I'm only funny by accident.  I can't tell a joke.  According to my daughter, I'm as deep as the Marianas Trench, she is just a puddle, and my husband is mist.  Does that make my son rain?  The gift is that we can still connect.   My husband is my rock and my children are my pride.

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I've worked as a dishwasher, prep cook, cleaning woman, cashier, waitress, secretary, bookkeeper, bar maid, teacher, photographer, and of course, a truck driver.  I've parachuted out of an airplane. 

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I'm bipolar.  In my thirty's I wrote an epitaph on the back of my chapbook of poems, "Here lies Margot Jarvis.  She lived inside her head and wrote poems of suffering." 

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Once I left my family for five weeks, attempting to discover who I was, and learned what I already knew, that I was lonely.   I am not lonely now.  Sometimes, you'll find me on Tuesday nights at Word Humboldt, where I share my poems right along with the young folks sharing theirs.  But mostly, you'll find me at home, gardening, creating mosaics with rocks, and of course, writing.  Call first.