I got da dot

Hi

I just looked at the source of your page and it is a mess. No structure, a million tags too many.

I see this:
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ds hanging down and the dreams still lingering behind our eyelids.&nbsp;</font></p><p><img border="0" src="kitchentable.jpg" align="right" alt="The Old Kitchen Table... Photo by Beth Havey, All Rights Reserved." width="397" height="297"><font size="4"><b><font color="#0000FF">I</font></b>t wasn't just the liver sausage sandwiches with mayonnaise, or even the grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup that kept my dreams alive at home.&nbsp; Mostly it was my mother's kitchen table that did that.&nbsp; It was a scarred mahogany library table which she had covered with red gingham oilcloth. It was perfect for rolling out dough, playing with finger paints, doing homework, or just sitting mesmerized by the red, blue, and yellow roosters strutting on the wallpaper above the green plaster dado.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4">There were way too many moments in my life when I escaped the memory of my math teacher's face or avoided my mother's admonishment to read the newspaper, and just sat, lost in the festive feathers of those bantam roosters.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4">The heart of our home was in the old kitchen. That's where we gathered. It was the kitchen we first stumbled into as toddlers clutching a baby bottle.&nbsp; It was the kitchen we ran into as children eager for Sugar Pops or to see the face of the hero on the Wheatie's box.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4"><b><font color="#0000FF">W</font></b>e ambled there as teenagers bringing our friends and perusing the contents of the refrigerator. It was the rule to complain about what was found, the rule to combine foods in taboo ways--peanut butter and egg salad--and then shriek with laugher.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4">There were many moments when my mother stood at the enamel kitchen sink, her back to us, struggling for a stern posture, stifling a laugh. My brothers and I knew what would come next--a penalty of sorts, a dictum from on high. She'd point to the blackboard she had nailed up over the sink where chores were marked off for each of us; we'd stare at the penetrating words--wash, dry, put away.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4"><font color="#0000FF"><b>S</b></font>he'd dish out something punishing for the child of the moment--clean the hated greasy meat grinder used for making hash or scrub the wooden rolling pin sticky with dough.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4">The kitchen was my mother's room. She filled the small space with her warm gestures and words, conducted those important talks around the dinner table, and she was always there to kiss us goodbye or hug us hello.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4">Any kitchen worth its salt could also become the center of the storm.&nbsp; One morning my older brother had fallen asleep over his Greek or Latin translation and now blamed my mother for sending him to a school that worked him to death. One morning I burned the toast. Three times. One morning my younger brother appeared crying--the newly assigned patrol boy was the neighborhood bully.&nbsp;</font></p><p><font size="4"><font color="#0000FF"><b>O</b></font>n those forever mornings chaos blocked out kind words, if any words at all.&nbsp; We forgot to help one another as we raced around the kitchen, bumping into things with that "mother threat" hanging over us--things would not go well for us if we dropped the half-gallon glass milk bottle on the

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And it should look like this:

<p>
We would trudge back to school with our heads hanging down and the dreams still lingering behind
our eyelids.
<p>
<img border="0" src="kitchentable.jpg" align="right" alt="The Old Kitchen Table...
Photo by Beth Havey, All Rights Reserved." width="397" height="297"><font size="4">
<b><font color="#0000FF">I</font></b>t wasn't just the liver sausage sandwiches with mayonnaise, or
even the grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup that kept my dreams alive at home. Mostly it was
my mother's kitchen table that did that. It was a scarred mahogany library table which she had
covered with red gingham oilcloth. It was perfect for rolling out dough, playing with finger paints,
doing homework, or just sitting mesmerized by the red, blue, and yellow roosters strutting on the
wallpaper above the green plaster dado.
<p>
There were way too many moments in my life when I escaped the memory of my math teacher's face or
avoided my mother's admonishment to read the newspaper, and just sat, lost in the festive feathers
of those bantam roosters.
<p>
The heart of our home was in the old kitchen. That's where we gathered. It was the kitchen we first
stumbled into as toddlers clutching a baby bottle. It was the kitchen we ran into as children eager
for Sugar Pops or to see the face of the hero on the Wheatie's box.
<p>


Get the idea? I've redone the main body of the page and attached it as a txt file.

Did you do it or someone else? I hope you didn't pay for it!!

Nice story by the way.

And yes, my WSO might interest you. See below.

Mike
The HTML Book, For Warriors!

Actually, it was probably a UTF-8 to ANSI/ACSII conversion issue.
Vista had probably "nicely" replaced your straight quotes with left/right single or double quotes that were not in the default page characterset. such characters are then displayed as ? or the square box you (might) see in the first line of your post above.

Hi Tales,

Glad I could be of help and thanks for buying.
The non-warrior link is below.
Thanks for the link.
Mike
The HTML Book, with free HTML code.