That's right. If there's any other Bowers in the area then we oughtta get together and chat for an hour as we devour a tower of my wife's famous fried chicken (unless you like it sweet and sour).
Ah, if only.
But times are dour for this poor Bowers, as I'm no longer with power, there's nothing to eat but a bag of flour and sh@# has most certainly gone sour as we cower beneath God's glower, hoping we'll soon find better shelter than the crummy gift shop at Cabot Tower.
Sorry for that depressing rant but I find that it helps to ease the burden when I share my pain with others, especially my Bowers brethren around the world, who all seem to have remarkable stories and are doing quite well, and with whom I feel a strong sense of kinship despite never having met any of you face to face.
Good luck to all of you in this journey we call life and I sincerely implore any Bowers ever in the St. John's area to seek me out (my brother, Reggie Bowers is in the book) so we can jaw for a bit about what it means to be a Bowers.