I've just recently stumbled upon an old journal. Stuffed within the binding is a collection of poems that I've written throughout the years. For lack of anything else to post these past few days, I've decided to occasionally post one of these poems. So here goes:
Old poems ~ First installment.
Baghdad,
Birmingham,
Sudan
It's all our own backyard,
no matter how far sighted you are
Revolution of change
always awaiting it's revolutionaries
War paint streaked across my conscience
like the spear thrown to stake it's prey
This small woman practicing pacifism
with still,
an ounce of angry strapped to her shoulder
When we victimize ourselves
with the thoughtlessness of convenience
we forget that half the world is screaming with war
When we stop noticing the gentleness of good practice
our own wars kick up inside our guts
and demand our attention
Notice more and transformation happens.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Quote of the Week
Our life is a faint tracing in the surface of mystery,
like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners
on the surface of a leaf.
We must somehow take a wider view,
look at the whole landscape,
really see it,
and describe what's going on here.
Then we can at least wail the right question
out into the swaddling band of darkness,
or, if it comes to that,
choir the proper praise.
Annie Dillard
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Drawing the Moon
I shut down the computer last night and looked out the window at a cloud covered sky. No moon in sight. Resigned the full moon walk and settled myself on the couch with chocolate trail mix and Goddesses in Everywoman by Jean Shinoda Bolen. Fifteen minutes later the clouds rolled over and the moon was bright enough to come streaming into my living room. Winter having finally descended, it's delay a little creepy, I threw on about forty sweaters and headed outside to walk up the hill and hang out with the bright light in the sky.
The night is always quiet where I live. The houses are spaced by about a quarter mile and the only noise I usually hear, other than the bard owls, is the male donkey down the road. When Blue hollars, he sounds like he's on the verge of a painful death. He's the only stud among nearly forty female donkeys. Can you just imagine the pheremones in that barn!? Ella's little friends get frightened when they hear it in the dark. It's a combination of deep, passionate, primitive longing and pure torture. Hormones can be like that.
But Blue must have been satiated because the valley was quiet. And the ground was glittering with the new snow of the season. I walked up the road to where the Dezotelle's old farmstead used to be. There's an old trailer now where the brick farmhouse used to be before it burned to the ground. Beside the trailer is a gargantuan barn and beyond that is a long stretch of Sound of Music pastures. The location of this place is a wind turbine's dream. There have been times in the past when I've found myself up there, at the end of the dirt road and under the bright moon, dancing slow and feeling peaceful. Like prayer in movement, all covered in wind.
I think this what I had in mind with this moon walk, but on my way up the road I noticed that my boot tracks were not the only ones in the newly fallen snow. There was another track, much bigger and with a much longer gait. A man's boot. One heading in the direction I was walking and then the same boot track heading the opposite way. But I didn't know which direction had come first. The coming or the going. And I knew that at the top of the hill I wouldn't feel alone enough to pick up a dance. To pray to the moon. To even feel safe, safe as this mountain town is. I grew up in a weird little town where men with no teeth whistle at 11 year old girls and turn their car around to gawk and be creepy. Too much of that is still with me. I tried walking in his tracks for about forty seconds, just to try it on for size and maybe overcome my jitters, but my dog is old and I didn't trust her to protect me so I turned around, feeling a ghost at my back.
I climbed back up my driveway and found myself behind my house, in my own yard, which isn't really a yard but about 20 acres of pasture. I walked out to the middle of it until I felt like I was in the center of someone's hand. In the palm. And I stood there looking up at the moon until I was dizzy with how fast the clouds moved.
I stood listening to the wind move down valley along the western ridge. It sounded like a creek in mid-April after the snow has melted from the mountains. It sounded like a freeway or the constant crashing of the tide. It was that glorious nothing kind of white noise of nature that doesn't get heard above the boots crunching in the snow. And I had to walk a long line down my memory to remember the last time I afforded myself this luxury. The last time I just sat and listened to wind. How much motion there is in just standing still.
The night is always quiet where I live. The houses are spaced by about a quarter mile and the only noise I usually hear, other than the bard owls, is the male donkey down the road. When Blue hollars, he sounds like he's on the verge of a painful death. He's the only stud among nearly forty female donkeys. Can you just imagine the pheremones in that barn!? Ella's little friends get frightened when they hear it in the dark. It's a combination of deep, passionate, primitive longing and pure torture. Hormones can be like that.
But Blue must have been satiated because the valley was quiet. And the ground was glittering with the new snow of the season. I walked up the road to where the Dezotelle's old farmstead used to be. There's an old trailer now where the brick farmhouse used to be before it burned to the ground. Beside the trailer is a gargantuan barn and beyond that is a long stretch of Sound of Music pastures. The location of this place is a wind turbine's dream. There have been times in the past when I've found myself up there, at the end of the dirt road and under the bright moon, dancing slow and feeling peaceful. Like prayer in movement, all covered in wind.
I think this what I had in mind with this moon walk, but on my way up the road I noticed that my boot tracks were not the only ones in the newly fallen snow. There was another track, much bigger and with a much longer gait. A man's boot. One heading in the direction I was walking and then the same boot track heading the opposite way. But I didn't know which direction had come first. The coming or the going. And I knew that at the top of the hill I wouldn't feel alone enough to pick up a dance. To pray to the moon. To even feel safe, safe as this mountain town is. I grew up in a weird little town where men with no teeth whistle at 11 year old girls and turn their car around to gawk and be creepy. Too much of that is still with me. I tried walking in his tracks for about forty seconds, just to try it on for size and maybe overcome my jitters, but my dog is old and I didn't trust her to protect me so I turned around, feeling a ghost at my back.
I climbed back up my driveway and found myself behind my house, in my own yard, which isn't really a yard but about 20 acres of pasture. I walked out to the middle of it until I felt like I was in the center of someone's hand. In the palm. And I stood there looking up at the moon until I was dizzy with how fast the clouds moved.
I stood listening to the wind move down valley along the western ridge. It sounded like a creek in mid-April after the snow has melted from the mountains. It sounded like a freeway or the constant crashing of the tide. It was that glorious nothing kind of white noise of nature that doesn't get heard above the boots crunching in the snow. And I had to walk a long line down my memory to remember the last time I afforded myself this luxury. The last time I just sat and listened to wind. How much motion there is in just standing still.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Being Heard, Hallelujah
Well, I'm writing from home for the first time. We've been off-line here at our house for almost two years. Our laptop (that could probably be considered retro at this point) got one of those fatal viruses that just wipe it clean. Fried it. I swapped two hours of bodywork with the tech guy who takes care of the computers at the mongo jongo B&B I work at. I've got my work cut out for me, too. He's one big dude.
But it's nice having access to this blog from home. To sit at my desk in front of my window with my own tea cup. My daughter sleeping upstairs (or trying to read her Avatar comic book in the dark).....
I just checked in to my blog and it turns out I had my second comment from someone I don't know. It's taken about three weeks and hopefully they will continue to come. If you're still tuned in, I'd like to say thanks for checking this out and I'd love to hear more. I received a comment on the last post (about mi madre) from a woman of similar age. Thanks for the feedback. If you have a blog, I'd love to know about it.
I'm getting closer to sharing this blog with those I know. I've told some folks that I've been doing it but, so far, I've been enjoying the anonymity of writing for the sake of writing and not knowing the readers. Not really even counting on having readers. When they show up, it's like a great perk. Now that I've had one or two, I crave more.
The moon is full. I think it might be a good night to pull on the wool cape and go say hello. Go talk to the moon. Now that's something I can't do from my office.
Good night world.
But it's nice having access to this blog from home. To sit at my desk in front of my window with my own tea cup. My daughter sleeping upstairs (or trying to read her Avatar comic book in the dark).....
I just checked in to my blog and it turns out I had my second comment from someone I don't know. It's taken about three weeks and hopefully they will continue to come. If you're still tuned in, I'd like to say thanks for checking this out and I'd love to hear more. I received a comment on the last post (about mi madre) from a woman of similar age. Thanks for the feedback. If you have a blog, I'd love to know about it.
I'm getting closer to sharing this blog with those I know. I've told some folks that I've been doing it but, so far, I've been enjoying the anonymity of writing for the sake of writing and not knowing the readers. Not really even counting on having readers. When they show up, it's like a great perk. Now that I've had one or two, I crave more.
The moon is full. I think it might be a good night to pull on the wool cape and go say hello. Go talk to the moon. Now that's something I can't do from my office.
Good night world.
Teaching the Blind to See
I just got off the phone with my mom. She was weepy and depressed. (Much better than manipulative and vibey.)
I was just there last week for a visit and she had just purchased her first computer. My dad has one upstairs in his office and uses it soley for work. Most of my parent's friends are on-line at this point and my mom has been anxious to join the ranks. It will live on the kitchen table where she daydreams of checking her email with her morning coffee, Good Morning America on in the background.
My mother has never used a computer. Like, ever. And it's a laptop, a new laptop, the really touch senstive kind where if you look at it with enough concentration, it will draw up your webpage or scroll on verbal command. My dad can pretty much navigate his way from email and back but my brother had to spend about five days of nose-to-the-grinding-stone lessons when the insurance company dad works for started requiring their employees to submit insurance claims via email. So, my father isn't the guy to give mom lessons on how to maneuver her way around in the world wide web. And my brother is a redhead like my mom. It would surely be a trainwreck.
I've acquired my dad's low blood pressure and good nature. Plus, I do a really good job (most of the time) at keeping my mom's nervous break downs at bay, so I was the one elected to give her the step by step directions.
I set her up with a Hotmail account so that if she has questions she can call me and I can help her find her way around. I also helped her set up the Oprah home page in her Favorites list (which she doesn't know how to get to anyway).
She's called me a few times so far but it's been pretty hard getting her to where she needs to be. After the first three minutes are up she starts to huff and her voice quivers and if my dad is in the room, she finds something to yell at him about. I think it's her comfort zone. And it's such a shame. He's a really nice guy.
So, I helped her into her inbox this morning, where she found something I had forwarded to her. I gave her the job of replying to my forward. I even sat on the phone with her and directed her to the Reply button, the Subject button and showed her where she should hit Send.
This last call from her was weepy because she had written me a nice long lettter, which probably took the better part of an hour (her typing skills are rusty and her nails are kind of long), and then when my uncle came in to check it out, he somehow lost the whole thing. I think both he and my dad had been exiled from the kitchen when she called.
So she closed the computer for the day. Needs to come back to it tomorrow. I keep telling her that eventually it will be second nature and that she needs to be patient with herself but I think she hears the grown up voice from the Charlie Brown cartoons when I talk like that. It just doesn't register. It's a strange dialect.
I don't know if she'll stick with it. And I wonder how long I'll last as her instructor. When I consider what a nightmare I was when it came to homeschooling, I get the heeby jeebies to think about what I've signed on for here. We'll see if she eventually barks at me or if she'll remember to breathe and forgive herself the mistakes she's bound to make.
It's hard to try to understand your mom's psychology. I spent the better part of my seven hour drive home from my visit with her wondering about a tactful way to suggest she try some therapy. It's a good thing that Ella has a portable DVD player with headphones because I had about twelve different conversations up there in the front seat, all by myself, trying out different approaches. I know that her anxiety isn't with the computer. It's about failing. Not being good enough. And that anxiety spills over to her every interaction, perception, and consideration. At 60 years old, her body carries the stress of chronic panic like a border collie with it's signals crossed. A really fine breed that thinks it's job is to chase it's own tail. And it breaks my heart.
I want to suggest therapy because I forsee a phone call in my near future.... one or another relative calling to tell me about my mom's heartattack. Part of me wonders if this is her journey. Is it my responsibility to do what I can to avoid that? Or do you teach old dogs new tricks? Teach the blind to see?
Right now, I'm just focusing on a home page, a browser list and an inbox. Let's hope we can get through that.
I was just there last week for a visit and she had just purchased her first computer. My dad has one upstairs in his office and uses it soley for work. Most of my parent's friends are on-line at this point and my mom has been anxious to join the ranks. It will live on the kitchen table where she daydreams of checking her email with her morning coffee, Good Morning America on in the background.
My mother has never used a computer. Like, ever. And it's a laptop, a new laptop, the really touch senstive kind where if you look at it with enough concentration, it will draw up your webpage or scroll on verbal command. My dad can pretty much navigate his way from email and back but my brother had to spend about five days of nose-to-the-grinding-stone lessons when the insurance company dad works for started requiring their employees to submit insurance claims via email. So, my father isn't the guy to give mom lessons on how to maneuver her way around in the world wide web. And my brother is a redhead like my mom. It would surely be a trainwreck.
I've acquired my dad's low blood pressure and good nature. Plus, I do a really good job (most of the time) at keeping my mom's nervous break downs at bay, so I was the one elected to give her the step by step directions.
I set her up with a Hotmail account so that if she has questions she can call me and I can help her find her way around. I also helped her set up the Oprah home page in her Favorites list (which she doesn't know how to get to anyway).
She's called me a few times so far but it's been pretty hard getting her to where she needs to be. After the first three minutes are up she starts to huff and her voice quivers and if my dad is in the room, she finds something to yell at him about. I think it's her comfort zone. And it's such a shame. He's a really nice guy.
So, I helped her into her inbox this morning, where she found something I had forwarded to her. I gave her the job of replying to my forward. I even sat on the phone with her and directed her to the Reply button, the Subject button and showed her where she should hit Send.
This last call from her was weepy because she had written me a nice long lettter, which probably took the better part of an hour (her typing skills are rusty and her nails are kind of long), and then when my uncle came in to check it out, he somehow lost the whole thing. I think both he and my dad had been exiled from the kitchen when she called.
So she closed the computer for the day. Needs to come back to it tomorrow. I keep telling her that eventually it will be second nature and that she needs to be patient with herself but I think she hears the grown up voice from the Charlie Brown cartoons when I talk like that. It just doesn't register. It's a strange dialect.
I don't know if she'll stick with it. And I wonder how long I'll last as her instructor. When I consider what a nightmare I was when it came to homeschooling, I get the heeby jeebies to think about what I've signed on for here. We'll see if she eventually barks at me or if she'll remember to breathe and forgive herself the mistakes she's bound to make.
It's hard to try to understand your mom's psychology. I spent the better part of my seven hour drive home from my visit with her wondering about a tactful way to suggest she try some therapy. It's a good thing that Ella has a portable DVD player with headphones because I had about twelve different conversations up there in the front seat, all by myself, trying out different approaches. I know that her anxiety isn't with the computer. It's about failing. Not being good enough. And that anxiety spills over to her every interaction, perception, and consideration. At 60 years old, her body carries the stress of chronic panic like a border collie with it's signals crossed. A really fine breed that thinks it's job is to chase it's own tail. And it breaks my heart.
I want to suggest therapy because I forsee a phone call in my near future.... one or another relative calling to tell me about my mom's heartattack. Part of me wonders if this is her journey. Is it my responsibility to do what I can to avoid that? Or do you teach old dogs new tricks? Teach the blind to see?
Right now, I'm just focusing on a home page, a browser list and an inbox. Let's hope we can get through that.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Come Winter
As I drove into town this afternoon, flakes started to fall. I usually wear flip flops and no coat until I just absolutely can't deny anymore that the seasons change here in the hills. This year has been an easier transition. Maybe because the wood has been stacked for almost three months, there is a winter's worth of hay in the barn, we aren't building a house outside in ice and freezing temperatures, and we aren't living under the stress of a construction loan and deep poverty. I can feed my girl. My self. My animals.
My car might be buried under an inch or two of snow when I come back out tonight after my massage shift. I don't have the ice scraper in there yet and my shoulders aren't exactly ready for the aches that long drives in the snow cause, but the moon is almost full and when there is snow on the ground it serves as a mirror to the skies. I'm so much more likely in the winter to come home after a long night at work and pull on my wool cape and walk up the hill to talk to the moon. There's a quiet, a solitude, a serenity when things quiet with winter. There is the understanding that it is temporary. A time to pull within and listen to the bulbs in the soil resting and the deep breath of hibernation. For the softest sounds. To enjoy the waiting and trust that the soils eventually thaw.
My car might be buried under an inch or two of snow when I come back out tonight after my massage shift. I don't have the ice scraper in there yet and my shoulders aren't exactly ready for the aches that long drives in the snow cause, but the moon is almost full and when there is snow on the ground it serves as a mirror to the skies. I'm so much more likely in the winter to come home after a long night at work and pull on my wool cape and walk up the hill to talk to the moon. There's a quiet, a solitude, a serenity when things quiet with winter. There is the understanding that it is temporary. A time to pull within and listen to the bulbs in the soil resting and the deep breath of hibernation. For the softest sounds. To enjoy the waiting and trust that the soils eventually thaw.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Notes from the steering wheel
In the past hundred years,
as many highways have been laid across the globe
as we have veins beneath the skin
communities scatter,
families spread,
a spectrum of Mobile stations between points A and B
a caligraphy like stretch marks
marking the growth
food picked from the vine in California
ripening in the dank shade of an 18-wheeler
on it's way to the mid-Atlantic seaboard~
a schmorgasboard
of truck stops
green house gasses
and transistor radios
along the way
all a part of the invisible toxic blossom.
Rosabella
On my drive home yesterday I pulled off of 81 North, into Dunmore, to visit two sisters I used to spend alot of time with when I was younger. I told Ella, on our drive, that these two ladies may be as close to fairies as she'll ever get. In saying this, I guess I created quite a mystique but I wasn't at all off course. I met them years ago in the back room of a bar where our friends used to play. That's how we spent most of our nights then. In that crazy turmoil of youth and identity and a buffet style of spirituality, dance was my main source of prayer and it served me well. Those I danced with were a part of my congegration. Nights were holy in the smoky back rooms.
It's been years since I've seen them. I got in touch via email when they ran into a good friend of mine at one of the band's reunions. We set up a time to meet on my trip home.
The older of the two, an incredible artist ended up marrying the drummer, had two children, made their best go of the marriage and then decided to let it go after many years. She moved back to the area, put herself through school, bought a house and, out of the blue, met a man from South Africa and fell in love. During my visit, I got to meet their beautiful daughter, Rosabella. The following poem is about this sweet girl.
It's been years since I've seen them. I got in touch via email when they ran into a good friend of mine at one of the band's reunions. We set up a time to meet on my trip home.
The older of the two, an incredible artist ended up marrying the drummer, had two children, made their best go of the marriage and then decided to let it go after many years. She moved back to the area, put herself through school, bought a house and, out of the blue, met a man from South Africa and fell in love. During my visit, I got to meet their beautiful daughter, Rosabella. The following poem is about this sweet girl.
Rosey rises,
sleepy eyed,
Africa in her blood.
Her mama's got the magic of the cosmos
where her paintbrush meets the canvas
and her auntie must have been dropped
from the branches of some pixie's family tree.
I'd forgotten how deeply her eyes hold you
from one thought to another.
Rosey,
all in red,
curious and wordless,
watchful and walking.
Rosey
Rosey McNosey
wondering
wondering
all the world about her.
Two continents for lineage.
Old mine shafts beneath her toes
and an African grandma
in the place where her imagination goes.
Rosey rises,
sleepy eyed,
sparkling mama in her heart
and Africa in her blood.
Remembering the sun
Found this old poem from the summer time, folded up and coffee stained in the console of my car~
This summer her legs are longer,
her skin darker with sun,
her eyes more watchful and her words more candid.
She is still full of clumsy youthfullness, spills and forgetfullness.
She still leaves quakes and messes in her wake.
But now, the grass that grows midsummer does not cover as much of her,
she wanders farther now from the pastures of home,
she demands less attention as the world around her demans her imagination.
This summer she can hold her breath longer,
she can swim deeper
and emerge from the river's bottom with bigger rocks in her hands.
This summer, she dances under the garden hose,
an absolute freestyle verse of summer,
the grass and topsoil collecting the drops
her skin does not absorb.
This summer her legs are longer,
her skin darker with sun,
her eyes more watchful and her words more candid.
She is still full of clumsy youthfullness, spills and forgetfullness.
She still leaves quakes and messes in her wake.
But now, the grass that grows midsummer does not cover as much of her,
she wanders farther now from the pastures of home,
she demands less attention as the world around her demans her imagination.
This summer she can hold her breath longer,
she can swim deeper
and emerge from the river's bottom with bigger rocks in her hands.
This summer, she dances under the garden hose,
an absolute freestyle verse of summer,
the grass and topsoil collecting the drops
her skin does not absorb.
Hometown and Back
I spent seven and a half hours on the road yesterday getting back to Vermont from Pennsylvania. If I wasn't so happy to be coming home, those long drives would be torturous. I've been making the trip with Ella since she was three months old and she continues to be my most favorite co-pilot. For a little kid who can't keep still long enough to finish a thought, she does remarkably well strapped in to her little booster seat for the long stretches between pee stops and coffee breaks. Now that she can read (and has been witness to more than one of my speeding tickets), she's become my constant commentator on the current speed limit. Except she reads it like she's an airline attendant or a Verizon computerized operator."The speed limit is now 55."
"The speed limit is now 35"
"Reduced speed ahead."
We went to Pennsylvania to visit my folks but mostly to visit my uncle Bobby who was in from El Paso. He's kind of a retired bad-ass mother fucker who now has a pace maker and defibulator in his heart. He's been military most of his adult life and so we haven't spent a great deal of our lives in the same place. When he retired though, in 1991, he moved back to Pennsylvania and stayed for just a few years. Those few years happened to be some of my most difficult. I was just fresh out of high school and trying to carve my own way but I had a bunch of baggage that I was trying to drag behind me and couldn't seem to summon the balls to drop it off the edge of some ravine. Having Bobby around was kind of like having an emotional drill sergeant who was also a really good listener. He also wasn't particularly partial to my mom's school of thinking and that made him even more of an ally than he already was. I didn't realize it at the time but having him available to me during those years made me feel just a little more human.
In March of 2005, he lost his son in Iraq. No one really even knows why he was over there. He was more the long haired, VW beetle, tatooed bartender kind of guy but out of the blue he went and joined the Marines. He was run over by a HumVee while waiting to be picked up for rounds one morning. He was squatting in front of a mound of sand and the sun was in the driver's eyes. The whole thing just seems too ridiculous and stupid for words and makes it all the harder to digest. Bobby wears his tags every day and can't summon enough foul language about the war and the administration.
This past spring, his wife got sick. While in the process of diagnosing her with sclerosis of the liver, Bobby went into major cardiac arrest, threw out his back, and was hospitilized as well. He made it out. She did not. It's been a tough 19 months.
So, it felt good to be with him. To be the listener this time. To put him down on my massage table and get him to snore. It felt good to hear the stories about how he met his wife (his third ~ they married after he left Pa. in 1993), to see that he can tell those stories now and not deflate. He still drinks too much and smokes too many cigarettes but he's walking his own line. It's his to walk. He took me in my grittiest day and now I take him.
The rest of the trip was par for the course. Played dodge ball with old shadows and geographic phantoms. The town used to be a coal town. Blue collar industry gone under and now it's like a Virtual New Jersey Box Store Extravaganza. The whole valley was flooded in '72 and most of the homes and schools and businesses are loaded with asbestos and molds in the basements. When I was about 12 years old, my friend's parents and siblings and aunts and uncles all started dying from random sorts of cancers. It hasn't gotten any better. The place is fairly toxic. Half due to consumer choices. Half due to the environment and pollution. My folks moved out of the valley, out of the toxic house, out of the flood zone and now live on top of the mountain. There are trees on the streets there and the sound of a train late at night. It feels safe to let Ella play out in front of the house. The houses aren't a half a foot from one another like the streets where I grew up. It's not paradise but I feel like we can breathe a little easier there.
My hometown isn't what it used to be. It used to be the typical American melting pot of ethnicity. Mining towns are like that. The Irish and the Welsh, the Lebanese, Syrian, Italian, Polish and Czech all congegrate to make a living. Eventually, their kids start marrying outside the church, outside the lineage. When I was a kid, I grew up with a Lebanese/Irish Catholic family. The wife made killer hummus, grape leaves and baklava but she also prayed to Saint Anthony if she lost something. I spent the better part of my childhood thinking that it was JesusMarionJoseph. I spent my summers swimming with nuns and having cookouts with cousins named Rashad.
But the neighbors started putting their houses on the market and heroine moved in in their place. Lots of heroine. My high school has metal detectors now and state police assigned to the hallways. It's some knarly shit. I always take a drive, though, through those streets when I go back to visit family. I go to the Middle East Bakery in the North End to pick up spinach pies and I drive through my old neighborhood. The streets are more skeletal now but I'm able to remember roller skates on the sidewalks, old men on porches and hide and seek when the street lights went on. I've got some good memories and left there in time to be able to hold onto them. I found the ravine in my travels and threw away the heavy baggage. I kept the good stuff, though. Kept the good stuff and kept some distance. So far it's proved to be a good recipe.
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