Group Language

Linguists tell us that groups usually develop their own language. Or sub language--sometimes called "argot" or "lingo"--words and/or phrases that mean something to them, but nothing to non-members. Or certain words/phrases mean one thing to non-members, but something different to members.

The term "liberal" is a good illustration of the second idea. To me, "liberal" is an honorable word, meaning someone who isn't stingy with his time, talents, money. As in the charitable gentleman in "A Christmas Carol," saying to the unreformed Scrooge, "We have no doubt his (Marley's) liberality is well represented by his surviving partner."

But to the Rabid Republicans (Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, Anne CoulteR) "liberal" is about the dirtiest name you can call anyone. Not even "Satan" or "child molester" evokes as much anger as that honorable word. I haven't the least idea what a liberal looks like from their viewpoint. I also suspect their hatred has more to do with their own selfishness than any policy or party the person might support, but that might be my own misguided perception.

A really lovely example of the first concept is the word "flitter." According my dictionary, "flitter" is an obsolete word that can mean:
"flutter;"
a Southern variant of "fritter;"
a person who "flits" (darts) around a room;
or a form of tiny ornamentation.
But to someone who collects snow globes, "flitter" is the proper name for the snow, or the glitter, or the other tiny objects that fall on the central figure when they shake the globe.

Somehow, "flitter" sounds like itself, something light and soft and created simply for another person's enjoyment. We could use a few more words like it.

Playing Solitaire

I play a lot of solitaire. I have no idea why I find this particular activity soothing, but I do. I used to play with real cards--and cheated like hell--but now I play on the computer, where I can't cheat. (At least I don't think I can--I don't know enough about computers, let alone developing programs for them, to figure how).

The games we call "Solitaire" used to be called "Patience." I discovered this because I loved Georgette Heyer novels (the original Regency Romances) and wondered what the elderly aunts were doing when they "played endless games of Patience."

Linus says that she plays solitaire when her life is messy because cards are something easy to control and organize. There may be something to that--I play more when I have too many things to do and not enough time to do them, which should add to my stress level, but somehow doesn't.

I also suspect there's something genetic to my playing. Grandmother Wilson (my father's mother's mother, who was "grandmother," not "grandma," and "Wilson," not her given name, "Ethel") smoked and played solitaire and cheated like hell as well. When someone challenged her cheating, she told the accuser in her best mother-of-an-impertinent-six-year-old voice, "I play cards to relax and, if I don't win, I don't relax. Therefore, I cheat."

End of questions.

Kiddie Cars

My ex calls the cars with all the bells and whistles and the trucks that have been jacked up into the stratosphere so the chassis won't scrape on the balloon tires "kiddie cars." Meaning the men (the drivers were always men) haven't grown up. Shorthand for "boys must have their toys."

(And, by the way, were we the only parents to notice that little boys are born with "Vroom! Vroom!" hard wired into their vocal cords?)

This came to mind yesterday as I followed a jacked up Chevrolet Silverado through Seattle. Not conspicuously high, nor flashily colored, but with what looked like a pair of silver bags swinging from just below the trailer hitch. Was he about to lose a part of whatever cargo he was carrying? The bags seemed to be securely attached to a heavy wire just under the hitch, so that was unlikely.

We stopped for a red light so I had a closer look--rather hard not to, since they were swinging at eye level from my little Honda. When I recognized the shape (but not the size or the material) I thought I should hail a passing police officer to arrest the owner for indecent exposure.

Someone had cast a larger than life size pair of testicles, carefully enclosed in their scrotum, from silver metal and the truck's owner had hung this from the rear of his truck.

Kiddie car.

Adventures with Canada Customs

Before I tell this story, readers need to know that: (a) my former husband was Canadian, (b) I have lots of friends and relatives north of the 49th Parallel, and (c) I've been going back and forth across the border since 1965.

So, last weekend I was on my way north--with passport in hand, because I know our federal government in its infinite wisdom has decreed such paperwork is necessary. I avoided the Peace Arch Crossing, which is always an hour's wait in the hot sun, and went to the truck crossing, a possible ten-minute wait. I noticed the border person wasn't alone in the booth, but that often happens, and that he was a lot younger than my son.

"Where's home?" "Seattle." "Where are you going?" "Sechelt." "What's the purpose of your trip?" "To visit friends." And that's when things started to go weird.

"How do you know these 'friends?'" in a tone that implied the quotation marks I just wrote. I could hear him thinking "so called."

"I used to live in Sechelt."

"Are you a dual citizen?"

"No, I was a landed immigrant."

"Are you still a landed immigrant?"

"I have no idea." Which I don't. I've always assumed I lost my status when I divorced my husband, but I've never bothered to check. (I would have, had the McCain/Palin ticket won the last presidential election, but that's another story.)

He picked up a form and started asking me all the other questions like "am I bringing anything into Canada I plan to leave?" and "am I carrying any firearms?" and ticking things off. The he handed me the form and my passport and told me to report to Immigration.

Okay. So I pulled around the building and looked for a sign to tell me where to go, finally assuming the double doors to my right would take me somewhere I could ask directions. Inside was a long counter with at least eight computers, only one with a femlae clerk using it, and eighteen people standing in line (I counted them), including one young couple with a very cranky baby.

"I'm with you, kid!" I thought. I checked to see if there were any "no cell phone" signs, saw none, and pulled out my phone to check my messages: one from a client and one from Mother saying "I can't wake Lynn up." (Lynn being the sister who's undergoing treatment for cancer). That one gets answered immediately, and I'm told that Mother did wake Lynn. Finally. But what should she have done if Lynn hadn't roused? We had discussed this before I left, so I started to go over emergency procedures and the clerk yelled, "You can't use cell phones in here."

Okay. I told Mother I'd call her back later and turned off my phone.

Then the clerk did something that put her computer into perpetual recycle. After trying to re-boot, she went to find a supervisor, was gone about five minutes and came back alone. The couple with the cranky baby jumped the queue to ask if there's someplace to take the child so they can feed/change/rock it to sleep, and are told to return to the line. Eventually, a youngish man and one in early middle age came from some offices behind the counter, the youngish man started filling out forms at one of the other computers, the older one called out something unintelligible and the young couple go forward. After some consultation, they take a seat on the other side of the ropes keeping the rest of us in line and the baby stops crying.

Another youngish man appeared, and started working with the woman clerk's computer. The older man spoke to the one who's still filling out forms, and motioned the next person in the queue to come forward. The other youngish man and the woman clerk held a conference and the youngish man moved over to another computer station and started some procedure while the woman stood at her station. More consultation and they left.

The middle aged officer finished with the person who had been at the head of the queue and left, only to reappear on the "waiting" side of the counter. He spoke to the young couple and they left out the door I had come in by. Meanwhile, the woman clerk retruns and motions the next person to her station. The form-filler picked up his paperwork and left, the middle-aged man took his place and motioned the next people (the next four were all together) forward.

Things seemed to go fairly quickly and I wondered if I'll get the woman who yelled at me or the middle aged man, or if one or both of them will disappear and, if they do, who will take their places.

I get the middle-aged man. I handed him my passport and the form. He asked me why I'm there and I said "I have no idea." He blinks at me, and I repeat what I told the young man in the booth, this time adding that I moved back to the States when I divorced my husband, but I come back to visit friends three or four times a year. He turned my passport over and over in his hands, and finally asked me to have a seat in the roped off area.

Which I did. I practiced my deep breathing exercises and then decided to have a nap, which is all I could do under the circumstances. I was nearly asleep when the millde aged man arrived with my passport to tell me I could go. I asked him what the problem was and he said "we just needed to verify your identification."

Whatever.

I was almost out the door when I thought to ask, "Where are the signs saying 'no cell phones?'" He started to say "right over..." and stopped. "Well, there used to be signs." So I told him about my contretemps with the woman clerk and added that "you really need to replace those signs" as I walked out the door.

The next time I cross the border, I think I should say "I divorced my Canadian husband. I didn't divorce my Canadian friends." On second thought, that will probably land me back in the Immigration Office.

Strider the Kid and Strider the Dog

My grandson's given name is Strider. And, yes, like his mother's name, it's also from "The Lord of the Rings," though she didn't choose it. Strider's father chose it, from the first "grown up" book he ever read.

It's a pity my former son-in-law didn't learn a few other things from that book, like how to honor his promises and fulfill his obligations, but the sad fact is that, when Strider was two, his father walked out on him and his mother, leaving them to fend for themselves.

(With a lot of help from his family, who have always treated Arwen as though she were their sister/daughter, and for which we are all infinitely grateful)

So, fast forward three years to an old friend joining a newly formed amateur baseball team and taking his wife and kids to their first game. The kids make friends with another player's border collie and, naturally, asking the dog's name. When Paul, the owner, tells them "Strider" (yes, also from "The Lord of the Rings") the two girls say something like "We have a friend named 'Strider' and he's coming to stay with us. And he'll want to meet your dog."

Fast forward another three years, when my daughter's family includes Paul, Strider the Kid and Strider the Dog. Neither Strider answers to a summons for the other and I haven't the faintest idea how they do it.

What is a "culture warrior?"

I gather Bill O'Reilly has a new book out called, if memory serves, "Memoirs of a Culture Warrior," and I wonder, "What is he claiming to be?" So far as I know, people are warriors--meaning they're soldiers--or they have culture--meaning they value the arts and appreciate the sciences.

So far as I know, neither of these terms apply to Mr. O.

I figured I should start by trying to define the term. "Culture warrior" isn't in the dictionary, but "the culture wars" is. In the U. S. (but not in Europe or Australia), and according to no less an expert than Mr. O. himself, "the culture wars" refers to a battle between the "Secular Progressives" and the "Traditionalists."

I would certainly define myself as a "traditionalist." I think marriage is a good thing between commited adults, but not between an adult and a child, since I child can't understand the significance of what (s)he is promising to do; or between more than two people, since it is supposed to be an equal partnership, and, with more than two partners, one of them will be shortchanged. I value the teachings religious traditions, the more so as I learned how much they had in common. I appreciate our Constitution, which the authors made flexible enough to apply to many situations and even wrote in rules for alteration if and when the citizens deemed changes were necessary. While I agree with Robert E. Lee that "war is failure," I also understand that, sometimes, it's necessary.

But, according to Mr. O., I can't possibly be a "traditionalist" because I think men and women deserve equal pay for work of equal value; I appreciate the poetry of the biblical version of the creation of this world, but I know it's not the truth; I don't believe any person has the right to inflict bodily harm on another, especially if the inflictor is an adult and the victim is a child; and I believe that, since God told EVERYONE we should "feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick, and look after those who can't look after themselves," that is what we should be doing. Period.

And that eliminates me from the "Secular Progressive" side of Mr. O.'s war. I guess I just have to sit this one out.

Aflak Continued

I thought I'd written all there was to say about Aflak, but, as I was looking him over, the better to describe him, I was reminded of two other stories.

Aflak's head used to come off as a separate piece, but his neck is now riveted in place due to an unfortunate run in with a car which left them both in pretty rough shape.

Dad had a bad habit of laying his cane on the roof of the car when he climbed into the driver's seat. On one occasion, he left Aflak there and drove off. As he pulled out onto the street, he heard a clatter and, in the rearview mirror, saw Aflak bouncing into the middle of the street. He pulled over and was climbing out to retrieve his companion when another car came speeding up behind him. Dad was certain the driver saw Aflak and deliberately aimed the car at him, but, whatever the man's intent, run over the cane he did.

When Dad picked him up, Aflak's head had a few small holes ground into one side and was somewhat wobbly, and the lower end of the ferrule had been snapped off about four inches from the end. He looked around for the car and spotted it against the curb about half a block away. The left front tire was completely flat: Aflak's beak had torn a hole in it.

Dad's friend, Mike, replaced the broken end and soldered a brass collar around Aflak's neck. Dad didn't stay to talk to the driver, but, according to the guard at the condo gate, he'd had to call AAA to bring him a new tire.

The other story comes from Aflak's time with me.

For reasons that are too long and complicated to go into, my children's father was forced into bankruptcy not long after we divorced and I ended up paying off all his debts but the one I hadn't cosigned. That left me with a 40 % share of a small company, the other 60 % being divided between the wife and son of my ex's former business partner, hereinafter known as C. W.

C. W. went on to have an affair with his wife's best friend, his wife found out about it and started divorce proceedings. C. W. then tried to get hold of his wife's share of the business, claiming she had only been a "silent partner" and the shares were his. Asked by the lawyers for an affidavit, I said my current partners had, in fact, been the backbone of the business and their husband/father had had nothing to do with it for several years before I became involved.

C. W. called me and ordered me to "keep my nose out of his business" and, when I said, "This IS my business," told me, "You'll be sorry." He then went to my ex's disgruntled creditor and told her that our divorce was a scheme to defraud her; that my ex, in fact, had lots of money squirreled away; and that he, C. W., would be glad to testify to that effect if she--the creditor--would sue me for my share of the business and split the shares with him.

D. C. (Disgruntled Creditor) then went to her lawyer without C. W. and told him to contact me and my two partners to make the following offer: D. C. would graciously accept 25 % of my shares (10% of the business) and not sue me for the money my ex owed her. No mention of a fraudulent divorce, but lots of allegations that my ex was hiding money from me as well as her.

All this should explain why my two partners, D. C. and I were sitting in her lawyer's office with me gripping Aflak's head so tightly my fingertips had gone numb. As I listened politely to D. C. and her lawyer, I consciously relaxed my fingers, feeling Aflak's weighted head in my hand. I thought flipping him around and holding him by the ferrune and swinging him like a baseball bat. I pictured all the damage that weight could do to D. C. and her lawyer and his office, a sort of modern replay of Samson and the ass's jawbone against the Philistine army.

Then I remembered the Hollywood classic, Samson and Delilah, with a very buff, bare chested Victor Mature beating off all those heavily costumed extras, and I almost giggled. I was still angry, but I wasn't going to let them know that. I wasn't going to let them know a damned thing.

D. C. and her lawyer finally ran out of things to say, and my two partners, intelligent people that they were, knew it wasn't their place to say anything. The lawyer finally said something like, "I suggest you take some time to think about our offer," I said I would, and we left. My partners assured me that they'd stand behind anything I decided, and I told them how much I appreciated their support. And then I left.

When I got home, I called C. W., got his answering machine, and asked him why he hadn't been at the meeting. I took Aflak for a long visit with my friend, Anne, and a walk along the ocean.

A week later, when D. C. called to ask me what I had decided, I simply said, "I'm not giving you anything." She blustered and threatened to sue me, but I said "You do what you think you have to do," and hung up on her.

And that was the end of that. I still think Aflak would make an excellent substitute for that ass's jawbone.

A Cane Called "Aflak"

I first became aware of canes and the people who use them when I visited Linus in New York in the mid-80's. I was surprised to see that not just the frail elderly supported themselves on "walking sticks," but quite healthy young people as well. As Linus explained, "New Yorkers walk or take public transportation a whole lot more than the rest of the country. If you sprain your ankle, or--God forbid!--break it, you need something to help you get around while you heal."

Canes weren't always medical appliances. From the 1600's up through the early years of the 1900's, they were a gentleman's fashion accessory, constructed of fine woods and topped with handles made of precious metals. A few men carried sword canes, but an ordinary cane could do some nasty damage to an attacker's hands and head, as well as parry blows from fists, feet and various weapons.

My next experience with canes was personal, following a spectacular pratfall resulting in a twisted knee and soft tissue damage that stubbornly refused to heal. Various treatments and medications eased the hurt enough to let me sleep, but walking any distance was, quite literally, a pain. So I tried out various styles of cane--the wooden "old man's" with the curved handle that didn't fit my hand, the metal "orthopedic" that always felt too short (this in the days before someone got smart and made them adjustable). I never went as far as the "quad cane," which was taller, but, as I knew from my caregiving jobs, was a dangerous fall just waiting to happen.

And then Bernie, the male half of my favorite couple, went into a group home and was confined to a wheelchair, leaving behind a handsome oak cane inset with brass bands and a brass handle shaped like a duck's head. His wife, Mrs. K., who was left behind to clean out their apartment so she could move into an assisted living facility, didn't want or need it and gave it to me.

I carried that cane for the next two years while my knee finally gave up hurting and healed. My dear friend, Anne, once remarked that "You're the only person I know who can turn a medical appliance into a fashion statement." But this was one fashion I was more than happy to retire to the back of my closet.

Then my dad's health began to fail, due to a combination of multiple TIA's (Transient Ischemic Attacks--the so called "ministrokes" that don't leave any noticeable aftereffects), serious allergies to almost every antibiotic in the doctors' arsenal, and a missed diagnosed, bad reaction to Lipitor. He, like me, found walking difficult and the choice of canes less than satisfactory. So I offered him mine and--you'll forgive the expression--Dad took to it like a duck to water. It's longer length suited Dad's 6 foot height, it's heavier construction his greater weight and the broad duck's head fit his large hand admirably.

Dad christened his new friend "Aflak," and continued to enjoy his silent company even on "graduation" to a power chair. Aflak proved to be invaluable for reaching elvator and handicapped door buttons.

Dad died almost three years ago. I thought about having Aflak cremated with him, but I'm glad I didn't follow through with that idea. I, too, like his silent company.

Creation

Perhaps I should have written "creating" in the title line.

However.

I sometimes think I write the way other people drink or take drugs or abuse sex--as an escape. Sort of a vacation from the reality of my sister's illness and my mother's heart condition, my son's dangerous job and my own often heartbreaking one. I've certainly done some of what I think of as my better work--including this blog--in that escapist mood.

But not always.

Some writing is a direct challenge to those who pushed my "outrage" button. I used to write op/ed pieces for local newspapers in that vein, and then be totally flabbergasted when the editor(s) printed my tirades without altering so much as a comma. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised--they and I were nearly always on the same side. Plus I was always careful to make certain my "ducks were in a row"--my facts were the facts, not edited to fit my assumptions. I took--and still take--great delight in pointing out such "editing" in other people's writing: reread April's post on creation "science" if you don't believe me.

And yet, in some ways, that writing too can be an escape. Following an intriguing trail of facts and opinions is a wonderful way of taking your mind off things you can't change or control. I highly recommend it.

Computers--the Internet

I really like this computer--my dad's, bought the summer before he died and still in the room we call "his office." It has lots of bells and whistles that I haven't even begun to figure out and it's responsive to most of my needs (which I'm told is a function of its huge memory).

And I love the internet. With my best friend two time zones away, my daughter and her family in Canada, and my son in the Army and presently in Germany, it allows me--if not instant--certainly daily contact. Not to mention Google and Wikipedia, which point me to information I'd never find in an ordinary library.

I don't like the spam--the ads for cheap drugs and "erotic enhancement appliances"--or the truly annoying pop-ups this computer allows me to block (most of the time--the occasional one slips under the radar and gets closed tout suite).

I even enjoy the--usually--stale jokes that seem to get circulated with every change of the season. I always read them for the occasional brand new one or the new spin to an old one.

But (you knew this was coming) I loathe the e-mails that end with "pass this one on to three (four, six, your whole buddy list of) friends and something wonderful will happen." And the ones that add "if you delete this message, something terrible will happen" make me so angry I want to track down the creators and shove their heads right through their computer screens.

How dare they make such threats? Yes, I know they're impotent, but the idea that anyone thinks what they have to say is so important they have use threats to make certain we all listen to/read them is so far beyond arrogant I haven't found a word in English to describe it.

So I've told my friends and family, "send me the stories and the pictures and the cute kid/animal photos and the inspirational messages and the jokes--even the raunchy ones--but DON'T send the others." I don't want them and I won't pass them on.

Mother's Day--Children's Middle Names II

Someone once said that the only reason for giving a child a middle name was to let him/her know (s)he was in deep yogurt. I don't remember my mother broadcasting her displeasure in that way, but I know I did.

This is the most memorable of those occasions.

Arwen and Dee (William Richard named himself "Dee" when he was barely old enough to walk, let alone talk, and the name stuck, in part because his father loathed being called "Billy" and wasn't about to saddle his son with that name) were in middle school, Arwen going into fifth grade and Dee into sixth the summer Simon Fraser University opened their classes to elementary school children so they could get a taste of what college was like. For a week, kids got to use computers (a very big deal in the eighties), do experiments in the various science labs, use cameras in the photography studio and then develop their own photos, and, in Dee's case, learn basic business principles.

We lived on a cul-de-sac, which gave us a tiny front yard, but the biggest back yard in the neighborhood. Add to that my philosophy that the kids were welcome to do anything that didn't result in bodily harm, and ours was the playground of choice for all my children's friends.

A few days after their week at Simon Fraser, there was the usual congregation of kids in the back yard with the usual level of noise. I'm not certain how long they'd been there when I heard someone stomping up the back steps and into the kitchen; that someone was Arwen and she was furious. Without even giving me a chance to ask "what's wrong?" she said, "Mom, Dee says we have to pay him rent to use the back yard."

"WHAT!"

"He says that's what he learned in the business class."

I can say this now that my children are adults, but it was all I could do to keep a straight face as I walked out onto the back porch and said in my best sergeant-major-on-the-parade-ground voice, "William Richard Phillips, get up here! Now!"

Now, a child who knows (s)he's in trouble when his/her mother uses his/her first and middle names knows there's some really deep yogurt waiting when she uses all of them in one breath. Dee came. Arwen went out via the living room and the front door so she didn't have to pass her brother on the stairs.

Dee verified what his sister had said, explaining that our back yard was something everyone wanted to use so we should be making a profit on it. Assuming my best Jehovah-speaking-to-Moses-from-Mt.-Sinai voice, I said, "Dee, I am the president of this corporation and there will be no charging anyone rent to play here. Do you understand me?"

No argument, just a disappointed sigh--"Okay"--and he went back down the steps. I don't know what he said to the other kids and I never asked.

I was laughing too hard. And I'm still laughing.

Not Your Grandmother's Cross Stitch

Say "cross stitch" to people who don't do needlework, and their first thoughts are "antique samplers" and/or "ersatz early American decor." Say the same words to a person who does needlework and they're likely to picture elaborate, multicolor scenes that are stunningly beautiful, but take months to complete or a variety of needlepoint that's extremely tough and long-wearing but also takes time and a strong frame to complete.

And then there's this book I just found called Stitch Graffiti (by Heather Holland Daly, published in 2008) which turns all those notions on their lovely, complicated heads. Ms. H-D says things like, "try stitching this design on nylon screening" instead of traditional cloth and "change the colors if you don't like mine." She then tells you a simple way to balance the colors when you do change them so the design looks like it was planned that way, not arbitrarily altered.

Like most needlework designers, she includes an alphabet, but hers really does look like something some school drop out might have spray painted on a city wall.

All of her designs look like they'd be fun to do, and, to make the creation as relaxing as possible, she offers suggestions about the appropriate music to play while you stitch.

Creation "Science"

For the past week, I've been listening to an unabridged audio recording of Johnathan Wells' "The Politically Incorrect Guide to Dawinism and Intelligent Design." And any reader can guess my opinion of Mr. Wells book from the quotation marks around the word "science" in the title of this post. I'm no scientist, but even I could see some flaws in Mr. Wells' book, only two of which I'm going to mention.

Wells writes about Darwin and his supporters "ignoring the work of Gregor Mendl" (the man who discovered the laws of heredity) when a glance at an encyclopedia would show him that Brother Mendl's work was only published in a very obscure German/Austrian journal and lost to the scientific community for decades because the editor of that journal didn't know what a treasure he had on his hands.

And then there is his constant reference to "the Designer" who Wells protests isn't God but never says who/what (s)he may be. He reminds me very much of our Victorian grandparents who couldn't say the words "pregnant" or "sex" though they spent hours talking about how their children and grandchildren resembled this or that relative.

As for my own opinion--since "a day to God is as a thousand years," I don't have a problem with the idea that the world we have today took several billion years to build, or the idea that we humans aren't the be-all and end-all of life. I'm only sorry I won't be around to see what comes next.

Crows

We had a visitor in church this morning in the person of our organist's father. Mr. B. is a very hale gentleman with a powerful voice who enthusiastically joined in the hymns although he's somewhat deaf--at least he's tone deaf--and wasn't gifted with sense of rhythm. Nevertheless, his joy at being with us was so obvious, no one even considered dropping a discrete word in his ear to sing just a little softer.

Mr. B. reminded me that the

crow's spring canticle

off key from the other birds'

is just as joyous

from Haiku at 3 a. m.

Cats III

birds and the cat sing

"Reveille" before it's light

they know it's morning

occasionally

cats do Teddy Bear Duty

when they see the need

from Haiku at 3 a. m.

Courage

River runs fastest

just before it dives. Is it

afraid of falling?

Does it hide its fear with speed

so it has no time to think?

from Haiku at 3 a. m.

Crossword Puzzles or Tricks My Father Taught Me

There are a couple of tricks to doing crossword puzzles.

My dad, who did the New York Times Crossword in ink for most of his life, taught me some. Like most people, I started by doing all clues going across, then the ones going down, then back to those going across, then down, etc. Dad told me, "What you want to do is work in blocks. Try answering all the questions in one section, then move on to the next. If you fill in a couple of letters when the question is still fresh in your head, you have a better chance of remembering the answer."

It took me a few weeks of getting lost and filling answers in the wrong boxes, but he was right--the "block system" made things a lot easier.

Another trick isn't really a trick at all--it's just learning to recognize the designer's tricks and shortcuts. Like "awn" means the bristles on a head of wheat, while "seta" is the proper term for the bristles on a pig. Or that some designers use puns and some like slang--the more obscure, the better.

Dad said he learned the block system from his Uncle Henry, my grandmother's brother. He also passed on another piece of advice from Uncle Henry, who was a college professor of English: "When you're taking a test and you come to a question you can't answer, leave it and go on to the next one. By sitting on the question, not only do you waste your valuable time, but you may find a related question you can answer, which will trigger your memory." That one earned me a respectable GPA through high school.

It's also good advice for doing crossword puzzles. If you can't figure out a clue, leave it and come back to it later--you'll usually find the answer.

And yes, I do the NYC Times crossword in ink. Most days. Saturdays are a bear.

Children's Middle Names

When I was a kid, I didn't give much thought to the custom of giving children second names. I did know that mine, Lee, was my grandfather's first name (I was the first grandchild--for both Mother's and Dad's families) and that some of my friends had either a collection of names between their first and last, or some real doozers that they only shared after I'd taken blood oaths of secrecy.

I didn't know that my best friend went by her middle name, Anne, until her wedding day. I nearly fell over when the J. P. asked "Do you, Dorothy Anne, take..." She hated her first name so much, she'd pretended it didn't exist.

Then, when I was pregnant with my first child, first and middle names suddenly became very important. If we had a son, William was the traditional first name in my husband's familyand had been for at least four generations. We automatically went with Richard, my father's name, for the second.

But what would we name a girl?

I liked my mother's name, Esther, but loathed my mother-in-law's name, Bessie. (She did, too, and wasn't particularly happy with its diminutive, Bess.) I'd have been happy to give our daughter her middle name, Irene, but my husband insisted on Bessie or nothing if I chose Esther. He wouldn't even compromise on Elizabeth, of which Bessie is a diminutive--he said it sounded too much like we were aping the royals.

Back to the dictionary of baby names.

The Lord of the Rings was just coming into mainstream consciousness and there were some interesting names that might work. My husband's middle name was Warren, which, with a little rearrangement, could become Arwen. Arwen it was.

But what about a middle name? We went through every name we could think of, but nothing sounded right to either of us. And then I saw Veronica Tennant dance The Sleeping Beauty and thought the name went well with Arwen (the woman being tall, blonde and beautiful didn't hurt, either). Later that evening, I broached the subject of middle names again. He said he'd just been reminded of the Archie comics and what did I think of Veronica, one of Archie's girl friends, as a possible girl's name?

Bingo.

I don't know what we'd have done if we'd had two boys or two girls, but we had a son followed by a daughter two years later. William Richard and Arwen Veronica.

Flowering the Cross

Since I've only been attending St. Paul's United Church for a few months, their tradition of "flowering the cross" on Easter Sunday came as a bit of a surprise--a lovely one, but it's something I've never seen before.

Everyone is asked to bring at least one flower--any kind--to the service: several, if possible, so any guests can participate if they choose. A plain white cross is set up in front of the communion table and, usually, someone has also left a vase of flowers next to it. What no one can see from the pews is that the cross is covered with chicken wire.

During "the children's time" between the opening hymns and the sermon, the children are told that Jesus was killed using the cross, but, since their families and friends believe he came back to life, decorating the structure with flowers is a way of remembering that. They're asked if they want to do that themselves and are invited to stay long enough to watch all the grown ups do the same before going off to Sunday school in another part of the church.

By the time everyone who wants to has tucked their flowers under the chicken wire, a lovely mixed bouquet is standing in front of the communion table and the service goes on as usual.

As I said, it's a lovely custom. But, somehow, I wasn't in a celebratory mood. Perhaps it's the rotten weather today, or the hesitant appearance of spring this year, or Linus' battle with cancer, or Mother's with congestive heart failure--any number of things. The following poem is what came to mind:

some cover the cross
with flowers
on Easter Sunday
hide pain under joy

turn bad memories
and old hurts
that can’t heal into
something beautiful

denying the pain or
flaunting it

the old soldiers’ wounds
are bandaged
as they smile at praise
and honors

they know what
poison is

Good Friday--the Crucifixion

I'm probably one of the few people who haven't seen Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ." For two reasons:

(a)I don't agree with Gibson's anti-Semitism;

and

(b) while I do agree with his portrayal of the crucifixion in all it's horror, I don't need to see fake pain and blood when I've seen enough of the real stuff.

The Romans designed crucifixion as a deterrent to rebellion, and, to their way of thinking, the more tortuous the death, the less likely anyone would want to end up dying that way. (Reminds me of the arguments for the death penalty in today's politics, but that's another story).

We've cleaned things up--a lot. People wear plain crucifixes, jeweled crucifixes, elaborate ones and simple ones. Very few think about what a cross actually meant to the people who died on them or, just as bad, watched their loved ones suffer, unable to do anything about it.

I'm not a traditional Christian--some would say I'm not a Christian at all--but I had an opportunity to see the crucifixion in all its horror through someone else's eyes, and I have never forgotten it.

My children were three and five when our family was invited to their cousin's wedding at St. Peter's Catholic Church in New Westminster, B. C. We arrived early because their father was the family photographer and he wanted to "scope out" the best places. Most Catholic churches have at least a simulacrum of a person on the cross over their altars, but St. Peter's was like nothing I'd ever seen. The Christ figure, had he been standing, would have been at least 9 feet tall, and as lifelike as the artist could make him.

I noted him, but I was my husband's "designated assistant," and I had other things to do. I was setting up camera equipment when my son came up to me and said, very softly, "Mommy, why is that man hanging there?" I started to ask "What man?" but didn't; Dee's eyes looked like he was wearing magnifying spectacles and I could see the altar, the cross and the figure behind him.

I think I said we were not a religious household, but my kids had been taught that Christmas was the celebration of the birth of a very special teacher and Easter was, if not a celebration of his resurrection, a commemoration of his death and of new life. But we had not told a three and five year old how he died.

I put the camera gear down. "Dee, that man isn't alive. He's a statue." I knelt down so our eyes were on the same level. "Do you remember the story of Jesus? That he was a very great teacher?" Dee nodded. "And that the authorities of his time didn't like what he taught and killed him?" He nodded again and whispered, "But why..." and couldn't find any more words. I said, "Why did they make that statue?" He nodded again. "That cross is how they killed him. And people don't want to ever forget what happened or why. So they made that statue."

"He really is a statue?" Dee asked; his eyes were still dilated and almost black, but they were back to their normal size.

"Absolutely." I stood up. "Do you want to come with me and we'll see?" He nodded and took my hand. I'm don't know where his sister had been while we were talking, but she materialized on my other side and the three of us walked the length of the church and up the steps to the altar. I don't remember the rest of our conversation, but it was long enough for their father to set up his camera in the balcony and take a time-lapse photo of the altar, the cross and the three of us standing there.

Colors

green's not spring's color

it's winter's--that and brown if

the ground has no snow

spring shows every color

before the green takes over

from Haiku at 3 a. m.

Pussywillows, Cattails

I can't speak for anyone else, but my memory is stuffed with odd scraps of songs, poems, "wise" adages, quotes from the famous and not-so-famous and (surprisingly!) long passages from favorite books. One of these is the refrain from Gordon Lightfoot's "Pussywillows, Cattails":

Pussywillows, cattails, soft winds and roses

Which is a lovely phrase, evoking various stages of spring after a long cold winter, but, besides the tune, it's all I can remember.

One of the really nice things about being connected to the internet is how easy it can be to find things like words to songs. I just typed in "Gordon Lightfoot" and went from his bio to a list of his songs to the songs themselves

And what did I find? The song is like an exercise in Freud' s free association technique, where one phrase evokes another and that evokes a third and so on and so on. Since no one's mind works exactly like another's, Lightfoot's patterns are different from mine. No wonder I couldn't follow it.

Given that spring has finally arrived to stay, and that is an event worth celebrating, here's the opening and closing stanza:

Pussy willows, cattails, soft winds and roses

Rainpools in the woodland, water to my knees

Shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring

Pussy willows, cat tails, soft winds and roses

Cats II--Rufus

Bella, Besame, and Zoe aren't the only cats we've had in our lives. For me, the most memorable was Rufus.

Rufus was a chartreuse, one of the oldest breeds in the world. He looked like a Russian Blue, with the same short, rumpled-looking gray coat, but, instead of being long and lean, he looked like a full potato sack on old man legs. He wasn't a "show" cat--his eyes weren't the proper gold/copper color, but the light green of the liqueur that was first made in the French Monastery of Chartreuse. Whoever had owned him previously had neutered him to make certain the "faulty" genes weren't passed on to the next generation.

Rufus appeared at our back door one day and immediately made himself at home. My then- husband said, "we have enough cats in this house" (we had two), took him off to the new housing development a couple of miles away and left him there, telling everyone that "He'll find a good home on his own. He found us, didn't he?"

Are you familiar with the children's song, "The Cat Came Back"? In each verse, a cranky old man tries to get rid of a cat by various ingenious means while the chorus counterpoints with "The cat came back the very next day." So did Rufus, once again walking in the back door as though he owned the place, talking all the while. I could almost hear him saying, "That was an interesting car ride, but I wouldn't want to take another one, thanks. And by the way, I'm starved. When's dinner?"

Well, "Any cat who can find his way back here deserves to stay," and stay he did.

Rufus is the only cat I've ever known who hugged you. Seriously. When someone picked him up, he'd reach as far as he could around that person's neck and purr like a motorcycle climbing a steep hill. Anyone could pick him up, even if he was in the middle of a meal or a nap. With a houseful of teenagers, our own and assorted "strays" (neighborhood kids, foster kids, the foster kids' siblings, etc.) he was the favorite.

He loved humans, but no other life form. Within a week, he was "top cat" and brooked no opposition from anything with more than two legs. He was a great hunter and I was often given "presents" of mice, birds and garter snakes. (Don't ask why I was so favored, I haven't the slightest idea.)

He lived with us for two years, but disappeared the week before we were to move away, as suddenly as he'd appeared. It was January, bitterly cold with an unusual fall of snow. The neighbors' dogs had formed a loose hunting pack and we think he ran afoul of them, or possibly a hungry raccoon. We never even found a tuft of gray fur on the snow or under the trees to tell us what happened.

Cradle Songs

sister to sister
mother to daughter
mother to son

to Canada and back

smooth polished wood
medium brown

carved spindles
define windows
to look outward

bronze hooks and eyes
to swing on
soothe to sleep


craftsman to friend
mother to son
father to son

from Mexico to here

knotted rope
rust colored
define diamonds
wide enough
for small hands
to reach through

heavier rope
to hang from the ceiling
swing in the breeze

protected places

to start our lives

2001

On Being Celtic

I've noticed a lot of mail order catalogs offer books and clothing, jewelry and other do-dads with "Celtic" themes or motifs. And by "Celtic," they don't mean Scots or Welsh, they mean Irish. Shamrocks abound, as do the color green and references to St. Patrick, Blarney Castle and leprechauns.

I'm not knocking this, you understand--with a last name like "Delaney," it's the last thing I want to do--but I do want to note that we've come a long way from the days when businesses posted signs in their windows or put ads in the newspapers saying "Help Wanted. No Irish Need Apply."

A long, long way from my great great grandfather who drove his tinker's wagon into the little town of North Tama, Iowa, with a wife and the name of "DeLaney." Note the capital "L." He didn't want to be considered just a half step above the "colored" people who were less than a generation away from slavery and if capitalizing a letter in the middle of his last name to make it look French would make his family respectable, then that's what he'd do.

Right up into John Kennedy's presidency, you never heard an Irishman called a "Mick" without the name being preceded by "dumb" or "stupid."

So I have to wonder at my father, who went into the Army Air Corps in 1941 as Dick DeLaney and came home in 1945 as Mick Delaney. He said he hated the name "Dick": that when in the service, he'd palled around with 3 other Irishmen whom everyone called "the four Micks" and the name just stuck. He said he thought the capital "L" in the middle of his name was a stupid affectation and went back to the original spelling.

But it must have taken a whole lot of nerve to take two pejoratives and flaunt them in the face of that unspoken but pervasive prejudice. He said it just made sense.

He could put on a brogue that sounded like he'd just stepped off the boat from County Derry, yet he desparaged what he called "professional Irishmen" who got teary eyed over "Danny Boy" on St. Patrick's Day, but never got closer to the "Ould Sod" than New York City; and, though he enjoyed seeing all the "Celtic" artifacts in the catalogues, he'd never buy them. Yet, just before he died, my sister, M. J., gave him a license plate frame that said, "I brake for leprechauns," which he promptly installed on a car that he always kept free of any sort of bumper sticker or aerial ornament.

We wouldn't think of removing it.

1959 Cadillac

There's something about the 1959 Cadillac. You've seen them, in museums or antique car shows or mounted on the walls of retro cafes. They're the long, ll-lo-on-ng-gg ones with twin, bullet shaped tail lights mounted halfway up their rear fins, the epitome of Detroit engineering extravegance.

My mother drove one, a bright red convertible with black leather interior. It handled like a dream, or like a swan on a calm lake. She called it her "canoe." We moved a lot in the early years of her marriage, back and forth across the northern United States at least six times, she in her canoe with one of us girls beside her and Dad either ahead or behind in his sedate sedan with the other two. Truckers and single guys in all kinds of cars would see the pretty blonde in that snazzy car and weave in and out and around her, trying to get her attention. Sometimes she'd wave, especially to the old guys, but mostly she just sailed on down the road.

I suspect that, if we get really do get our choice of heaven, instead of wings and a halo, Mother will opt for the open highway in her red canoe.

Canada Geese

brown goose flotilla

stay on the sound--no one needs

your Geeses Pieces

from Haiku at 3 a.m.

Counting Crows

I spend a lot of time in second hand book stores and in places like Value Village and Good Will Industries that also deal in books. Sometimes I go away empty handed. Sometimes I find a treasure.

Several years ago, I found an exquisitely illustrated version of the old children's rhyme called "Counting Crows." The colors and the details reminded me of medieval miniatures. But what was most intriguing was the rhyme itself--I'd never heard it before.

Needless to say, I bought it. I still treasure it.

Sometime later, in another bookstore, I found The Annotated Mother Goose, a compendium of every version of English language nursery rhymes with all the possible explanations of their origins. This valued book contains not one, but two versions of "Counting Crows." Here's the English version:

One's lucky

Two's unlucky

Three is health

Four is wealth

Five is sickness

Six is death

And here's the one from, of all places, Maine:

One crow sorrow

Two crows joy

Three crows a letter

Four crows a boy

I wonder what the crows say when they count humans?

Linus and Cancer

I've mentioned my sister, Linus, several times in writing about Bella and Zoe. Linus, of course, isn't her real name, but it was her nickname when we were growing up and, for reasons that will become clear, I'm sticking to that name.

She earned the name because, like Charles Schultz's little philosopher, she used to wrap herself up in an old blue and white blanket. She's a lot like that Linus in other ways:

She's the middle child--I'm older and our sister, M. J., is younger. The other Linus is sandwiched between Lucy and Rerun.

She's bright--nearly straight A's through school. One of our good friends used to grumble, "When we have an assignment, I work my tail off and get a "B" if I'm lucky. Linus waits until the day the paper's due, writes it IN INK on the bus on the way to school and gets an "A-!"

She's quiet--Schultz's Linus can't get a word in edgeways over Lucy, but Linus simply doesn't put herself forward unless she knows you.

In an earlier post, I mentioned she's not steady on her feet. Here's why.

Linus has cancer, a metastacized (second growth) tumor at the base of her sciatic nerves, which she's been fighting for more than two years. The tumor presses on those nerves, causing pain to radiate from her buttocks down the outside of her legs, and numbness from her knees on down; sitting ranges from uncomfortable to downright painful and walking more than a few steps is extremely difficult. She has a wheelchair named "Delilah" because she's candy apple red with black upholstry; a walker named "Fido" because she never goes anywhere without him--"Fido" means "faithful"; and braces for both feet named "Lucy" and "Ethel" since she never wears one without the other.

We take our fun where we find it.

Coriander and Ariadne

The poem from the last post refers to the legend of Theseus and the Minotaur. The Greek hero, Theseus, along with seven girls and six boys, was a sacrifice to the Minoan king to pay for the death of his son; they were to be given to a half bull/half man who had a fondness for human flesh. The king's daughter, Ariadne, fell in love with Theseus and gave him a ball of magic thread to guide him in and out of the Minotaur's lair, the legendary labyrinth. Theseus killed the Minotaur and took Ariadne with him.

On the way home, he stopped at the island of Naxos and, for whatever reason, sailed away without Ariadne. (Versions differ, depending on the source: some say Ariadne ran off with the wild women who inhabit the island, some say that Theseus just wanted to get rid of an embarrassment). But Dionysus, the god of wine and music, saw her, fell in love with her, and married her, making her an immortal.

Coriander--what we know as cilantro--was sacred to her. Before refrigeration, it was used to flavor meat dishes because it disguised any "off" flavors. Cooks believed it actually changed the meat, the way Ariadne changed a mortal husband for an immortal.

Coriander

Coriander is

Minoan Ariadne's

who traded safety

for an unknown world and so

became a goddess

from Haiku at 3 a. m.

Cats I continued, Bella

Last but not least, we come to the third cat in the household, Bella.

As I said in an earlier post, Bella is a reformed street cat. She was literally picked up off the street when she was thrown into the path of an oncoming car by the owner/manager/something of a Chinese restaurant in New York City. This person said she was making a pest of herself, trying to get into the basement. After reading the restauranteur the riot act, Bella's rescuer took her to a local vet's office to be checked out and possibly adopted. She was an immediate hit with the staff; one of them, who knew Linus, knew she had recently lost her elderly female Callie and was looking for a companion for Zoe, called her. Bella fell in love with Linus, rubbing, purring and climbing into her shirt for more pets.

When Bella arrived, she weighed less than five pounds and was so tiny even the vet thought she was less than five months old. Further examination--when she was spayed and a rotten canine tooth extracted--proved her to be better than five years old. Since she loved people, knew what a litter box was for and had a horror of climbing up onto the furniture, we knew she had spent some part of her former life with people, but that was all we knew. She also has a strong aversion to other cats, though long association with Zoe has taught her they aren't all the enemies she expects them to be.

Bella is white and gray, the gray having some undertones of orange visible in strong sunlight. Her colors aren't quite symetrical--the grey around her ears looks like she has a side part with peek-a-boo bangs, and the gray splotch on her nose only reaches up to one eye. She has the tiniest feet and the largest ears of any cat we'd ever seen. She has amazing control of those ears: had she been a male, we'd have called her "Yoda." Though she never learned to play the way other cats do--she just sits and stares at toy mice, string, even catnip balls--she has her own version of games. Her favorite is to wait for a human (except Linus, whose balance and coordination is shaky at the best of times) to head for a chair, then leap up onto the seat, "spread" herself so she covers the most area possible, and look up at the human with a smug look that says clearer than words "Neener, neener, neener! I got here fir-rst!"

Tell me cats don't think!

Cabbage

decorative cabbage

born a giant rose, dies a

miniature tree

from Haiku at 3 a. m.

Cats I continued, Besame and Bella

After Amore died, it was clear to all the humans that Besame thought she'd be the "top cat"; she was the senior cat, not just in years, but she'd been "in residence" longer than the other two. But she'd been "beta" for so long, she had no idea how to be an "alpha."

She keeps trying, growling at the other two whenever they come near her, occasionally escalating to screaming and scratching when Bella got too close. Zoe simply ignores her--as I said, she's a one person cat and, as long as that person is within sight/sound/scent, the rest of the world can go hang itself.

But not Bella. Though she's about two thirds Besame's size, Bella is a reformed street cat and, if another cat is going to show signs of aggression, that cat had better be ready to stand behind the threat. Bella may lose the battle, but she won't back down or back off unless she's physically removed from the scene by someone bigger (me, usually).

It does not make for a peaceful household.

Corned Beef and Cabbage

We in the U. S. and Canda think corned beef and cabbage is a traditional Irish meal. It isn't. In the Ould Sod, our Irish ancestors ate a lot of cabbage (and carrots and potatoes), but I'm pretty sure our immigrant ancestors bought their corned beef from their Jewish neighbors and liked the flavor its pot liquor gave to their vegetables so well they adopted it as their own.

In our house on this St. Patrick's Day, we have two people with delicate stomachs--Mother because she's almost 82 and Linus from all the drugs she has to take--so corned beef and cabbage wasn't an option. We had the truly traditional potato soup and soda bread and topped the meal off with green mint ice cream.

Cats I, Besame and Amore

The "B" girls are Besame and Bella. Besame is older by a couple of years, so I'll let seniority rule.

M. J.--my other sister--was given Besame and her sister, Amore, as peace offerings from her former husband. "The girls" were calicoes with nearly identical markings, though very different in size and build: Amore was tiny, even by cat standards, while Besame is long and "rangy." Unless they were side by side, the only way to figure out which was which was which was that Amore had a black patch over her left eye and Besame over her right.

And, yes, their names are Italian: "Ah MORE ay" and "BEH some ay"--"Love" and "Kisses." Dad thought "Smith" and "Wesson" were more suitable, certainly for Amore; she was the "alpha" in more than just her name. Besame hid from friends and strangers alike; Amore greeted people at the door, demanding pets which were answered with bone-rattling purrs. If, as kittens, they got into mischief, Amore was the instigator. Amore leapt or climbed on everything; Besame preferred to keep all four feet on the ground. When they arrived at Mother's, Amore joined everyone the breakfast table (not ON the table--all cats in this house know that's a "no fly zone"--but in an empty chair) to chat about the news of the day.

Soon after "the girls" arrived here, the vet discovered a cancerous tumor inside Amore's sinuses. The cancer was extremely aggressive and the vet said, "If she were mine, I wouldn't subject her to any invasive surgery. Make her comfortable and she'll tell you when she's had enough." Amore spent the next three months curled up next to Mother, rarely moving except to use the litter box or to find a warmer spot in the sun. We even fed her on a pillow on the bed as leaning over her dish became more difficult. When she stopped eating and drinking, we knew it was time to let her go, and we did so. When the vet gave her the injection, she put her head down, gave a little sigh and just went to sleep.

We should all have so peaceful an end.

Crocuses

2/25

crocuses hold snow

in amethyst and gold cups

a spring offering

from

Hiaku at 3 a. m.

Cats I

My mother's condo is home to three cats: Zoe, Bella and Besame. Zoe and Bella came with one of my sisters, Besame with the other.

Mother used to say that the most polite child gets first pick of--whatever. That being the rule, Zoe's story comes first.

Zoe was about a year old when Linus first saw her at a private shelter called "Bide-A-Wee," just a mottled cream, gray and apricot backside under a sign that said, "Watch this one. She's not eating." The attendant opened the cage and lifted her out. Zoe didn't protest, but it was clear she wasn't interested in being sociable.

What Linus saw was a mostly blue point Siamese with some interesting calico shadings scattered through her coat. Her toes are white, her legs, tail and mask gray with an apricot "Harry Potteresque" blaze over one eye. While many Siamese are cross eyed, Zoe is slightly wall eyed. And somewhere back in her genes there stalks a lioness--her front feet toe out when she walks, like a lioness on the hunt.

Something happened when the attendant set Zoe down in the "get aquainted" area that no one--not Linus, not her friend, Kura, who was with her, not the attendant--can explain, though a breeder might:

Siamese cats were originally bred as guard animals and, as such, they tend to bond with one person. In Zoe's case, that person was Linus. Zoe is polite to me (I wield the can opener), comfortable with E. J. (our mother), tolerant of M. J. (our other sister) and the other cats, but Linus is her human and that is that. She'll put up with car trips, airport security, a 3,000 plane ride and a new home as long as that person is within range of her sight/hearing/scent.

Zoe is also a talker. She doesn't have the "fingernails on blackboard" squall of some Siamese, but she has an amazing range of vocalizations, some of which we can sort of translate, but most of which we can only guess at. One of these days, someone will invent a universal translater that will convert Feline into English. I, for one, can hardly wait.

The "C" Words

When I realized that my present life can be described in four "C" words--cats, cancer (not mine), congestive heart failure (also not mine), and caregiving (my job)--I started thinking about all the other "C" words I've had to use. In short order, I filled a notebook page with four (4) columns, everything from courage, through Canada, Christianity and children, to candy, computers, and cross stitch.

Some of these words were important for a short time, some for much longer. All of them have stories attached I want to share.