Hoarder or Collector? And, Am I Buried Alive

I probably shouldn’t tell you about the lobster shell my sister saved on the closet shelf in the teenage bedroom we shared. She was probably seventeen, and it was a souvenir from a date she had with her high school boyfriend, Jim Atkinson. I imagine it gave off an unpleasant odor around our school clothes but, in childhood, my sister was not a tidy person, and our mother chose not to take up that battle. So there the remnant remained.

Although I wouldn’t save a dead crustacean, or anything from dinner, I do understand the need to hang on to mementos, souvenirs, keepsakes. I have been a sentimental saver for as far back as I can remember. From the age of eight, I saved my birthday cards, now a half century old. Items that most people eventually dispose of, I keep. These objects hold stories, and they help me recall them.

Some souvenirs are normal, like postcards and photographs. The images help us remember places we’ve been and occasions we’ve had. Or, jewelry. A birthstone ring from my grandmother at age eleven for my confirmation, the sacrament when you accept the adult responsibility of being a member of your faith, brings to mind the teasing from her that my confirmation name, Helena, must be for Helena, Montana, and not for her name, Helen. My many pieces of kid-made jewelry recall the love and admiration of whatever little girl, now grown, once upon a time gave to me. A broken chain with the biggest blue jewel charm, a naked tin ring devoid of its stone that I wear every day, pins made of paper, artful creations of wire and gemstones, ribbon and glue.

The most peculiar collection of keepsakes in my household, and those which take up the most room, is clothing. Unfortunately, this is not limited to vacation T-shirts. I have the pink cotton nightgown, with eyelet trim, I wore at the hospital when I had my daughter. I always meant to make it into a pillow for her as a keepsake. The gesture probably would have meant more to me than to my daughter. We parents tend to save things we think our children will want. Having dealt with the belongings of both my late parents, I can tell you, we don’t want it. None of it. (Well maybe that cookie jar in case Antiques Roadshow comes to town.) And yet, here I am doing the same thing.

I have the green fabric flower from the dress I wore to the only formal I ever attended. And it wasn’t even my prom. For years, until the lettering was so cracked you couldn’t make out what it said, I saved the T-shirt I purchased at a Chuck Mangione concert. The imprint, which made my mother cringe when I wore the shirt as a maternity top, was the name of the horn player’s album, Feels So Good. The sequined costume from my high school marching band days is tucked away with the white go-go boots. The costume is a size I will never wear again; I guess I’m saving it for when I start shrinking and can wear it at the nursing home.

My clothing collection is not limited to my clothing. My daughter’s Liverpool High School jacket, and a costume poodle skirt her grandmother made and appliqued for her for a play, hang in my closet. For many years, I kept my daughter’s first soccer shirt. It adorned a small stuffed bear I had.

When our family entered the ex-daughter-in-law era, my mother-in-law continued gift-giving at Christmastime with both me and my sister-in-law, another ex. One Christmas, she gave each of us a flannel night shirt. Twenty-five years later, I still have mine. It makes me think of how much like home it felt there, my appreciation of the fact she was still in my life, the excitement of the family activity that was still taking place as there still were children around, and the possibilities that still lay ahead. Every time I see that flannel shirt, I picture her living room, that evening, and we three together. (I never did wear the night shirt because it made me hot and the sleeves crept up and I’m a fuss-budget, but I have it.)

After my father died, I grabbed his tennis racket and a typed report in a clear film report folder. My father was an accomplished tennis player in school and played all his life, so saving the racket made sense. The report, on “motivating employees”, did not have his name anywhere on it, was not in his handwriting, and gave no signs of necessarily having anything to do with him. But he MIGHT have written it! It was tantalizing to me that the document may have been written by the man from whom I got my love for vocabulary, writing, and reading the dictionary! The man always laughing at his own naughty entendres and puns.

I have my mother’s sneakers. A homemaker, an empty-nester, and then a widow, she suddenly had no-one to look after, no evening meal to prepare, nothing to run to the store for. So she started acquiring canvas KEDS-style sneakers in every color. Red, green, pink, plaid. Resting on the rug in the entry-way, the shoe-clones took on the shape of her feet. I have the turquoise pair. Somewhere. The comb I have that was hers also is turquoise. It’s the largest-size comb that comes in the cellophane package with the skinny comb, the rat-tail comb, and the small school picture day-size comb, in assorted colors. My mother had a perennial Ragu jar of sudsy water on the edge of the bathtub, in which she soaked her combs. It was as standard a sight in our home as the evening newspaper on the front stoop to see her jar of combs in the bathroom. So I have a Ragu comb. Somewhere.

The school picture of my sister, Lisa, toothless – so I’m guessing from first grade, is an art project in a clear glass furniture coaster, backed with felt. No doubt, a Father’s Day gift (fathers always got paperweights) from a daughter that was six 50 years ago. This keepsake, which I probably grabbed at the time I took the tennis racket, is on the shelf in my living room. Someday, I’ll give it to her son. Because I’m sure he’s dying to have it.

Kid art is in places of honor throughout my house; clay objets d’art, paintings, drawings, bead & wire jewelry, that take me back to the childhood faces that were my daughter, my granddaughter, and my nieces and nephews. How I miss those times, for my sake and for theirs. But, for them and for myself, stories can be re-told each time I take some odd treasure into my hand.

Susan Farnsworth
copyright February 2020

Hurt and Humor -- That's How It Goes; Monty, Again

Again, this morning, my heart flipped as I thought about wondering if just maybe Monty came back to bed and his form was nestled in the bedding at the bottom right corner by the window, his usual spot. I always got excited when I thought he had returned to bed. It was a chance for me to steal some snuggle time. Monty liked his Pop better, so I had to grab any opportunity, and this was his concession to out and out cuddling.

Now in a state of consciousness, I remembered that Monty was gone. I found myself in the same position I had been finding myself the past dozen days. I couldn’t get back to sleep, despite feeling unrested, and I couldn’t make myself get out of bed. The night before, as always, I made my mental – sometimes actual paper – list of things I wanted to get done the next day. This has been my grief recovery tactic since my daughter passed a year ago. Now morning, I couldn’t bring to mind one reason to get up. Up until recently, it was always to feed my little black buddy.

I have three pair of black boots, abandoned in various and random spots around the house that I pass in my travels. At least once a day, I think I see Monty.

I don’t miss having a cat. I miss Monty, the individual. A meme on Facebook both articulated for me, and gave me permission for, those feelings. It said we don’t just lose the animal companion, we lose the relationship. At the risk of sounding like a horrible person, I think that’s why I feel so lost when I didn’t feel lost at the passing of my daughter. I felt loss then. Feeling lost is a different thing. Monty’s absence has left a big fat hole in the fabric of my daily life.

If the Trump administration (and now, in posterity, you know when this was written) has got my house wired and bugged, they’ve got plenty of ammunition to have the local authorities come and lock me up. Surveillance will show me walking through my day talking to a being that is not there. Most mornings, I greet “Monty” with a “Good morning, boy”. The rest of the day is filled with my narrative, asking Monty’s opinions, and pointing out cool things I think he’d be interested in. Or, when it’s warm and sunny enough for him to have gone outside – despite it being winter, or too cold for an outing, I comment to him on the weather consequences. Then I chide myself, “you are outside”. I take the fact the “good mornings” happen less frequently as a sign I’m recovering a little bit.

Here’s a part of the story you are allowed to laugh at, even roll your eyes. Not only is it okay, it’s understandable.

So, when the veterinary hospital ER employee asked what “after care” I would like, I chose to have Monty put in a sturdy cardboard kitty coffin, as opposed to being cremated. And so he was. He would be buried in the rock garden with the two brothers that went before him. At home, I had grabbed the blanket Monty napped on to wrap him in for the trip to the animal hospital, a really nice blanket that was a gift from a family member. It was the nearest covering to grab and it was his. (I regretted that move later on – the point of this next part of the story; it was a really nice blanket.) At the ER, Monty’s Pop asked would they make sure the blanket is wrapped around Monty when he’s placed in the coffin. It was.

When the three of us got home, Pop placed Monty under the Christmas tree. (I always told Monty the tree was his. “We’re putting up your tree, boy.”) There by Monty’s last tree, the two humans had our “wake”. When it was time to go to bed, I carried the little white box upstairs and placed it in the boot box which was set out in the living room – his winter man cave, of sorts, so the boy could have one last time there. Now, the production was moved to the bedroom, and he was placed at the foot of the bed, under the glow of the small tree on the dresser, for all the “one last times” that were his life with us. We would bury him the next day.

Sunday morning. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to church and I wasn’t ready for that final act that would remove Monty from us once and for all. So we went to breakfast. Back at home, we couldn’t put it off any longer and I finally had to spill my guts to Monty’s Pop. “Todd, I have something to tell you. I don’t want to bury Monty in that blanket.” Now, keep in mind, Monty and the blanket were wrapped and ready for the UPS. “That blanket,” I continued, “is velour. It’s made from a petroleum-based material. Monty won’t be able to decompose.” I explained, in my most gentle tone, that if Monty is wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t decompose, he won’t either. And that really bothered me. A low o-okay was all Monty’s Pop said.

So, seated in Todd’s recliner, I un-taped the box that was Monty’s coffin and slowly lifted the lid. “Don’t do that in here!” rang out the panicked voice, as a pair of hands snatched the opened box from mine and a flash of blue jean rushed out the back door. What was worse was I had let Monty have one last “one last time”. This one, to look out his window perch that morning while we were at breakfast. The shelf installed for that purpose was over the radiator. Which had been doing its job of radiating. Heat.  When I opened the coffin to change blankets, immediately, Monty was in the air. “I wanted to put him in something else,” I said.

Reconvened at the ring of rock bordering the garden, I watched as Todd, carefully and swiftly, tugged one end of the non-decomposable gray velour blanket from under and around Monty. Suddenly recalling a pashmina I hadn’t worn in a long time, I ran back into the house and grabbed my beautiful Kelly green wool wrap. Racing back, like time was running out, I tucked the bright green pashmina around my boy, re-wrapping him as best I could. One last act of mothering. Re-taping the box flap closed, we lowered him into the hole his Pop had dug in the garden, by his brothers, and by the bird bath he loved to get up on his back toes and drink from. I had to keep the water full to the brim, otherwise Monty couldn’t get at it – to heck with the birds. In tribute, and in case the invisible being I talk to ventures outside, I will keep it that way.

Speaking a goodbye, an I’m sorry, and an I love you, to the creature in my heart, thoughts, and daily conversation, I turned from the garden just in time to see Monty’s Pop carrying the blanket on a stick toward the trash can. It was a really nice blanket, and there’s always tomorrow.

Dear Kim, We gave him love

Dear Kim.

I wanted to write you about Monty. That is what I re-named Blackie when we adopted him. (I had had a black cat named Blackie in the past, and “Monty” paid tribute to where Monty was from. In fact, to the tune of the song “Mona Lisa”, I’d sing to Monty, “Monticello, Monticello, I have named you!”) The name suited him; once he was Monty, you couldn’t think of him as anything else.

I’ll never forget, and never regret, how we came to have Monty. I was following his plight on Facebook. It was Spring 2013. A person named Tanya had put out a pleas for Monty – for a black cat the owner couldn’t keep and that was days from having to be put down. Well, all I had to know was this was a black cat, and that was it. I started asking questions, keeping tabs on the black cat’s status, checking back every day. My daughter saw my replies online and started getting in on the action. She was volunteering me, she was volunteering her uncle in Baltimore. Finally, I thought, I’d better see what’s what with this situation, and I called you. You were all excited and reported that Tanya was there, getting Blackie all loaded up for delivery to New York, to me. Well, I thought, I guess I’m getting a cat. A cat from Monticello, Arkansas. I certainly can’t let this little guy down now.

How we loved Monty. He was smart and standoffish and made me smile. Most of all, Monty loved being outside. So even though he didn’t have front claws, we let him out, as long as there was no wind – which he hated, rain, deep snow, or cold. My rule was that it had to be above freezing, but Monty didn’t seem to mind the cold as long as it wasn’t frigid. He was a fierce protector of his yard, and an accomplished mouser. A family in the village walks by the house every day with their two large white huskies. Monty chased them off whenever he saw them. In spring and summer, he brought a mouse to the door for us many a day. We knew he believed he was doing his job around the house, and that it was an expression of love. He was bringing us something to eat, not keeping it for himself.

Monty enjoyed toys and had them all over the house. Winter was hard for him. He couldn’t go outside many days and, because he was such an intelligent guy, he’d go stir-crazy. So Al and I were always trying to change things up in his environment. (Al was Monty’s “Pop”.) This included a window perch his Pop built for him, and a boot box he turned in to a retreat, complete with an awning. Monty had a cat tower my brother gave him that he never went into or on, but we kept his toys inside and he’d take out whatever he wanted to play with. Last winter, when Monty was at the end of his rope and things got desperate, I wound a few yarn balls for him. He loved those darned things, chasing them around all evening.

I kept a packet of catnip in the cupboard below the kitchen sink. Monty would open the door and take out the packet to bat around. I’d go into the kitchen and see the door open, the packet in the middle of the floor, catnip flakes all over.

Monty loved his Pop. He had different routines with us. Mornings, before the alarm went off, about 4:30 or 5, Monty, without fail, would hop up onto the bed and start bumping Al’s hand. Time for morning treats! After a few proddings, Al would get up, give Monty a handful of treats, pour coffee, and the two of them – Monty on his Pop’s lap – would watch the weather report until Al had to get up to get ready for work. At that point, Monty would sometimes get back into bed with me; other times he’d climb into his boot box or settle into one of the chairs. When he’d hear me stirring – my risings were later and more unpredictable, he’d come into the kitchen for breakfast and thus would begin our day together. He would follow me from room to room as I tidied, got my own breakfast, and carried out the day’s activities. Where I was, he was. All day long. If I went downstairs to the laundry, or outside, he was at the top of the stairs waiting for me when I came up. At three o’clock, we sat down for a break and watched Dr. Phil together.

To Monty, we were a unit. If Al and I were outside, Monty came, too. When we went inside, so did Monty. If we were settled in front of the TV for the evening, so was Monty. Al went to bed early and Monty stayed up with me. He supported my night owl habits. But when I finally turned in, Monty came to bed, too. Bedtime, everyone. Bedtime, family.

Monty met us at the door whenever we returned from being out and, as soon as Al sat in his recliner, Monty would be on his lap. When Al had his supper tray in front of the TV, Monty would wait patiently below for Al to finish, move his tray and invite him up. How Al loved Monty. He made regular trips to the Walmart on the other end of town to make sure his buddy never ran out of his treats. In fact, there’s an unopened tub in the pantry even as I write this.

I took out the letter you sent with Monty, saved all these years, and one of the things you wrote was how he “rips and tears” through the house. That made me laugh. He did do that. Right up to his last day.

In October, Al noticed Monty’s breathing was “off”. His vet wouldn’t see him and, instead, directed us to go to the emergency room at the hospital. There, Monty was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. We have Cornell up here, but decided not to put Monty through poking and prodding and cardiologists and possible surgery. So he had three pills he was supposed to take twice a day.

Restraining Monty to “pill” him was unsuccessful and traumatic. And he was, after all, a heart patient. Pill pockets worked, exactly one time – until he realized there actually was a pill inside. He wouldn’t eat any of his food (pâté for breakfast and dinner) once he realized it contained pieces of pills. Putting butter on his paws was successful for a short time. It was comical to watch him race through the house trying to out-run the butter, until he finally stopped and cleaned his paws and ingested the pill pieces stuck to them. Eventually, he became uncooperative with this method, too, and would just walk around with blobs of butter on his paws, leaving grease spots on the furniture. Cottage cheese worked for a while until he got bored with it. In the end, it was sour cream that worked. He loved it! Not wanting to push my luck, we settled on giving him the most important pill, in pieces, hidden under a little dab of sour cream that was his dessert each night.

Would Monty have lasted longer if I had tried to force three pills on him twice a day, when he’d either fight me or not eat? I’ll never know. All I do know is, despite his illness, he continued to “rip and tear”, and bounce up the stairs like he was on a pogo stick, even on his last day.

Saturday afternoon, after being outside – it was an unseasonably warm day, Monty came to his Pop’s call and bounced up the stairs. Suddenly, something “threw” him to the floor. All at once, he was on his back, unable to control his legs and get back on his feet. Al and I were right there – just a few feet away, and went right to his side but, in less than a minute, he was gone.

How we loved that cat. I have had cats all my life. But Monty came at a special time. Not long after he came, my job ended, then my daughter was diagnosed with a re-occurrence of cancer. For three years, I was back and forth to North Carolina. When Julie died, I already had been not working, so suddenly I was in a quiet house with no call to action to answer, no emergencies to respond to, no trip to pack for. For over a year, it was Monty and me. I had Monty to take care of, to talk to, sing to, Monty to get up for. How I loved that cat. Loved him like no other. We (Al and I) are still crying. We haven’t even been able yet to bring ourselves to remove his litter box. And it needs scooping.

Author's Note:
I was of two minds on sending this letter to the woman from whom we adopted our cat Monty, formerly Blackie.
Long ago, I had to re-home a dog I had bonded with. My mother had acquired him and she was ill-equipped to take care of a dog. I still can re-play the scene in my head when I dropped him off at his new – a stranger’s – home. It still tears me up. I never heard from them and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to. But I wanted Kim to know that we gave Blackie – Monty, love and attention, and loved him so much that we are still not in good shape. Al and I would tell Monty he had “his fanny in a tub of butter” – my boss’s expression for a good life. We had him for just 6-1/2 years and it seemed like we had him forever. We can’t remember our home without him.

Memories from the "way-back"

(Still emerging from Winter Storm Stella, with over a foot of snow on the ground on the second day
OF SPRING, I thought it would be a good day to post this blog entry I wrote back in October. You'll see why.)

When we Farnsworth girls were kids, we did not do lavish things. We grew up in the era where the neighborhood was the center of social life for a kid. Family vacations, a major trip, or any kind of travel really was rare. 

But, in the summer, there would be a day that my mother would make tuna fish and egg salad sandwiches, cut them on the diagonal and pack them in the Tupperware box used for road trips. (Diagonally-cut sandwiches were for special occasions – they were fancy.) This would be loaded in the station wagon with a Thermos jug of orange Koolaid, a bag of cheese curls and a package of Archway frosted spice cookies (my mother’s favorite). Away we would go with us girls bickering over seat turf, I’m sure, and probably playing Bury Your Animals. Our destinations were various places in upstate New York and, although I remember very little about the places, I remember the details surrounding the rituals of the trips - things that were unique to that tradition. I still bring those vignettes to mind - it was a happy time and they make me happy still. 

My brother wasn’t born yet, so it was us four girls that would cram into the “way-back” of the station wagon (which I later discovered was not a term I coined, but what everyone called the part of a station wagon behind the back seats), eight bony knees, too many feet, and loud voices rioting forth at our parents in the front.

And, there was the bag of candy. My mother always made sure to have a bag of pick-o-mix candies (our store’s version of “bulk” back then) that we kids commandeered from the way-back. The grown-ups, no doubt, were lucky to get one piece. I still can recall the assortment: root beer barrels, hard butterscotch candies, maple and raspberry toffees, and those flat round caramels with the white swirl. I guess the strategy was if our mouths were constantly full and chewing, there would be less bickering.

But, of course, we all could manage to speak that universal kid travel question. Are we almost there? When I think back, I realize my parents never snapped or even really lost patience. Every so often, my mother would call back to us, look at the cows, girls! My mother loved taking drives passing through countryside and small towns so she wanted to share her appreciation of America with us. My mother’s America.

Eventually, we would arrive at our destination and the tailgate would go down. My mom would open the box of sandwiches, fill paper cups with the Koolaid and eight knees would line up bending over the edge of the tailgate while we silently munched on the triangular treats.

Feed them and they will be silent.
Looking back, my father probably ate standing up and my mother probably didn’t stop bustling and didn’t eat at all.

At the risk of joining the ranks of the “in my day” sayers, treats were treats when I was a kid. My parents were members of the generation that settled the country with housing tracts and centralized school districts. They needed the one paycheck the father brought in to buy dryers and drapes from Sears. The neighborhood supplied your fun and entertainment. Neighborhoods were noisy because everyone was home. Travel was rare.

But, every now and then, on a summer day…

 

An Early Halloween Story

Ouija board.
I’m nervous just telling the story because I have to type the words. Ouija board. What if I’m opening the gates of Hell? What if, at the very least, the peculiar aches and pains I’ve had for the past two months are due to the fact I messed with a Ouija board?

I know I sound ridiculous. Many people have reacted to my story by doing the “did I hear you right, and you’re not kidding, are you” reaction to my angst, then changing the subject. But at least my local animal shelter benefitted from my brief encounter with the demonic world.

This summer, Al purchased a camp. It’s a mobile home in a park on the river. An older couple who were retired had decided, after 20 years of making two trips a year between their summer and winter homes, they were ready to stay put in the south. Our new getaway was their home for six months of the year for two decades, so it was a complete household and welcoming home.  The view of the river is so amazing, I’d be happy if Al had bought a port-a-potty with a lawn chair.

As is often the case of such purchases, the sale included all contents:  furniture, kitchen items, linens, lawn-care equipment, even cleaning supplies and random toiletries. There also are odds and ends that amount to what you would take to the Salvation Army but leave behind, thinking maybe the new people will find treasure in your trash.

Two boxes of “treasure” sat in a corner of one of the bedrooms. I came upon my visiting daughter rifling through the boxes. I sat down to supervise, somewhat curious but pretty confident it was all junk. Then, there they were, two old Ouija boards. We pulled the sets out of the pile. Not only were they old, they were vintage. In their original boxes, one was marked with the year, 1964. One box was plain, but the other had a wonderful design. To depart from my writer-y writing of this entry, it was just really cool!

But the coolness was not my first thought. My first thought, and surprisingly my daughter’s, was to get the Ouija boards out of the house! This was evil! We had a gateway to EVIL in our house! In a hurry, we scooped up the boards, scurried out to my car, and tossed them in the trunk. Holy cats, now they’re in my car! My daughter and I agreed – we had to get rid of them, and out of our universe, at once!

Now, it’s worth mentioning – for me, anyway – that my daughter’s reaction surprised me; that she agreed the Ouija board brings evil and does not belong in a home – or car. Years ago, she had eased me into finding out she does not believe in God by having discussions about her more aboriginal spiritual belief system. Which I blame on my reading her “Freddie the Leaf” when she was a child. But that’s another story.

It’s also worth mentioning that this was not my first encounter with a Ouija board. When I was no more than eleven or twelve years old, I received one as a – of all holidays – Christmas gift! My mother had decided a Ouija board would be an appropriate gift to celebrate the birth of the Christian messiah. (Incidentally, the other game set that came into the house that Christmas was called “Green Ghost” by a game company called Transogram.)



 My daughter was on an extended visit with me this summer, to take road trips around upstate New York and visit at least some of her favorite childhood destinations. In the meantime, we were riding around with two creepy Ouija boards in the trunk. There just wasn’t an obvious opportunity to unload these instruments of deviousness on our treks to Niagara Falls, etcetera.

Finally, on a trip up north-bound highways to Old Forge, our favorite quaint, albeit tourist, town in the Adirondack Mountains, we had our Eureka moment! Surely, we would pass antiques shops along these country highways, and certainly we could sell the Ouija boards at one of these establishments!

And there it was! An antiques shop! Behind us. (I would like to say that, although we whizzed by much too fast to pull in, I do observe the speed limit much of the time.) But then, another shop, with two spinster-looking ladies sitting outside on the step, each matching the other with chin resting on hands, elbows resting on knees, appeared. Might these ladies be interested in purchasing two fine, vintage Ouija boards in original boxes? Oh, nnnooo, they answer. Those things creep me out, they say.

There was one more shop, right in town. The proprietor was interested, but she wanted to do some research online first. She had sold one in the past, she said. But it’s something that not everyone is looking for, she said. And she couldn’t afford to pay much, she said. Not knowing if she’d get anyone to buy it, she said. In the end, we sold the Ouija boards to the shop in Old Forge – on our way out, after a lovely day, I might add. And, I really love Old Forge, so I hope I didn’t bring them doom.

But there was one more worry. The “dirty money”.

I told Al, the rightful owner of the Ouija boards, about the ordeal. He said, go ahead and keep the money. Oh, no we can’t KEEP the money – it’s like transacting with the horned one himself! Julie and I decided we need to give the money “for good”. How about a church, Al suggested. Oh, no, not a church! How about one you don’t belong to, he persisted, how about Donald Trump’s church, he chortled at his own humor. I would not give THIS money to any church, I insisted, not even Donald Trump’s church!

We did find a home for the money we all could feel good about. After riding around with it in the console of my car for a month, I finally had a check cut and brought it over to a group of individuals that even the devil wouldn’t be mean to, our local animal shelter.

And that’s one tale – or tail – I don’t mind ending.

A Return to Blogging

This is not the way I would have chosen to return to blogging.

I love, as I say, “exaggerating for the sake of a better story”, and blogging gave me a podium for this ego-trip of mine. And then, I went Blogger MIA. I had too many ideas and no inspiration. But now my daughter needs me.  Julie is her own worst PR guy. 

The photo accompanying this post inspired me to get back on the stick. It is of my daughter Julie and her family, husband Anoop and daughter Emma, on a recent but rare night out of the house. They look pretty good, don’t they, albeit a little tired-looking? If you look closely, though, you can see the scar on Julie’s neck (from a recent surgery) and the sadness in Emma’s eyes.

Julie is battling cancer, with which she was re-diagnosed in October. (Her first bout was 8 years ago when she was 29 and Emma was two.) I want to digress here just briefly to say, do NOT make decisions about your care in a moment of panic! Without getting into a whole long diatribe about Julie’s experience over the past eight years, I will tell you to take a breath, take a moment, and get a third opinion. And Google the list of non-PC questions to ask your healthcare providers. This is no time to be worried about offending someone!

Anyway, back to Julie’s bad PR skills.

My daughter is a research “Nazi” and has put, literally, thousands of hours of research into cancer over the past eight years, staying prepared for the possible return of her cancer. Her treatment choices include options that are, let’s say, not ready for primetime in this country. (Although, we are now following behind other countries – including Canada – in pursuing these treatments and the Resident Doctor on Julie’s case said that this is “the key to the future treatment of cancer”.) We have FDA protocol to follow and sitting royalty (chemo) to de-thrown first, but Julie has no time for that.

So she started blogging about her story on different Funding sites. She writes about her latest research, her health updates, a bit about her family, and she asks for “your support” to raise enough funds for this new cancer treatment. Unfortunately – I think because she thinks she has to have advertising appeal, she is terrible conveying the weight of her need. She puts up her most appealing photos so people won’t cringe and turn away and she talks about the things she still does with her husband and her daughter. Which to some may be frivolous, but are her attempts to maintain a semblance of normalcy and to have as much joy as they still can have.

My daughter’s best option is a treatment called immunotherapy. It is not yet being offered as part of “the standard of care” for cancer in the U.S., but it will be. (It is finally being developed in research hospitals here, including Roswell Park Cancer Institute in Buffalo. So despite the smiling photos, Julie needs this last ditch effort toward raising money to go where she can get this treatment.

Look again at this photo.

I won’t post the price tag here of our hoped-for treatment, but I am happy to answer any individual emails about this – it is much greater than Julie has posted on her site: marketingsusan.com@gmail.com. Please visit her site: https://www.gofundme.com/JulieLoveless I want to keep Julie in the Mommy Business for as long as possible. I, her mom, thank you.

(Sidebar. Julie recently posted an entry on Facebook, which I was told about but did not see – and have made the choice not to look at it, that offended many people. I would ask your understanding and compassion regarding this. She is dealing with cancer, tumors in her brain, profound fear, and many, many medications in her body. I don’t know how I would be dealing with this, but many people have decided they know how she should be able.)

A Time for Health, Part II: The Exercise Part

It seems the hardest obligation to meet is to stay committed to some kind of physical fitness regimen. On a tight schedule, exercise is the first thing to go. We’re either too busy, too tired from being busy, or tired from thinking about being busy. Also, let’s face it, trudging out to some sort of work-out session (be it going to the gym, a class in the latest exer-dance craze, a weekly pick-up game of hoops at the “Y”, or the dreaded league bowling night) after coming home once already, is about as appealing as helping someone move. 

My own efforts over the years have run the fitness gamut. Remember 20-Minute Workout? (I won’t mention the decade.) Every morning, Bess Motta would lead TV viewers through an aerobic workout for twenty minutes from a rotating platform, which, if you did it, was probably pretty effective. But as the camera angled in on sultry Bess and her (decade “spoiler alert”) legwarmer-wearing entourage of two as they undulated through their routine, you found yourself mostly sitting on the couch mesmerized and eating sugar cereal from the box.

We can’t leave out the Jane Fonda Workout – another craze not meant for mere mortals. (I’m pretty sure this is when 9-1-1 was invented.) Somehow, I missed the whole step aerobics era – thank God. I gave Latin dance-based Zumba a try, but decided to sit out the rest of that era – Cloris Leachman on Dancing with the Stars has better knees than I do.

My latest endeavor was a cardio-salsa class with a one “Berto”. Even though anything cardio is too much sweating and jumping and excess shaking of body parts, I will sometimes make an exception when it comes to dance. Heck, we women are always complaining, “we never go dancing” — this is better than nothing. In any case, I don’t half mind Berto’s class. Truthfully, all that high-speed hip action makes my back feel better.

Finally, I settled on a form of exercise I thought I could live with:  Physical Therapy.

That’s right, PT. I’ll put physical therapy up against anything you’ve got: weight training, machines, jogging, kick-boxing, Yoga Booty Ballet®, dancing with scarves – even infomercial exercise DVD sets (especially infomercial exercise DVD sets – if I could have the $19.95 back for every one of those I ordered, I could hire a body double with a better figure.)

PT is wonderful; you hardly know you’re exercising at all. First, you lay down and rest while they put warm compresses on you, then they stretch you. I love this – you don’t even have to do your own stretching, and you've only rested! This is followed by gentle exercises that you do from a laying-down position. I had no idea there were so many exercises you could do without ever having to get up! (This laying-down feature is why I also liked Pilates when I tried that!) You might have to use some pieces of equipment: a few movements on an exercise ball, some stretches with strips of rubber material or tubing, or maybe a short routine on the weight machine, but there’s none of this sweaty jumping around. Then, after you rest (again!) on the therapy bed and are ready to leave, there are… lollipops!

How can you beat that? So, Jane Fonda and Billy Blanks, eat your hearts out!

Editor’s note: I do love physical therapy, but this was written all in fun. Do not compare my experience with yours – your doctor knows best. But, oh ranks of the unemployed, do get out and walk — after all, that is what you groused about all the years you were working! 
Pictured in actual photo of mine: salsa class featuring hidden sister.
Copyright 2012

A Time for Getting Healthy, Part I: The Food Part

In the spirit of full disclosure, I provide at the end of this entry, my daughter’s sites on nutrition: Living Roots, her Facebook page, and Some Like It Raw, her blog. I do this because, as I tell my tale, “Ten Days to Better Health, or Who Eats This Stuff”, I will exaggerate for the sake of a better story. 

There are several reasons I was receptive to changing my eating habits at this moment: my age, family heart history, having the time currently to devote to the endeavor, and my “last chance pants”. I’m sure everyone has their version of this garment: the item of clothing you can always squeeze into even when those holiday or Super Bowl calories have prevented you from wedging into your normal wardrobe but, that one day, the button isn’t up to the job and you pray the zipper teeth will hold until you get home. For me, this is my black knit slacks that seem to have a 
3-size range, just for me.

Because my pants were down to their last chance, and because my daughter had done the legwork (Julie has done much more reading and research on nutrition than I will ever do in a lifetime – I would never have the ambition to read research “white papers”), I was ready. So trusting her knowledge, and relying on her guidance, 
I began a 10-day long “de-tox.”

The terms of this de-tox were, in short, to eat nothing but plants and grains. No dairy, no sugar, no carbohydrates (apple, yes; bagel with cream cheese, no), and no animal anything (meat, eggs, butter, etc). Right out of the gate, this eliminated some pantry staples: chocolate, cookies, and Pepsi. Many of my fallback foods that I always thought were healthy would be off limits: egg salad sandwiches, orange juice, and peanut butter on a spoon. Now I’m not a big meat-eater, but what would I put in the center of the plate if I couldn’t even swap in an omelet, macaroni and cheese, or spaghetti with red sauce?

I knew the answer to this question. It was just too horrible to face… 

those scary foods in aisle six.

You know the foods I mean. Aisle six is that short stretch of unfamiliar cans and boxes of foods that your mother did not buy. Packages with brand names I had never seen advertised during Saturday morning cartoons. Things like jars of grey pieces of something in liquid, exotic kinds of beans – none of which were pork and beans, and sacks of grains I had never heard of but which were about to take the place (for 10 days) of my blue box of Kraft. Incidentally, don’t ask me to buy “healthy” ice cream ever again. A.) That’s like creating a nutritious substitute for frosting. 

B.) Ice cream should never be made from legumes.

So, grocery bags filled with aisle six fare, and more produce than I typically consume in a year, I head home to learn the de-tox tricks, recipes, and food substitutions. 
I provide these here:

· there must be 50 ways to serve beans and greens
· the naked salad – learning to live without crumbly blue cheese and other  

  garnishes that add flavor to an otherwise tasteless dish
· one potato, two potato, three potato, four – 7 minutes to a complete 

  microwaved meal (minus the ribeye, gravy, and buttered bread)

· almonds – without dairy, I relied on this nut for my source of calcium – and not 

  because they were covered in milk chocolate
· tortilla chips – a satisfying snack when you crave salt and crunch. Or a pound-

  bag of peanut MnMs. Or a big ol’ hunk of buttered corn bread on vegetarian 

  chili night. (I think you can actually live on them for a short while if you get 

  locked in at Walmart.)
· smoothies – yeah, uh, not the concoction with ice cream and peanut-butter cup 

  pieces – that would be the OTHER concoction sold by, you know, that franchise.

So, how did I do on my de-tox? I wasn’t a miserable failure – l actually started having fruit & flaxseed smoothies for breakfast, and they didn’t suck. Also, three things happened: My cholesterol went down, I learned that fiber works, and I actually managed to abstain from Pepsi without becoming a rooftop sniper. (I always wondered about that.) 
And anyone can do anything for 10 days, right?

Photo: Julie serves beans and kale (a.k.a. beans & greens). Recipe can be requested via her websites: www.facebook.com/Root.of.Life and

http://betterinthebuff.blogspot.com/
Copyright 2012 – No statements here should be taken as professional advice on nutrition or survival when getting locked in a store. BTW.

A Time For Neighbors

The little house in the photo strikes me as looking isolated. Since that is the lesson here, I chose not to crop the image. 

Ray lived across the street from me, in this little house, for over 10 years. At 91, he actually was in his house for much longer; I was the “new” neighbor and part of the reason for his observation, the street has changed, which he said almost in a whisper, with a touch of sadness.
The story starts with the end: Ray moving away. And then, the story backs up to two weeks ago. It was one of the rare nights I cooked, making a much greater quantity of stuffed shells than I knew Al and I would eat. It was a deliberate act. As I said, it’s rare that I cook and this batch of pasta would cover at least two meals.
Then I looked out my window and across the street to Ray’s house. As always, the light from his sitting room glowed through the front window. At least once each evening, I would look over for the light and the dark dot of his head, which I could see when he sat in his chair. This is how I “checked on” Ray. This night, I could not see the dark dot.
I cajoled myself into taking a dish of shells over to Ray (thinking to myself, c’mon Susan, suck it up). The day before, I brought home a cake that I would cut a slice from to add to the meal. Balancing the containers of food, I crossed the street, and stepped up onto his porch. Looking through the door window, I still could not see Ray. (Because he had bad legs, I would open the door a bit – if I saw him - and call to him as I let myself in. That was the system.) This night, not wanting to startle him, and considering that he might be in the bathroom, which might not be a speedy prospect, I returned home.
The next day, I tried delivering the food again. Still no Ray that I could see. This time, though, I stepped inside and walked through the house until I found him sitting in his kitchen. “I don’t sit in that chair anymore,” he said, referring to his usual TV chair that allowed me to perform my nightly Peeping Tom check. “I sit in this chair now,” he explained, pointing to a chair about two feet from the TV. “I can see from there.”
Not only did Ray have bad legs, he had bad eyes and bad hearing. When I first knew Ray, at 80 he already was long-retired but could be seen most nice days on his porch reading a western romance novel, books he finished at an impressive rate. He’d spot me or Al out front and would wobble over to visit. Conversation always required some shouting, but Ray got around, and visited, and read. These days, he hadn’t been able to enjoy even that level of activity. In fact, not long before, a whole year passed that I hadn’t seen him at all.
Joining him at his small table, I set down the food and told him what it was I brought. “I can’t eat chocolate,” he said in response to the dessert. I told him, that’s okay, he could flip it over and eat just the yellow cake off of the offending frosting. As we chatted, I realized he thought I was his visiting audiologist and had to give him a couple of nudges as to the fact it was me, Sue, from across the street, you know, Sue and Al. He could see my facial features in only the crudest form, and couldn’t hear my voice well enough to recognize it. Plus, truthfully, he just didn’t see me that often.

And that is the point: the isolated little house with the isolated little man, living across the street from the woman who isolated herself from someone because he required some effort to communicate with. Frankly, with my attempts to make my voice loud enough and deep enough, it was work.

That night, Ray told me he was moving. In two weeks. Having mentioned before the wisdom of getting out of his house, I hoped that this was another sketchy plan. But, this time, his plans seemed more concrete. I said goodnight, and left feeling pangs of loss. 

A few days later, a familiar white SUV was in Ray’s driveway. Tom was Ray’s devoted nephew who made the hour-plus trip every week to check in on his uncle, taking him to appointments, shopping, and to dinner. Tom was loading parts of a bed into his vehicle and verified that they were moving Ray to an apartment. It would be close to Tom and his family. He invited me to go in and say hello. Tom’s wife and son were inside with Ray. Closets and belongings were being sorted through. Ray, depleted, was leaning against a wall “supervising”. As always, he took the time to point out one of the many family photographs on the wall. (This time, it was one of him and his son after a hunting trip.) Diane and Jeremy were obviously kind and solicitous of their uncle. It was clear that the time had come for Ray to go.
Finally the day came; I was startled at the sight of several vehicles parked across the street. This was it, I knew. Thinking of some gesture to make, I grabbed the one baking mix I had out of the cupboard. Taking a plate of banana bread over, I promised I’d be back later to say goodbye. Al and I went over together later that evening and, on that last night, after over 10 years, listened to Ray tell his stories. The next day, Ray was gone.
This is all I know about Ray:
Ray Field was a gunner on a naval destroyer during WWII. He was one of a detail that was in charge of positioning the big guns on the ship. (He was responsible for the up-and-down movement.) At one point, he had to wait on the island of New Guinea to be picked up by another ship. The delay was due to the fact the ship had to be stripped because it could not get through the Panama Canal. Ray loved to hunt. He worked for both Colt and Kotex during his career as a machinist. He had seven kids, which included some foster children. Ray was fastidious about the care of his yard. He was our de facto neighborhood watch marshal. And he favored western romance novels.

I will always grieve the lost opportunity to get to know this man. I will always feel self-recrimination for my reason: that visits with him took some extra effort. But, I’m thinking visits with me take a little effort, too. 
copyright © 2012

The Poison Pen Letter (or Justice At Last, or The Art of Getting Free Stuff)

Aunt Joyce used to write what my mother called “poison pen letters”. I guess if I weren’t a kid at the time, or if her causes were relevant to me, I could tell you what injustices her letters were about. Maybe there was a missive to the town about the “mosquito trucks” that drove through the neighborhoods adjacent to the offending Cicero swamp, spraying a noxious fog and launching everyone into a panic, slamming windows to keep out the awful sulfury odor. Maybe her campaigns included a letter to the editor regarding the rising tax on cigarettes. Or maybe there was a simple letter of complaint to a contractor. But I can’t tell you.
I can tell you this: I was secretly awed by her activism. In my eyes, Aunt Joyce was practically a bra burner. I wished I could be like her and give those I perceived as wrongdoers a piece of my mind. Years later, I would have the chance. 
Fast forward to my “employment sabbatical”. Poison Pen Letters were definitely on my to-do list. All the merchants from whom I purchased shoddy products were finally going to hear from me! And there were several, from the retailer that sold me a desk that collapsed after just 20 months, to the corporation responsible for the strings of short-lived Christmas lights to which I've added each year until I had what looked liked the largest ball of wire east of the Ozarks.
My poison pen campaign would be easy. Once I got the letter set up, all I had to do was fill in the blanks and start firing away. 
I provide my template here, for your use.

TO: Retailer

Address

City/State

Dear Sir or Madam:
I am a loyal customer of (insert name of merchant – for the sake of illustration, we’ll use Bob’s Best Service & Merchandise) and have enjoyed a long relationship with your company. It is always a pleasure (start on a positive note) to come into the store every week (definitely pad this statistic to make it sound like you’re there all the time and critical to their bottom line) and to be assisted by (insert employee name – if you aren’t yet at the age where you get chatty with the help, use “Kyle” – there’s always a Kyle). Over all, I am satisfied with the service I receive from your establishment and heartily recommend Bob’s to my friends (just once, use a big word where a simple one will do, such as “establishment” for “garage”, and one big word that is totally unneeded, as with "heartily"). I can always depend on Bob’s for (the clincher: insert gratuitous compliment, e.g. courteous service, always having products in stock, Kyle's exemplary cell phone etiquette). 

In fact, I almost hesitate to write. (Ah, but you have.)

Now that you’ve let Bob's Best know you come as a friend, you can launch into your beef. Lead in with a statement that assumes your complaint is an exception to Bob’s high standards and, naturally, they would want to know about it. (In actuality, Chet in marketing opens these letters. We’re pretending Chet cares, but Chet is thinking about where to order lunch.) 
Use humor and aplomb. You may use hyperbole, but once is probably enough. Example: “I’m sure your employee had all the best intentions of putting my oil filter back on.” One sarcastic remark might make Chet chuckle. String the sarcasms throughout the letter and Chet thinks you’re a jerk and uses your letter as a placemat for his gyro.
In your closing, apologize that this unfortunate incident ever happened. Then – and this is the most important part - state the solution you believe would be fair. This is, after all, why you’re writing the letter. It’s not the injustice – heck, in customer service, injustice is the name of the game. You’d like to get a gift card but let’s face it, you’ll be happy if Chet sends you a free pen.

Note: My campaign yielded two responses and a cheesecake pan.                      copyright © 2012

Look at the cows, girls! (or, my quest for a perfect holiday)

I’ve always wanted to have the time to pay attention to Christmas. You know, take notice of things, rather than experience the usual mad rush. Enjoy the preparations, as opposed to be annoyed by them. And, this year, I did. (Have the time, that is.)

On family Sunday rides, my mother was great at noticing things. She loved riding in the car, especially along highways that took us through small towns. She appreciated every sight, and it’s a joke in the family to repeat one of her oft-said observations, Look at the cows, girls, look at the cows! (There were variations of this cry: Look at the horses, look at the planes, etc. And, I’m sure, at Christmastime, ‘Look at the lights’ was in there, too.) Years later, my daughter even added the Spanish translation: Miran las vacas, chicas, miran las vacas!

Working, running a household, and tending to children (spouses, parents, and the rest), does make it difficult to enjoy the holiday season. So, did it make a difference that I had the opportunity, this year, to stop and smell the holly?

Well, let’s see…

Presents.  Plan: To thoughtfully select each person’s gift, and have all packages beautifully wrapped and ready to go well in advance of the occasion. Reality: Have you ever passed a car on the highway in which it looked like someone was actually wrapping something? That was me. In fact, I’m sure when you spotted me, I had just left the store where I purchased both gift-wrap and the actual gift. Yeah, this year was so much better since I had all this extra time (read sarcasm). I’m sure all my loved ones treasured the gift selections I pulled out of my bin from last year’s holiday markdowns. (How’d you like that spoon rest, Sis? Don’t you worry if it breaks – I’ve got a stack of ‘em!) And, this is the third year in a row that I looked at the last knit winter scarf left from the cartload of clearance “grabs” and passed on it because I couldn’t remember who already had gotten one.

So, yes, gift giving was just as disorganized and uninspiring as it ever was. Except one surprise victory! In one of those truly irrational shopping moments, I had purchased a set of plaster cats at a sort of fair (why? who knows. I was caught up in the frenzy of supporting the cottage industries of various African villages) that was a hit with the recipient. Just the description, plaster cats, should have shaken me out of my deranged state at the time. Plaster cats. (I am shaking my head here.)

Gift wrapping. Plan: Again, advance preparation would have been my hope. Reality: Nope. Still no bows. No cute little ornaments. Yes, there were a couple packages where I ran out of tape and used Audubon Society stickers to finish the job. And, yes, some packages did have the recipient’s name written on the end flap because I was too lazy to get up and replenish my supply of gift tags. So, yes, the job still looked like it had been done by someone who had lost their will to live.

Cards. Send them out early! Sit down and enjoy the ritual of writing a short, personal message on each one. That was my goal! Reality? Despite my “open schedule”, it was first come, first served. So, Mary, Karen, Kathy & Bob, et al, let me take this opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! And, personal messages? I think I actually started just initialing the cards like clauses on a medical waiver.

Decorations. Ah, decorating the house! This is where I was really going to outdo myself. Because, women, you know this means first cleaning the house to within an inch of your life. We can live in squalor 11 months of the year but, in December, the house must be clean enough to perform surgery on the floor. (And, if we’re going to clean the house like it’s never been cleaned before, then, by God, that garage is going to get cleaned out, too! If we are going to be miserable, so is that other adult in the house!)

Most of my “big clean” was accomplished, including cleaning out my clothes closet (because that’s so important for holiday entertaining). But, as I sit here enjoying my tree on New Year’s Day, I have to confess I managed in the end - despite all my fantasies - only to hang my trusty folk art angel on the front door, put up my minimalist tree, and arrange a display of the cards that my organized, working friends sent me.

Did I pay more attention to Christmas this year than in past years? Probably not. Sorry, I have no John-Boy Walton words to inspire anyone. I can say only that this year’s holiday was no more of a fiasco than any other year.

And, I can tell you, Look at the cows girls, look at the cows! Enjoying any part of life is all about noticing the cows.
copyright © 2012

Christmas Pins

One of the rituals of employment that we take for granted – until we are unemployed – is the Christmas pin. Yes, I confess, I am distracted by shiny objects, and none more so than the gaudy, ridiculous Christmas pin.
When else but Christmastime in the workplace would any self-respecting woman wear a red and green brooch the size of a drink coaster.  This is the only time we are okay with wearing a piece of jewelry that does not match our outfit in any way, and which makes jingling noises as we stride purposefully toward the boardroom for the important meeting. We could be wearing our beautiful two-hundred-and-seventy-five dollar camel wool coat and slap on a giant nativity scene tableau (with eye dots that are painted outside the eye sockets, making the faces of the holy family look downright creepy). Any other time of the year, we wouldn’t even wear the “wrong” shade of pantyhose (even though they’re all basically tan).
They talk about Christmas sweaters, but I've got a giant horse’s head with a Christmas wreath around its neck (my favorite - you'd have to see it) that says Christmas pins are just as tacky. And yet, I love my tacky pin collection. Sometimes when I come across it – when the season is not upon us – I take out the small red, glass trinket box that stores my pins, spread them out on my bed, and lovingly turn each one over in my hand, then re-elect the pins that are my favorites. Ahh.
So you can imagine how crushed I was when I realized that I wouldn’t have the daily ritual this year of selecting two pins each morning:  one for my work outfit and one for my coat. Who’s going to see my cloisonné stocking now, or my candy cane with the holly and real crystals? Or my golfing Santa? No one, that’s who. And who needs a Christmas pin on the cotton lounge pants and fleece jacket ensemble that you’ve taken to wearing as both pajamas and your street clothes? (I like to call this my 24-hour suit – kinda like the 18-hour bra only less figure flattering.)
Me. I do. I need a Christmas pin on my hoodie. It matches my Christmas socks.  Besides, I might have an interview.


copyright © 2011

The "Kiddie Table"

This week, I have learned about two deaths within my various circles. I realized that, while most of us step up to the plate of responsibility most of the time, there's always a part of us that never truly feels like the grown-up. (Hey, is there someone at the Grown-up table that can handle this one?)
When things happen like someone dying, or our taking on a new big expense, or being given a new big responsibility at work, or – biggest yet – having a child, isn’t there that little twinge in your stomach that you’re not really sure you can do the job? And isn’t it followed by that small, fleeting voice in your head that says something like, “you don’t have to worry about this, there are grown-ups for that”.
So, while you always pined to graduate from the Kids Table to the Grown-ups Table (or, as in my family, the Little Guys Table and the Big Guys Table), did you really think about what the deal involved? You wanted to be able to think of yourself as, and be regarded as, an adult – gaining the trust and confidence of other adults, and maybe get a later time for curfew in the bargain. But did you think about what you would have to BRING to the Grown-ups Table?
I think we continue to become grown-up, as we continue to grow. With each first grown-up experience: a death, a scary purchase, an intimidating job assignment, or, in the case of my own recent experience, a job loss, we grow up a little more. The biggest realization is that we don’t know. We don’t know the answer, we don’t know what to do, we don’t know what is next, we don’t know if we “can”.
But it’s the very moment of knowing we don’t know that we realize we are at the Grown-ups Table.


copyright © 2011