CHAPTER 4


                          DEATH OF A GREAT MAN






               Shrugging into  my winter coat,  I fished my books  from the
          locker, and kicked  it shut with my  foot.  Kids were  everywhere
          doing  the  same.    Lockers banged,  books  dropped,  good  byes
          exchanged, and zippers hissed; sealing young bodies from the soon
          to be  encountered winter  chill.    "See ya'  tamorra' Scov,"  a
          friendly voice called.   I waved and jamming my back hard against
          the fire door, plunged into the windy afternoon.
               November in Iowa was generally harsh, cold, gray, and windy.
          The  sky,  I noticed,    was the  grayish  color of  the concrete
          sidewalk beneath my feet as  I crossed the school grounds heading
          for the  street.   The clouds tumbled  through the sky  like milk
          poured  rapidly into  a  cup of  hot  tea; unfolding,  spreading,
          expanding.  The  wind slapped at my  ears like an angered  school
          mom and I  pulled my collar up further.  Hugging my books closely
          and bowing my  head to the wind,  I quickened my steps  to hasten
          the four block trek home.
               I  was in  the  sixth  grade at  Madison  Elementary in  Des
          Moines,  Iowa.  I  was eleven years  old.  My  grades ranged from
          average in those subjects  in which I had but a  mild interest to
          excellent in those  I found fun.   I was on the  elementary track
          team and had won my  first ribbon.  I  had lots of friends,  good
          friends, and I liked most of my teachers; except for one.  School
          was ok but summers were better because there wasn't any homework.
               Things had been stressful lately, although I didn't show it,
          but it had  been nonetheless.  Dad  had been in the  hospital for
          three weeks.   I had not  seen him all  that time.  A  few months
          earlier, he  had  felt the  Lord  calling him  to  go out  as  an
          evangelist holding revival meetings.  He had been pastoring small
          country churches for  years.  Often we spent  weekends in farming
          communities all  around central Iowa.   Dad pastored  these small
          churches because many of them  needed pastors but simply were too
          small to pay a full time man to shepherd them.  Sometimes he took
          over such  churches for  months at a  time until they  grew large
          enough to  take on  the financial responsibility  of a  full time
          pastor, then moving on, he would repeat the process.
               My  mind wondered as  I walked;  crispy dry  leaves swirling
          about my feet like swarming busy bees  as I walked down the empty
          streets  near  my home.    Dad and  I had  done  a lot  of things
          together over the  years.  Like the  time we went to  Arkansas to
          camp.  The river seemed monstrous  and the tour through the hydro
          electric  dam was thrilling.   Watching men fish  at the mouth of
          the dam was even more exciting as they reeled in the  long snake-
          like  gar fish  with  the  long shiny  snouts,  oily bodies,  and
          violently flapping tails.   The drift wood  was pulled up  on the
          river banks by  the tons.  I scavenged through  the dried debris,
          wishing Danny had  come along, as  I picked  up the more  unusual
          shaped pieces and jammed them into my pockets to take home.
               Of course there were always  the frequent fishing trips down
          to the lake,  too.   Uncle  Fred, my Dad's oldest  brother, would
          hook  up the boat  and all  three of us  would drive  down to the
          lake, about thirty miles  south,  for a few hours  of fishing.  I
          especially recalled  the time we  left the boat home  and decided
          just to fish from the bank.  Getting out of the car at the top of
          the  wooded hill,  I trotted  down the  well worn path  ahead, my
          tackle  box rattling  and my  pole  bobbing.   "Be careful,"  Dad
          called from the  car far up the  hill as he watched  me disappear
          into the thick trees.  "I'll be right behind ya'" he assured.
               I was flopped on  the ground and bating my hook  by the time
          Dad came into  view.  The tree line gave way several yards before
          the lake splashed up on the bank so I could see him clearly as he
          plodded  into the  open.   Just as  he reached  the waters  edge,
          suddenly his fishing pole jerked  violently backward as though he
          had  hooked a whopper.   His head  snapped around with  an  angry
          jerk  and then  he saw  it.   His expression  immediately flashed
          astonishment.  He stared back up the winding dirt path.  His line
          had snagged in  the trees as he  walked the trail and he  had not
          noticed it until the line  ran out.  He now had  the privilege of
          trying to untangle a couple of hundred feet of  nylon line strung
          in the trees.  I'll never forget the look on his face.
               Smiling to  myself as I walked, kicking an empty can from my
          path, I remembered  another time when I had begged Dad to take me
          down one evening to what we called the "lagoon."  It was actually
          a tiny lake, really an inlet, from the Des Moines river.   It was
          full  of debris;  logs,  rusty cans,  glass  bottles, car  tires,
          broken glasses, rusting nails, bicycle wheels, beer bottles, shoe
          horns,  pocket knives,  discarded sewer  pipe,  distributer caps,
          spark plugs, clothes hangers, bobby pins, ink pins, tennis shoes,
          broken headlights, scrap wire, paper, plastic lids, mermaids, sea
          monsters, and who  knows what else lay under  those murky waters.
          It was fun to fish,  however.  Big carp and catfish  lay in those
          waters but  people rarely caught  them.  Mostly we  caught little
          tiny bullheads,  blue gills, and  chubs probably not more  than a
          couple of inches long.  It was fun though!  Often we brought home
          the  tiny shining trophies  to put in  the fish  bowls for public
          display.
               After finally convincing Dad to come along, we  unpacked the
          gear near the  edge of the water.   The summer evening  was cool,
          making fishing  comfortable, although  humid.   I crawled to  the
          edge of my favorite log,  dropped my line, and immediately pulled
          in a  tiny blue gill.   Holding it up for  Dad to see, I  saw him
          winding up to  cast.  "He's gonna'  go for those big  catfish out
          there," I  figured.   Reeling back  on his  line to  take in  the
          slack, he immediately snagged his  hook on some of the subsurface
          junk.  Removing my  catch from the hook, I dropped  it once again
          into the darkened waters watching  Dad struggle to free his line.
          A moment later he deliberately snapped his line and reeled in the
          slack.  I  studied him  as he  sat down and  once again  attached
          hook, sinker, and bobber to his line.
               Feeling the little tug on  my line, I quickly pulled another
          small fish  from the water.   He flapped frantically  against the
          fallen  log until I  was able to  remove him.  "I  wonder if I'll
          catch any more bullheads from  this spot," I mused.   Rebating, I
          dropped my line  into the chill  water over the  edge of the  log
          once again and turned to look at  Dad just as he wound up and let
          his line fly.  It struck the  water with a tiny thunder clap, the
          sinker plunging  the  hook  instantly from  sight.    His  bobber
          bounced erratically on the  surface.  I saw Dad  reverse his reel
          handle once again to remove slack, and then stopped abruptly.  He
          pulled  gently  and then  more  firmly.    His hook  had  snagged
          something  once again.   With  a firm  look of  determination, he
          again jerked his line to free his hook.  The line broke.
               As I removed  another fish, still no bullhead,  from my tiny
          hook especially employed for miniature catches, I watched  my Dad
          as he repeated reattaching hook,  sinker, and bobber to his line.
          "Surely he'll have  better luck this time," I prayed.   I watched
          him wind up, leaning backwards at the waist  to gain leverage for
          his cast.   His pole came forward,  his armed line swinging  in a
          wide arch.   Suddenly he  released his grip  as his pole  balked;
          nearly  jerking  from  his  grasp.    I  saw  what  had  happened
          immediately.  Dad spun around to see it for himself.  His line at
          snagged in a  tree directly behind him.   His line was  entangled
          high up in the branches.  I looked closely at the tree, as though
          seeing it  for the  first time,  and saw  It was  decorated as  a
          Christmas  tree with dozens of  nylon lines and colorful bobbers.
          Dad hadn't been the first to catch that tree.
               Returning my  attention  to the  task at  hand, I  continued
          pulling small fish from beneath the log.  "There must be hundreds
          of 'em down there," I thought  to myself.  Dad ought'a come  down
          here with me and stop foolin' around up there on the bank.  After
          removing a couple of more fish from my hook, I turned to see what
          Dad was doing.  His tackle box was closed, his pole disassembled,
          his  armed  were folded,  and  he sat  cross legged  on  the bank
          watching me  intently; His  face expressionless.   I chuckled  to
          myself as I walked, side stepping a fluttering newspaper, Dad and
          I had many  good times together and  I could rarely think  of any
          time that wasn't fun when I was with my Dad.
               The brusk wind  slapped at my exposed face,  my jacket edges
          flapping like  a flag on a windy day.  I kicked  through piles of
          clustered leaves,  my feet  thudding firmly on  the pavement.   I
          rounded the long stretch, really  two blocks in one because there
          was no  through street, which  passed directly in front  of Danny
          Johnson's house.  I  gazed at the familiar house as  I drifted by
          but  didn't  see anyone  stirring.    "Wonder  where Dan  is,"  I
          thought.  I hadn't recalled seeing him in school today.
               Crossing the street, I passed  all the familiar houses on my
          block.  Finally coming to Pat's  green house on the corner.   His
          dad  had just repainted last summer.   "It looks nice," I thought
          wading through more leaves bunched  about the corner of his yard.
          An  arctic blast  of cold  wind hammered  me, nearly  knocking me
          over,  as I turned the corner to walk the  remaining few yards to
          my house.   I bent my head to  ward off the cold  and crossed the
          corner of  Pat's yard, stepping  out on to  my street.   The wind
          died suddenly  and I raised my head and  froze, my feet as though
          instantly caught in gummy mud.
               Flanking  the house from nearly every side were automobiles.
          Two  or three sat parked in the  street.  Three or four more were
          pulled up into our  double gravel driveway.   The wind seemed  to
          suddenly drop another twenty degrees but it wasn't nearly as cold
          as my heart.  I knew, somehow,  what those cars meant.  They were
          not unusual.  We had company all the time.  Visiting pastors from
          out  of town, missionaries home  for a few  months, friends of my
          sisters  home from college,  visitors from church,  families from
          the country churches Dad had pastored, Uncle Jimmy stopping in as
          he drove his big truck across country, or relatives come to visit
          all  were welcome and there were  always extra cars parked in our
          drive.   Even  during his  illness  and three  week  stay in  the
          hospital,  it wasn't  unusual for friends  to drop by  to try and
          encourage Mom.   Something about  those cars made them  ominous -
          angry Iowa thunderheads, blackened and heavy with rain rolling in
          to surround the city - and for a moment I refused to move.
               The cold stiff  wind picked up  once again and I  again bent
          forward, leaning  into the wind, clutching my  books even tighter
          to my body as though they  might save me from the horrible  thing
          that was about to happen.
               My  feet  crunched  abnormally loud  on  the  gravel of  the
          driveway as I passed between to of the parked cars.  No Corky, my
          little fox terrier, to greet me today?  I recognized the cars and
          knew whom I would  see sitting in the living room.   The aluminum
          door  creaked strangely  as it  opened.   The enclosed  porch was
          empty and as cold as a morgue.  The porch swing, which my  sister
          Ruth and I  loved to  swing on  so much during  the summer,  hung
          motionless  in the  quiet of the  porch.   It needed  painting, I
          noticed.  I did not  want to open the  front door to that  living
          room.   I  stared at  the door  as  though it  were a  black cave
          waiting to swallow me whole.  As in slow motion I reached my hand
          toward  the knob  and twisted.    Tiny fragments  of conversation
          drifted through  the crack and  touched my cold  ears.   I pushed
          slightly,  the  door  giving  way,     and  walked  in,  standing
          momentarily framed in the doorway.
               Pastor  Nettleton sat  directly across  the  room, my  Dad's
          friend and close Christian brother.   There was the familiar face
          of  Joe Wilkerson.   He and  Dad had  been preaching  buddies for
          years.  Joe played the violin when  he preached, I recalled, as I
          stood in the open door.  There's Aunt Mil, Mom's sister.   I sure
          liked Aunt Mil, she made the best cookies!  Other faces loomed in
          the slightly  darkened room.   My eyes  clouded, I  couldn't make
          them out.
               Looking down  to clear my  vision, I saw Mom  sitting in the
          rocking chair.  I stood, leaving the door ajar, holding my  books
          loosely, and  waiting for her to  speak.  Her  face turned upward
          and  her voice was  low when she  spoke.  "Philip,  your Dad died
          today Son,"   My books slipped  from my fingers and  clattered to
          the floor.   I collapsed into her lap  as though the strings of a
          puppet  had just  been clipped,  writhing  uncontrollably like  a
          demented snake in her lap.
               "I know it," I sobbed, "I know it."
               "How do you know it  Honey," Mom questioned gently,  worried
          that  perhaps someone  had somehow  gotten the  message to  me at
          school.
               "I don't know," I finally said coughing, "I just know it."
          It was actual  years later I  realized that I  had known Dad  had
          died the moment  I rounded the corner of our  neighbor's yard and
          saw  the large number  of cars  parked about  our home.   Somehow
          those cars spoke of death.  Her  words had only confirmed what my
          heart had already told me.
               The weeks following Dad's death  seemed to rotate slowly.  I
          played with friends just as I  always had but somehow they seemed
          different.  Finally Danny  and his brother got up the  courage to
          speak as  we played  together in the  front yard  one day.   "I'm
          sorry about your dad, Phil," Dan's brother said softly.
               "Thanks," I mumbled, not knowing what more to say.
               "It must be kinda' hard to loose your dad."
               "Yeah, it's..." my voice trailed off.
               Dad had been led to Christ in his late twenties while living
          in Denver, Colorado and working for a local news paper.  Later he
          moved his family to  Iowa and began working for  another paper in
          the mailing department.  He fell in love with the Word of God and
          studied  it constantly.   One  of my  most vivid  memories is  of
          stumbling downstairs in  the early morning hours to  crawl in bed
          with my  folks.  There  he would be, seated  behind the snackbar-
          like breakfast counter  he had built for the  kitchen.  The table
          top would  be covered with  study books, his notebook  opened and
          various colored ink  pens scattered about.  The  Bible was always
          front and center.  He would see me pass by, blinking rapidly from
          the harsh  kitchen light  but rarely said  anything as  I passed,
          heading for the bedroom.  I  saw the same picture so many  times,
          it has been burned into my  memory for ever.  I knew,  without my
          Dad ever saying so, that the  Bible was the most important  thing
          in his life.
               I learned how to present the Gospel  to the lost by watching
          my Dad.  By age ten, I  had led every kid in the neighborhood  to
          the Lord a half a  dozen times over.  I always  followed the same
          procedure Dad did.   I even concluded my  presentation by holding
          out my hand and saying, "Sir, take my hand and let me lead you in
          a simple prayer.   Dear Lord..."  Well, that's how Dad always did
          it and he led a lot of people to Christ, I knew.
               I had heard and seen Dad preach and teach the Word dozens of
          times.  We  built a club house  in our backyard and,  you guessed
          it, held Sunday services, except it was on Saturdays, every week.
          I taught the  lesson, Jimmy Dutton always took  offerings, and of
          course we always had an altar call.
               "What you  wanna' be when  you grow up,  phil," a  friend of
          Dad's  whom  he  had led  to  Christ a  couple  of  years earlier
          inquired.
               "A preacher," I confessed without hesitation.
               "Like your dad?"
               "Sure!" I responded with enthusiasm.  "What else?"
               Dad had felt strongly the call to preach.  His weekends were
          dedicated to  preaching the Gospel  and pastoring but he  was not
          full time.   Finally  the day  came when  he felt  the full  time
          calling upon his  life.  "I think I'll get  some revival meetings
          scheduled,"  he said  to mom.    "I'll start  with meetings  just
          around  Des Moines.  Maybe some  of the country churches would be
          interested in going for a  week long meeting with preaching every
          night.  I'll  try it for awhile  that-a-way and see how  it goes.
          Then  if God opens doors farther away, I'll give up my job and go
          full time."  And so he did.
               "Mornin' Willy,"  Bob Mcferson  called from  his wound  down
          window,  "ready for  work.   Dad  jumped in  the passenger  side,
          tossing his Bible in ahead of him.
               "You bet, Brother,"  he said slamming  the door behind  him.
          The car pulled  away from  the front  of the  house, heading  for
          Euclid street and the plant where they worked.
               "Willy,"  Bob  began,  "I  been  thinkin'  about  all  we've
          discussed since  you  led  me  to Christ,"  his  southern  accent
          forming his words distinctly.   "What you reckon Heaven is gonna'
          be like."   Later Bob told  us they spent  the entire drive  into
          work speculating on what it would be like to some day be with the
          Lord in Heaven.
               Less  than  two hours  after  clocking in,  Dad  became ill.
          "Willy," his supervisor said, "you look terrible.
               "I feel terrible," he confessed.   "I better see the nurse."
          As he walked across the large plant, he felt faint and decided he
          better  run  and get  to  the  infirmary  before he  passed  out.
          Stumbling into  the nursing  facilities, he  announced he  needed
          help and promptly vomited  blood.  Within the hour he  was on his
          way to a  local Des Moines hospital.   They lost his  pulse three
          times during the trip.
               "I feel  great now," Dad  confessed.  "I gotta'  get checked
          out  of  this place  'cuz'  I got  the  revival meeting  to start
          tonight.
               "Willy," Mom  soothed, "you're  way to sick  for that.   The
          doctor  can't figure out what's causing  you to bleed internally.
          You've gotta' have some tests run to find out what's wrong.
               "No,"  Dad insisted,  "I  feel good.   I  gotta' get  out of
          here."
               "You feel good," she instructed, "because they gave you lots
          of whole blood  when you came in.   You can't leave  the hospital
          till they  figure out what's  causing the internal bleeding.   He
          lay quiet for awhile and then said,
               "Noreen,  I  think you  better  call Brother  Nettleton.   I
          believe I need to talk with him."
               After Dad's  pastor  and good  friend  had spent  some  time
          together, Mom  learned Dad had  planned his funeral.   Somehow he
          felt he would never be leaving the hospital again and he said so.
          "I'm never leaving this place alive, Noreen."
               "Oh, stop  talkin' that way Honey," Mom  sniffed, "you'll be
          out and soon."
               "No,"  he confirmed.   I'll  never leave  this place  alive.
          After three  weeks of  blood transfusions,  more than  twenty-one
          pints, and two surgeries, he died.
               Riding  with Mom  to  Wichita,  Kansas  to  visit  relatives
          perhaps three or  four years  later, I  asked her to  tell me  in
          detail of the last day she spent with Dad in the hospital.  "What
          happened that  day Mom, you've  never told  me."  It  was getting
          dark  and  she  switched  on  the  car  lights,  illuminating the
          darkened road ahead.
               "I had  prayed and  asked the Lord,"  she began  slowly, her
          voice soft and barely audible above the rush of passing air, road
          noise,  and engine noise, but growing  stronger as she conversed.
          "Your dad  had suffered  a great deal  during those  three weeks.
          Bob  Mcferson  and Joe  Wilkerson  took turns  sitting  with him.
          Toward the end he was unable  to talk.  He grew violent at  times
          and thrashed about in his bed and had to be restrained.  Bob, you
          know well Bob's a  pretty large fella' and he was  about the only
          one who could  keep him in bed  when he became violent.   Somehow
          Bob's presence and voice seemed to calm Willy during those times.
          Your  Dad was  withering away,  Philip.   His  skin had  shrunken
          tightly around his bones.  His  color was gray.  I'm pretty  sure
          he was unable to see at all in the closing days before his death.
               "Why would that of been, Mom?"
               "Well,  you remember  all  the  eye surgery  he  had on  his
          retinas?  There never seemed to be any eye contact after  he went
          into a comma the first time.   I'm pretty sure his last retina in
          his good eye  detached from all the  thrashing around he  did for
          awhile.
               "Anyway," she said, switching the turn  signals on to change
          lanes for  passing, "he steadily  grew worse.  They  removed two-
          thirds of his stomach to stop the internal bleeding but it didn't
          help.  He  was receiving blood transfusions nearly  every day and
          usually he would  improve after each transfusion for  a few hours
          but always seemed to get worse shortly thereafter.
               I told the Lord," she said dropping back into her lane after
          passing the growling truck, "I wanted  to be with him the day  he
          died.  They called then...
               "Who, Mom?"
               "The hospital, and said I better come as quickly as I could.
          I called Milly,  my sister, and she  met me there.   Willy wasn't
          able to talk  but somehow I knew he was mentally alert.  We, that
          is Milly and I, stood by his bed and talked to him.  I sang songs
          to him and talked  to him about going home  to be with the  Lord.
          He seemed to be disturbed and somehow I knew he was worried about
          leaving his family  alone.  I assured  him all would be  well and
          that the Lord would take care of us.
               "Willy," I  said, "you said you wanted  to die and they just
          wouldn't let you here in this place."
               "After  that Philip,  I pulled  the  life support  tubes and
          needles from his legs.   His vanes had collapsed in  his arms and
          they  had inserted the  IV's in  his legs.   He lay  quietly as I
          talked, prayed, and sang to him.
               Soon his breathing began to lengthen."
               "What ya mean by that Mom?" I questioned.
               "Well, Milly  and I began  to notice that longer  and longer
          periods  of  time   were  between  his  inhaling   and  exhaling.
          Eventually, he  just stopped  breathing completely.   During  the
          time I stood by his bed, Philip,  I saw Jesus appear in front  of
          me.
               "Were ya' afraid?" I interrupted.
               "No, no!  I  was at peace.  The Lord said  he would take him
          home now and I let him go.  It was a wonderful experience.
               "Was  Jesus kinda'  like a  ghost or  what," I  wondered out
          loud.
               "No,  he looked as real as any  person standing on the other
          side of the bed.  It was wonderful," she repeated.
          We  fell silent.   The  motor seemed  hushed; the  whistling wind
          sliding by  muffled; we seem to be  floating.  Something holy had
          just been  spoken  and  neither of  us  wished to  disturb    the
          tranquility.
               This  chapter  serves a  double  purpose.   It  is extremely
          important how fathers  lead their children.  My  Father taught me
          without ever really knowing he was doing so.  Although we did not
          have family devotions  on a daily bases, Mom  and Dad always took
          turns reading to my sister and I each night before we went to bed
          from Bible story books.  It was finding my Dad behind the kitchen
          table  early mornings, however, that  taught me the importance of
          the Bible.  His natural love for the lost coming to know the Lord
          taught me  by example - how to  show compassion for those outside
          of  Christ.   Personal  practice  is  perhaps the  best  teacher.
          Dad's, be an example before your children.
               I   counsel  with  many   who  come  from   terrible  family
          backgrounds.    Moms who  never cared,  brothers and  sisters who
          abused  each other, and  dads ignored, brutalized,  and sometimes
          even molested their children.  Many have nothing to look back  on
          in   their  childhood  relationships   with  their   fathers,  in
          particular,  for  which  to  be thankful.    For  the  Christian,
          however, we do have a Heavenly Father.  This is the other purpose
          of this chapter.
               Laying in bed one night  several years ago, I was meditating
          on something which I have since forgotten.  I recall I was asking
          my  Heavenly Father  something  specific  and  suddenly,  without
          warning, as I mentally prayed, I heard myself calling my Heavenly
          Father  "Dad."   I  was  horrified!    I  felt as  though  I  had
          blasphemed.   Then I remembered  that Romans 8:15 confirms  He is
          "Abba, Father," or literally "Dad."
               If you are reading this chapter and have unpleasant memories
          of your relationship with  your earthly father, or if in fact you
          never knew your  father, confess God as your  Heavenly Father and
          begin  to walk  with  a personal  relationship  with Him  through
          Christ.   Learn  to know  God as  Father through  prayer, through
          praise, and through worship.  Learn to talk with Him as though he
          were with you,  since He is, and acknowledge His presence in your
          life consistently  in everything  you face.   Allow the  Heavenly
          Father to become personal.   Jesus taught this when His disciples
          requested  that He  teach  them how  to  pray.   Jesus began  His
          teaching  by saying,  "Our  Father  which art  in  Heaven."   Our
          Father?   That's  personal.    Your Father  is  waiting for  such
          acknowledgement  no  matter  what  your  relationship  with  your
          earthly father  may or  may not have  been.   Simply acknowledge,
          confess, Him as Lord God;  not for salvation but for love's  sake
          because He loves you.


                            End Of Chapter 4

                             LIQUID PURPLE

                                   BY

                              PHIL SCOVELL




                           Copyright 1991-2004

                            By Phil Scovell

                          All Rights Reserved



          Reproduction of the book  entitled "Liquid Purple" is granted  by
          the copyright holder, Phil Scovell,  if such reproduction is done
          in the  spirit in which it  was given.  It may  not be reproduced
          and sold  for financial gain  without written  permission of  the
          copyright  holder: Phil  Scovell.    Electronic  formats  may  be
          distributed freely  but this  copyright notice  must remain  with
          each  copy and  the  text cannot  be  altered in  any  way.   For
          convenience, this copyright notification may be placed at the end
          of the document  if reproduced electronically.   If chapters  and
          sections  of the  book entitled  "Liquid Purple" is  separated in
          file  form   for  convenience  of  electronic   reproduction  and
          distribution,  this copyright notice must appear somewhere within
          each individual file.


          CONTACT INFORMATION

          Phil Scovell
          840 South Sheridan Boulevard
          Denver, Colorado  80226-8017
          Email:  phil@redwhiteandblue.org
          Web:  WWW.RedWhiteAndBlue.ORG
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