Pacemaker

Another Modern Day Medical Dilemma

You know, it has become very popular in the United States to implant an electronic device in the torso of people--mostly rich, elderly people--which regulates their heartbeat. Sometimes this device is called a "pacemaker". Does that sound familiar?

One of my elderly friends had one installed in his body and was completely satisfied.

The battery of the device had a ten-year guarantee and before the guarantee expired he planned to have the doctors replace his battery with a new one.

"Hell," he told me once, "my heart could go on beating forever".

Which made me think: what if his body wears out and he wants to die? Does the pacemaker keep right on keeping his heart beating? And if his heart is beating--can the doctors ever pronounce him dead? And if he has real good insurance, and if the doctors are not too scrupulous (as many MDs seem to be these days), could they keep him/it going for years? Hmmm?

The dream of eternal life realized in a kind of bizarre way!

Oddly enough, after his wife died, my "elderly friend" quoted above solved all these hypothetical problems by blowing his brains out with a pistol so I guess his pacemakered-heart ran out of blood to pump so the paramedics that were called must have pronounced his bloodless body dead.

Isn't modern medicine wonderful?

Tomasito, 2008

...

Calvin Clayton in memoriam

Goodbye, Uncle Cal--No More Cold Feet.

Uncle Cal R.I.P.

“Love itself shall linger on.”

Mom had another story about Uncle Cal's death:

After his futile operation, while Uncle Cal was in the hospital waiting to die, Mom and Dad drove down to San Diego and rented a motel room near the hospital so they could visit him every day.

Uncle Cal got weaker and weaker and then slipped into a coma.

His body looked dead and did not respond in any way to his family or to Mom and Dad, but the monitor the hospital had rigged up over his bed showed that his heart was still beating.

For three days Uncle Cal lay in this coma while my Mother, Dad and other relatives took turns holding his hand and praying for, if not his recovery, than at least for a merciful death.

On the morning of the fourth day, my mother told me she asked one of the doctors if there was any hope that Uncle Cal would recover.

"Not really, lady,' said the young doctor, "Actually he's been dead for a couple of days now, but we just haven't turned off the machines."

A little later the doctors turned off their machines and pronounced Uncle Cal defunct.

"It wasn't fair." Mom said, "We didn't know when to start grieving! And maybe poor Cal's body didn't even know it was dead!"

Cal's insurance company was paying about $20,000 per day for his hospitalization in the Intensive Care Unit, and I assume some people were in no real hurry to pronounce him officially dead.

Tomasito, 2008

...

Kez com

Skipping Stones

After I posted the hunting with a repeating shotgun blog, I received the following E-note from Bro Joe's son, Kez, who is grown, married and has a little girl about the same age as I was in the Colorado Alligators story.

See how things go---like ripples in a pond down the years and down the years.

Tomasito, 2008

Tom,

It has been a real pleasure reading your "blog" and getting a picture of things that Dad always told us about.

I happen to have that 12 gauge "repeater" from Grandpa sitting in a bag in my closet. It breaks down into two pieces and fits neatly into a fold over canvas bag. It is in need of some blueing and probably a good cleaning, but I know that 10 years ago it still shot birds.

I've got the 12 gauge from Grandpa Wold and a breakdown 4-10 from Grandpa Johnson, I don't hunt at all anymore, but I treasure them both.

paz,
Kez

My reply:

Hi Kez:
>
> Thanks for the note.
>
> Makes me feel good that you have the shotguns but don't
> hunt anymore. They were an important tool in the old
> days--but times have sure changed! They make good relics and
> museum pieces though--like old suits of armor,
>
> The Imhotep Construction Company blog is going to continue
> with some family stories that you will enjoy, I think.
>
> Thanks again for the encouraging letter!
>
> All well here,
>
> Love, T&T

And from Kez...

And when you catch a fish you can generally put it back a little wiser, not so much a bird full of pellets.

Kez

...

Pop's Question

Pop’s Question

For some months in my life while I was pilgrimming, I was living very free.

I didn’t pay much attention to commerce or any money transactions.

Whatever I had or whatever I earned was OK.

I didn’t question what would happen if I ran out of dough or if I would starve of if I would never get rich or anything like that.

For a while I even had the policy of giving whatever I had as far as money was concerned away every night so I could start every morning fresh and empty—you could say, “broke”—though I didn’t think of it that way at all. For me it was just kind of an experiment in living.

One afternoon during “Children's Hour” when I was explaining this to my father (we boys called him “Pop”) he asked me why I had lived that way.

“Well, a long time ago you told us kids we shouldn’t be overly concerned with money.” I said.

“Yeah.” He replied, “But I never thought you’d believe me!”

Tomasito, 2008

...

Cold Feet

Cold Feet

Dad dearly loved my mother's brother Calvin: "Uncle Cal".

Uncle Cal moved his family from New Mexico to California in the early nineteen-forties-- several years before my family moved there. Cal's choice was to live near the sea in the then small village of San Diego.

We often visited these relatives on holidays and, after we children were grown and gone, Mom and Dad still enjoyed visiting them. As I have said, Cal and Dad were the best of friends.

When Cal was old he had heart-bypass surgery. He only lived a few days in pain after the operation and then died--but Dad had visited Cal in the hospital before his death.

Dad said Cal had gone to the doctor in the first place because he was bothered by cold feet.

The doctor had convinced him that cold feet was a sign of poor blood circulation which could be improved by a nice, expensive bypass operation. (Unfortunately, Uncle Cal had good medical insurance, which would pay for the doctor's work.)

Dad said Cal had told him before he died that he should have bought a warm pair of socks instead.

Tomasito, 2008

...

The Single-action Shotgun

The Single-action Shotgun

There's another story Dad used to tell which I would like to share with you.

Shortly after Dad married Mom, she gave him a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun as a birthday present. This was a beautiful, expensive (for her) and practical gift because Dad loved to hunt ducks on the slough ponds near Albuquerque. This shotgun would fire about eight times from it's magazine without re-loading--- you just pumped the gun's lever to eject the spent shell and it would automatically re-load itself and be ready to fire again--- you didn't need to take your eye off the moving target--- the flying duck.

In these long-ago days, thousands of ducks would be flying their migration path south in the autumn and north in the spring and Dad's hunting would provide tasty meals for the young couple and their friends. (The city grew, the ponds were drained and the ducks have vanished.)

Dad would hunt with his friend Danny Jucket (isn't that a lovely name?) and a Mexican I know only as "The Mexican".

Dad and Danny had repeating shotguns. The Mexican had only a single-action shotgun. This meant that The Mexican's gun had to be manually re-loaded after every shot.

Dad said The Mexican would place a shotgun shell between every finger of both hands and when the ducks came into range he would shoot, break the gun open which ejected the empty shell, slip in another shell, close the gun, aim and shoot again with lightning-like speed.

"He could shoot almost as fast as we could with our repeaters and got about as many ducks too!"

This incredible skill pleased Dad so well that he was still remembering it with pleasure sixty years later and thousands of miles away as we shared a glass of port in the California afternoon.

When I reached twelve years of age--the age when a boy became a man back then--Dad bought me, as a birthday gift, a single-action "410" shotgun.

...

The Skillful Worker

Inside the Las Vegas New Mexico High School Gym.

The Skillful Worker

I have always been lucky and some of the luckiest things that have happened to me were to get divorced twice, quit my high-paying university teaching job, go broke, do dumb laboring-class work all over the world and spend some of my adult years back at home with my parents.

Many parents can't stand the sight of their own children and can't wait to get them out of the house but my parents relished having their children around, even when we were grown up.

For a year or so, I was like a full-time gardener for my parents---and I considered the entire mountainside behind their A-frame house overlooking the Ventura River near Ojai, California, our backyard garden.

I made a little concrete goldfish pond, a funky outdoor chapel, and a winding path to the top of the hill ("Laughing Mountain", Mom called it.) and made a lot of other "property improvements to other people's property" as we used to say.

Every afternoon at four, Dad and I would meet at the kitchen bar-table and he would pour two small glasses of Gallo port wine. We would click glasses and he would start to talk. He had some stories about his life experiences and was one of the best storytellers I have ever heard. He had a very dry, deadpan Norwegian sense of humor, which I may have inherited.

I called our afternoon meetings "The Children's Hour" after Longfellow's poem, and Dad always thought that was funny.

One of his stories was about a blind piano tuner.

When Dad was quite young, about 21, I suppose, he worked as a Circulation Manager for the Albuquerque Tribune newspaper. Part of his job was to visit towns all over New Mexico connected by rail—not highway-- in those days to arrange for the "big city" newspapers to be sold.

One day he was in Las Vegas, New Mexico. He was through there often and stayed at a hotel, which was frequented by travelling salesmen and such.

There was a blind piano tuner staying at the same hotel. This blind man would go from little town to little town tuning pianos for schools and for those wealthy people who had them in their homes. Dad said that in the "old days" of his youth there was not much work that a blind person could do, but tuning pianos was one thing a blind person could do as well as a person with sight.

It happened that the blind piano tuner was late coming back to the hotel one evening and the hotel owner got worried about him. Maybe the blind man had had an accident--maybe he had fallen into a ditch or something--so the hotel owner asked Dad to walk out and try to find the blind man. The hotel owner knew that the piano tuner had gone to the high school to tune the piano in their auditorium. So, Dad checked the route the blind man would probably have walked without finding him. by the time Dad had reached the high school it was dark.

Dad said he found the gymnasium door, which was unlocked, and went in. He called and the blind man answered from the stage at the other end of the building

"The room was pitch black dark until I found and turned on the lights," Dad said. "I found the blind man working on the stage surrounded by parts of the piano which he was repairing. There were pieces of that piano all over the stage and before I turned on the lights it was totally dark! Of course that didn't matter to a blind man, but it was a big surprise to me. How did he remember where all the parts were?"

After sixty years, Dad was still amazed by this, to him, wonderful feat.

Tomasito, 2008

...

Colorado Alligators part two

Colorado Alligators (continued)

Every day was excitement and fun from before dawn to long after dark, with the rushing noise of the river and wind in the tall pine treetops providing background music and little dusty-blue butterflies, fragrant mountain flowers and a million other captivating things enthralling us.

After nightfall, good, young Mom read bedtime stories to us from a collection of "Mother West Wind Tales" in which talking animal children were listening to their own bedtime stories as told by wise old Grandfather Frog. ("'Chug-a-rum', said Grandfather Frog...") Bro Joe and I, listening raptly, tucked into our cosy little bed in the stern-end of the egg-shaped house trailer were always fast asleep long before Dad came in from his "dance job" at the hotel.

And almost every day Joe and I would explore the incredible green summer world of the river canyon. I now realize that our expeditions never carried us more than a hundred yards from our trailer, but to my child self, these forays into the unknown had the mystery of seeking the headwaters of the Nile.

Brother Joe added to this illusion by embroidering his own tales as we walked-tales about the alligators that infested the high grass of the fishermen's trails near the Big Thompson River.

Joe always loved Natural Science but I think he had thought long and hard about the possibility of alligators living in the Colorado Rockies too-since he was, after all, not so much older than me.

I was easily convinced that alligators were a present and mortal danger to us. And "'Gators always eat you", Joe assured me, "starting at your feet". Oh, horror.

The particular day I am remembering, we were deep in the tall grass and far from the safety of our tiny trailer-home when Brother Joe suddenly shouted "ALLIGATORS!" and started running as fast as he could go back in the direction we had come.

Oh, my God, the fear!

I started to run after him with all my might, but the dense river-grass, which rose far over my head, also entangled my feet.

Suddenly I fell, with both feet, into one of the beaver holes, which in those long-ago days still existed in the almost wild river environment. (The humans have multiplied; the beavers have subtracted.)

I screamed mindlessly that the alligators had me and gave up my life in childish despair.

Brother Joe returned, in due time, to comfort me and pull me, muddy, wet and weeping, out of the beaver hole.

The experience probably did me good.

Perhaps I learned that alligators did not frequent the streams of the Rocky Mountains and that I would probably survive this and other grave dangers in my life by the grace of God and with the aid of my Guardian Angel and Brother Joe.

I probably threatened "to tell Mother" on Brother Joe for scaring me out of my wits, but I probably never did since the punishment might be that we could not play together for a while--and I couldn't stand that.

Also Mom was not too keen on "tattle-tales"--informing was not big in her list of good childish behavior, and would sometimes backfire and get the informer spanked along with the guilty brother!

Tomasito, October 2008

...

Colorado Alligators part one

Colorado Alligators

Big Brother Joe was (and is) the best of big brothers.

I have seen 8mm home movies Dad and Mom made of us as little children-- me in dresses before I could walk; Bro Joe and me a little later wearing the child-sized "sailor suits" so much fancied by the stylish young couples of my parent's generation-(I have never attained greater elegance!).

In these flickering family movies of long ago I am always receiving the fond caresses of Brother Joe. He is always patting my head or helping me to walk or whatever--and this was not just the work of my movie director Mom. Joe was really like that!

But, of course, a big brother must have his fun too and it is his duty to toughen his little brother for the blows of life. All brothers, as a part of their "socialization and growing up" learn to accept the casual incidents of this educational process.

One summer, as good luck would have it, my Dad was hired to play drums in a dance band at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado for the summer season. This was when the Second World War was about to end such civilian fun and games "for the duration".

I was five going on six at the time.

My family "camped out" for the summer in a very small house trailer at "Craig's Court" on the banks of the fresh and delicious snow-fed torrent, the Big Thompson River.

That this was paradise for a child I accepted, as no more than my due--in fact, from my limited experience, I assumed that all children were living as we were living.

(continued tomorrow)

...

Mystery of Life

Tanya Photo

LIFE: The first and Last Mystery

Life goes on and on and on.

It seems I have been and done a lot of things in the 27 year duration of this Independent Study Course (Life 501 0 credits), (in fact more than I ever imagined could be possible), and yet all these events and personality changes have fit seamlessly into my allotted time. Isn't it incredibly neat the way in which Life works?

Sometimes even the disasters bring a certain wisdom, which can apparently only be got thru shocking, devastating sorrow, like this one which I reported in “earthprobe”:

“SMALL PLANE CRASHES” (headline from The Honolulu Advertiser clipping, December 1972)

"A small private plane crashed yesterday into the sea near Maui. The pilot and the two passengers were apparently killed instantly. The plane hit the water with great impact and searchers have discovered no trace of the occupants. A plastic-wrapped paperbound book was found floating on the water with a small amount of debris which made it possible to identify the..."

I wonder, Elizabeth, which book it was?

...

Grandpa Teaches Firearm Safety

Grandpa teaches Firearm Safety

I must have been about five years old. The memory is hazy but intact.

Mom and dad had taken big brother Joe and gone to Chicago to see the Big City in the family car.
They left me with Mom's parents Grandma and Grandpa Clayton in their rustic wooden cabin in the Apple Mountains near my hometown, Albuquerque, New Mexico. (If you can spell it, you must be a native.)

Oh, what a wonderful cabin it was!

Though I missed my family passionately, I liked that cabin; the smell of the woodstove fire early in the morning. The silence and sounds of the surrounding pine forested mountains.

I was a little afraid of Grandpa though.

He was such a tough old coot, with his seldom-shaved whiskers so scratchy when he affectionately rubbed his cheek on mine. But Grandpa was a Real Cowboy of the sort I thought I might someday be when I grew up. (I'm still waiting.)

He was tough and stringy and seemed always to be working with wood--I still love the sawdusty turpentiney smell of freshly cut wood!

Grandpa smoked "roll-your-own" cigarettes and always had the paperboard disk which hung from the closing strings of his Bull Durham tobacco bag dangling out of his shirt pocket. He would give me the white cotton tobacco bag to play with when it was empty. I liked the way the empty bag smelled too.

The only smell I didn't like around there was their outdoor toilet! And I didn't like the big slow, shiny flies that buzzed around it either or the newspapers for toilet paper. That outhouse was so different from our clean modern bathroom with soft toilet paper in the valley.

But the reddish light outlining the knotholes in the thin pine plank walls in the daylight hours made even the outhouse intriguing.

Grandma, always busy in her kitchen, was entirely nice.

She was soft and snugly and smelled like vanilla cookies. I was never afraid of her.
Early in the morning Grandma usually made pancakes with crisp fried bacon on the side.

Grandpa would pour blackstrap molasses over the melting butter on my pancakes for me. That pungent bittersweet fluid was very different from the mild, sweet maple syrup we used at home. In fact, it was awful, but since that's what cowboys always ate, Grandpa said, I never dared complain.

He poured a little coffee into my morning mug of milk too. I never got that kind of treatment at home because Mom said coffee "would stunt my growth".

Grandpa treated me almost like a little grown up man.

Being a Real Cowboy, Grandpa owned several real guns and the one I found most fascinating and tempting was the long .44 pistol he kept handy under his bed pillow.

This “six-gun” was always loaded because that was the kind of frontiersman Grandpa was and I'm not exaggerating a bit when I say that he came from a generation of white men in the American southwest that really did "carry the law on their hip".

Grandpa's .44 was terrible and fascinating to me. I had only glimpsed it, but I knew where it always was; right under his pillow.

One day Grandpa said: "Tommy, would you like to shoot my pistol?"

"Sure, Grandpa!" (A dream comes true.)

"Come on then. Let's go outside."

Carrying the gun, Grandpa led me out behind the woodshed and into the stony lot back of his mountain cabin. He placed an empty tin can on a fallen log with the tan-colored rise of the hill close behind it.

"There’s your target Tommy,” he said, "Do you think you can hit that?"

Grandpa helped me hold the gun. It was much bigger and heavier than I imagined it would be. I had seen Tom Mix and Hopalong Cassidy twirl their six-guns and shoot bad guys in the Saturday matinees at the Kimo Theater--I even had my own toy cap gun for my cowboy play too, but this heavy, complicated piece of steel and ivory was more than I expected.

"Look, Tommy, I'll put my hand behind yours to help keep it steady. Now aim straight and pull the trigger."

Grandpa's big lean strong hand was right behind mine, carrying most of the weight of the dangerous pistol. I strained to pull the trigger. It always had looked so easy...(kid's play: "Bang, bang, you're dead!")

Suddenly the gun fired with a deafening explosion.

The recoil, the "kick", carried my hand and arm back over my head. If Grandpa hadn't controlled the weapon with his hand it probably could have broken my arm or knocked out some teeth.

("That gun always kicks like a mule,” he said.)

As it was, my hand was numb with shock and the detonation had almost deafened me.

I have no idea where the big lead bullet went, but the can hadn't been touched.

"Well, Tommy, that was pretty good. Would you like to shoot it again?"

"No, Grandpa."

Grandpa took the gun back inside and put it back under his pillow.

I had learned firearm safety.

...

Foundation (poem)

Foundation

Built on the rock--

Like the Old People say,

Built on the rock--

To last more than a day.

When the floods come down

And the earthquakes shock,

The house will stand

If it's built on the rock.

...

Fred and Barbara Clayton

There is nothing new here.

No, nothing new.

It’s the same old things

The same old way

But still, it touches you.

...

Letter to the Companions

The Imhotep Construction Company

On Time and Under Budget

To:
The companions of the
Imhotep Construction Company

19 September, 1999, Vladivostok, Russian Far East

Dear Colleagues,

I know I'm a little slow getting this report out, but I also know that time is of next to no importance to you-all.

You know how busy I've been with one thing and another since I signed up for the “graduate level course in life”, (LIFE 501, 0 credits, University of Hard Knocks) and started out on what has turned out to be one hell of a long field trip! (See earlier reports: “earthprobe” by Starship (me), l976, little Red Hen Publishing Company, Jenner, California {now a rare book}, and “Big Flow's Cosmic Repair Works”, Thomas F. Wold; private printing of 19 slim scroll copies, 1979, Snug Harbor, California {extremely rare!}).

It's been twenty-six years of the time that flies in this part of the continuum and the little excursion I expected to be so much fun in 1972 when I was sitting, dream-planning in Coco's Restaurant in Waikiki at famous “Kau-Kau Korner” (with a Kau-Kau Burger and fries) has led me, by the mazy pathways we think of as "chance", to this dormitory room in Vladivostok in what was then The Soviet Union and which is now God Knows What in the Russian Far East

Now that we can communicate by E-mail, I'm gonna send you-all a full report. And please forgive my grammar. I'm gonna use modern American slang which is, I think, appropriate for the modern American scribe I always thought I would be and now, apparently, am. As always, one gets what one pays for, and, as I have paid with a good portion of my lifetime--now you will get paid with this report and I hope it satisfies some of the requirements for the course.

I would like to "pass". (But not just now. I'd like to look around a few more corners.)
You don't need to reply to these report letters in words. Just keep your sixth sense circuit open and I'll probably get the message. I will use words though since that’s what a scribe like me does and, besides, I want to send copies of this to some other friends around the planet who like words.

I'm working full time too, so these reports will be short and sweet. It's 3 a.m. now, and I haven't been a night owl since I was "Tommy the Drummer" on Hotel Street in old Honolulu of the nineteen hundred and sixties. So goodnight.

Give my love to all the old Company friends on this and the other side of the veil and remember:

"we shall gather at the river".

Respectfully,
Thomas F. Wold, The Plugged-in Pilgrim

...

ICC Intro part two

(continued from page three)

When I left Hawaii, I dreamed I would someday write three books and I wanted to use these titles: "earth probe", "Big Flow's Cosmic Repair Works" and "The Imhotep Construction Company".

I have written the first two titles and published them in small editions myself because I did not have the patience to find and sell my work to a publisher and also because I wanted to "do it all myself".

I called my publishing company “The Little Red Hen Publishing Company” after the bird in the children’s story, who not only "does it all herself", but who also reaps all the rewards herself. (I'm still waiting for the rewards!)

The revolution in electronic communication took place while I was on the road.
Now I have a computer too, so this “virtual book”, "Imhotep Construction Company", will be transmitted first to those who want to read it as an electronic publication--and then, perhaps, it will be converted into an old fashioned printed book for those, like me, who still love the touch, odor and company of a “real” book.

The Web Designer of this web-book is my dear wife, Tanya.

The title I chose for this book, “Imhotep Construction Company”, shows the fanciful connection I feel with the creative seekers of the past. "Imhotep" is the name of the mythic architect/designer/builder of the Great Pyramid in Egypt but few today know anything certain about him. Perhaps "Imhotep" was not an individual at all but a “school” of engineers and builders who lived over a period of several lifetimes using the same name.

By using the title "Imhotep Construction Company" for this book, I wish to honor those old builders and to affirm that artifacts of human culture and the endless qualities of the human spirit continue to evolve. The “construction” necessary for this construction company is not a monument made of stone nor even one built of flesh, bone and blood since “Spiritual Engineering” may be our ultimate human task

I plan to include anything I want to in this volume: memories, yarns, poems, whatever--so don’t expect it to fit neatly into any literary genre.

That's all for now. Good reading.

Tomasito

ICC Intro part one

IMHOTEP CONSTRUCTION COMPANY

On time and under budget-No job too small

Dear Reader,

Some years ago I started out from my adopted home in Hawaii on a journey that I hoped would bring me some insight into "the Meaning of Life". I was divorced for the second time and burned out with my teaching job at Leeward Community College. One of my courses, entitled “Communicating Human Thought”, had taught me that though humans certainly could communicate, there was little of value that they would communicate. The USA was embroiled in the Viet Nam fiasco, Nixon was President and my best students had run away to Canada or wherever to escape the draft and the insanity.

I sold the sailboat I had been living on in the Ala Wai Harbor, finished off what little "business" I had in Hawaii and flew to California to say goodbye to my parents with a vague plan of traveling around the world close to the equator.

I had only been at my parents’ home for a few days when I got a letter from a colleague in Hawaii informing me that my best friend, Elizabeth English, had been killed in the crash of a small private plane into the sea offshore Maui. This abrupt end to our physical relationship, the connection that meant the most to me at the time, truly cut the umbilical cord to my past. I was disconsolate but free, white and fairly young.

Elizabeth and I had hoped to meet somewhere during my travels, (Maybe in that little café in Venice where if you sit long enough you will see everyone you know.) so I thought I might as well continue travelling since I had nothing else in mind to do. I thought my trip would take my mind off my loss and would last, at the most, one year.

But once I got started I found I liked travelling more than anything else I had ever done. I slowly went around the world, mainly on the equator, and, when I got back to Hawaii two years later, I was not ready to settle down by any means. So I just kept moving--and, in a way, I still am.

Of course since that first trip I have spent several years back in the States (not Hawaii), but I have also lived and worked in South America, Africa, Europe and Asia. It has been an interesting life for me and I would like to add to the “Book of Life” by sharing with you some of the things I have thought about and done. Though I have accomplished nothing of note, I have tried to live in what I hoped was a “mythic way”.

(To be continued)

Tomasito (Thomas F. Wold)

...

ICC cover

This is it!

Tomasito 2008


...

ICC cover

...

On Time and Under Budget
(No job too small!)

THE IMHOTEP CONSTRUCTION COMPANY
by
Tomasito


...