Winter Graduation Reflections: ICC & the Golden Door

As we approach my college's Winter Graduation Reception, and my impending speech for that occasion, I am reminded of a keynote address I gave back in 2011 during Winter Commencement for Illinois Central College.  Take a look...

 

 

Keynote Address

Winter Commencement, Illinois Central College

December 17, 2011

 

I would like to thank the ICC board, the President, my esteemed colleagues, and, most importantly, the graduates of 2011, for giving me the opportunity to speak today. When ICC’s President, Dr. Erwin, asked me to be the keynote address speaker for Winter Commencement, I was most humbled.  As a former graduate of this college, I was honored and excited to share what this college has done for me—not just as a faculty member, but also as a former student.

In 1990, fresh out of Stephen Decatur High School, I was a discouraged.  I was at an all-time low.  My friends were all attending four-year colleges and universities.  I, on the other hand, had failed to accomplish a strong showing on the ACT exam—specifically in the area of math.  Math was always a struggle for me—well at least it was after the 3^rd grade.  I often share with my students a story of when my 3^rd grade teacher thought it would be a great idea to have all of us recite our multiplication tables verbally in front of the class.  As a reward, any student who accomplished the goal would be invited to attend a pizza party the following week.  Now, I don’t know about you, but in 3^rd grade a pizza party is “rock star!”  All we could talk about on the playground, the bus, and in class was the fact that we would all be attending a special pizza party the following week.  The day finally came.  There I stood, to the right of my teacher’s desk, standing in front of the entire class.  I fumbled, mumbled, and bumbled.  I just couldn’t do it.  My mind went blank.  By the end of that class period, I, along with three other students, was not going to the pizza party.  I was shafted.  I was defeated.  I was hungry!  For the first time in my life, I felt education had failed me.  My Mom can remember this day vividly—I came home, slammed the front door so hard that the two windows on the sides of the door rattled.  I said, “I hate math!”  My Mother instantly waved her index finger, saying “we don’t use the word, ‘hate’ in this household!”  I told her, “I don’t care, I still hate it!”  Boy, was I difficult child.  From that moment on, math equaled one thing:  no pizza!

My attitude had shifted.  From 3^rd grade on, every time I entered a math class, I would think, “I hate math!”  My grades and achievement in the subject continued to decline.  You can only imagine how it felt for my parents, who always encouraged me to study and work hard, for me to bring a report card to them with mostly A’s and B’s and a C, or even occasionally a D in math.

Quite simply, I felt the door had been slammed in my face.  My negative attitude towards math had begun and it festered for a large portion of my education.  I can even remember being placed in a developmental math class in high school. The textbook’s cover had a photo of a large door, with a shiny brass doorknob.  Students quickly dubbed the course “Doorknob Math.”  Another door slammed in my face.  Until I became a student at ICC, I could care less about the subject. 

Many of you may be wondering how my menacing math memory has anything to do with Illinois Central College.  ICC changed my attitude towards math and my abilities and general. So what does it mean-- really mean—to attend a community college.  Well, for starters, it means you have a much greater opportunity of being employed.  With unemployment currently hovering at 8.6 percent and a recession—some dub as the ‘great recession’—looming on the foreseeable horizon, many might ask, does a college degree really help me?  Well, let’s take a look at the recent report by the Bureau of Labor Statistics.  Did you know:

·         While the national unemployment rate is currently 8.6%, college graduates have a 4.3% rate?

·         Joblessness among college graduates has been steadily declining even during the past few years?

·         And those with only a high school or no high school diploma currently sit at 14.6%?

Four out of ten graduating high school students start their college careers at community colleges, according to the College Board.  In fact, two-year colleges are among the largest and fastest growing segment of higher education.  Needless to say, a lot of students are choosing the community college as their first step in advancing their educational aspirations.

Illinois Central College affords many benefits to its students, including the opportunities to complete your basic requirements, give you time to define your major and explore different fields, strengthen your general education proficiencies, and, of course, do this at a much lower cost.  A former ICC student of mine recently made an appointment with me to review her resume.  As a recent graduate from Purdue University, she has a bright future ahead of her.  While at ICC, she fully immersed herself in a variety of activities and those activities later led to some impressive experiences, including outstanding internships, foreign travel, and numerous accolades, both educationally and personally.  That student has a message for current and now graduating students—you have made a smart move in attending Illinois Central College.  She explained in our meeting that she was able to those acquire scholarships, internships, and other professional positions, all due to the strong foundation ICC helped her build.  And further, she is leaving college without debt—something that very few students can claim.

I’ve often said that community college students are among the hardest working students on the face of the planet.  And I mean that, with great sincerity.  Years ago, I taught at a four-year university.  As I’ve always done, shortly before spring break, I would ask how many of my students had vacation plans.  In my experience, 80% of my four-year college students were planning a spring break trip.  Not at ICC.  When polling students here, generally only 2-4 in a class of 25 planned to take a trip to a far-away beach location, where they would party like a rock star… and have their pizza, too.  Our students are hard workers.  They have one, two, and sometimes even three jobs.  And while they’re working, they’re also managing their family commitments.  Some have children.  Some have spouses.  Some are caring for ailing grandparents or are assuming the care of younger siblings.  Our students work.  And they do all of this while attending classes—often full-time.  I am so inspired by the students at Illinois Central College.  You, as new graduates of this college, should be commended for the life lessons and skills you’ve acquired in your time here at ICC.  You have learned how to multitask. You have learned how to manage time. You have learned how to remain focused.  You have learned how to prioritize.  These are lessons that few, in the first two years of college, learn.  And that’s exactly why you, as community college graduates, will go into the next stage of life with great success.

In many ways, I’ve always viewed the community college to be similar to the Statue of Liberty of higher education.  The statue’s inscription reads:

 "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

 The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.   Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

 I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

 

As a student, I felt the door was slammed in my face in 3^rd grade.  And it was, in many ways, padlocked until I arrived at Illinois Central College in 1990.  When walking through the front entrance of ICC, I had no idea how much it would transform my entire life.  The professors at this college encouraged, challenged, and cultivated my educational appetite.  Their love of teaching was evident in every class, and the dedication among staff and administration was also most evident.  I even had a math teacher—Dr. Preller—who did the unthinkable—improved my attitude towards the dreaded subject.  While he never rewarded me with pizza, I did walk out of his class believing that I could do better.  It was the beginning of a most promising and beautiful journey.  Illinois Central College became my golden door.  I still say today, I feel enormously blessed to have the opportunity work in such a fine, and even transformative, educational institution.  I hope you all view Illinois Central College to be your golden door.  You’ve now entered a time in your life when things can and will happen.  So go forth—and believe in yourself.  Believe in your dreams.  Be a proud graduate of Illinois Central College, just like I am.  And as Winston Churchill once said, “never give up!  Never give up! Never give up!”

 

 

Belly Laugh: Why Deckin' the Halls After Halloween Reduces High Blood Pressure

The pumpkins and gourds have turned into a mush, oozing down the decking on our front porch.  Our tiny, porcelain black kitty statuette, lays on its side, sadly collecting dust after strong winds knocked the poor little guy off his perch.  And the "BOO!" wreath, don't even get me started on that one-- it has seen better days.

Ah, yes!  Halloween was upon us, and now it has withered like the once brightly-colored fall leaves that just weeks ago seemed so beautiful. The candy bowl, long emptied, has been cleaned and returned to the storage closet.  And the air has turned cold.  Bitter.  News of snowflake sightings in our area were reported as early as today.

Time to decorate for the next holiday, right?  I know, images of brightly-colored turkeys, adorned in multi-colored hues, resin pilgrims with their festive hats, and orange mini lights wrapped around our bannister might come to mind.  Nope.  Not for this guy.

When we purchased our home back in 2006, we did it for the right reason:  it is a perfect home for Christmas decorating.  I know, many of you are thinking, "You purchased  your home for one holiday?"  Yes.  We did. 

Our home was built in 1906, towards the end of the gilded Victorian, gingerbread-laden era, and at the beginning of a new one:  Arts and Crafts.  Shortly after we moved into our "new" old home, I spent hours researching the palettes of color, wallpaper, and themes commonly used during the period when our home was first built.  To my ultimate delight, I found that warm hues of greens, reds, gold, among other earthy-tones were dominant.  I can remember yelling at Rich, "We bought the perfect house!  It's going to be grand for Christmas!  Just like I thought it would!"  Eight years later, the home has been completely remodeled.  From sage green and burnished reds, to warm, butterscotch golds, the house is covered in the traditional colors of my favorite holiday:  Christmas!

As a child, I was truly enchanted by the sights and sounds of Christmas.  Most importantly, I was inspired by the story-- the real story-- of Christmas.  Even then, at a very young age, I thought that Jesus deserved the most spectacular party-- ever-- and that I had to make sure I did his birthday justice.  Some claim that by decorating early, I have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas.  You know, the themes of hope, love, and giving back to others.  But that's just not the case.  In fact, it's the very reason why I begin decorating-- to the "shock and awe" (and not in a good way, always) from some naysayers.

I truly treasure spending time with those I love during the holidays. I also truly love giving back, and doing things for others in celebration of the big day.  So every year, like clockwork, I take that dingy "BOO!" wreath down, collect the rotten pumpkins and gourds, and begin making countless trips to my attic, where an entire forest of Christmas trees sit amongst the dusty rafters.  And I begin this journey, which takes about two weeks, on November 1st.  I know, I can see and feel the eyes rolling.  Just hear me out...

When you decorate early for the one of the largest holidays of the year, the benefits abound:

• The house is cleaned and ready for multiple holidays including: Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day.
• Stress is greatly reduced.  One major job checked off your "to do" list, with only shopping and cooking remaining.
• Instead of rushing to get that tree (Or TREES, in my case) up immediately after Thanksgiving, you just wash the dishes, and sit and enjoy the beauty of Christmas emanating from your living room.
• No need to cut a fresh tree and later worry about needles, endless watering, and fire hazards.  You can't use a "real" tree when you decorate two months before the holiday.  See, it's environmentally friendly, too.
• Spend the holidays doing what is most important:  enjoying the hustle/bustle of your conversations, not the hustle/bustle of your feet.
• When everyone else complains about it snowing on November 12, you can smile, sit back, and bask in the glory of an impending, and inspiring season under your glistening white lights and  rich aroma of your White Pine Yankee Candle.
• Kids love it.  They really do!  As soon as our family arrives for Thanksgiving, they don't have to wait another day to see the lights, enjoy the sounds, or experience the beauty of the season.  It's all there.  At that very moment.
• You only have to have one set of festive dishes.  Yep. That's right.  I use Christmas dishes at Thanksgiving.  (I know, more eye rolls, but stick with me for a moment)  It wouldn't "look" right if I had plates adorned with turkeys and pilgrims when my house is covered in tinsel, lush garland, twinkling lights, and multiple trees decked out in all their grandeur.

So that's my case.  I still have friends, colleagues, family members, and neighbors who often balk at my insistence of decorating so early.  But I find it equally interesting that ever since I started this tradition-- almost twenty years ago-- I have very little stress around the holidays.

In fact, I get to be inspired by the hope, the love, the generosity of the season, all while avoiding back-breaking, stress-inducing, blood pressure-raising work during the short time in between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Give it a try sometime.  Trust me,  you won't regret it.  Enjoy the season-- the full season-- without the dread and overwhelming feelings that can be produced by forcing too much "fun" into such a short time span.

I began this year, like clock work, on November 1st.  So far, I have two trees assembled, garland on my staircase, stockings hung with care, and my favorite White Pine Yankee candle lit.  It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas on Elm Street. 

Belly Laugh: Don't Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Part 2

My next sporting attempt was soccer.  For some reason, soccer didn’t seem to create the fear I often had with baseball or football. After all, you can’t tackle people in soccer and all you have to do is kick a ball around.  At least that’s what I initially thought.  I played six years of soccer.  In those six years, I made only one goal.  It was for the other team.  I can remember that day vividly.  It was sunny, with cotton-candy clouds in the sky.  My grandparents had driven all the way from Washington, Illinois to see my game in Decatur.  Mom had purchased the expensive name-brand sodas for the first time ever in my tenure with soccer as a half-time snack.  I was so excited!  Mom, always budget conscious, would often purchase the Kroger brand sodas when it was my turn for snacks.  I always dreaded my turn at snack time, as most of my teammates came from upper middle class homes and carried the finest quality snacks and soda for their snack time turn.  This day was different.  I was on cloud nine.  My grandparents were there to watch me play and I had Coca Cola, Mountain Dew and 7-UP to serve!  Life was grand!

My grandmother always carried her camera with her, as she was a journalist for several newspapers in the Peoria, Illinois area.  That day, as always, she had her camera with her.  For almost fifteen years after this particular game, one photo would be prominently hung above the towel rack in my grandfather’s bathroom.  It was a picture of my team playing soccer that very day.  I was featured, although my head was in the air, counting clouds.  My grandfather had taken a pen and circled me, with my name written above “Brent.”  Then, he circled the rest of the team, on the opposite side of the photo, with the words, “Where the Action is.” That about summed up my soccer experience.  I did love clouds.  I loved the breezes in the open playing fields.  I liked “suiting up” in my shin guards, long black socks, green polyester jersey, and of course, protective cup. My favorite part of soccer had to be half-time. I’ve always been a sucker for refreshments.

That game seemed to fly by that day.  Towards the end of the game, it happened.  We had just taken a five-minute coach-requested break to “huddle.”  After that, the referees had us switch sides, since the playing fields were never even and it was only fair to have each team take a turn playing on the opposite side of the field.  For some reason, I forgot all that happened.  I can remember running out to the field with wild anticipation. I wanted to impress my grandparents—show my Grandpa that I was really cool.  When the ball was kicked, it landed directly in front of me.  I started kicking that ball, and kicking it hard.  I couldn’t believe it!  There was no one trying to steal it from me.  I was chasing that ball with an ease I had never felt before.  Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see my parents screaming.  My Mom seemed to have her hands in the air, wildly waving, while my Dad had his over his eyes.  I thought to myself, why would my Dad cover his eyes when I’m about to make my first—ever—goal in soccer?  Chariots of Fire was playing in my head…. Da na na naaa naa… Da na na naa naa… I was invincible!  No one was going to stop me now!  Within six feet of the goal post, I took my right foot and pulled it back. With a sharp punt, I successfully kicked the crap out of that ball.  It hit the net so hard that the entire goal post frame veered back.  I DID IT!!!  I made a goal in soccer!  I was on the top of the world!  And the most important people in my life were there to experience it!  I jumped up and down.  Up and down.

For some reason, the crowd watching didn’t share my excitement. Parents sitting in their lawn chairs shook their heads.  A hush came over the entire field.  My coach had turned his face in pure disgust.  It was like time stood still.  And yet,  I still had no idea what I had done.  That was, until my teammates came running up to me. “You stupid dork! You made a goal for the OTHER TEAM!”  “What a dork!”  I had just made a goal for the wrong team.  Even my name-brand treats wouldn’t make up for this.  I would be the target of every joke for the rest of the season.  And I was.  My only goal, for the wrong team, marked the end of my soccer career.  It also cemented in my mind that I wasn’t “wired” to do sports.

Belly Laugh: "Don't Take Me Out to the Ballgame: Part One"

As a child, I always wanted to do the things the other neighborhood boys did.  Some played baseball.  Some played soccer.  Others even took to water skiing and football.  One thing always held me back:  I am horribly uncoordinated.  Frankly, I’m just not “wired” for sports. I flinched at baseballs on every pitch; I counted cloud formations when playing soccer and the whole idea of being tackled in football mortified me.  It just didn’t seem like a civil thing to do to another human being.

My first “athletic” experience was baseball.  My Dad, who always felt being involved in sports was a critical duty of a young man, constantly encouraged me to get involved in the local sporting programs.  One summer, Dad thought it would be a great idea to sign me up for a local baseball little league team.  I can remember it vividly, because I told him I had no interest in playing baseball.  He would persist, and inevitably, we would argue.  One day, Dad asked me why I didn’t like baseball. I told him that the boys in my class threw the ball too hard.  He laughed and said, “Well, let’s help you get past that fear!”  I was excited.  My Dad worked very hard when I was young—often-working 12-14 hour shifts, even on weekends.  There weren’t many opportunities to bond through playtime.  This particular day was different! I was going to “play ball” in the backyard with my Dad.  The sun was harsh that day with a slight breeze in the air.  Dad handed me a leather glove and asked me to walk about ten feet away from him.  We were going to play catch!  I was thrilled with anticipation! 

BAAMMM!  Like a bug slamming into a windshield on clear summer day, it happened!  The problem, however, is that I played the role of the“bug” and the ball served as the windshield.  That ball hit me at a ferocious speed.  I could swear my Dad even broke the sound barrier.  The ball slammed directly into my shoulder with a punch that threw me several feet back.  I was numb.  I didn’t even see it coming.  For some reason, I thought my Dad would “play nice” since I was his son.  Apparently, I was wrong.  Why couldn’t he start with a soft pitch?  Could I call a time out? I can remember having tears flow down my face and my Dad telling me, “You’ve got to get used to it—it’s only a ball, it’s not going to hurt you.”  But it DID hurt.  My Mom, watching from the kitchen window yelled at my Father to stop throwing it so hard.  “He’s got to get used to it, Susie!  Trust me; I know what I’m doing!”  I was so relieved my Mom was there to defend me.  But the pitches didn’t stop, and I never caught a single one.  I know my Dad had the best of intentions, but for some reason, I couldn’t understand his methodology. 

The next week, Mom took me to the local park district office.  I asked Mom why we were going to the park district and she explained that we needed to pay for my new uniform.  “Uniform?  For what?”  I asked.  “For your new baseball team—remember, you’re playing Little League this summer!”  I slumped into the back seat and sulked. I thought I had already made it clear that I had no intentions of playing baseball.  If my lackluster weekend “catch” performance didn’t cement the idea, what could?  Mom pulled into the front parking spot and quickly jumped out of the car.  I can remember the dust from the white gravel road still circling the windshield as I patiently awaited Mom’s return.  A man with a red ball cap stood and talked to my Mom for a few minutes, Mom exchanged cash with him, and the ball cap man handed her a plastic bundle, along with a sheet of paper.  When Mom got into the car, she beamed from ear to ear as she handed me my new uniform and schedule of games.  My heart sunk, and my throat seemed tight. I wanted so much to please my Dad.  And I knew this would do it. But I also knew I would be a huge failure in baseball.  My fear had long overtaken my ability to believe in my own potential when it came to sports. 

I took the uniform, opened the bundle as if it were a present on Christmas morning, smiled graciously, and said, “Mom, it’s a really nice uniform, and I’ll wear it.  But I’m not playing baseball.”  Understanding the sincerity in my voice, my Mom promptly returned the uniform and took me for an ice cream cone. That was the end of my baseball career.

Hiccup: When it Comes to Erma, Bullies Need Not Apply

I can still feel the crunch of my face against the cold, hard metal.  The entire row of school lockers would shift forward with my body, firmly pressed against them, and my shoulders would burn in an instant, piercing pain.  Sometimes my hair would be pulled; other times the books I held would be knocked from my hands.  But regardless of the attack, there were always hateful words.  It was seventh grade.  Like the chimes in a grandfather clock, they would show up.  I knew they would come.  Sometimes I would glance down the hall in anticipation; sometimes I would hold my head down, waiting, waiting for the inevitable.  Most of my classmates wouldn't even acknowledge what was happening.  I was a lone soldier in this battle--lacking even the simplest knowledge of defensive strategy.

Then came Erma.  Big, beautiful Erma.  At the age of 13, she seemed at least six feet tall.  With broad shoulders, a silky yet brawny voice, and a smile that easily lit up the solar system, Erma was my beacon of light in the darkness.  Erma and I attended grade school together.  Parsons Elementary was a typical suburban-style school, filled mostly with children from middle to upper middle income levels.  Erma was one of a few black girls who attended Parsons.  She always laughed at my jokes and loved my coveted pencil box, filled with smelly erasers, and freshly sharpened pencils.   I grew to treasure her friendship, and in return, she always stuck up for me.  Even though I knew we came from different neighborhoods, from different sides of the city, there was something that always drew me close to her.  As a child, I knew I didn’t fit the typical mold.  I can remember being different from a very young age.  Maybe that was what drew me to Erma.  She was one of a few minorities in my primarily all-white primary school.  I, on the other hand, was on a road to becoming who God had intended me to be.  I just didn’t know it back then.

With a crash, my head would bang into the vented upper locker.  I could feel my hip pressed against the hard, bulky combination lock.  My books, scattered all about, would end up with torn binding and my weeks’ worth of homework would be spewed on the floor surrounding the hallway.  The books were of particular concern, because I knew I wouldn't be able to explain to my parents why they had been damaged.  “You’re such a faggot!” They would scream. High pitched laughter and intimidating cackles would echo in the hallways.  I was hopeless.  I was alone.  And no one cared.

Then, with the swiftness of a comic book super hero, Erma appeared!  As I attempted to gain my balance and push myself up, the double doors adjacent to my locker would fly open in thunderous climax.  The morning’s sun rays would blind my eyes as I looked in the direction of the doors, feeling the swoosh of air as the doors slammed against the polished ceramic tile walls.  There she would stand-- hands on her hips with eyes piercing my avengers: “YOU DON’T MESS WITH MY PEOPLE!” She would scream.  “IF I HEAR EVEN A PEEP OUT OF YOU, I’M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS!”  Erma was blessed with a natural method of motivation.  And motivate she did!  The bullies would scamper out of the hallway faster than I had the opportunity to fully stand up.  Sometimes one of them would slip and fall on the shiny, waxed floor tiles.  Even then, I had a sense of empathy for them.  Erma’s face would quickly go from harsh to light as she would beam at me, and say, “You let me know if they say or do anything and I’ll take care of them for you.”  Erma would then bend down and pick up each of my wrinkled, foot-imprinted homework assignments, smoothing each one out tenderly, and shoot me a smile that warmed my heart with relief and gratitude. 

Erma never forgot me.  I never forgot her.  From grade school to middle school, I always could count on her to defend and protect me.  I felt strong in the presence of Erma.  Big, beautiful Erma. 

Belly Laugh: 16th Birthday Dreams and the Chicken Car Who Stole Them

 

 

 

 

Yes, this is the famous "Chicken Car" from Decatur, IL. And yes, that is a youthful Brent standing alongside the streamer and balloon adorned "infamous" vehicle. The car was given to me as a "gift" for my 16th birthday. For years my parents promised in prideful tones to buy me this lovely, custom-painted vehicular specimen when I turned 16. Laughter always ensued shortly after their pronouncements. I, too, laughed... nervously-- mostly because I knew my parents could be capable of many things, and mischief of this magnitude was par for the course. Well, that day came. My 16th birthday. No gift. Not even a simple "happy birthday." No cake.  No balloons.  Nothing. Discouraged and bordering on depression, I went out to mow the lawn.  As I mowed, I noticed a peculiar sight. All up and down Adams Drive, neighbors suddenly appeared on their porches in wild anticipation-- as if a parade of sorts would soon be arriving. I, too, watched with great curiosity. Then the horns blew... people scampered to street; wildly waving as a car... THAT car... slowly rumbled down the road. Stunned, frightened, nauseous, I peered over, eyes squinting, to see who was driving that chicken. Yep. It was Mom and Dad. And yep, they pulled right into our driveway. With great excitement, my Dad jumped out, beaming ear-to-ear, and said, "this is your special day, my son, here are the keys to your first car!" "Only the best for my son," he said. I thought I was going to be sick. I said, "You're kidding, right?!?  My sister, Natalie, grabbed the door of that blinged - out - psychedelic former Cadillac and said, "you should be ashamed! Mom and Dad spent good money on this car! I would be proud to drive this to school! Just think, you'll never lose it in the parking lot!" My parents insisted I have photos taken with my "new car."  Please note the pinwheel I'm holding.  Mom handed it to me shortly before the first "click."  She said, "I know how you like shiny things-- here's a pinwheel to celebrate!"  My parents' prank lasted for hours, and they even required me to pick up my friends and cruise down the most popular street in town, Eldorado-- a street literally packed with kids from my high school. The entire neighborhood was in on it, too. And I was completely convinced my parents had really done it this time. Fortunately, they had only rented the car for the day. The joke was on me. I can still remember thinking, in prayerful gratitude, "thank you, Lord, for preventing the inevitable onslaught of teasing, strange looks, and the ultimate loss of friendship" this car would most certainly create. One thing is for sure, my 16th birthday was a memorable one. And I cherish this photo. Thankfully 26 years later, my parents have never changed. I love them, and I especially love them for renting--not buying--this "gem" of modern day transportation. 

Copyright 2014 © Brent Goken  All Rights Reserved.