I Feel A Story Coming On About Thanksgiving and Giving Thanks

The last few nights, Mark and I have enjoyed watching ‘The Dust Bowl’ on PBS, and in an odd way, it makes me miss my parents; I think because the show is based in the decades of their youth. I hear some accents that sound familiar; some phrases that I grew up hearing, and I fondly recall that sense of home that feels so familiar, but is now so far away. While watching the program about the terribly ravaged areas in Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas and Colorado, my mind goes back to some of the stories about how my parents grew up, and how desperately hard it was for my grandparents to provide basic necessities for their families. One thing mentioned in the show was that the exodus to California was felt as an embarrassment because so many had suffered so greatly and could no longer meet their obligations, nor even put food on the table. Humbled and humiliated, they travelled West to find a place that was touted as a land of plenty, but the Depression travelled with them and had arrived in California before they did, so yes, it was a better place, but life was still hard.

My father’s ancestors were the mountain people of the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina and Tennessee, having migrated there via Virginia after living on the East Coast , some since the 1600s. They were English, escaping religious persecution; they were Scottish and Irish, escaping countries of hardship and unjust rule. They were all looking for a better life and came with the determination born of desperation. Work was life and life meant work. My father told me heart wrenching stories about my grandfather’s efforts to provide for his family of eleven children – sharecropping, logging, carpentry, farming, mill work. Hard physical labor that sometimes paid off, and sometimes, did not. He decided one time to grow a large crop of watermelons, believing that they would sell easily. Who doesn’t love a good melon when it’s hot outside? Depression Era shoppers might have wanted to enjoy one, but could not. He couldn’t sell them. He eventually backed his wagon up to a steep hillside and threw them over. All of them. He used a mule to farm the land he rented as a tenant farmer. His axe was a precious tool to him and it was well cared for. (His Irish temper flared if that blade ever touched the ground.) The family picked cotton, even the younger children. I try to imagine my father as a young boy, dragging the cotton sack behind his slim frame, pulling the bolls off the plants. It makes me want to weep for what he and his siblings had to do just to live. Just to have food.

 

 The Plemons Boys: Tom, Gene and Wally

 

 It was in 1937 when Grandpa packed up the family and joined the long lines of cars driving West. They settled in the very northeast corner of California where there was logging and road building work for him, and it was a good place to settle the children who were still in the home.

My mother’s family lived in southern Missouri, also having migrated from the Carolinas: Scottish, Irish and German. My great grandfather farmed, surveyed, and went back to school to become a teacher, inspiring several of his children to do the same. His wife, my great grandmother, had lost her mother at age 12 and had been ‘farmed out’ to other relatives and neighbors until she married and then had twelve children of her own.

Matilda Condray Sutherlin, my Great Grandmother

My grandmother, their oldest child, believed in education and stressed the importance of it to her children, although her own education was limited because of the losses in her life. She wed at 18 to a handsome widower with three children. She then had five children of her own, three girls and two little redheaded boys. One little boy died as an infant and the other died at age four, due to the influenza. My grandfather was working in Oklahoma at the time and was so ill, he could not travel quickly enough to be there even for the funeral of his little son. Grandpa had tuberculosis, and he passed away when my mother was about 16 months old. They had moved to St. Louis, so Grandma was not near her parents for support and had to fend for her little family by herself. She worked in a laundry; she ironed clothes all day long. The family received assistance because she simply could not make ends meet; my mother remembered beans and beans and more beans for supper. My grandmother remarried in a short time and had another              daughter and another redheaded son. Georgie, her last little boy, was born with Down’s syndrome and passed away when he was seven or eight. Years later when my brother was born with a head of curly red hair, she wept.

I can’t help but be humbled when I reflect on the lives of those from whom I descend. Our home is a mansion. We flip a switch for heat; we turn a faucet for hot water - we have indoor plumbing! We only split wood to build a fire for ambiance and cozy atmosphere, and I think of my grandfather’s axe… If I’m not too good at splitting a piece of wood, I wonder what he would think of me. We have electricity and an iron that just needs to be turned on to heat; not set upon a hot stove fueled by coal. Every single time I iron clothes, I remember Grandma’s instructions – “Don’t run the iron backwards, it will make wrinkles. Iron the collar first and then the sleeves and then the body of the garment. Don’t melt the buttons.” If anyone knew how to do it right, it was she who spent hours and hours at it.

I can recall Thanksgiving celebrations at my Uncle Wally’s place in Ravendale, California, with many of my father’s family members there. We ate a wonderful meal and after dinner, pushed back the furniture to dance, and we laughed. As an innocent child, I thought it was just a fun holiday spent with cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents. I thought it was about the Pilgrims and turkeys and pumpkin pies that Mama made so well. I thought it was about the long car ride and playing games with my brothers and singing ‘Over the River and Through the Woods.’

The Plemons Family: Steve, Viola, Tom, Janet and Doug

1977

 

I was right. And I was wrong. The deeper meaning of the day is about giving thanks for those who walked before us, clearing the path by swinging an axe. For those who spent each day with sacrifice etched into their souls, pushing through heartbreak and never ever giving in to it. For the woman who taught me that the right way to do a task sometimes has only one way.

 

We will honor Thanksgiving with turkey and pie and cranberry sauce, and the family will gather to share in a day of feasting and celebration. I am immensely grateful that my own children and grandchildren will be there, and in each of their faces, there are glimpses of those others who have given us the better life for which they worked. Quietly, I will search for a moment when I can remember all of them who came before, and I will give thanks. I am proud of them, so very proud. This year, and every day, there is much to be thankful for.

Blessings to all.

Finding the PX Ranch and Saying Hello/Goodbye - An Adventure That Begins and Ends with Dreams

This weekend had a somber purpose - to attend the memorial service of an old friend of Mark's at Southern Oregon University. She had been a professor there, Wilkins O'Riley Zinn by name, and the developer of collectory's and being Zinnified, and her 'somber' service was called a 'Sillybration' because it was dotted, literally, with polka dots and brilliantly colored artwork, which she had created. Attendees wore bright ties and sparkly headwear and purple plush hats ,and animal crackers were on every table for munchies during the service. Tears, yes. Laughter, lots. Anguish, plenty. Joy, immeasurable. She could never imagine the difference she had made in so many lives. Amidst all the funny stories and all the sweet memories, the one that stood out for me the most (outside of Mark's which made me cry because he said 'I was her first student - in life'); more than her son who wept frequently over the loss of his best friend; more than the colleagues who will miss her zest and inspiration; even more than her husband who has lost his soulmate of 38 years - most was the young woman who spoke last. She spoke of Z as the person who influenced her 'to move forward confidently in the direction of your dreams', (I borrow from the Desiderata, but it completely fits); who told her to write her Master's dissertation because she knew that Z would read it; who connected with her intellectually and emotionally and mentally - not on a lighthearted level at all. In all the flit and float, there was a serious grounding - a touchpoint that mattered and changed a life, immensely giving permission to BE and to DO. That moved me more than I could breathe. I so wish I had known this remarkable woman. Godspeed, Z. You inspire me.

And then---my husband and I got to have a weekend away. We had spent the night on Friday in Grants Pass in a dive-ish sort of motel called the Sweet Breeze. Not so sweet! Some people don't really be honest on travel sites, just so ya know. It was doable for one night, but one night was it! Anyhow, we hit the road early to head to Ashland for the services and meandered on our way there. Took some back roads and tried to go to the House of Mystery/ Oregon Vortex, but didn't have enough time for the tour. I was SO looking forward to shrinking for a while, but unlike Alice inWowland, couldn't muster it up on this trip.  Because my sweet husband, who in his haste to leave on Friday afternoon, forgot his dress clothes.... we made a quick couple of stops to purchase a spiffy new set of appropriate clothes for him on the way and then headed to Ashland.

Ashland delights me. I'm sensitive to the ambiance of towns, and also the temperature of towns, and the tidyness level. I.e.~ Victoria Canada wins a good prize. Most of Nevada does not.  I find Ashland to be especially pretty, albeit it only gets a b- because it's pretty toasty there.

As we headed East, we chose to drive the Ashland - KFalls highway which is twisty to say the least. I have now created a new verse to the "Long and Winding Road" for the Beatles. It is the 'Narrow Winding Road'~, but that's for later.  Anyhow the highway was breathtaking in more ways than one. First, because the sun was lowering in the western sky sending amber light to create an afternoon golden glow over the very steep mountains upon which the highway barely ekes out a perch. Barely. On the steep sides of high mountains. Clings. The pictures do not do the steeeeeeepness justice at all! And just because there's a guard rail in one of these pictures, do not think that there were guard rails on the whole road, because there were not. And I was in the passenger's side looking over the edge trying not to swallow my tongue in panic!

 

 

There was this one spot where the road had broken off and they patched it, but then painted the patched spots so us weary travellers could freak out thinking that it would break again as we drove over it. Or not. But it was kind of scary.

 

 

So, whew! We made it past the twisty freaky parts of this incredibly gorgeous drive and there was a light shining on the top of a hillside, beckoning us to stop for succor. And so we did. And it brought back great memories of my youth!

 

No Annie's in sight, but it truly was a nice place for nacho's and a beer.

 

And as we left, our personal fareweller, Bambi, came out onto the road to say 'Farewell, weary traveller!' into the glaring headlights.

 

Moving on, we drove through the beautiful night and country on to Klamath Falls, where we spent the night in a lovely motel, the Cimarron. Loved it. Clean and nice, except for no coffee cups, easily remedied fix... Up and out the door early this morning on our quest.

 

The Quest:

To find the ranch my father and his brothers owned in the 60s and 70s, which I had not visited for a long long long time. All I recall is driving to Beatty and eventually turning left over a slight rise and then dropping down into the yard. Mark had called my brother who spent summers there as a teenager and got some directions, but in the midst of hubbub couldn't quite recall all the road names, so we did some extra driving. We ended up in Bly and didn't mind at all. Bly is kind of charming, in a very remote kind of way, with a couple of little markets and even two or three antique stores. (Much to my dismay, they weren't open today!)

 

This is the sweet little Forest Service Building in Bly.

And this is in the city park. Awesome!

So, we weren't supposed to have gone as far as Bly, and we turned around to head back to Beatty.

I love the lines and circles~


We had were loving everything we saw and I was snapping pictures as fast as I could, and then.... there was this. I happen to really love green. This made me teary.

 

 

 

And on yet another lonesome gravel road, there was a burst of color~

 

A kaleidoscope of brush in bloom~ a gift. Such beauty, which in the eye of this beholder, was indeed considered so.

We realized we needed to try another tack, not sailing but turning, so we turned left on Drews Road. And there it was, just over a rise, on the left just where we'd left it.

 

The view from the PX Ranch across the Sycan Valley~

 

The PX Ranch, for Plemons 10 - a legacy of unfinished dreams during which we can smell the sage and juniper and cows and freshcut alfalfa. Why we love boots and sometimes good country music and being a little rough around the citified edges and why we are... because it's okay to remember the days when our father really was a cowboy, and so were my brothers. Remembering the smoke of the branding iron fires and the bawl of the freshly branded calves who wore the PX; remembering my uncle's white cowboy hat and plaid cowboy shirts with Marlboro's (for reals) rolled up in his sleeves. My Uncle Gene was a quintessential cowboy, handsome and sunburnt and tough as nails, but never too tough to tease with a niece who thought he was about the neatest guy ever. My Uncle Wally was a big man, another cowboy through and through, but far more gentle around impressionable little girls.

My big brother Doug had a horse named Rip who wouldn't be gentled and had to be broke over and over again. My brother Steve, a quieter sort of cowboy, made everyone's day lighter as he joked his way through the work on a ranch; hard work for a young teenager. Turns out he and Doug both had terrible grass allergies but they bucked hay for several a summer.

We are who we are, in part because of the men who owned this place. My brothers, my cousins and me because our fathers put themselves and their sweat into being their dream, not just saying they had one.

As I write this, I am struggling. How brave they were. What a chance they all took. The year the river flooded at Christmas and threatened to take it all, they left families at home and went to the ranch working  days to save everything to keep this alive.

I never understood until just now.  They were their dream, and I got to be a part of it. I owned a part of the Plemons Ten. For the example of my dad and my uncles, all gone now, I am grateful.  I hope my brother Doug and my cousins - Judy, Wally, Roger, Concha, Lupe, Will and Amy, and I will always remember to be the dream they have and 'to move forward confidently in the direction of your dreams', as our fathers did before us.  

The view from the PX Ranch.

 

PurpleEyedHeartRockHunterDistractor

 

As I strolled the lonely, mistygray beach, I looked as always for heart shaped rocks. They bring back sweet memories of small boys and girls who upon finding one would triumphantly race to me shouting “I found one for you!” and I search the sand diligently on every beach walk, always hoping to find another heart.

 

So I walked along keeping a sharp eye out for hearts, but instead found a struggling dragonfly, trapped in the mud of sand and seawater.  Tail was embedded by half, wings almost plastered down but a feeble movement of its little head surprised me, so I gingerly nudged it with my finger to see if I could dislodge it. The tail came free, but the wings were still stuck down. Another little nudge – those wings are gossamer delicate and I wasn’t sure how gentle I had to be. One nudge too many and I flipped it right over onto its back – “yikes! What have I done?? “  Somersaulting across the sand by accidental assault was not intended so I much more slowly maneuvered the tiny body upright, and was relieved that no damage was apparent.

Never much of a bug lover, I was admittedly a bit squeamish about picking it up and I truly was concerned with smashing a wing or injuring a thread-thin leg. However, rescue wasn’t going to be successful unless my little rescuee was removed from the watery, sticky sand so I very carefully picked up the glob of mud under it so I didn’t squish any nether parts, and transported all to a nearby log.

 

Once set down, the dragonfly perked up a bit and lifted its tail and fluffed up its wings, but chose to just sit right there next to me. Well, for a minute, but then it kept crawling towards me which freaked me out a little bit because I didn’t really want it crawling up my arm. I figured it wasn’t going to bite (dragons don’t bite, do they?) and so I picked it up. I tried to warm it by holding it close to me and then draping my jacket over my hand, but it didn’t seem to like that. Claustrophobic maybe? So we just sat there on the log watching the waves and savoring the sea, my dragonfly friend and me, for about a half hour. Dragonfly was showing no signs of leaving me, and was diligently grooming its head with both front legs. As we were becoming fast friends, I took some close-ups of it – perhaps as a calendar pinup? Lovely lavender eyes, a big goofy grin that bordered on cartoonish, and those seriously amazingly webwoven wings. A long tail with brown and orange bands, and six very hairy legs.  Fascinating creature.

The mist began to thicken and the sky and sea became the same gray so it was time to head back to the warmth of the cottage I had rented. Thinking as I walked along that Dragonfly would eventually catch the wind and flit away, I held up my hand to encourage flight. No way. Dragonfly was securely attached to my forefinger, showing no interest in takeoff. Some passing children were curious about my hitchhiker, and came close to examine it. They examined me too. How many women ‘of a certain age’ do you see carefully chaperoning a lost little dragonfly back to safety? They were very interested in the plight of the Dragonfly, and looked me as though I was a little odd. Perhaps so.

We crossed the ridge of sand dune, up and over and through the tall waving sea grass, and I thought maybe upon seeing the grass (with a whole lot of purple eyes) that off it would go. Not yet. Still holding on tightly and just along for the ride it went; I wondered if it was enjoying the sense of travel but not having to work at it? How must it feel to ride on the chilly finger of a giant so powerful that it could crush you with almost just a flick – was it feeling like it had conquered the colossus?

As I reached the hydrangea-goal that was in an area recessed from the wind, I sadly encouraged my Friend to dismount onto a blue bloom, and said farewell. I felt badly about leaving it there, but acknowledged that while it didn’t really belong inside the cottage, at least I had found a fairly safe shelter for its continued recuperation from the trials of the day.

I typically do not think of myself in Dragonfly terms – a being with enormous power and energy which can be harnessed to serve a small and fairylike soul. No matter how small the soul, no matter the energy required, I was pleased to provide the service. Or was it the Dragonfly who served me and allowed me the blessings of forgetting and of remembering that sometimes I’m the one stuck in the mud? To those who save me when I am stuck – bless you.

As it was, I did find a heart and made a small friend - forever and all. The name of that place is changed: It will ever be DragonFly Beach~

 

Dreaming with Bean

DreamingFeelingSeeingKnowing

It’s such an incredible conversation, late at night, to share with Michelle as we sit on the couch, snuggled up against the wee hours’ drowsiness. Neither of us wants to end our rare moment of uninterrupted sharing, and the minutes tick steadily by until the clock on the electronics is blurry and unreadable. But we keep going, grasping and grabbing on to each of those minutes, determined to squeeze every usable, sharable second – not letting any be wasted. When you’re separated by a fourteen hour drive from a person who is a part of your heart and soul, and whom you have held onto through the very darkest of nights and longest of days, there simply is no time to fritter away.

Not that our chat is always serious, by no means. We reminisce about the many hours we spent in the car during her middle school and high school years, driving back and forth to school and work. Remembering the drive~ the gray barn covered with birdhouses that hid in the fog, remembering the deer at the end of our road – the magic of our mornings and always the meandering way home… We laugh over the sweetness of Kash’s own little way of wrapping adults much larger than him around his tinyboy fingers. We discuss the future preschool she considers for her precocious son who asks to play with octagons (and he is not yet three years old!)

The vulnerability of young motherhood is enhanced by late hours, shared concerns and utter love for a towheaded toddler who daily reminds all of us of the goodness of God, and that miracles happen. We agree that we are grateful for our challenges, no matter how large or small, and that gratitude should be a cultivated skill. Dreams do come true, although sometimes at a cost.

What we find most challenging is listening though, not to each other, but just listening. How often are we to hear and we find that we cannot? Is that what dreams are for, so that during our sleep when we are quiet we will feel what we cannot hear? And by so feeling, can we then see the pathway to take? It is difficult to answer that question but just for the night, I think I know, because just for the night, I have Michelle all to myself. Fourteen hours is too far, and blurry the clock may be, but for this night I will listen with all my might for every second that she is here, because .. well, just because. It has to do with dreams~

A Day with my People

Following the Piper

Who led us to the Sea and we listened while he piped to the waves

And to the clouds and to the evening sky and setting sun

Sharing the Flames with Jubilant Celts

And with those who quietly become entranced by the dancing fire

Just staying warm while listening to the music of the night

And watching the girl who plays with fire

Celtic Colors

Assorted tartans were so bright and beautiful

 

A red haired laddie (there were so many redheads around it felt very strange to me.)

A quilted Welsh Dragon

Spectular!

It was a lovely day to be a Celt

 and even better to share an entire day with my tribe who love what I love~

Looking Back and Up While Digging

Treasures come in a mighty variety of forms which makes the old proverb ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ more true than just a platitude. On any given day, anyone’s definition of treasure can change any number of times, for example: the delphinium I bought at lunch today is a sweet, chubby, beautiful blue plant which I can enjoy for years to come, but also the old wire garden gate I liberated from an abandoned backyard is an absolute treasure. It reminds me of the wonderful yard of Mr. Clem Watkins in Alturas, California. But that’s another story. This gate is in my yard and getting freshened up with a new coat of green spray paint before being hung to guard a new garden. I have a little brass sign, a gift from Dustin and Samantha years ago, that says “Mom’s Garden” to hang on the gate so that no one will question who’s in charge of the treasured space within the picket fence.

Inside the garden is a pink crepe poppy next to a pink iris which was a gift from a treasured auntie, and near those are the old Tonka trucks I found at a yard sale. Once the sandbox is finished, I think those beat up, rusty old trucks will be pretty darned important to a set of small Sanderses.

So considering treasures then, is it better to have a few selected precious things or many? Again, depends on the day and the person, but my personal opinion is that there is just so much to appreciate and adore that I want to squeeze them all in at once and slather love around everywhere. I want to have a wealth of good weather and a cache of happy grandchildren. I want to have prized dirt in my garden and jewels of vegetables and I really want and need to have a fortune in flowers and family.

I’m just saying the same things that any other gardener/grammy/mama would wish for and cherish because the greatest treasure of all is to teach the young ones around us an appreciation for Mother Earth. Satisfaction runs deeply in my soul when I hear my children discuss the huge garden to be planted at Kyle and Sarah’s, and to answer questions of fledgling gardeners who are just now getting a plot of land and see the possibilities for the very first time.

And then there’s Sara, our beautiful and talented Freckled FarmGirl who has embraced the Mother with an instinctive knowledge of protection and appreciation. Sara has elevated her love of the dirt to become a Master Gardener, and continues to grow through teaching her skills to novices. She is pursuing a full life of knowing her place in the sun and with the soil, blessed by water and sown with seeds to hold close the Mother and the greatest gift. She is truly a Gaia Goddess (and will cringe at that description, I’m sure.) She knows her place of sanctuary from which she draws her greatest strength, and in Sara and her love of Earth, I see a treasure beyond description.

Happy Bearthday to my treasured daughter, wished for you from all the love of your Mothers~

Sittin At Home

And wishing it was the dock of the bay but no Otis Redding for me today. But how weird, Otis and Redding. Hmmmm....Maybe it's the convergence of Jupiter, Venus and Mars and the moon, or maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's just my luck to have caught the icky cruddy chest cold that's going around or maybe I needed to stay home for a couple of days without trying to accomplish much. Drives me crazy, sitting around, but alas, if I try to get anything done, I start getting wobbly and achy. And just when I have all these amazing ideas to work on. Pinterest is definitely a great resource for lots o'cool ideas and i want, no, NEED to go and play upstairs in my cubby. Instead, I'm still in my jammies staring at HGTV but not really seeing a thing. I did watch Hoarders yesterday which was amazingly gross; (I actually gagged over one house) and it provides such incentive to simplify more! 

Which is a whole other thing: MyDeductionsOnline.com is amazing! I do tend to donate a lot to Goodwill and other charities and learned that I have not been totalling up the correct amounts for my donations. In other words, I been cheeeeetin maself outa lotsa bucks. Rats. Will definitely be using it on a regular basis whenever I take a box or two to charities.

Something that has been on mind a lot lately is circles. Are circles, oops. Is a circle. I'm not sure why this keeps coming into my head but I have this incredible need to be a part of a circle again. Meaning a sewing circle, quilting circle, healing circle - a women's circle. I think about this a lot and wonder why I have this need that keeps me awake at night. When we planned the wedding, one of the most important components was to be encircled by the kids and their love; and I have had that experience with my children before.

Even the fire circle on a campout intrigued me~

This is the dome of the National Museum in Washington DC. Loved it.

And what's more circular than a pinecone?

The circular pattern of a rug in The Empress Hotel and ....

The web we weave.

So, I've been finding circles everywhere. They surround us all the time, we simply have to see them. I've taken matters into my own hands and found a circle, I hope. First meeting is Saturday afternoon so I am hoping it goes well and that this fledgling group is just what I've searched for.

Mary Jane's Farm is a magazine I subscribe to, and Mary Jane has created a program for women to join either online or in their communities - the Farmgirl Sisterhood. Life is so busy for all of us these days that it's hard to make time to get together, so I'm seriously putting my eggs into this basket hoping that they don't get crushed. Some of the things I like to do have earned some mockery in the past, such as wanting to have sheep to shear so I could spin their wool; I still want to grow an herb garden and truly use the herbs for healing and dyeing as well as cooking. I actually like to grow and can healthy food even though it's a lot of work. There is so much left to learn too, which is another level of fun to look forward to. From what I understand, these Sisterhood groups do exactly the kinds of things that I enjoy and might even be good at.

I'm sure that my sisters are out there. I'm looking for you. Are you there?



FireNight

What do you do while you wait? I used to frantically clean everything and purge and Goodwill LOVED it. Now, I amble. I daydream. I might clean the bedroom or straighten or dust or even, like today, get pretty ambitious and work in the yard. But then, who didn't work in their yard today since it was almost 50 degrees and somewhat sunny?

So if I post a picture or two of places that generate amble-ness (ambleability?) will you understand?
This pic is of an old homestead fireplace that is so beautiful and so sad, all at once. Purely Oregon moss covered, but does it make you wonder what the house looked like and what the people were like who lived there? does me.

And then this charming stone house on OtterCrest~ now who would not love to live on a point overlooking crashing waves? This sturdy house sits on a sturdier cliff. I love the symbolism here - you cannot move me! Bring on the storms of life! Neener neener!

But today, we haven't thrown our cares to the wind nor dared the surf or sea or winds. Today, we cleaned up a bit in the backyard, started a fire in the firepit, barbecued rockfish (okay so we may have had our moment of vengeance on the sea since we did eat fish) and we lit the sparkly lights under the patio cover.  And all three of us noted that we were having a moment of pure satisfaction.

This is remarkable. Three individuals individually happy simultaneously at once even! LOL Good day. Great dinner. Good life.

Thank you.