Shining Man – Thoughts on DID 1

I spend a lot of time thinking about DID/MPD because I live with it every day. I wonder how many people I know right now, today, are trying to cope with something they barely understand. How many wish they knew someone with DID so they could talk, compare notes, ask questions, or just be.

A 76 year old man, Ellis Skolfield, wrote a book after working with multiples for over ten years. He wasn’t a psychiatrist or psychologist. He was just someone who knew Jesus and fervently loved all the multis he met – first online, and later even as guests in his home. His book, The Shining Man with Hurt Hands, was truly ground-breaking. He found that if he treated people with DID/MPD as if they were telling the truth, he would learn from them and earn their trust, subsequently earning the ability to help them in their world.

“Therapists and clergymen are probably doing the best they can, but both are using treatments that don’t work. After literally thousands of hours with dozens of multis, I am now of the opinion that MPD is not a mental disorder at all, but a unique multidimensional condition that can be treated by working exclusively in what multiples call their “inside.” Alters are not demons, and in most instances there is nothing wrong with the multiple’s mind.” (Skolfield, 2004)

The signs of DID/MPD are: hearing voices, missing time, seeing an inner landscape of some type, and experience of trauma beginning as a child. There is such stigma attached to DID/MPD that most who suffer do not discuss it with others for fear of being ostracized or ridiculed, or worse, hospitalized against their wishes. Many multiples carry shame that does not belong to them, and the enemy is often able to inflict great damage on them.

“There isn’t any group of people on earth more in need of help than multiples. Of those I have known (well over a hundred), all have been physically, emotionally, sexually abused, or victims of Satanic ritual abuse (SRA), abuses that sometimes continued into adulthood. Some multiples have also been psychologically programmed (translate that brainwashed) by Satanic cults, sadomasochists or occult groups like the Illuminati. Most have few childhood memories, their “mems” as they call them, having been totally blocked out. Since every multiple has been grossly abused as an infant, it is reasonable to conclude that infant abuse is at least one cause of the condition.

“Multis also have a host of chronic physical ailments: diabetes, asthma, hypertension, arthritis, etc., the incidence of these maladies appearing to be far above the statistical norm. Multis also have an impaired sense of touch and diminished peripheral vision.

“Many alters are in severe emotional pain. If a dark alter “gets out” (i.e., gains control of the body), even for a few minutes, there is panic and terror – flashbacks of extreme physical, sexual, or ritual abuse – torture, injury and even death. The emotional pain can be so severe that hurting the body is the only way the alter knows to alleviate his suffering. Arms and legs are slashed with razor blades or broken glass. Dark alters know the difference between a longitudinal and a lateral cut to a vein. They know which is the most difficult to repair and most likely to kill. For some alters, suicide is the goal.

“Others burn the body with cigarettes, candles or hot irons, which explains why many multis wear long-sleeved blouses, even on the hottest summer days. Multiples with dangerous alters keep a good first aid kit on hand to repair the damage done by their dark alters. A  [1]“defender”might want to tell you about the “cutter’ or a “burner” in their system, but in telling you, they are afraid you won’t like them or be their friend anymore, which of course isn’t so.

“All multis are secretive about what they are going through, rightly fearing they would be shunned by society or institutionalized. No wonder so many are suicidal.” (Skolfield, 2004)

Some of my alters definitely were demonized, and their job was to maim and kill me. I’ve cut myself, I’ve been suicidal, I’ve tried to will myself to die when I was very sick, and gone through years of depression. If anyone got too close to discovering what I was doing, I would switch and become a different person, completely throwing them off-balance so they would doubt themselves and leave me alone. It’s been quite a task trying to recreate certain scenes even in the past 15 years, and quite shocking to learn that I am missing time even as recently as a few years ago.

Even though I never attempted suicide, I have died three times. I met Jesus on one of those occasions, and I was on my face before Him, repenting for wanting to kill myself. I realized that life is a gift, and He sent me back to keep living. Eventually I came to understand why I was suicidal, and I have received deliverance and much healing in Jesus’ name.

Years ago I knew a young woman – I’ll call her Annie – who seemed to be many different personalities. She had a blog account on a certain social network account – or rather she had four or five of them. She had attempted suicide several times, and she was a Christian. Her parents got word through some of her friends that she was hospitalized again after cutting, or taking an overdose. I prayed for her a lot, and chatted with her.

Finally I had an opportunity to meet her face to face in (we’ll say) Austin, Texas, when I accompanied my husband on a business trip. I invited her over and we talked and prayed, and since I had my guitar, we even sang some worship songs. There was no doubt that Annie loved the Lord. We had a great visit and each shared a bit of it on our blogs.

After that, I stumbled onto a new account where Annie was going by a very dark name and there were a lot of images of blood and death. I was blown away. I tried to contact her but she wouldn’t answer.

A few weeks later her parents sent word again that Annie was in the hospital again, and she had overdosed on medication so that now she was in a coma. I followed her progress for many months until my husband and I had to move to Trinidad in the West Indies. Her parents were heartbroken over Annie’s condition. Her pastors were unable to explain it. Then I lost touch. I heard that Annie died, never having recovered consciousness. [Update: I contacted an old friend to find out if she heard anything about Annie, and she said she thought she was still living in Texas. I’ll follow this trail as far as it lets me go. I hope I find her.]

At that time in my life, I was in total denial about DID. Since I was in denial, I simply accepted what I had heard – that it meant demon possession. And I grieved over Annie and wondered why God didn’t deliver her.

Now when I re-index my mental files, I see what was wrong with Annie, and I wish I had known then what I know now. I wish I could comfort her parents and help them understand what happened to their daughter. I suppose that’s all you can do in retrospect.

But I’m not satisfied. Now I ask God to show me the truth of DID and to allow me the chance to help others begin their journey to recovery.

If you need an ear, a prayer or just a loving friend to help you sort things out, please reach out. You are loved, and I will pray with you or for you.

In Jesus’ love,



[1] Most multiple systems have one or more “defender” alters. Their purpose is to protect other alters or the body from physical or psychological harm. They usually remain inside, only coming out during times of stress or danger. Defenders are usually open, honest and easy to get along with. I rarely met a defender I didn’t like.


Unsolved Mysteries 1

Category: Body memory I can’t explain.

I have said for many years that I feel like I have lived seven lifetimes in one. I feel exhausted sometimes for no discernible reason, chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia, and chronic pain syndrome aside. It’s like my brain is tired. And I really can’t point to a reason why.

My headaches have increased greatly now that I’ve opened the door for my alters to come forward. Everyone has something to say, and it is jumbled sometimes. I don’t even have a frame of reference for many of the fragments of memory I have gleaned. There are people I don’t know in those memories, and that is a frightening thing. If I didn’t have my Abba to help me, I don’t think I would have made it to this day alive, let alone sane and reasonably high-functioning, after some of the things I’ve seen in my alters’ memories.

So, last night after I went to bed I remembered something that happened when I was living in Alaska. I was in a medical program, and during one of the training sessions we had to learn and practice sterile procedure prior to placing sutures. The very first time I donned the sterile gloves without breaking the sterile field, it was automatic for me and I finished before anyone else. The physician instructor looked at me and said; “you’ve done this before.” I said: “yes, but I don’t remember when.”

I was immediately embarrassed, and covered it up by saying it must be part of my amnesia due to a traumatic brain injury (TBI) I sustained in a car accident. That’s a more socially acceptable reason than saying I was missing many years in my memory even prior to that car accident. I felt there were things at play I couldn’t understand, but I was still in denial about my DID.

The thing is, I only have two types of medical experience in my past that I can recall. The first was being a nurse assistant right out of high school, and we didn’t do anything with sterile fields back then (1973-1974). The second was all my First Responder/ Emergency Trauma Tech classes, and again, nothing about sterile field was taught. I have no recollection of learning these protocols, but it would have to be part of a program or profession that deals with more advanced medical knowledge, of that I am sure. It really bugs me that my body can have a perfect recall and duplicate something that I have no recollection learning.

I have prayed and asked the Lord Jesus to show me where I was and how I know this information. So far no answer, though it feels like I am just on the edge of discovery. It’s frustrating, this lack of control over my own memories, and the growing suspicion that I have lived a double life…


A Bruised Reed…

My beloved sisters and brothers,

There is no doubt that being a multiple can be lonely and difficult, and often frightening. There are many times we long for someone who has been there to help us find the path, the road signs,that point in the direction of wholeness.

As I was praying about how to share with you, the Lord gave me a scripture:

Mat 12:20-21 A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench, till he send forth judgment unto victory. (21) And in his name shall the Gentiles trust.

I checked the original Greek with Strong’s.

That word “bruised” means:

συντρίβω, suntribō, soon-tree’-bo
From G4862 and the base of G5147; to crush completely, that is, to shatter (literally or figuratively): – break (in pieces), broken to shivers (+ -hearted), bruise.

And “break” means:

κατάγνυμι, katagnumi, kat-ag’-noo-mee
From G2596 and the base of G4486; to rend in pieces, that is, crack apart: – break.

So this verse is saying that Jesus will not tear apart one who is already shattered (a perfect description of DID/MPD). He will not capitalize on our weakness and use it to our disadvantage. Rather, He will give us hope and we will trust in Him.

Sometimes feelings of condemnation, guilt, and many fears threaten to overtake us. We feel like we don’t fit in with others, and we have a secret to guard.

Jesus is the very One who made a way for us to live through trauma by allowing us to create alters, and He knows exactly what needs to happen in order for us to heal. The One in Whom we place our trust will remain the only One who is truly able to love and complete us in our brokenness – to gather up the fragments of ourselves – and bring us unity within. His love brings freedom, and covers a multitude of sins.

Some of our alters and fragments are/were in need of healing and deliverance. Jesus is utterly trustworthy to heal and deliver you. Call out to Him, and trust Him; He will bind up your wounds and bring peace to your soul.

This is the time to rejoice in the victory that is ahead, and to praise God for you are fearfully and wonderfully made!

May the Lord give you His Shalom, and light your path through the darkness. In Yeshua’s (Jesus’) name.



Missing Pieces of Me – Part 2

The Alaska years

From Wichita, Kansas, we moved to Anchorage, Alaska, where my father took a position working for Radio Alaska. Later we moved to Fairbanks, where he became the manager of KFRB radio in Fairbanks. My memories of Alaska are jumbled up, and I’m not sure where some of these things took place. The following events occurred over a three to four year period. The time-line is hazy for me… I will share some personal anecdotes because they help to flesh out my feelings and impressions of my parents, which will be important to what happens along the way.

There were the three of us kids when we moved to Anchorage. Daddy worked at the radio station, but he was often out in the field gathering news and reporting on local events. One time he took me along with him for a day of publicity work. First we went to the airport where he showed me the plane he was flying (he had a private pilot’s license) from Juneau to Whitehorse and other places. Then he took me out on a commercial king crab boat. Those crabs were huge – some of them had a diameter larger than my own height – and I was terrified. With Daddy’s help, I climbed up on his shoulders and refused to come down for fear of those monsters.

One day my mother had a lady visitor come for coffee. They were sitting at the kitchen table, which had a door leading into back yard, and she sent my sister and me out to play. It was odd for my mother to have a lady friend come over – she did not get along with other women. The house we were living in had a big stockade fence surrounding the back yard.  I took my sister by the hand, and led her out of the gate and behind the fence into the area behind our yard. I saw a [1]mountain lion sitting just watching us, and first I froze and told my sister to stop. Then we carefully and slowly went back to the gate and got inside to safety. We rushed in to tell my mom and her company that we saw a lion, but neither of them believed us, no matter how much I insisted.

My brother Clifton came along, making us the Four Little “C’s”. Mom was a dog breeder, raising Weimeraners and Basenjis. My Nana later told me that Daddy also gave my mother her own radio show “It’s a Woman’s World” so that she would be too busy with radio life to take her frustrations out on me. I remember hearing her intro to her show on the radio, and I was glad she was doing the show because that meant she wasn’t at home. I knew that my mother was the one in charge in our home a great deal of the time. We were somewhat wealthy during these years, and we had nannies and nurses to care for us when our mother was away.

I don’t know what to make of this next event… for years I have told this story, and this is how I remembered it: my sister and I were in a room and Daddy came in and gave me a peeled orange, and left. I shared the orange with my sister. A little while later, Daddy came in and handed another peeled orange to my sister. I told him I had given her half of mine, and I expected him to tell her to share hers with me. But instead he said; “I didn’t tell you to share”. I’ve always felt uneasy with this scene; I could never figure out Daddy’s reasoning, because it just didn’t fit with my image of him.

But just lately as I’ve been praying for the Lord to show me things, I’ve reluctantly allowed the blinders to come off so I could interpret what I already knew but wouldn’t address. The “room” we were in was a utility closet next to the kitchen; there was a water heater, a bag of dogfood, a mop and a broom. There were no windows. I have seen my father as a hero and the apple of my eye all these years, and I just couldn’t accept that my sister and I were being kept in a closet with his knowledge. I feel certain that it wasn’t Daddy who put us there in the first place, but that he knew we’d be hungry so he brought us an orange. I can’t understand why we were kept in the closet, and I don’t know anything about what was happening elsewhere in the house.

I have another memory of all four of us kids (little brother Clifton was crawling and getting into stuff) in that utility closet and we were hungry so we decided to try the dry dogfood. I remember we all ate it, and I vomited it up later. Again, I don’t know why we were there, but we were hungry. There were no chairs or furniture to sit on, it was just a utility closet and we were standing in a sort of triangle facing each other, with Clifton crawling around on the floor in a nightgown with a drawstring at the bottom so his feet weren’t sticking out; he was pretty grubby looking, but was the happiest of the four of us.

My dad loved to camp and often took us camping in the wild beside a river. He dug a latrine for us and taught us how to sit over the edge of a log, and how to use a shovel afterwards. He caught fish for us and cooked it over the campfire. He also loved to hunt. I was Daddy’s girl, and I loved camping! Whenever we were out in the wild, my dad was definitely in charge, and my mother was usually busy with the baby or off doing her own thing.

One day Daddy brought home two gigantic king salmon. One was my height, and the other came up to my chest. Daddy wrapped one of them in foil and baked it in the oven, and we feasted on it. I was so proud that my father could bring home meat that he caught or hunted himself.

I lost my first tooth on a piece of birdshot in a Ptarmigan that we were eating for dinner. My sister knocked my second tooth out of my mouth with her head while we were tussling on the floor. She got a neat little dent in her forehead, but it soon went away, while I had the look of a jack-o-lantern and hated to see myself in the mirror.

We had a nurse/nanny who made cookies for us one day. They were white with green icing, and since green meant poison, I was sure that she meant to poison us. I took my little sister by the hand and we left. We walked several blocks, past a construction site, and the whole time I tried to reason with myself about why the nurse would want to poison us. I finally decided that we were tired and needed to go back, and so we went home and accepted the cookies.

One day I was sitting in the back yard next to the incinerator. I saw a small spider and I was so petrified of spiders that normally I would have run away. But for some reason I told myself that I could overcome my fear of spiders if I let this one climb up my arm. So I gritted my teeth and let it crawl on my hand, then up my wrist, but by the time it got to the middle of my forearm I went into a panic and shook it off, screaming. I don’t know why I was so terrified of spiders, but this is unfortunately one fear I have still not conquered – every single night of my life I check under the covers and on the walls and floor and ceiling to make sure I can’t see any spiders before I go to sleep.

One time Daddy and a man we called “Uncle” Luke went to a swap meet where Alaska Native people had booths selling their furs and goods. I became separated from Daddy and Luke as I was weaving in and out in the crowd, looking past big-people legs as I tried to see what was going on. When I realized I was lost, I started to cry out for Daddy. It wasn’t too long before he found me and scooped me up, and put me on his shoulders so I could see and stay safe.

My mother was learning to [2]fence. She and Uncle Luke were wearing strange white costumes with face guards. They fenced in the living room, but their foils were not sharp. My mother’s aggression came out when she did this, and she seemed energized by it. She laughed and flirted with Uncle Luke, and even though she didn’t really win, she claimed victory. It was fun but a little scary watching. She could be very dangerous when she was angry, (Nana told me that she once picked up a 60 pound Weimeraner and heaved it across the room in a fit of anger) and it was best to let her win.

One day my dad took me for a ride to town. He had a book in the car, and I could already read at four. I sounded out the title, and I asked him what the John Birch Society was. He said it was something that wasn’t [3]very nice, and we shouldn’t say that name in front of other people. Daddy had some business to attend to and I couldn’t accompany him, so he dropped me off at a house where a very strange old lady was babysitting a bunch of kids. She made us all sleep in cribs, and she kept moving between our cribs checking on us. I don’t know why, but I was afraid of her, so I pretended to be asleep. I hated that place and told Daddy about it when he picked me up. I begged him not to take me back there, and he said he wouldn’t.

Daddy liked to play poker, and occasionally had men over to the house for card parties. We lived in a different house, and I had a bedroom next to the dining room where Daddy and his friends were playing poker. I had a crib for a bed. I couldn’t sleep with all the noise the men were making, so I climbed out of bed and went to Daddy. I asked him if I could play poker too, and he asked the other guys if they would let me sit in for a hand. They agreed, and he told me that Poker was a very hard game to learn, and I would probably lose. He said I needed to bet something, and told me I could play if I bet my bedroom and all my toys. I quickly agreed, certain I couldn’t lose, and they dealt me in. Of course I lost, but I kept a stiff upper lip as he explained that now my room and my toys belonged to these men. Then asked the guys if they would let me have my room and my toys back if I promised not to play poker anymore, and they all agreed, so I kissed my dad and said thank you and hurried back to bed, greatly relieved. (Ironically, a few years later Daddy taught me how to play Stud Poker, Black Jack and Solitaire.)

That “bedroom” was a large closet. It was just big enough for my crib and some shelves in the back with my clothes and toys. No windows. Without going into unnecessary details, I was four years old and already aware of my own sexuality. I also knew that there was something wrong with this, so I kept it a secret. I was learning to hide things from my mother especially, in order to avoid being hit or slapped.

The house in Fairbanks was a two-story house. I had my own “bedroom”: again it was a large walk-in closet with no windows. This one was large enough for my twin bed, a dresser and a few toys. There was a hanging lamp. I remember the day the big [4]earthquake hit. I was up in my room being punished by Carol, the babysitter. The dresser drawers were coming open, the light was swinging, and my bed was shaking. At first I thought our dog, Bubu, was in the room shaking the bed, but I realized she couldn’t make the drawers move out or make the door and lamp swing, so I got up and dashed for the door, shouting for Carol. She told me to stand in the frame of the door and not to come downstairs until it stopped. I was very afraid, but after the quake and a few aftershocks, it stopped and things seemed to go back to normal.

There was no Kindergarten where we were living, so I started school in first grade. I was in school when the news came over the loudspeaker that President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. My teacher started weeping, and so all of the students in my class became afraid and we, too, started crying.

Daddy became ill and lost his voice – later we found out that Daddy had cancer. The following we packed up and moved to the California desert to be close to Nana (Daddy’s mother). My mother went ahead to California with the two boys, and Daddy and Christi and I drove the ALCAN highway, camping all along the way. What a joy to have my daddy to myself, without my mother to interfere or punish me for every little thing.  It was an experience I have always treasured in my heart.

To be continued…

[1] Sometimes when I have shared this story, people have challenged me, saying there are no mountain lions in Alaska. While it is true that they were rare, it was not unheard of for them to range so far north, and I stand by my account of this event.

[2] Fencing, also called Olympic fencing, is a sport in which two competitors fight using ‘Rapier-style’ swords, winning points by making contact with their opponent.

[3] Upon reflection I speculate that my father was doing research for his radio show.

[4] The Great Alaska Earthquake and Tsunami of March 27, 1964. On March 27, 1964 at 5:36pm local time (March 28 at 3:36 UTC) a great earthquake of magnitude 9.2 occurred in the Prince William Sound region of Alaska

Meanwhile, down in the well

I do not know how to heal myself. It seems like trying to operate on my own brain, which is impossible; unconsciousness is required to do surgery, or the pain would kill a person.

I suppose all I can do is trust my Abba to do for me what I cannot do for myself. I don’t know what I expect to gain along with my memories. Healing? If all the pieces were to be put in their proper place, could I somehow “reboot” so everything works properly again?

I have been so broken all of my life in one way or another, and that’s the way I view myself in light of what I do remember. I can’t imagine how much more I am not even aware of… yet.

Love covers a multitude of sins. I try to earnestly love others to make up for inflicting my quirks on them. There are times (ranging in duration from a few minutes to entiredays) when I feel so awkward and self-conscious – when I get bruised and feel absolutely unlovable. How does one deserve love? Better question – who has the right to decide I’m not lovable or acceptable?

If God is for me, who can be against me? And why would I care? But that has always been the cry of my heart – to love and be loved. There is still a huge hole in my heart where a mother’s love should have rested.

Missing Pieces of Me – Part 1

I had to pray and seek the Lord for a long time in order to get the courage to share these things with my readers, in the hope of helping others find help. This is my first attempt to share my story in public. It’s going to have gaps, because I still have gaps in my memory. I’m missing a lot of time.

I need to share my own memories interspersed with those of witnesses I trust(ed) (most of whom are dead now) in order to try to make sense of things. I’m afraid the narrative is rather lurching and disjointed, and takes on a disturbing shape. But I have to start somewhere. *sigh*

There used to be a family album at my grandma’s house (G. June, my maternal grandma) with a picture of my mother holding me when I was about one year old. My mother, being a former beauty queen, always played for the camera; in this photo, she was wearing a Spanish dancer dress and she was smiling beautifully as she held me up in the air. I had the look of terror on my face – a wild horse stare that showed the whites of my eyes. It is clear that even at such a young age I feared her.

My Nana (my paternal grandma) told me that when I was 18 months old, my father came home from work one day to find me covered with black and blue bruises. My mother apparently told him the babysitter had done this. Nana told me Daddy fired the babysitter, but later he found out that it was my mother who beat me up.

I have a scar in the very center of my forehead, and when I asked about it, my mother claimed it happened when I stood up and fell out of my stroller as she was crossing the street.

I have a large scar just above my right eyebrow (1.5″ wide) that I can’t account for. Neither could anyone else in my family, though I had proof from earlier photographs that it must have happened after I was seven years old – a fact that indicates that I should be able to remember something like this, or at least someone else in my family should.

My first memories are from when I was three years old. We lived in Wichita, Kansas. The house was at least two stories tall with a basement. I had a sister, Christi, who was 15 months younger than I, and a baby brother named Cameron.

My sister and I were upstairs in our bedroom as usual. We were playing with our blow-up reindeer Rudolf. There was a thunderstorm, and lightning hit our chimney and blew a hole in our bedroom wall; I was standing directly in front if it, and by some miracle neither of us were physically harmed.  I remember the fire department sent a truck and a crew over the next day to clean up the bricks and debris from the chimney and the plaster mess in my bedroom. Mom, Christi, Cameron and I sat outside on a bench by the side of the house while the men worked.

The lightning strike traumatized me; I became terrified of the dark and of all thunderstorms, and I began wetting the bed. I remember one morning my mother came into our room, and we were both still sleeping. She uncovered me to find that I had wet the bed. She reached into the closet for a wire coat hanger, grabbed me by my ankle to keep me from getting away,  and beat me on my bare thighs. There were stinging marks and bruises, but my clothes covered them, and I guess Daddy never knew.

We had a parlor downstairs with a big bay window and seat cushions around it where I loved to sit whenever I was allowed to. There was also a grand piano that my dad liked to play. I don’t remember actually ever seeing Daddy at the house, but I know he was home sometimes because he played Moonlight Sonata at night, and I would sneak out into the hall on the landing so I could listen to the beautiful music.

I remember the house across the street burned down and I was told it was because the man who lived there had been smoking in bed.I was very troubled by this and felt sorry for the man who died.

There were other storms, too, and I asked if there were witches in Wichita. I question what a three-year-old child in 1960 would know about witches?! I don’t recall seeing a television set, but I doubt I learned about witches from t.v. I wonder how I had developed an understanding of witches at my age, and why I though storms and darkness were also connected somehow.

During that time, I had a strange fascination with electricity. We had a lamp without a bulb in it on the dresser in our room. It was plugged in, though I think it was switched off. I put my finger down inside the socket because it gave me a dizzy, swirling feeling that tickled in the pit of my tummy and I liked it. I also stuck a bobby pin in the wall outlet (one side only) but I got caught and punished, so I never did it again.

One night I was looking out the window opposite my bedroom at the top of the stairs. It was pitch dark and raining. I clearly remember the triangle formation of lights that landed in the lot next to our house. My father was away on a business trip, and I thought it was his airplane landing. I called down to my mom, “Mommy, Daddy’s plane just landed!” She yelled up that this was nonsense and I should get back in bed. She never investigated and I do not know what those lights were.

After Wichita we packed up and moved to the new state of Alaska.

To be continued…