Francisco Laguna

Francisco Laguna passed away on August 19, 2026.

He meant many things to many people. He meant many more to me.  

We were together for 13 years and married for the last 7. Life could not have been better.

Then, cancer.

Nearly four years of increasing misery for him, increasing caretaking for me, and increasing realization for both of us that we all better do life while we can. We’re all ok until we wake up one day to be told we’re not. Then nothing is normal again.

The grief is still suffocating me. Being alone in the house was never a problem. I’ve always liked being alone. But what I liked more than being alone was being alone knowing he’d be back in a few minutes, a little while, by this afternoon.

He’s not coming back this time. That reality makes it hard to breathe sometimes.

I haven’t blogged in a while and a lot of kind folks have been asking me why. There was just little time left after juggling my work, his appointments, his medicines, the daily caretaking. Then hospice. Thanks to everyone who sent messages asking where I’d gone and if I would write again.

We had Francisco’s Celebration of Life event a few days ago. There were over a hundred people from all over the country. Close to twenty people chose to tell the room what he meant to them. I loved that for him.

Below is what I had to say at his Celebration of Life. I didn’t know how to bullet-point a thirteen year relationship with someone who meant more to me than anything, so I likely failed at mentioning the most relevant. But I said what I felt.  

Also below is the link to Francisco’s obituary. When I wrote it I couldn’t capture how remarkable I, and many others, thought he was. But I don’t think I could scream loud enough to tell the world just how unique a person he was. I’ll keep telling it just the same.

Stuart M. Perkins

Francisco’s obituary:

https://www.curriefuneralhome.net/obituaries/Francisco-Alberto-Laguna?obId=49365295

My speech from Francisco’s Celebration of Life:

Thank you for being here.

It’s hard to condense into just a few words what Francisco meant to me because he meant everything to me. I loved him, admired him, respected him. And I miss him.

At the end of this month, we would have been together for 13 years. We were married for the last 7, but together for 13. Our first date was on Halloween and he loved that.

He was always so joyful about everything and was always so excited when people came to our parties. Dinner, cocktail, Christmas, Halloween. We even had a muu muu party.  All done his way. Which was over the top.

I once told him that we don’t always have to do fancy things!

But when I ordered a pizza one Saturday and he served it onto fine china and got out cloth napkins, I realized he didn’t have to do fancy things. He just had to do things fancy.

But everything was made better if he became involved in it.

And he was the most generous person I’ve ever known. Not only to me, friends and family, but to total strangers.

We traveled all over the world and every city has needy folks asking for help. Francisco always gave them a few dollars.

Once we saw a woman on the street crouched in a doorway. Neither of us had cash, so Francisco walked over to her, told her that her hat was fabulous, and that we’d be right back. We walked to a market and bought sandwiches, chips, and waters.

On the way back we passed a gourmet chocolate shop. Francisco went in and got a huge box of Swiss chocolates. He said she had every right to enjoy fine chocolate, so he saw to it that she did.

When we walked away he said what he said every time he helped someone like her, “There, but for the grace of God, go I”.

He grew up in Catholic schools, I grew up a Baptist, so we had a lot of conversations about God, church, and charity. Conversations that solidified our relationship because we saw God the same way. Loving and welcoming.

Neither of us had attended a formal church service in years. But God doesn’t take attendance. He takes notice. And certainly God noticed Francisco a long time ago.

And he loved surprises. I’ll tell this story because he loved hearing it over and over himself:

After a few years together he made it clear we should get married, but I had to ask him. He was clear. Ask him, then stand back. I already intended to propose but wanted to really surprise him and do it somewhere memorable with a twist.

During a Christmas trip to New York we went to dinner at Bar SixtyFive, up on the 65^th floor of Rockefeller Center. After dinner he asked if I’d ever seen the historic Rainbow Room, right down the hall. I hadn’t. He said it’s only for private events anymore, but let’s just go look in the door.

On the way we realized an event was going on at the time. A security team stood at the entrance. I think Francisco’s confidence threw them off because they opened the door and told us to enjoy our evening. Francisco got that devilish look and started smiling. I started sweating.

We went in to find a live band, an open bar, the dance floor was full. We were crashing a huge New York company’s Christmas party with so many people everyone just assumed we were employees they hadn’t met.

We drank, danced, and Francisco befriended the lead singer and made several song requests. Which she took! 

It was becoming such a memorable night, it hit me, this would be the time to surprise him and pop the question. But I didn’t have a ring.

I told Francisco I’d be right back, ran back down to Bar SixtyFive and told the maître d I needed something to go on a finger… He looked through cabinets and drawers but could only find a rubber band. I took it and ran back to the Rainbow Room. 

The Rainbow Room has a huge round dance floor that slowly rotates. In the center of the rotating dance floor is an inlaid star pattern. I maneuvered Francisco through the crowd and made him stand directly on the star.

I asked him if he’d marry me and I presented – the rubber band. He cried, put the rubber band on, and the music suddenly stopped. Silence in a room of 300 people. The lead singer saw what was happening, announced our engagement to the room, and told the photographer to get pictures for the company newsletter…

I wanted a twist. I think proposing in the center star of the rotating dance floor in the Rainbow Room at the top of Rockefeller Center, while crashing a Christmas party did the trick. And the proof was in the newsletter…

He kept that rubber band in the case with all of his fine jewelry. It eventually dry rotted. So he put the pieces in an envelope and it’s still there in the top drawer of his jewelry case.

But he was always a romantic. Once while traveling in Europe we had a five hour layover in Paris. I assumed we’d sit in the lounge but as we left our plane and entered the area where people stand with signs I saw “Stuart Perkins” on one of them. As a surprise, Francisco had arranged for a driver to pick us up and show us around Paris. A little private tour of the iconic sights just to fill layover time.  

But he was so much more than just a joyful, generous, romantic who loved surprises.

He was a gentleman. A fierce protector of those he loved, a fighter for what was right, devoted to his family, and much more sensitive than most ever realized. He was a stickler for details, responsible, outgoing, outspoken, loyal, serious when he needed to be and silly every chance he got.

He was also very brave.

His first cancer diagnosis came nearly four years ago. He went through extensive surgeries, rounds of radiation, chemotherapy, immunotherapy and all the side effects that come with those things. He never really ever got good news.

But he never gave up.  Every day he smiled and continued to worry about me and others, regardless of how he felt.  

It was during one of his long hospital stays that I started wearing both wedding rings. He always wanted to know where his wedding ring was and he had to see it.

When he asked, I’d hold both hands up so he could see both rings. When his vision got worse he’d actually reach to feel both rings. Then he was ok. He said can you just keep wearing them like that? I said I will.

He never stopped thinking about what we’d do when he was better or where we’d go when he had energy.

He was hopeful – and hopefulness is bravery.

We’d bought our house on the Chesapeake Bay before he got that first diagnosis. We’d started renovations and planning our lives there. Despite our many trips to DC for his treatments, he never lost focus on the house.  

His remodeling ideas started coming more often and I realized he wasn’t trying to make it perfect for us anymore, he was trying to make it perfect for me while he was able. And he said so. I carry a lot of guilt because of that. I thought home would be a we not a me.  

He loved the place though and enjoyed his evening Chardonnays by the water when he felt up to it. Not all long ago I helped him down there, his eyesight was really bad by then and he wasn’t very strong. He sat down and leaned his head back and said mmmmm, do you hear that? I said I don’t hear anything but waves and a few seagulls. He said exactly. Isn’t this place fabulous!

He was totally aware of how serious his health had become and he understood when doctors eventually had to explain why no more could be done. We went home.

He didn’t want to die, obviously, but death didn’t scare him. The only fear he expressed was that he didn’t want to die alone. I promised him he wouldn’t, all they while knowing I had no control over that. But I was able to keep my promise.

In the end it was just me and him alone in our bedroom. I held his hand, talked to him, and he had the strength to look me in the eyes the entire time. In just a few minutes it was over and his face became so peaceful.

For the first few weeks after that I got up every day, and cried, thinking what a curse that I live in a house full of constant reminders of him. But now I get up every day, I still cry, but think what a blessing that I live in a house full of constant reminders of him.

His impact on me was profound. We loved each other. He showed me how life should be lived and that the good out there isn’t for just a few, it’s for all of us. And that we shouldn’t wait.

We spent many long weekends in New York because the city was his playground. Growing up there, he knew it and loved it. And every time we went to Colombia you could feel his pride for the country and his family.

But we had adventures all over the world I’ll never forget. He is unforgettable.  

I was born here in Richmond. Grew up and lived just a few miles away before I moved to the DC area and met Francisco. I wouldn’t have called myself worldly. Not like him.

Francisco was someone leading an adventurous exciting life, he’d lived and worked all over the world, he’d met and knew people all over the world. Yet he chose me, from right down the road, to love and spend his life with. That is humbling, precious, and my time with him was the biggest gift I’ve ever received.

And I don’t know if the angels in heaven ever had Chardonnay before…

But this is a celebration of his life, not just the years I was lucky enough to have with him, so I love hearing others talk about what he meant to them.

And I thank everybody for being here for him.

The Local Scoop Magazine – Baby Bear

A little announcement:

I’m excited to let you know that my essay about a tiny toy from my childhood days at the Chesapeake Bay appears in the current issue of The Local Scoop Magazine!

It’s a thrill to work with the kind folks at The Local Scoop. Having enjoyed time on the Northern Neck my entire life made it especially fun to contribute.

Below is the link to my piece on the online version of The Local Scoop Magazine.

https://www.localscoopmagazine.com/community/baby-bear/

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to opportunities such as this.

Stuart M. Perkins

Get Dirty

I’m going to be dirty today.

Through the window over the kitchen sink Mama would see me coming across the yard. She’d drop her dishcloth, run to grab her broom, and meet me on the back porch. With surgical precision she’d sweep away the heavy layers of dirt clinging to my blue jeans as I turned in slow motion circles at her command. She wasn’t against sweeping my bare legs either if I happened to be wearing shorts.

“Don’t bring that mess in this house.” She’d say. “Did you plan to get dirty?”

Well no. I hadn’t planned to. I was a kid. There was dirt. We met and fell in love. The end.

I remembered that this morning as I thought about where to plant some things in the yard. I still love dirt. Not potting soil in shiny garden-center bags. I don’t care for the sterile smell of plastic and perlite. I love real dirt. Earth.

One of the finest smells of spring is that first whiff of good clean wet soil. Sealed away by frigid winter, spring unlocks the distinct scents I first noticed as a kid. Dirt in our garden had a plain chalky smell, dirt in the yard had a more sour smell, and digging in the woods provided pungent aromas too delightful to describe.

Dirt smells good.

Dirt feels good too.

The powdery dirt in the garden stuck to our sweat when we worked the long rows and red clay in the yard felt almost oily as it clung to our fingers and hands. Different soils in the woods near the reservoir provided a variety of textures from mushy sludge along the creek to sandy light mix up on the hill.

As a kid who spent his days outside, I knew my dirt. Mama would ultimately sweep off quite a lot from my pants, or bare legs, before allowing me into the house. She didn’t just sweep off dirt, she swept off the ground-in goodness and muddy proof of the fun I’d had. I didn’t plan to get dirty that day, it was just good luck.

This morning, excited to get into the yard, I remembered the happiness that digging, feeling, and smelling good old dirt can bring about. Coming home with pants caked in mud for Mama to sweep off was never my goal. I’d had great fun and muddy jeans were just a byproduct of my good time. I never planned to get dirty that day.

Today I’ll put on blue jeans to dig in the yard and plant a few things. Along the way I’ll wipe my hands on my pants, feel the gritty soil stick to my skin, and marvel at how sweet the earth can smell when you stir it up a little.

Today I plan to get dirty.

Stuart M. Perkins

The Local Scoop Magazine – A Fox Visits

A little announcement:

I’m excited to let you know that my essay about a routine morning visitor by the Chesapeake Bay appears in the current issue of The Local Scoop Magazine!

It’s a thrill to work with the kind folks at The Local Scoop. Having enjoyed time on the Northern Neck my entire life made it especially fun to contribute.

Below is the link to my piece on the online version of The Local Scoop Magazine.

https://localscoopmagazine.com/community/a-fox-visits/

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to opportunities such as this.

Stuart M. Perkins

Stew Day

This is a repost of a piece I wrote a few years ago about my family’s annual tradition of making Brunswick stew. I hadn’t thought about those times in a while, but today while outside in the crisp air a slight whiff of wood smoke took me back…

My morning walk took me by our local farmers market. It was a lively scene as vendors slid from their truck seats, stretched, and waved to others setting up for the day. I watched as a hardworking woman spread out ears of corn alongside tables of huge tomatoes and I was reminded of summers back home when it seemed everything in the garden ripened at once. Our piles of corn and tomatoes rivaled any farmers market.

Mounds of homegrown produce also meant it was time for a Brunswick stew.

I was an adult before I realized just how fortunate I was to grow up the way I did. My grandparents had a small farm and gave each of their children a bordering piece of land on which to build their homes. My grandparents’ farmhouse and the huge garden worked by our families were focal points for us all. I grew up surrounded by best friends – who just happened to be my cousins.

From my backyard I could look across garden, field, or pasture to see a cousin on their swing set, Daddy on the tractor, or my grandmother, Nannie. She might be picking beans, shucking corn, or emptying a bucket of tomatoes onto the old metal table under the apple tree. With so much ripe and ready at once, it was time for the stew.

It was exciting to wake up to the faint smell of wood smoke wafting across the field. Daddy and the uncles gathered early to start a wood fire beneath the huge cast iron stew pot. By the time we kids showed up the fire was at perfect peak, gallons of water were boiling, and Nannie, Mama, and the aunts had readied the vegetables and cut up the meat.

For the next several hours we kids played – usually as close to the fire as we could without getting fussed at – while Mama and the aunts scurried back and forth between the kitchen and the stew boiling outside. Daddy and the uncles would talk and take turns stirring the stew with what seemed to be the oar from a sizeable dingy. How interesting that Mama and the aunts were in charge of family cooking all year long, but on stew day Daddy and the uncles took over. I think they just wanted to play with the fire.

I never paid attention to what went into the stew. Even today I have no idea what recipe was used, the proportion of ingredients, or how long and how often the boat oar needed to swirl around the giant pot. I do remember timing seemed important and there was debate over several points: add the corn, no add the butter beans first, is the meat already in, should we add more water, have the tomatoes cooked down, add salt, don’t add salt, get that leaf out that just fell in, and on and on.

Hours later, after being properly talked over and paddled, the stew was ready. It was always good, but with Nannie’s homemade rolls alongside, it was even better. Naturally we washed it down with sweet tea.

As I walked back home after passing the farmers market I thought about that process and how long it had been since I’d had any “real” stew. When I got home I checked the kitchen cabinets. There was one can of store-bought Brunswick stew. It might be ok, but it won’t be as good as “real”. I don’t know if it was the fresh vegetables, the boat oar, or the occasionally fallen leaf in the pot that made those stews so memorable.

It was more likely the fact that each time I ate real stew I was surrounded by laughing aunts and uncles, Nannie in her apron, and a gang of cousins. All gathered under a tree with bowls of stew in our laps, a roll in one hand, and sweet tea in the other.

Stuart M. Perkins

Sharing the Heart of the Matter: Staying Steady…

Another exciting announcement!

I was invited again by Wynne Leon and Vicki Atkinson to join them on their Sharing the Heart of the Matter Podcast, a feature of their The Heart of the Matter blog!

The Heart of the Matter strives to inspire writers (and readers) to discuss stories in an uplifting way, in a supportive and encouraging space, where all perspectives and viewpoints are welcomed.

To listen to our discussion about people who help us and inspire us to stay steady, click on https://sharingtheheartofthematter.com/2023/12/15/episode-48-staying-steady-with-stuart-perkins/ and scroll to the bottom for the podcast link.

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to incredible opportunities such as this.

Stuart M. Perkins

Below is the link to the essay about my grandfather’s love of fishing and the family traditions it led to.

https://www.localscoopmagazine.com/living/because-granddaddy-liked-to-fish/

1. magic marker

This is a piece I repost every year around Christmas time. The holiday season is full of memories of gifts, gatherings, and glee. To that list of happy triggers I add one thing for me: 1. magic marker.

“No, no, no!”

Her reprimanding tone rang a bell. Behind me in the check-out line a young mother wrestled something from her toddler’s tight grip.

“No, no, no!” she repeated. The little boy grabbed a ball point pen from a display rack near the cash register. Swiftly removing the cap, he was about to demonstrate his unique brand of artwork across a stack of Washington Posts. He clenched his little fist when his mother tried to take the pen. I felt for him.

What child doesn’t like to draw?

I drew constantly as a child. Pens and pencils were my implements of choice but when I could sneak it away I’d use my sister’s fountain pen until it emptied. She always wondered why her ink ran out so quickly – and unless she reads this it will remain a decades-old secret. Of course I also had a box of Crayola crayons, 64 count with a built-in sharpener. I lived large. One thing I had never used, but craved greatly, was a magic marker. I didn’t have one, but Mama did.

I’d seen her use it once then toss it into something in the back of the high cabinet above the stove. I was too little then to know the secrets of that cabinet, but one day as Mama backed out of the driveway to go to the grocery store I seized the opportunity to learn. Home alone, I slid a kitchen chair to the stove, climbed up, and eased open the cabinet door. I saw spices, aspirin, glue, rubber bands, and a deck of playing cards. That was it. Disappointed, I started to close the cabinet and that’s when I saw it. There, from inside an old coffee mug, wedged between broken pencils and a pair of scissors it called to me. The magic marker!

My heart beat faster as I plucked the marker from the mug. I removed the cap, catching a whiff of that distinct (and what I considered beautiful) aroma. In slow motion I turned to hop from the chair, determined to be stealthy as I secretly drew with that marvelous thing. I’d return it to the mug when done. No one would know.

Except for Mama.

“No, no, no!” Mama said, coming in the back door with an armload of groceries. “You can’t use that. It’ll get everywhere and it will never wash off.”

Even when I drew with generic pens, pencils, and crayons Mama made it clear I was to sit at the kitchen table, draw only on the paper, and never get near the walls. No surprise that the notion of me with a magic marker made her nervous. I surrendered the marker to Mama, she returned it to the coffee mug, and I headed to my sister’s room to find solace in a fountain pen.

With Christmas right around the corner, my sisters and I started making lists for Santa Claus. I noticed their extensive lists included things like dolls, dresses, games, and make up. I wrote down one thing only.

1. magic marker

Oh, everyone laughed, but to me it was serious. I had to know what it was like to draw with a magic marker. Pens and pencils were great, crayons were fun, and fountain pens were nice while the ink lasted, but I had to have a magic marker! Christmas seemed like it would never come.

But it did, and when that morning came, in my spot near the tree was the mountain of gifts Santa Claus generously left every year. As my sisters hugged new dolls and compared games and make up, I marveled at my remote control helicopter and a book about dinosaurs. To the left of a new pair of slippers was a small, plain box. There were no words or pictures to provide a clue, but as I lifted the lid that distinct and beautiful aroma gave away the contents. A brand new magic marker.

Merry Christmas to me!

I held the precious thing high in the air. I had to draw immediately! I ran to the kitchen table where I knew it was safe, grabbed my drawing pad and sat down. Mama, hot on my heels, pulled me and the entire kitchen table three feet from the wall. She instantly spread a layer of newspaper beneath my drawing pad, provided several wet paper towels, and reminded me that magic marker ink would never wash off. Daddy stood there grinning, amused by Mama’s panic. I think I know which half of Santa Claus was behind that particular gift. I happily drew as the distinct and beautiful aroma filled the kitchen.

For a kid who finally got his magic marker, it really was the most wonderful time of the year.

And Mama was incorrect. Magic marker ink will come off, it just takes rubbing alcohol and three good days of scrubbing. I know, because when she wasn’t looking that Christmas morning I scribbled a test patch across my knee.

Stuart M. Perkins

Hand on the Plow

This is a repost of a piece I wrote in 2020 at the onset of the Covid pandemic when we were unsure of what it was, how bad it was, and when it would end. I referenced the advice of a coworker from my younger days and how her words have stayed with me. I just found out she passed away and was reminded again of her and her words of encouragement.

Edmonia R. Wade 1940-1923

Back in the 1980s she and I spent many days over several years together at our retail job. When I left the position we said we’d always stay in touch. We didn’t. That’s just how it works. Although I never saw her again I thought of her often, laughed remembering her sense of humor, and never forgot her advice.

Hand on the Plow 

I watched the morning news but turned away as hopelessness washed over me while they reported infection rates and death tolls. Isolation was helping to end this nightmare, so they said, but for many of us it seemed an exercise in futility. When a reporter stressed the importance of perseverance even when we doubted, an old memory crossed my mind of a time when I was unsure of my own next steps.

“Nope.” Ms. Wade shook her head. “Here’s what you’re going to do.” She put her arm around my shoulder. “Keep your hand on the plow and hold on.”

I understood the metaphor. Don’t dismay, was her message. I should simply continue doing what I’d been doing.

It was the 1980s and I was a twenty-something kid working a part-time retail job. Ms. Wade was an older African-American woman who had worked there full-time for a number of years. She showed me around, trained me, and a couple weeks into the job was already my mentor and friend.

New in my position, one day I rang up a sale incorrectly. Technology not being then what it is today, that wasn’t hard to do. My mistake, which was realized later, cost the store less than twenty dollars but that was serious stuff. For an entire tense week I came to work expecting to be fired. During that time, Ms. Wade listened to my worries but smiled and encouraged me to keep my chin up and just keep doing what I was doing. I thought maybe I should quit.

“You can’t quit when things seem hopeless. That’s exactly when you don’t quit.” Ms. Wade looked at me and put her hand on her hip. “Just hold on, I told you. Keep your hand on the plow and hold on.”

I continued whining, bothered by the embarrassing thought of having to explain to everyone why I’d been fired. Not to mention I’d have to find another job. The situation seemed gloomy and I told her so. Ms. Wade patiently repeated that I should keep going even through confusion and fear. It was ok that the outcome wasn’t known. The point was to push on and take it day by day. So that’s what I did.

A few days later I was informed, unceremoniously, that personnel chalked up my mistake to inexperience and a learning curve. Because I’d continued working and demonstrated determination, they let it go. Wow! Just as Ms. Wade said, the best thing to do was carry on in spite of overwhelming bouts of apprehension.

What a valuable lesson that good woman taught me.

I turned back to the morning news. More reports of infections and deaths. So much uncertainty. When will this end? What can any of us do? I’m not the only person experiencing moments of confusion and worry. The entire world is swallowed up by these feelings as we wait for a resolution.

For now, our responsibilities are to follow advice and keep at it even during moments of doubt. Especially during moments of doubt. A solution will eventually come. In the meantime I can’t offer an answer to this mess, but thanks to Ms. Wade I can offer a bit of advice.

Keep your hand on the plow and hold on.

Stuart M. Perkins

The Local Scoop Magazine – Because Granddaddy Liked to Fish

I’m excited to let you know that my essay paying homage to Granddaddy, the reason so many in my family grew up loving the Chesapeake Bay, appears in the current issue of The Local Scoop Magazine!

It’s always a thrill to work with the kind folks at The Local Scoop. Having enjoyed time at the bay my entire life, it was especially fun to contribute to a magazine representing an area I’ve always loved.

Below is the link. Feel free to leave a comment on their site at the end of the essay. We love the feedback!

https://www.localscoopmagazine.com/life/because-granddaddy-liked-to-fish/

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to opportunities such as this. Exciting!

Stuart M. Perkins

Sharing Chicken Nuggets with The Heart of the Matter Podcast!

Another exciting announcement!

I was invited by Wynne Leon and Vicki Atkinson to join them once again on their Sharing the Heart of the Matter Podcast, a feature of The Heart of the Matter blog!

The Heart of the Matter strives to inspire writers (and readers) to discuss stories in an uplifting way, in a supportive and encouraging space, where all perspectives and viewpoints are welcomed.

I like writing – but it’s not always easy. I dislike public speaking – it’s never easy. So my hands sweated profusely while publicly speaking about writing, but Wynne and Vicki made that easy. I enjoyed every minute.

To listen, click on https://sharingtheheartofthematter.com/2023/05/05/episode-16-nuggets-of-kindness-with-stuart-perkins/ and scroll to the bottom to Episode 16.

You can also search for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Amazon, Apple, Spotify, or PocketCasts and select an episode from the show line-up.

And please follow https://sharingtheheartofthematter.com/ for excellent content provided by Wynne, Vicki, and their team.

Thanks again to all who’ve asked what I’ve been up to lately. Blogging continues to be great fun and has proven to be an exciting pathway to incredible opportunities such as this.

Stuart M. Perkins