with friendly friendship” and handed it back… and then he noticed my “purse.” “I’m sorry, is that your purse?” he asked. I replied that it had started out as a camera bag and I ended up just carrying it around everywhere. It’s a clunky red and black thing, not ladylike in any sense of the word but certainly utilitarian. “I just have to say,” he persisted, “that is the most ungainly handbag I have ever seen. I mean, if there was a contest for ugly purses, that would take first prize!”

Well, what can I say? I’ve never claimed to fashion-conscious. I just sort of smiled and shrugged, and he shook his head and laughed, and then he noticed the button on the side. He asked what it said, and I explained that I’d picked it up in Salem, Massachussetts – the trip, incidentally, which made me decide to switch from raggedy ten-year-old purse to hardy compact camera bag – and that it read, “Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup.” Of course, he informed me that the dragon button just made the ensemble all that much worse, and then he fixed his eye on my green VeggieTales bracelet and asked if that was to go with the button, and I told him that it was a bracelet tied in with the kids’ video series VeggieTales. At this point, he was looking at me a bit like I was some sort of intergalactic visitor, and he laughed again and said, “You are absolutely adorable.”

Nathan should have gone first because I’d already introduced him as my brother, so the signature he got in his copy of Holidays on Ice was “Think Celine,” who Sedaris informed him is a designer of upscale handbags whose work he insisted Nathan track down so he could get me a less mortifying purse for Christmas. However, he seemed delighted with Nathan’s detailed doodle – “Oh! It’s a mouse on a skewer! Well, look at that!” – and then the two of them spent a few minutes discussing their favorite artists, so I think that Nathan probably managed to demonstrate that his visual tastes are a little more refined than his sister’s. We each selected a twisted postcard to tote home with us; I was hoping to snag the one cheerily chirping, “Let’s explore diabetes with owls!” but that was gone by the time I got there, so I had to satisfy myself with the Pekingese skull.

It was closing in on midnight by the time we left, so it was a full evening, and not only did I have the pleasure of listening to him share his keen insights with that wonderful delivery, I think I also got a taste for what it must feel like to be an inadequate American Idol contestant in front of Simon Cowell. Or Ugly Betty. But hey, at least I’m adorable!

Rhoda Janzen Returns to Her Roots in Mennonite in a Little Black Dress

They say you can never go home again. However, in Mennonite in a Little Black Dress, Rhoda Janzen chronicles the time she did just that. She had long left her conservative Mennonite childhood behind her as she embraced academia and the world at large. But after a personal crisis of epic proportions, she returned to her California hometown for an extended visit with her parents, and she found that going back wasn’t so bad after all.

I’d heard of Mennonite in a Little Black Dress and even skimmed the first couple of pages, but it was the recommendation of a friend, herself the author of a memoir, that convinced me to read it. It only took a few pages for Janzen’s witty prose to leave me in stitches. More than anything, this book made me laugh. But it’s also very poignant, and however many teasing remarks she may make about embarrassing Mennonite food and puzzling traditions, her affection for that way of life and especially for the people who live it is very real.

Like most memoirs I’ve read, Janzen’s doesn’t follow much of a linear path. We hop around a lot, going back to her childhood and to her years with her husband Nick, whose departure was one of the events precipitating her need to return home and regroup. A recent memory will lead to a related story, sometimes from her own life, sometimes an anecdote passed down by someone else. Each chapter has a theme to which everything in it ultimately connects; as someone prone to tangents, it was fun for me to make those invisible connections in my mind as I read. There’s a definite logic to what she discusses when she does, but it’s not always obvious how each story fits in.

Janzen’s memoir is filled with colorful characters, none more so than her mother, a nurse who is perpetually cheerful, practical and hard-working. Some of her quirks, like her tendency to burst into snippets of old hymns when she hears one of the words therein and her fondness for discussing bodily functions at the dinner table, elicit chuckles, but mostly, we’re left with the impression that this is a truly wonderful woman who has made a powerful, positive impact upon her family and her community.

Janzen’s mother feels very old-fashioned, as does her father, who keeps more of a distance but has a habit of summoning his family members to the computer to see the latest schmaltzy e-mail forward he’s received. Most of Rhoda’s peers seem more in step with modern society, so there’s a smattering of profanity and off-color talk that isn’t limited to the portions of the memoir dealing with her life outside this quiet town. There are times, during talks with her sister or sister-in-law or childhood friends, when it feels a bit like Sex and the City: The Mennonite Edition.

What attracted me most were the passages reminiscing about the ups and downs of growing up in such a distinct way of life, as well as anything involving her mother, who bubbles over with warmth and wholesome humor. I learned a lot about Mennonites from Janzen’s wry observations. She even devotes a chapter to Mennonite history and offers a semi-serious primer on modern Mennonite beliefs and practices. Mostly, though, it comes through more organically, and the sense I got was that while she considers many of the traditions quaint, she also takes a certain pride in them. And I definitely got the impression that she came to a deeper respect for the people of this community when they welcomed her so warmly after her largely loveless marriage ended. I could feel her cynicism ebbing away. This is perhaps best expressed in the fifth chapter, A Lingering Finish, which deals largely with the contrasts between her marriage and her sister’s. Midway through the chapter, she notes, “There was a time in my life – sadly, not so long ago – when quickness of mind seemed more important than kindness.”

Janzen is a writer who exhibits both of these qualities, balancing cleverness with real appreciation for the traditions, experiences and especially people who have shaped her life. Sometimes you can go home again. I’m very glad she did.

A Very Marley Christmas Is A Very Messy Christmas

I still have yet to see Marley and Me, the 2008 Owen Wilson / Jennifer Aniston comedy-weeper based on the best-selling autobiographical book that I have yet to read. I love dog stories. But I’ve been warned that both are very emotional, as they follow the life of this particular dog from adoption to death, so I’ve been somewhat hesitant. However, I had no qualms with picking up A Very Marley Christmas, which merely focuses on the Christmas of Marley’s puppyhood.

John Grogan, author of Marley and Me, also wrote this picture book, which is illustrated by Richard Cowdrey, whose cheerful paintings fill large portions of the pages while still leaving room for several paragraphs. This is a book for slightly older readers, around the 6-to-9 range, though it might be a good read-aloud for younger kids. Marley, a yellow lab known for his knack for getting into loads of mischief, is up to all sorts of tricks in this book, interfering at every turn with the holiday plans of his “parents” and their children, young Cassie and baby Louie.

Most of the book simply details Marley’s various destructive antics. In this respect it reminds me a bit of Clifford, but while the big red dog wreaks havoc wherever he goes by accident, simply because of his size, there’s a sense that this little pup delights in disaster, even if he doesn‘t quite invite it. He spills decorations and plays tug-of-war with the Christmas tree, which he eventually comes to see as his own personal piddling post. He tangles the Christmas lights and tinsel - admittedly, not very difficult to do - and chews up a string of snowflakes made by Cassie. At every turn, he’s doing something to aggravate his family, whose frustration with him leaks out in verbal outbursts. One wonders how much of this two reasonable humans can take.

Of course, by the end of the book, we’ve arrived at a happy resolution in which all is forgiven. The change of heart is tied to a sudden snowfall, as well as the family members’ ability to be easy-going and laugh when many people would feel like screaming. The emphasis on forgiveness and the chronicling of mistakes many pet owners have had first-hand experience with make this a sweet and fun book for those who would always prefer to spend Christmas with a canine companion, even if that means putting up with a little chaos.

Purge: Rehab Diaries Is Painful But Powerful

I've been doing a fair amount of reading lately, with most of my book selections falling under the umbrella of young adult literature, often with a fairy tale-like element. My most recent choice, Purge: Rehab Diaries, certainly doesn't delve into fantastical realms, nor would it likely be classified as Young Adult, though it might well be of value to many teenagers who are struggling with eating disorders. In this frank memoir, Nicole Johns chronicles her experience at a treatment facility where she spent three months during the summer of 2004.

Purge doesn't shy away from the grittiness of a battle with an eating disorder; there are graphic descriptions of the physical and emotional effects, both from her direct experience and her observations of the young women who became her friends during her stay. Augmenting her own recollections are documents from the facility with matter-of-fact statements about her condition and treatment, but it's her own voice that is so compelling. Sometimes sarcastic, sometimes despairing, sometimes warmly basking in those things that make her battle to beat her disease worth it, she writes with wit, honesty and a beauty that cuts through the brutality.

Johns, who was a graduate student at the time, checked into rehab with an Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, which includes symptoms of both anorexia and bulimia. Over the course of about 270 pages and 70 chapters, she describes the ins and outs of the treatment facility, the counselors and her fellow residents, while occasionally reaching further back into her past to discuss formative parts of her life. Some were positive, like her wonderful relationship with her Italian grandparents, while others, particularly a painful experience with a college professor, were destructive. Because the chapters are short and Johns' style is so accessible, the book doesn't take long to read; once I started it, I was engrossed enough that I got through it in a single sitting of several hours.

It's interesting to see Johns' perspective evolve over the course of the book as she recalls becoming more comfortable with her body image and less disdainful of the efforts of the staff to keep her eating behavior in check. Even during the depths of her own struggle, her compassion for others in similar condition is evident, and one of the most powerful portions of the book deals with her trying to encourage a fellow rehab resident after they leave the program and find it difficult to resist relapsing into old habits.

Purge: Rehab Diaries is a harsh memoir, but Johns herself is a testament to the value of hope and perseverance. She notes in the prologue that the urges that accompany most eating disorders may not ever dissipate entirely, but reading about her determined efforts to reclaim her life is a step in the right direction for the many who are currently floundering.

Sedaris Strikes Again with Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

During my last semester as a Creative Writing major at Penn State Behrend, I took an advanced nonfiction workshop. This was one of the most unique classes I took at Behrend, not least because I was one of only five students, two of whom received Creative Writing degrees with me last May. Our small group learned a lot about the craft of writing nonfiction both from critiquing one another’s work and reading collections from established authors. One of these books was Naked, by David Sedaris. I had never heard of him before, but he tickled my funny bone and, at times, touched my heart. His sharp wit and keen insight made him a favorite amongst the writers whose essays we perused. After reading his book, I began hearing his name come up from time to time, most often on NPR, for which he commentates regularly. Then last week, one of my co-workers at the bookstore where I work asked if I liked David Sedaris. I said I did, so she handed me an advance copy of his latest book, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim. I toted it home happily and read through it to find that I enjoyed it as much as Naked.

The majority of the essays in the book feature Sedaris’ family members in various stages of life. Sedaris revisits his childhood numerous times, showing his readers that even from an early age he felt profoundly different from those around him with details ranging from his discomfort at a neighbor’s sleepover to his obsession with keeping his room immaculate. While his mother and sisters – particularly the oldest, Lisa – come across pretty well most of the time, he tends to vilify his father and, to a somewhat lesser extent, his brother Paul. It seems that Paul is the son his father wishes David had been. He depicts both men as coarse, foul-mouthed, and ultra-masculine. While they don’t exactly shun David, it’s clear that neither has much respect for him. That he goes through life expecting to be a failure seems largely attributable to his father’s attitudes.

Sedaris himself generally comes across as a likable fellow. He’s endearingly timid, a Piglet in a world far more threatening than the Hundred Acre Wood. While his anxiety leads him to always see the worst possibilities in each situation, the most negative encounters he has in this book are with members of his own family, and most of these are balanced out by more positive experiences. Sedaris has been established as a writer for some time, and he brings that aspect of his life into a few of these essays. His members fear that anything they tell him could show up in print; he feels compelled to milk their experiences for their storytelling potential but also feels guilty for becoming so detached and willing to expose his family’s secrets. We also learn in this volume that a movie based on his writing is in the works, making his relatives, especially Lisa, even more uncomfortable.

“Creative nonfiction,” the recently coined term used to classify memoirs and other nonfiction that is more literary than factual, has enjoyed a popularity boom in the last few years. Many would-be writers are mining their own memories for stories rather than building them from scratch. Such efforts are often rewarding for both author and reader, but they do carry a risk of offending those who appear in the essays. Sedaris seems to have come to terms with that possibility. He is frank and does not appear to be glossing over the grittier traits of his supporting cast of characters. But he doesn’t let himself off the hook either, and in the end none of the book’s inhabitants is entirely one-sided.

One odd thing about books of essays such as this is that they tend to skip around. They don’t follow a particular timeline, alternating between childhood, early adulthood, and the present, sometimes in a single essay. While most of the essays are directly connected in some way with at least one other essay in the book, the reasoning behind the order is not always clear. Additionally, I was a bit disappointed with the book’s ending; the final few paragraphs of Naked, contained in the essay of the same title, were incredibly insightful and lyrical and brought resolution to many of the themes he developed throughout the book. The conclusion of Dress Your Family just doesn’t pack that much of a wallop, though it does focus largely on the feelings of anxiety and inadequacy that plague Sedaris throughout the book. Unlike Naked, this book’s title is not drawn from the title of one of the essays, and I don’t recall seeing those words pop up in the body of an essay either. My guess, though, is that it has to do with the glaring differences between him and his brother. Although Paul actually occupies little of the book, a much greater portion of the book has a phantom Paul, an expectation looming over Sedaris’ head that he is unable to fulfill. So the corduroy is David, while the denim is Paul. It seems to be a direct plea to his father to accept them both as they are. The degree to which that acceptance is achieved is debatable, but they remain a family in spite of it all. Flawed? Certainly. But also beautifully real.

I’ve heard Sedaris described as America’s favorite humorist, and while my vote would probably go to Garrison Keillor, I do think Sedaris is a very gifted writer who is well worth checking out. His essays do tend to be peppered with profanity, though rarely emanating from Sedaris himself, and some of the situations depicted are rather crude, but for the most part they are a very good read, entertaining and insightful. I don’t know if this latest book will enjoy the phenomenal success that his last book, Me Talk Pretty One Day, did, but fans of his writing should not be disappointed.

For Anyone Who Has Ever Loved a Cat (Especially If You Loved a Dog First)

I was first introduced to Willie Morris through the movie version of his autobiographical book, My Dog Skip. The film chronicles the coming of age of young Willie as he and his first dog, the precocious Skip, explore their world together. In the first pages of My Cat Spit McGee, Morris recounts his affection for "Old Skip", as he liked to refer to him later, and Pete, the dog he had in his adulthood. As someone so faithfully dedicated to dogs, Morris was convinced it was his duty to despise cats, and he continued to believe that until he met "The Cat Woman", who would eventually become his wife.

As it turned out, she was a cat person. When her son decided to surprise her with a kitten on Christmas morning, Morris knew there was no turning back. He going to have to learn to at least tolerate these creatures. To help ease him into that toleration, he was given the honor of naming the kitten, and he bestowed upon her the name of his childhood sweetheart, Rivers Applewhite. The diminutive feline started to grow on him, and by the time she became pregnant with kittens he was frantic about her well-being.

I was struck by how many of Morris' cat experiences were similar to my own. Rivers was found abandoned by the side of the road as a kitten, and her puberty crept up on them without notice, so that they did not have her "fixed" in time to prevent a pregnancy. Just as my own cat, Cookies, delivered kittens after such a situation, and gave birth to Gandalf, the most companionable cat with whom I have ever resided, Rivers delivered Spit McGee, a cat who was to complete Morris' transformation into a full-fledged ailurophile (cat-lover).

Every once in a while an animal like that comes along who completely surprises you with its intuition and ingenuity. Spit was, or perhaps is, such a creature. Morris notes in the book that Skip was the companion of his boyhood, Pete of his adulthood, and Spit of his maturity. Their deep bond may have had something to do with the fact that Morris saved Spit's life on several occasions, including the moment of his birth. This 101 Dalmations-esque experience is recounted in great detail.

After Spit grows up a bit, other cats come into the family when they find a stray kitten under their house. This gentle calico eventually has kittens as well, and Morris delves briefly into each of their unique personalities. Meanwhile, he noted that all of this got to be too much for Rivers, who was most put out at all of the felines who were invading her territory. Like my first cat Cuddles, she liked being an Only Cat, and when the cat population kept growing, she took off to seek residence elsewhere. I was quite gratified to learn that my cat is not the only one who has ever done that.

Surely any cat owners (or, perhaps more accurately, cat-owned) out there will be able to find something in Morris' descriptions of his cats and their experiences that strikes them as similar to their own feline encounters. I recommend this charming story of an unconventional friendship to anyone who has ever loved a cat, and even to those who have not. Morris was most vehement in his hatred of cats in the beginning; perhaps his transformation will serve as an inspiration to those who think they could never learn to love a cat. At any rate, this book comes highly recommended. I give it four paws up!

A Presidential Love Story

I first heard about this book on Good Morning America, and Charlie Gibson's descriptions of it and the excerpts he read sparked my interest enough that when my grandma asked us to return I Love You, Ronnie to the library, I hung onto it a couple days so I could read it. I finished it just moments ago.

As most of us know from the media, Ronald Reagan has been suffering from Alzheimer's disease for the past several years. He just celebrated his 90th birthday on February sixth. I recall him as the president in office during the first eight years of my life. As I was quite young at the time, I wasn't paying much attention to what he was doing, but I always figured he was a pretty good president. I've read the speech he delivered in the wake of the Challenger explosion and seen how eloquent he can be.

I Love You, Ronnie is two things: a memoir, written by Nancy Reagan, of her life with her husband, and a collection of the love letters which he wrote to her over a span of 50 years. These letters actually make up the majority of the book and were the primary reason for its having been written. She wrote in her introduction, "I realized how valuable the art and practice of writing letters are, and how important it is to remind people of what a treasure letters -- handwritten letters -- can be. ... If only people could see Ronnie's letters, I thought, they'd realize so much, including how wonderful it can be to take the time to write what you feel to those you love."

Ronald Reagan wrote letters to his wife Nancy constantly, for no reason at all except to tell her that he loved her. He addressed his notes by using a variety of pet names, and he had a plethora of nicknames which he used for himself. He enhanced store-bought cards with his doodles and sentiments. The depth of the love he expressed in those letters was amazing, and each letter sounds like a voyage of discovery, as though he had just fallen in love with her at that very moment. In one letter he compared their love to that between Anne and Gilbert Blythe of Anne of Green Gables, but he insisted that the fictional couple's love paled in comparison to that which he and Nancy shared. Always waxing poetic, he nonetheless repeatedly proclaimed the insufficiency of his words to express the love he felt.

This is a beautiful and poignant collection, an intimate look into the lives of Ronald Reagan and his wife, Nancy. Unfortunately, they are increasingly the only reminder Nancy has of her husband; his mind is increasingly distant. In 1994, the former president sent America a letter explaining his diagnosis and thanking the country for the love he had been shown. He and his wife had disclosed their diseases before, and they hoped they could raise awareness of Alzheimer's in the same fashion. There is still no cure, but perhaps a breakthrough looms on the horizon. Until then, I Love You, Ronnie reminds us, as the Simon and Garfunkel song Bookends suggests, to "preserve your memories. They're all that's left you."

"I now begin the journey that will lead me into the sunset of my life. I know that for America there will always be a bright dawn ahead." -- Ronald Reagan, November 5, 1994