Kelley at Craffing Out Loud! She won a copy of Mother Muse by leaving a comment at my last post. I very scientifically wrote each name on a piece of paper then had my son draw a name out of a hat. :-) And when you have a chance do go read her blog--she is is a lovely writer and I so enjoy reading her blog.
I am battling a cold and a very busy week, so I don't have much more to write today. I promise to get a real post up next week. Until then enjoy the musical interlude....
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
ghosts
Rachel and I stopped by our village's little museum and I remembered this piece I wrote last year. It was originally published in Mother Muse. The editor of Mother Muse, Sueann Wells, is getting ready to put together another volume of work and is looking for submissions. In celebration of this exciting endeavor I will be giving away a copy of Mother Muse to a lucky reader. Just leave a comment to this post, and next week a winner will be chosen at random.
___________________________________________________________________
My daughter and I enter the village museum and instantly the smell of dust and attic must hit us. The exhibits are housed on the upper floor of a 19th century mansion in the heart of the village, down the street from my house. The bottom floor was converted to village government offices years ago, and all the village's historic artifacts were moved to the second floor and attic rooms. The two levels of the house, while very large indeed, are crammed with artifacts, documents, and furniture. Every inch of wall space is covered with photos. The closets are stuffed with historic clothing. Quilts lie over couches and arm chairs. Books are stacked everywhere.
My first instinct is to clean, organize, catalog. My desire for order and tidiness coupled with my archaeologist's need for categories and catalogs makes me anxious. But then I watch as my child, my girl who wishes she were Laura Ingalls, my daughter whose only wish is to live in the "old days," grows excited. Pure joy and excitement is written on her face. Then, suddenly, I see exactly what she sees and I feel what she feels: a connection to the past that is so strong, so real that it is practically overwhelming. The need to touch, to practically devour, the objects makes us giddy.
She rushes to the room housing the old toys. China dolls, tin soldiers, 1950s board games, tiny tattered doll quilts, miniature shoes and small porcelain animals draw her in. We are both little girls in Grandma's farmhouse attic, eager to touch but careful not to. We soak up every detail--texture, scent, color. As I kneel on the floor and watch her examine every little thing with deep intensity I suddenly recall an old house my dear friend lived in years ago when we were in graduate school.
The house was built in the 18th century and is actually quite a famous one in Virginia. In the 1990's the owner died and left the estate to a local historical foundation. Now she didn't just bequeath them the building, she bequeathed them the home. Every single thing in the house was left untouched and unclaimed by her family for reasons we never really were privy to. The house contained everything from antique furniture, silver tea sets, silk carpets, and crystal wine glasses to family photos, art work, clothing, linens, liquor, etc. etc. Even her personal papers and the contents of her medicine cabinet (kidney stones--I kid you not) were left untouched.
My friend was a newly hired archaeologist at the historical foundation. He needed a place to stay and they needed a live in caretaker, so a deal was made. Little did the foundation know that his friends regularly made trips to town to spend the weekend exploring and examining the old mansion. Feasts were made and laid upon the antique table where we imagined Governor Spotswood once merrily drank ale with his cronies. Attics were explored and the grand piano was played. We lay out on sleeping bags in the ballroom where soldiers also laid their weary heads to rest when the house was used as a hospital for Union soldiers during the Civil War. Yet, all of us who traipsed in and out of that house in those days showed quite a bit of respect to the old place. Every plate that was used was carefully put away, and the old photos and clothes were carefully laid back in their trunks.
a young me wearing an old dress from the mansion's attic
The years passed and most of us moved away, and I lost touch with my dear friend. I recently found a newspaper article about the estate, and I was happy to see that the old place was being loved and restored. But a little part of me feels sad, too, as odd as that may sound.
I think that in some way, our youthfulness still haunts that old place. I think that our silly peals of laughter still echo with the ghostly chuckles of the jolly old Governor. Our hushed midnight conversations mix with the whispers of long dead ladies in hoop skirts.
I think all of this as my girl gently runs her hand over a small white baptismal gown hanging in the closet of the toy room. I think that somehow her little spirit will always remain here, too, her sweet breathe mingling with those of children from long ago.
____________________________________________________________________
Remember to leave a comment for your chance to win a copy of Mother Muse edited by Sueann Wells featuring art, photos, creative non-fiction, and poetry by women celebrating motherhood. Contributors include Rachel Doll, Sueann Wells, and myself. If you are interested in submitting your writing or artwork to Mother Muse contact Sueann for more info.
___________________________________________________________________
My daughter and I enter the village museum and instantly the smell of dust and attic must hit us. The exhibits are housed on the upper floor of a 19th century mansion in the heart of the village, down the street from my house. The bottom floor was converted to village government offices years ago, and all the village's historic artifacts were moved to the second floor and attic rooms. The two levels of the house, while very large indeed, are crammed with artifacts, documents, and furniture. Every inch of wall space is covered with photos. The closets are stuffed with historic clothing. Quilts lie over couches and arm chairs. Books are stacked everywhere.
My first instinct is to clean, organize, catalog. My desire for order and tidiness coupled with my archaeologist's need for categories and catalogs makes me anxious. But then I watch as my child, my girl who wishes she were Laura Ingalls, my daughter whose only wish is to live in the "old days," grows excited. Pure joy and excitement is written on her face. Then, suddenly, I see exactly what she sees and I feel what she feels: a connection to the past that is so strong, so real that it is practically overwhelming. The need to touch, to practically devour, the objects makes us giddy.
She rushes to the room housing the old toys. China dolls, tin soldiers, 1950s board games, tiny tattered doll quilts, miniature shoes and small porcelain animals draw her in. We are both little girls in Grandma's farmhouse attic, eager to touch but careful not to. We soak up every detail--texture, scent, color. As I kneel on the floor and watch her examine every little thing with deep intensity I suddenly recall an old house my dear friend lived in years ago when we were in graduate school.
The house was built in the 18th century and is actually quite a famous one in Virginia. In the 1990's the owner died and left the estate to a local historical foundation. Now she didn't just bequeath them the building, she bequeathed them the home. Every single thing in the house was left untouched and unclaimed by her family for reasons we never really were privy to. The house contained everything from antique furniture, silver tea sets, silk carpets, and crystal wine glasses to family photos, art work, clothing, linens, liquor, etc. etc. Even her personal papers and the contents of her medicine cabinet (kidney stones--I kid you not) were left untouched.
My friend was a newly hired archaeologist at the historical foundation. He needed a place to stay and they needed a live in caretaker, so a deal was made. Little did the foundation know that his friends regularly made trips to town to spend the weekend exploring and examining the old mansion. Feasts were made and laid upon the antique table where we imagined Governor Spotswood once merrily drank ale with his cronies. Attics were explored and the grand piano was played. We lay out on sleeping bags in the ballroom where soldiers also laid their weary heads to rest when the house was used as a hospital for Union soldiers during the Civil War. Yet, all of us who traipsed in and out of that house in those days showed quite a bit of respect to the old place. Every plate that was used was carefully put away, and the old photos and clothes were carefully laid back in their trunks.
a young me wearing an old dress from the mansion's attic
The years passed and most of us moved away, and I lost touch with my dear friend. I recently found a newspaper article about the estate, and I was happy to see that the old place was being loved and restored. But a little part of me feels sad, too, as odd as that may sound.
I think that in some way, our youthfulness still haunts that old place. I think that our silly peals of laughter still echo with the ghostly chuckles of the jolly old Governor. Our hushed midnight conversations mix with the whispers of long dead ladies in hoop skirts.
I think all of this as my girl gently runs her hand over a small white baptismal gown hanging in the closet of the toy room. I think that somehow her little spirit will always remain here, too, her sweet breathe mingling with those of children from long ago.
____________________________________________________________________
Remember to leave a comment for your chance to win a copy of Mother Muse edited by Sueann Wells featuring art, photos, creative non-fiction, and poetry by women celebrating motherhood. Contributors include Rachel Doll, Sueann Wells, and myself. If you are interested in submitting your writing or artwork to Mother Muse contact Sueann for more info.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
penmanship
Lynda Barry is really asking me to work now. Last week I listed ten cars from my early life and wrote about my memory of just one of them. The exercise continued this week with other topics: other people's mothers, pets, houses, etc. It doesn't sound terribly difficult, but it is hard work in that she 1) asks you to do the exercises by hand, and 2) that you do it without stopping for seven straight minutes. Sounds easy enough, right? But in this day and age of computers and texting very few people write by hand any more, and I found it challenging in surprising ways.
First, I scrabbled to find lined paper among the plain, white printer paper. After I found some and got started, I found my forearms tightening up and my back tensing. I was constantly thinking about how legible my work was (not very) and if I should be using a pen instead of a pencil. I couldn't believe how much physical effort was going into this.
---------------------------------------------------------
When I was in college and grad school, I wrote all of my formal papers by hand before typing them into the computer. I had to have a large yellow legal pad and several sharpened pencils, though a pen would do in a pinch (ball point, not felt). My friends thought I was crazy, but writing like that felt good. It allowed me to write anywhere at any time. It was a primitive laptop, I suppose.
And I was a letter writer. Oh, I loved to write "real" letters to my many far away friends. For years my grandmother and I wrote to each other constantly. One friend and I wrote to each other at least once a month. We'd swap long rambling stories about my grad school work and she would tell me crazy tales from law school. Then we wrote to each other about getting married, then about our babies, and now. . . nothing. We are "facebook friends." We just leave quick comments on each others status updates, but we no longer send hand written letters except at Christmas.
Yet despite the fact that I rarely write letters anymore I still collect stationary. I have a large treasure chest shaped box filled with it. I love to open it and breathe in the papery smell of envelopes and note cards, post cards and thank you notes. But for the most part they go unused.
I also used to have several very nice heavy pens. They were given to me as gifts when I graduated from college. I can't find them now; they seem to be long gone. I suppose I don't really need them much anymore since I do most of my writing and correspondence on the computer.
As I sit here thinking of stationary and pens (with the computer screen glowing in front of me and "qwerty" spelled out on the keys beneath my fingers), I feel sad. I miss writing by hand. The act of writing by hand, I have realized, is quickly becoming a lost art.
In What It Is Lynda Barry says that there "is a state of mind which is not accessible by thinking. It seems to require a participation with something. Something physical we move like a pen, like a pencil" (page 106). I think of this as I remember back to the days when "real" letters and hand written paper drafts were the norm for me. The whole act of writing wasn't simply a cerebral activity. It was a whole physical and mental practice. Writing required not just my mind to be active but also my body. That is, I believe, why so many people can do their best thinking while walking or running. When we move our arms and legs and ask our bodies to physically engage in the act of writing and thinking then we literally get the creative juices flowing. Blood pumps through our veins invigorating our hearts, air fills our lungs as we quicken our breath to match our movements, and our muscles contract and stretch while our pens fly over the paper or we think through that problem that has been plaguing us.
Yet for so many of us (particularly those in the academic world) writing and intellectual thought is completely disconnected from the physical body. Our bodies get in the way of our "work." We have to stop to eat, use the bathroom, or stretch the kink out of our neck. We have to schedule time to work out so our bodies can be healthy and thin. The body is a block to creativity and intelligence rather than a tool that can be used to achieve higher levels of thought. Rarely do we move our bodies in conjunction with mental thought processes and intellectual pursuits. Our fingers sweep over a keyboard, or we walk from one class or meeting to another, but in general physical movement and intellect are often unconnected.
Our society also often has a hard time believing that those who do physical work can also be intelligent.* We have all heard the term "dumb jock." There are many people in the world who look at their housekeepers or nannies as "just" maids or babysitters. When I became an aerobic instructor, two of my dearest friends actually laughed at me. They openly confessed to thinking fitness instructors of any ilk must be unintelligent.
(*Classical dancers and artists are often given a break by the intelligentsia. I say classically trained because street dancers and self taught artists are often not considered "serious" in the academic community.)
--------------------------------------------------------------
The work Lynda has asked me to do this week has made me re-think how I write and made me re-focus on the link between my body and my mind. Maybe I'll get out some of the old stationary and try and find another sturdy pen. Do they even sell them anymore? Are they next to the cellphones and lap tops? Or are they by the ever shrinking stationary aisle?
First, I scrabbled to find lined paper among the plain, white printer paper. After I found some and got started, I found my forearms tightening up and my back tensing. I was constantly thinking about how legible my work was (not very) and if I should be using a pen instead of a pencil. I couldn't believe how much physical effort was going into this.
---------------------------------------------------------
When I was in college and grad school, I wrote all of my formal papers by hand before typing them into the computer. I had to have a large yellow legal pad and several sharpened pencils, though a pen would do in a pinch (ball point, not felt). My friends thought I was crazy, but writing like that felt good. It allowed me to write anywhere at any time. It was a primitive laptop, I suppose.
And I was a letter writer. Oh, I loved to write "real" letters to my many far away friends. For years my grandmother and I wrote to each other constantly. One friend and I wrote to each other at least once a month. We'd swap long rambling stories about my grad school work and she would tell me crazy tales from law school. Then we wrote to each other about getting married, then about our babies, and now. . . nothing. We are "facebook friends." We just leave quick comments on each others status updates, but we no longer send hand written letters except at Christmas.
Yet despite the fact that I rarely write letters anymore I still collect stationary. I have a large treasure chest shaped box filled with it. I love to open it and breathe in the papery smell of envelopes and note cards, post cards and thank you notes. But for the most part they go unused.
I also used to have several very nice heavy pens. They were given to me as gifts when I graduated from college. I can't find them now; they seem to be long gone. I suppose I don't really need them much anymore since I do most of my writing and correspondence on the computer.
As I sit here thinking of stationary and pens (with the computer screen glowing in front of me and "qwerty" spelled out on the keys beneath my fingers), I feel sad. I miss writing by hand. The act of writing by hand, I have realized, is quickly becoming a lost art.
In What It Is Lynda Barry says that there "is a state of mind which is not accessible by thinking. It seems to require a participation with something. Something physical we move like a pen, like a pencil" (page 106). I think of this as I remember back to the days when "real" letters and hand written paper drafts were the norm for me. The whole act of writing wasn't simply a cerebral activity. It was a whole physical and mental practice. Writing required not just my mind to be active but also my body. That is, I believe, why so many people can do their best thinking while walking or running. When we move our arms and legs and ask our bodies to physically engage in the act of writing and thinking then we literally get the creative juices flowing. Blood pumps through our veins invigorating our hearts, air fills our lungs as we quicken our breath to match our movements, and our muscles contract and stretch while our pens fly over the paper or we think through that problem that has been plaguing us.
Yet for so many of us (particularly those in the academic world) writing and intellectual thought is completely disconnected from the physical body. Our bodies get in the way of our "work." We have to stop to eat, use the bathroom, or stretch the kink out of our neck. We have to schedule time to work out so our bodies can be healthy and thin. The body is a block to creativity and intelligence rather than a tool that can be used to achieve higher levels of thought. Rarely do we move our bodies in conjunction with mental thought processes and intellectual pursuits. Our fingers sweep over a keyboard, or we walk from one class or meeting to another, but in general physical movement and intellect are often unconnected.
Our society also often has a hard time believing that those who do physical work can also be intelligent.* We have all heard the term "dumb jock." There are many people in the world who look at their housekeepers or nannies as "just" maids or babysitters. When I became an aerobic instructor, two of my dearest friends actually laughed at me. They openly confessed to thinking fitness instructors of any ilk must be unintelligent.
(*Classical dancers and artists are often given a break by the intelligentsia. I say classically trained because street dancers and self taught artists are often not considered "serious" in the academic community.)
--------------------------------------------------------------
The work Lynda has asked me to do this week has made me re-think how I write and made me re-focus on the link between my body and my mind. Maybe I'll get out some of the old stationary and try and find another sturdy pen. Do they even sell them anymore? Are they next to the cellphones and lap tops? Or are they by the ever shrinking stationary aisle?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Powder Blue
I've neglected my work with What It Is by Lynda Barry for far too long, but I jumped back in again. This time she asks the reader to think of ten cars from early in life (page 143-147). She then instructs us to give a detailed description of that car. I've played a little fast and lose with the assignment, but I think (hope?) she would approve.
*******************************************
I am in my living room in my childhood home sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking at old family photos. I pick up a Polaroid of a blue Ford Pinto. I instantly recall sitting in the backseat, my little legs stuck to the leather on a hot day. My parents have told me that they owned the Pinto when I was very, very small. So small, in fact, that I shouldn't remember ever riding in it much less ever having seen it.
But I am not convinced, not entirely anyway. In my mind's eye I am speeding down the highway in that car with my family, my mother’s long hair flying in the wind. None of this ever happened, of course, but as I hold the picture in my hand I really believe it did.
-------------------------------------------------------------
The Polaroid Pinto is Powder Blue. The fact that it is Powder Blue (and not Royal Blue or Navy Blue or Steel Blue) is important to me for some reason. It makes the only-in-a-photo car more real, more present somehow.
Powder Blue.
I like the way the words feel as they pass my lips. I can almost taste them on my tongue, soft and chalky. But of course there is nothing in my mouth. The taste is a phantom one, an imagined one, like the false memory of a family car ride down a sunny California highway.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
windows
these are memories that i carry with me and that i will remember when i am old and tired. these are windows into my heart, my soul. thanks goes out to jen at sarah for asking.
1. the moon shines bright on the river where we swim, and the water glistens on our bare skin. we are just a year or two into college and we have traveled what seems like a world away from our homes to work for the summer under the hot southern sky. but when night comes we relax and and play and swim in the dark waters of the James.
2. lawrence welk conducts a waltz on the television as i sit next to my grandma, my hand in hers. her skin feels like tissue and she smells of chantilly lace. i age a bit this hot midwestern evening because i know it won't be like this forever.
3. my kindergarten year is hard on me, being shy and small, and a bit young. but to my surprise i win a little plastic giraffe in class one day. it is multi-colored but also transparent, and the effect is one of rainbowed oil on water: shimmery and changing. it slips behind my mattress and i can just barely see it. i am reaching, reaching under my bed and yet i cannot grasp the little toy.
4. my boyfriend paces back and forth while talking on the phone with someone from my home. why won't he give me that damn receiver already? suddenly, i know: a death announcement waits on the other end of the line and i fight the urge to flee into the breezy december night. instead i clutch the arm of the couch and wait.
5. my son is barely two months old and i decide we need an outing to the mall. my daughter, three, behaves well and because of this i decide to buy her a burger king lunch. i look at her with her paper crown askew eating french fries while watching a trapped bird flit around the ceiling of the food court. for some reason my heart floods with a fierce love mixed with a sort of grief that overwhelms me. she is growing too fast. she will be gone in the flash of an eye.
6. about a dozen red deer raise their heads as i run by. behind them a snow capped mountain peak juts unexpectedly into the warm and cloudless morning. i look at them and know that i am the only one to see this. i am the only one here to witness a moment so lovely yet so fleeting and i am excited to know that i alone will have this picture in my mind forever. no one else will share this serene irish image, and i am fine with that. this is all mine. all mine.
--------------------
and you, dear reader, do you have a a memory, a window, you'd like to share? leave your reply here in the comments or if you write your own post let me know and i will post a link to your story here. make sure you link back to jen, sarah, and myself.
1. the moon shines bright on the river where we swim, and the water glistens on our bare skin. we are just a year or two into college and we have traveled what seems like a world away from our homes to work for the summer under the hot southern sky. but when night comes we relax and and play and swim in the dark waters of the James.
2. lawrence welk conducts a waltz on the television as i sit next to my grandma, my hand in hers. her skin feels like tissue and she smells of chantilly lace. i age a bit this hot midwestern evening because i know it won't be like this forever.
3. my kindergarten year is hard on me, being shy and small, and a bit young. but to my surprise i win a little plastic giraffe in class one day. it is multi-colored but also transparent, and the effect is one of rainbowed oil on water: shimmery and changing. it slips behind my mattress and i can just barely see it. i am reaching, reaching under my bed and yet i cannot grasp the little toy.
4. my boyfriend paces back and forth while talking on the phone with someone from my home. why won't he give me that damn receiver already? suddenly, i know: a death announcement waits on the other end of the line and i fight the urge to flee into the breezy december night. instead i clutch the arm of the couch and wait.
5. my son is barely two months old and i decide we need an outing to the mall. my daughter, three, behaves well and because of this i decide to buy her a burger king lunch. i look at her with her paper crown askew eating french fries while watching a trapped bird flit around the ceiling of the food court. for some reason my heart floods with a fierce love mixed with a sort of grief that overwhelms me. she is growing too fast. she will be gone in the flash of an eye.
6. about a dozen red deer raise their heads as i run by. behind them a snow capped mountain peak juts unexpectedly into the warm and cloudless morning. i look at them and know that i am the only one to see this. i am the only one here to witness a moment so lovely yet so fleeting and i am excited to know that i alone will have this picture in my mind forever. no one else will share this serene irish image, and i am fine with that. this is all mine. all mine.
--------------------
and you, dear reader, do you have a a memory, a window, you'd like to share? leave your reply here in the comments or if you write your own post let me know and i will post a link to your story here. make sure you link back to jen, sarah, and myself.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
journey to wonderland
A dear, dear friend has a brand new blog. Please go give her some love. . .
Down the Rabbit Hole to Wonderland
Down the Rabbit Hole to Wonderland
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
angel mine
Last night I dreamed of my son.
He wore a blue button-up shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. I was pushing him on a swing, and as he flew high into the blue, blue sky the sun shimmered in his hair.
----------------------------------------
It has been hard to deal with him lately. His tantrums are coming more frequently, the arguments come one after the other. Sometimes I don't even know who this child is. Can this screaming, whining, angry little person be my baby? I don't know what makes him so contrary sometimes, so argumentative.
Many say that it is just the age, that four-almost-five year olds are growing and changing so quickly that their little minds get confused and scared and they act out. He is caught in that strange place between "big boy" and "baby." It will pass, they say. They console me by assuring me that it is only a phase.
But I can see the disapproval, sometimes, in the eyes of both strangers and friends. I see the look of shock when a screaming fit erupts in the middle of the store. I see the annoyance when his sweet face turns rude and whiny. Dear friends who we are close to don't ask after him anymore, and he hasn't had a play date invitation for months now. Months.
That hurts. It hurts because I love him so very much. It hurts because I feel the same annoyance and anger when a fit morphs into a full fledged tantrum. It hurts because I feel both protective and ashamed of this child. It hurts because his behavior and attitude makes me so angry. It makes everything harder and just... so... difficult.
But when he smiles, oh how heavenly it is! When he tells a silly joke and bursts into a deep, goofy belly laugh your heart just melts. And when he crawls into bed next to me every morning before the sun is completely up I want to hold him there in my arms forever and ever.
My adoring, adorable, angel boy. My angel whose halo is just a bit tarnished, slightly crooked. But when he spreads his wings he will fly.
---------------------------------------
Tomorrow he will be five, then in a few weeks he will go to kindergarten. I imagine him wearing the blue collared shirt from my dream as he walks onto the bus, the sun shining against his golden hair.
He wore a blue button-up shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. I was pushing him on a swing, and as he flew high into the blue, blue sky the sun shimmered in his hair.
----------------------------------------
It has been hard to deal with him lately. His tantrums are coming more frequently, the arguments come one after the other. Sometimes I don't even know who this child is. Can this screaming, whining, angry little person be my baby? I don't know what makes him so contrary sometimes, so argumentative.
Many say that it is just the age, that four-almost-five year olds are growing and changing so quickly that their little minds get confused and scared and they act out. He is caught in that strange place between "big boy" and "baby." It will pass, they say. They console me by assuring me that it is only a phase.
But I can see the disapproval, sometimes, in the eyes of both strangers and friends. I see the look of shock when a screaming fit erupts in the middle of the store. I see the annoyance when his sweet face turns rude and whiny. Dear friends who we are close to don't ask after him anymore, and he hasn't had a play date invitation for months now. Months.
That hurts. It hurts because I love him so very much. It hurts because I feel the same annoyance and anger when a fit morphs into a full fledged tantrum. It hurts because I feel both protective and ashamed of this child. It hurts because his behavior and attitude makes me so angry. It makes everything harder and just... so... difficult.
But when he smiles, oh how heavenly it is! When he tells a silly joke and bursts into a deep, goofy belly laugh your heart just melts. And when he crawls into bed next to me every morning before the sun is completely up I want to hold him there in my arms forever and ever.
My adoring, adorable, angel boy. My angel whose halo is just a bit tarnished, slightly crooked. But when he spreads his wings he will fly.
---------------------------------------
Tomorrow he will be five, then in a few weeks he will go to kindergarten. I imagine him wearing the blue collared shirt from my dream as he walks onto the bus, the sun shining against his golden hair.
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