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Our goal is to help you by delivering amazing quotes to bring inspiration, personal growth, love and happiness to your everyday life. In the days prior to the American Revolution, Pennsylvania, which was not only a Quaker, but also a pacifist, colony restricted her residents from crossing over the Susquehanna River and taking up Indian lands. Marylanders had no such compulsion and were more inclined to travel up a river, than to worry about where a rather arbitrary political boundary might cross through the woods. William grew up predominantly in York Co., PA where he met and married Catherine Houts on 27 Oct 1778, on his 21st birthday. Whether William participated in the Revolutionary War as a soldier, or not, is unknown, but it seems highly likely that he would have.
From subsequent US census records, John, at one point, stated that he was born in Pennsylvania, but in another census, he said he was born in Maryland. In the first US census taken in 1790, William Geery is found with his family in Baltimore Co., Maryland.
This last stay in Maryland was of a short duration and they were probably gone in the early 1790a€™s. They must have lived fairly close to one of the original settlements in that state, as Williama€™s oldest son, John Geery, soon met a young girl, by the name of Elizabeth Guthrie, who was about his same age, and who was born there in Madison Co.
In the mean time, William Geery and the rest of his family remained, at least for the most part, in Madison Co., KY. William remained for the rest of his life in Madison County, KY, passing away there on 14 Jan 1838 outliving his second wife by two years, as Hannah died there on 26 Oct 1835. William Geerya€™s older brother, John Geery, served in the Pennsylvania Militia during the War. By the turn of the century (early 1800a€™s) the threat from the Shawnee Indians had subsided quite a bit in Kentucky, although the Creeks were still giving the settlers in Tennessee a lot of trouble.
For several years they made their home next to his in-laws and seemed happy in this community. Not too long after the death of little William, this family decided to pull up stakes and move to a new territory. They traveled down the Cumberland River to where it meets the Ohio, and then, just a short distance further, it merges with the Mississippi.
After marking off his farm ground, John built a large log cabin next to a perpetual spring of water. In the mean time, after Johna€™s move to Missouri, his younger brother, James Geery, who had still been living with their folks back in Kentucky, packed up his family and in the early 1830a€™s moved to Missouri too. Robert was born in Williamson County, TN on 1 Dec 1808, and was the second child in the family of John and Elizabeth Guthrie Geery. Life was tough on the frontier for a young man, but his father needed him to help clear the land of most of the trees, and to plow and plant the crops. In the community near where they lived was another family, who had been their friends in Williamson Co., TN, and who had moved to Missouri with them. Robert and Sally were married in Ralls County, on 29 Sep 1831 and began building up their own farm ground in Pike County, next to the farm and home of William W. Robert was not only a farmer, but also followed the trade of being the local tanner of hides. No out-right military conflict resulted, but more and more Mormons kept moving into the western counties of the state, north of Jackson County.
In time, the Mormons were expelled from Missouri, and in the cold of winter, 1839, many of them migrated back across northern tier of counties, on their way to Illinois. In 1860, following the election of Abraham Lincoln, from the neighboring state of Illinois, the Civil War broke out and Missouri was referred to as a a€?split statea€? meaning that it was both a a€?slavea€? state, as well as a a€?freea€? state, and the people could chose which way they wanted to be.
Coming from Tennessee, the Geerys had southern inclinations, but not so much so that they wanted to kill anyone over it.
At this time, Robert Geery was 52 years old when his wife, Sally Parks, became ill and passed away on 23 Oct. Eventually Robert died on 11 Jan 1899 and in Reading, MO; and his second wife, Catherine passed away some time after 1883. RR Geery, as he usually styled himself, was named after both his maternal Grandfather, Reuben Parks, and after his father, Robert Geery. After an appropriate sweetheart courtship of these teenagers, Reuben and Lucy were married on 25 Feb 1864 in Pike Co., MO. Following the end of the Civil War, there was another huge explosion of the population moving west to occupy almost every piece of land that could be acquired. With the discovery of rich veins of gold, then silver, and then copper in a little known place that soon became the boom town of Butte, Montana, thousands of people from all over the world flocked to the newest strike zone to make themselves wealthy over-night. Reuben and Fanny had a young family at this time, but they were coming to the conclusion that their Missouri farm was not going to provide them with the life they wanted to live. At least with the railroad, their trip west was much less of a hardship than it had been for earlier travelers.
Additionally some of Reubena€™s brothers and sisters came to Montana with him, or shortly thereafter.
Reubena€™s mining efforts didna€™t pay off too well, and his farm, although pretty, didna€™t provide all that much either, but his freighting job supplied his family with their basic needs.
After his death, Fanny went to live primarily with her married daughter, Mildred Geery Travers, who had married Reuben Travers on 6 Jan 1892.
The second daughter, and third child of Reuben and Fanny Geery was Cora Bell, born 30 Mar 1869 in Pike County, MO.
Cora grew up in a loving home where she was very close to her parents and siblings, but most especially to her only sister, Mildred. Sometime between 1881-84 a small group of people arrived from Vankleek Hill, Ontario, Canada. It wasna€™t long before big, tall Jim Fitzpatrick noticed the pretty Cora Bell Geery, and he began to court her. For her 17th birthday in 1886, Fanny Waddle Geery gave her daughter Cora an autograph book.
The thoughts of a loving and kindly father, who could see the hand writing on the wall and knew he would soon be giving his daughter away to another man. Jim Fitzpatricka€™s and Cora Bell Geerya€™s wedding was recorded in the new county courthouse located in Butte.
The last two were twins, which were named after their mother, and her dear sister, who she sadly left behind near Butte. Cora Geery Fitzpatrick, and her family were very happy in their Montana home, even though she was separated from the rest of her Geery siblings. Soon the family doctor diagnosed her with colon cancer, and there was not much that could be done to help her. Left column is for John (himself), his first wife, Elizabeth Guthrie, and his mother Catherine Houts. Right column has: His Mother, Catherine Houts Geery (entered twice) followed by his Fathera€™s second wife, Hannah, and ending with his father, William Geery. Whether William participated in the Revolutionary War as a soldier, or not, is unknown, but it seems highly likely that he would have.A  His older brother, John, was a soldier, and with the opposing British Army stationed in Philadelphia, a patriotic feeling filled the hearts of most able bodied Pennsylvanians, perhaps more so than from any other colony, outside of Massachusetts.
Reubena€™s mining efforts didna€™t pay off too well, and his farm, although pretty, didna€™t provide all that much either, but his freighting job supplied his family with their basic needs.A  With that being the case, he moved their residence from their Browns Gulch farm to the town of Rocker, about four miles west of Butte, where it was more convenient for him to spend time with his family.
Spent the first couple days on a high-speed grind across six states I'd already crossed and re-crossed dozens of times since college. I did consider passing the miles by counting trees (Hey, I've done similar with kayak strokes by the thousands) but there were just too many of them. I finally just shifted into Stoic mode -- which I'm good at a€“ hunkering down and staring at the road ahead for dangerous debris.
Occasionally I see an annoying sign alongside the highway and latch onto its theme to pass the time. My traveling companion (I'd say my pal) Kawasaki has been behaving and is giving me 50 mpg. Who knows, you may get lucky and I'll be left speechless by the beauty of the Great Plains.
In the 62 years I've been consuming corn -- popped, on the cob, candy corn, tortillas, chips, corn syrup and liquor -- I'm sure I haven't eaten more than an acre's worth, tops two. Spent most of yesterday crossing Missouri on Route 70, a nondescript stretch of highway notable mostly for its gentle undulations -- like a kiddie roller-coaster -- and the amazing number of billboards atop 50-foot stanchions lining both sides of the road. The pace is going well enough that I'm giving up the interstates for the smaller, slower roads. The drawback to abandoning the interstate is no longer having the shelter of the underpasses when there's rain or lightning. 98 degrees yesterday, possibly higher today, and the engine I'm straddling ups it even further. But, as they tell you at the beginning or end of many church services, "This is the day we are given. Drove up into the Bighorn Mountains yesterday to get some relief -- and it did knock 10 or 15 degrees off. Spotted a fluid leak from my rear axle, which is a concern because I have limited tools with me and even less know-how.
But I remember seeing it in 1952 and unless they've added some guys up there, I figure I'm covered. This stark, barren topography of northern Wyoming looks so familiar to me, and I realize it's from that 1952 trip when the Old Man drove Mom and us four boys out here to see the national parks. Traveling in the car with him was like being confined in tight quarters with a very cranky grizzly bear. Aside from the 1,500 miles of lush farmland from Ohio to Nebraska and the Bighorns, I liked the Black Hills of South Dakota lots -- if you erase the tourist towns of Custer, Sulphur Springs and Keystone, which are pure kitsch.
Last night I drove far afield and couldn't make it back to a population center where they might have brand-name lodging -- Holiday Inn, etc.


The large dining was was empty except for five young waitresses on break, sitting at a round table with a quiet young fellow about their age.
The youngest and smallest of the ladies -- I'd say she'd just finished high school, or was about to -- came over and asked if it was cold outside. Then she grabbed a telephone and called her boss, who apparently had composed and printed the menu. The other waitresses had jumped up and gone through the entire supply of new menus, only finding the a€?bubesa€? misprint in four of them. I pulled out a map to occupy myself: Yes, I was the one who found the typo, but I was laying low on this topic.
Still bothered by the SUV rollover I came upon three days ago high in the Bighorn National Park. The lone occupant of the vehicle, a Jordanian student working at a park resort for the summer, had multiple and truly grave injuries -- fractures, gashes, internal bleeding that was bloating his belly.
Although successive people held his hand and tried to encourage him -- and a passing doctor and EMT specialist did all they could -- what he really needed was an operating room, quick. So he lay in agony alongside the road for almost two hours until an ambulance arrived from a town 30 miles down below and carried him to a patch of road that was flat and open enough for a medevac helicopter to put down.
As for the rodeo action, for me it was like expecting to see the Yankees and getting the Newark Bears -- not even a€?single-Aa€? ball.
Many lassoes were flung but few calves were roped, barrels mostly got knocked over in the circle-the-barrels horse races, and nearly every cowboy immediately got bounced off the bucking broncos and bulls. The most fun of the night was when they invited all kids 12 and under to the arena floor to win a prize for snatching ribbons ribbons tied to the tails of three calves running loose. I was hoping the boy, who appeared bright enough to do it, would remind him that New Hampshire was one of the original colonies, but maybe he was too polite. The Testicle Festival near Missoula, Mont., is in mid-August this year, and I'll be long gone. So many bikers around the South Dakota-Montana-Wyoming junction that everyone's a€?quit waving. The road west through the Lolo Pass into the Bitterroot Mountains overlies, in part, the path of the Lewis and Clark Expedition of 1805-06.
For me, to travel over the same ground covered by these 32 brave and resourceful men (never forgetting the remarkable Sacajewea with her baby) is an electric experience.
For me, to drive along this pathway -- now Route 12 -- was a privilege and an honor I can't properly put into words. The journals of Lewis and Clark are among the great American documents and the best kind of adventure tale -- a true story experienced by people we hope we could emulate. Two of them were in a motel in Grand Island, Neb., two in a passing car in South Dakota and one in a roadside softball game in Nevada. True, I haven't gone through any real cities, but I'm wracking my brain and I can't recall seeing any other African-Americans. In the category of What Else Is New?: a€?In Riggins, Idaho, a rough-feeling former mining town on the Salmon River, now a a€?summer rafting center, a 50-ish tourist I'd seen an hour earlier strolling on the street a€?lurches away from the Salmon Inn, a billiards joint that sells beer and pizza.
Rolled my bike out of my brother-in-law's San Diego garage, reset the odometer to zero from the 5,060 miles recorded on the westbound leg, and I'm off! The terrain turns bleak just a handful of miles east of San Diego: Barrenness, rock piles, occasional scrawny bushes.
In this visual monotony, the mind drifts and I recall driving past a menacing looking blockhouse of a bar in San Diego that had a foot-square white sign on its door.
From Yuma east to Tucson is Moon-like landscape with scrub brush and mountains in the distance.
Had the joy, in the far outskirts of Phoenix, of spending eight hours or so talking with Bil Canfield, the best cartoonist The Star-Ledger and before that The Newark Evening News, ever had. Drove -- and drove some more -- east through the startling sprawl that is Phoenix and into the Pinal Mountains. I drove nearly all the way across New Mexico staring at the a€?skies: Fortunately, the straightness of Interstate 10 let me do it without a€?wrecking. I know it's a vestige of my time in the military, but I have a great a€?aversion to people in uniforms. Well, this strip above the Mexican border-- from California across to Texas -- is positively crawling with uniforms.
You see them in McDonald's, they're racing around in trucks, they're in helicopters scouring the desert, they're at random checkpoints miles north of the border.
The waitress was a bubbly local girl named Cindy who was pleasant enough but had a voice so shrill it pierced to the bone. There's a lot of guys in these parts driving pickup trucks in what I would call a hostile manner. The 140 miles of Route 180 north from El Paso to the Guadelupe Mountains National Park are little-traveled but gorgeous. I left the bike on the shoulder of the highway and walked off 100 feet to try capturing the scene with my camera. He gives me the exact mileages, tells me how long it'll take to get there, says where to turn en route and notes that there's 18 miles of construction along the way but it shouldn't slow me down. The sky heading north into West Texas was all bright and blue except for one dark patch, which grew larger as I rolled onward As the black area expanded I could see lightning strikes and columns of rain in its core.
I sped up -- to 90 mph at one point -- figuring I would outrun it or outflank it, but the storm always stayed directly before me. While I was struggling to put a tarp over the bike, a blocky lady sheriff in a gray-panted uniform ran out of the diner to her cruiser. I covered my bike, took a photo of the nastiest looking sky I've ever seen and sprinted to the safety of the diner. The young fellow, wearing a Texas Tech T-shirt, brushed dead flies off my table next to the front window.
Half a dozen were bouncing against the window pane and others were flitting on and off about every surface in the place.
I ordered a coffee and burger and waited, taking comfort in being in a safe place with a kid who seemed to understand weather conditions I didn't. In another few minutes I gave up trying to clear my helmet visor by hand: I lifted it and took the rain in my face. I couldn't judge which way the storm was traveling, so there was no evasive actiona€?to take.
I spent the better part of one day crossing the length of Oklahoma east to west with a 30 mph blow going on. Finally, Cheryl got them all up and busy, filling sugar bowls and wiping down chairs in advance of lunch, and I left. So many bikers around the South Dakota-Montana-Wyoming junction that everyone's quit waving. I'm saving one Butte mystery for another visit: How a bar in a blue-collar neighborhood next to the pitmine got the name Helsinki Yacht Club.
I get the impression a lot of folks out here don't much care for Easterners, or maybe it's just me personally they don't like. In the category of What Else Is New?: In Riggins, Idaho, a rough-feeling former mining town on the Salmon River, now a summer rafting center, a 50-ish tourist I'd seen an hour earlier strolling on the street lurches away from the Salmon Inn, a billiards joint that sells beer and pizza. A A  Had the joy, in the far outskirts of Phoenix, of spending eight hours or so talking with Bil Canfield, the best cartoonist The Star-Ledger and before that The Newark Evening News, ever had. A A A  Drove -- and drove some more -- east through the startling sprawl that is Phoenix and into the Pinal Mountains. A A A  I drove nearly all the way across New Mexico staring at the skies: Fortunately, the straightness of Interstate 10 let me do it without wrecking. A A  I know it's a vestige of my time in the military, but I have a great aversion to people in uniforms.
A A  The waitress was a bubbly local girl named Cindy who was pleasant enough but had a voice so shrill it pierced to the bone. A A  There's a lot of guys in these parts driving pickup trucks in what I would call a hostile manner. A A  The 140 miles of Route 180 north from El Paso to the Guadelupe Mountains National Park are little-traveled but gorgeous.
A A  I left the bike on the shoulder of the highway and walked off 100 feet to try capturing the scene with my camera. 1816 a tragedy struck the family when their oldest little boy, ten year old William, suddenly died.
1822 just a copule years after their arrival, much like Roberta€™s mother; and she was raised by her widowed mother, who died about a month after Sally was married. Waddle (sometimes spelled a€?Waddella€? especially in the earlier generations), as well as his son, George R. 20121 Kings 8:28 -- But please listen to my prayer and my request, because I am your servant. I did have a deer bound in front of me on Route 80 in Pennsylvania but my horn-honking turned him. But these cornfields stretch outwards hundreds and hundreds of miles from here (Grand Island, Neb.). I think it's to find some little bit of company and comfort out among all the larger vehicles. Without that cover overhead, you're on open country roads getting soaked and -- worse -- sitting on a big piece of metal that attracts electrical charges.
Forecast for the next four days where I'm going in Montana-Idaho is for the same temp, with chances of afternoon thunderstorms.
The look of the Bighorn National Forest is austere, powerful, vast, a lot of rock faces with detritus heaps below. I was concerned the fuel injector wouldn't automatically adjust to these changes in altitude (4,500 feet on the high desert to 9,000 in the Bighorns), but it's purring wherever I take it.


Rushmore the other day but didn't make the effort to go see it, which sounds vaguely anti-American even to me. It was hard traveling, especially to make a two-week 4,000-mile round trip like the Old Man did, as the lone driver.
But he did want us to see places maybe most kids didn't and I think he wanted to make us adventurous.
The formula for making them would be: Take a sea of sand about 200 miles across, stir it up a bit so you get rounded, swelling waves, top it with tall grass, sprinkle lightly with black Angus cattle and every mile or so plunk down a windmill to draw water for the cattle. As I ate, dust clouds from the adjacent road being repaved swirled around the parking lot, a crushed root beer cup was whirling in irregular circles near the table, and in the distance, jagged lightning bolts among the dark clouds atop the Bighorns.
I explained that my leather jacket wasn't for warmth, but for padding, in case I fell off the bike. The last thing I am is a flag waver, but when the pennants of the rodeo's sponsors -- Coca-Cola, Dairy Queen, Pinnacle Bank, the U.S.
Picking their way along Indian trails and bushwhacking through the towering evergreens, Lewis and Clark had no idea how deep this forest would be, only that the Pacific lay somewhere ahead.
I stopped along the way to read every historical marker, each keying the location to a specific entry in the two expedition leaders' daily journal. With this kind of light ahead, I think I'll need shades every morning till about 10:00 all the way home.
Then the Imperial Valley, which is inhuman in its sterile, mass-production agriculture way.
The landscape is all creosote bushes about 20 feet apart and occasional gray rock ridges sticking out of the dust like the dorsals of buried lizards.
Who's more manly, Hulk Hogan or Mahatma Gandhi, who probably couldn't bench-press two Wheaties boxes on a stick but helped topple the British Empire?
I assume folks come here to warm their old bones -- it gets to 115 degrees in summer -- and stretch their savings. The old copper mining towns of Miami and Globe have great potential for photos but the light was wrong and I couldn't wait for it to get right. Billowing several thousand feet in the air, it a€?looks like the product of the largest explosion that ever was, but it a€?doesn't float away or change in any way.
The driver was from Utah -- and a look-alike for actor Charles Laughton -- who had doubled back to see if I needed help. If my bike had been disabled, he'd have committed himself to driving me 75 miles to arrange for repair, and he knew that. I veered off the road next to a small town's grain elevator, which I thought might give me some cover.
Its occupants turned out be a skinny kid in charge, who stood about six-foot-six, somebody working the kitchen, me, and about a thousand flies. After about half an hour the kid said, "If you're goin' to Lubbock, you should be all right now. I could still see a thin strip of blue sky and sunshine before me along the horizon, but raindrops began pelting my windshield. Hailstones began to mix in with the rain, pellets about the size of peas ricocheting off my plastic windshield and helmet. I was hanging off the right side of the seat and still had to tilt the bike a couple degrees in that direction to counter-act the northbound wind.
As I ate, dust clouds from the adjacent road being repaved swirled around the parking lot, a crushed root beer cup was whirling in irregular circles near the table, and in the distance,A  jagged lightning bolts among the dark clouds atop the Bighorns.
Someone has popped him on the cheekbones as perfectly as as you can be punched -- pinpoint shots.
Billowing several thousand feet in the air, it looks like the product of the largest explosion that ever was, but it doesn't float away or change in any way.
Geery, that to the best of their knowledge and belief, the names of the heirs of John Geery deceased, and their places of residence are as follows: Robert Geery and Catharine Shotwell formerly Catherine Geery of Pike County and John G.
Geery, that to the best of their knowledge and belief, the names of the heirs of John Geery deceased, and their places of residence are as follows:A  Robert Geery and Catharine Shotwell formerly Catherine Geery of Pike County and John G. Driving through the puddles on the highway was a little unnerving but there were no overpasses for shelter, so I had to keep going. Louis for Night 3, but otherwise it's been just the banter with waitresses and gas station folks. I got out the sturdy Pope Paul II church key someone gave me (OK, I bought it) and used it as a kind of giant screwdriver to tighten the fluid cover. I drove hundreds of miles out of my way to get there because it was billed across the state as a hi-grade rodeo.
They bolted and the kids chased them every which way, sprawling in the dirt and whatever else was on the ground.
When I walked away from the bike to take photos I found a€?myself straining to get enough oxygen. Winter was approaching, and the party's hunters were having no success in finding game on the steep slopes of these unending woods. Lassen, Calif., to visit with my buddy of five decades Ted and his wife Carolyn, then wrap it up with two broiling days down Veggie Valley (California's Route 5) to San Diego. Don't know if you have to bring your own water: I sure didn't pass over a flowing stream or see a lake for a couple hundred miles. Bil suffers from Blatt's Sydrome, wherein the body ages normally but the mind never makes it past 18 -- well, maybe 15 in Bil's case. The place bored me quickly: Only the cowboy hats distinguish this casino from the the East Coast brand.
The pluses with a bike are limited to the physicality of the travel -- if you like that -- and a natural buzz from rolling along out in the open.
When I walked away from the bike to take photos I found myself straining to get enough oxygen. After half minute of mayhem, the boy who had grabbed the first ribbon brought his proof to the announcer in the center of the arena. About 17 years old, he's attempting to a€?grow a beard but it's a€?sketchy and mostly fuzz. And the clouds, which are soft and thinnish at eye level, become brilliant white, three-dimensional puffs directly above. I thought maybe they had given me the plexiglass model from the a€?food showcase in the lobby and slathered barbecue sauce on it.
I thought maybe they had given me the plexiglass model from the food showcase in the lobby and slathered barbecue sauce on it.
I ate my Papaburger Special at a giant picnic table in front of the place, joined by by six unruly kids who piled out of a van from Missouri.
A redhead, a€?about 30, who Ia€™d seen walking with him earlier, chases after him for a a€?while, a€?calling his name.
A redhead, about 30, who Ia€™d seen walking with him earlier, chases after him for a while, calling his name. Summit reminded me a€?of the fjord area around Bergen, Norway -- no trees, just rock and some hardy a€?vegetation. He had a€?fond memories of the place, which police shuttered in 1982 after 100 years of operation.a€?a€?Went out for a beer in Uptown, but the bars were too raucous.
She gives up after 100 feet, turns and runs back to throw her a€?arms around the neck of the guy who did the thrashing, a very beefy fellow about a€?25 in a muscle T-shirt. Summit reminded me of the fjord area around Bergen, Norway -- no trees, just rock and some hardy vegetation.
He had fond memories of the place, which police shuttered in 1982 after 100 years of operation.Went out for a beer in Uptown, but the bars were too raucous. She gives up after 100 feet, turns and runs back to throw her arms around the neck of the guy who did the thrashing, a very beefy fellow about 25 in a muscle T-shirt.
Louis Missouri children and heirs of Mary Copelin formerly Mary Geery, and Jane Geery widow of the deceased. Negatively, entire working class neighborhoods were gobbled up by the mining company as a€?the pit expanded.a€?The Uptown District is on the National Register of Historic Places but that's a€?not doing much for its current economic health.
Negatively, entire working class neighborhoods were gobbled up by the mining company as the pit expanded.The Uptown District is on the National Register of Historic Places but that's not doing much for its current economic health.
They're trying to restore the a€?district but it still looks worn, like the subjects of an Edward Hopper painting. They're trying to restore the district but it still looks worn, like the subjects of an Edward Hopper painting. I love Hopper.a€?I stayed at the Mindlen Hotel, a 1924 knockoff of the now-demolished Astor a€?Hotel in NYC, but this version's only nine stories tall. I love Hopper.I stayed at the Mindlen Hotel, a 1924 knockoff of the now-demolished Astor Hotel in NYC, but this version's only nine stories tall. The Mindlen's been a€?restored to its a€?original condition, which was that of a fine businessmen's hotel. The Mindlen's been restored to its original condition, which was that of a fine businessmen's hotel. Tall-columned a€?lobby, chandeliers, marble floors.a€?I didn't detect there were any other guests with me on the second floor, which a€?is maybe why I slept so well.
Tall-columned lobby, chandeliers, marble floors.I didn't detect there were any other guests with me on the second floor, which is maybe why I slept so well.



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Category: Getting Back With My Ex



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