Some Sunshine

I awoke hanging in a tree; my tattered parachute hung limply in a nearby tree. It was the leaves that woke me. My skin quickly informed me there was not a trace of wind in the morning air. Yet, it was the leaves clangor that had apparently woken the dead. I looked at a bunch of them, like you do when you're looking past something, but you keep a mind's eye out for them. They were trembling, no dancing in the glorious light of the sun. That was what it was. The leaves were belting out a rocking gospel hymn to the light of the sun. I found myself suspended in a vibrating bowl of praises to the light.

I saw the leaves sucking in the light and singing like the ocean who sends in waves to meet the shore while it made life. I saw light bouncing back from the leaves of this old Delaware 'English Chestnut' surviver dance to some ancient African drum song. I felt my own exposed skin sing, joyfully, “You came back for me! You came back for me!”
And I knew that it always would. I looked back to my parachute and saw it's mathematical energy transfer co-efficients altering it's integrity. I took out my knife; cut myself free, and free fell the short distance to the ground.

My fall broke the soil. The scent of fresh, healthy, happy earth took my breath away, momentarily. When I could breath again, I reached into the rare dirt with both hands and grabbed fistfuls of it and brought them to my nose, where I breathed in deeply. “Alive, Alive,” screamed everything that the sun touched. I took that knife and cut off my clothes. I let it fall along with pile of protection. With every cell of my skin, I danced along to the leaves' African drum song, and I rolled with the magic incarnations of photosynthesis. Every shadow on my skin was a nude awakening, every bright spot a spontaneous eruption of joy.

But my bare feet are tender. And soon their discomfort broke my light induced trance and I got to thinking about the real world. I might be suffering from slight hypothermia, and or shock. But worse than that, far worse by far, there are over a dozen people,frantically fearing for me long, before I woke up. I reached down, gathered up my clothes and knife. After my shoes were laced, I checked the sun's angle and position in the sky, checked the tree for moss, composed a loose map of the area from memory and educated calculations on wind speed and direction during my fall and headed out.

I put my hat on to guard against the sun.  

You Can't Bring Baack the Taste of Walnuts by Eating Peaches

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Back in town. I take the 7th St. Exit, and drive to her house. Popping in to see Grandma. Then I realize, those days are gone. And I wonder if the new owners find her house too small. The one that opened the world of homemade boysenberry jam, rose bushes with white paint poured on the soil to help them grow, hinges fixed with half a pound of nails, and a kitchen that fed half of San Jose's illegal alien community.

Strangers still pray to her; they claim she answers their prayers. She promised that she would help me. Like always. She said she would help from heaven. But I don't feel her. When I'm scared, or angry, or lost, or lonely, I don't hear her.

"And HE walks with me and HE talks

with me and HE tells me I am his own. And the joy we share as we tarry there none other has ever known."

I discover myself singing it whenever I water plants. SHE included that song in her funeral for her Presbyterian friends.

After the funeral, to the day, I started taking care of her house. It brought me comfort. That was long ago. Long ago.

Without thinking, whenever I can't think, I water my yard. I find myself singing, "Just a Closer Walk". Memories take me down paths I know. Soothed, I soar.

Karma Dharma,

same old same old.

Man buys New York for a Story. Yesterday, a man walked into Albany with a tale to tell. He waved his arms frantically, danced about like a grouse and before anyone in the Capitol knew what hit them ,they discovered that the entire state of New York was sold to an unidentified charlatan for a yarn. Asked to comment on the fiasco, officials could only replied, "I can't remember."

The TV's o,n and I'm laying on the couch; I've got a plastic bag for my head. I picked a black one; I don't want to see the tv and the view out my window all filmy and disfigured. I want to be alone with my mortality as my breath heats up the hell fires awaiting me. Trying to drum up some drama I look inside the bag, I take a gander about the room for one last time. Then outside. There are doves on the power line, facing this way and that. They move with synchronicity. One forward, the other sways back. Bobbing: constantly in opposition. I laugh. They were amazing to watch, so unaware of the other, yet balancing with it perfectly. Unaware, I rise, and watch the doves.

Are leaves a tree's family snapshots?

In a time of

crisis: I see her hands

flattening a table cloth.

What more could God do?

Dust to dust, snapshot to snapshot, worry to woe, “Tinkers to Evers to Chance, a hundred years from now the world will ask, how did a charlatan buy New York in Albany? The Grouse will dance and tell a different story:

Once upon a time, a giant red balloon traveled to earth from the far reaches of our universe. Scientist studied every aspect of the phenomena. The red balloon was something alrighty. It was on a collision coarse with Earth. The exact landing sight was a typical tract house in Aurora, CO.

The giant red balloon defied reason. Scientists were perplexed: How is it that a latex balloon didn't explode in a vacuum? Where did it come from? Does this mean that the superior intelligent life in deep space is in fact, a supreme circus clown? Will the balloon explode when it descends into our atmosphere? Will its impact destroy the earth? Or is God merely sending "HIS PEOPLE" a birthday present?

Theories were as wide spread as a cold in December. “DOOMSDAY!”, cried the media preachers, “send your money to save your soul.”

“A long lost weather balloon”, decreed some officialarians.

“V-ger” proclaimed the Trekkies.

“It’ss a sign to be happy”, shrugged the simple.

“It is the Age of Cancer”, proclaimed some Astrologist.

“The Age of Safe Sex”, proliferated non-Catholics.

And there were several yahoos who shouted with glee that their alien babies were coming home.

A tramp, an ocean away from the tract house in Aurora, CO. caught a freight for Denver. The residents, he knew. So, he knew. Chugging across the backyards of America, he remembered stories of her building a street with a shovel; of a life touching other lives. Like a railroad ,her word, her deeds, on track, a lifeline for so many. In Aurora was a lost soul; an ear that heard, but could not hear, a blue eye that saw, but could not see her life of grace and wonder. The rails rushed under his disheveled head. A whirlwind stoked his chill.

The giant red balloon, gave an orbit.

The theorist of all claims agreed, with themselves.

The tramp arrived, walking up the high plain grasslands of Aurora. The balloon began its descent. The giant red latex balloon popped. People in daylight said they saw the dust of mankind as God was moved to breath life into it. People in darkness lost a breath as they saw stars move like the hips of a goddess dancing

The tramp found the woman trembling under the expectations of her childhood. He put his arm around her and in a voice as soft as boysenberry jam said, “It's okay, It's okay.. Grandma’s house has finally figured out a way for us to notice her.”

Everyone, everywhere realized that their missed ones had always been there in a dove on a wire, a smile in a crowd, a song on the radio, an unexpected call.

And the Grouse went on dancing, unnoticed. 

Bottlecaps on His Hat

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Everyone wants to know why?

The paper’s full of mysterious headlines; full because so many people have minds of their own. They have different tastes, different interests, different troubles. Yet everyone who met Joel wanted to know why he attached bottle caps to his hat. As if they knew, some 'unimaginable idea by the sane' would be born apparent to them. Then they could categorize Joel’s dementia.. Then he could be pitied. But as it stands - while the sun goes down in the West and tickles the East- the man is a champion of originality, and surly, surly as God has been prayed to, surly the champion of originality should amount to more.

I was expecting a floating sensation as if I had become a soap bubble blown by the breath of God.. I was expecting to hear music when I saw the color of it, I was expecting to grasp the simplicity of it’s notion in a heart beat.

Didn’t all of mankind hope that a champion of originality would ridicule racism? Forge compassion into a blush that anyone with a mirror could apply? Wouldn’t greed be a childhood disease like chicken pox or the measles? And wouldn’t you think self-pity would be as ludicrous as it should be.

Then, there’s Joel’s hat.

Bottle caps fixated without rhyme or guessed reason.

At least no one was hurt. Which is why Joel’s story wasn't newsworthy, will never be noted or accounted for, except that his name stood rightfully beside anyone else in the obituary column. Imagine the work and life of a good neighbor not making a 25 cent review over stale coffee on a morning where the humidity is already as high as a pulse rate.. Until the poor soul had been taken from the routine of the living. “ From the routine of the living” , the preacher repeated like a Greek Chorus, “From the routine of the living.....” 

The Radish

Leaving the office he found a radish in his car seat. Washed clean. Placed as if it hadn’t been placed.

“What?” “How?” No one else had a key. Anything else in here? A Golden Retriever claiming to be God, maybe? Some elf offering him heartburn? Why not? But no. Nothing.

He untied the old lace garter belt of his son’s wedding from the rear view mirror. He made a makeshift dryer and re-hung the garter with the radish hanging perfectly, the first time; he noted.

The night he found the radish he began dreaming. He was always back in his early childhood. He’d lift a door lying in his backyard and walk down the steps coming out in other towns where a circus was playing with accountant ants on trampolines, cheerleaders on the high wire and national politicians dressed as clowns.

The following day there was a carrot in his front seat. He hung that too.

Then a sugar beet.

Nice colors, he thought, as he took down the garter belt dryer, which was way to small for the burden of its bounty.

Then a mere orange blossom. How long ago had he been married? Nearly two decades. This he placed in his lap as he drove home and put that in the freezer.

That night he dreamed the backyard door wouldn’t open. When he tried his hands turned into door knobs, as did his feet and heart.

The next day there was nothing in his front seat after work. He had a long miserable dream where he was on stage playing, “Waiting for Godot.” Of course he didn’t know his lines, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. The play drug on and on.

That morning there was a wild violet in his car seat. Dew was still clinging to it. He looked around, but saw no one. He looked around again and saw that the dew was everywhere.

He walked away from his car. He picked more violets. Went inside and put them in water. He called his boss and took a personal day off from work. Then he rummaged around and found his old address book and sat down to make some calls.

Outside, his daughter-in-law drove away.  

A Team in Training Address

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In February of 2008, I joined Team in Training. It was their twenty year anniversary of raising money to fight Leukemia & Lymphoma. The idea is: professionally train 'all comers' to complete an endurance event (marathons, either running or walking, triathlons, etc) in exchange for raising money for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. I was struck by the commitment, and heart of the staff, both paid and volunteer, and my peers who not only transformed their health and abilities, but raised thousands of dollars for the cause.

It was a fluke that I happened to join during their 20^th anniversary, and that I grew up about 8 miles from where Abraham Lincoln lived while he taught himself the law, New Salem, IL. In the fifth grade we all had to memorize, The Gettysburg Address. I put the two together and rewrote one of the greatest speeches in American history, to honor my peers (past and future).

I believe that with This Team in Training Address can be slightly altered to apply to almost any worthy cause, including the simple act of being humane on any given day.

One score and zero years ago, our founders brought forth upon this continent a new TEAM; conceived in donations and dedicated to the proposition that through research we can cure blood cancer.

Now, we are engaged in a great fiscal war testing whether that TEAM, or any Team, so conceived and so dedicated, can prevail. We have met on a field of great personal trial in that war. We have come to set aside a portion of our lives as a promising hope for those who are either losing: their lives, or livelihood- to this disease. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot appreciate the pain of the brave parents whose child has been diagnosed.; we cannot comprehend a child’s lose whose parent has died. Those who suffer with blood cancer have consecrated our own lives far beyond our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember our practice run times, but it can never forget Why we are here.

It remains for us, the Teams In Training, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished hope, which they who suffer of this disease have thus far, so nobly advanced. It is rather for us here to re-commit to our physical and fund raising tasks; that from these honored afflicted we take an increased devotion to their cure- for which they might give the last full measure of breath. That, we of this Team highly resolve that those who have died, shall not have died in vain, that this Team, under God, shall have a new birth of perseverance, and that this Team: of volunteers, for the afflicted, and by the grace of the human heart, shall not fail.. 

The Boy who let Spring out of The Barn

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Everyone knows that each winter is different from the year before. Rumors were flying that this Old Man Winter wasn't as old as any before him. This Old Man Winter could still kick up his heels and dance for days and nights on end. It so happened that Miss Spring of the same year was not only beautiful, but she was quite the flirt.

She wanted to get an eyeful of this Old Man Winter and if he met her tastes she wanted him to see her. Early in february there was a string of warm sunny days. It looked like the seasons loved each other alright. Miss Spring wanted to play games. She wondered if this Old Man Winter was the man everyone had claimed. Could he keep up with her? She was going to play hide-and-seek and catch-if-catch-can. She spun and twirled away. But she slipped and hit her head on a sheet of ice. The blow knocked her out cold. Old Man Winter scooped her up lovingly and placed her in his barn.

He told himself that if she awoke he'd let her go, but she was so beautiful and he was having so much fun playing weather he truly doubted if he could let her go. You needn't be born in a barn to imagine how could it would be in Old Man Winter's barn. Miss Spring's complexion wasn't looking rosy. Nope, it was summer sky blue with cold.

Winter carried on through February and past March without a letup. April was mid-over and still no signs that winter would let up this year at all, ever. Pleas went out across all the lands and all the icy oceans for some hero to rescue Miss Spring. No one Knew for sure where she was or what had happened, but they guessed the only thing that could delay her was Old Man Winter himself. Some brave soul must confront him, or contrive behind his back a way to bring Miss Spring back.

Many people gathered about grand feasts and spoke bravely about how they wold succeed against this Old Man winter. Most of those people secretly disappeared to their homes where in their warm, comfy, stuffed chairs by the fireplace they imagined grand excuses or grand tales of near victory. Naturally, some people who had no business going, venture off anyway and became sad, frozen sign posts of failure, Others, some brave some good adventurers left never to be seen again.

There was an orphan boy of no special traits. He showed no ambitions of any kind. He was content to stand around an listen to stories that the old, old, people told. He could be found listening to old fools on streets or old spinsters way out in the woods.

Secretly, he gave himself the name, Yarn. He'd make up songs that retold the stories that he had heard. He was careful not to be overheard.

This winter was most curious. None of Yarn's old friends had never heard of such a lengthy winter. Yarn wanted to hear the story first-hand. He walked out in his warmest clothes and blankets. He even borrowed some baby blankets to wrap his shoes in He slipped out of town unnoticed by any human eye or ear.

He had no idea where Old Man Winter lived, so he walked directly into the cold wind. Soon his face was stiff and it hurt like needles. He began singing to keep his face warm. He sang about the great winter birds, how sad for them to be so far away from their summer home this late in the year. Yarn noticed a soft sound overhead. He looked up and saw great numbers of winter birds flocking about him. Their warm feathered wings blocked the wind and warmed the air.

Soon his feet were cold. Yarn sang about the days he'd hear about when all stones were hot, fresh out of heaven's oven. As Yarn walked on his face bent down to the ground, out of the wind; he noticed that the ice was melting. The stones ahead had melted a path for him to walk.

Soon, his body was shivering with cold. Yarn sang songs of the poor surprised spring animals. How cold and confuced they must be in this winter land without green saplings to eat, and soft ground to nest. Suddenly, Yarn was aware of a great commotion, He looked about him, he was surrounded by all sorts of spring animals,: squirrels, rabbits, moles, muskrats, fox, baby deer, and cubs of bear and wolf. Proudly, they walked with him., so closely that he felt he wore their coats as his own.

the warm stone paths led this curious pack to an ice lack high atop the mountains of the world. Yarn looked about him and saw no place else to go. Slowly, he stepped out onto the ice, The animals, too stepped hoof and paw onto the ice. Silence, every ear intent on hearing a warning crack or creak for the ice. none came . Another step and then another. Slowly they edged onward; on a lake so huge they couldn't see the other side. With eyes ever watcful for cracks Yarn noticed fish frozen deep into the ice. He wondered about the water fowl. He sang a story for the fish and water fowl of the world.

Without a crack or creak the ice turned into water. Fish, ducks, and swans held the animals and Yarn above the water. They flew over the lake in quick fashion. Before him on a barren plain he saw an old barn without doors. From a great distance Yarn could make out the beauty of Miss Spring as she slept. Her cold skin as blue as a summer's sky.

Old Man Winter took notice of him and his troupe for the first time. He blew some arctic air pin them. They stood firm. Firmer really, their feet were frozen to the ground. Yarn had no plan. He didn't expect to get this far. He yelled out to Old Man Winter, "What is YOUR plan for Miss Spring?"

"Who wants to know?" hissed an icy gale.

"The whole of the earth and sky. The whole of the seasons. Summer would like a clue as what to do. As would Fall and your successor has a stake in this as well."

"Really?" grunted Old Man Winter and he sat down. "To tell the truth I have only one thought and that is to look at her. "

"I guess she's a looker as far as a frozen lump of coal goes, but it's a pity you shall never see..." Yarn word fell secret.

"Never see what?" asked the confused old man.

"How much more beautiful her works are than her face could ever be."

"Oh, you don't know what you're talking about. You and your zoo tire me."

"You mean, you don't know how beautiful her work is? Every animal, every bird, every tree, and weed knows. You are joking with me aren't' you?"

"Joking! Not I! It's you who jests. Weeds don't know anything. Or trees or birds or anything you speak of. Don't' irritate me, boy or I'll freeze your heart.

Yarn looked the situation over. There wasn't much to work with. He couldn't run across the field and grab Miss Spring and run away with her. Old Man winter would crush him before he reached midpoint.His teeth began to chatter. He started singing to keep from chattering. He sang softly about the beautiful works of nature. He sang to Miss Spring as if he had come to court her. Normally Old Man Winter would have been frigidly jealous, but he could not believe his eyes. The barren field suddenly looked strange. It had.. it had ... color. Yes, that's what it was., greens! And some round dots of bright yellow, some dainty tufts of blue too. HE noticed that the air was different. It smelled. After a few sniffs, big enough to suck up most ponds HE decided that it was a pleasant smell.

Yarn' song grew louder. The story more personal. Miss Spring awoke. Her face the color of imagination.

She stepped outside the barn and the hillside came alive. Yarn noticed that Old Man Winter blushed. When he blushed the color turned his old ice wrinkles into sunrise color cloud, Soon he was gone. Where his eyes had been now shone the rising sun.

Miss Spring looked about her. When she saw Yarn and his troupe of trustworthy companions she realized that they had saved her. "What is your name child?" ( the animals and birds she knew)\

"I call myself Yarn, because I love stores, so. "

"Because you saved Spring for the whole would I will make a new thread, soft as your hair, as warm as your heart, as strong as your will, as deep as your courage, and as colorful as Spring, This new thread will be called Yarn in your honor. In the winter months, when days and days of grey sadden peoples hearts; they will knit sweaters out of beautiful Spring colored yarns to give them warmth and faith that I will come. IN whatever is made out of yarn there is hope."

Yarn blushed, you could say the honor unraveled him. 

There's Only One First Step

I was in prison. Not with iron bars and constant walking guards. This place was like a tiny little village in Mexico or Central America, or maybe even South America. The walls were aged white stucco. We stayed in what would have been a large commons room. Along the walls of the this great open room they had built little cubicles with a chicken wire fence where iron bars would be. There was a little chicken wire gate that was never locked from the outside, but it had a little hook latch that we could lock for our own privacy. It was a tall room. High enough to have a walk way above the first tier of cells. That walk way lead to a second layer of cells. Each cell had a wooden roof of rough hewn slates. Over the widely space slats what a layer of sheet metal. Then open air, and floor or the ceiling of building above. The center of the room was a maze of walls, and loose straw couches. The maze was no problem to solve; it was simple on purpose, but it gave us dens of inequity.

I'd fallen in with a group of Americans, we were all Americans come to think of it, but we didn't labor on that fact. Each of us knew that we didn't belong there. Yet, we never mentioned our charges of crime, nor did we ever talk about our defense attorneys. We just knew we didn't belong there. We talked mostly about escape plans. And we talked about each other.

Who ever knows what someone else truly thinks about you? So nothing was said about me. There was a skinny little guy, a neurotic coward of guy. Everyone else wore classic Papyion white prison third rate cotton. He wore a red t-shirt, almost a night shirt on him, and he wore a beanie. What wanted to be ruler of his own country. And until the peasants of that country come to him and ask him to be their ruler, he's settle to rule over himself and the only red shirt, and the only hat in the place.

We had a guy from the 70's disco babe chasing machine guys. I was talker to the old man of the group one day and I said, I don't like disco jock over there. The old man looked up at me, as if from a book of Chekhov short stories. I like the guy, he said, because the author takes a sympathetic view of him.

And the old man was in our coup. He seemed content, even serene, as if he felt down deep inside that, this too shall pass. He was older than he let on. At least that's what we thought out of respect for his attitude in life and for his vanity.

There was also a beautiful black woman with us. She sang little rhythmic ditties all day, of two none words, like “mone – wa”. All I could think about was what a great lover she would be. Her face as rich as wedding cake icing. Her songs were so heart felt they flowed out of her like sunlight falls onto your skin. The glorious high notes that took you to a place where all was glory to the highest. And low notes that took you hand and then hugged in a way that all the fears that bring on the night never had a chance to exist. And then there was the rhythm of her song. It was as if everyone that was good would always go on and on, effortlessly, and you'd be one with her subtle changes. Changes so perfect that you'd know that this new change was nothing more than a different part of the same rhythm. Ah, to have here around.

One day, Lee Majors joins our group. Now, we were going to escape for sure; we had a real live Hollywood Hero on our side. Truth was: he'd escaped before, got caught, and was brought back here. We will escape soon boys, and when we do avoid the church. Avoid the church at all costs. Evil is there.

During our days, we might make some impracticable crafts. Instead of weaving baskets, we'd weave birds. Even a sow's ear. Or we might hang out outside. Either way, we never saw any guards. Although we knew they were watching the prison walls. Some people had been killed trying to escape.

Today, we were outside. There were several little buildings in this abandoned village. Some had walls around their yards. All the buildings had the same hot tin roofs. I saw the black woman sitting on a wall, singing. I headed that way. When I reached her, I saw that several members of my coup had climbed onto a little shack and were leaping for the top of the wall. They were barely missing the top. Come on man, you can do it. And then you could help the rest of us over. Looking over the feat, I thought I could manage it. But I knew I'd get shot once it became apparent that I could escape. I shook my head no. Then the old man jumped for it, missed and fell. He landed on a pipe and seriously hurt his back. The black woman stopped her singing and yelled for me to go help him. I scrambled over to him. He was unconscious. The black woman came to our aid. She and I decided that we had to get him to a hospital. The prison had no help to offer. Dead, or incapacitated prisoners were cheaper to deal with here. The group helped to fashion a gurney which the woman and I drug off toward the some mythical hospital on the outside. She was all songs after she alerted me. And as we drug him off together, I sang my own two syllable non-words.

Without a thought about the guards we drug him across the the prison yard. It wasn't until we were well beyond the walls that we realized we were free.

We were in a land of large, wind swept cypress trees, eucalyptuses trees, grass as tall as your waste and as wasted as youth. The air was so sweet that it picked us off our feet. We were flying. Flying to the hospital to heal our friend. The sweet air had brought him too. He was flying too and he wheezed that he was alright now. Not this time we thought, as we flew on with him in tow.

We stopped at the first noble building. We landed like ducks on a pond. And she and I drug him closer to the building. Looking at the huge building of white stone I stopped and said, Now, this is a “real church.” A “real church” white dove landed in my hair and then flew off to door. We followed.

There was an elderly white woman standing post outside the door. She held a thick book in her arms. The old woman didn't look at us. She asked us, what's wrong; is there anything I can do to help you?

We started bullshitting her; we didn't want her to know that we were escaped convicts. She stopped our stories cold by announcing that she was a healer, retired now, but she could heal us just the same if only we would be honest. Then she turned and looked into our hearts. She said the old man has been suffering from arthritis in his back for years. The black woman replied in earnest, oh no, he fell on his back just today. And that's why we brought him here.

The old man spoke through his pain and embarrassment, she's right. I never told anyone because I didn't want you guys to razz me.

Shocked and encouraged by her insight I asked if this place was some kind of underground railroad. Could they give us sanctuary until a safe passage was prepared for freedom?

The singer grabbed my arm and whispered a warning, Lee Majors warned us to never come here.

Maybe it was her touch that set off the idea, whatever, the old healer and I said the same thing at the time. He'd been here before, was set free, and returned on his own accord because he couldn't handle complete freedom.

I looked past the healer; the church door was open and I saw a day care inside. I heaved tears. And the healer looked at me and said, Yes, you can get out; if you are honest in your heart.

And then I saw this prison as a metaphor for my life. I'm always in places I don't want to be. The nodded to me. She whispered, take the first step; there's only one.

I shook my head no. I can't leave my friends behind. They are too scared to come here.

And then I woke up.

Fool, I cried. The only way to help them is from the other side.

It's impossible to explain the rightness of this dream. Because you had to have been there to know that the air can be so sweet to lift you off the ground. And a building can be more than you could possibly imagine God to be. And only in the land beyond can whispering an honest admission will gain you eternal freedom from yourself. And only in my dreams do I see that for a brief, unreal moment I have been to other side, and that maybe if the Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, I can give you hand to see it to...