My granddaughter’s new mother-in-law charged our side of the family $95 a chair at the wedding, then pawned my late wife’s ring to keep her open bar pouring. “She’s dead, Ron, and the bar is for the living,” she said. She had no idea whose phone number my wife wrote on the back of her last recipe card.
Noriko died three Marches ago in a rented hospital bed in our front room, holding a recipe card for persimmon pie.
She asked for it that morning. I thought she wanted me to finally learn the crust.
On the back, in her slanted pencil, was a phone number and two letters. D.T.
I never called it.
I put the card in my wallet behind a punch card for a car wash that closed in 2019, and I left it there.
The ring was supposed to go to Giselle. A small sapphire in old yellow gold, bought in 1971 with two months of cannery pay.
Giselle is the quiet one. Twenty-six, works nights at a dialysis clinic, says maybe forty words at Thanksgiving.
When she got engaged to Zain Gleason, I gave her the ring in Noriko’s own box.
She held it a long time and didn’t say anything at all.
Then the invitations came.
Under the RSVP card was a payment link.
“Reception seating contribution: $95 per guest.”
I called Giselle that night.
“It’s fine, Grandpa,” she said. “Tricia’s doing the reception. Zain’s family rented the barn.”
It wasn’t fine. But I paid for eleven chairs, because our whole side was me, my sister’s three kids and their wives, and two cousins on Social Security.
$1,045.
Tricia Gleason emailed me the receipt with a smiley face.
The wedding was at a vineyard barn outside Lodi. String lights, a wall of champagne glasses, a sign at the door with the bride’s name in gold.
Tricia’s husband Ken kept telling people the bar was “top shelf, all night.”
All night lasted until nine-fifteen.
Then the bartender started shaking his head.
At nine-forty the bar opened again, and Tricia was laughing louder than anyone in the room.
That’s when I looked at Giselle’s hand.
The sapphire was gone.
She’d worn it down the aisle. I saw her touch it twice during the vows.
“Where’s Grandma’s ring?” I said.
She looked across the room at Tricia. She didn’t answer me.
I found Tricia at the end of the bar with two of Ken’s golf friends.
“The ring,” I said.
She didn’t put down her glass.
“Oh, Ron. We had a little shortfall on the bar tab. It’s a loan. I’ll have it back Monday.”
“You took it off her hand?”
“She gave it to me. Giselle understands family.”
Then she took a yellow slip out of her clutch and waved it at me like she’d won a raffle.
$1,800. Signed at 2:15 that afternoon, between the photos and the cocktail hour.
“She’s dead, Ron,” she said. “And the bar is for the living.”
Ken laughed. Zain looked at his shoes.
I could read the top of the slip from where I stood.
TRUJILLO LOAN AND JEWELRY.
And the phone number under it.
I walked out to the gravel lot because my hands had started doing something I didn’t like.
I took out my wallet. The card had gone soft as a dish towel.
D.T. And the number.
The same seven digits I’d just read off that slip.
I’d looked at that card maybe two hundred times and never once thought of a pawn shop.
I called it standing between the valet stand and somebody’s Jaguar.
It rang once.
“Trujillo.”
A man’s voice, low, with an engine idling behind it.
“My name is Ronald Wong,” I said. “My wife was Noriko.”
Nothing on the line for so long I checked the screen.
“Mr. Wong,” he said. “I’ve had a sapphire on my counter since two-fifteen. I’ve been waiting three years for somebody to call me off that card.”
“How do you know my wife?”
“Where are you right now?”
I told him.
“Stay out of that woman’s way. Twenty-five minutes.”
He hung up before I could ask him anything else.
Inside, Tricia had the microphone. Something about how both families had given EVERYTHING to make this night happen.
People clapped. I’d paid for eleven of them to clap.
Giselle sat at the head table with her champagne untouched.
She checked her phone. Then again.
I went and stood by the bar, ten feet from Tricia, and waited.
Twenty-two minutes later the glasses on the champagne wall started to buzz.
Not thunder.
Engines.
Nine motorcycles came up the vineyard road in a line and backed in along the side of the barn, one after another, like they’d done it a hundred times.
The DJ cut the music.
Somebody’s aunt said, “Oh my GOD, who invited THEM?”
Tricia didn’t even turn around. “If that’s Zain’s work friends, SOMEBODY TELL THEM THERE ARE NO MORE SEATS.”
The man in front pulled off his half helmet in the doorway.
Late fifties. A short silver beard kept close. Old faded ink down both arms to the wrists, a black tank top under a leather vest gone soft at the edges.
He walked straight past the seating chart with a manila folder in one hand.
He stopped next to me, half a step in front of me, and he didn’t look at me. He looked at Tricia.
“Mrs. Gleason,” he said. “You signed a ticket at my counter this afternoon.”
Her smile stayed. Her hand went to her clutch.
“That’s a private matter. We’ll settle it Monday.”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “That ring had a hold on it before you ever walked in my door. And you didn’t READ WHAT YOU SIGNED.”
“What hold?” she said. “Whose hold?”
He didn’t answer her.
Then Giselle stood up at the head table. My quiet granddaughter.
“Mine,” she said. “Mine and Grandma’s. We set it up the summer before she died.”
Tricia turned so fast her drink went across the tablecloth.
And Demetrius Trujillo opened the folder.
Three papers on the bar
He didn’t hand the folder to anybody. He laid it flat on the bar, between Tricia’s wet tablecloth and a bowl of lemon wedges, and took out three sheets of paper one at a time.
The first was a copy of the yellow slip. Same $1,800. Same 2:15. Tricia’s signature at the bottom, big, with a loop on the T.
Somebody had drawn a red box around one line of small print above her name.
Pledger declares under penalty of law that she is the sole owner of the property pledged.
The second sheet had the shop’s name across the top and the word HOLD under it in typewriter capitals.
Under that was my wife’s ring, written up the way you’d describe a stranger.
Yellow gold. Blue sapphire, approx. six tenths of a carat. Engraved inside the band: R TO N 71.
There were three signatures at the bottom. Demetrius Trujillo. Giselle Wong.
And Noriko Wong, in the same slanted hand I’d been carrying in my wallet for three years.
June 9, 2023.
The third was a Polaroid of the ring on a square of black velvet, with a little steel ruler laid beside it.
Tricia picked up the hold sheet before I could. Her lips moved while she read.
“What is this,” she said. “Layaway?”
“It’s a hold,” Demetrius said.
“On a ring she GAVE me.”
“On a ring her grandmother brought to my counter,” he said, “and asked me to watch for.”
I looked at the date again.
June of 2023 was the summer Noriko slept most afternoons. Giselle drove her to the cancer center in Stockton on Tuesdays.
On Fridays, Noriko said, they went to the fabric store in Lodi.
She never came home with any fabric. I never asked.
There was one more paper in the folder. Older than the others, brown along the fold, the kind of thin paper that comes off a carbon pad.
Demetrius kept his hand flat on it.
“What’s that one?” I said.
He closed the folder over it.
“That one’s for you, Mr. Wong,” he said. “Not in here.”
R to N 71
I bought that ring in 1971 at a jeweler on Weber Avenue in Stockton. I was eighteen. Noriko was twenty-one and already smarter than me about everything but engines.
It cost two months of what I made on the peach line at the cannery.
The engraving was three dollars extra. The man said most people do initials. Just R and N.
I said I wanted the to in there. I don’t know why. I wanted it to say somebody gave it to somebody.
We married that August. Our daughter Lina came in 1975. We bought the house on Pine Street the year after, for thirty-eight thousand dollars, which seemed like all the money in California.
In October of 1986 the cannery cut the second shift. I was on the second shift.
I was home all day for the first time since I was fifteen. I fixed things that weren’t broken.
The house payment was a hundred and ninety-four dollars a month. By November we were two behind.
The bank sent a letter on blue paper. I put it in the drawer under the phone.
The second letter I didn’t open at all.
Noriko said she would talk to the bank. By January the letters stopped coming.
I figured her brother in Fresno had sent money. I never asked her. A man who can’t make his house payment does not ask his wife how she made it.
That winter the sapphire looked bluer. Like a motel pool.
I said something once. She said she’d had it cleaned at a place on Cherokee Lane.
She started cooking with her left hand in her apron pocket. Stirring with her right, the other hand tucked away like she was cold.
Every Friday she wrapped a slice of pie in wax paper and put it in her purse. For the girls at the packing shed, she said.
Persimmon in the fall. Out of the freezer the rest of the year.
The next September I came home from first shift and she was at the sink, and the ring looked like itself again.
I said so.
She laughed and burned the toast.
That’s all I had of 1986. A blue drawer full of letters and a ring that changed color twice.
Lina died in the tule fog on Highway 99 in 2009. Giselle was nine. Her father had been gone since before she could walk.
So it was the two of us who raised her. Mostly it was Noriko.
Noriko taught her the pie. Giselle got the crust by the time she was twelve. I never did.
“Your hands are too warm, Ron,” Noriko said. “Cannery hands. The butter melts before it knows what it’s for.”
Giselle stood at that counter with her grandmother every fall for fourteen years, and the two of them barely said ten words to each other. They didn’t need to.
At the barn, Demetrius was still standing at my shoulder with the folder closed under his hand.
The bartender had both palms flat on the bar, waiting for somebody to tell him what to do.
Tricia had already crossed the room to the DJ table.
The microphone
“Folks,” Tricia said into it. “Folks, sorry. Little misunderstanding.”
She laughed. Some of Ken’s side laughed with her.
“Some of Ron’s… friends… are here about a business matter of MINE, and they were just leaving. Let’s get this party back on.”
Nobody got anything back on. The DJ looked at her and kept his hands off the board.
Out past the open doors the nine bikes sat in a row on the gravel. The riders were standing by them, helmets off, not smoking, not talking.
One of them was holding the door of a Camry for an old woman who’d decided to go home early.
Ken came over first. He still had a golf tee behind his ear from somewhere.
“Ron,” he said. “Christ. It’s a loan. She said Monday. You couldn’t wait until Monday?”
“It’s my wife’s ring,” I said.
“It’s Giselle’s ring. And Giselle gave it to her.”
One of the golf friends, a big pink man named Callum, already had his phone out.
“I’m calling the sheriff,” he said. “This is harassment. Nine of them.”
“Go ahead,” Demetrius said. “Substation’s on Turner Road. Sergeant buys his kid’s guitar strings from me.”
Callum held the phone a while and then put it back in his pocket.
Tricia came back with the microphone still in her hand. The cord didn’t reach, so she stood at the end of it like a dog on a chain.
“I want to know what this is,” she said. “I want to know who sends a biker gang to a wedding over eighteen hundred dollars I said I would pay back.”
“Nobody sent me,” Demetrius said. “He called.”
She looked at me. I could see her decide something.
“Fine,” she said. “You want your ring, Ron? Pay for it. Eighteen hundred. That’s what it’s worth, apparently.”
So I did the stupid thing. I took out my checkbook.
I still carry one. I’m seventy-three.
I wrote Trujillo Loan and Jewelry on the line and the date and started on the amount, and Tricia leaned over to watch.
“Well,” she said. “Look who found his checkbook. The Wong side finally pays its share.”
Ken laughed. It was the same laugh as before.
“Make it out to me, Ron,” Tricia said. “I’ll handle him.”
Demetrius put two fingers on my checkbook and slid it back across the bar to me.
“Not from you,” he said.
“Then from her,” I said.
“Not from anybody. That ring doesn’t come out for money, Mr. Wong.”
“Then what does it come out for?”
He looked at my jacket. At the left side, where I keep my wallet.
“It comes out for the card,” he said.
Alejandra’s clipboard
The woman who ran the barn found me before I had an answer for him.
Her name tag said ALEJANDRA, EVENTS. Black blazer, a headset around her neck, a clipboard against her chest like it was holding her up.
“Sir,” she said. “Are the motorcycles staying? Two of them are in the fire lane.”
Before I could say anything, one of the riders outside heard the words fire lane, walked his bike back twenty feet by the handlebars, and left it on its stand.
She stared at that for a second.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Thank you.”
I asked her about the bar.
I didn’t mean anything by it. I wanted to know how a top shelf all night ends at nine-fifteen.
She didn’t want to tell me. You could see it. The Gleasons were the client.
Then she looked over at the head table, at Giselle sitting there in white with her bare hand flat on the cloth, and she turned the clipboard around.
It was the rental contract. GLEASON EVENT. 140 GUESTS.
Barn, lights, tables, linens. Seating for 140 included.
I read that line twice.
Under it was the bar.
Beer and wine package. House red, house white, two domestic drafts. Four hours, 5:15 p.m. to 9:15 p.m.
There was nothing about a top shelf. There was nothing about all night.
“She asked me at noon what it would cost to keep it open till midnight,” Alejandra said. “Seventeen-fifty, cash, up front. I told her that.”
“At noon,” I said.
“She came back at nine-thirty-eight with an envelope. Hundreds.” She looked at her clipboard and not at me. “Seventeen-fifty exactly. She kept the change in her purse.”
So Tricia knew at noon.
She knew the bar would stop at nine-fifteen, and she knew what it cost to keep it going, and two hours and fifteen minutes later she was signing a pawn ticket in Lodi.
Ken’s top shelf was house red with the label turned toward the wall.
“Nobody at this barn charged anybody for a chair, Mr. Wong,” Alejandra said. “I want you to know that.”
I took out my phone. I’m slow with it.
I found the email with the smiley face and opened the receipt for $1,045, and this time I scrolled past the amount, down to the small print at the bottom.
Paid to: TRICIA G PERSONAL.
Giselle’s phone
I walked to the head table. Nobody stopped me.
Zain had his hand on the back of Giselle’s chair. He took it off when I got there, like I’d caught him at something.
Giselle’s phone was face up next to her champagne glass.
It lit up while I stood there.
D. Trujillo: He’s inside with me. Waiting on him now.
Above it was an older one. I could read it upside down. I’ve read a lot of things upside down. Shipping manifests, foremen’s clipboards.
D. Trujillo, 2:16 PM: It’s here. Hers. Holding it like she said. Waiting for him to call.
Two-sixteen.
I’d stood next to my granddaughter for the cake cutting at seven-thirty and the first dance at eight. She’d known the whole time.
“You knew at two o’clock,” I said.
“One-thirty,” Giselle said.
She didn’t look at Zain. She looked at me.
“She came in the bridal room while Esmeralda was doing my hair,” she said. “She said the bar would stop at nine-fifteen. She said Zain’s family would be humiliated in front of everybody they know.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. She said if I didn’t help, she’d get on the microphone and tell everybody our side hadn’t paid our share.”
“I paid our share.”
“I know, Grandpa.”
She turned the ring finger of her left hand with her right thumb. There was nothing on it to turn.
“So I took it off and gave it to her,” she said. “She asked me where she’d even take a thing like that on a Saturday.”
Zain was looking at her now. He wasn’t looking at his shoes.
“I told her Trujillo’s on Kettleman Lane,” Giselle said. “Open till six on Saturdays. Fair prices.”
October 17, 1986
Demetrius walked me out to the gravel lot. He didn’t ask. He went, and I went after him.
The riders were spread along the side of the barn with their machines. Some of them were older than him.
One had a grandson’s car seat strapped to his back rest with bungee cords, empty. Nobody explained that. I never asked.
They nodded at me like I was somebody they’d been told about.
Demetrius stopped under the light over the side door. Moths were going at it.
He opened the folder and took out the brown paper and unfolded it once.
TRUJILLO LOAN & JEWELRY. KETTLEMAN LANE, LODI.
10/17/86. Ladies ring, yellow gold, blue stone, engr. R TO N 71. Loan: $400.00.
Pledger: Noriko Wong. And our address on Pine Street, in a man’s square printing.
I stood there with it.
“My father wrote that ticket,” Demetrius said. “I was nineteen. I was behind the counter because I’d quit school and he wanted me where he could see me.”
Down the right side of the ticket was a column of dates. Fridays. Every one of them with $20 next to it in pencil.
Next to most of the twenties, in a kid’s block capitals, somebody had written PIE.
“She came in every Friday,” he said. “Twenty dollars and a slice in wax paper. For the boy, she told my father.”
I counted the Fridays. I counted them the way I used to count cases on a pallet, two fingers down the column.
Forty-one.
“Nobody brought me anything in 1986,” Demetrius said. “My mother was gone. My father didn’t talk. Your wife brought me pie for forty-one Fridays and asked me what I was reading.”
“What were you reading?”
“Motorcycle magazines. She asked anyway.”
The house payment had been a hundred and ninety-four dollars. Two behind was three hundred and eighty-eight.
Four hundred dollars. Twelve left over.
“She told my father her husband didn’t know,” he said. “He said a wife’s name on a ticket and the husband doesn’t know is half of what we write. He said it like it was nothing. She didn’t laugh.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his vest and took something out and held it out to me on his open palm.
A ring. Thin, a cheap gold plating gone green at the edges. A blue glass stone.
Bluer than a sapphire. Like a motel pool.
“She bought that on Cherokee Lane for nine dollars,” he said. “She wore it all that winter. When she paid off the last Friday, my father gave her back her ring and she gave him that one. He said keep it. She said she didn’t want it in the house.”
“So he kept it.”
“In the drawer under the register. Thirty years. When he died I found it, and the ticket, and I couldn’t throw out either one.”
I held the glass ring.
She’d stood at our stove with this in her apron pocket. Every night. While I sat at the table and read the want ads and felt sorry for myself.
“She came back in June of ’23,” he said. “The granddaughter drove. Your wife was very thin. She brought a pie.”
“Persimmon,” I said.
“Out of the freezer.”
He told it straight, like reading an inventory.
Noriko said the ring was going to Giselle someday. She said there would be a wedding and in-laws and she’d seen enough of the world to know what a ring can turn into when somebody’s short.
She said if it ever came across his counter from any hand but hers or Giselle’s, buy it. Give them whatever they ask. Put it in the back. Don’t sell it to anybody.
“And then wait,” Demetrius said. “She was clear on that. Don’t call the girl’s family. Don’t call the police. Wait for Ron.”
“Why me?”
“I asked her that. What if he never calls?”
“What did she say?”
“She said, then he never needed to know.” He looked at the ticket in my hand. “And if he calls, it means it mattered. Then he gets all of it.”
That’s why she’d wanted the card in her hand that morning.
Not so I’d learn the crust. So I’d have it.
“Your wife made me write the hold that way,” he said. “Card first. Then the ring. Her rules.”
Through the side door the DJ’s speakers popped, and Tricia’s voice came out of them again.
The head table
When I walked back in, Tricia was standing on the little stage by the dance floor with the microphone and the cord stretched as far as it would go.
“No, I’m going to say this,” she said. “Because everybody’s staring at ME like I did something.”
Ken was saying her name. She didn’t hear him.
“I want everybody here to understand what kind of family my son married into. A dead woman went to a PAWN SHOP and set a trap. For her own family. And her granddaughter sat at that table all night and let it happen. Smiling at me. Letting me thank her.”
Some people looked at their plates. The aunt who’d asked who invited THEM was nodding.
“I spent MONTHS on this wedding,” Tricia said. “I booked this barn. I did the flowers. I did the seating chart, which, by the way, nobody thanked me for. And when the bar ran short, did the Wongs offer? No. So I handled it. Like I handle everything.”
I walked down the middle of the room between the tables. The floor was old planks and it gave a little under me.
“And now he walks in here,” she said, “with his biker friend, and they want to make ME the criminal over a LOAN—”
I took out my wallet at the head table.
I took out the car wash punch card first, because it was in the way. Then the recipe card.
It was so soft by then it bent over my fingers.
I looked at her pencil one more time. Persimmon. 2 c. pulp. The number on the back. D.T.
Then I put it in Demetrius’s hand.
He turned it over, read the back, and nodded once. He put the card in the inside pocket of his vest, where the glass ring had been.
Then he took out a small brown coin envelope and tipped it, and the sapphire came out into his palm, and he put it in mine.
It was warm from him.
I gave it to Giselle. She put it on herself. Her hands were steady. Mine weren’t.
“That is MY collateral,” Tricia said into the microphone. “I have a TICKET. That’s theft. He just stole it in front of a hundred people.”
“You have a loan, Mrs. Gleason,” Demetrius said. He didn’t raise his voice. The room was quiet enough that he didn’t need to. “Eighteen hundred dollars, thirty days. Every ticket I write goes to the Lodi police Monday morning. That’s the law in this state. Yours goes too.”
“Fine. Let it.”
“There’s a notes line on every ticket,” he said. “That line’s mine. Right now it’s blank.”
“What would you even write?”
“Whether the pledger owned what she pledged.”
She took that one. You could see it go down.
“Ken,” she said. “Pay him.”
Ken had his hands in his pockets. “Pay him for what? The ring’s on her finger, Trish.”
“Pay him so he writes the right thing. Pay him or I will never forgive you, Ken, I swear to God.”
I set my phone on the head table next to Ken’s glass. The receipt was still open on it.
$1,045.00. Paid to: TRICIA G PERSONAL.
I didn’t say anything.
Ken picked it up and held it at arm’s length because he wouldn’t wear his readers at a party.
“What’s this,” he said.
“That’s the chairs, Ken. Somebody had to cover the…”
“Seating’s in the rental, Mr. Gleason,” Alejandra said from the side of the room. She had the clipboard against her chest again. “It’s always been in the rental.”
Ken looked at his wife for a long time.
“You told me Grandpa Ron offered it,” Zain said.
Nobody had heard him say ten words all night. Tricia turned on the stage.
“What?”
“The ring,” Zain said. “You came out of the bridal room and told me Giselle’s grandpa wanted it to help with the bar. You said it was his idea.”
“I said what I had to say to keep this night from being a disaster, Zain. Because your father wasn’t going to do anything. Because nobody in this family ever does anything but me. I am the only one who—”
“Mom,” Zain said. “Get off the stage.”
She didn’t get off. She stood there with the microphone hanging down by her knee. The cord had pulled tight across the dance floor and one of Ken’s golf friends stepped over it.
Ken took out his wallet.
“Do you take cards,” he said.
“I take cards,” Demetrius said. He had a little reader that clipped onto his phone. He’d brought it.
Ken paid eighteen hundred dollars plus the day’s fee for a ring that was already on somebody else’s hand.
He signed the screen with his finger. Then he handed his phone back to me first, before Demetrius’s, and then he said, “This is the most expensive house red I never drank,” and nobody laughed, not even him.
Demetrius tore the redemption stub off the bottom of a ticket book and wrote REDEEMED across Tricia’s line and gave Ken the stub.
“Notes line stays blank,” he said.
Tricia put the microphone on the DJ table, very carefully, like it might go off. Then she walked out the side door into the lot where the bikes were.
She stopped short when she saw them. Nine men with their helmets in their hands.
One of them stepped back and held the door of her car for her.
Zain sat down next to Giselle and put his hand on the back of her chair again. He didn’t take it off this time.
“I’ll send back the chairs tonight, sir,” he said to me. “All eleven.”
I put my hand on my jacket where the wallet was. It felt thin.
Demetrius saw that.
“That’s my ticket now,” he said. “Her rules.”
Out on the gravel, nine engines turned over one after another, and the champagne wall buzzed again.
The Friday before Thanksgiving
Trujillo Loan and Jewelry is a narrow place on Kettleman Lane between a tire shop and a taqueria. Guitars on the wall. A glass case of watches nobody came back for.
Behind the register there’s a corkboard.
The brown ticket from 1986 is pinned to it. The glass ring hangs on a pushpin through its band. Under both of them is a recipe card for persimmon pie, soft as a dish towel, with the number side facing the wall.
Demetrius took it down when I came in and laid it on the counter.
He gave me a blank ticket off his pad and a pen.
I copied it there at the counter. 2 c. pulp. 1 c. sugar. Butter COLD. Ice water, a little at a time. She’d underlined COLD twice.
Zain’s money had come the night of the wedding, like he said. $1,045. For the chairs. No smiley face.
I put the copy in my wallet behind the car wash card.
Demetrius pinned the real one back where it was.
On Thanksgiving I made the pie in our kitchen on Pine Street. The front room is a front room again. We ate at the table where the bed used to be.
The crust came out thick and gray at the edges. Cannery hands.
Giselle came at noon with Zain. The ring was on her hand. She cut a slice of my pie and looked at the crust and pressed it with her thumb.
“Colder water, Grandpa,” she said. “And stop touching it so much. Grandma said you always touch it. She said you can’t leave anything alone that you love, so you ruin it. She said that’s why she married you, though. You’d ruin it trying.”
That’s more than forty words. I counted later.
The next morning was a Friday.
I wrapped a slice in wax paper, put it on the seat of the truck, and drove it to Kettleman Lane.
If this one stayed with you, pass it to somebody whose family kept the lights on in a year nobody talks about.
For more stories about unexpected kindness from the motorcycle community, read the biker who came to Grandma’s diner every March and never got to pay and the judge who said five hundred feet. And for another family’s unforgettable Christmas, there’s the pastor’s wife who brought our Christmas box.
