tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2056883885650315362024-03-05T06:09:18.416-06:00Having the Last Word . . .Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-16173624104290176972014-11-24T19:04:00.000-06:002014-11-28T16:53:30.588-06:00LOCKED & LOADED—I DON’T THINK SO<b id="docs-internal-guid-6140d792-e47c-acd6-9da3-eebcbcc52fe1" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-6140d792-e47c-acd6-9da3-eebcbcc52fe1" style="font-weight: normal;"><img src="http://www.rawstory.com/rs/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/A-woman-practices-at-a-shooting-range-outside-Fredericksburg-Virginia-on-April-11-2013.-AFP.jpg" /></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-6140d792-e47c-acd6-9da3-eebcbcc52fe1" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Don’t you think I should at least know how to hold a gun?” I asked my husband as he choked down the last of his chia, Vita-Mixed probiotic smoothie. </span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-6140d792-e47c-acd6-9da3-eebcbcc52fe1" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Please,” he said, “I can barely swallow this organic poison you’re passing off as a power breakfast, never mind the thought of you twirling a sidearm ala Annie Oakley.”</span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-6140d792-e47c-acd6-9da3-eebcbcc52fe1" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“All I really want is to try out a gun. Where can I check one out?”</span></b></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-6140d792-e47c-acd6-9da3-eebcbcc52fe1" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Try out a gun? How the hell would I know where you could get a gun? Maybe you could ride the ‘L’ downtown; 7 people were shot on the Brown Line over the weekend. I’d say by the law of averages your seatmate is more than likely packing heat, perhaps he could steer you in the right direction. Then again maybe while you’re being robbed you could casually ask the thief where he purchased his weapon.”</span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My husband’s tone suggested that I was on my own so I tracked down a gun class and met Mr. NRA who predicted that in no time at all I’d be warning friends that they’d have to pry my weapon from my cold dead hands.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I forgot to ask if you got any felonies, but you don’t look like a felon and I’m guessin’ you’re ‘bout 29 so you’re of legal age,” Charlie said when I showed up for Guns 101. “Have a look around and get comfortable.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Comfortable? The place was a mass murderer’s dream—rifles hanging from hooks on the wall, glass cases filled with revolvers, shelves of guns everywhere. My eyes landed on a rifle-type thing that was different from the others.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Charlie, I know zero about guns but is this what I think it is?” I said pointing to a really odd weapon. “Is this a sawed-off shotgun?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“See you know more than you think you do,” he said with a grin. “Now why do you want to learn about guns?” he asked handing me a copy of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">THE BASICS OF PISTOL SHOOTING</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well soon we’ll have Conceal and Carry in Chicago and guns freak me out. My friend said that in Arizona all of the women carry tiny purse pistols. What if a little gun falls out of someone’s purse when she’s paying for groceries at Whole Foods?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"So you wanna purse pistol?” he said.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No, no, I don’t want a frigging gun even if it’s the size of a tube of lipstick. I just want to know what to do in an emergency, like if one falls on the floor. Do you throw a trash can over it or a blanket? Do you shout </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stand Back</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">! Do you yell </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">GUN</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> or is that like shouting </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">FIRE </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in a crowd?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Charlie had the same ‘</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me’</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> look on his face that my dog has when I ask him to get off the sofa.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Open the book, Dorothy, we’re leavin’ Kansas now,” he said as he began the lesson.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was surprised to find that there’s a difference between a bullet and a shell and a cartridge and that the numbers on a cartridge indicate power so a .22 and a .38 are different and damage their targets differently. I learned that guns flash, that revolvers are pistols and so are semi-automatics, that there is a whole other definition for magazine besides </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vogue</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I learned about dummy bullets and rubber bullets. We discussed straw purchasers and silencers and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Saturday Night Specials</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. We even talked about the Geneva Convention and why “shoot to kill” is not the first choice even in war. Perhaps this was stuff that boys learned along the way as they grew up, but to someone who never even watched police shows on television, this was overwhelming, complicated and much more involved than expected. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Successful pistol shooting requires aim, breathing control, hold and trigger control and follow-through which explains why there are so many innocent bystanders sacrificed in Chicago’s gang warfare. Anyone can shoot, but competence is the part that escapes our urban cowboys though that doesn’t slow them down. Seventy people were shot over Father’s Day weekend; two died. Over the Fourth of July weekend, there were eighty-two shootings that resulted in 16 deaths--this despite Chicago having some of the nation’s toughest gun regulations. Apparently dope dealers didn’t get the memo about gun registration and gangbangers don’t have time to waste on criminal background checks.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After determining my hand/eye dominance, honing my grip, practicing my aim with sight alignment and focus, working on breath and hold control, we moved to the shooting range. Charlie lugged the locked metal toolbox up a half-dozen rickety stairs and then unbolted the padlocks and chain on the backdoor of the monster truck. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Who’d ever think this was a shooting range?” I said as I got my first whiff of the sulphur-laden air while my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the fifty foot long tunnel lit by a single bulb connected to a battery with jumper cables. There was a table at our end and a bullseye board at the other; the entire floor was littered with </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Good & Plenty</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-sized cartridges. Behind the target, Charlie said, there was a six foot wall of shredded rubber tires to stop bullets. I thought of the eleven-year old at a sleepover who got a bullet in her head because the walls of her friend’s house afforded no such protection from the stray shot of a gangbanger. Right through the wall that bullet flew; the little girl never stood a chance. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">”This is one eerie place,” I said as Charlie handed me ear protectors, a gun and ammunition.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’ll start with a .22—it has no kick—load it up, get in position. Now we’ll see if you paid attention when I was talkin’.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I pulled the trigger and with that first BAM! Dorothy morphed into Thelma minus Louise. I fired all my rounds, the shots interspersed with my witless babbling. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh my god, I can’t believe this, this is wild… </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Charlie handed me a different revolver with a longer barrel. “A little kick to this one,” he said, and I gripped, aimed and filled the trailer with even more smoke. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Am I hitting the target? It’s dark at that end—I can’t see very well.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yer' hittin’ it alright, and yer' consistent, Little Lady—you are a very consistent shot—a little off center but all the bullets are hittin’ within an inch of each other. Lotta’ women are better shots than men when they start--yer' hand/eye coordination is better ‘cause a all the sewin’ you do.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sewing? I wanted to tell Charlie that the last time I knotted a thread my cat aspirated the needle into her esophagus and wound up in the ER, that poor Coco Chanel was in ICU for three days. Instead, I went back to the firing line--this time with a semi-automatic and a loaded magazine. I concentrated on my aim with my dominant eye. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No way I’d want to meet up with you in a dark alley,” Charlie said, macho code for L</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ady, good shot! </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hit the target so many times in the same spot I made a hole way bigger than the bullet hole. Way to go, Thelma, I thought as I blew away the bullseye with the last of my ammo, ambivalent about my new skill set which abolished many of my misconceptions and made me a bit less intimidated, though it did not convince me to join the 100 million Americans who own 300 million firearms.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You can apply for your FOID card now,” Charlie said when I handed him my gun. “Yer' trained and yer' competent--you can defend yerself and you’ll make the streets safer.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh, I'm not locked-and-loaded material, Charlie,” I said. “I don’t buy the idea that the answer to gun violence is more guns. By the way, would an ultraviolet light show gun powder on my hands?” I asked, as I held up my mitts. “Yep, you got residue on ‘em,” he nodded.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, I’m going to wash it off, Charlie, and wash my hands of guns. Conceal and Carry has motivated me to learn to shoot, but it won’t stop the mayhem. While Moms are marching for gun-control and you all spout the Constitution, the death toll mounts. The police chief juggles homicide statistics and the mayor distracts us with a Star Wars Museum. It's crystal clear, gun control will be decided by the last man standing.” </span></b><br />Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-46039447049656160862013-07-22T19:17:00.002-05:002014-11-29T07:47:57.788-06:00Bike Bullies Beware!<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhtwjHzEC1n6jF1pcgBUtcUyJI7pRanAy3IRPbnYhETvRk5s9koWNMNWZflCnM9AJ7aPryE4zFZIFBZ4nsT43oSz8MC1hJkv7W13PCJMVV4FEgFjbtilRwhgXI9CV-Lo_sQar0L9W9w8HcY9Mz51m6bqCYjm5XnR8QRug4Pwlxq8XrY-tkSRrNN2Wib_3_Li6Gl1ki5=s0-d-e1-ft&id=HN.608019734278504477&w=300&h=300&c=0&pid=1.9&rs=0&p=0" /></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Lance
Armstrong-wannabes have forced a hostile takeover and they’re taking bipeds hostage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve taken over the I&M Canal Trail
and walkers, birdwatchers, joggers ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Over the
past year, I’ve noticed a rise in dangerous speed and a decline in civility
among bicyclists on the I&M Canal Trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Zooming past, weaving in and out, riding ‘no hands’ and ‘no manners’ has
become prevalent but recently the already unsafe situation became even more treacherous
because of the closing of the cyclists’ preferred raceway, the Centennial
Trail, for a three-year construction project. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Furious that
their favorite speedway is off-limits, the sprocketheads seem intent on
traumatizing those who dare share the I&M Canal. Fully costumed in space-age
helmets, their derrieres swathed by diaper-like padded training tights and
their tootsies shod in aerodynamic pedal-booties, the cycle-commandoes invade from
behind intent on recreating the Tour de France.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Decades ago,
I vowed to my day camp Girl Scout buddy “…someday I’m going to live in this
forest…” even though the Seventeen Year Cicadas chose that summer to make an
appearance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I’ve<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>never managed to actually live in that forest, I do walk the I&M
Canal Trail, a National Historic Landmark, not two miles from where I learned
to tie a square knot. And I cherish that peaceful preserve.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Daily I’m
privileged to walk in Monet-like beauty, the very path where mules towed barges
of grain, lumber and salt, the exact trail that established Chicago as the
transportation hub of the United States, an incredible milestone on the Underground
Railroad, and I appreciate, Scout’s honor, that I’m beyond lucky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">We’re all lucky — the
babies in strollers, in-line skaters, hard-breathing joggers, dog walkers, seniors
testing out newly acquired bionic knees and those just looking for respite from
the 24/7 demands of technology who get to share the wealth with the herons,
turtles, butterflies and coyotes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Lucky that
is until now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cue up the theme from the
shark-threatening <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jaws</i>, because the fierce Lance-wannabes have stealth-attacked and
turned a simple walk into a hike on the wild side.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Completely
ignoring the Forest Preserve’s posted rules about speed limit and signaling
when passing, the bicyclists, wearing shirts advertising international race
teams, fly past intent on their cardiac workout, large <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>LCD screens velcroed to their biceps
registering every bleep of their little tickers with nary a thought given to jumpstarting
someone else’s cardiac arrest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Either
ignorant of or unwilling to acknowledge the inherent instability of a bike,
particularly where twigs and branches abound, the nitwits blow-off rules of
common sense while jeopardizing the health and safety of everyone else on the
trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently an old-style warning
bell on the handlebars is aerodynamically incorrect and a shout of “on your
left” is too taxing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone else has
to hop, trip, jump and fall to avoid collision, if they can, if not, too bad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">To be fair,
not all of the trail bicyclists are adrenaline junkies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The casual bike pedaler is also at risk <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but the refusal by most to warn “on your left”
when coming from behind and passing is common and dangerous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the most part, I only hear bikers call out
a passing warning to other cyclists (hmmm, maybe afraid to get hit by a bike),
but, as for pedestrians, oh well, and the run-over smashed frogs and turtles
with their shattered shells that are left in their wake are just collateral
damage, if the two-wheel wild ones even
notice at all that they’ve killed an animal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">One morning
a stealth biker so startled me as he actually brushed my sleeve while flying
past that I jumped back into the path of his riding partner <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who was passing me on the right!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Dumb and Dumber flew on at breakneck
speed focused on their anaerobic thresholds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fact that I was on my side of the trail, that pedestrians have the
right-of-way, that they never signaled, that they broke the law, that they came
close to shattering my spine</span><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> — </span>irrelevant. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all about the paceline, the clipless
pedals and the almighty *<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PB</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">One older
man who has walked the path since boyhood suggested we sprinkle tacks along the
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’ll cut down on the racers,”
he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A roller-blader volunteered a
paint-ball gun to identify the look-alike cowards who whizz past with impunity
confident that bipeds can’t catch up with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You have the perfect storm for hit and run,” he observed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A lone walker smashed by a flying biker — have
you ever seen a heron finger a culprit or heard a turtle testify in court?” he
asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Some startled
folks have shouted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please signal!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Believe It or Not responses range
from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a snarled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My wheels make a whirling noise that you should be able to hear</i>, to
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Get off the *&^%#@ trail if you’re
afraid of bikes</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An obscene gesture
suffices for the less creative.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">After witnessing
an altercation in the parking lot between a jogger and a cyclist, I decided to
search for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After weeks of ‘pass
the buck’ which Illinois agencies practice as an art form, I think I hit pay
dirt, at least I hope it’s dirt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">The Metropolitan
Water Reclamation District acknowledges that their abrupt and protracted closure
of the Centennial Trail exacerbated an already dangerous situation on the Canal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They directed me to the Cook County Forest
Preserve which also concedes that: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Houston,
we have a problem</i> . . . and both have expressed a willingness to undertake an
educational program, but when?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
meantime, the Forest Preserve Police have begun issuing speeding tickets on the
trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">At last we
just might score one for the mommy walking her toddler, for the guy who is rehabbing
his heart, for the jogger trying to get in shape — for all the Joe & Joni Schmoes
who believe this land was made for you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Bike
Bullies, you are on notice!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>* Personal Best </i></span></span></div>
Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-81808179934022226562013-03-02T19:36:00.000-06:002014-11-29T08:01:58.916-06:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNbxnQIOFCJXNhEdZSCRY_i_krgjIFiRktwQlaL1zvDSg4EyQs1xn-NkCI3ZGnAuexMNnEzdBqyTqyuulKpgT4TmZDht841sNXL_yN-GIM-mcNpdx1VPewATLa3SX_EAdS08Y9nbWVt4/s1600/SCALISE+GRAVE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtNbxnQIOFCJXNhEdZSCRY_i_krgjIFiRktwQlaL1zvDSg4EyQs1xn-NkCI3ZGnAuexMNnEzdBqyTqyuulKpgT4TmZDht841sNXL_yN-GIM-mcNpdx1VPewATLa3SX_EAdS08Y9nbWVt4/s1600/SCALISE+GRAVE.jpg" height="264" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">UNCONSECRATED GROUND</span></span></b></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Anyone with a drop of Italian blood, even Al Capone, was
buried at Mt. Carmel and yet my poor Grandpa was all by himself in a
non-Catholic cemetery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a little girl,
it troubled me that he wasn’t at Mt. Carmel with the rest of the family, but the
subject was taboo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">On family cemetery jaunts, we’d genuflect at our Mt. Carmel
gravesites and then detour to Oak Ridge Cemetery where my grandfather, Antonio
Scalise, was interred in 1941.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d
murmur a prayer by his sunken little
granite pillow etched with the simple outline of Aladdin’s lamp, and kneeling
there my gnawing concern would resurface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The unconsecrated ground tormented me because the nuns said that, if you
were buried in unconsecrated soil, you went straight to hell.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At some point, a cousin whispered that my grandfather had
joined a religious sect, that after some Holy Rollers had a revival at Comiskey
Park one summer he’d converted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having turned
his back on the One True Holy Church, I knew he was doomed to Oak Ridge and the
eternal Inferno, but I prayed for his soul despite his one-way ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He died before I was born, but my Mother always
said that he was a really special<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>man,
that she’d wished I’d known him because he was such a good person so I hoped that
if <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prayed really, really hard, God
would show him mercy and retrieve him from the fire.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I knew from my Dad that his father had migrated to America
and gone to work in the northern iron-ore mountains, had eight children and moved
to Chicago when jobs dried up in Michigan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Other than that my Dad shared little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My mom told me that Grandpa was much older than my Nonna and a
complicated man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Something serious
happened to him in Italy, something painful,” she startlingly revealed one
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I sensed a heavy heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what it was—maybe he had a wife
who passed away, but there was something,” and then she slowed down, maybe not
comfortable sharing her intuitions, scribbled in guesses and perception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I suspect there was more to his story,” she
surmised and, being a mother/mind-reader she preempted me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do NOT bring it up to your father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t talk about it—I doubt that he even
knows what it is.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjhBphu9jvwzbzJ9k0CP2ZTRtOQkzSV_-8Qlyfayclwrmhap1AQM_LV9rUZbUpfgD_rxz_8JTfXNhS0dvQ0413ob9Z5vClfEeUAtPPMIY905PzQLep6T41KUqNFSLHVu7YIqoorQmhrZoF/s1600/Cretic+page+one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjhBphu9jvwzbzJ9k0CP2ZTRtOQkzSV_-8Qlyfayclwrmhap1AQM_LV9rUZbUpfgD_rxz_8JTfXNhS0dvQ0413ob9Z5vClfEeUAtPPMIY905PzQLep6T41KUqNFSLHVu7YIqoorQmhrZoF/s200/Cretic+page+one.jpg" height="200" width="196" /></a>She needn’t have worried about me going to my father to
check things out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had perfected a
death-stare that so clearly signaled verboten territory that only the blind
would dare to proceed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad said that
my grandpa always said never give anyone ammunition that could be used against
you, and my dad’s definition of ammunition was very broad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one should know where you’re from unless
you tell them, people shouldn’t be able to identify your background based on
your grammar or vocabulary or your handwriting even, he’d caution. Never let
anyone else define you.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This advice was about more than just privacy, though that
was in short supply in our neighborhood where hanging out laundry and pushing
strollers were the preferred networks pre-Facebook, where yentas archived one’s
every move and bested bloodhounds when it came to family business that was none
of theirs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This party line had to do
with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who you were</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere along our tribe’s timeline,
prejudice had imprinted hyper-vigilance and embedded a legacy of practical
paranoia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Over the years, when outsiders not so subtle attempts to
label me would be way off the mark, I’d picture my dad high-fiving me with a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good job </i>as I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chose </i>to set the record straight with “I’m Italian-American from
Bridgeport, an old neighborhood in Chicago.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Despite my religious quagmire and parochial scruples, I did
manage to grow up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to university,
made friends with kids of all faiths and no faith, traveled the world, and
married a man who defined hell as a closed mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We chose to create our family via adoption,
and being a believer in the power of stories to heal and connect, I shared mine
with my daughters confident that I had, at least, the big pieces in place. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Until the day an article in <u>Fra Noi</u> led me to a
Mediterranean trail of tears. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Each month <u>Fra Noi</u>, a Chicago magazine whose readers
are encouraged to embrace their inner Italian, is packed with heart-attack
inducing pasta recipes, the latest on the Euro crisis and articles on Venice's
rising sea-levels. This magazine, an occasional lecture or movie at the Italian
Cultural Center and vacations to the motherland are about the extent of my
being a born-again Italian, but I have always been captivated by stories about
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old country</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Not many sagas were shared as my great-grandparents spoke no
English, my Nonna's English was very limited, and my mother was not one to look
back on her Neapolitan roots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the
most part, she believed that if the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>toe
of the boot was such a great place, my ancestors would never have boarded the
boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you weren’t always cleaning
and cooking, you could investigate our heritage,” I’d sometimes nag though the
look on her face suggested that I needed to be somewhere else immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my father, always working, working,
working, had neither the time nor energy to reflect on his Calabrese past.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There were a few stories some of which made sense; others
which were contradictory mixed in with legend and myth and, if that wasn't
enough to distort reality, you could toss in the family's penchant for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hush-hush</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"It's impossible to unravel family
history, everyone has his version, so don’t waste time looking back, watch
where you’re going instead," Mom advised, but once in a blue moon, she'd
share a sliver of our past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"After
my own father died in the Great Flu epidemic," she might say, "life
changed…" and then, as though she needed to make immediate amends for
being such a loose-lipped time-waster, she slammed the window of reverie shut
to avoid the draft of questions and the chill of inquisitiveness from her
middle child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the years, I more or
less came to accept that they either wouldn’t or couldn’t fill in my blanks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
And then, one day while searching for a holiday cookie
recipe, I stumbled on a <u>Fra Noi</u> article and read, "If you're of
Calabrese descent, the next sentence you read could forever change how you view
your roots."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I caught my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
As the persecution of the Spanish Inquisition spread, the
article went on, the Jews of Calabria fled to the mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Families were arrested, burned at the stake,
torn apart…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jews who wanted to avoid
torture and death were forced to convert to Catholicism and renamed
“conversos.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Within seconds, my mother’s suspicions, my little girl
‘nosies,’ my dad’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mind your own business</i>
caveats ignited into a kaleidoscope of jagged slivers, muddled snippets and
sarcastic scraps of information that melted into tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Imprisonment, confiscation…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a heavy heart, unconsecrated ground…</i>denunciation<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">…something went on over there that no one
ever talked about</i>…the fallout of the Inquisition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ideas, issues, incidents I hadn’t thought
about in years collided head-on with conjecture and possibility.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
And then, as I continued to read, I spotted my maiden
name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There it was in black and white on
a glossy magazine page, a clue that even unconsecrated soil could not bury.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">…the first active
Calabrian synagogue in 500 years is in Serrastretta, housed in a building once
owned by Saverio Scalise…</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Scalise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
My grandfather was Antonio Scalise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to Ellis Island’s ship manifest,
his last known residence was Serrastretta.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was born in Sorbo San Basile, a town not twenty kilometers away, high
on a mountain top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There is a chance that the insanity of religious oppression
forever altered my grandfather’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Is there a chance that I own some Judaic roots—that I am the progeny of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">conversos</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to Rabbi Barbara Aiello, herself a
product of this captivating saga, thanks to the intense scrutiny afforded the
families of the Diaspora, there exist detailed records, and she will help me
research my history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the etched oil
lamp, a symbol of magic to the little girl, may well light the way to truths
that no one, including the loving daughter-in-law, ever imagined. With a little
Mazel Tov and a DNA test added to this mix, I may at last have an answer for
the child who trembled graveside wondering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What
kind of Catholic was he anyway?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The prospect of putting some of the puzzle pieces in place,
the responsibility of untangling some of my father’s Calabrian roots, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is both daunting and heartening, but it is
time to set the record straight.</div>
</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-87750579509849890382012-07-23T14:58:00.000-05:002012-07-23T17:49:23.364-05:00LIGHTEN UP<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<img alt="" 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sxB2nZ2qgdmgjczkpGVMV7Wi7xe4DCJNYqsUQBmnrZwtAVSVtCl8TmZuwDAwsvupppFjVX6ILUiWrMSrFz6kH6ya/boBbOHz5w7cKJ//JyHZuoq55obZxrqpiyumFX4ixkLV4yf7hk3uXTe4o2+wNqS5Rhm6dl30MAR4waPnHhfn5G9e48aNnjysD55ub0nLBg6yzUB+wV2f2PxgQb3vkbzPtEXEpxhYA5BM8mYGNLIEiY+bBLCJv67yfwdALSZ+SaZL8p3kvm7QAHTN8r8FS6Q+fvx8PsAWCCwQMbKMRaRtkRIa5SyRYM6RnDwEQdJzn+UX/jQ3/c0o8gfT2/F/7rA/cfhU/84quC3o+YeGzq7adTiaL5DnF36bvkh9GYSfY7Qxxl0BmmtWqZNQWmkndGUk2mtLYsSSDmTSp9OoiRCCkp+FH/rib/+MvwMv4XdY969R7eH9FGkkyZtgLECYAWsBfBmKJhYwcTxJp4zCdAsUlaJsEm4XQrbRdImMFb+0mXmTZxo5EQjJ5hYwQS74I2g6wk5hzHQyEAjDY0MNDIcBiHGnTXZCGkTc3aBbSFJC0FYcfyfMoehFbIYBEYGWBnKgjdgNWF7I+Ujdi/YWa2vIB04acWDSxuIpbhkkyPOGGvkoUUAFh5Yum6PpW0X+Hx+sU2ZIGUAwMrVG/E9+up9voadJTXeeSvnjFo0e8SsJaML7ONm3V+gP7jUVbfYtn/Gkocmz1k/dc6GuYs3Fpr98xfPmTBp+qT8uXMWjsnLH5M3bWTO5AEDxwwekDty8OTB9+Xm9J4we+SsOUMLDKOXOnPNgVzHpmmrq417aVcjdBGci2GdHG3lwmY2aOLCZvb/v8z/3/lGmb/Of4TMMm2RaatMGFnRKTJYPdDti5r3vv4A80XV0S92Mi3FD72Zt/jVUbNezl301Kh5T03Cjs/ywCnWj6si6J12dEJB755Gp5OoPYVa4yiVRQkNtWVRZxZlNJTRtIyqZVQ1rqin0+ppVWvT4m91vkD+prqkdrtuR4MriDsp0k7TNhrYaNYCODPgzJAzs5yJh2aBtoqkTQrbJdwmUtbvIrOF5cyQN3c5zAomrgveyPIGyBu4f67q9QJv4DgD90+ZTcxFZQ7bQmF7MGwPBo2NYSNOO0DYSRzQHdi9ZGe4KPzEjieeP/hcZINca68t15c3moO0E9A2QJlpxgovhP2KFf+cpU00UUgKLhm6hSprcJ+z9hHHAe/cFfNGL50/doFh4kL7xHnF+QsemGPYNHW+p9/Ihd172UfnFU+fO2/YqLz+g5YUzHZabTq9cXrBvCkz502cPHtc7oy8sTMnjpyR02/CkB6jBt07fPCdw4d3G5Vz25hJd+Qt7beodFzRft3usCsI/YAvEoCHx20gbIWElaUv1rDfLDOg/hkC+Bb+42UGNv7y+T5khtAGoQ0CGwtsAmOTGWuEsUYYmyS6JEJXx1mqmt2VTxSVv7Cm+i+balo37n9rnv3FvEUvz8Aen7DwmZnWZ5YWgan6T8sZ7Td/Vt78OPHnd+J/eyf55pvtf/jDiT/8sfP9T9UzSRTPoHgSpZNaJpnsaI23nlHTWaSgbFtW60DoC/Q78cXtzp3V3rqQB8fdBOkkaCcF7BRrA5wFcmYALSxj4RmrQFlFwiYR31lmjreyvIXlLaxg5kQzL5p50SwIGM/reUEvCDpR0olSoSwVyoJOhBgHjF1RKIY2MZSZpswUaSEJCxG24WFbOGQLBR3BoKOx0dHYYGsMu0mmFIaLif328kp/1RPlT332y8+0N7UTz598EX+J3yhVOWsrzFUhF055AemgKQegHJC2s4ydBTYO2PiLykyZGUpPBhc3Mg5OXNW8z1Zryy2eN1RXMGyhZYbNMdtcusjhnbZ401L7lqUW89DcZTPmL1+wtHjBkjKjea2vaE3pcr83YDLbFi3FFi01LVliLVxixxY5sLlWfYFp2rg5wwaMyx0+ZcLQaWP7TB5957jcbhPyu00L5Aa2L9pWY6+jAgztB7iLDtkZwg7+N2W+uMnQTF2U72opbSYZE0mbz16fzxkzyXwp/xcyQxP7FS6QGdqFy+f7kdkBoANAOwftIrBHgD0CbFHWFRXcEm3BWVud4CqXPbti/keP+R/6+7pdv9d7n55teH6JE46bJU5Z9CTmZWfr33xk31+37/vLzgO/27r92c1bXqs4+HpN1ZFdu5+TYp1fnEYa0pJxLRNHKJ1OtylKp6qlk4nO0/84lTidQkl06u2WZ5jnDvqqanz1QX845A2RXoJxUdBBsTaGtUBogYwFMlaesgmETSRsImXlL11mYOU4G8fbWN7GCVZesAiiWZTMkoCJ/DmN5UJZXhqRl0QFnQxMkLIwpJkmLBRuIcNWImztcjjc6Ag1OoONzsYGV0O9s77WUVflqi131ux3Vux27d/t289shX9/8m10CqEzCLUh7RPto6c/Obz7WLW/vtxZU+9pxH0E4aMJF005AXDy0M6zNpEx87SJ6woFkxaGsDC4laLMFDQxpA6nrQAUixX2ulWz7ndNKbbP8G10blpuLLPNwqYNGmPOn7O60GrLn7nF5d/sLXqgqKRq+86qPXtXlJYZDEarzen2lTjcAZvNZza4C+eZFk5duniaLn/87CHD8nInzJqQOydnyLSRvSaOuXfyhHumTe8xxzLctnn+Q5XO2qAn3OgMBZ046aRp20UCrt8sc9cv4CXxL2Q+/x8Evsx3Mpkxk5SFpM0kZSEpM0maCepLr1yYU4yZBsaLy8yauS/zQ5aZhnYW2jlgl4E9Am1RYJM4lyh42TBWQVj38IF9tPPhsHnl77fse3HD1hdWbfj9us3NFs8RZ+CXpWvohXp2iYGYs6DZ7Hi+bPmvikufLyv7Zemyeoer/sFH3n39z9l0Kptoz6bbNJRQ1PaM1p5In0mk2lVV1TRNiWvJlnTrBx3inkhlUU21vy5cHKp31hPuEPTSwE4CKw2sAFggsLCMlaetEmUT6Us2uUtm1saxNpazcZyN5y0CbxFEsygYRF4v8IUCr5MknSzro1F9k4jJYYwIWnHSQZEuinCRIRcedIQanI31jvoaR22FvfKA5eABy4EKe3m1p6YiULO/qHJP0cGdxfv3rT4oVMjvv/Qh6kBaK0IdCHUg9AVqebXtN9SL5aW1O827a311Vc4aooii/RC3UoyVBRaBNnHALDBmnrawlBUQNoawUaSV4q3ckcAh0SvVmxqDXoJcw+71l99veWhb6Y7V1lXTh02597pu/W67e3yfIRMHDBvY7a4h9/TMGz5y1MDBPe++t2ePnn37DbivV7877uxxd48+PXv0u6d773tvu6/nrb0H3D2kf++R9/Yb0XvIuAFD8wYNzhs+MH/80FkFo5eM6paXd+d094TA1sJfVNir61z1QXcIdxG0/eJPTy4WmoW0haEt9CXCWOiLzsAXNZn9hg9fdMZmzCRpJkgzQVlI2koxNhrYGcZG0zaaspBfg6LMNPN/JfP3AQecFHAS0MFAOwvtIrRFoD1GmXhg5wQfW6vfTzgPMsX7a6ybhDW7Pog9ob76Onr99cxLL6JXXkGvvnpSijx//6ajPr+g1xPTZj6mN75g94j5Mx5fbHh+8yPigcrXfv2b1KkTKBvXtA5Va8uijjRqS6P2tJZQ1HQ2m1UVDSkIZZDyefZY1ZMVJTV1pfUVjoo6Rw0I0KyHgnaCtTOsnWVtPLALwC4CuwTt4neopo3vCg10/SJAMwfNHGviAcYCPctivGiWo7amJvuhqLWJs/D15oYGdyMZIIkiqtEbqnHVVTlrKl3VlZ6aan9tdaCmpqSOWEse2nHomcZn/xD541vPvvPhy5+8++IHrz/z5z//+i8n3jupxZHagVAGoRRCbQi1otQHmVdir0V2xXZad21ZsJlaTrPLhGpdPeeSWJtEG3jBGuVsMrQLwMHRTpZyAcrOkHpCdAicA4YtITrAMCvgo6adK+etWaVbay9w5A+YNOKeIffddM9NP7qu+3W3DurZ9/brb/rZj66+5cabbrjhpuuuv/Ha62++6qqrf/Sjn95y2503XH/bj6762c9/dN0tP7v1lmu6DRw4Om/WwtH5s8dPWzBlRuGECQtGDZ2WM2jqsHvyxtydP3vgElee78HFW2vc1eGiEO7BaSd7yQ3OQzt7dsV3CbB2wNsuF87KXER7K02aCcKEkxYS2BnOzXFuDtgZykLRNvprMIwVQPNXvb0oP0yZWeAkgRM/NzkL0CYDa0T2HubccoOpkS8DYV9Vpf0Xz+wVPnn69cQ7n6DWFpTqQJ2tqL0FnfkCvfNm65PHY8WB+jmz6/OnHlmM/d5e9Iqt6J1l9/92y45j9fjJDz5CSlpJnslmWhHqTGZPJ9SWFGpLoc60lsiqGVXJagpCSYRaUPvbCXFPdJv9UXItUeuurDQeFIoBcODQQbMOyNo5aOehXYT/jszsWawssHDAwgELC208tPHAxkEbz9o4aGUZEwhbiHAAryuqr/RW7Xcc2GvfV+mvDK4KCQ9LT1Y++QLx2z81/fn9Zz9ofa0VfYxQJ0KdCMXR2UdxSYTSSFO0bEZBGkIa0tJa+pSitWkojlL/yLz1zN+ZB+mD/gMVrvJ6Zz3hYo6sOH6o6DHeFBHMUd4aYe0ScPCUCxBumnJRtIWWXALrAIQ1LBTzzRtiRBm+07Jjk+F+62Tr4FuG3PXTu+694d7u197R/YbufXv2vf2WW6/5+bU33XTrT356zY9/8rOfX3/T1T+79sc/u+5n19x41VVXXXXVj3vc3WvC2Ikzp8yZMmPesPFTBuZMGjImf/jY6UNHTh0+fGre2Hnjh87O6TVl3L1TZvWb750c2Ib9or6oliohme8ks+OHIjNlIQkLSVop2k7Tdoa0UmFTOIiFaDv9Nf5dmVmH+MOAgy4CunHWRbFOyNkFzh7hbBHR3cQ4BMLJiCv53YZtDSX7T/7mfXQapVpT7elkUk1ltZSmdKodJ1HrCeUf7z+7ezt0OQST5bDJ9Yy1+O1VWz/euOeFB/f96bFfZjqSCKFUvC2dOoNQPJ45Gc+ezqB2BXUoKKFqaS2rIgWhNEJxhDrRO8+/V78puC+wL1hWF/LX464G4CZYN8M6WdbBsw6BtUusXWYd0neopl2EVuEsNg7YWWBnGQdLOyDpYHAnFbLhjdZgg62x0R6sddftc++vXFZFPkA3723+ZehXf2p6/b3n3m3502ntIw2dQOgMQu0ItSPUhlAHQp0ItSOtVdUSGsoipKJkMt7adlrJZhDSVCWbaktlO7Jds3T2c+WTlz5+iXuxcUXjfvMBwkXxXpnSQ9YgyZZm0Rbj7DJ0CrSbJb0U7aF4NxfxyawdkKYg52WiK3imBN++9OFlU4usuaYxd4zJuTdn5tiC3CF599zW6547e952y+233nxHt253//jH11x11dU/v+7Ga264+X9+es1Pr73+Z9dcd+fdPWcUzF2wWDd73qKJUwr6DM7p0X/Evf1G9ug3qkfvEX0HjBszetaksfPHDpw2/M6xo7vlzuk/t2RG8X7PXrgaAg93yQ0usE6WdTKXCOcAgh1eJl0+fwXWxhAmImTGSQfNuCD0cNDDsV6e9fKUg/kKtAMAG2QtHGfhv5ULZOac0g8DnnWTrCfEuQnOBXiHyDtk3hmlzTxhYYUSuc5ZX+WueIX+XfYzBXWgdFL9Ip35PBHvUJKKEs+0ntDOfKa1n2x59aUPDzd9LEXfrgm9uvXg6QaplTj8AXe84/0TKJFFKlKVVFbpzGqdGa01o7VlUYeKOhFKIi2DslmUQSiDUBpl2xBqR384/Metjq11y2r49aDGUg58JPRQnBtwTo5z8pxD5hwRzil/h2o6ZM4mszYJ2kTWzp9dx7pBvTVY56gPBcJ4CREqCdUXN9QW1Tauajxa89jv5N+9+8J7LW+2ZD5V0JmzxqIWhNo1FD93JCaFUBKhBNLimhrPahkVIYSQomiJ9mRLW/xkFiU1lFGVjJpSUEpDbSo6o6IkSr6TfLLyiRpvDapcJeoAACAASURBVO4hGTtHFAIBi0ath2Vrs2CPsC6B8UDSR1FeSvSJUX9UdPG0BWesIcreUIvt3zBphWe4ddkUv2+ae5Nj474H9pc6VuYOn3xXt/tuualbr/v6Dx44/JZbul199c9vuPHWG265/efX39SzT//R4/PmF+oMVvvEmQWDx4zNGT85Z+zUocPzho6YOHTUpAFDxw8YPG7kqGm5owvGDJk2qnfe6HvGj79n4pLhix40PsCuA9DLXXKDi5yL5VzMpQF4JxQd7GXS5fNXp2s7AA4APCz0CdDDUQ4Gt1GknaZdgHZ+HQjtLGfleavwrfwgZXbxrIdgvUHOTXAuhncKvEMWnFFgFaFLItygxl73Engx+1lW+UTRWlWEULuGWhS1U9OySFOVlJZoQ8lWpHSi9jPoTJv2t3dbn/y99of30JsntffOoDjKtKWySQUhTckmk+nWrNahobjWtTbV0khVkKKiNNJSmtKRzcQ1lEGn32yJHIzs9e6qdB/AAw20D4duknMD3snxDoF3yPx3k1nm7RHeGuGtEdYmQYfAOFnSDXEPySwDxDLioPvAdsv2/b594nbh1dgrH770QeKTJGrTUBohFaGuLUDHOYeTmpbIZpOKksoomUwmldbSWaRoSEVqNpPJdCYzbRmtXUHtnZlTadShohRCaU3JaGkVJbJqS1ptz2pntPefeFe4XyD8lOCPNHmONtmPRC2HItZDkj3KuQTGA0g/SfpI6GFFryT7RNHL8k6SMtdXL9pVtXQnKG4AqxsbVlUTD4eqH6zGCix33tTz5hu6d7+jx6iRuVOnFAwaOPz22+/uflePu3v2HjZq7Ix5C5ZazQaXY/rihfeNGjZowrg5i/VzZ+mm5y+YOWPJ3HnG6QVLx+XNyhk7Y/iwyaOG5E8cMTN/6MxxPSbk95xcOisQWt4AvOx3kRlyLvrSYHjX/6LMrIcTimWxJAL9Am6nGs1h3E7Rbki5wNeAwPFvycy7Iz8EOA/H+UjoD/FekvcA0SWKzojgjPKuGOeLET728EOPtb3aiTpRy19bWt9vPf1F4oszSlxBaRWdnYfUtBJvSbaeUOJt2c64crI19f7J1AdnlJPZrp1kplVREgpCSFXTGaVT1RIaSiKURCiFspkuk1EKaUkt06EghLSElvpcOfH6CeKB0A7jI9wqivGHWC8leIDo5kWXKDol0dV1//I3EBFcXyYqOmKipUmyNgu2GOuQgIunvBAPUPutB8q95fxW7png068ce/kfr3+MWhBKI7Ujm41nlbiixBU1kUVphLJIVbKJRDwe74x3tidTnelMMpWJp9NxLZNBioZUVc2mUqnWjvSppNaSQa0K6siidgV1qCiuqWmkqQghLa6oZ1KoE2XeSj++5/FaewN0CRHnoSbb0SbLsaj1aMTexHlExgfJIooMUJSL4Vys5ONjAT7mgZIjDC01vKuuaQXFLm9oKC2vW1O1ybFp4oD87jf06HFn3769B0+ZPLNwiTF/0vQhg0YMHTZqxOixC5bqFmHGufrCgsLFI6ZNvH1I37FzZpjdvoUFhTMnzJ0zbTGmd2OYZ9Ycw7i8WcOGTRo+ZOLEUTNn5syZ1C9//D3jTLm6XZbtjI+9oFW/1uZdCK6I4JIFNyd4mHPQ5+EvAiN4gORiJRfXhez8Jvhz+UWQHJxoZ7+C4GApG0W7AB8QOb/IuFng4aLLmg+vPsZ4OMbNngMyHkh7WOjieLsg2MVv5QKZBbf8Q4D38LyP4vy44KUEDyu7JNkZld1NlJkn7dzv9/3xk+YT7x76+NPnP+/4W+crj7/2RPSFt/76RTqFlDTq7MhkFQ2hbCLR1tb6RSrZnmhvTyfSSlpt+SJ++rMONaEpXXtFFWkaUtWshhQNpVAXWhplFZRRURqhNEIK0jKosz2ZjWsojtRPlb8d+yu/BdR5K+jiEPCTvAeKbkF0SaJTllxR0RUVunBHBHdEcEcFT0T0dP0pC25Z8ERET0T0RAS3LDgioi0i2CO8U4IunnIzja5gub0CbmJ/R/7m85c+Ry3o/L5d69Qy7RmlM6MklEw8k44n08lURkmnM6nOeHt755mORGtGTapIUVAqpcYzmWQ2ncpmkqqWQiipog4FtafQmRQ6k1RbUmqLiuKamkrHOzpaWuMn25Kftyc/7kSfoF/W/PIgVs66ONESiVoONVuPxWxHIs4m3iMBP0cVAToAoI9lXSzvgqITiDZasoab3GTUhwN3bdCxv863v2F19Vr92vG984b3GD122MRRw8fPmrHQYnTPnb04L2/6lOlzpsycN33uotyp00dPmzrDUDhJt+j2EYN65I6cU6hfPEuXP3ra9Alz7JaikqK1FmtgzlxDbu6MIQPHjRw4Pn/k9PwhU8f1zJ07tGDNnJWMHwqeCH+2Yc83e4R3y+euz48rifewvJc+ByNciHgOwUuLXkbysLKLk1287BJklyC7BcktSG5BdvOym5fOIbp5ySNIHl7y8JKbE92c6Oakc4guVnDCr8C7IOVgKDekvWzQTlToqg8uragx1oedJFcscMUC44WkGzBejvFwjIdjXYJgF0W79K1cILPkkS8fwS1eOqJH+noJolfgfZTgpQQvI7m5iFOUnZGIKwYtArTxz2/97Qt7fh/bfOgV6tVPn/38Oep5qTryyi9fT7UklU61syWhpLOqpiVS8ayWVVE2nkrEk8lUKhWPp+PxtJpGmXYFZbVEMtkejyfUdEpLJ7OdihpHWhIpcZRJoEwKKWmUSapKOqsqnR3JdCKbOpPSTqvpT1LPBp/Z69rLrGZgGQt9POsRJW+T7Dkk2GIx55Fm9/GY81jUfSTqPiy7mlm7yFg40RuR/DLvFRgng1txykEJxYJUytH+YMhbW+ssr3YdxFc0HN4Z+XXo2ZbXz6DTCLUjlEAoibSEipJng1hnY9GapmQy6XQqnU5l1SxCmoayGsqqSMkiRUHpZDaezsSVTDyjxBU1mUXJLEoqKJHROlNaR0aNK9mkls1oSjYdT3Scajvz8cm2T1qSn3cm3uk8fuBYhfmAGGCjTjlmiRyyNjfbmqOOmOSSOY8EfALwC6xX5Nw86+RYG89bOMHCRuxsc5EoF7OwmJQ3CbXLqnSjdQOuHzj8npFD+48ZmzutUO90+VbO19nGTZs/Ztr8EdPmDs6f3Tdv+n3jp+ZjjjGLsX7T5tzQf8TQCdNnzlw0bPCYyZMK5i/AypZtWLNmi8+7Yu5c/chheYN6jcgdkjdj7Mxpo6ZNHz7NkmcOF+N8qcz4hJCNJqyAdUmCOyK6IxFfs+SNiR5Z8IiCR+C8HO/joB/SAYYJMEyAAX4IfZD1Qc4LeTfknIB3AN4OBAeUnWzUzcfcUswTibmjUXc04pZFt8S7ROjiGRdk3JDxsLSPpX0s7mVCbjroIgg3wfhINgC4YgADgPFRtJdkvCTjoxgfxXgpxkcBPwV8FO1jGtxUo58LlfD7bLXLJq8r7Gdc2kfnGu3eMv+BRxZuDQdwYXUU97CkS2DcEcYmCo6I4JC/lQtklr3i5SO6hUtH8lykBMkrCB5G8NKiG8ouLuoUow456ohEHVHJLkEbW7WkptEe+vX+3zy18+no1sjx+sN/+dUrqROdWns23ZZSs5qqoXgqlUxnUtlMOquk0qlMKq1ls0jTUCqD2hMopXQk42eS8Q6UadUSn5z5tLX9Cy3dhhKtKN2Osp1I68yqrUmlJZWNI4QyaaX9VAfKIK1De+vpd6iH2KrieqKMZYpFyiMyzojgOhTzHZetR2TT4SbLsSbHsSbn0ajrsOiMsU6RtgPWB4VSgSuGpCcUdjeQxaGGovL9vocb1u2GW2uPlsOXxWdOvfYRausKa2lnHyx1OawiTUWahrTzCZ1N5/5Wv4SmIVVFShalFZTOoLSCMgrKZJGiaoqiZBBCSEXZlHp2+51G8ZOdiZMJlEWn3zjVtFOuth8Q/HTUzcYs/GGrfMgWjdljsjMquGKsO8p6ZMYpsC6Bc4q8IyLaY5KtSbRFOKdM2gFdzMqbI1t0D+bcOrbPz3vn9Bnbr9eI8fnzvMs2eldtmWcLjF9sGTZHN2h2YZ8ZS/rPxu6dvGi8saTfdGzMYt9tw2bcNWRizuQZfQaPGDd5xvjJM12+0s1btm/evH3dmi1mzDVl/IzcYRNyh47PGThmzIAxBSNmP2TY2uDHmTKe8ALKzfK+COcUBYfU7D8c8zbJHknw8JwHsj6GLQJ0EcCLIVEEiSJIBVg6wEIfx3o53iuKblF2ShGHFHNITQ6pySHFnHLEERGdUdEh806Rc4qsWwReMeyBjR4mXATxMg5fwYVWsA3LYcMyJryMpFZSYDUAqxl6BU0uJ8nlJLWCpFZQ5HIiXIqHioMNgcZ6X121t762DIbWHyI2Ne8tqrPk+YbdlNPv5wPGdsuZ0WvKokELt5l3wPUSXiQwgWY+cBw4mjh7lHdEvpULZBY9/A8DVvRA0UdLbi7iEqJOKeaMNDmjMbss2oWIN0LZqEZ7KLahqdEX3GbY9kTjY1+88bHalkEplE2oSEUqQoms2ppMJ9WshpCGUCajpJKpbFpBqQxKpNWUkkinTqU6TyvJk0rne6c+/uLkP9Ktp7TONpROIC2BUDyF2trVlg6lXUEZVVMz6UxXcFs5o/7psTfq1+GNyyi8iCX9YsjGhs285D/Gm2OCPhKzHY05jgj2GO+QJG80WtYkLYuQXqLR1UCXUfJGkVsHDjj27HY9wm6v+w175NOX3ur8qCV7KoE6NZRBKK6hTg0lEcoglEVaFqkKyioXyvwvk4rULFIyKJ35kswqyqpaNptRkYaQgtSU1rWPyHQonV90Ki0ZFEctfzp9aFekznVQKqKbPLDJxh2yS832aMzRJLmigjvKemOsN8q6Rd4lCi5ZdMYkR5PkaBacTdAVYbwCtypSWxw0j7ENvHbw4NsGj+ozZvjwSRNm6XxrH9YXr5+Muef4Vk6yF88s2WDess/44IG5y7fqNuwZZ1qZs7Tk5iEzr7t3WE5+wei8KaMnTMmfOa8Qs69cdf+uXQd37TiwdtUmi94xdcKMob2H979nwPhhE5ZMLjSOsTxS+Ci7WmjaeDiy6pBUFGPtPG8Xm7yHoq6Y7IyIToF3Qc4NWB9gApAs4qkATwV4OsADPw99IucTJV8k4o82B5oPBw4d9jU1uSKyjZccouSJci6RsXOUDRAOQHlYMsBTZSKxgg+tYIPLQf0Kpm4lqFlF160ka5c1VpVUH/CV73bu3WXftcuxZ49z337vgYO+inJ/RXlRZWVxVVVJTU1pbfWyxto1sG5jtHoD/7B3/9Lx1v43Drnz6rt7XXPfoBv6T7hrnHWsfad1P1gZ41c8JpY9IQWOcQ6Zd347XwmAcZeP5BMvHcHDX6wQKPlYyQ9kLy97xKhbjrmjMVe0yR2JeCLNpc1iiUQXMeJ6ucpdvcu26+Wml1OfJ7SkhhSkZpCqoSxCCQ0luo53JdPtqUwilU2llUxK1ZJZlEapeDoeT57obDuRip9IdLz72YenTp1Q2lpRIo6UNNIyKkolUWcn6oxr8SRKZNRMVs1mU1k1rqIMynyhvNb0V3ITd8BZEy5h4bII7uFxB8c55Cb3oWbf4Sb/IckbhS6O8ULSSzW4Gtg1rPSAXFdSv830i4OBg0cPHHnz2Gun//hR8qNW1Im6TpuhOOqKTH3Z5GwWZTIok9a+B5lRVs1qSENaBqlJFWWQltGSLcmWD0+3vX8m9UH841+9H9kqNLgqIsUg6oYxO3/YGWl2xmKumOSJ8b4Y9MegPyJ4ZNkty65oxBWLuJokV7PgjnE+mSuLkMu5jYseyr1jYu9r+4/rP3F4/9yxE+dNXGCxrXl4lmvZZHPAt+2g4YEdrt11G8nmdXgssJ8sLQf6jQcK1+2b4dp03+gZOZNnTpm1YGjOhIJ5SwrmLDZbPZs3b9u/t2r/nqpfbNlR4lk+Z8r8nEFjcgaNmTZixtyBC9bP2xheTkrrY1yZBNwc5xRlV1Oz+0jM0RyxxSSrJNpE0cHzLp71ibBIhAGRDYhsQOT9IueXOb/MegTeLYoeSfbIklsWnAJrZzm3IJZIfJEIi3gmwFIBQBQDvBRQq4XQKlhR1LDdtn+jbtvy+Q8Uz15bVLC6dM5K/4wie54TG2PSjTQsHaFfOlw3f9CiWX3mzBu4cOkIvXmczT3FV1RQUjZvla9grbtgvXv2WmyKd0K/aXf/tOctV93a/epu9/z4ruE3D83rPrFk6gpilUCviBFFUaH4COeKnA8H/Au+f5lFn3jpCF7hIoV4oOhnJT+UvbzsFaMeOeqJRN2RiCfCOwXRL7JFHO4nmNWgrqSee5j/5OVP1XZNSyE1gzJZlNZQUkOtCoojdCqjnehMt6a1riB3RkGdp1OZU6lUazqRTHdqapuqfXT69K9ffPHzTz9HmSzKqEjJako6rSbjKB1H6SRKtKmtHZm2jJZJZzKJ1qTSlkVp1Pp2R9PBY/t8ldUlQWI1Ryzn6VKO9XG8k+WcQPBzkWWytFygiskGX0N4efiA5+B2x47qNXXHG55469m3Wt9o1T5Xzj4ZjiPUlkFtCkpoKKWhFNIySMsiTUWKitIqSma0ZFpVvw+ZtSxCKlLTWjahogxS01rnyc73X3vvT0+88tYTf34ZvMCtIxodlZFiKLtg1M4fckWa3DHZExN8MRiIMkVRGJBlb6TJHWl2R2PuWNTdJHtjgi8iLm/mVkd328oNOba+1w4ZcMeImRPmjxiWN22hbbZ9mWX9dv2aR/w7auqffrniyZeqf/X6Q5FnNjDHSmv4ZdWiZxdRdlBYVxvNW+IePm7K1IJ5Q0eNW7TUNGdB4ZKlJq+3rLK8XmBjHC3XV4Y2r3/YbnAVTJo9cUj+tH4zfVOKdjsP4MtpMgBIF+DccsxzpNl1tNlxOGZrjlhiEUs0ao3K9ojojQh+WfBLXfB+iffLvF8Gbp5xcqQDkHaatkPo5jmfxPhZIkBSpQCsEti1IrOGC69iGlYQu93lDxofXTl/o31yYP5wbHKvObl3TRlz56RJfadN6DV5bI+83B55uT0njrl3/LBuo0d0HzO+1+QJvSZP7Ds1v//0aYMKZgyZXTBiwajuU/rfOH7oHXnD7h7f57bBt/20+43/c/NtP7mt+0/uGHDzgL4/779g8NJ9vpq6ErrOR7PFMc4j85fAhdFsr3D5SH7p0uny+av4OCnASQFW9gkRnxTzRmLeSNQTjfmbRK/E+XmmCNT7GhuXBYOrw7+Fv099klE6UTqBUmmUUFGnik6n0acdyufJbDtCHRp64+OT0pEnmx7/1ceftmTTqnJK+cc7J/7yl7fffP/jT9s6PjrV8ruXXz3xjy9QGqEMQgrKpjMJJdGBsh1IiaP4mezpM5nTaZTMIiWbzmY7VJRESmv27effb64+Vrc+tC9QebCojlhNC6tYvogBnjAdCMFlFLOSCpY1VAYqalbVgu3s0/Qv33z+ndZ3OrVWhBIoG8+iNEKdmtaWUVvTqF1BGYQ0pGZQNo2yWaRoKINQUkMJFSWzqnqpLv8rmZGKNAVlE6qSyKIMyibVthPtrz7zSlM593hF5NgumS6rDzmroyWs5IYRh9DsiUY8TZI/yvujsChCF0fYokjMFz3iiR72xJq9sZg3JvujfJEsrWluKCV9+csm3jezz83DhvYZN2PKorF5swqMgUWlm83371lXJzQ+9/pTnyV/H8++ksw+d7rtyCct5Ksf7z3+yrrw0eIDwrKDQs5ca98hY8eOzx81ZuISnUVntGNGh9nk2vnofiIEyUYQrqMaqsIVe2u2bdlR5liR22PCvCELVi1YV1PSwK6RudII65Zk16HDnscPOx9rth9tsh5ush5uthxpth+OeWKyL9KF5I+IfkkIRPiAxAYkxi9QHpbwMIQPMsUCuywCVvHUGoZcwwRXk9Wl9Tudezcu3bJs3hrTeMfCEbpZQxZO7jsz556JQ+8YM/C2kf1uHdr71kH33dq/7x2DR/QeO35I/vgh+aP7jR/ea8yI3mOH9xrTxbD7cob1HD3svrG9bxl55zUD77puQM/bBvfo1v+267tf95Mbb/jxDTdffdPd19zV/X/uGntn3vJ5a/d4qxqXM+zyKOsVBa/8rVwYzS6SLx/xu/ANhYhyES8X8ZGAGAnIUX806o9GvNHm0iNNKw5Ly2V+lRhaRjSuDjMPsR/97iOUQKk46oyjZAYlEWrX0KcJ9e1Tyb9+3nZKQx+1Z8KR4wbPSs+Kzc/+9s+pJPror58elZ+sKA9RbNNrf/+wNZFpbUuc+PCLzk9btU4VZZCmaMms0oa0VpRtQx2dqK1Ta0+ixNlzGFmEFIQUlG1TP37ts2fZ5yLlzXCHGLwfB+uJ6HograboZfWNpdWhVXXcI0xTeew5/vn3Xv5Qa0FIQWpSTXVkO9oyyc40SiOU1FBa0zIayiA1pSaT6UQynUxnU1ktde40VxKhVFcI7HuSORNXMnEFKSibzJ759Mxvm59rWHeA2VAr3I/TJfWMP3houSR5WdktxPyxiD8mBWJccQyWRukymSuRD/ubjnljR31Nh/xNsUBUKpG55SJYI2w2bJvcc/aIu/KG9prQv8/Y0bkzps4zzLCUFK591PpwRc1Trzz+cWfk7VOvatrfEXoLoTcQel1BT51Ih377zkbisdID7MgC4x339B84YERe3vSp0+YuWKAv1FkXL8J27yqnKaGqvGHbw7s2b9z6wIaH1yzf4DL6Jg2ektdr0tIx2CO2HXC9KK9pBl5RcMWOBJ486nniiOP4Edvxo7bjx+yPH3U8dsjTHPPLUb8c8ctyQBYDolAkcyUiKBZAmcCsEJmVIrmSDy2DdSVU7bJQxbLanf599xsfDMwq0481zug/e1yPSTn3TBh177hRPcaN7Dl2RI+xQ3uMHtpj1IB7h9/Vrc/tN/fofluvvvcNHTl0fM6IicMH5w7oM6LXvYP79Bzav/fwQf1GDR04dsSQ3FFDJw7oOfbuWwZ1v6n3vXcOvK/nwO533HP9dTde+7Nrr/3xdTdefUO3n3Tve8OAgoHzHjBtDW0AYFXXpkD+Vi6MZpdEL5/vJnNx5OLlFIlykRgJyF0yR/zRiD8WLWniikSmlIVrufCqcOP6ELdT+PyNEwihRAK1daK4ipIIdSD0SVJ743Ti6T+/Sx59dns9eKSaqmSa8ehTuPAkyx4PV8GH1j+6csWDYTr64ecdiobSceXd19/9x+vvZU8muw5jKCpqR1oLypxWzyRRZxLF29XWuNKZRQpCmqqoSiKLUihxIt3+SWfHF52fvXHiMfx4eeme2uK9zLo6Ym1Nw5oKaRfzl+OvdnzYnmnJqG2a0onSKS2T1dIaSihqKq2kE+lsMqNmVE1FSENZRU2m0p2JVEcq1ZlVEkg99/i7K/D8fcisXSCzksie/uT0c9LTFcWPhsoO8mtD3HJcLGOOrWmW/bzoEaP+mBSICUVRtiQKS2V6mciViocDsce8TUd9Tc1FsUiJLCzj4RqhcSXhnlLc57phQ3qMzxkx/a57B/camDPP5J7nXevZ0VBaTh9+5+Rv2tH+p/7w9Jnkqwj9EaG/IPQ2Qi8mEPHiO86doQnW1bf2z721W8/7evTPz581cODIsWMmTZ82d0r+rJUrNmzftnf9ui0Ou3/JQmzhAv2cgkUz8+di86wTB0+Z0Guyb2ZxdUk9XCMzRSIfaDpS+uQx/5PHPE8cdT1+zPn4Y64njrmOH/I2R/1iJCDKRaJUJArFPFcqMGVsKEARKyCzQWY2yaF17MGShu3OAysXbzJOciwep585ZG5e7/yc+ybk3Dcup/eEUb3HjeyTO7rfuFH9cof3zRnca0Tfewf17jGwX/9hd/Xoc0u3u7vd2bNnn4G9+w+5t1f/u3v27dlnYBc9eg/oomfvQXffOeCm6+++9ue3d7u9R69eA+7ucd9Nt916w003Xn/djddefd1dN9zV/ad3979+cPGC5fXrQ8QKmi367jKLxfJFKIlIpdFLRyiWv45YEpHLYhehNPb1EuSSaKw0EiuNxEpisZJYU3FzU3FzrOSQXNrElQpwlUCtZRrXhqtW17zy+B+VVqXzTCaVUVsTapuixRH6LJk9oaJ/KCrz+PP/j7v3DovqWhv2kTa9wQxTYCjTmYEZelWKgmIFRQEVadJ7UYpiAzUmMb1oorFLZ4Y2VEv6yUlOctI1iSaxF+rAlN3374/RnBjNm+R9z3d+7/ft677WtWfPuJx/7nnWetazFillDbteO9X3wefXDMAP45bPf7jx3odf//D11deeP/7UU6+9+8GXZhDHUByZQ4Fxy70vfgLvGnEzjoM4CqIGEDRi0AxmMOKzJnzOjBkBzALiAIgCIAhYzAAKYRiE4QiOgzgwCU9endS+2Hqi8bV33xq8MvrFxOe3Zq/NIFPwgxUmBEcQHERxy8NaMxBDYQhCYAiBYQSBERSBUQTCYBBDQAyxYCiAowCOAThqwbH/RmSGcQjCQesXBlALCAMgBKAwikIYZIItswBkhC0GYPr29Dtt557PaTpTebir9vTJgsOnct/Sb+nvLdV25nV1Feg6C3UdhbrW4u6Wks4zpe0tBa3tG8+cKxrsy+s+nnqkvfDswI7+oxVvFSwqDXOPVroGyzyCxOIAsXdQSMzSpMzChemlG3e+8nz/3/uvTOt+mDj6ydWhu5Yvcfwyjl/B8c9h/Ozn16oOd87P3ursv5jAlTNZro4OVKGbJDR4gbfcz8Nd5uWpkEp8FsYuTVm3KSEhKSIsNipqcWz0kqCAiFC/yMT45BURSYu8lxQvrjhR3dJS0XVqc5uuUN+dM9C7eWi48PxY0UV97khnendHdkdnfltnYVtncVt7aXtraeup0rMnKs6c2dr6ZuWxZ3Jfrk/dU5hQvWFB7pqQTYt8VwSJ5weIwjUewT7ugSp3f5WHRuXu5ysJ8JUGqMQahZePVKSUirylYqVYDecB6AAAIABJREFUrPCUKvxCw534rkQ6U6T08ZB7u4mlIqWPQCRxlym8vFUeMgXPU+Ti4eUmkkhkPl5eSme2wJFAFssVPKEb04VNc2I5OhK5bD6fJWDaObs6uEXLF+7I3HV669mzhW1t+Z1/yKNz5t/x8C/J3FGsfZzOYm1Xie5xOoufIHNHUXd3cbeuuFtXpNMV6XRFvbqi3u6S3raSro6q7paa9iOVx16veePs0623v7yDW/DZKcACIgYLModgJhy/j2AzOP757fuVT72Yv/PAlmder2p+6cNvb90wILMoPj2LGyZMb499fP78x7fvGnAcxyEcn0FNP9wHbs2BVybQcRCfReAZ49079wAUNuFmIzY3h84a0TkzajIjJgCxQDAAwhBmXe5FcQzELLMgMGWe+O721NfXwesG3IA+2KdhRMFpCwZjGIbDD4bNmAnHjDhmwVEYhRAEgtEHQBgEYhCEwxCO/AKAIwCOQDjy35YZQC0WxAxAFgtgBswgAmEogAFzIGJCUQuKGtFL5786VvnK6YpDrZXHj+UdPpb9ZndZV0dhe3t+Z2dhT0ehrqOou624s7WkvbWktb2wXZvdca5E31vQeSrjWHtla1tD254NexJUKxQcP6mrn4eHr1gRFBgZF5+YsjI9N2jlpvLnTw99N33m4x8P6j/Sfn//QyN27p5l5IZB/+PEm+9/Ufby6fi8OllcClUaastwp1I4FCLLxdnNXx0q8VK68kVMBpdOdxF5efv6BktlarFY5esb7OsbLBarAvxDF0YtjgqIDXAPXqJcuW3tnlPVbV1bB9qLdWezO05tbG3Z1NmV29NXNNBb0t9Z1N5W0tJe3t5W2Xa2ouVY6fHDRW+8kPfyjtQ9lUlbs+LyE0NSYnwSQiUxAV7z/UThanGojzjIRxSoFAUqRP5yT1+Zh0rupZKLVXKJSi5VyqRKqcRb5CUTS719g4OlGo06LFQok5HZziIfH4nal+vl6an09lR6e6lUnkqlUC5zlUndFTKRXKn08fOSKhzIZCcel8V3YfA4ZBaTymA6MV0YRCcnR46AIJCz5EWrik7Vnm4pamsr6Hqinr/mUZmLux+nvUTbUap7nPYS7RPpLOv58zyxn85irbakR1vS01NspU9b0tdV1tNa1tlZpztT2/ZK6euv1h76WP/p3A0zaABBC2wCIDOMWrAHuwCnEKT97fefPtl6qFu/Jr8qOCH1o+/uTCHYLAj/fHP8g/c+/+rLqzfvzFhA7IHMBhT9aRqfxN453PHZ8R50HMABbPbeJIpAKA5blbCgZgC1QAgIYxCKwyiO4PjD2g0MR2EMAWAcxH7Joj0ARBEAxjDrXBUDcMyCY2YcM+MYgKMwDiEY+BtQHEJwCH4IhEMQDsH/DpnNgNk0Z0ZhDIMwYA4EDCBiRnEQn708/e6rwyfL3jhe9MaZ0hOnCk60FLeezj/bVtDVVdTbVaTtKtJ2Fnd2lrR1lrRpi9p7C3W9Bdquwo7O8o622rYX8l/MiM4K8gj34iiEXLlYrAkIjV24bM2y5PWL16SrYpJK9h9p//BK08nB3KfefEH/fuunVw72v9t4uq/8lZOra3b7r0oXhsazleFkNxXF2dOZ6UqypfKchbGR8WGBC8Se3gRHuouL0M1NwmTyGCyeq7tUqvCTyNUeIrlErhR5yTSKwGj/RTGK+GXK1VtXNJ6oau1rHO7Zqu+s6Gkp7jhT1Npe2tlVo2urbj1VeepY2bHX8l/bv+HAlpV1ubEFaeEbE3yXxyrjwmTz/TxDlEKNXOgrFfrIPf28pUEKSaBc7C8T+cvEGplYLRP7SryUErG3Qu7ro/LzUfl5e6skEplUpgiLiQ6JjlqXsSlhdZK7XCb314h9VDwvT1VQoFSjFqmUYh+VRO0j9vURq5ReMrmPr0btHyD29iYyGEwel8nnUVjOfDcPCpnpYEPikHgCooBvz10dmvhayWutpR2tRX/Mo8PsJ8nZUar7PQ+fyO9521Xe+zi/14+2rFdX2ttb0qsr7dWV9mtL+7vKe9squlu3dJyqO/tc8ctH9xy//f0d8xRomrHgOA7BIIyhEI5PgZZZHL8FWPa9+daWZ56v2ndwycbc3NqmS3eMIx9+c+SMvq373Hvv//PWnUkjgJotCAJhVpnxGWzmg29Pba5/ITlv4pPL2KQJMwGWySnYAkAwjCAIiqIoikIQDAAWEAYwHH2wcouhD6XGUBBCzCBmAVEAwmHEWn2JP6zggnEMwjHgISCOIjiEPgb2Kx55jiH/88hsNlowBMcgbG7KOHVn2jA+a54y4/fxm2M/n9ly4q2SI911ne3VnS1lHWeLOtpKtF2luu5ina64W1fc2VPc1lPc1lPU3pHb0ZLb1lGu7W7QvVH+ZtmKikWqxSpXjchVIZNo/IMio+OWL1mxLm558oLFiaqIZRFJuclFO1fmNcRsLI/LrlpZti2xojEupzw4Kd0rIt5ZEegk1rA91SyeXOCqcOeJHecRFV6q4tzyjLScYP8IJoMr4Hu5uLjbOdLINDZX4CXwkPKEIr67iC1wo7OcvTxkEf4xYbKoQEH4Kt+1dUk7Xik8fGpLq3ZXX+dO7cma04cKD72c98q+jAPbU3ZVr6zNjS1YE7BuoTQ+yDXUh69Ru/v5uGsU7iqZu1zqKZeKFTKZt1TiI/JUi700Yi+1VOwnk2hkEo1cqpZJfeUyX6W3Ru0b6O8XHBgYHBQUrNb4q/z8M/PyK2vr6nbsrNhaFzp/gVAk8QsODY6Y7x8SpvILUGr8/UJCA8LCffwD/QOCfNV+fv6BK9ckixRKN4mMzRfSnbl8viedynawIbPsOQKigGvLCREENq7Z3lnZ3Vbc+Yc8ms0u63mczvLeroq+x+ko62kv1T1OW4n2cdpLdZ3lvY/zxE5+kVlX2m9FW9rfWd7TUa09Vn766JaTL1a91vPGADgDgUYYNME4BkPgLIQaYRyeMM1Mo8AN8+wzx946ouvZ8eJrJTv3bX/2tTfO9L/8Zvf597+9cc84bbQgGA5i2JzJApoAHMTxGRi/Y77Y/NrR5IKXlmfotz1979yH+NQsPmc2jRssBgAFMWtpNAwixjmT2WxGERSCIRAGIAREMQTDUQxHEAREYAhHEQxDcBzFMARFYRiFrDJbfbYGbOtyL4qD2GPg2BP5N8hsBszGORMGYxiIzU7MTdyenLlvMN034TP4/X/cba0/c6T0aNf2nvat2rPlnS2l3e2l2q4SnbZI11PU1VvU3l/UNlDY0lfU1lnY2V6m667tO7mltW5N4xKf5b5uAd4eapW3f0h4VEzc0tglK+ZHLw4Oi/EPiVH4L2SLQmluAe7qWHHIEmfvUIYs0DUwmq+JcJL5szyVPLGPu1Qj9FQJ+BIWlevO8YwKil6ftHFLWV3R5rLkxDSFTMNhuzEZXAKJSaI5E6hO8xwoNvMIdiSqi4c7zdmZTGGyGQIZ3ydCFp0UlromOG2VT3LR4rKd6XuasvY2pDaUrijJXZKXFLJ2kSohUhLrLwzz5Qf4uPqrPf3VYn+Zh7fUQyr2EovEnhKpSKLwkirFIrlC6KHy8lSLxX5Sqb9cHuDtHahUBqrVIX6aYI06yN8vODQ4IiZq0fKlK+Ljl4hEsvUbMpqaD5w52378xNmU1I1qTVB4RPSCqEUxsfHhEVEhoZFR0YsWLkqIiIxOSFgREBCk1gSWVtQkrU3zD4l04Xsynd2oVB6fLaITOJR5DDeiUELxlBI888I3d2/RtZZ0tJa0/9c8ms1+km9dFX3dlf2PY1XxcX5P5if+Ijyxk86yHl15X09ZX0/ZQE/ZgK5soLuir7Oit7O292j5qdcq3zy9r+WL89/gFhwFMQzBANMMaB43me+DqHEWmDGgpikY0P/tvb//8P0H33536c7U9Rnwp7vG63dNd6fg+zMAhOMgjhkRaNY0B4MgDmL4DIR+drVtU1Vz0NKjq7L2xyR+f7wd+efX6I274F0DNP2vJBaO4iiEQQAMARAAAABoAWEAwWAURx4mkCEYR2AcsVZhQggEwSD6SPoKxzDrrgkUfzCxfpRfBEZ/DYT/G2Q2zUwbQDMEm5G5KaNx0gQYQGAGwiawW+/eOl1/9nDJm2fqOk5Xd56u6DpT1tVWqusu7dGV6PqKuwaLOkYKW0cLzg4WtfdVD/Q0jLbU6prTD64OTFPzA2V8pdo7MDwiOiZuycLFS0Mjo5WqAJFI5enpI3D3Z/J8iQypI1NME6iYnhoSX2bDcrVlutox+Eyup4dYKRYphTwvV2dXsi1JI/d7run5Z/c8t3lD3sZ1mUV55ZERC/k8T3d3mafImycUU5x49hSWHZlpT2WQnFgUZxaNyeZx3P3lofGhy5YErYqWx0WKouOVCcv8Vy7xS4hVxYTLwgJEAUGyiABphMojUCpQiflKuaePr8LP18fPy0vk5eXhKXZzlwg8pK7uMp67jOshFYukflJZkLd3qI9PhL/fgqCgmODg6IiwReFhsaEh88NC50cvWLgiYdWG1PT09RkhAeH+6uDGht2dbbpnD7ywpbI+JXlDaFBkbFR84orkFUuT4mITlickrklMWbZk1YbUTQtj4yIjosrLa8rKtkYvXM4ViOl0VwcHJyFXwSELKTY0D6JQyZR52gg2+W/U1fa0lXa2lXb81zwi8xOl1VYN6Kr1j2NV8YnB9onh/YmdP7GTrvLenor+3vL+3nJ9b7m+p1yvrezvquzrrus7Vdt2sPDloaNjxpsWyIDCIIJhKGCaQuEZk+meGRwH0NlpyGBEoZuzU9MwNIfj90FsCsTNKA4gmMGCTMwhBhCYhkyzsAVEQByB8Kk5/MbElVO606n5+/3j3ohbdzBmla68/se27tlPvpj+7ta9qxMT16ZmbhuM943maQswAwJGEAIhCIQQBLbuzbLKbMaAOcxswgELDkI4AuOodWJtNdm6ZeLBjwKM4yj2uzJbBUZ+xb9J5tnpWdOc2TRjNkzMmqbM5hnL1O3pqe9nLuu/b9nZcbT61PEtrSeq2ttr+ztq+jsqervLentLevQl3SOFHecK2s4VtAwXt/XVDnU2DL2UdyRrQVG4e4zGPTjQO2xBRGx8wrIFsQsDw8LlSl+hm5jNEtDIXDJZSGVIKAyRPdnNniqkuEjIHE9bmosdleNAcXZiu3q4S4QublyKM5fI8nR2y1iz6cSrJ1595rXKgursDbmFuWULY5e6cIRCoVSm0PDdJWxXL7HST+Ef4q5QOgn5PC93qUIVEBAWERAd5rMgQBwWIpm/wDs2VBIZKAr2FwdoxGpvD7lI4KWS+auV4SpFsELiJxX5ikQKLy+pp8jLS+YlUniKlO4ilauXUuCh5Am9OSKlRKUO91FH+QXEhITGzY9MiI1esSh2ZWz0suioJTFR8YtiliyNX7FmZfKGdRuz03M2pWaGaCLWrEjZ1dDcWLu7tmJbVfHWFfGJC0JjM9M2Z6TlrF6+bt2q9ZtSs9evTc9cn7UxLX3d2rQ1yWmFhZULF67k82SO9myyI5fHELPs+UwbZ3cHdxHRQ+HoVTw/X1eray9r/0N+K3NXVW93ZX9XVV93ZZ+17a7q09b0d9f0a6v7tdUPb2r6u6r6Oit6Oit6Oit7Oit6Oip1XRW9HZU93VV9XdV93VX9XdV9D+/7HunwVz13VvZa//mvO+mq6OupGOwtH+qrGOypGNRW9XVW9bTXdLdv6z7T2P5ixesfD3yCg7h5AgGNKIrgGGTGsVkQGAfAKRQzG8wGAEMsGHZvbs6EYTMgbERQM4Lcm5wbn56DcMwMwRYQQCwWDIRwoxm/fhf/5OszmwrfXJaiTS8+nJDyYsLanbHL/nHk5MynX1/56OsvPvjmn+998c/3v/jmk29//PrnW1fvGO7PoiCOQDiGPNiWiD9IcaHWXDT4MBf94H3soczIb2RG/pUrwx6CQk/GuiPqz+mM4TCGwygGoSgIwxYIBEDAAprMpplZy6zJODVruDczNzE7c2/6+qWfb3xy7Vvdpc6d2tNb2lq2drVu0fZuG+mtG+2qGNCW9+tKe7RFnX0l7QOl7fqy1r6q9rPVra+VvFWypHqhLMHPLdRfFh69ICFh+erYxct9A0PcxXKeUMThutOoLvZ2dDtbuq09y5HoTKJxHciceQ40WwKdQHehMlxodI6LM9+N7SagcZg2BBnTLSU+8dldB1556qVXDrzy0oGXt1bWb0zNDA1ZQCIx7RwpFAbbjkynuvAVQcFBMQvVYRFB8yPV/gFqdYCfT5DCy0fMl/tLgoJk4UpXXzlfqXT3DZAHhGhCgtSBvgpfiZdS5OkjEatlMrVMppZKfURiuadYrPBVyn3kcl+Zt59cFaDw9pdJfUXeat/AkOiQsMUR85dFx66Ii09cunTdqsT1S+KTFi1cvjh+xdKExJXL16xOTFm7Om1DakZVad2GtdnhQTEpqzdtr20q3FxRVVpfkFO+KGrZ5ozi3MyS1DUZ69dm5Wwqyk4vTE/NysspzMsriV+8Mjk1MzgsztlFbO/g7Mz04tA8WXZcVwc3Lwd3NxtnNUG8Na5Ct1XXUdbxhzw6zK7q6ajWdVb1dFb3PLn91U1XTW/3lr7umj5r27WlV1vT/+v2kXdrev98J9oafU/lWH/l+YHq0Z7qoc4aXeuWjtaG1pP1J440HBk+Ojp5eRqHcMyIAxM4YsZxBMKQWQSZRVETigIogiIoDmM4hOIwhgMwbAIsEApgOAKjgAUwIyCMzUGWG+PotAW/MW75/PKVY61Ph8W+ELX47Pqc5piE5uXJ77/+1uTHn9/85Ks7l2/89M2NS5/+8NUnl7/74sdbV+8b7pmBaRiaxSAjDptw1IzjwIMMtjUqojj6yyT5QUz+5cIexRq2/yx/+sKse5wRHIJxAETNFsRkgY1m2GA0T87ABiNkMJknDaZJw+y9iVuXf5768t5PvVdOl586VXK6r0Gvq+7TVgz0Vg13lPT11Yx0VQ6cyDt7trKjrba7tbZTu0d3ouHozozt80ULgjxDg70j/X0jwyIXBy2Ik/qF0QWejiwezcWdxfWkMVwpVK6DA4VCobOc2AQKzZZAItEYJBrTnkAhkxl0CotLd3FyoEuc3ZQuHkWrNu0s2npw14G/X/jwb+c+ePnpl/KzC6IjY5lMtq0DaZ4j0cbewYZKpbm5ufn6yEJDfcMj/PxC1Ep/pdRX7qmSeyiVIl+1xF8t8Q9QBCvcVT4itdLLx0eqVkl8JB4ypVyj8g7wlvtJJSqRl7dU4qNS+mv8Qnx9A0RihaeXVKlSBwaFBgaF+fsHBwZFRCyIj41buWTZmiXLkpevSklOyczILlq7btOqVSmrVqWsXJWSmJS2JnljSmrG+g2bN2+u3Ly5MienPDu7LDu7LGdzRW5uVX5+TW5e1cb0wnXrclJSN29ML8zMLM3OLk/fkJ+8euPa1Mz1m/JjFie6eCgc6DwGx4vNEbs4efFJbt4MWRBL6ePgFuQgqYsq7a/t7yrv/kMeTYBV6/48nTU9XVt6/ySdNT1/vpPu6oGuUn1/5bm+mtGuyt6Ord2d2zvPbDv1auXLp/aevPLBj8gUhhlxzLp334KjCIxiJhQ1oqgFQ2EMwdEHE1YURTAERgCLCQBnUcSIIrMmw4x53IxPQvgUDNycudY7eq52Z8vGzR3pm48mrWuOiX8hef27rx42f/sDfndi+uqNqRtT4zdmxm/MTNw0TN8xGidAYAYFDZhlGgFmMHgWR00PzrJ9sM/pSddf8PDfcll/IiAMB1HcAuMmEDcC2JwFnTWjs2bMCEDTc4bb96du3Ln/842fv/ru5t9+/ObsF11b2rpruvpr+9qLO7pKeoa3nu8uG+ipGenZMnSmrKu1tvdUXfebVWfP7u64eHys/w1t9vKMKHVMiHrB4vjVSk0E20PO9vJ2ZLs6OLtSue5kJ1d7EtuewCSSaAw6jc6k2RMdbYmOVCemE5/H4nAYTLYTg82hs/3FvgVrs3cX1m7PqnhlxzP/fOfjbz7+svNk+6Z1m+ReChqZYWvraOtInkcg2jg62tCoVDc3V7WPNDzUNyLSTxPqrwj0kWgUniq5h1LhqfL28vH28vGRaKRChVLkqxT5+kr9lCJfsZtM6qWSy9Rq32A/TahCrvFwlym9/cPDYvz9whRyjUKu0ahDA/zDQ4IXxMevXLZsTezCZTGLli1empSUvCE9Mz8nr3Rzftnm/LKM7MKU9VmJa9Ynrlm/Li1zU1ZBTl55XkFNXsGW3PyazXnVOXnVm/Oqc/NrsjdXbkgvWpuyOWlN5urkrHWpuSlpeevSclNTsletTF2yfG3csmTfkGgqz9OBwWNwvShUPp3EY9mxg/h+OZGplTGZ1fMzX07d31Ot+8sy/3k5u7b0dm/t+0v8+U60Nf2dRb0D1WP9NUPtFZ1dtZ263V0n6t56ufL5cydGgLsWHMHBaRQyojiGwwCOIAiGm1HMjGIAiiIoimMIjkKYaRaEAAQwg3PT03PT45BlGoXnYKMRmgbxGQz5ceLt106eKNryfGLaq4kpzy9ZeWBRQk913c/6Ufz6LfTOOHz3PjZnmb1vmhsHgBkMMeKIEYfncGAGNU/BxgnIMoWAMxhixDHLgzOGfq/k8j8tM47jCPZAZgDBzdCvfcZNIDw9N3dnfObWvYnrt258e+Wb0X8OPt13uvxEV22Hbqu2pahVW943Wn9RV6Hv3zraXz/aWdPfvX3wdG3XG+Wn2/fpbn56ffLy/f3VzQt8F3hwJe7uCneR0kUosWNy5tHZDs48EltgR3aysaM6EJiOBAqJRKJSqUQqlcxg0rkuDC6XxmZzeG7OTi7+PgFvPn/obd3YC40HStblnHjujZ7TXRW5pf5yDYNAJ9qTiQSqA4Fi60iyIRBtCMR5dDrVzU3go5SGh2oi5/trQgNVIRp5gEqstvosFSqkbgqZu7fYVabwVKnEarXMXynyFblKxZ7eYpFSpQwIC40ODpovk/rKZerwsJiVK9bGLVoeHDTf3y8sIjw2YXHiihVrk5LS1qzduDxxXeKa9Rs25eYXVeYXVWZtLi4u21JUWpOemb9mXXpS8obUDdk5eaVFpVuLS+uLSuoLi+sKimrzCrbm5tfk5tdsyixNWpO5KmnTysT0VUmbEldnrkhMT1ieunJFanzcirDIOE1wtJvUx5HFtadzmTwRy8nDheUpIAsXqxa9VPxUX/Opzq2H28uPaSu7uyu0f8gjMmtr+/83oNs60FOuH6k9N1g72FXV3lnbqt3ddqzuUMv+Ezc/+Qk34TiCg3MIaEEwHIdRHMYQBAcQHEAxEEUR65wVtdqF4ziCw0YzMD0Jz82AJoNpfNrw8yR0x/J53zsNSRm7Vqzfu2xtfcSi4xm57z3z/NyHH+FGEw5CwJ07c/fuIAA8N2UyToKWGRg0oKABtcwgpinIOAEYJ0HzNAwYUPh/ucwgggPwg1ODTCA0PYcbAcwIQDNzlknD9O171y9d+aT/w/bdLScqj3Vv7+rb3ttVrdXV9HeU9HSV9Q9vuzDQMNZdq9ftGD5brz1V13n+jXeNN2bvf3f7rYNHYoNjBc7uNBqb7yq2J9JtGU52DGeCk4sDk23jSLF1pDHZrnQGm0yl02hMGsuZyeHRuVwiy9mBxuAIXNku/PkR0Qf3HWyq3b15bebqmOXJcasUXlIXKtuJxOIwuE4MNsGRbGdPtHUk2TgSbYgkWzqdwue7yKSioAB1eESAX1iQb2igKkSjCFBJ1HJPpcRN7iWQilylIoFU5qH0kWg08gCVRC1xVyhlfl6eCg93WXDQ/CWLV0UtiPdW+CnkmuyswsqKuo0bciIjFi6MXbo+LWv58uSEhKTMrMKNGXmbsgqyNhdn55ZkbS7elFWQW1CeV1iRkV2YtjEnbWOO9UlxWW1JWUNJ2bbi0obC4trc/JrszRVZOeUpablLl6clLEtdujx1+cr1S5enxcWvWRC9LDp6aVhYtK8mVOwdwHGXODJdHBg8ClvoSGSzqG4cB360ZP7z+XsH9p5pqzl0tviIrkqrrdT9IY/IrKsb+PP8ZUX/dCe9tQPDdaOjdcMj9QN9tZ0dW0+3NZ5obT72kfYddBpCjSgKYQiCg9iDfUUQjkA4COIghEAQhIAACplxyIiBsxBkhACDZfbWxNTP1yd/+vnW11/P3R433pr9qOvCgcKG9f4LtyxOfimjuHf7vpkPP8XHp/HxSfjuPfD+XdQ8B0MWwGIxz0EWA2ycAqyYpyGLAQYMsGUGBmYRyIghZhx7OGf+3yIzhuPWFJi13gRErGAADBmMOADjEIoZLZYpw/1rNy59+uW5lqEjdYcOV7x2uv50Z0OntqGnf/vQqfzWrsq+sV1v9zWMdNb263YMtTbotM1DH5/97Id3LiEz4EiH3l/qJ3KTuLAFAYERzgJ3ijOX5MwhO7sQGE62JBqJ4Sz0kqpU/l5echaLS6QySXRnEsuZwuFSOC4UlpOXWEajs4RuXgE+AWqpr4ezm5jnQXIgOJFYfBaPQWbZ2Nja2Nix2FwilWHjSLQhU2zpdEe2M9PDQ+ij8g4M9vcLC9aEB2vCg9RhfsogpUQt9fAWC+VerlKxUC5xV6ikGrUiwFfur5SoNT7BErGKx/VQevuvXLE2LTVzfuQid6F0yeJVB5564eWX3tiUnhu3aPm6tekpKRmJiampaVlZm4tzC8qzc0vSM/MzsgtzC8pz8kqzNhfn5JXmFVYUFFcVldYUl20pLqstKN5SULQ1v3DL5ryqjKzS9RsL1qVuXrlq46K41QvjkhbGJS2KXx2zcFVEZEJAcJSfX6hK5SeR+wrF3s5uXiRnvgOTR2DyKTSBK0cqclIs91v+SsmzA3tbdQ0nuqpOaau6/7LMvQ2Df56eev2fN7+nXv/nOxmo019oHBus1g3Wakd26jrqjp9pOPz2WwPjl27iMA4bzAAIWuuc53BsDkfNGAygFgsMWkDAbIbMcwhgwCxTyMwPkBd3AAAgAElEQVRN09wt0+z1acNP98w37pmu3779xdc3vrj0kf69F6r2Hihs6Hrq0OBzR/9+pA37/hZ+z4CNG3CDEbh7x3DvNgRbIBw1wRAAoKARtcxCZgNkNkCgCUUsOArgiAW33mDgw0Wl3z/Z5z8tM26NzChuLTz9BQjFAAhHcBzBEKPZPGUYv3Hr+y+/GW0fOtTw6uHaQ2/Vv3W0+q22+vbR/ed1dQM9tfqhned66vVd9f26XYMttd3aPfqvtN9OX5r48dNLjeX1QpZrgCowY31W8po0JzbfReDO4PCZLnyWi4Du5OLMdRVJlQvmx/trwlhMgZ09xdaRbk9l0bgCjpeYzOHazLOdZ+/oJZHLZEquM59BZnGobB6TR3WkEe1JNDKDyWSTSHQqjelAos4jkOaRqfOoVFsGncTlcsQikcrXTxMa4h8RHhQVHhwV4h/ppwr2lqrlIh+RUC7x8PZyk3pL1L6KAH+fkAB1mNLbX6UMkEp8xCJldNTinOyizIz8iPBYsUhZVrrl5Im2g8++sik9d9XKdVmZBZs25a1KSt2YkWedJ2dtLt6cX1ZUWpOTV5qdW1JYUl1WWVdR3VBR3VBaUVtUWp21uTQrpywzpyw9oyglbfOqpI0Jy9YtjEuMXJAQHrk4NCIuJHxRUEisryZS5h0gkXh7eUld3cXOAg+aiyuZw3dkcR3pPDKVz6YLPZjS5NA1hype7N3T0td4pq+uQ1et1VX1/CGPyNy3bejPY1XxT9LbMPjnOxmo119oHOkqON1T2fLOAX3ntmMtjYeuXPwcn4HQOQAFLBAGgDgK4Ngsjo7DlhnIbIYtZgAwmSHTLGycRiyTqGUcmbsNzt4wTVy6d++ra+Nf/3Tj028+0g2eOfDqoW3Pvbrl6ffPDOF3QfjSHcvXN/FZDLlvQG/eR6ZmULMZhgELBk+j5ntmg8FoMc9BFiMMmBHIgsEADgM4AmH/yjEjD1eUYPz3DhD4T5v8IDJbS8gxHMF+kxfHEAw2WWAzAJosc5Mzt76/fumjS5cvXH7/9HtvNRw/Wn186MCYvmlUW9vXu03f06DvbRzq2zV8vOJsS13H38/84/ORz9rfPLsyellWckbWuqwl0UsELm58rgfHWUCjOjNZPL7AU+DqJXATicXKAE2ExF1FIbCJRCcKjWtHYtmTGQQ6ax6JQuUJmDyBM08gV2lIZDqD7sxmcZ0YbCbNiUykMehOPK4bg8G2dyDOcyDaEsi2ZKoNkWxDItkxGAxXgVCm8PMLCwlaEBkWOz98YURoTFBApI8yUCn3k4pUEpHKTSCSin18VUEBfuGhwVFCN0lgQETUgnihm0QuU+dkFzU3PVNRXmt93ri9WT9w7rVXj6au25SUlJaRkZ+2PittY05mTpE1AhcUV1kH25vzy/KLKq0xubCkOq+wIievdMOmfCspG3IS12yMT1i9IGZp2Pz44LBYTUCkSh3q7ROsUAWJZRo3D7lQKHJ19WBxuI50ph2dQXDiEJx4RKaAQhXY2tAY81zWhq17s/q1jm0nOmqO9W7t7KnW9VT3/iH/fpl/L5L/XiePM7ht8N3dY73lLb3VLT31Z7obTxwq3X/xrB4HcHRmFsdRGLEYLDMmBLDg2F2TYdo0h2IYCMAzkyZwFrFModPXTeY70OSVuasf//TDB999c+Hzr0b/rn3txPPVOzueOzJ2RNe6/+jHHRehn+bwn2bxW2Z03IIaYHwWAg1miwWYBS1ToOkuNHvPYpw1AxYzDAIYAj84kQuBccR6khb2IG/8IOWG/GWZn/jh//mFo9bqUhRHsd/IjMEoBiMoBKMAiIHwgw9YTyAz4Mbrxi/0X7Tv7TxZd6avaXBg93Bvo767rk/X0N+3c6hre0/H9m7d071Hmt94fd8rTVW7KrMrIlXhPh6q6MDoxZEJ8wOiEmJWrFyyZmHkEqVUI+B48tkeYr63B1vmRBJQ7J3JZBcSlWtPYtnYEmwIFJbQw12hJNAZDhQag80RuLqzWBwOm+/CEdAoTHs7gp0dgUiiOZKo9kSKA5nmQKHbUWj2FJoDk0Vz4bkIPcRila9PUGT4wriFyxZELtJoQn2UgX6aUOuuSW+Fn1ymkYhVEeGxK5auUcg1at/guEXLF8yP47DdwsNiXnj+9acPvJi4KsVdKF22dHVri7ars7+yvHb16vVpaVkZmfnWCbN1nmwdYG/OL8srrMgtKN+cX2Z9simrYGNGXsr67HVpWavXpq9ITFu8dHXMouWRUYtDwhf6BUaq1KEyb3+xTO0hUrq6y1z4njye0IXLp7NYDjTaPArVjs60Z7AdGTwmy8OJ5u5KEa8OTj7VcFy3q01Xf7avtqt/S2/flv7f0FvT9xv+/TL/pU6eiH774Oi2fv2W9uFGbVvl0ZEDXQezG99seBY3YrjRgs7NIaAJRi0gCphgYA4GjEazado0fXtm4vo0asDnbgLXvrgzfcV4+d2rH/Z89IHugw+1737/9pcXTvXpXjl5/f2vP+t6u+uZk591v2f6ehy8Ome6MjP13T3jzVlgBjTOgVNG8905w22zYRwzzeGoBUVhBEcQHEUfxDxri6E4ij1YSkYx6wD7d+X8D8uMoQ99fgwUhBAQQh8BxiEUnoPASRCHcWwS/3v7J8fqT3Q39QzuG+3fNdSzfUDb0KNr7OtvGtLt7D1ee2JHdmNaXMqy0KXLQ5Y2Fmx7umb/8/UHn6red3jf4cP7D+8s370iKtHDWUSzYzk7cN1InkFe4csjVi8OX6FRRrq5eRMoLjZ2FDJHQOe5MV3dnNyELL7AScDnuQldeAIqlUmjsug0JxqVSSTR7BxINnaO9kSKI5XhSKY5UhkEOovIcqY6c+hsFy7PU+SlDA2JWrRwWXh4rFIZoFaHhIfFeHoq5HJNSEiUShXo7i6Li1uxKT03LCxGow6JiV6Slpopk/ryeZ7lZVuffebl1197K27RcrFIuXFDzjNPv7SjcW9hQUVOTnH25uKCkqrisi15hRWZOUWZOUV5hRWFJdX5RZW5BeWZOUUbM/JSN2SvS8tcsy59+ap1S5YlLYxfPj86PiwyNjg0Kih0gX9QhEodrFAFSOS+HiIF303M5ro7cQTObBcnZye6E4PEYtjT6bY0hi2NZUdhE8lcIVcpZqniFEuO1x7T7mjtaWjt2dqhrxsYqNX/hv6tA7/R+xGZ+7cP/3l+L67+z2Ue2Kbvqe7qrWq90DQwvLvzwkHdgU31LxTvMHxzDZuaxVEUnJu99v13d29dB2EAAMGp2xNTP02YJ82wAfnnuS9f3XnorQOnPx3++qOeT78auzR6+pz2UPc/+j/84b2vfvzg66/1Hw2+0nbhzd7r71w2fDVx57Nbt7+8d+2buxM35ybHzbfuTt+emp0GISOOGnBoCjGbYAiAERDBIBRD8F8Prq2HZ/765nfl+k/L/Mv/iz7WIiiKoNivWuveSgSGgVkANaPYLH7ns3sXj73X0dzdUt+ubewb3js61DSs3aZrrWlr39revqO9Ka85xD00RBhysOqZ0WPDZ/afeKn6uecrnnm6ZP+LW56r21Qbq1wkIAjdqaL5spjsJbmN2bteaTx87LmWZ3e+umFtnljsR6Hx3SU+HKGIwnahsDlMvoAtdOW4ClgcLpXpTGeyaQwnMo1FINPtiRQbe4KtI2meI2meA9HWkWRHINuTaUQqg8J05ruJPbwUKp+ggKBIjX+YrzokPGJhdGyCVK7x8w8PDo3y1YQolP5Ll63JyMi3JquXLV29csXatckb/f3CQoIXNDc98+YbJ6urGtS+wf5+YWWlW7ZUb9ucU1xUVFVeUVu1ZXvVlu2lFbXW5eVNWQXWkXZ6Zn7qhuyk5A3LVq5dsmx13JJV0QsT5kfHhUbEBISE+/qFKNWB3j4BcqVGLFN5ihVuHhKeqyfbxZXO4lJZzgwmk8GkUhgURwbVnk6zYzDtGc4OdC6RzBU4K0RMn2XqVae3nerZ1TXQ2D3QoBv4b8is3zH65xloHHmi5AONI/9DBhuHhhuHBut7xvb0DzS2a7efaFxV0rSh/PbfL4P3DZ+/8/7nF9+9cem7mekpi8F4/+ebc7dm7n5148Y/f5z6bvzd9ncP7zqifXXg457P/9H35fQl06f6L/qPDuje6LrQPvbZyN/1hzu1B068f2zo5wuXr777w7cXv7v+5fjtH+fu3DTfumX8+ebM7UmjAULNOG5EwCmzwQQBZgiywDCIIjD263JM7HF+b8vx/18yP+Gb/DK0+FeLYTiK4LAFsEAmCAdwdAq78eGt84cvnqw9c2ZLS/9u/fDe0b4dvR1bOrQN3f37B9qe6ni59pV9+fsO1b7+bOGB5wuefrn44PP5T5UvLqxcWrw+eF2oS4iG5bc2PGV/8dPnj14YfX30VPPZU0+3vvX06S0FO8ICFrGdvUQStYubiOrEJTuxWVwB21XgzHNhstk0JzbdiUNnsSkMJyKV4UCi2hHI8xyINnaONvYEG3tHq9L2JAqRymBz3XluYg+Rt1ShUagCNAHhUbEJUbEJ3j6BC+NXRMUm+AVG+PiFrkhMyS+qWrlibVJiampKRlJialVl/eqkNFeBKCuzoKK8dkfj3vy8stVJaVmZBQX55evTsjIy8ssfpriKSmuyNhenbcxZsy49ZX3WurTM1Ws3rkhMiU9IjF64NDIqPnz+wvD5sSERUf7B4T5+gQofP5nSV6rw8ZQqBO5ePDcPF76bE4dHZ7HJNBaRSidTSWSqI4FKsKeR7OkUOwbDkeVCYPAcHNlsmtiTrlzhl9yyo7V3V7d+R8/Q9v7B+sHB+qHfoK8b/I3ej8g8uHPsz2P1+f8EQ40joztG9A39wzv6hnZpuxpO7EutPVy277L+b3/rHO5/8egP736C4ziO4FM/3Lj39VV8Ep/49MZXfR//MPbNN0Nf/3Dh6qWRH3pfGXqn5aMr713/UPePT4e/fKf73fNdF94feL/l4ImWPW+OvNL9Zd8n34x9c+n9H+/+YL57Hf75J9O1G+Y749DEDDw5C04bzYa5WYPRYIIsJshihgEAhUAMhnEUfrAz+bfF0zCOIviTy6f/8zL/up70kdrSxypKMRyHcRjAQQtqsZgBxILiIA7fgK6dvzH0/EhrfVt7XWf/zv7h5kH9rn79rr7ePb3HG04Nvz7Wtb/rjcrDT2fsP1F1ZHfitt0r63cu35rotiTQQZPgvrguqe7Y9hM9B/sHnh3of6qn9+mes80tO3ObEkKSvDjebJq7C9uTw3V35gqZLnwmm8tgs51cOE4uHIYzh+HswnB2obLYJDqLQKHbEyl2BLKtI8nWnmjrQLRzINo7kh1JVAKZTqaxmWxXrqvIXaSQevv5BUVERscHhCxQaYI3ZOStSEoJCFng4xeyPCm1unZHQUFFakpGXm5pxqa8yoq6qsp6P03o/MhFOdlFOdlFOxr3VlXWJyWmFuSXV1bUZWUV5hdU5BVWWGfLGzPyklM2rUhMWboi2RqKYxYti4yKD42IDQqNCgiOUKkDFT4aiULlKZG7eYoF7l58oSfX1Z3Dd3PmClgcHt2JQ2E4kWhMAoVGIDsQyLYOZDtbir0tjWjHoDuy2I50rq09i0EUCinyxICU1l3tuh1dA409w436/47Mw7vP/3mGdp37Pcn/5ww0DPbX94/uHnn34Hnd9rMH0ra/WXagY8drPfsPz/40afxx/J2WvoFDZ//eOfJh2+CLpbtfKd7395Pnrwx8+Y+Wv33e/fmlwe/fPvnh8Ftvt7/Yp3tz5M63U8Z7punrhu//8WPfG9rWpiPaA6c/6frbjx9eu/HV1N2f4KvfGS9fNly7AY5P4pMz6P37c/dvT8xMTJrmZs2gyQiZTbDFjAAABoE4bN0O9euTfaxYtz3+3ygzgIOzuNGIm42QGTRBmAXDp3DkKnJt5ObbL7/TUd+pbege2zcy0jzYu727a1tH266u/oPDur29ul3azvrWjpqzjXFbN8s3ZojWZcnXNyyqOVN98oPXPvjbkY+GD450bGvXN+vGnhs+UXe8dEV5lGyR3MXX3VlCJ3M5zu6uQgnP1Z3F5jBYTA6Xw+HzmBwui8Njcng0Jw75YXB2JNMcSFRHAsWRQHF0pBCIVCKJRiTRbO0pJDqbxRVyhSKR3Nc3ICwgdIFU6acODC+tqktOywgIXaAODF+ZvH7bzr31DXsyM/KrqxqqqxoK8su3b2tKWbcpKDCypLg6akF8TnZRXe3OTem59XW7tm9rSk/Pzc4pTs/M37Apd3365pT1WdZBdVRsQljkQqvD/kGRmoBwX79QpW+ASOrtIZa5eoi4ru7OXIGTi4DF4bM4fBaHx2Rz6U4cKtOZTHciUpkECtWRaOdAtLEj2NiQ59lQHGzpVHsGy4HGsXNwohFchVTFmpANHbu7urd3DjT2juwYHGoYGmoY/g1Wn3/NIzKP7rn4ZJoetk3/ejmy58LwrvOP85fC+++G/cax/u3Do83nPnzpve6GM8+kNR4q2PfBG/23Rv958S3dm7VPNa8vrk/K2boquzgudaNfQvPaqrdf7r3a8/m1we++6f7y4pF3+l4e7n199Ehzy4d9X0DjD/4my/QN06W3v37vrcHeZ1o+bH3/6gc3fvxs4uo3c5e/nbv8nfmnn8Ebt8A7d8z3bk9P3Z6yTExDs3Mmi3Huoc8WFPzF5/+HZMYAHJzBDdPYjBE1gQCMzGLofRy/jaPfo1d1Pw406XUN2pHmocHdA9qGzq7tXZ27ett26XqbBgb26PWNfT3VHWPb+jsLTr6x9oWhrdr3918Y2T3YsbWja1v32DPn33vu4mhT38sZBzf6psUKYmIli4Lcw11pXm5OYneBVCiU8F09XLg8DofN5XE4fB6Lx2PyBHQun87mWoOzI4VOoNAdyTRHIsXBkezoSCYQKEQilUCkzrMlEShOZKYLzYnHd5fIfQK81UEeEmVwRExN/c5VyesDw6IiYxav25C1befeuvrdlRV1DfW7d+96qqS4urioqrSkZmlC0prV6+dHLlq5Ym1lRd22hj21W3dkZxWmpGRkZOYnp2xamZS6IjFl+ap1S5atXhi/IjgsWhMQrvYPU/oGybz9xFJfT7HS3UvmIZYKvUR8oTuHL3B24TlxuCy2C8OZTWWwKAwWicYgUukECo1AoTqSyY5EO0eijS3BxoY0z4ZsZ0MhzaPS7anOJLKARfESMdUbFuTo9vXrdmgHdw6c2zU6vG1oeNvIb7D6/Gselbnp4mjzhYfthSe0v3o5suf88J5zw7vP/ao9P7zn3ODOscFdow/b0Se0T3z4r3ZscOe5od0Xe7cN9zXq33/hPf1uXUft8W9OffiT9tOTVQdLw1cXBC5vXJpdsWDdBnlMfuCqwuC1r2za89GrI9d031zr/27ouYGjtW/1vjT0VtPZlhd1lrsgPIdO3zXDFhw04rABuvPRz8OHtKPHh//W99n7+i8++/D69Z+hG9fhKz/MfX954scf7o/fNACTFmzGAhuMZrPJCJpMkNkMWwAUtB64Zz1+4HH+mszW1eDf57ELeeywkV+n0K22Plj1xjDk93z+DQiOgTg0i89OIJNG1IxhOGRAzDcA5BqK38Jvnbs1cmBE29it3z3Qv6O3f2fv6P7RwQPn9QcujDx1oaOma2zX6PB2/bu7z1/cPvLR3ncuNo6Mbtef2zN8fv/54eYRXWNP/+7e4b39L+YcXOKxRGIrC3IND5VFSXk+/opwuUgjEHhyuW6uAqHQVcjnCzg8PosnYPIELK6A8TA4E2hMa2R2IJDtHUj29kQHBxLBgezgSLF1oBCoLEcK045IY3IEIrmPxFvtLvZesDChpn5H3NJVgWELlq5ak56dv7VhV1l57Z7dTzdub96377n6+t3JazaUltQUFFSEhkRt2pS3fNmaxFUplRV169amJ6/ZUFRUtS4tc+mq5OhFS+fHLJ4fEx++YFFweJQmIEylCZKr/MUyH6Gn3MXV09lFyOLw2QK+E8+FzmZTmCwinU6g0QhUKoFKI1BojhSaA5lqT6TYEyl2RLIdgUQg2ROJ8+wd59kQbG0IDjYkog2JZktmM1heXJZC4RKcs6h44Nnhvt29Y00jF5rOD20bHNo+PLR9ZGj7yND2USuD20b0v/jcMDjY8JvI3Hx+tPncb9qRpnPDe8aG94wN7zk3vOfcwxvrk9EntLv/qP2jDwztHtM3Xezffb5/99jw3nPDzcOjzfqPX357aGdbU0J5dcj6EnVSbWjqtsj02pDUKr/kZ1fWDu/UfvLKexefGR7c39e5p6NlT6vupd439hz95r3LOIrDFnRi3ATAGIRgoAm+9vlPPUe1wy0jX7zz9eWPf7xx6f7kLcv1K5M/fnv35pXJiZtG030QmoLgCcAyaTLOGmdNc0aLyQxaABiEUQTB0P8i7v35CIyj/zpH7JF9k6h1ORvBsYc8yKDDOA6jKIKiKIJhKPbg1wBBMARBUBTCrX8hHjfjqBFDLAiKoCj6m1+TJ8RwDIVxBMRBE2oygRbIAoHToOmW2XjVjF5Dr45c7d3f27Wzc3j/0PDeoeGmwbH9Y0P7zg/tuzi090LfzpHhPeeH94wN7RwZ2jk81nSuv6F/YEf/+afOvf3sxZF9I9rdPbpn+/fk7o9VLFGw/RWCILlHkEIcqvIOFwpVAlc5lyvicj09hVKpp8zNRchx5nH4biwXHovDY3F4DDaXynT+JTI7ECn2BIqdI8meQCEQqI4kGsH6FolOoNAZTly+0MtDLHcXy9X+wes3ZS9ZnugXHL5s5erSyi3ZecUb0jeXltdW1zRuqd1VUrp1XWpWSmpW6vqcVatS16VmR0cvDQqJTkxcn56ev359zsrVqVFxS8JjFgWGL9AEhfkEBHtrAhXqAA+pN99TzBV6OfHdmBw+1ZlDZbmQWU6OdKoDneRAo9jTyHZUsh2VYkehONAYRKazI51lT2HYkmg2jlQbe7KNLcHBgUB0cCA4EhzJFAcaw47uPI/sZENwJlPdPQUBYdLFhUurBp4d1m7r1m/rG24cHHzAsL5xVN94Tt94Xt94Xr/93OD2c0PbRoe3DY9sGxzZPvAbmc89zkiTVdT/HEN7xvqbz/c3XxxoOj/QNDq0Z3R4z/Dobn3f1taTOS8cWrdr/6Ky3RE5TRHZ++fn7AnL6ig8/PmrH//jpY+G9/QP7dePvTTS+7yu64XOkZMj969O4ggOgdisGQRx3IzCJjNw7dsbfS0D53svXv7k+5+/vn7nh3v3ro6P/zQ5dd0we9toGQeBCch8HzDeNc/em5szGOfm5kwmk8ViAUHQerLf7w1u/9Jw+hGZf+0zijzgkbWwBzJjGIIgCIxgMPKgMASCURiBMBTCcQDHjTg6g0ITKGz89Vf9g4E9jiE4AsCQxQwCcyA4DZpvmw1X56CfoO9Hvu85oOva1TF8YGhk//Dg7sHhprHBPecG9lzQ77kw2PS2vum8vumcvmlssPncwJ6Rgaahwb3DQ/uGBpv1A039Awf0R/ecSV6c5UzypDkKhW5qoYefRBGqCV7k4qbgCRU8gZzHE3m4yiRucgFLwGbxXIVebJ6rkwufxeExnF1INKatI8mRTCPRmI5kmjUZZkcg2xPI9iSK9Yk9kUKg0CkMJycO30UgFMm8ffwCw+ZHR0YvjEtYnpicsiEje2NGTnJK+rr12RnZxZk5Jes35iau3hi3JGlh/KrklMzklMxFixM1gfODw2KXLEteGL8yKDwqMHy+JjRcGRAkU/uJlCpPubenQsn18GLx3Zg8AZXtQmI5E5lORKYTgcWwo5HsaAQ7OtGOTrSjk+3oFDsa3Y5Kt6XQ55Hp88iMeWSmLZllS2bZkRgEBzJxHtHBlujgQHGgOhGYfIKTG9nZi8PzEXL9AzxjSlZsOffK2yN7h0Z36Yd26vt3DAzs0A/sGOzfMdLfeK6/8UJ/48WB7RcHGi8Mbh8b3j48un1gbNujRSNPlNnq83+S4aZz+uYLA3vf1jdfGNx7brhpbKRpZGzP4IU9A+829b29o6Ov/I0TG5oPJdYeT23U5r1wsbH7o4PvXtw72ruta/SZkbGXRtv2trQ923rz01uWeyBmxlEEBzEMxHELhoIQcvvKvXM9Fz4Y+dsP/7x6/dubd6/cv//j+NxtIzgBARMQMAFZxkHzfcB8HzCOm/7PyvzLWQa/hGX8YfsErJEZhmAYhBAQwqyH8YIQBiMohiE4BmDoLAyMA6a7MDSH/ndlBqYA0y2T4eos9BP04/mr+ucGtE1dQ08NDu0b0u/S63cPDzddGGx6+wHNFwabzw82n9M3jembRob2jw3vHx3cO6hvHhjaOzhycKS58JkFgctZBA8HGw6F7Eale/DcVArfSFeRWij2FXoo+TyRG0/syZdw6TwnBofHd7eabG1pLDaBQifTWdaVKnsixdaRNM9a4OlI+uWlrSPJgUQl01nU/4+7+46Pqsz3Bz59Tplzpvc+6SGN3kGwN9a+ouvadXWb6xZ3VSAhmZaEUBSwiytKT5s+55wpSWiioAiI9BbSy/Q+8/tjAovK3uvevXvv/e28Pq/ndWZCXuGf93y/53nOeQ6HL1NpyyprisoqNIUld/7kvp8/9extd/3ktjt/cusd99xy+3233/XgHXc/dPtdDy6+ecmsuTdNmb7ghhvvWnLvI7fcfl9F9WxNQUVR6ZTisinFk2pKqyYXTKpUFZdKtQVitVaoVAsUKp5MgYokLIEI4PAYKIeOsOkIm44iFASkIMwrASkIRGEhZJhFAmESyJrADPOoLD6dxQOYKESDmVSISgPJAJuOimGhmistlSlqpIKq6YU3/emRWvc6r0Nv7zITPhNhWd5pXWG3LndYl7utywjrMq91mc+2zGtb5nG8jrted2Gv27DXv7vO/Pcw/w/HVU/YG7w2vdfe4HXoCVcDjtW78XqHr8G+r9H9RbN7n6EDe+Uj22/f8v1501dNtt31NrzWbnGCensAACAASURBVHu1fdeftjqMNou5Y3PdXzvXdyQvJ9OjuXQonZvYgD4by2WS6czFE71d9p4v/IcufnNp8OxwqC8S6ouE+6PRwXhkIBYZiEUH44mRVGosnQyk/nWYsxNnrN9J9vvVOHPlVHliu890Op1IpGPxdCyejcdz8UQumcr399lMNpZMjkejg+FIXzIV+pFt9hXMqVgyEY3EY8F4bCQW7o2MnwrGT8fP+85hb7jbG1rtBptDb7ctt1mXO5z1Xke9fyINXkeDx9FA2FZitnoXZvY4DW5LncVWb3Hq7Y5Gx8s//fPMiptUggoUUDJoIhKJQ6YLUIFGpp2kLqpUacokEo1crNFICmQ8ORfhIygPZvMQroAvll1d2mHzRfl1HTrIojBAEo2Zz99WrRhg3nO+8ZYqNWWVNQhXMH/RTb/+3R/uWHJvUWnltBnz5y28beacG2fPu2newttmz7u5esrcotLJRaU102ctmjF7cWFJjUReKFMWK7VlCm2xTFsoUml4MgUiFMN8IcgTgFw+zBdCPAGTzaWxUArEmggMkVkAmcW4EoDMAskwi4qgdDaHhnIpMIcMcUgAh8RESQwWg8GCmQgMsAEQpYJcKkvIYMtgvobNK1JKqpfM/1nzy+t3GTu3vrqVaHTvXu3vXNFhqbNZ6xy2FW7bCty23GNb7rcv9zmXEa5lhGuZ273M7l7+I9rs/yOYiQYnVmtxLdvlWbGrq3ZXd+2Ontrt++p3HDB1+uss3nqXp96NNdiJFtxi7rStsxxzHc1cziSG0plINpfLJbPZYCoeyaTSmVz/uYEvug4eP/jtwNnB8cuB5FgqOhQLD0Yig9HQQCQ0EA4PRqLDsfhoIjYe/1di/s7WQlc/uTrPnMll09lMKpPOP8Mmf5xIpmOxdCyajkWz8VguEc9l0xN/JJWKR2Kj4ehALDGSSkd+fJudyWVT2WQ0EY+EY9FgLDYSC18Kj50MRE6Ez/vO+d7yWgwddoPdaXA4ah2W5fa/h9nRgOGNXnuD01LX6dDbnXp7a13rzxY/Nbl4fk3J/BLtdIm4DELkdFAMoDKxqlRVWKnSlkkkGplIrZXpNGKNiCdhoTyYzUN5QoFELlGoxXKVQCK/LmYyHZg4lwYnppfyi1hUJsQRiHXFZWy+6MZb7/jlb1+et+hGoVRZVFpdWTOzuKympHxyRfWMiuoZhSVVCnUxX6SSq4pV2jKZslCmLJSriiSKAoFUxRHL8hWYjrCpMJJ3y0A5eclkECYBUD5kCKTAAAVmXAlAgUEKxKLCKB3h0FlcGsSlgBwSk01iomQGQiYz6FQARXhsnpjFkTLYEgZbBnHVYtkkrXLKAzc9tXHZptbmzg5DR2ddm01v6VzZ0bnS0rnSZq112la47cs99uVexzLvVcyu5XbXj8SMNRD/k3HrCYfBYzf4HAaPU+9x6wm3HsP1TqLejtd1YstbPbWte/Sdn5mtexraPK9vxV5r9evxbpOnu9njaSHaDG3dH/rD34QSFxKxgWQ2mstkctF0ejQeCaeTuVwuMhI5c+Rs76nLY73jwf5QYjw5fjkQGYomA6nEWDI2Eo8MRUMD4WB/aHwg8K/DnM5lE9nM1U2x80lls/mOOZ3NJdPpRDIdTyZj8UQ0Ho8nUrF4MhpLRSOpaCSbiOaSsVwqnksnctl0LpXKhMKBkfH+8ehgIhvKZBL/COZMIpOIxGPhUDQSiEaHo6GLobET4+NHx895z/a81201WWwGG2Zyu+vd1hUOV4PP2dA1Eb3Pqfc69R5HA+E04G4TYamzddZ24o2YvcH2wUsf3Fh2e4liyuzJN8+aenN11YLishkqXZVAXixRF6uLKjQFZVKpSiJUaGXaAplOKdVIZCqBRM4XywQSuUAi5wjE+R77um12vg5PLFxBSP4UGuEK2HwRyGLL1boHl/5syf0PydQ6haZAqSmSyLUiqVooUYukGrFMI5So+CIFVyBn8yQoV8wTysUyjVCiZnGEIMpl8YRMDi9fgUkARGKCJCZIgxE6wv7bJ1cwkyEmGaJfCZMMAWSQRWZCJDqTRIdITIQCcmgwn4GKIFRIoYJMOiTgSyVynVCqY4tUqFAtlJdUVC3QyKsX1NxR96LpU+P2rnf925d/+vErH3UaLJ0Nls4Gq3Wlw1brdqwgHCt8zuU+13KveznuXu52r3C4ar970cjfk4zrPf+TwQwel8HrNHpdBq/L4MUMHsyA43qXz+juNuO+BruvwdJjtO0x2Xc3dPpWtHprLb56N17nIPROl9m5bcXWnk1dqQup9OV0aiSTGE+Oj4VHw5FQOhFOJ5KZdDQYvXjy0vClkeBQKDoWy0QzgcFgYDAYG48ng6lUOJ0MpeKBRHgkEhgO/uswp3LZWDYbzeVi2Vw8k4tns/FMLpHJJjK5eDqbSGZj8VQ0lgpH4uFQLBSKhkPxcCgeDiViwXQynMtEc7lYLhPNJcO5ZCQbCkT7Bwcu9l0YDPQnstFMNpVOp34s5mwmkYlPYB6PRoYiwQvBsRPjI4eHzxCnd3/QYzNZbAYb3ogTBtxe53Lr/S5990QMfpfB5zJ4nXqPy0A49O5dr7V31nZ2rfHZ6q0tT7TMVM4rllfPn3brnOm3TK65YVL1HHVBJVesVhZOKpo0pbC4UipVCXkSpVChFqlUco1aUyhRqIVSRb7BRrgCBoQALPb3JsCoTChfja8W5HyJpjIhmMOHWGw6E5JrCuYsWKQrLgMRjkJTwBPKYFSAcIQQwmOAKANEYZTP5okRjhBkcQGIw2ILEI4QgDkUOkQHEfiadvpvmFno3zDnJYMwBYYoAIMC0CgAjQzQKACDAjApTJhMzzcRIAVAaSCHAQmYLCEd5CCIQC5RFejKNLpJYnkBKlCyhWqxsrS4dJZCMqlSM+O+hUt/+8DLlnXWjua2rXVbOs0dbYa2Dn2HtcFur3c56zDXCi82EQJbgbnrnM465/8vmD24HsP1bkLvJOrtWF0nVtuO17Z76zr89dbdZk+XgXCvsGENdqfJvqNuW/cmf+pyKjecy47nosOxgf6RkWA4kk2HUvFQNBoYCfWeuTzSNxoejSTDqfyDlwKDodBwOBFMZqLZbCKXjecy0WwykgoHI+FwOBqNxuPx/0bMmUw2mc1FsrlILhfNTiSWye/Al4klMrFYOhZJRcKJUDAWHI8ExyOh8VhoLBYeTURH0smRTHosmwll04FcfDAbGU6MDgTOnrlw4syp/vGBSDqSzCR+JOZMNpvJZeLpeDgWDQUj4fFIeDAcOB8Y+XZ04ODAafzkng9228wWm96KN+Jek8dZj10Xs8vgdRs99gZX6+vttnpbz7puS23H8nuXz1LNr9TNmDv1pimV84uLpmoKqzlCJY2BaEoqS2umlpRXKxRaEV8q40sVfKlMpJDKVALpRGXmi2UcgfjKVZBovp2+VnK+2Z64+4IJURlg/hSaRKbBKJcjlEAol0oH8sdMiA3AHBjl57mS6SATZiMcIRNiM0CEAaIAzKEDCJkGkKgAHUJgroDJ5uYbbDIIUyAWFUZoLPTqJxOSIRYVgigAg8ygUphUGsSggwCFyaQwICoTZkAowOJSGSw6yKExuVQGmydQlpVNmTJ51tQpcyqrZ6oLKngiDcKVI1ylSFSokVdM0k6frJ01Uz2n/nn9VvPWHU3bdhi3WZo7bc22jvoOa53VtRJzrcCx5cSE5Fq3s87tWPldzP8YuQbix58G/0PfCHnMLoPXZfC4DB5sIhhucBMGl0fv9OidXr3D15CPs9tIYLV2vwHH9Q5rQ2ebfpf3PSJ5OZEZyKRHM9loLpXMRpKpQDIeTiWC0cjI0FhwJBQZj8aC8XgoEQvFY6F4MpJKRdPXSSKdTCZTqVQ6nb5u4/pjXt/799lsJpVKx1KZUCYbyuRCmVwonQ2nc5FUNpbMhsOJYDAWDsYjwXgkEA+NRUMj4eBwODwaDw3Fg5djgQuR4Jlo+Gwidj4Vv5gZOxW+fHzwwreX9u0+cOjLw/lfCkaDyWQyk85c8/WRSV/vlUqnM9lMKpuKJmKhYCQ4Ggr0BYZPD/cfGbi0/9IJ1/G9H+6xN9os9Z1Og5Mw4O4GArseZrfR5zZ5XEYcMxMuo8u/2te+rPXF+S9Ok82apJ06qWBqobpCq63UFVcJpFoqxBGrClXFpUUlFUXFZVpVgVIsVwgkYr6Yx5dwRVKeSMoTSdl8Uf5CSBaHz4TRPFoqAOcxMyCEwgApNCaVDtBBFo0JUaiMCeRUBh1k0UEWhQ5QqAwKjZl/e90wYRRgodecfkMUBkhhQlRwoiCTQZjGQkEuHxGKaSz0and9NRQAoIMAmUKm0qkIF2GhCIlKI1EYMMrjC2Uwi8dgIADAhWCBVlex9OGnnn32N/fd98gttyy57c77brvrwemzF0uVxSxEKpeXTiqZMUk3tVI9dYp6xkzdnJ8uXPqHpb9v/k2jdV3H/o/27Fyxfceft3eZ/Vgd5l6O4csnMDtWum31/1cxY/rvYSYwA44ZcFyfJ+326K+kwe3XE+4Vtjxmm97SaWr3vkckLyZzY7n87n/ZbC6RzUayqWg2HUnGA+OBSCASD8cT0WQylkrGU4nYxEEymkrGUsloKhFLpqLpRCyZl5y65tlx/12Yo8l0IJEeT2bGE5lAPB2Mp0KRZDiSDI7HAqOR8Gg0PBoND0WCg6Hg5fFAbyDcHwteigTOBIOnw/HTidSZTOZ0JvJN9NJnfYexI67tWPtWy8EvDkfiiWwuF08mYrFYMpnMM85LTiaTfw9zfjY7HIqGxsLB/uDw6ZG+rwfO7T531Hqk+70uu9lqbbC4DE7872PGTH63yeM0YpiZcJvcXWt8O1/d8dT0p8o5VQXS8kLlJIWkUCzWShQFPImSyebBfBFPppCrtGqNTq1Qq6UKrVSplCklMpVEoZYo1CKZkieSsjh8EOFQmRCJyiBR6CQqg3pl1hpCufk6nF+UAlhsCgOk0AEKHSDRmFQmBLDYCFeA8IQMGCVR6FQGQAPAK4FpAEADIBoA0gDoSkAaAFGZAJUJUZgQBYTJV0JjoQyUw2BzyRDrh5ipIAiwIAgGIRYIQACVRiVTqBQqoFYXFhSUMRgIjytlsYSlJVOeefo3S5c+3dz0ZsvqjU8/+6t7H3j07nuW3nLH/YtvWjJ79k0Ska5AVVGorChTVVeoa3T84smaqbfU3Pzo4of1v6i3re3sNLZZ6tp7mnzdRr+njsCX49gK3F2LOVa6rQ3fxUwYvD8+ec8/Pv8YZoPHdU3cf6vPxET0BK4ncD1B6AmvHnctt/r0GNZgtxus9iar5x08diKaG8rlgrlcPJdOZYOJ5EgsNBILjUeD4VA4Gokm4olkIpVKptOpdCqZSiZSiUQymUheGRPJRCqRSFyV/F8uy38XcyIViKXGopmxSGo8lBgPxANjscBYLDAUCfSHQwPhcF8odCkQOD82dmZ49NTQ2KmxoWPDQ18Njh8ejx2NRL8Mje0bOm3/9rNP97nfd73T8M6uTW3nTl6MJdLJTCaZTqXSqR/83ex/hDmViIRj4fFIsD80fGr48ld9p/wnv9j5uWcDYW+02Q02l9GJ63FMT+CGLrehZyLGLrfR7zb6cHMXbvY5DRhmJjAz1rXGv+2VrY9WPVoAlSgFhRppsUSg5nBkXKFCrNAKlRquTCFWa9W6Qq2uQKNUa2RynUyhkMqFYqlIpsx7zp8z55XmJ71IFDqJTMvfDkllQjyBOD9PJpDIRTKlUCLn8UUoVwChXBKNSSLTaEwIYLGpAEyi0Cl0BpV5NcyrI5nOINNpFMbE5zQAoIEgFQDJAESGYBoLzbfWZBDOnzZ/T/JEZWbQEQRmsSAqlUImkwEARlg8FsyRSdUKuY5EoouEqgfufeyPv1/eaHrj00/b1rzxznMvvPTQ0ifyW3w+99xLTzzxYmnx5NLCKo28pFBRPklbo5OUVOmmTC+eMU01+eH5D25a8Z5rjc1hsOD1Dn+Dx1fnwZdj2ArMWYfZVrotDe7vYPYYfT8+ec//stNmwm0g3AaP+wrmq3Fdc+AyeDG919OAu5ZZfXrMXW9zGG2uFge20TV0cDA3mMuFcrlELpXMBmOJoUhgMBIYDQdC4VAkGonFY4lkIplKTiT/8Kgf5CrjvOR/lPHfxZxOx+LpYDQdiKQDoeTYWHxsJDo2FBnvDwUuB4O9wfCF8fC5scDp4bHjA8NHe4cO9w4e6us70Nu/r3d4T/+Iv+9C58kvP9znbrTYzG1tTTs3vrae2OmJjsbj0fR4cOK7KplMXrcaf/+VTaeurDNHxqOBvsDAicELBy8ddR/p+bjbsdpub7S6zE6nweFucGMGL2Hsxoy7J2LqxkxdmMlPNHbjjT6nAXObcMzs7lrj3/GX7U9Oe6IYKZXzNCpRgZivQFERmy+RqQt05RWFlVUl1dXlVVUlpaVatVotlarFEpFAwEK5bL6IL5blT5ghlMuAEBKNSQdZ+ZNnAOFwBOL8KvScBYtuuu3OG266debcBXMWLFp8y+1zFy6unDxNV1zGE0npAEwi00hkGpUJQSibDgIUBu2HIVHJJBqFTKdSGDQqwKCBTDoE0ECAAkL56a6JGS8mSKLQSAzgh5jJTCaJTGLQqTQalUQiMZlMLoeHsrhUKoAiPLlMy2GLhQLltCkLnn/mtzu2Wt9+d/NLf3jt0Z8/99NHnnrsied/9vNnlz781L33PjJ9yvzykmohTyHhKwrV5YWq0mmVs+ZPnl8pK7+hdO6al5vwN2wOfYfltV3Ycru/FieuYLbWuzv/D2PGMQP+wxJ97cSY0+hzGn0uvY9o8GC1ji4j4VppdZrs2BqXba3ltO9UbjCbC+dyyVwmnQ0nUvnKPBoNjIfHw9FQNB6JJ2OJVDyRyo/Xzz8v+bqY0+l0PJ4OhbPBUDownhwbjo30h4cvBUYujI2eGx07MzJ+Ynjsm8Hhry8PfnH+8v5TvXtOX+o5e6nrXC9x7qL91Mkth/ev9XT+Zcv2P/zVbeywmlo3LX/Xv80b7g8nI+lgIBqNxeLxeCwWi8Vi+am7a1uM7xfnTCqejkfi0XAoGhwNjV4a7T3ae3r/2YOWL9xvuzrM7XazFW/GnHqHq95FGH1/H7MfM3swM+E0OLyrPJa6zldu/2O1aLIYVYg5ch4qYbH4EJsvkqu0ZZMKKyuLqipLKyYVFhWqFAqFSKQUCsUCAcrhs/kijkCMcAUgwpmY5aIyUK4gf4dw/oLNssqakklVZZU1cxYsmj57nrqgWKUrqpw8rayypri8cvL0WZOqpyi1hTCbR6EDNABGeXyABVMBGg38fsgMCoVJpTCpNJBGA+l0iMGAAToM0VkIHWEzUA4D5VBhhARAJBrjupWZCgAMBp1KIZNJJBqVwoJgBEYoZDob4fG5YpCJlhRW8jhSgMG5/55H17a8Xbuy6Ylnf7PkvkeX3PvoAw89tmTJQ4sX3T571g0VZVMKtWU8tljIk+nUxQqpRqcumVkze0bR5BmampXPve5c0441djpWtPvr3d21uGcZhl/B3KH/Lmavye8zdV0Zu344XnvgNfo9Bh9h8F0zen8wTvz0H5V/BTOBGYjvSvbl4zD4nYYup6HLYfB7DD5PvbvH7HWttLrMDmKtu61p16GOL6JnovHBZHw8GQrGhgLBy+PDvWNDg8HhYDQYiYXjyVgynUhlksn8vlg/TCaRTCf+y631f4o5Fk0GxhJjI/HhgchQb6D/3EjfycG+4319R3v7D1/sP3S+77Mzl/Z8e9Z75KT70Lf2g8c6Dx5r+/LIlgOfbfDhK9vbf/fXT597q+PlzXtXYe7G9u31H9veaj/9+alUMJVO5rcWzKXT6Tzgq/+B61DOpBOpRCgWCoRDwUBofDgweG7o3Jfnjvd8u3fnns61HdtXbrObrd7VHofB4Vzp9Ji7PKbduGnvRMy7cXMPbu4izF242etp9uONHkudhWjCfau8G19Yv6BwoQCWcAA+CvFZCA9gcdgCsVit5SsVIpVKqpRLZGKxkC/lc5UivlwiFV2ZxEaubDbChFEGjEoU6sLSSXK1TihVqHRFuuIydUHx3IWLf/bkM4/8/MmZcxdU1Eyds2DRjDnzSyZVlUyqKq+aXFRWIZIpmTBKojHJdDoDBJgwwICZ/2noMJOJsAA2h8Hm5jFPTGLnm+0fYKZBEJuNUilkKoUMgwDAZFLIFDodVMo0NZXTdOoSLiqWibUaRWll+fRfPPPSS79//b6lTy688a4Fi++87bZ7b731JzcuvmPu7EUFmpICTYlcqtapi0pLKmUytUymnlo5bUbp5EppyR+W/rrNtMXbYvebXXtMnu5awvu6G1+BOeowS8MPMPvMXb7Grv9ovOat1+T/bq32/mD8ThnH9B7sqtW/M+L6/Kk1cQUzjhlw14Rnr8vgdRp8ToPPYfQ5jH6Hodth7HYY/F5zt9/g2dPkd660usxOYh2+Xb9199ae8RPBcG80PBQdGw0NjI5fHhnuHRkaCY3F04lEOpnO5nfpm7hCOp1Jpb6XdDqVSf3zkv8e5kg4PtgfGOoL9F8cuXxq8NLxyxe+vnDx0Plz+0+d23PifPe357xHTzoPfWM98HXrnoNbu30bnb43nE79rs2/envDT01vPdi4+fENzt9v6663Y4YO9xpLx7pdn9sPJMcT6Xg2Ek5Eo7FQKBQIBILBUCQaTSSSyWQqk8mkMxOGJybGMplYMj4eGhsdHx8bHR8bGOs/1X/q89NHvEd6tna3Nu/8ZNlmm8niX+t16h2OOrvX5Peae4jGvVeym2jsIRq7cXMXZvZ2rd5NNHtbX291m9xfvPOF1Wi9a+pdUlTOg0RcllgolLH5YoQv4ssVqFiEioU8sYAv5HHZKB9lyfh8uUQmEMvyd/NzhRKJQq0uKCkur0LYPJ5IWlpRrS0qVWoLq6ZMnz5nfs20mQ//7PGWtW++sf7tp5994c677733gZ/edueSaTPnlFfUaAtLJHIVXyRDuQIGiFAZIBOGAOTagPkR4rAgDgtEIRCFmCyQyQIYMBNAWTCfD3D5DDaHhrDpCJvJ5kI8ARVGSEyQzITITIgMgCQAJAMgDQJZLBaJRKLTqFwOm0qlkEgktVJ3w4Kbf3L3A48+/MTMafNlEq2Qr5BLC+bMWvzkM79+4NGn5txw6+z5Ny9afMe8eTdOrplVVlKtlGlVCp1AIJFIlbqCEqVaV1k1+YZ5i2sKKkqEBb+877nNK973rLH3rMKJWpt3mdOzzI2twBx1bkuDq13v+g5mr8lHNHq8Jp+n0esxea8zXvOWMHkJs4cwevIjbiY8Ru+147U/JUwezEBgRgI3EPiVg+uNOGHwYEb82rhNuNvoycdl8rpMXqfZ6zJ5XUaf0+Rzmbwec5fX5Otq9LsMLmeTy7kG22lqdX+ADx4ZDZ6PRAYTkUByfCw2MBIYGBkbGh8fCQbHwqFIKpm6doO+bDaVySbT2VQ6m86vvmZyqXQ2k8n+kz32dTFns9loNNrX13fx/MVzJ8+fOXLu289PftN97Fvf8ZPeE8ed35xynjjWdvjr7Yd2v+Pp2uD2rXZ0LNuy4+VNHz27YcNDTc23162+U//Ro2+5X+nsNngc9TZsDWZZZ8c3+y4eHYgH0oGx6OBQYGh4bGQsODIaHBgcGRoeHQ9GwpF4PJXMZDPJTDqRTMSSiUw2k0gmx8cCwbHQ+FBgtHd04NTgqX2nvrB9jr3v3mnatn3lNlezw7/a46y3OeusfrPXY+7Czd3XpCs/+4WZfN7mbrzJa11pd5vwPW/u86z1/eHhPxVLyjkMoUqkE/FlLDaPJ5GypSJYwBUoZQKFBOFxODy+XKqUi+QIzAUgVKLQFpVV5XfDKyipKK+aykL4AMxRqAuLSismT5+zYPGt9zyw9Nlf/OrPf17+1lvvf/jhJw0NjS+99Mfnn//Vww8/duutd82Zs2jKlJk6XSmbLZTJNNXV09WaYoQvYPG5MI8LcjlMNsrkwBCXA/PYIBcBuQjIgUEODHIgkAMBbJDJZzEFKBUBKRBIQ9kQTwTzxSBHRAc5VCZKZSJUAKYBAAVi0EA6FaTTAAYTBAEIAkGQTKGyUG715On3P/jI/Q8+cs99Dz340KPTZsyTK3W6gjKJVH33kgcfe/K5W++8d+a8RZVTZhVPqlbpSkQKFV+q4EnkEJsHc/giqUKh1lXXTJ0xZXaVtqJaWfHEbT/bZtjctRHHzHZXnYVY6cBXutwrXc56h03vsOi/ezknbiIwM54fMRN+nfGHH14T3Ex8b/zuT3H8muPrjtf9RcyMY2biO2m89sCDm7yE0YebfO4mr6MZt6xyda62t79h+cJ++OzBS4OnxvrOjPSeH+3vG790afh878DlkdGB8WAokUjmcslsLpLIBCKJRDqTzuXiyVwy+bcNsVOJq3cL/1PN9nUvL0mlYsNjfWfOfHv0y6+/3n/4q66vDjm//KL90OG2owc2f3l027f73/38wLsHd73e3rqstfO1Vm+ttf3XH296bP27D6198yerNtyz9tOnPvbW+vat/txp8FibPB1r8J1r7bs7vo6NJtOJ3Mh4IhBMxVO5RDI3PBYZHY1EE+lwNBGIREfGx3oH+i5cunjhcu/w6HBgLBAaDUdHY8G+0Oi5scETw6f3nNq7Y3fn2radhm0Wc7t3Ne5txhx1FqzO2tPkI0xezOS7btxGL2by4o0+zOx1GQn3Ks9HdR8vrrmZRxVpRUV8VMhicWQqNSLk0dmQSKMQqOQAwuYIJFptuUSkY7GEMnlBzbQ58xbeMnnaHJW2RCzTqnVlECIAYB5XINMWls9dcPONt9z1yM+eNhhbVq/asKppXXPjG6ua3tCvbPrjy6++8NxvH3/s2bvuuH/h/Jun1MwS8RVSsXrWjAXVVdP5UiVLLIZEQiaPR2MjVDYL4HFhIR8ScmEhFxZyERGXLeFwpFyOhIcoeKCCwxDANA7M5PNZAinIltAAAPi2EgAAIABJREFUPo0pYAICBsBhgCw6BNBhKh0mUyEymUFDBEKQyyNRaVQQkmoKKqZOn7v4pgU33zZpyrQps+befNdPbrrz7oqp02Vq3aw5C5Ysuf/W2++unDpDVlAkKSyUFpfwdVpIKgXFYkgoggVCtlAikatUKp1KrKlSVc4smP7g/Pvb1uzqfr+rQ9/manQQZhdmdGIGh0tvcxisdsN3N8G/nqL/+yFwk5cw+nGTz9XocTbhtlUuS4ujbY3Vtcl75kDvyKngqa8unD85EAulAqPRCxcH+0cDo+F4LJVN53KpbC6WyARC8UQqk87kEvFcIjFxH3EmlUvE/1WYs9lsJpeMxscvnj99oGdvl837meOzg9ZD3X/d0/3uXmJd9763v/Cu6ulas3fbH3due2VX+19a9xpw1x93bnnq3Q8eXv/+Qxu2PvVJ1zL/gaYvvA1dnqYezxt7O1vwT4xt2Md7R05HcslcLJGLRHKp/DJ7KptM5TK5XDyR7hsYOXb82y8Pf33s+Denzp05f+FCf+9AaDgcGYqOXwqOnBkdODZwsvvknu27O9e2tRp22EwdnlVubxPmqrcQ9fYus+c/wPy9uJo87S2WX//0pTJphQSWSzgypUKr0RUKpGJEzOXKRRyxGObwEY5IIFILeCqlonjylHmVNTOLSmtkykKRVKPSllbWzOTwZTAqRLkSqaJg4eLbf/7kL176/atG42qjvqW+1vzqK7Uv//bPv37x9y8899tfPPubX/7id88/8+vbb/lJZflUhVTH50glQlVhQZlYqUWkUpZEDAqEAJ8HCgQskRCViFkiPiris0UCjljAkQi4Uj5PKmRJOEwpG1YKYbkY4AuoMJcOCWC2nAEIaXQOg44yGBAVpNMAMhUiUQASiUahI2wGyqWyUFggUhQWF1fVFFfVlE2eOmnqdFVxqUxXWD5lWvXM2eqiUrW2qKKipmryNF3ZJJFWx1WrWXI5XSig8LgULofG4TDYHJDDR7kCPk8s4UhLJaU1suoH5j+wrWmbe4O7tX6XpaHTbXBiRqd7ArPFbvju42n+t1n+lzH7CJMPN/ncjR5XE25f5bK2OFtbLDvWdh7xnOw/OnLii3Nnj/UGhqL9l0ZOHD/fe3lkZDwSiqRiiUw6v7V9/snkiVw8lksmcqlELp3MJeO5eOxfiDmbTaaS0aHLvbuJ7tYPdjo2Obo+9jvWuVyrCbsR86/Zg5l8/lW7d/xx185X21v/vHPrix988szbm598e+vTH7S+sBX7k/2r5kOHWr7Eawl/U0/3G/tszdjH9Ts61ruPes/GhlPxaC4wlo6EMslYLhnPJWKZSDh5+dLQ6VPnjx8/eerkmcuX+4eGRwb7BwcvDY5fDgQvh4bPjw2cGLp8uO+493jXJ/62ll2tpp32RgvR7CLMLle99Qpmz4/E7DQT+Nu+jcvfXTL7J1JYIUEVBeoijUYnU6tkOhVPKuYIRVyRjMuXcrkysUirVpVpdeUydaFErpMpC7WFk0onTamsmSmR69g8KZ2JwqjwltvveW25vsHYUltr+vMrK1769Z+eefLFRx9+culDj//80WeefuKF557+1Wuv1P7lTyumT57LQUQaZXGRbpJcppVpCsS6Ar5SxZUruHKFQKkSqdQipRLicCE2G+ZwWFwuyuVyeDyuQMBAYRJEYwo4sEjEYPMoAAdgiXkiHQMUkKgwlQpTaQCZQSUzSCQmicwgkZl0MgBTQJiBcvhypbqkTFdeIdUWSDQ6VXEpSyAi0ZkwTyBUqhGBiAmy2Gy+UKrgyxSIWMIUCikcDgkCSTBEYsEkFovKQugslAkhAJPFAbg6vm6SaNLDix7ZatpiXWNtq2/rWNnpbHDgBrfb4Px3xuxodllXudpXWz42bnVt8hzxfnvuy8sXjvafPdJ77OCZ09/2RiPJZDIdjaRGRqLj47FIJBkJp2LhTDyaS0Rz8Wg2Fs3Gotl4NBePZf9VbXY2l0kl08lkPBg7tv/rtnd3bWneYl1rdaxyuZsJ20p3V/Me3ODtXrVn15/bO5bZO15r++i5tz55buOWX7y3/flNbb/c4ny5w7/M01Pf7V/p8xh8nia/swlvNVvaV9vwj/wXjwyN9cUHLoQGL4ZHLsdG+6NDvcHes0Nnjl+4cPrS5fP9fRf6e8/1nj914fQ3py+eOD96YXTs/PjQyeG+I/0Xv7h0FDvq3UTsatzRbtrpbLbjTS7M5MT0Do/e5TUTPx6zy0xgG7271nX+6bFXJqunyFgKKVcuFslUWo2qQMsXi9lCkUCiEAjlPI5MKtYVFVWVl08pLKkqLqupnjJ72swFVZNnFRRXFpVWq3VlVAYCQNx7H3h01ZqNpqZ1v/vdX55/7jdPPvGLpT99/IH7Hrn/vkcefujnjz/27NKfPv6H37/WZF43f+6NXI6kpmrGjGnzlIoiqUonUmvZEhlLKEHFUp5EzpPIeWIply/h8kV8gVgglAgFErFQKhHL+UIxyuejQhEqkLC4YgiRQIgUYcuZoJDG5NCZCB2A6BCDDlEZEIUB05goi8QASVQ6FUa4Urm8oEhZVKIoLBartQKFiiORARwemQmS6UwahNCZMJ0O0kEWnYVSEZQEwyQAIAHMK55ZFBZCgxE6wGLQQQ7A1XC15cLyJ29/envTjs4Wi81ss+qtzgYHbsD+hln/79Bm44TJ4zH6CJMXM3vcjbij2W1d5bKsdnSus3dusH9uOzx+OproSw+fCgydDYwPxCPjqVw6Fw+nBy+HhvvDobHU+Eg8NJqMhbLxSDYWzoSDqVAwGQmnY9H0v7AypzLZZCaXzgUvBva37dvRvKPd1NG1vse3qtuyzOEz97hXerzm7q1/2LXz1c7WV1t3/OGjnb97/+PnNr7zyOpNP99o+e3O7hW+fYa9PQ3dxEoCb8CIJsK9Gnesdrat6jjmOzVyPjLemwj0JsYvxcZ7o6MXwn0nhy4ev9R3uq/vdP/Zo2eOfX70m8+PnTt6tu9k3+DJwZFTwwNHB3oPXTy378xh+1fYu9hO4/ZOc5u7xe1udLoNDsLo8hlxwkD8+Dbb3ehxrHZZ3rS/s/y9x297slRczqZzuahAoVCKpTKuUIDyBRyBiMeX8PkysVBdUlwzY+aCSVXTK6pnTJ+1cP4Nt86ed2P1lNmz5i6eMn0eVyAXStQPLX2i3rDqT3+pfezx52688c4bFt66cMEt8+fdNH/eTQvm33zDwltvvumuR5Y++bNHn54ze1FZac2k8iklxVWVFdOKyqrEah0qkiF8MUck5YnkbL4E5YiEQoVIoJAKlDKhSiZUykUqpVgj4Ss4iABhCVgsIRuVcjgKNlsOs6QIW4ZypShXhPL4KJ+N8hEOH0b5KMzlkuhMEplKBmFYIOLJFCKVRqot4EhkDJTDkciESjUdhEkkEpOFohwBALBIVAaJziQBIInJJDEYJBiaqMwwTGYhNBhhQigIIAKWSMXWlAsmvXj/r3e2tHU0W7A1hMvscjY4cQPu1rtcervDYLXrv7tt0P86y/8qZsJj9BImTx6zs8ltW+WytjjaWiyfGre1r7d96Tra/9Xw8DeB8TPRS0cHj31xJjQQT4xlA/2J2Fg6E88lwtnQSDIylkqEc7FwNjSeGB+NhQKJWDj1r8M88ZCbTC4XzvV/3k+8TbQ3dOxdv29Py177606/aber1kMYuzb/bvuWV3Z9+sqWTb/Z+OEv1735qMl894oND69y/Kn967WHDq851F3n7Wrw+g0efyPha/EQLViHuWP39v3nDl4OXkhGe9PB8/HQhVj4YnzsbODS0cuXjly68PX5M4dOnv3yVP+3vbH+cKg30H+0b/ibob6v+i58du5M9+kvOw46Nzq2N2y1mDvw1bjL5HTWOzwm3G/24Hoc/3GSMZMPM3sdza7OFqt9vWPDq2/dVH0znyEQcyRigYTLE4ilMqFYyuEKRCKFRl2klBdq1KVl5VMKiitLJ02ZOWfRTbcuuf2u+2+5/Z4bbrxj5pxFRaXVJeWTb7vzvgd++vM7lzx4+133z5y5cMaMBTNnLpw5Y8HMGQtmzVw4a+bChQtumTN7UWlpTXX1zKqqGXJ5gVpVPH/+zTPnLCyaVCXTFIplapmyQKksFEvUPI6cj0qFiFSMyMSIXIooZKhSzlaJYBmPLhRCcgFLwYVlKCRFERmbq+TwlWy+lM0XswVCjpDLEbJ5QpQjZAMoSqIxyDQGDWEDHB6TzYX5wokbM+hMGowAHB4FgEhUGhWA2FwhCKIkMo3EBKkshAyCJAAgoQiJBZNgiARBJBCiQiwIYbNRvpgtk8OqMn757x7+Y+vq9lZzp+/NbqyJcNS7cAPu1mOuBofDYLPrv7tt0P86y38Cs4cweXCTBzPj7kbM0ey2t7gcb7hbWzo367fuWtP5pf3Y2NHQ+LeRI75v92NfhXrjuVAuM57LhnPZaC7QHx2/HImNppKhXDyYDY/FR4fCwbH4vxZzNpdN5DLBbC6ai52JH/jrgdblrf4m/2erP/PUefau2o83eL2NPZt/v2PzX3b+9ZXNbzzfvOGFpjWPG833rXhjaWPb77Z0ryT8tYRvBb6/seezVT09jV6vGfM1Y8Rq9xbjdudHnhO7z58/cPnk7nOn9547/3nvhS8u9h8ZvPzV5b6ve4eOD4yfGh07NdR/tPfyVxcGj/QPHxnoP3j54r4LZ/1nvmw76HzTvn3lVpu507va4zK6HCvtHqOny+zHGogfj9lt9hBrfO0my56P9ns/9D1248/ViEYr1PERAY8rLCwsLiwsFoukGnXR5OoZZSU1Om1ZReX06qlz5i285Y67H7j3gUeX3PvwLbffM23mginT512NSluq0pbOmru4omp6+aSpZeVTSssnl5VPmVQxtbJqes3kWcWl1WpNaUlpjUCo5HCl02csuPmWu2fNvaG8copSWyyVaxSKApWiRMRXcSGJBFFKEZWMpVSwVEpYo2JplKCqXFRxY8XNt0y5Y27FYq2oHKYJqBQUBAUgS8CAOQwWymDBTBbAZAEgzGCymGQGk0ShUUE4vzkJiQGQAYiBclgCESIUUwGIRKYyEDbMF1IYAIxwGEyYRKJRYQTgC8j5TjuPGQRIDAaJziCDMIhweFyRlKsQM+VFnNKXl76yq6V9h6Hdv363u5Gw17txg8etx10Nbofebv/e0tT/Ost/BrPHhBMmHDPj7kbc1eR2NLtc63BLi2OHqW1HUxv+vv+I7fjZ7t6TXecOOY98RXxz9otL4Qvx7EguO5pLjaYjA/HwQCI8lEjHsmdPXAgOR9PJTCySTCRS+Run8p4zV15/Z07r+q/r807lMtFcNpaLDyXCxyIHPj7QunxXd3PXvlV7/QbfZ2sO+Bq7iWb/By9/0tHk+uDVj5pfMK79tdnw89rf3vjCey9utLy2y/6XjkNrDvjrPHsM/j0mb5eR8BndXrOLaHJZW2ybjdt2re085j4xejhwYc+lbz0nz+8+f8L77bndZy7uO3dx/9nBLy+PHR28/Pn583tP9x/q7T1w/gRx7LD10NedX+7dvLvNtLNd3+pqcmJNGGbCcSNOmHxeo48weIkfX5lNXszsxZpxi9Hq2oDtXLVzyYy7+ICgUFGEgGyRQCqTKaRSRXFReXXlNKW8sKBg0s23Lrnj7gcefPjxRx575qePPHnnkgcX3XTn5GlzK6pnFBRX8oQKlCsRStT550uptKUqXalaV6YpLNcVVRaWVhWX1xSWVCrUxTJVkVJTLFcVFRRXTZuxYPqshbPmLlq0+HaVqkgoVChkhRxYrJGUlCoqpxXPXlh145I59z15xzO/W/rH5c/U6V80rvn92k/1Wz41bVm/7O2n7n1ByFIwaRyAyaPQYSoTpoL5G5gpNCYNggEWm0VmMkl0JgVigVw+DUZIVDqZCeYxo2IpA2Hn6zMD5ZBpTBodoNIAMo1JZoIUCCZBEAkESdCVgCCJAZAYABNCOGyBnKcU0qUVksmGXzfZ1rt2GjucTTjW6HXpPZjB49YTrga3Q++0N9j+v8eMm3CPcQLzNZ7dria3azVmaXK0mSxtZqttLeZ/f88XOw6fxM+d6b5w0Hr4K9c3Z/devPBFX+/hwdEzwcDFyOj5UN+poYELI998eWJ8MJhJ5CKheDyRyt+rkDeZx/nfgDmXTaeyiVAmG8ulRzMjB0e73+vqrGvravT6DR68zrW7ebdvVVeH3qZ/ountVz8y/Kq54ZcrG18yrHx62Yu3Pv/8vKfr76/teLV1f8tuv97b1eDt0hNdesJvxPxGF2FyeNYR7S3WnU1tnvf8B3d99dnWz70feDwfEAdbPz/cefDL9gNHrAf7919InQqnToT79p/7xn34G9fhg7v279+y+8CWfd3veXfWb7MYOt3NmNuMYWYPYfIRJp/H6CeM/h8t2YeZfK4GYu+6fS6Ty97s2PvJ3rrn6ybJKgpEOi7A4SF8HpcvFIi1mqKykkqFVKvVlM5bcPONt9x99z0/ve/Bny259+Gbbl0y/4Zbp86YP6lqukJdzIS4dIAtlKhVmlKxXCdW6CTKAqmqUK4pUunK1IXl2uIKVUGZWK4VSNVCmUapKy0qrympmFJaMbV68qw5sxeJhEoWJBCy5aXqqmeXvvjaL1esW7H+nYb3Nzdu2bW2zbbR6X4bJ9714W/ivg1+79s+59t4yx/fqFBNZQNigMklU0EqAFJBII+ZzqTBMMQX8uVaLUsgosIIBYRJDIDMBFl8ISIUAxweSyBisrkUGJnYpQSAKVQmlQaQ6QCJAZAYTBIAkACABAIkGCIjLAqKUmAWBYQBGOWwhWK2QsxQ3FB+8/pl7zo24jv07RaD067HXQ0eXO91N3hcDbhD77Y3OP4tMJtwnxH3XoM5X5+JVV5XM2ZtdHaa7LZml3udx/t2j/+Dvd4Pe3wf79mz9bOerfuJj7t9W7s/d315kPhqn+uA39bjaie+/epUcCScTeUy6WwqlcnkH838IzrnH4k5/1kqnQ0FE7FAKpfIXfjsgmOd3WG24g32nkbCY8Q8Tbjd7DA+1TxLvnCaakGVasY9i+67c8Fdd826676Z92lomruL7mqvbXc1OH0mr9/o6dJ7rmL2mVxWvQVbR3g2eLev3LG1dpvvLd/u93vsqy3OtVbf2+4Dm3efcx2PHBqJfjly1vXNvk98XR9hPR97uj4kuj/07t3U5dng3l63NY8ZM+MTmI1+wtj9D2HGTT5XHfbZms8+e3O/0+z0vOW1vGF57p7nFYhcwhKJOCI2wmGjXIVMXVJYXqguUSmLCourKmtmzpq7eOHi2xcuvn32vBunzphfNXlWWcVUhboY4YgBmIdyJRy+jMUWsQUyVChnixQcsZInVfNlGqFcK5BreRIVWyhHhXK+TCPVFCt0pUpdqVJVrFIWcVAJSOOgDME9Nz/Uusnq+tRjecdhfdtpf8vlWO+2rXF2NtvajZ12g9XbhLvNLt9b/p0t7fffsFTK0TJpCJkGkEGQDDEpAI1Mp9GZDBYL5vH5UrWGLZayxVKxWivV6LhSeb7fZrK5LIGIgXLIIJy/JpQKsmgMiM6AqEyIBEAkECJBEAmCSDBEQhEqj8vk8wEun4lyWWyegCfhAiIZpHvstmc2N+2wvInt0HdYDO6OWqdjJYEbfNdg/u7lnP/rMv95zHnPedJ4I4E1Ee5G3Nnodpjd9kbM0Yx1Njosq52fbz98Br/4jfP0nm0HvJ9072s/4Pire9vbu7a9t+ujjZsvnxnIxrK5dL6Afv9izH8Sc/ZKr55MZwOReGAsnsvmjvUcaVu1y7PO5dK3O+ra7HVtDrMVX4/VPVVfxK5QoMUqcYlMomHQIITB03AL2CTeXNnC93+/yWlyEWbCa/T4jR6/gfAbcL8R85ncHbVtnrWeve/sa1vZtmPZjv3v7T3RevzQXw90b8A/+6Drm52Hel2nBoiz3+z43Na4c9vKj+zrWh1vtGPrbb633L6NmGOVZeuyLRaDBWsiMLMHm5Ccx9yNmX6sZ8Lkd6/A/fVdn7XsdzY4LCbL3k/2vvn6mxWKSXK2VIgK2TCbx+Yr5ZoiXUmhulgu1YplWk1BeVnF1KrJs6qnzJ5UNb2kfHJRabW2cJJYpkU4YggRwKgQgHk0kA2whQBbCHJEEFcM8yQsvpTFl7JFCrZIweJLYZ4EFcp5UjVPpuFJVAKRko0IeaiUAwh5gOSFn73k3dnTutGyY01b+5rOzhabtcVhbXbaTE67weE1El0Gr2OFrfvN7u5Ne/781LIi6SSAjlAYIBlkkiH6VcwIzOJy+QhPSEfYqFCsKS0vrZmiKi7lSuUglw9y+XnMJCZIAWEqjJBoTBodZDBhGgCTQZgEwSQYJsEwiQWTUITK50FCISwQwVwByhUIBVKUzi8SVi17Xt+x0dWx1rXLYLebPVcwd7kbfK56wtGA/9tgxnxGt884gflv/bYBd5sIzOzBmrxYk9fd5HWaPTYz5tnQfbzjdK934Bvrya6/7nG+izs/wO0fua0fO5zbMPtOZ2g0lMvk0rFMMpb678WcvXbfj1w2mEoEQrFcLvdV16EdzVu6NrrxpvbOFVtt9TsdzR2+D4i/PPkXJUfHY8kkUi3E5ZOoNBIVopFREVNVglb95s4/etf3uBsJ3OTxGj0+I+Ez4j4j5jW53Uanp8XTta4La8KsDVaX2dn9pu/z9/eet5w63Xrs8OYDe9/2EqstDvMuV3O7s6Xd2rzD1tKKrbN61jvcLdaOhp1bX/vUqrdexYyZ/JipmzDu/gcx+/z6HveruL/B7zF5W2t3ed8jdq7bsfSWpSquUgDzeAhHKpDolAWF6kK1XCuTaKRynVJToiuqKCypKiiuVOvKFOpimbJQKFGjXAmLLWKxRRAiYEJcOsRhogImR5gPwBUBXBHIE8MCKSKSQ3wJxJcgIjkqViAiOcQViyVqhMnlwiI2U6Dk6Jb9pt6xyb1x+bu2jS73RsK9zout8eCrvHiTx2vy7jb37Knvcr/m8JiJPR/ufePP6ycXzIAYbCoAkkAGCaaTwCuVGUYEApFMraMjbDKVTgNhVCQRqTTKohKptoArlQsUKpZANLHJAQslURkMBgSCKANCqDBCYSEkBCEhCAlFSCiLwuUAfD7IF0BcPpsnFAvlIkR+Q/WtG2o/sL5DtLY4OpswZ7Pf1uBxNfgx/TWY67F/K8zf8+xqcLv1GG4i8EYf0diVj92IW80u74Ye4k1/e6N1h7mtbY2lc6O9/W1r+/udnjb/0f3HkpFkLp1LRlKRUDSVTP23tNn5g6sbcSVTqVgmHc6loplMMpb+HPtsR8snxHqLd02nw7TTv87uXNtue6v9sTsfg5lcKg2kAiCJQaXz2HylmkSCIIqIR1Y+vviFfR8fsjfimNnjMXo8JsJ7BTNhwmwr7c4Gh7/F520mOpa32eo6etZ597zh86/FvKscTmN76+sf73htk9vU6n/D6V7T4WhpxdZaPeucdnPHzhXbty/bbjfasSYcm1hV7vovYMaNvs+aDnhf83lrfXtW7bE2WGxrrM53HabfG4tEOh7A4UJcuUiuUxZo5VqVTK1U6FTqEpWuTFNQrikoV2pKZMpCiVwnkmpQroQJcSFEgHDEIIvPhLggKgDY35F81TPEl+QPWEIZKlZAAikT4cvkOhbIhelciMyu1k5dX/+2+6+evxo/bW3p7Gy2Wc0Ou9HlMuC4wesz+vboe/bX7vEv9zpr7b43fZ+YPp1bsRCko9/DzGAwEBjh84VCmZLOQklUOgWAGCiHyeGy+EK+XCnTFcoLivhyJcwX5kODECaIgBDKhFFa/qIRFCWhKImNklCEzGHTuVwGhwty+DyhRC5TVxZO+cXDL217o7N9I7Zrld2xxudq7nIZ/Zi+G9N3uxv8rnrC0UD8m2F2/4200eMxetz1bne9G2sgMIMHN/hwgw8z+NxGr7vZ61xF7NJ3bq9vta1zEu/5HO+42jd2tr3Xsdu6J3g5mAymsslsLpVLJ9PJxN+msq+trv8Q5quS85hTqVQylYqkE6FcMp3L9fcN+ju929ds7lj1qX+9tVP/qWddh23tjrYNOx6+c6lcpuFIZSyJkARSyTCTKRRRAA6JBGv4lfpfren68IC1CXM1ErjJ4zERHhPuMWEekxs3uKwrLPZaq6/R273KjxmdHpOrqwX/5KUPNr/0bsfrWz2NVszY3v76J22vfuw2t3rWWh1NrdhqC77G1qnftWPZ1o6V7S6zy934HcxXdiP4BzDvNx/YvWJvd21Pj7nHaXA6Wmz4B9gm0weVynIByGXTWWKeSClRKcT/j723Do/ruhP+ZQuGmUksGQMONm2aZrdN+dctpFvK293S2zZkWzgzkoZBZE6cxCGTcOAyDovMzJZlkGVbki1ZtnBE8/tDsevYSn9xN9n3t7uvn89znnn0XJ97D3zme87R1Tm67PScnOzF6ZmL0rPmWDwXk1XaHJU2hy9UpDIFczIzOeI0lpAtkN+VmSGUpQmkd0nhipO5ohS+eC5QM4SyhSy+RKrhMcUynlrKUn33uR/WbWzEPiDRzQS0DkNrcaKKoiuD0erW9jW7Dmw4sNexZ3dZ25GqA7SZDK0NYm9jLz313bSFnIWMtCRWyt8ic2oqn8MXCiQL0lhJqQyGQDR3DNVCNndhKoPFF0o0OpkuQ6BQzY23+XIlSyBmc4UcrpDFE6bxhakC4UKhcKFQuEAkXCASJotFqUJRCl/AEclUuszsrPzvvvCjd5xbyW2x5vWYt4agN7UjriDhjARcbX9P5lBlOFAVDFWGg1WhYGVonnTeH1aF5v7Q6u5//8/MJFQZmpsz30N4TuaAIxhwBAP2UMARouewh4KuaLimlaoMg1as2QwiNQS+id5m2xneGTscON617/zk7cn4rcmZiZnZmdnZmdn43G5g/9Cvpj51QOTs7PT0zNTU9Mzk1HR8aiY+OT4ZH52ZSswmLpy5GGiivWsaQVdTywb4mhw2AAAgAElEQVSKcAHtb4ep9WhzdcNPX/iZkq9NTmYlLUhhcAVJC1MXLmBKOBpRqvLlr78Cv0WTm0JENU1XB+nquWr5ZMkgVBkOVYaDrlDAGQg4g4FPXuLFMSvkKa3zGuopFxSuwWk3RLrA0Bo0sBbB3D6iGqJqENDq9ZmaMSdGVwXo6rtvbsYClS13iAXuvEL79wlXRmP29lZre9TWGnJEKDdNr6GD7wYaaxqez/+qgiHlL+SKOBK5WK1Rpmdl5mVnL07PyM3MWpSekafT5Wh0OWpdjkqbrdJmC8SKNKaAyRexBdJUNj+ZyWcIxKkCUYpAeJdUgSiFL0rmihawBQs5whSuOI0vZfAkKRzRQgafx5MJOdJ0afYS7SN/fvlV39uQd60f20jSG8OBtWG6KkQ7ArQ1ELQFw/ZIxBhtM7YfW3ss7IyQawPUR6HvfO1HC5KYSWmpC3msBRxGEjN1YRqDwxLwWSIRR8bmCNNY3GQGe26XbwZXwBfJeBLZ3NsjTJE4hS9gSiRsmYwhErK4PA6Xx+Lx0gT8VAF/oUiYLBItEIlSJVKWVJHGkwjEapk4PUO96JGcJ1775Sri/XB02x5PFQpWUoEN7aCNwu1BytVKO1soR5Scd5g9t8XH3BZcQWdoLg26QuHKSKgyEnZHwu5PPsyXzr1TeW86/5VfbCZhdyR8x947fPZWR+5oS3V7xN0WcERb1+yCzDjiJE4D584SFy61Xznfcalzz/nbV8YS8cTkyMzY8OTszOzU9NSDm5BMz0zdc3zjJ8zOziRmZhMzc2cmJ2ZmE1OJT5hOJKZnEpPx6fhofGpkYnZkMjE2nYjPJmYTM2MzFw9eQN9BABcQW98WtAWJcjLsjLWu6yBqadcfXN9c8pKKrZEz5TnMdF2aPJOlfk7+5Ovf+ctHJe8HNwQiG8OkGyfdFOWmKXeAcgdpV/Du9ml/2zjNHaTcQdJFIVYYtoKQDcTdaGR9sGVTmK7BMReIuyHE7gctzYDZA1kA1A4TTox0UZQ7eHebl7vc2cn8b2nAGQ66IuHK6J3fYH2Sht2xkLOVskYD9mhrbUektgV1oGQtSW4gf/P8bxQLlBqWRsFRy4Sa7JylUqVWJFZm6HLyc5dmZ+WrlDqlUqdQpUvkao5AzOQJGVxhCpefwp07LGbuWDZGEictiZOWxGMu4LMX8nkL+YKFPEGaUMyTqbhiVSpLlJzCS2OKhBK1TKZVy3XcVMFXH3lhrX4D9i5Bvx2G3ChdHQpWRcKV0Yg7GnVFo65oxBVpd+0OG9vo8lh03W5fDe5/n/r2iz9JSmYkMVI5KnkKh520MCWVKVDJc1KTeCp++ref/05++iJOKo/D4EnFKo06g8MVpjE5fKmCI5WzpDKGTJIqEyVLhKliAVPAYvGZLCGLIeamifmpUlGaVJYmVjDESqEsk8vWLMl8drHyqQz24p88+8sGh4+oDeFVQbwySFSGSHeYdIcpV+TOYX0BzEbPcb/MDxJy3b9tyH9pYu7WmLMtbG+NVbWRjhBVFTpUd6wn2n9tz8C5tksX9l0e75tMTCUmxxNjw9OT8dnx+MR4fGw8PjYWH71LfGriM2T+5A3NOa+nEonJRGLyjsxTkzPTY1OzI5OJ4anE6ExidDoRT0zcmDhCHwHXw1glGapsCdta6fJYoKKltWp3y4YOr81X9efKol8Vl/yycOW3/1T6nVfdvyjfVvAOXQXG1lOEC0TsAF1FUpXkXZnv3Zjl3u3HycogWUmjToJwE1QNFVwbjL4VaXunpXVzLLIhSFXhpBuFrX5febOv3IPakWB1gK4Mzivz5+8nIXcs6IoRtijtiMVq2sPVLagDp6tpeh39v7/55xxGbq4wTyvMlAt02TnLVBm5EoVardTlZuVnZ+SqlTqVOl2ry1Jq0jlCCYMrSOMJ5iaZnxywyGUncdKSuClJvNQk/pzPnIV8frJAkMYXpXKFTJ6EzZcLxBqpMkujzZXLtUqpWsZRfuPRf3rHvMW/DgpubkFdZMAdCVdGo65Y1BWbMznsDre7d7dY9oSsbXRtW4Mb9r5P/vC7v0xicpO43FSpaAGLtZDJYzKlC5P4nGT5v3zj59s3bf/5d3+Wq8zNkKcrRSqpSKFSpktlar5EzpHKmVJZmkySKhUvlAqTpQKGkMUWpLGEDIaYzZDw06TiNKmMI9PypelpabJM1Yos8WNLpc+8tOTHG1ZtAZwo7Y5Qzvs2wwvj9r9p/Hllnmun/zaEndEWV3vU2RawhyM1bcGaSHBjtCfaP3Do9vldPT1HeuPXpxKTiamJxNjwdHxi5q7M9zIxNT41M3kf09NTM1MzicnE7FRieioxNZ2IzyQmZhITM4npRGJmNjEzmZgdn02MziRGZhKjiZnh6cT47NDloeCOoK8GoNaEEBMZcbS32PcGTa1hZ2vL+vbwWzFsEw5vRqj3cGodSFUDZKWfqgKDtWhoDR6owegqnKokHpSZdkbu7D3+KZmpmiBVQ4fWhdreadv78d5DOw8dbTh6ouHo0e2HDnywJ7ouCFn8HmMTbAEja8LB6jD5uWWet58EXdGAM0baY7QjFqlqDVbFcCdJ19DkWvLN77+Zw8jNYGfKWGoBS67R5khU6dqMnCdXPPPMk195dPmKrIxctTpdodAIJXImT8jkCeeXmZeaxE1N4qUl8ZhJfPYCLo8pknCkimSOYCGDl8oSsrgyFlfOZIk5LCErmSNhSJ/KeWaL7aMGt7f1/d10bZh2RUKuaMQ5RyTsDIecoTZXe4d9f5trL1UVa3JD3veIn/3ot8ksfhKbk8RMXcDhMrgSmSiTkSR+fvlLmyzvIdvR+ncbnln8jCBV8Hj+E+wUPo8rzszM54rmZJamSaWpUulCqShZIkgTsdlCBlvEZIg5DImAKZUyJTKeXKfULOKytXmapzIEjyyXfsX4vxzkWxHQhROuIOkM3cc/KPN/J0KOSFvlrpirHTdRsdoOsjLYaPKdhM/dPj7ed2Sw7+TAyNXxyVszo7enxkdmpqcTU9PTk9OT8zAVf4DJ6cmpmfjs9OTsZHw2PjU7Pj07Pj07PjU7NZuYnk7MTCUSE4nE6GxiZDZxezYxPJOIJ653Xvdt8vlq/JFNrd5SKGxv21NzOGrvCNiilDtMrg3gmwj0LYx4G219h45tIKkqELI2+SoaYJsvWEuE1wRJN0HdM8y+V2baFaHvlbk6ENkQw9wYXkXs+XjveeT85cCVbupyX7B3KHrjMnLx4Id7CBfabGgEzUCoJhisDn/+yDwvAWck4IxSzlbaGQu6opQrTFTSVBVF1BLO3zmX8JYqFqrEaQopX5OZtViiSldpMx975IknHn966eJHNKoMiVQpFMkYbH4ahz+/zDxmEj8tiZf2icxc1gION4UnYArEDJ4olSVMYQhSGSIWR8rlybMyFisEaiVb87juya2unQ2O5tb3dmEumnKGg85I2BEJOyIhRzjkCAUdwZitpdW0a3fV/nB1C7yGbNgI/sv3fp2ayk1KZSSlprGFkpRUnoitVrIyV/661Ps29L77/WBzUP8n/WL10mxZnkqgEwuUYpFaKFJypQqWVMb4RGZxskTAEHPYIhZLwmaJeWypkC2VcaQKnkSrUi3OUD8q5+QtkT/9wyd+We8C4DUkUknhzgDhCN7H/5U5HHJE2ty7Is423ESHq1sRO/Fxyc7IlvahY6PjF6YGzt66fv7m9e5b13tvj96enJ1OTE5OTkxMxCfiExPxuXRiIv63fxPx+MTfPkyNT06PzUxNzMQnZiYmZsbiM2PxmbHJmfjk7GR8dmZiNjE2mxiZSdyaTgxOJYZnEhOJ7gPdjbWN0Bqk5a12bykYsre0V+4L21oDtihhD+JVFLaO8NeCjY56r6WOcAORdVTLhmB4DUm6UdyJEC6Mqvy0zO4g5QrRn4g0F5/DlCtMuoNUTTCyqdVrAwEndLjx2OCum7f3jw7sGhrqGLodG+wGu/a8247aIY+xCbKAoZpgoCr0H5Y5HHBGaVdbwNlC2kKEI0hXBclKEqvGtpZvfVr5tGyBQsJQauU5i5c8rs7ME0mVcqkqXZulUmgFPDGXK+LxxWksLoM7v8wL+Kw7JqclcT+ROSmVsSCFweSJuUIFiy1hMSUSsS4rc+lXn/6nJemP6LiZz2Z9raHK0+zwhza2QhaMdoTuyhx0hoPOYMgZiJjDEUNkt3tP65r20DuxLfat//Tsd1OS2UnJaQvT2HyhLCWZw04SvbD0mxtLNzfWej0bPNuqt4XqQ2V/qZClqrJk+Y/kPy3kK0UiFU+iYEnmZJYslEqSJUKGmMuRcNgSLlsi4EjFXIlMIFHxBRohP31Z1rMKRs5z2d+sXbkZWk977BBWRX+RMv8nH+n6JR4W6wiFHNGoozVojQbskYArCtvwJovfV4n07bs+25u4fWGs9+yNS2d6ey703bwxMj42PToyPjIyOjY8NjoyNno3HR2Lj8cnxuPxsXh87O6HyanRqamRqcmRmfjY9PjYzNj41Nj4zOjE1Ojo1NjI5PTcAPvWdGJwMtE7kbg1Hb8RP4AeqK9sxNYS0U1tqJkIO1sC5hhtioSdrbQrQlUHgxsjxEYKqAJgJ0C4YbqKCFSTdBVBue9C3SNz4M4yWOhemUl3mKwMUjXB4PqYzw7ja+nTyPmh/SM3948O7h0e7Bi6jF068vF+ugr3V3j8FV7MjgSq6EDVQ8yZ5+0ntCMUcEYD7raAqwW30LgtEKgJE5UE7IYb7Y1f0T4nTZIJkqUSnjo9I1+hy1ao0zN02fm5SzK0WRKRnM8Xc7jCFAZ73si8gMNeyGcv4DOS+IwkHiOJy0ziMJNYnAWpzOQ0Npsn4fJkKam8pCRWWppQItLmapfp+FnyheqXln+/qdIPVmLhDa2kK0TZQwF7OGQPh+zhgCNEO6iAg45YwlFDuNXaEqtpadnSav+ra6luRepCTlJSckoah8MWpyaxFQxt6b+Vhz6IQutg+oOAfxOAvk/UrW361bdeUXF0edrli7MeF/KVfLGKLZEzJbI0iTRZIk6WiBgSPlvKY0v4HKmIJ5UKJAqxWCMRpovZ6fnKFc9kv/jv336VfDfmccFIFYlXBjA7hdsD93GfyZ9L5oc6U+r/51D2YMgZDZjDRHmgtWYX7YzgLjr8Vmu91XOx9XLiemK8Z+p6183zJ66cP9vTe2Vw8Prt8ZH4xGg8PjIZH52Mj0xOjMYnRuITI/GJ0cn46OTEyOTESHzuh/Hhyanh6anh6anbM5Mj02OjM6Nj02OjM6Oj07dvxYeH4lO3Z2ZvzyQGpxLX44lrE4mhxFDXEPYeXmdvwNaQwbWRUFUs4m4jK0Ihe0tb7Z6AK4I6CLI2QK2l0SokUEORbhx3oIQTo90kXUkSTpxwEnRlgHLT90K7AwFXKOiMBJyRoCtKuyOkO0xUBonqAFEbQmupjq37Lkf6ejsGz4V6rnUMjuwf68Eu7d+yC7WDvvJm2AriTgy1I6SLpitDn1PmefsJZQ/SjmiosiPoakVNJGqhQmuiZCUJOsEmZ9PzmV/P5uYIU+WpSVyRSKnOzMvMWZSuzVqUtzQnK18p10ilSolUyRdJmTzhgwtgczIvFDAX8hkLuIwkDiOJxViQxl7I5KSweKlp3ORkTnIyh5Em4LClfLYiXZL7qPbJxxRPvvHjAmJTEKuhcHcw6I4FbOGgLRK0hYK2uWemKDvZ6mxpM7UEjRTtpGPvxl7/yRtyhpqTJkhLZTOZvLRkLj9Fki9e9pb+nT079/ndAFALUe/SO5314FvoR47tT2U/x0+RpsvzpQKdUKzhShRMsSxVLE2WSJIlQoaUz5byOVIhVyrmi+UiiUoi1KpF2ct0T2ULlr3yzT9utTWBa8gmC4BVBcjqEGqjHlT3H5SZsgW+JD7Tui8i83mDc8gRoStCRHkgWtlG2kOEiw5taqm3eU9SnbM3EvFr0/3nBvu7b17qunbmxIW+qwPxkan48OTE7fj4rYnxWxMTtycnR6Ymh6cmbsfniA9PzjE5PDV5a3JqaHpqaCZ+e2Z8eGZ0eGZkeHr41tTNgbHxkamx6xNj/eOJ27PT18Zvn7k+fPbm2Uinr9Zfb23Easng2kikti3kitGWSNjZGqvqoOwh2EqgTgJ1E4gDxR0E4SQpNx2qCYVrI4GqAGrDUBtKuWnSRd0L5aQDjmDYHQu7Y4Q1gFhI0h2mqsKImwTdOFxLHWg+fiFyrSt6tXvX9Wt7bl5vH+xBL7asD4FmL2qH5r4yECtMOCnKfXfpJXyXhxkKhWlHlHa10c4WzExjNpqqChJuAnJB/hrg9y/9PluYk6NYLBNolarM/OUrchctU8o1Ok2mWqlTyDVKlU6lTpcpNTyRlMUXMQWiNL4whS+Y83khl5Mq5CYLWakCVjKPsYDDWMhkLmSwU5jclDR2UlJaWipPKFBKxTqZNF0rz16ue+K5rBdefu5XH5l2hN5thRw4bCWDjmjYHg3boyF7OGgL0rYgZSNJGx51RmIVoWAZGa0N+5zenzzzU36SkMsQspg8FpOfuoCtFWQtEix5p/Td8Dsxr92Pr6WAKtjjBojNgaY1wO+/92c5Q5eWxBOx1VyuksWT8WQally5QCRMlUlZCilDzGOKBUK5XCxViYVKjSQ7X7V8sfKxby3/wZqVmyIftNebPH4bDDtw3BXAHgjLc5EZtVL38uk3wOZtD3uQtNJfEp/l8xeS+fw9zBYKmMO0OUyaA7g1gDpIvwNpdgJ7vIfiVyfjvdNXTvaPD0719gwe2n/iRt/Q2ND46ODYyMDoyMDo+NDE5MjU9MTM5OjU+NDEvUzcik/cio/fmJjoj8cHpuI3Z8ZvzQzfmrp1c/LmwMRg38jMeGL42ujAxcHpwamRrptX913oipyOfhz1V4ON1makGg+ujdCVEcIWpGxh2hqhrGHKHiYdIcIZwJ004aQJZ5BwBghHAHfQuIPCnRThpAknRTjJ+yAdFGmlIu5YrKoNM1NAOYq7gmRNGHITXicKraUOQ2dPUpdOBC4On53tPzxyBj9/uvkkZPY26esD1WSoNoDaEMKJky6acNJ3Jmmhu3zWQZ+fIXOEsMdIe5R2hAhHEHcRuAtHqhCgFrD/xSFJlj6SuSI3fVl65qK8ZY/n5C/Nz12i02Qq5Rq1UqdWZyiUWqFEzpfI+RI5VyJjiSQMkThVIEzhC1L4vFQhN1XAThOwUnjMFC47lc1OYXEZbD6LzWMweSKhUinPkIq0EqEmV7MkV7R0ueiJVT8pQdZRaA0NmLFQZWvU1RZxtETtLSF7JGgPUTaasOG4HSdNOF6CRO2h3e/sWvuXNc9lPCdKkQrYkuQFDC5LwEkTLFIuW8xb9m7JFqQa31FSH93UilfTPjsEVKHeWsTxl5qnMr+eliTgpSg4TAWDKREqMvgq3QKBkK1WcTTKNImAKREJFQqpTCMTarLli5apH8sXLtH/ugxbTxBracCGQHYctZOYnXpwwkw4gqiVQizkvXxK5i9P2v8jMs9/R0tgTmbKEpyTGXRhHjdEbgkNnBia7p3tOdl34/LtK5euHzt8+kp339jNiYmhePzW5NTw9Mzo7OzY7Mz4zNTo9OTQ1OStqfjQ5PjNibGB8dGBsdEbY2N9Y+O98YnrUxMD06OD08ODU0MD8cHr4wPXRsYGpsb64jfODfQeu9p3uKf/QPcp4hixkfQ6AI/Nj1TieCWF2ijUQpG2EGUL07YIbYvQtjBpD85BOMJ3CBGOIOEIEA760z4Tc5BOkrCQtCUQcbdEqlopVxh10LCLgmtonxsPvtd+JtjT1dJ3KtLdf2z86uGRk9i5Ax/tBU0eb1kDXUUEa2jUBqM2hHCSn19myhZ4sLYJK03aQqQ9Rtrv/D2Ai8RdOOyGfdU+659saoY2U5qnFGfIFemarHxtRk5u9qK5yKxWpqvV6QqlViRT8CVygVTBk8pZIglTLJmTOVXAT+Gz03jMVB4zjcdkcDlMLpfF4TNZfA5HKJWoFbJ0iVAt4Wu0ipxHc55Qp2b+8JGfbineClUTkJ2kK6Mt1bvD9taQpSVoiQWs4aA1QNkpwoGTLpwwo4QRbatpCa8LGX9VvlzxqDBNKhLIeTxxdtZirTx7uXbFcsmKd0s+wGvoHYX1kBmjK8OgBW02AcSmcGMV8OsX/6Bh5sjZWXJRNo+n5ojUHJmaJVNytRqmUsZRywVqFU8sEwmVOll2tiRvsWjJK9/47aZVb+NrKMxNACYIsRG4I4Db51n9+v+WmbBQ8/JfVOZ5y/JZMvs3oFcPXJ+9lejvGug5d6P7Qt+xI2dOHz83OjA+OTQ1fXtmjsmhqfEbE/HB+PTtmalb05NDUxOD8bHrYyP9oyN9oyNXR8eujI9emxjtiw/3x2/1Twz2TQz2jQ9eG+2/MDTWGx/oHDjTeurynvM9HV3t21t8Dr/XCoBOBKskYTsGmBDUSlH2EGUP3ZE5ErBFArYIbYuQjihhjxL26ANKB+74TBBOnHDipIMgrRRppoOOaOuaXeGaVtBKAHYcWxtqdqHRrXs7o9cu7hq4sPtG34n45cO3D0GnQusC/rImf0UzXUUEqinEBsMWCLPjmJ28MyUL3OXzVzhuoQhrELdGcGuYsAYwG406cNSBwm4YWgutWb32EeWjan6GlK+RyXWqjFylJiM7My9Dl63TZGrVmXORWSJTCWXKOZk5EhlTLGGIxGlCUapAkMplpXIYaVwmg8dmcrkcPp/HF7PZAh5XrFFlqeQZIp5CLtRlaxYv1j2Sw11S/NNycmMUdOGQlYzWdEScHSFrG1URoU1h2hyiLQHKTpFOgnQRpJ0I2QPtG9qQKnT1y4VfyX9+ef6KRUse1WXkLl26QqfKX6R+7HHlV2pf20SsCVGVYZ8eph0R2Ew2l0GBja30u62Vr63/xpLvKlm5GukiiSSTxVeyJSqBLp2r0TCUcq5WJdRohBKFiKfQCDIWS5d+I/cb695YBzj9gTVBzIZBFTBuowlbELPMP0OGzQRkwu/lf1xkpq3BeWUGN+G9hwcTE4n4zambV8du3hi7cvn6uTMX+y/duHXl9tj1iemhmcRwIjGSmB1OTA3NjN+Ij9+Ij9+YGLs+Pto/NtI3NtI3Nnx5ZPjSyO2esdtXxm9dHR+8Onbj6uiNq6ODV0Yvnbg61D0y1DV0fte5K/svnSAOQbV+r8UP2GGiiqKrA7AN9Ztg3BUgXWHyjswBazRkaQlZWgLWFsrWQtjniBL2yD1Kf1pmF0Y68JArFLCFKFsw5I7R7ghgxv0OHFkTBGrpPd4T59tvXDs8OtA5db1z+vSuvta6fbAD9JU3gWYvXUVQlQRigyEziNoeTuZ59LYGCGsIe0BmyA0h65EtpvdfWvEdJVcrE2gVygxFeo5Moc1Mz5kjXZut0WTOzZnFCrVIrhLIlTyZgi2VsSRSpljCEApTOaxUDoPBY7H4HA6fxxMIBQIJjysS8CRyiUYqVEn4Kp08J0ezSMPP/P6jP/6gZEdgYytgxUlXJOhqxcqCYVs7WR4my4NURZAy04SNwJ0Y6SJIJ0nZSbqGBmrg2sL1+tfMFUbHqmLj7/782p/+uvLPfyqoMr212bLNv46Eq6jwmg7cHKJMEcIUwmxBvDIEVlPNNchrPytRMvNkvByFLJcn1rKlaklWNlulYqpVqUo5W66QqdOlAo2MofxaztcKf7ra42iianC6iiKsOG7BSVsAM1GIicDsDy/zZ60k/ReVef4lt/lk9lbCjTX+I9TJyf7p2VuJ0YHpidHE+MhM39WB3vP918/fGLh0c7B7aPDSzesXBvq6+vu6rt+4MHjj4uDApZs3L98a6rl968rw8LWRoYu3b56/NXRx+Gb3yM3ukRvdw/2Xbvd3375x6faFY1eunb4+cGaw9/C1K3svxrYF6k3bYTuK2Am6OhisDaMOHLSgZGWQdIcIR5Cyhe+Y3Bo2t4UsbZStjbDPcUfpu/H5k8H2HZmdWMQdjjijlIXGTCRqoVAH7bPj9VYQ2Rg5HbzSe3h88OzMSE/iwpFbYf9hcCMFWH2Q2YvaAcKFEi4MtcGIBUJtOGoj7qyv0Hf5rOHbPD3HFiSsIdQSxiwh3EKjVgqxY4gdAV0gUANsc27/9bdfkTJVcwtgUlW6QCxP12ZlZeTmZOVnZeRqtZlKlU6h1klVWolSI1KqBQoVV67gyORsqYwtFjF4HAaPxeKz2QIOl8/jC4QCnkTIlwp5UgFbIubK1ZL0LFV+rmZxjiRf/4oJqqIgBwlaiWBlG2YKA0Vk2NpOl0eo8jBVEaLMFG7FMTuKOVGqisKduNcOwBtx4H0UbKIJMlbnA7d7ffV+2OujTh64fOXorY6mo9vL/YgtEHPvpowR2hQLu9tAM7lN30y8HV2v/2Cx/CnuQpVCkitVZLMlKllmDkupYqpVyQoZUyZXpmerpJmZopzf/POvt5u3olUg7kRIO0pZcdoaoCwBtIyAy/EH17pQKwWZcLACu5f/cZGZss4zzPZXIR+at/s3I+f3dt++Mj50bWz4Znx8ZOZ6782hnuGBizevnuntPNR1pP3Y7uDeKNqyO7j3zIHOswfPnT968fKpK9c6+65fGBi8NDTQNXij8+bN87cGLt4euHj7+sVb187fvNI1eOXs9Sun+y8dvnz5YHff4aunAkeB9c0N5jqykoJtBO6mAzVh3EXBNhx30YQzOCdz0BqbMzli6ghZOihbB2FvJ+zthL2VsLf+PZldGG2jos5YyBYG9AhiJsNr271WtOZPb71bWneMuNh3bLLv1NTVU+Mx9MRH66DtTg9o8+NOCHfBqANC7fDcnBm1YYgVvzMlo+6Cm8kHmXc6RlgDuCWAmMOoOYiZKcRCwjYUtsF+h99T6Wla07zy16sUHLVakqlLz5Oq0rkCiVadkZ2Zm5+zOCc7X6vNUql1Sk2GXJMuU+skaq1QqeYrP/GZK5WwhXyOkMsWcDhCLk/A5/L4PK5ILJRLRanvh+IAACAASURBVEoeQ6gQarJUeRmynGVZj/3g+X/ZUr4VclM+M4Y7Q4QtgpSFCGOELosFylsCFVHaFCJNJGbBUBsEW0GqmkRdeL3VE9ga200faW85FOvYDwVDkb379p0409J+eH/b2cvHho9gF8GaMFXV1uLYGzDGqIpYwNEGm4P1ZSBYG6irAn/0tV8xkqRSYZZClZ/Gl4k0GTytLlUpZ+s0ovQMsTJdp8p96anvOP5iR9eBZBWE20DcBJIVKGkiiXISKyfnvo7vmx4jFhKswIBy9F4+JTNeQTwIYSJoC/0lEbAFgvbgg3whmc9XHJw00QFzOGAOU5YgYaUxBwW5cMCN7rA3Nq33HwmdHO4ZH74+OXwzPjYydaN/qP/ywLWuvu5TlzsPdR7tOH4gcuhA6ODewL4Ocs++0MEjrcdP7es8f7z7cmdvb9eN/s4bN84MDHQO3jh/83rXUF/Xzd5zA1dO958/3DN0YfjC3kunw6cvd1zc09Ta6NoOuYFQdQQ2YbAVI90BwkkjVgyzEaQzQDmCtD0ctEVD1pawpS1mbg9b2mlbB2lvu0MLaY+RjjDpCJGOIOkMkE6KdJKkkyRdBO0iECMSdkSi7phPDxIOeu+Ww01mcOX3S//6vaLQtt1XDt2+dOjmsdbuhi34GtP7H1nqUAcUrCRoN47aINgCYlaEsOOYFUctOGohUQuJmqk5MDOFm0nC9ADzdR7MRCBmCrEEEAuNWSjUQqBWFLbCoAMAKv3IZtz2mlMnzM7WLctbvEKZkc8RSJWK9KyM/PycJTlZi3SaLJUqQ63NVGozZWqdVKUVqTU8hYqrULIVSrZMzhNL+GIxTyTkCoUcPp/N47PZfKlYqZRqhCxRliJnsWaZlqt7Ou9Z06u25kqgsRzEncFQbZtPjxAVoTb3PqSYDlS0BMzRgDlEmEjUjMJmCDQBkA3aaWjcWl6/FzzSc3Lg/JmrJzsvHb9wcd/J0903hi703Ny7q7OvM957ZDKy9ZDPGqDLWqJlHZQhihoDtLuFXtuyw+JpXoeW/tHKSBKLhTqlKm8BUyBQaWXZOclisTwvP3PJY1yuIkuR/8Yv3qh37IRcnnANHrAheBmIGmBEj8B6nDAHSWsQM5N/a4VPUgoqx8EyFCzDwPJP0k8vgJXj80JWEF8iJnIevoic5ysLRpYRVDlJlZNkOUlWkEQFiZpx0Aoj1aR/LbYHPDTWMzkxMHutZ7D/+tCt26NTk1OTE5OXOrt3BTsOxQ5fPnz5aPDYXmR/165Lx2Nnj7acPdLReWDXmQP7Ok8evdRz+lr/md6+U719p3t7T/b1nejvO97bf7S/91Df1T1Xr+660rer/xR4Aq4Gmq1NVBVJmAm8HMfKMcJE4CYCr8CJCpw03amTCoqqoOnyTyArgmQF/WmoOzVGkCacNGFzEGYML8cgPQyXoUF3GDIjVDVNraX/+q3XHpU8/uqP3njt5TfL/myyvOn47Y//8MOv/3TDqk2UgwhYCdqCk2aMMKGkGafMOGnCiQqcqCDmofxB5uk5eDkGmxHQCkMWGDWjqBnBTQhmghEzBNlAenOkevWGRzKfE/GzlJnLxRn5aXyFTrP40SXPPvP415flPZGjXapT5snF6WKRVqPNk6tzRJpsZf4yhlybzBXwtdl8abpApOWKVByRjC2WcMVSvkgqV6i1ynSVUJ0ny39M8fhz2q/+4Z/+UG+qx9wkWIHiNgq30VAZhpWTtDmI6DGigiYqKKKCxCoItAJDKhDIBEM2ZHtJ3U5zw+lg1/Wzw91n+vv7hq/fGjt54XLXtYGLV28dOdZz7vRQ17FhqvnwR+VQoKyl3bi7taIjbIkSNgp0wsA65D3rRz/95q/kPI2QJ1OqMjh8KUsgUeiyJKoMkTQjL+NRFVv3/ce+53M3UZWgr3hHqAIOlaG0ASP0JGak4DIaNoVQU4goJx8EMxKoAUMNOGrEUAOBGu8bZpfh//kQ8/Hl3Y4qw6gylCrDaCNOlRFEGYGX4ZgJayht+qBke3hb++ilycRYYmx4anRs6vbYePe1K60dHbXV6377r/+m/4t+N7T75vGbvftu9OzqOxu71Ln7SteR66eO9B48eOnQofOdRy/2HLtw9ciFq0e6rx3p6T105fqha4MH+6/v6u0OXeqLXeuP9B/4eL/X5AUtYMBJ40bk79fMQ5YOm4Mow8KOMGEmkQo0uibmLfP6zB6f3fPLJ3/+jOKpp5VPZjC0j6sf+Wr+MxkC3c//+SfeqibSggcqSPrTUOXEf7RxyzHYAgI2H2j1I2YQq4CJcpgsQ7FyxF8BYWvo+mrQXrzp1VfNr5c6Vluqi021Tttmt/Vtt3XTq78rfPGZ7+VpHs3RPKIUZ2uU+WJpFkukVeQ9ylRnJbEFbE02T5ItEGVyRVq2SMURK7gyuUCulMrVGmV6ljwnm5ezQrTilSde2fi7DYQNp2wB3ExiJgIpx9AKHCnHICOClKFoBX4fSAWG24mGMo/HAVxuuRa/OD14YWTg6khX59UTpy92XurvvDBw7GTv0SN9h/b1Qo173yvzBcpaOwy7I6VRUk9gNgKughurGgp/W7Qs8zExT8ZI4wiEUr5AyuQKxFK1TrNIzsvUcbK/tfQl579Z6Sq4rZIMlYHhUihSiof0BGWg8bIQXB4GKyJIeZAw0qSRug/CQOJ64l4+HZmN2P8AUNKIkEaUNGKEESeMOG7E4TK0dWOHzwF/bKnvAA/c6hmZHU+cOnV+y0db9SbTy7/65VNPPCvnqR7PXPGB/cMbBweGj49e233jJN11JHD6eNuF43svHzl4+cTxy2cOdp3be/rCvrOX9ndd3n/xyv7u3v1Xru+91h25eDVy5WrgyommE6F1IcDshy0QacVxI/pllBEvw4hyHDeRUDmM2XFfuQ93YzuNO7+V/s/LWEu0aaploiUrFMuXqxYpGOLXf/4nn7uJMKFUGUmWEffyRTwJCpkAv9ULWHxIBYCVQ3gZgpdheAUKWVCPHW6tO9B9bKir8+auQ+f3n+k5fWlw397zkK8F9sS2veP9y28LV+R9NUO2WCtblKldLpNkp3IUQk0ePz1vgUCeLFJyxRkCUTpPpOaIlVypgidTiBVqqUylU2YuVi/L5eY/J/9a2b+UwyaYsJBoBY6ZiE90LcfgMhQuQyEjgpRj9wGXobid9llgjw3sJC5OXUjM9iUm+me6z/Rf6OzrvTZ2rWes69TgyQP9B2KXvR+0vlPcRJfFWo3t0JtwwxsNVBVNbCRtf7G9+NiLSoGazeQlJzMYLA5XIOSJJHyhXC7K0Anz0lm5ht8Y8TVQQ9GHrZXkPncorIfDJViwFCf1FGYMQmUhoDwMlwVwA0UYyPvA9QRWit/Lp+fMBvR/AAhugHEDghtQ3IDhBgwzYHAZClTAdWXNWy0N60rf/utvVv3ix7/94fd++viTz2qysgQyWVZWfpYyb5F8acn/KiXeJfZ7Dl4MXz5FnD0ZPHs81nUwdmZf66kj+86d2nf27J5TXbtPX9jdeXFXV/euC5c7Ll1p674YOn+jva+b7G7dHPOZvD6TFzKBSDl05zG+aIyYv9AHGxG/3u8r9YMmMLQmuK142/PSr2mSVKoFiiW8RbJkkTJV8t0nvrnF+hZU5UHLIMKI36/if/hJMCMCVvj9Zg9o8sLlfswIYUYYM6JYGQab8Z3G5tiO/WM9icnRxOmuwUOdV8/13D569KqnIQw2xyLkwcat2J9fKVie+VSGbPGirCezMx4VS7NEymyJLp8h1S7kSvhitUCs4okVPLFcIFWIFGqZUqNS6LJVectUjz2pevaXT73y7usfBSqjvhII0MNzYXlOV8iIQEYENMBzVt8LVIZgVgq04A1GT/Td9ouRqyOnJ2b7E9M3ZyduzMRvJG5fmek+MnQiemU3eNq3MfxRqYc2RSh90Lva7zH4sBp8i/H9n379ZTVXI2SKRAIxm8NjcrhCmUym0ojESnayJFe6/PtP/GiLYUtwE7lz9Qdkhb/dRoZKkGAJGijBiFICNdCgMegvC0FGGtPfH4TnTEZLsHv5vzJ/IrPHCMAuPPBebKPhvRceeUnC0eqUOZlZi9liaQqXr9HlpavzVayM/+epf1m/eqOn0ke+RR/yHrm2t7//2K3Tuy/tDR3bFzl6es/Z8/s6L+zuPL+r83x754XWcxdiXZeiF3qi3QNt/Z1AJ+bG6orr/OV+oBwE9D7c+KXIjBlRxIBEK2OYmfAW+4AKEHVgm/+6+QXpC7okTfaCjGcUTz+f+dw3cr+2ZnUl+i4AV/lgA4Dpkfv4QmobLvcDJg9Y8YnMuAHFDBhqRJv1wLaSRvztyMV9N4b7Epcvjx0+deXg0Z7Dh6/S+EGguQX1tQfgvW9Xb3/5O79drF2RqVi2KOPxTN0yiSxLrMwRqrNYIgVfIuOLpXyxRCCRimUKuUKjUqanK3OypPnLZSt+8sS/uv99DWDBCVvEW4RCBuxuTL5r8rwyw2UoVIH5y9Emg99jAkKbW44CJy+19YycnRg6Ndp7cPBS+7Uj8NnWbfvpt9v9brqpHCFtYaAUBk0IsZbeWrHt99/9Q75sMXchj88WymVKsUTGE4ikMoVKrZPLtYJU+QtLXtpUurnOVrdDvxWz+MDCerLYEyyB78hMogYKMtL+ssA/KPODzfnfDhjTQ5gexAwgpocxPYrqUVSPwgYUMuH1es+H+h1Vb2z45bf+/bGsrygFmUyGiCWQsiVyoVgr5unEC9XLJStKfm6oszTsKN+Jrcf3N+8/Spzcjx85FDx28VD3+f0XzrafOtd++lzrma7Y6fPRsxfCXRdD53tC3ZeIi3s/3OszeeuL6vwVfqAMBEoBzPDlFNOAgMVAxBlBylBPkQ8xoaAJ+njV1jdffPMPz/37r5/4hf5nxY3One+UbPLWNn5seb/OsA0xgGgpfB9fxJPAsNEPlnuhMh9iBFADjOkRVI8iBhSowDwWmHg7ejx4cfDi9MC16ZMneyPR4+1t59tbznnqoxurdn60ybfzHXCt5b0ffP1lnTg/XZqXo10uk2QKxekqbZ5Eqb1zrqpALJHI5Eq1QpeuzMqU5+eJl76Y/+2SlysazSBZ2YJURGBjCCkn7w6t5zQG9BCgh+bEvg9/KQiWYZCZrC/x+CwwVk2BVWjonVh0S3toc0tgQwStpHxm2GOEfEYErMBRK9Vo9AFOxFsFlv7G8Ij6ce4CATeNz+OKRCKpWCITCMV8vkgqUepU2U8vev61n6wOfdTS5PC8+9rmWE0ALmlGCzx0CUSXoGQJjpcQiJ4EDZTfSMEGEiu9f0Q9ZzJSjN7Lp2R+sDn/2wGhpSCiBxA9gJZCaCmClCJIKQrpUW8p2FQGBt5qId6NFPzKuEz9tJKbJeFrU1IFApmOzVIo+Nl5kkczUnL/9E9/ASvhJnNjs7WR2IDuqm8/jB893XKm58iVU62nDpH7j9GHTgaPnQmf7AqfvRg53x2+eIE4t3/bXsSJNpQ2NJc2wxUQVAaDehDVfznFNCCNbzQSFaS32N9c6MUsuM/oB02Qp8wT2RBpMjXWV+z0OZsbbDv91R5vZVNzeSNY4oeLwftASqD/4JMgeggy+ECjFzZ4Eb3/Tp2jiAHFLDRoI0LvdVxo6Ru+NNt3fvzw3oux8Ild7ZcCxInG7ZEt6/2N75NYfQu2M1KpX//8I9/UCrLzNMvV0myJUKdW5UpkKr5EwJdwRVK+RCpWSBXpyowcRV6edOkLed8s+Jnhw9J6wE7BlhBcHoH0IdhI3RuT50z2l4JzYt+HrwRAKkjUTH/8ep3XAOPOwLbVddtW79xRULejoMFb6gP0kK/Q37Sy2V8AQmWopwJotPrq7M3OV6u/veL7ohQZcwFbyJPweCI2hy+WKGQyFZclEPLlizMfWf1KyTv6D5ucfp8N8FV4cRNElEG0HqGKYaoYwYsxtASHSwlATwJ6EtITaMn9QXjOZLgIuZcvXmakBHqQ/9MO3wuA6P2IHkBL52IRgpaiUCkGlGHbVjfsKPPU2X3FvzY9qnpWmKRiJovTmFK1bgkrTSFmpj+mfvYRwRMFPygOrA80lzfCTvBQ44Hhw0PjZ8e693Ufog52gG27ofaD2L6j+KGT1PGuYOel8IWe8OWT3uPBdXRdSf3Ogjq/wY9UoFgFhhpR5EsrJlQMRpxR1IgCegirwOtWNYBlMOkkG/SNmBsla/CPCj6A3AC9gfI5vB++9j6ih74kmWGDHzb4Eb0f0YNoKYKWIkgpButxwIg16P2R93bfPDI625foPz16tOP8vtbzEfrslrewzWv8je8H8YZdvi30e87t3nfR//2z13OlSxdrH81SLlaIdAppBl8gEUp4AilbIOZIJWKdXJspzciW5D6hfeb33/rLx2X1eG3EW040lxKQMewpwP0l2H1h2V8KfpbMfj2EmijAgL33h499JUhLdQdkQAE93LiyqenNZlSP0uUBXE/AqyG0AIb00A5jY3MN+FbZll9+67dZ0kXchSJumkAslIuEMiaDKxUr1bJ0fppYJcp46Ss/+NC+A6hCa36/3m8FY2uida9vw41IuIIkimHijsxIKQGVkqCehEpxpPj+IDzH35P5web8Oy2KlMzT/HAxCBb6HwQqAh4qky9VZtjghw0Aov9EZqQUhfUYZMSb9RDqDmw1NFa/uvFJ9fOiJK2Ck8NiKKTiHCFLx06SPpfxou23zu2lOxsNDYDZ11hWv+vjtslTE8Mnhnr2dXd1nD1CHzoTPdndceFs+NQx9PBJ9HgX1XkO64xtjuGVuK/C11TS7C3xQQYYK3tomR+udUoRxIDCegTWw7AeBvUQaIBBI+Q3AP4ywF/u85Z5fRVen8nrKff4DV5EP08+n9U6DwMAlfigEi9cPBf5IbgIgYoxqBQFjFijHmh5b+/tQ2OJK4newzf3kcdi0FHCe6Th/Za6zUFoaxtZtwd4h95i21G/zvvXl9/Mly/PVSzJ1y7XKXKU8kypTCVTiqUKfmraAqlEvDRrcbogPV+4+N+/+YeNb7yzzdAIOwKEowU1RWFjGNKHgBJszt7PhR4CDAhgQIFSFNJjqJ5AS0mshEQKMaKYxIpw3+te4E1/wECFymnQADQ6/VurGv/6rwXporyUJLaQpZAKlEKeVCyQC7lSMUfBSxbLmOrvP//j913bgDWY1wJ5KgB/OQgZIaDEDxeDSBGAFkFoEYQWInARChVjQDEGlGBgEQIUQODn4IuX+QvJ5MuTGdH7YYMPNvgQPYDqYbQERUpxpJSADZSnFEHsAY8F3W7x/vTpV9LTlsgZOTrJUiU/V7RQu0j02KvfW9Vk9fot/vrinbAV8FY07tu2a7prauzc6I0T168du3r14OUbh65d2d19kjp+GDh4EjneRZw7DZyma2nYBnuNPk+J118KQgYE0T90WH5YmeESBC5FYP1cCsOlCKiHQQMM6kHAAAJGEDD4/Qa/z+iHDOC8D/NFyAwixQBa7EeLPjF5TmawGGsqgHasbqbXxfpbBxPnErePjl1svXIi0nOAvrob7271nwnVHcK2tDStw7Y6Gz0bodd+vipPsjRDlJOpWqxWZGvU2SpNukQpkikFYjFfIZJliHXLVct/+uzL9t85t+vrGo1+oAIHywh/KeErJiF9ANCjDyezEQYMMGRAkVIMKcaxYhIvpuBVKFZA4EUEsBIEVwGEkSDKcF+Fv6kWXPlb45M5XxemqlgpIh5DJuYpRTyFQqTVSLJEKXINJ+vlF1+pLXlrq62u0eTzlyGgEQYNMFQKwaUQUgLDxTBSBCFFc7WEQsUoVIyCxeg/KDNUBMzLvI30WRc/lLQPdccvBKjEC5Y2g6UeqMQHl4BwEQwXoXARARYSDW/664t89UawyY786aVVeewVgiStMEmTzln84uLvFf68rN7sodcEfWXe7Su3NpU07Cze3v5hy2RnfOz82MCZwd5T/X1He3v39Zwkj7fVt3TsbDvqP3wKOHFgxz7QBnrLvM0lHm+JD9TDsB6FihCoCJx3SvKZT/5QrVMMQcXIPUBQMQKWQGAJBJaAYPGnKQGhkoe44+cHLgTQQh9a6EMLAKQQRApgqBAFC3GwGAP1REMxQFaFz0GXhnaP3OgYuNbaexy7FNlxoqPpXGzHCWBDy8dm73uGHVuMW70b4Df+tTBPvEQnyNIp8pSKLLU2R52eJVGKJXJhVka6RqyRp8pfWv6S60+VdRUNPjPoK4O9pWDjam/9Sl9zAQTqMX8p7CsBPh9+X6nfq/f79IC/BIKKYbgIRQpxtJDyv4FBq3G0hACLEV8R4NdDnlJvg6l5W7X3R9/4tZq3KEu+PE/3mISr5aZKJVyNgqeTpmkyeYt+/Oy/rit4x1eLbS9vqi/2+IohoBgCiyG4BIZLYKQYRUswqBC+C1h0h0IIWA1+Hj4l87wjZLDQDxbNx2dc/Fnt+lCZzH/xFwFQ7PWVNvhKm8ASL1ToBwtBqAAFC3CokPAVYjtXencW++rKwdKf2b6Z86On1f/8jbzv/q9//mPt6xu9LgiwgQ1F9YDeBxp9O1dv21b4cduHLZNd8YnLE0OXhm9evHXt8LXzsc79vr3Rj8N76nedgk4e9xxr3Rxr1DfWFzU0Fjb7ioG5IAmshoDVAFw8j7pfSF0BRRBQBIOF8wMV3AsEFQLz5/NZd/zcQAV+dLUXW+3DVgHIaghejYAFCFCAAUUEUhZsLIa8RiS8rnX3B3t2vd/e8WE7tT5WZyY8zpDHQW8rA94r3PlO4db39B811fpf/cnKPPHSTFlehm6RQpMt12XKtOkytUIkFuVm5mZKszK52X/49p92VDT4rZCvDPLrQW+hr6nA07S62VPk85X6fSV+b/HnxOcp9TTrmz16j7fE5y8CwUIYLMDAAsK3EvWtQsFizKdH6kt824sbPyreucPuwba1vPaK/vGcF/JUK9JlS4UsrYSj1QhzpWlaDTPnJ8/+cs0bm7eVNW0tbvSWI95i2LsK8K+GgEIILIKhYgQpRpFi7N4wCxTeoQD0rwI+D59LZqDA9yCfdbFvledB/Ku9D5XJvBd/IfgLm73F9d7iel9Rk7/AB6wGwFUIsAqFiyiiLNJcCDcbkIZyeNMbHxl+4XT+cd17pR9vK6/zOUHACm59c+v7f3wPKvXTFqyxuL7OsHPPjt3TPVOT16dG+yaH++J9J/ovtJw/Ah3a3dBxDDhyFj2zd9se2AHtLNpZV1DfUNDkK/LDpQhcgvlXQv5Vfni+OPywFT5/MQsAf8Hd72z4PqBVMLRyDgRaCYOrgIe640PK7MdX+rGVALIKglchYAEGFBD+QtxbhO180/vxaw3bVzfUl9TVlW6v029vMHrr9ej2InhboX+n3t9ggupN/h0VDfWu5j/+4K950mW52mV5eY+pMvJE2nSBSi3TaMVieboyK1e26Gu537D+m6OhwrujsKmxwOtZ7fEWeMESH1Tq95d6mosaPUXNn1tmf3NJY0PpzsbSuubiRk+h11fg96+G/atRXwHaXIA0lsB1BuAjfdMWw473zfWet8iTHVeQ+lbD65UvPvWjDNlytTA/R/lYpnhpvuTxX7zwuzWvba6v8G8raN76ejOkp8AC1P8GCL4JA6tgcDUCFiBgMQoWoUAhAhQif9O4EAILIGD1PyTz/N1itfeh/PSubH6QeXP4O5l81vX/cbwFjc2FO5sLd3oKGryrPb6Vfv+bsH8l0vwaBJcEdrzuayiG6wxgnQl6r7jOV4XtrGjaWrx1W8HW5tJGyOAHijyNb9Q1vL6jsaBuW9G2lo9aJy7GR66O912+fe3yUPfhq+ej544Ah3bXdRxoPHCw7gBeg33w5gf1JfVNRY1Nq5v9hf65ca9vFehf5YeK5hnKflaFP1Tr+Fb5fKv8vpWAbyXgWwn6VoL+lZB/JQS+icwBvTEHCr2BQm8C/odpnc8PuNqHrvLhb/qwNwF0JQyvRP2rUP9q3FeAe4qwpkKobpV3+8q67au27Szc1lC8w28EAWNg50p46xue+mLAZ0abzcBW/c7t/2+75h0kV3Hve1c9v7Ix2CBASAJlIUAIYcL14xpjl9Nzlf18ub5C2tmZ3ck5zyYFi2QM2BcwBqy4uzMndu4+YWaDAsgCBAIkQCYKhMESSAQRDNjwTNL7Y1bShllpBoVFvD31qV+dPd3nd3797f6ePru1v0WBX0TPHnv+2ZPnzDzv4nHTzjl58uQTJ4w/48xJE8ZPGXfKpJlnzHb9yLe8pVNbgApJFecoyRDeRO0FvGuJMBdj3KKSFsRaRRk6JPaHtjLcBsBCCSxQUCsgLYQ2c9pksqYia+1GLZbSKgq/5h3Xks6bGe9Yu6H4l6c37X75mX9u3bij/XYS9yz61U8av3/hL/5t2g/qfxhYuVhlN3XLOQKzVmnxeqt5rZnqslMlO1UyM0UzUxJZW+RskbNFc1E0F41my2i2jCbLaDLNJtPIGSJ7CHjWEFljgJmNJj4UkWPD+bNi/+HWXE1JKnY+IrAmRJo00qzRJshylGeESFsiXURxo7RwrRwlpK0LLy6J365ekVXBNQa5mrNfU9wCSQ6UFpmrl/TQFNYiEmsjapv+58LGf7740ds7/7njxTd3vvTmXzfv2L7uua3isQfVjQ+pDz4sbSr9rtSZ6WRLOF8kaDMTTcJqLdqtXVZT0cyZVvn7dsinTcXKa5odnuE8I3jG3I9I20baNlOlMlayTJeV7DLSpsjUMDvVY+Z4Kcu707wrbZQytp0pmdlukevhuW7WXDIW9hgLS7iZgqyOWzS+ENi/touL1uFsUUtymBNkgQUXMqlVQzfR6JXJGafPmjzhvMnTZ4+devaYGdO/OXHiaeMmnj3tgrEnTpwxZnZ2bhu4loE2CnPEaiuyNCVpaDQjexExFwHcItMWSFt4GTYk9oe1MNSq6wvyeqsEWzTcDHATxTkD5wy6oEttFu1NKH81k24WYGnvA2uf2fHM25vWbn/mIJeadwAAHCFJREFUodef37Lnvu4nlD9Zv1u0bEHot0tCN9/R0tGxEKgLOGq2zebVxaZ77PTdpdTqrlRXMd1lpYpGymJpi6QMkjJ5k82bbdFkiibTyJlmzrCahJEVPHMIREbwjBhgZpHjQ+HDLZccFzljKEazWYEmg2d5BcobyBAqdz4CCJalPId4DvIs4VlmZISRsoyUJdJW94I1NGkYrSVjQcla0p1PqHqWrPvNPffesGH1otUkQXGcmrmi2VxiLZbeSvNt+n3aIx+89NG/9nz89u5/vvTs7u2b/vrcmm1byCMPKvdv0R96VHvknj/eQxdTvlDwNsFzXGQNM1eyc112psvK2OW37yB4TlQsvrJQw3Te52RrPyxji7Qt0kWRLhoHKBmpkkhbLFNplnOs4pKoBWZneVfaKKVNO21b6aKVLhmZksiUWNoyckWjyaJphpOIpADNQJY1eK6XZbppukjTFs0ZrFXQRdS4yfT+0Df5hLNnTJh97jkXj5s681sTJ42ddvbpY6fOmnbJuK9NufTMy28O3AoXUZSjpbau7qYuO2kYcWqmid1EzWbEmgBrIqyZsybOmjlv4rRf3H+9XyuizSpt0mkO0hxiOUpznOa4nuGg1dAWGlIbgTcVN9Gn3nji/Q92fPb0/bsfW//SQ6ufvZttNtvvAbcVtd9Z/JYeel1pVUxR46TUtraUW2tFe7vT67oyvVbaNjO2kTZF2qBpQdKcZATLmizHWVawrODZ8swykWEivY/UgchTjKcYTzKWYiLJWIoNMDPLsloQLGPVQHYYaup82IiMYWS4mS4jzLQwU8JMGWbaMFLCTBsizUWa8zQ3ssJMG1bMLka67HiPnew1U70s3YPSXXhBT76Zdy4mT/Zs/2jXJx+98fHbO9/b+dSuFze99IS1dUNh/Ub5vsfRow/lH7R/Y8kpCWUxzXKeMcy0Xd4P7US3mSqxjH0UhcrY1VHkWZNleY2zXy0iI6yUZaUsM2WXMconadtI2UbKMtP7yNgkbsFwkSd7zXSPSJVY2hRNhrVIsCXY913Pt0+7ZObp50876/yZ5154+qRp46bMnHLW7DmTL5t64nm/unh+oVlRkyoI6eta1nRH7d5YsSdW7EpYpaRhpYSR4SxHaZaxLKsmiiy109RKUzNNjTQzsoxnGcsxJaIai4pd162WUjpbUnzR3vV/t3z8xqZ/vLb1Hzu3vLntvpc3F59dLz1s37YWXmNqrQw3GUauZGe6i4mervjq1bF1PfE1VtJmWV6G7zthWU7SlKRxPwhJE5YmPEVEkvDkgMgSiCUQix+Ig8zMa8Goerl8cbBExjRTRp+ND8D7sd/hwk6apXhXV6y3GO+1Er0i2UsyvSBbggt6pAWWfoP9woZd/3r1s7deeG/HU7t2b3tt15ZdW8Wj69vv2QIeedZ85oGV92st6lLvUpjFLCt4xjTTRTvZZSe7i4keM9XFMsWRFsRmGZNlRY1TXy08w0XaMPYb+BAUebxEol1Gco2VXi1SJZo0WIbxVkYWocSP45dPuWLKSdNPOWHcxIlnnzp+8qnjJs+YfNFF0793/thLGi73q606SEEY0NdkunsjpdWRUm+k1BMtluKWnTLNlMEzNVQu0txOcjvJrX0LQ2Q4y3KUwrzVFG22koSwif/5tgcf7XjmwY7H7tM3r1cfWN25oXjnGnpjUVtE8mlNTkKUMXjSMuO2He0qRXq6Q6tL4R4zYVV8e5I0IWk6CJaiIlmJBBEJwvvFAWYmaVY1nKQFSZnHGwZLCZHkIsmqwUoYdtyyYyUrXuKJEk2WYLqkNxU7sqS9Ba1t37R789/ff/Gjd3d++PdX3t/+6F9f2vjiVvH4PSvWbdEefoo8cfft62AbQs0YZQlJM5oSImmZ8aIZL1mxbpEokpQ10oKYJGWS8mdeDbNfLTTFWdIQCbM6LB4vsXiPkV5jZXpZuogTDKUwakbGdXz+RfOn/c9pcyZeNHPKnBNOGPOVr3z1lNPPGnfqjOmnz5l9xqXBn8S1NoAyiIRRT6rUHbZ7wnZ32O6KWHbMMBNCJDlN1VA5SzEjwcwEM/YtBpZiNM1IhqE0hWmqp4mWoXoTRy2GvoAty7Qvza1Y0dLZ0VIotOhyM1BzUM9gnOQsYRoxy4qU7HB3MdRrh7tFwq4oOEqSoZAEYfEKiCQzUrw/A8xMU7xqBE0ZNGUeX9RqZiPJzYRhxE2RsGjSQmlLz1has7U0Li/LqU9179j71t6P3/jk9efe3v38ay88/tcne594QNp4z9J1Dxc2PbjyAbqE6k2g65oukqUDzVy0YiUjXqRJa8Q1oSmTpgyaErXMfg3rhCWrdLIpEiaP22Uzi0w3SVowQfQU1Jt1bZHmvMx5wZg5syZccN60b8+ceeGYsRO+ftJp3/z6+DO+NvXCCf8r/ctmtQ3gLKZR0p0sDmPmGuBJbiS4keAiwXmS8yRnKU5THKeYHAFKFJCcgZvMfAx0hFQpqctZRc4VlCZZa1ZBM0DNhDZTluE8KUTCMuO2FesqRnuKkdXFaI9IWhUfihN0EChBSYKyWAVEghtJ0Z+BO3OS10BKkJRxfEFTgiU5TzCeoFWRpCJBeZLSJCcpjtJcy3CliXfk0A3u22+O3rll9ZOfvrP37Rffeeqhp7c9sm0TfXDD8vWP5B/+i/b4hrs26C16IZanTRSnCUkxljR4whRx24zZVtQ2YjZLmCOuCUkZJCVqm/qqoUnOE4LHjeqwWNymsSJPdbNUF04YegKpaaC36PIC2f19z+zTLxz/jbMmjp126aXfnX7u7HETpp05duZZJ8284pyfLnFdr7YBmIYkgooxsytkdYesrpBVCptWVBhxLhKMVV02S3Ke4Eacizjncc6SnCU4S3Ka4jBO5ZCuhAHJmqzJ1hJEjWOUoSitg5SkJQpKtKCE82pI0oISjmIraVuJopUo2YnuYqy3GFtbjPfyhE2SFTRHcToIHKc0Tmm0AjzGeXwAA3fmhPiyw2mcsRit+N1SCUwTkCQhTmKUwnoaq1lcyCFwtX2t8/eXjr0iPa/t2Y3b//XGxy8/+8pf7t16r/znjcvuf3jVw/feeW/p+iJuwWpSU6IqSmKcoDQuaFywmClilhG1eNSkcWOkBTnKxAWLVY9BIgYKGzRepEkbJbmWhGpW1xfCjrb896f/8KSvnDxpzNRpE8859dTxJ508ZtYFl5w745KpY87/2cVX3hT6b7lZ1RI6DkMjxEohqytoloJmMWSYES5ijJddUUvlPCZ4ubC4KM8dTQgcpTBGQZzqMQriDCUFSZssxXkCirjG4xqPQytFunLmmtbu7lyXGTWtWNGKFc1YyYx1mbEeM9bNYnbFh+IYGwqJMhKpCB3EQDPvL/pLS61mRjQBcVLHSQhTUEsjOYuUVnpHpMP73dh3J/z48qk/8v08tOLG9m7YU7il077Nuv/OjWwhv6Xulpv/8+ZCKI+zRAkrKI5xgu03M4+ZPGqxmMFiIy7IUad6M/O4gcMC+CiJmCRhgiRTU1BphuAa0jZv8awxF0w97ezZ07495ayzx5x6xle/dsIZ4ybNmDhn3AnTf3Lh//lt4L87MwUlprAYsSKiFDQHmznGaJwdTuV9F+PCzBR5ypK8WmejDKOUJAQKo64k74oTKwKMkG6GoBUhxbhhxUwREkbYEGGThy0etnm4yCJFGjUrPhFHWUUqmhmHKQqR/gwwMw7z6iERTqLHHYxEKY0SGsPVAVkKkBTASQiTQEuCQhKozeya/7r5h+N/8YMJP7vw5EvPOXHW5dO/N++H8zz/u9F1iSt8UXTBDxbe+MsblzUuR0mE01SL6DBGcIySGCcxTqMGjRo0YtCooCMvyH5EBSI1rIfhYThMq4RFTRYxFTcotfSKVrsjJq1IFeRroPP7vlmnX3jemRdOO/OcMSef8Y0TTz7plFPPPGvKpLHnnPo/Jl1xzk+v89x0u+8OlMG6T0Vu3fYL28ctHzf9jAcJDWMSxjhMaqoc7WPA9QinMYNEhR7Amg/CEEVhRoLYDuBiAFo+3fBo3K0zD6AeSH2EBzgLMBrgJCBIwCBBEwdNHBbDPJFVBFcChRgK0f4MMDMKserB4eF2/y8ylEQIiWASRdUBaEIjSR3HAUwAPa7Lcaik6R/cy+NXNDdeGvr52Vdefub3Lxl76SXjL7li0uVXTrsyPDt67U9+s8rTQTOMZwWMEy0MUZTgKNn3lhX74COtxn54v6oOgMO8piUxDIM3kOGAIQIDGAUoDDGRsfMRVcoC9dfkpvBtP5vzH1NPPmfciRMnj5s+Y9q5Z4yb8NWvf+0b3zh52oTzZ57x7Tnjv+P9QWh5fBVv4SgImB+bXmZ5mellho+yACYhhEMIhXBNlcN9DF75QYqDjAY5DXISZCTAWIBZXmx7se3Flg+bPmr4meFj3M9YgPU3Mw4aKChQ8IgIO5iBO3OAVQ0lQUpDxx2EhDEOIxyB1aGTiEoiKglrOAphFOlxosaZlCArI+qtjUsXX3ld4scZ//eC7u82ur/TcOOvbsx7JcmvgSjGCYZjBIaJHkQoQvez/81KwiOuxn4YDYmhkCCvZUlUXicoSGAQVwMIIRwiPMytpK2GwB2Ny6VmIF+N41c2/XjOzy+ecdmMCeedOXbyaaeO/ea3vjXmtFMmTZwyZfy5cyb/+7ivTvnOxMulZrUQLihuiQeI4aGmhxoeKryE+hEOQhiEKECqLBsFGAgwEOwDBhgMMLSvlfgZ8TPqOwD3McNLLQ+1PNTwUuGl3Md4vw7EX76X40DNkqJAXwGHZODO7KfVgwOMBCkJkuMKjEMIhSAKg2ogIYD8Mg4oJKCTEMZhhqMCxgyYMEHKkBK4PaasiHWsTKxqT6/MZzrUuAojGIUZjFAUZjBMhrJ/I8KhEVejDCVBXhEcYDUtiYrAAAEBVA26D9pJS0S43ChLAUWKa+0ZuXOJvmxJ4ccX/WLmWXMumn3ZBbMvnjJl2tjxY8+cOGH69LOnTjhvzpR/P++0i+b+W724ztQSGgzoVkTwRmy4iXAT7sHEB1EAgACAflxD2X6qB/oAfgr8FJaXvY8SLyVeyryUeSn3UO7Zd+6l3MOYl1EvJ16KfQP4/AL6+wo4JAN3Zh+vGkb8jAYpDZLjiprNjH0q9arMB6if0ICgIYuESzhSQjELJkw9yfU00bNAz2moCSghTfEA6CcwQEmQoxCDQQoCpO+zbaCrcWjE1ShDaYDRgKABYxDEL2pZEhVAfla9mWEA0SDpnNfR4eiUAkpHXCq0gY3g0T1P//P261f+/EdzZ5178fgJk6bPmDlr9qwzJ0044YQTTzlh/LgTpv/0wl/eEr+jkJPlqCy7JR4gwk0qmZlUXzn0cy3AtQDXAxz4OfBz6OPIx7GPEy9nHs7dnLu54eaGm3M3xz6OfBz5BPIJ5DNQ349lWPkt0A9WQyW+vgIOycCd2cuqhmIfJQFCAvi4ApEAREEAQ3o14KDOfBr3Au5F3Me412B+m/qLJFjCoRIKWyDMtQhRwqoUKhRCBdUPgI+QIKdhg4UNEuTQhzUvhEEKgxSEcH9QcMTVKEOInxI/J34xCOzjtSyJyusE+rDuh9UAAkhpULRGZd3CNSAGb553K7uh9NbT7+59f+8Hez586P6tixddf9llV0ybPuO8WefOnjPrnHPOO2/aRRdPvyI2N6dcj37vumWld2Xe1UG8kLuJaMS8ETM3wl4A/Tr068iHq68c+JjqZ6qfaX6m+5juY8DLkJdhD6NuxhoZa2SikYlGZjQw2sh0n1D8QvP1h5fvgl4KfQR5+0NrkhF4+2o4OAPN7OZVw7CXEB8mPnRcAbEfwIAOglo1YL8mfNDyYMvNDDc3Gk3mtkijRTw2C3aRgI38AgQZDGEQgTCCaITzkMWCJvGL/l9WIEDAvg1KDyI9CPUggAFI/CMuSBlKvIJ4jUFgj6hlSVQAehjwYs0HqsILoBcUU2Zva48aUf/QeNe9qx7+9OW97+3814dvfvbZx3v37Hn3ng0b71y69Nrrr168pO3qXy9p/5NS1NcZq3o6l6jLoivUuFrMWj2pEnEB3oBYA6KNEHl04NOAT4NeiNysysp1D1d8XPZxxcs1L9e8XPdw6ObIzUkjpw2cu7hwceHihpOTBq56jYLfKPgNyW9IfiH7uOLjmpdpXqp7CfBi6MHQg5G7DKlBQzfX99VwcA7DzB5KfOR4AxMfwn6IAqAasB8YfmJ6qenlws1ZI6MNHLo49VpmuJsFitjHgRfrXqj7degHNMhZwEBuqjcg3QWgG5EA5yED+SnykzIgQEAAwwDCfjzSauznaJkZuRn0YOBF1aB7IAtg7tfv+o8/rGhYThaJ57t3frZr77u7Pn3lpX+8+vqHb73/yavvvP/KW2/uee/vb7739q7db+7a8fdPPtj72LrtixtuvD207E7XMhRBIsKQWydugN0AenXNr0kBVQqquhdVb2bg4aqXq/tsDPo5eb+ZywgXpw1c83LJzyW/kH1C8Rnle3UvAx4KPGSIk2lNMgI3B55DM/DfORtpbbgJcePjC+zer2kVeBDyQOQByIMO4MbQg1HfuxZBLwReALwAegHyoLIyyN0XkZtid/lkcHI80lL0g9Q89VWDK429ItiNmRtQVycLKnpYQgvozg2vf/bm3g/e3fvy6//a9vJ7T7685/Edu7f+bccTf9vx9I6d23a8vvPlT1/fufeN5z8wl21cntWWR/Ki1VT8suZXNL+iBJR8SGkPK8ti0oqIIvsRrrLmRorcFHoo9PRNYt9U9utDGw5A9vd3M+hh0M2hh0I3xR5GvHw/1MOZhzMPp25W8bnIhYcCXRg0VMXhmfnLTtnP0AuqwgOxG494zcczxPRiwy0DV/sq51K1Cb6y8fXP9ux987XPdrz2yfOvfvDUrnce2/HqYy+88vj2nX/ZvuPZv+55+eVPX3jyk3de3PtY6eW7UsotrrvUBFCCkhqQlIBUCEntEWl5TLorIS2L12DmIwhuIEMZrnNFM1fPwL9mV3rw/8/ARgTdEHj0qnAD1IhGvObjF+TCpocyl1KYt2Klc4V5dc87j7+7d8/e3ds/emH7h8+88O7WbW9sfnLHQ4++8NDmbZs3b3v0kb9tvv+1jT2733lu7+tb3lmeArc6l3b4JcUnqT5Z8cmFgNwRkleG5T/F5GURRfJBdMxHBJ1oKMiFK/av2Ll6Bv7OfHgvhi8foAGCRqC7tapo1GEDHPGaj2cQb8TIoWpOSQ/BNTdueGfzPz7euffVpz9+5flPdmz/+Lmn//7k47sf2/Tilvuee3zDts3rnrPlzevAtje37n1101sr41o+okk+WWro1D2y5pEUr5T3S6uC0vKwtDIky15w7Ac1nJkrAurh4TBq5oMxauZjCXRh7uGkEYMGIHt1NcW36i/uuu/DVx/99IVN//jLn1/bvO6ljcVnNrBH14NN69UH1isP34+2Pd2955U/f/hwftsfnStQnAK/Ljk6YaMKGhXNrcgeJe9T2gNKe0BVPAAe80ENt2NX5Eia+TB3+S8fugvoDbrWqFZFgwZcYMRrPn4BDsC9BvMKxQWXzev83ZV3wbaeu+96bDP52yb8wnrpiXWdW3pXPNB714Y1d6xf+8f165c++FzXG39b/d6mjmeUNLtz/grZowK3qjsl1CADl6y7ZKVRLrjlTq/c6VWURv3YD6qmz2ndAQ6HAWY+zBfDlw/NqWsuTW1QqsKl6k59xGs+vnGRwnwgO0m+Ef/xqo7OMFsexndFdHVRCVzdDRaX0OKiWNJVurZn7Q3r7r753rtvfaj7po2rQvpdjlV2U/fKuSvz8zq4B6J6GToV4FQ0l6I0KpJbkRpVteFYz47uADVd1+r0w2HkzVz9i+eIJKkJtV5TnarikgdxpMxc6zCPpdqfbyIOCydSHKh9ria7qB6wJR+XQsYf66Qbfnnn7+etuLV+5R/qVt3pWLXC1VnwyKpf04JwlUf5U0P+lv+8c0Vd5+qWNR1XtRfmdrBGiB0KcqjAqepOVW1QlQZVcamqUzvGgteq4fG9M+sOUP2L5yASHOYrbTgUh6rUK7JTGkRlP9do5uHKPqrL64jIcrQWQz3SnERzMdlF8y6ab6CdDaTTQzp9tMOLOzww7wZSoy436KpL05yq4lQ6XHJ7g5JvVAsuJV9X0JyqXqeCOhU5NOTQoFPTXZrah646NLVOO2bDOfaMmnnUzF8cM0PNiRUnkV2k0FAGFxpwvgEVGpDUABUXUF1AcwK9HoB6oDm1glPJO5WCS5HrFdmhqA5Fq1OAQwX1WhnNqWnOPjNrjmM6nGPPqJlHzfxFQa3TFQeQ6oFcDyQnKDhBwQklJ5ScQHFC1QU1Zx96n/OB4lBlpyo7VbleVRyq4lCVelV1qGq9qtarSj/kelVxVNiWjxSVp7j+aK3Mioya+WCMmvlYotbpikOTnJrk1OT6PhSHpjg0tV7XnGC/mVUXVF1Qc8Fyq+I40F8aiNzvZATMfNRWZkVGzXwwRs1cEbVOU+drw8aDNB00KnWaUqcWnHLBKUv1slwvlz+e5TpFrdc0p645odrPzIoLKg69jFyvS/V6wakX6vW8cx/1er5eLzh0yaHL9bo8zGf2ERnOcFN8mJrUVMmomUfNXLss89SjgTxPlerkgiNfcOQlR16uyyt1BbmuIM+XVKequTTVBZQGIDcAqQFIDVBugIoDlJEdoFAP8k7Q4QLtLrCqXl9Vr7c79HaH3unQOx16vm5YMx+R4odT+yhpVZEhZnYCUA+BE1aOB2nquxHUlER3gL4/S/RFbUg80Ko7dOAcLolWZZIB8SBNDq1WM2tlMw8Y+/CaOPf9QjWkEr0eHL6ww83OITQZVo0BwirzVGWe8rlQh8QDyPPUwnyp4OgsODqluk55fqcyP19GdSqaS1NdutKgSw16oVEvuIHU38z1fWbudIF2p76qXivT7tA6HFpHndZZp8mDB3ikhqMo85QKsjuh5tAPU5OaKhlgZqVOVRyyUqcqDqVyPEhT341yjUkUuU6W51cVlTr58JMMiNV0c8iSQxqE7JDkvu/Afjhk2aHIA8Z+cE0qV3KEhK2c5BCDrUFASZ5f7j8kVrw4X+53Y/94oFWar0h1klSX349c3pnrCrJDKssr1SuFPuRCvSrXKWWkOqXg6CPvUPIOOV8+qZPzdUq+Ti7UKdLB1snnGM6AISh1ylDZa0myPw6v3qGSDDCzPF8q1EnyfEmqK0jz5Qqx4sW6gjRfLt/YP1adROof5SFxSJ/akgxtPRAP2mFfEknqm7ADUaqTpPlSX9x/MiAWBqlR6F/80JorjrGqJIeenYFJDqrJodWoQtjPm2SfvJJcJ8n7lN/X4YC88oDYd7vcL9WBmdp3Ig154tEZziDxpc+V5PNXMsDM6jxFni+r8xRlvqxUjMM3lW/sH78gSQ7Ss6okV33OJOqRqORYJxm+6QuU5KoD86IOTD4oDv5x+EoO8rgjsFaPVZIBZtbn6upVmj5X167StLlahVjx4lWaNlcr39g/fkGSHKTnUU0yaCDHR5Lhm76wSQ7S86gmqWGtHqskA/8A9l9QnwsPEg/ZoZo4muQLm+TwaxhNMoJJBpkZjTLKKMcpA8w8eoweo8fxfoyaefQYPb4kx/8D688fPkcMYGcAAAAASUVORK5CYII=" 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He had a thing about height, maybe that was why he walked on
his tippy toes. After he became Director
of Organizing for the teachers' union, every person he hired was shorter than
he. I predicted that before long we'd
have an entire staff of Munchkins.</div>
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Don may have perceived me as the Wicked Witch. I'd <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stolen
</i>his job, a job he'd been promised by
an organizational blowhard who'd had no authority to promise anybody anything. Don
had done all of his scut work for years with the understanding that, whenever the
windbag got promoted, a sure thing since he was the boss' best friend, Don
would fill his shoes. Lo and behold,
when Blowhard became Director of Public Relations, not only did his lackey not
fill his boots, the new hire wore high heels.
Without realizing it, I'd tripped a landmine of cronyism and disrupted
the perfectly laid plans of mice and Neanderthals. </div>
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In an effort to assuage their self-imposed humiliation, Blowhard
and Don decided to make it impossible for me to function in my new
position. Rumors were planted, my office
locks changed, calls went unreturned, meetings were scheduled without my knowledge--a special welcome for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">broad who dared</i> join an all male staff
whose salaries were funded by the 75% female membership. I hoped that eventually the good ole' boys
would tire of their pathetic pranks though I suspected Don would someday try to
even the score, but I'd been hired to do a job so I didn't waste time lamenting
my Y chromosome deficit.</div>
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Over the years the organization grew, and Don became my
colleague. He was a hard worker,
and put in a lot of time as the leader
of our Short Stop Club. Once before
handing over the baton to our boss at a staff meeting, Don made an introduction
that would have made Trump blush.
"I would like to introduce the man, no, 'man' is too ordinary a
word--the brilliant mind that conceived this dazzling strategy that is so far
ahead of its time I can only assume it was divinely inspired." Soon after he was appointed Director of
Organizing. </div>
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Don prided himself on closing the bar at 3 a.m. with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big bosses,</i> and being the first one at
breakfast to hold a table for his Union brothers who shared a proclivity for
women who knew their limitations. Though
proud to be a man's man, he showed his soft side by wearing ties that had
images of children and little red schoolhouses symbolizing, he said, that the
teachers' union cared about kids.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>He once registered for a right-wing
mailing list, an example of his stealth intelligence-gathering technique, using
the moniker <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Miss Ura Phule.</b> </div>
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He and his cohorts found countless ways to make their mark
even venturing into the world of art. The
fearless chiefs would round robin elected positions in labor federations, pick
up inumerable bar tabs, sponsor softball teams, subsidize holiday parades and,
before long, one or another would be nominated as "Labor's Man of the
Year." Of course, then there'd be a
dinner to honor the recipient (our organization would buy all of the tickets)
and the honoree would be presented with a commissioned portrait of himself at the
gala. It was not long before Union headquarters
resembled a wing of the National Gallery.</div>
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After several of those fiascoes, we needed more wall space
for the big guys' portraits, so the troglodytes moved into their
Bob-the-Builder phase. Wages, hours and
working conditions took a backseat to expanding the organization's real estate
portfolio. Discussions about property
surveys, grading permits and blueprints, …<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I'm
thinking 35-50,000 squares--maybe $5-$10 mil…</i>kept the honchos occupied. Upon completion, the buildings were named
after our dead leaders. The leaders with
a pulse settled for naming rooms after
each other. Meetings were held in the
Baley Conference Room, brass plaques on doors were inscribed with Brum Lounge
or Surner Parlor. </div>
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When the good ole' boys were not ensuring their places in
labor history, they were impressing each other.
Per Blowhard's insistence, Don dutifully addressed him as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Godfather</i>. Having grown-up in a neighborhood that
afforded one a ringside seat to questionable characters, I was appalled that
anyone, let alone teachers' union staff, would throw around such epithets, but Don's
management style, illustrated by his use of a six-pack as a doorstop,
circumvented judgment and good taste. </div>
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Once one of the field staff Munchkins went on a membership
recruitment assignment for our national organization. Mike, who'd
been hired for his stature and not his IQ, flew out of O'Hare forgetting his
luggage at home. At the next staff
meeting, Don set the stage to make the most of his lapse.</div>
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"In the event Little Tykie, I mean Mikey, ever runs off without his luggage again, we
are presenting him with an already packed suitcase to be kept at his desk in
case of emergency," said the Master of Ceremonies. "Stand up, Tykie,
so we can review the contents of your luggage that will help you organize the
ladies…oh, sorry, little guy, I couldn't
tell that you were already standing. Hop up on a chair so you can get a better
look at what's in your emergency gear."</div>
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"His stiletto shoe-lifts will pierce the upholstery,"
a colleague, who had left his wife for a stripper he'd met on an assignment, shouted.
"Bring him up front."</div>
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"You guys are fucking crazy," the absent-minded
unfortunate gamely laughed as someone actually scooped him up and carried him
to the front of the room.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GOIN' TO GRANDMA'S </b>was
printed on the mini crimson suitcase. Piece
by piece, clothing and toiletries were extracted and hoisted into the air, their
purposes described in salacious detail--Big Boy Superman underpants, toddler,
high-heeled Roy Rogers boots, an airline-sized bottle of Jack Daniels and Spiderman comic books. Since the staff fancied themselves lady-killers, condoms, a
dildo and a thumb-sized copy of the Kama Sutra were packed as well. One of the brothers, who talked about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dames </i>like some demented Humphrey Bogart
throwback, contributed a bb gun, knock-out drops, handcuffs, and a blindfold just in case Tykie ran into a
recalcitrant prospective member. The
piece de resistance, to be used only in the event Tykie didn't get lucky, was
an inflatable sheep.</div>
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The sheep, donated from a staff member's personal collection, was a huge hit. </div>
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"Don," I mentioned over lunch, as the sheep's former lover
told our tablemates where they could purchase their own inflatables, "this
morning's presentation was beyond the pale.
I found it offensive."</div>
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"The guys were just having a little fun," he
said. "Lighten up." </div>
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<br /></div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-33745459735730609632012-05-30T09:59:00.001-05:002012-05-30T11:11:59.106-05:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> GRAVE
SIGHT</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">When I
was eight years old, my Italian family's field trips to Mt. Carmel cemetery
were mandatory pilgrimages of faith and tradition. While my sister and I picked dandelions and
played he loves me, he loves me not, my parents pulled weeds and trimmed the
grass and my brother sorted out the family tree. I saw the occasional bunny hop past, as we
did our own version of grave-hopping.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">It was
only natural then that when a friend said, "I forgot today is Mother's Day
so I have to cancel our walk and run to the cemetery," I considered
joining her. But then I remembered that
my mother considered trips to the graveyard a waste of time, and she'd be more
pleased if I got some writing done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">As a
little girl, I remembered checking out the mini-mausoleums, Lilliputian houses
of the wealthy, that were mixed in with the tombstones of the less well-off and
the tiny stone "pillows" of those not inclined to go for broke. If the people buried in the little granite houses
are so rich I asked my mom, why didn't they build bigger houses? They don't need a lot of room, she said,
they're not going to be doing much in the way of entertaining.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Mother's
Day and Father's Day, and sometimes Memorial Day, too, would find us on our
knees in Section H, Block 12, Lot 115 praying for the poor souls though I was
pretty sure they had all gone straight to heaven. Just wait 'til I climb down from this stool
my mother would threaten from her polishing perch when my brother would burst
into his creepy Boy Scout ditty <i>…the
worms go in, the worms go out, the worms play pinochle in your mouth</i>. At some point my sister and I would put in
some pout-time because, despite his inappropriate singing, my brother was the
only one who got to lug the sprinkling can to and from the graves because the
spigot was down by the road. But even
with all of the silly antics, I didn't really like visiting the dead. The looks on my mom's and dad's faces always
made me sad, and I would inevitably wipe a sniffle on my sleeve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">While she
shined the little ceramic portraits of her mother, father and brother with her
hanky, she'd admonish me out of dad's earshot, "Don't cry," even though
I'd see teardrops dribbling down her own cheeks when she leaned over to kiss my
Nonna's picture. "Daddy likes to
follow this ritual out of respect, but if you honor people when they're alive, buy
them flowers when they can smell them, you don't need to waste time on your
knees at a gravesite. Besides, "she'd
add, "they're in your heart. There's nothing here." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Ever the
pragmatist, she seized learning moments as we tip-toed through the
tombstones. "Brush up on your
math," she'd say, "subtract their birth dates from the date they died. Do you see that Nonno died in 1918--he died
in the Great Flu Epidemic. Look it up
when we get home." So I wasn't
surprised when she chose a very non-traditional, but ever so practical, exit
strategy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Her
decision to be cremated shocked those who needed to know--they'd be deprived of
the sacred tradition of trooping to Mt. Carmel on every freaking holiday with a
sprinkling can--but she blew off the criticism. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">There
were no more available plots at the family grave-site where my father was
buried, and she wanted to be with him--moving him was out of the question, too
macabre and expensive. She opted for cremation, and her urn would be entombed
over his coffin. I wonder if the fact that she'd be on top factored into her
decision. I imagine my Dad was conflicted when St. Peter apprised him of the fact
that she'd be sharing his space--happy to have her near-by, not so happy with
her superior position, but for once, he couldn't say a damn thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">He had
been gone for over a decade when her health started to decline. One day she announced that she was moving out
of state to live with my sister. You've
been my angel for the last decade, she said, now it's your sister's turn. A year later she passed away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">My sister
saw to the viewing and the actual cremation--thank God for that. Had that piece
been entrusted to my distracted self she might still be waiting for her little
gold-domed repository.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Anyway,
my brother picked her up from my sister's, and delivered her to me for her
final journey to Section H, Block 12, Lot 115.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">It was at
this point in my reverie that it occurred to me that my mother would have been incensed
had I wasted my time with Rosie on her cemetery jaunt because she's not there. I don't mean in the existential sense--my
mother really is not there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">She is
still in my curio cabinet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">I'm sure
she is ambivalent about her predicament. On the one hand, she is in a lovely living
room decorated in a style very similar to her own with lots of company and
laughter in the house. On the other hand, I, her hard-headed daughter, did not
follow her instructions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">But on
second thought I realized that if my mom were here to record a new tape she'd
say, "Don't worry about the cemetery thing. You brought me flowers when I could smell them. Get on with your writing. I told you where I'd be."<o:p></o:p></span></div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-65982984158088409022012-04-13T13:58:00.000-05:002012-05-30T10:54:10.724-05:00OUT OF RESPECT<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I've had my share of culture shock as I traipsed through Europe, the Americas and the Middle East, but nothing could have prepared me for my first encounter with a burqua-clad woman on a flight from Rome to Beirut. Not pictures, not books, not stories--nothing could have prepared me for the searing image of the ghostly apparition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A fastidiously groomed man in a Savile Row Suit, Gucci loafers and a Rolex guided the ethereal shroud to its seat. Swathed head to ankle in a voluminous black cover replete with a plastic Darth Vader-like screen masking its face, it seemed like a character in <i>Night of the Living Dead</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When the meal was served, her gloved hands flipped part of her veil forward creating a mini-tent under which she ate. Except for her feet, you would never have known it was a person--no arms nor legs, no skin, no voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed; though I'm not sure which part of the scene prompted my visceral reaction. After all, growing up with nuns exposed me to some very unusual attire, and the religion I was steeped in routinely vilified women as "occasions of sin" so it wasn't as though misogyny was exactly foreign to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Maybe it was the proud, pristine peacock steering the faceless, formless figure down the aisle. Maybe it was the beautiful faces of their children who accept that, at puberty, boys become men and girls disappear. Maybe it was the realization that a change in geography could make any woman, myself included, an erasable nonentity. Maybe it was the neon-bright jelly slippers that flashed from beneath the capacious black robe. Whatever it was, it overwhelmed my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In Beirut, I shared the encounter with my Egyptian friend, Mohsen. "Ah, yes," he explained, "Our culture respects virtuous women, that is why we require the burqua."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Oh. My. God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Years later, my daughter told me about helping to plan a <i>Take Back the Night</i> rally on campus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Hundreds of students," she explained, "will protest violence against women. We're going to chant 'Yes means yes, and no means no! However we dress, wherever we go!' It's about victimization," she declared, "about empowerment, too. But really, Mom, I think it's about respect, don't you?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Yes, Lia, it is about respect," I replied, flashing back to the image tattooed to my soul so long ago. "We Americans don’t always get it right, but we do keep trying." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-59159450934902352702012-04-12T11:16:00.002-05:002012-04-12T11:21:51.905-05:00THE PLANET GOT A RAVE REVIEW<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5m6EcLmOxygUQxtuRfCuS2l4B-5AA6koTD6-oWSoJfucM_VOjDHml7g0IsCeXg53dddtj4Z2lfuU1VnU8c9RZZJ1I-ikOSdSrKQuxzygGvDOIflrBPF9srGUzX1M7haX-PYDQswGaX1c/s1600/Solar+system.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5m6EcLmOxygUQxtuRfCuS2l4B-5AA6koTD6-oWSoJfucM_VOjDHml7g0IsCeXg53dddtj4Z2lfuU1VnU8c9RZZJ1I-ikOSdSrKQuxzygGvDOIflrBPF9srGUzX1M7haX-PYDQswGaX1c/s320/Solar+system.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Fueled by the renewed energy of my summer hiatus, I again entered the revolving door of Teacher Personnel. Somewhere in the Windy City, I was certain a school existed where students were not hostages and the principal knew his teachers by name. From a map studded with pins, each of which indicated a teacher vacancy, I spotted a prime location. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The beckoning pin was almost floating on Lake Michigan, just a hop from Chicago's Gold Coast where privileged kids enjoyed advantages that dwarfed their skyscraper abodes. The Magnificent Mile shopping Mecca beckoned from the east, Rush Street, haunt of hipsters, was a mile south and Lincoln Park, a miniature of New York's Central Park, was a stone's throw north. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Excellent choice," the personnel advisor said, as I handed her the marker of my promising future. "It's an Educational Vocational Guidance Center. Sign this form; assignments are irrevocable. Good luck!" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A week later I reported for duty at the oldest school in Chicago, a weathered landmark which lent a bit of architectural romance to my vision, and reinforced my belief that I stumbled on a gem of a job. The center of the stone stairs was worn by the pounding of thousands of Buster Browns, and the dings and dents in the vintage hardwood floors added to the charm. The main office had old-time, school-house pendant light fixtures suspended over a shiny mahogany counter where employees signed in; a note next to the sign-in sheet announced that there were coffee and rolls in the teachers' lounge and a staff meeting was scheduled at ten. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Over a donut I met my fellow provisional teachers, both men new to the system. The first had graduated Princeton, and looked the part right down to his penny loafers. The other had just completed his doctorate at the Chicago Theological Seminary, and was awaiting ordination. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"The woman in Personnel gave this place a rave review," said the Doctor. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Yeah, she said it was a great choice," said the Princetonian, dusting powdered sugar off his silk, Ivy-league tie, "but I noticed a lot of vacancies."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A man eavesdropping commented, "I don't suppose one of you brain surgeons thought to ask why there were so many empty slots? Trust me; you won't make it through the year."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"How long have you been here?" asked the minister.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Fifteen years, but there aren't too many job openings for alcoholics. Don't ever light a match near me." His buddy guffawed. "Like you could pass a breathalyzer," Mr. Doomsday snapped, but he was cut short by the arrival of a man who asked that new teachers come to his office.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> "My name is Mr. Sharp. Elijah Sharp. I'm the assistant principal. So what do you want to teach? You're on provisional certificates with no teaching credentials so you can teach anything."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"A college degree with no teacher training qualifies one to teach in all subject areas?" Dr. Divinity asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Yep, pick whatever you want, we need everything. One of you guys want Math? I know women are no good at numbers."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"I'll teach Math," Princeton volunteered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Good. Room 204." He turned to Divinity, "You look like a scientist. Room 208. And you, Baby, Language Arts, 301. Now for policy. I'm in charge of discipline. If a kid is causing big trouble, send him down with a note; our intercom is busted. Don't send somebody down for petty nonsense, I'll send him right back."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"What's considered petty nonsense?" Divinity asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Cursing, fighting, threats, pranks, refusing to work--you get paid to be in charge of your classroom."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"What constitutes a serious issue?" asked Princeton.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Weapons. And only if you see one. If they say something like, 'I'm gonna blow your head off,' ignore it. They talk tough. But if you actually see a knife or gun, send down a note," he said. "And no smoking, but again make sure you actually see the kid with reefer. Sometimes the smell comes from 311 where the street people hang. Keep classroom windows locked. We had a kid who was pushed or fell depending on whose story you buy, from the second story last year. He lived, but he's pretty messed up. Any questions? If not, staff meeting at 10."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">An attractive, forty-something woman sat down next to us as we waited for the staff meeting to begin. "Hi, I'm Renee Cross, the librarian," she said. "You must be the new teachers." I didn't know what signaled that we were newbies--Princeton's eye twitch, Divinity's knuckle-cracking or my hair-twirling. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At 10, there were only six of us in the lounge, and two were custodians scarfing down the last of the coffee cake.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The principal entered and launched into a <i>Welcome to the Family</i> speech. "Yeah, the Addams Family," a late arrival shouted as he headed to the buffet. "Hey, who ate all the eclairs?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Probably fat ass Fred. Pat him down," Doomsday ordered. Two men lifted one of the custodians out of his chair, and began rifling his pants pockets.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Hey, I found a Long John," yelled a poster child for decaf. "Oops, this isn't a sweet roll, but I'll bet his girlfriend thinks it's one."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Principal droned on to the finale. "And, in the words of Dr. Seuss, 'Unless someone like you cares a lot, nothing will get better.' Now go get 'em."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Princeton's blinking was now a full-fledged tic. Dr. Divinity's clenched jaw suggested he needed to find a parsonage ASAP. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Don't let those antics bother you," Renee said. "Some teachers behave worse than the students. We'll go to the Bowl & Roll for lunch, and I'll give you the scoop."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Nice perk, being surrounded by good restaurants."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Not exactly surrounded, Cabrini-Green is two blocks thataway," she pointed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"The housing projects?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"There's only one Cabrini-Green, the greatest failed social experiment in history, and we get the student casualties from the project's schools--fourteen year-olds reading below third grade," she said. "But things get tricky because Chicago principals get paid by the head; they don't want their numbers to go down so they transfer kids to us only when their behavior is totally off the wall." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Just then the Dr. Seuss enthusiast bellowed from his office, "Move it, folks, I expect appropriate bulletin boards by 3 o'clock!"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Renee, what's with appropriate?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Last year the Shop teachers jig-sawed a life-sized nude and painted WELCOME BACK on a fig leaf."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i> </i>A woman, with what looked to be an active blonde beehive, was unlocking 304. "Hi," I said, "I'm the new Language Arts teacher."<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"I'm the music teacher. Good to have company up here, half the rooms are empty, and no one except the kids and derelicts ever come up to the third floor."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Derelicts?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Addicts, gangbangers--they hang out in 311. The room can't be locked because of the fire escape so all of the dregs in the neighborhood congregate there. Steer clear," she warned. "Can't talk now. I have to see if I got any of the instruments I ordered. There aren't many musical arrangements for kazoos."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Kazoos?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Yes, our trumpets were stolen, the piano has no pedals, the guitar has no strings. Mostly we watch videos--Sound of Music, My Fair Lady."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I decided to check out the 311 halfway house before the squatters commandeered the area. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"You haven't been assigned to 311, have you?" a man, in a Mr. Rogers' cardigan, inquired as I exited the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Oh, no, just checking things out." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Well, take a peek, then skedaddle. The room gets packed when it's cold out; you can get high just walking down the hall. By the way, I'm Louis Picaro, the art teacher. Everyone calls me Picasso. If you need anything, I'm in room 309."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"As a matter of fact, I do need bulletin board materials." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Well, someone ripped off my art supplies, but I'll share what's left. Use newspaper for background and it'll be good through Christmas. Staple up paper plates, and tomorrow they'll draw their faces and print their names underneath, that way they get to know each other. In October, have them draw their faces on jack-o-lanterns..."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"You're kidding? Pumpkins?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Pumpkins, and in November, a giant turkey--they write what they're thankful for on the tail feathers."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The turkey-feather gratitude list was the last straw. I backed away to find Renee. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"I met Picasso <i>and</i> Beehive," I said. "Beehive told me about thieves and addicts and kazoos and squatters. Picasso gave me bizarre bulletin board tips." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> As we walked to the restaurant, I asked her why she was teaching at the Center. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Without getting too kumbaya on you, let's just say I believe in giving back." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"I understand trying to make a difference, Renee, but swim in a toxic pool, and you gulp poison."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Sure, some teachers get warped, but there are good ones too, and a lot of nice kids. Chicken or egg? Politics, incompetence, social conditions, it's all in the water, but we can't just give up."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I liked Renee; she'd been around the block, but she didn't seem jaded. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Okay, I'll try to swim with a snorkel," I said, "but I need the Cliff Notes on how this place operates." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">By the time we left the Bowl & Roll, I was cycling between concern and curiosity, and running into Mr. Sharp upon our return magnified both. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Hey, Baby, forgot to mention, no one enters the building before 8:30--safety issues, and staff vacates at 3:15 sharp; NEVER linger after school."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"But what if a student needs extra help or I have to hold a parent conference?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He looked at me as though I'd said <i>but what if I have to convene a NATO Summit?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Girl, kick off those red slippers, and buy you some combat boots. You're on a different planet now." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-30829908819408699002012-04-03T10:21:00.002-05:002012-04-22T09:56:19.536-05:00WED OR DEAD<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In our house, <i>a girl</i>, no matter how old, left her parents' home either wed or dead. Since I was neither, my father created a third category, <i>running away</i>, defined as a daughter's act of shameful rebellion, betrayal, ancestral treason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My father often referenced "...the time she ran away." Those unfamiliar with the saga would raise their eyebrows in puzzlement; others, accustomed to his histrionics, would sigh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After college graduation, I lived at home while I taught and saved to fund a dream trip, a summer in Europe. After my travels, I intended to get an apartment, though I had no idea how I'd make my escape. While going out on my own was as much a part of my <i>here I come, world</i> plan as my European tour, I knew the subject would be inflammatory; it took little to ignite conflagration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">With dorm living, a college degree, travel and a good job under my belt, I felt equipped to leave the nest despite my father's opposition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> After way too many dinner table wars, the lines were drawn--<i>it's my life</i> versus <i>over my dead body. </i>The rhetoric was hot, mine trumpeted independence, his loaded with dire predictions. You'll be mixing with strangers, you're putting yourself in harm's way, there are drug addicts out there, you could get mugged and robbed, he prophesied. Men will hit on you, he said. That particular caveat I hoped went from his mouth straight to God's ear, but the other warnings I packed away in the <i>if you cross your eyes, they will stay that way </i>category.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My brother got wind of the escalating hostility, and suggested an unusual strategy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Pack your bags and go. He's never going to give you permission, if that's what you're waiting for, so just do it. You're not a hostage."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I could not have been more astonished had he suggested I hook up with a Satanic cult. Perhaps because of his gender, my brother never internalized the fact that females in our house </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">were subject to different rules, some made up on the spot. True, I wasn't physically captive, but just walking out, the notion that I could just do it, was unfathomable. My college girlfriends went out on their own, but that was because, according to my father's script, their families didn't care, didn't value their reputations, were shameless and amoral. After awhile longer under my father's thumb, some of those attributes sounded somewhat appealing, and the seduction of independence trumped fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I<i> ran away.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Impervious to the warnings that I was risking my life, asking for trouble and tempting fate, sharing a flat with Beth, a college acquaintance, whose paramour had walked out of her heart and out on their lease, seemed perfect. I needed to bring nothing more to the furnished apartment than my suitcase, two boxes and three garbage bags of earthly possessions. Soon though, I discovered, that part of Beth's emotional healing involved bringing home strangers she met in bars. Mornings, I was afraid to walk out of my bedroom not knowing if she'd run off to work leaving her man of the hour eating breakfast at our table. Facing a potential Mr. Goodbar was terrifying, particularly after I overheard a colleague say that she'd awakened one morning to find that her one-night stand had absconded with all of her jewelry. Accused by Beth of not understanding how one recovers from a shattered romance, I took to locking my bedroom door at all times, and being alert for strangers in our shower. I slept over at a friend's apartment on nights when the prospect of Beth mending her broken heart seemed likely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Thrilled when the lease expired, I signed on with Carri, a dorm friend, whom I knew to be neither desperate, needy, nor prone to falling in love with strangers after two drinks. The only problematic part of our living together was the fact that we were both very messy, our preferred description--not dirty messy, not disgusting messy, just sloppy spirits who thought housekeeping a waste of time, slackers who used chairs as closets, and figured college diplomas immunized against household drudgery. Reading won hands-down when the alternative was vacuuming, and we didn't own anything worth polishing so we, like Thing One and Thing Two, were comfortable in our little pigpen littered with newspapers, running shoes and lesson plans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One day I returned from teaching unable to unlock the front door. After ten minutes of fiddling with the key, I called our building janitor, who showed up an hour later with his nine-year old clone, disgruntled that I'd interrupted his happy hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I tell you, Helmet, womens stupid, always trouble, I heard him grumbling to his son as they climbed the stairs to find me sitting on the floor outside my apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Mr. Hormet, my key's not working," I said. "The door won't open."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He jerked my key ring from my hands, and proceeded to lecture me on the art of unlocking a door. He had no luck either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Door bar," he barked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Can't be, I was the last one out this morning, and I locked the door."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Door bar, maybe burglar home," he guffawed. "Helmet, go back door!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Within minutes, Helmet appeared in the doorway crowing, "The back door was wide open! Your house is wrecked!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"See," Mr. Hormet triumphed, "I tol' you robbed!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Oh, God," I shrieked, "What happened? What the hell happened?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"You been robbed," Helmet screeched, delighted to be a player in the drama. "I discovered the crime. I'm like a detective--you have to tip me!" His father concurred, "Yeah, big tip!" The notion flashed through my mind that Mr. Hormet might be the culprit, but just as quickly I realized that he could never stay on task long enough to cause such destruction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I surveyed the wreckage. The apartment was a catastrophe--drawers dumped, closet contents strewn about, furniture upended, pictures ripped off walls, potted plants smashed-- ruined, destroyed, trashed. Couldn't someone tell from our thrift-store decor that this was not a Gold Coast apartment, that we had nothing of value?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"How could this be," I lamented to the officer who responded to the 911 call. "Nothing here is worth stealing."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Even a camera or a radio is a jackpot for a drug addict, Miss. It's $20.--more than he had before he picked your lock."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I sat in tears, the detectives arrived to dust for fingerprints. Within a four square block area, we have 300 break and enters a day, one of Chicago's finest commented, as he sprinkled white powder over the crime scene. I wasn't sure if that statistic was supposed to make me feel less special, or if he was saying welcome to the big city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And then, almost worse than the burglary, my detested neighbor walked in the door. She had dropped by on a few occasions ostensibly for the proverbial cup of sugar, but her grilling intrusiveness suggested she was some kind of government informant on a covert operation. <i>Just tell her we're diabetics the next time she comes looking for sugar, </i>I had told Carri, <i>don't let the busybody in. </i>Now Torquemada was standing in the middle of the crime scene, her head swiveling, eyeballs spinning as though she was on an intelligence gathering mission. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Whoa, this place is a real mess," she announced, as she sauntered around assessing the disaster. "Looks like you girls got wild and crazy in here."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"No, a junkie made a housecall," I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Well, he probably wanted to surprise you with a home-cooked meal. The kitchen sink is filled with dirty pots and pans. Then again, maybe he was starving after his futile search for valuables." Unable to go for her throat due to the presence of the evidence technicians, I replied in my best Eliza Doolittle voice, "Oh, Darling, those dishes are from a dinner party we had last summer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must ask you to leave so I can inventory our loss."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Carri came up the stairs just as I was hustling the yenta out the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Don't get scared, Carri, everything is okay, but we were robbed. My dad is now three for three." Carri surveyed the living room then dashed to her bedroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Oh, no, the bastard stole my opal ring, my birthstone!" she wailed. "Oh, god, he got my add-a-pearl necklace too."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Don't feel bad," I said, "he got my Confirmation watch and my grandmother's cameo."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Well, ladies," the detective interrupted, "we've done about all we can do here. We got a few prints, but they're probably yours," he laughed. "Doesn't really matter though, we never catch anybody anyway. We dust just to make the victims feel better." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Makes them think we're on top of things," the other Dick Tracy chuckled, as they beat it out the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was getting late, the circus was over, even Helmet and Mr. Hormet had gotten bored and left. Carri and I cleared a space on the sofa to commiserate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> "He cut the cord on my Princess phone," Carri grieved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"He got my debate medals," I said, "Let's call it a day. We can clean this dump over the weekend."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"How can we live this way for three days?" Carri yawned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"We've lived this way since we moved in," I said only half-exaggerating, "except for the time your mother visited. By the way, I'm sleeping on the floor in your room. My bedroom door doesn't lock."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"The floor in my room?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Yes, I'm sleeping on your floor in case the creep comes back tonight for something he couldn't carry. My father said criminals often return to the scene of the crime."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Your father's not infallible. He said guys would be hitting on you, and that hasn't happened. Are you thinking the dope fiend will come back for your class ring?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"I'm worried he might come back for more stuff. Your add-a-pearl necklace only had seven pearls, remember?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"I know I got it when I was born, but then my sister came along and my mother got too busy to order pearls," she said, turning out the light, as I nested on the floor in my down quilt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Carri," I murmured in the dark. "I'm sorry about your necklace."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Don't worry about it," she said. "Someday we'll have diamonds that will dazzle even that bitch upstairs."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The room fell silent as I visualized my drop-dead engagement ring. Then in a soft voice, as though Miss J. Edgar Hoover might be listening, Thing One asked, "Thing Two, how did you realize that the apartment had been ransacked?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Well, my bike was gone," I whispered. "It was chained to the radiator in the living room, and I noticed it was missing." <o:p></o:p></span></div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-9563507386357443682012-03-02T10:16:00.006-06:002012-03-02T11:56:12.799-06:00SHE'S DONE<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-ZPRDRSl7dXeW5LOHlMZQ9HvsaN-q1I5n-SURLPtLJcu-wrtzz3btEjgUWx6HNMwxCwk2Q-i1Im2hrZmLDdcg3NB-AXBNPz5inb5TdCopvD4NCcXuR9NSUlkkgCozwNio7i9Q3KA4X4/s1600/sharkandschool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-ZPRDRSl7dXeW5LOHlMZQ9HvsaN-q1I5n-SURLPtLJcu-wrtzz3btEjgUWx6HNMwxCwk2Q-i1Im2hrZmLDdcg3NB-AXBNPz5inb5TdCopvD4NCcXuR9NSUlkkgCozwNio7i9Q3KA4X4/s320/sharkandschool.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My dad said I had to be a little fish in a big pond in order to grow, that I needed to make some new friends, expand my horizons, leave the old neighborhood and interact with girls whose ambitions transcended beauty school. So I was exiled to a high school that required three bus transfers, a place where I wouldn't know a soul. Study on the bus ride my mother said, learn to navigate the city--like I was supposed to be some kind of Christopher Columbus in search of a new world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Soon I was trudging to the 26th Street bus, but not before I'd sneak under our porch and ditch the embarrassing book bag and, if it had snowed, the humiliating boots my father insisted I wear. It was bad enough that the nuns required us to wear hideous black crepe-soled shoes so as not to scuff the tiled floors, but I drew the line at the mukluk look. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My new girlfriends could have been my cousins, though their names didn't end in vowels. They were first generation, European progeny who didn't eat meat on Fridays, and worried about going to Hell. I translated Caesar's Gallic Wars with the best of them, and even had a leg up when we studied the Renaissance masters, thanks to my ethnicity. The curriculum on sexuality was limited to the dissection of frogs. A couple of sluts, a new word I added to my expanded vocabulary, gossiped about French kissing, and one warned me to stay away from lesbians. I thought lesbian was a nonsense word akin to jabberwocky. While many of my new classmates' aspirations were not limited by gender or tradition, the One True Faith, like a great cement ankle bracelet, detoured us from the real world.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Until I met Linda. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My new friend was sweet and funny with a face and figure that made our flying-monkey uniform almost attractive. She lived three parishes away on the other side of a viaduct which separated our neighborhood, the <i>other side</i>, as we referred to it, was a smidgen more cosmopolitan, but, thanks to both of us being kept on short leashes at home, we were on equal footing when it came to worldliness--one crepe-sole rooted in parochialism, the other inching toward adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One Monday, a not so exuberant Linda flashed her student pass at the bus driver, and flopped into the seat beside me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"My life is over," she stage whispered. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Let me guess. Your dog ate your science project."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"This isn't a joke. I'm done. My life is a disaster." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> "What happened? Did you fight with your mother? Are you sick?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Worse. I had a horrible date Saturday night." She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her flying-monkey bolero. "I wish I was dead."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"You're crying over a boy? Are you kidding me?"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"I'm not kidding. He's awful--crude, cocky, crazy-mean, and now I'm his girl. My life is ruined. I should just finish myself off."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Stop the drama. I don't get it. This was a first date with a jerk who asked you to be his girlfriend?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"He didn't ask me. He said, 'I been watchin' you, and I like you. You're my girl now--you only date me.' But I can't stand him. He's disgusting, he's not even cute, he gives me the creeps, I'm afraid of him."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"One date, and he thinks he owns you? He's a nut--just tell him to drop dead when he calls, tell him you're not interested."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Not interested? You don't understand, that's the scary part," she whispered. "He's connected."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Connected? Connected to what? He's 17 years old, tell him to get lost, or your dad will kick his butt."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Lower your voice," she hissed. "You don't get it. My dad can't help me. He'll kill my dad, my mother too--he's a hit guy. He's mobbed up."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Oh, knock it off. You're being ridiculous--he's seventeen; he's a punk. You can't be a mobster at seventeen," I said. "Don't be afraid, the sicko is just trying to scare you."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The bus pulled up to the curb of our school. Linda was in a daze, and didn't move; the peter-pan collar of her blouse was damp from tears. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"C'mon, Linda, we're here. Let's go. We'll figure this out," I said, as we headed off to translate another chapter of Caesar's Gallic Wars.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That night at dinner, I told my girlfriend's story. "She had one date with this goof, and he thinks he owns her. Did you ever hear of such craziness? She thinks her life is over."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I expected my dad, who was afraid of no one, to say that the guy sounded like a loser, that she should just tell her father. Instead he said, "Eat. Your food is getting cold." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I turned to my brother. "Maybe you know this jerk. His name is Eddie Garren."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"He's a creep," my brother said, "a real bad guy, hazardous to her health."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"Get serious," I scoffed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"No, you get serious," my father snapped. "Your brother's right, be alert; stay away. She's done."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I found a new route to school. Every now and then, I'd bump into Linda, but I'd keep my distance, avoid her at lunch, always too busy to talk. I knew she understood. We both understood. I had to stay on course; expanding horizons was a full-time job--be alert for bad influences, steer clear of hazards. She knew from that first encounter that she was in trouble--that gossip, loneliness and fear would be her new companions. That coming undone was part of a life unraveling when you're toast.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I trained for debate and symposiums, joined clubs, concentrated on my GPA. Over time, I settled into the big pond, and even got to be a decent sized fish. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I lost track of Linda, though I'd heard that she'd married the psychopath. Occasionally I'd see the monster's name in the news, but it wasn't as though I was following his career. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then in December, 1999, Chicago headlines announced that Eddie "the Little Guy" Garren, a reputed top mobster, was shot and critically wounded in the alley behind his home as he headed to the funeral of an underworld associate. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Garren had been released only days before the shooting from federal prison after being sentenced to 25 years for masterminding an armed robbery. At the time of his sentencing, he had been arrested 58 times as an adult and convicted 13 times. He had attained special criminal status under a federal law known as the "Dangerous Special Offender Statute."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He never recovered, and died one month later in January, 2000. His obituary described him as a hit man, master thief, robber, hijacker, fence, juice collector and rapist. He was survived by two sons and Linda. A half dozen years later, his eldest, Edward, Jr., testified in Chicago's infamous Family Secrets trial that his father had trained him to follow in his footsteps as a burglar and bookmaker.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She was done from the start.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-4096997596199867382011-12-07T12:51:00.005-06:002012-05-03T22:42:01.724-05:00WORRIED ABOUT THE SOFT SPOT<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'd held a baby only once before when I begged my mother to let me hold my brand new cousin. "First wash your hands, then sit on the sofa," she ordered. She put Laura in my arms and knelt in front of us. "Hold your thighs together so you make a lap. Support her neck, prop up her head, keep your arm under her body, don't breathe in her face. Careful when you kiss her, watch out for her soft spot." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"What's a soft spot?" I asked.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"It's the part of her head that covers her brain. Now lower your voice or you'll startle her."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Laura started to wail. "Here, take her back, babies have too many rules.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I steered clear of babies after that and then it happened again.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Here, my phone is ringing, hold her for a second," my neighbor Lucy said as she thrust her baby, Kiki, into my arms. I was only five years old, a tiny kid myself, sitting on the stoop and munching on a Snicker's. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I pressed my thighs together to make a lap like I remembered from Laura and, poof, just like that, Kiki flipped out of my arms. I gripped her ankle; her pink rubber pants flashed the whole neighborhood. Clutching her leg, I hoisted her up to eye level. Lucky thing her brain didn't fall out of the soft spot. When I flipped her right-side up, she looked okay. Her face was as bright red as a flaming-hot jawbreaker, but her bonnet was still stuck on her head, and she wasn’t bleeding. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Kiki," I scolded, "you can't just do a somersault whenever you feel like it." Kiki was screaming and not paying attention.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"I don't know why she's crying, maybe she missed you," I lied to Lucy, who hadn't seen her baby bungee-jump from my arms. I was glad Kiki couldn't tell her mother that she was twirling around upside down and almost bounced on the sidewalk.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Over the years, worrying about Kiki's brain caused me many sleepless nights. My brother's friend, Stevie, went to the hospital after he jumped off his garage roof while playing Superman. My brother, who was very smart, said Stevie had a concussion which meant his brain got jiggled in his skull. Even though Kiki hadn't hit the ground, I knew her brain had a good jiggle. Would she grow up to be normal? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Whatever happened to Stevie after his concussion?" I asked. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"He got in trouble for playing on the roof, and his dad punished him."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"I mean what happened to his brain. Did he like start acting weird?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"You're weird," my brother sneered, as he rode off on his Schwinn. "Something's wrong with your brain."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So all I could do was spy on Kiki to see if her brain was working right. Every time I'd see Lucy with her in the buggy outside, I'd push the mosquito netting aside and peer at her little bald head.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"How is she today, Lucy? Has she started to talk yet?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Oh, Sweetie, she won't be talking for a while. She's still too little."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I wanted to tell Lucy that, thanks to me, Kiki might never talk. I worried that she might get stuck in kindergarten for a couple of years because she had trouble learning then she'd end up like Butchie, down the street. My brother said Butchie was slow because he'd been dropped on his head when he was a baby. Butchie had to repeat second grade </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">twice.</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Being on the alert for signs of brain-damage was complicated by the fact that Kiki's family was strange to begin with--I mean, her brother's name was Jujube. Jujube! All the boys in our neighborhood had names like Joey or Junior--no one was named after candy that you bought when you went to the movies. On top of that, Jujube's ears were lopsided, and he kind of looked like he might not make it past fifth grade. To further complicate matters, Kiki and Jujube had different fathers because my brother said Lucy was divorced which meant she traded in her old husband for a new one. So it was going to be hard to know if Kiki was goofed up because of me or her loony tribe. I worried that I was going to have to take the whole blame if Kiki didn't turn out right, if she couldn't spell or add or subtract.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I was seven, my Nana died and we moved into her old flat six blocks away. Though I didn't change schools, I did lose track of Kiki. I always prayed, though, that she turned out to be normal and that someday I could tell her it was an accident and please forgive me. I dreamed of explaining to Kiki that if she had brain problems it was partly her fault for acting like a kangaroo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Kiki's caper set me up for a life of chronic worry, but, in fairness to her, I did go to Catholic schools where hijacking cerebellums and embedding neurons of fear was an art form. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">At the age of seven, my First Confession, the day before my First Holy Communion, kicked off a deluge of anxiety when I toddled into the black hole of a confessional. A weekly Examination of Conscience required searching out every sin committed in thought, word and/or deed, by acts of commission or omission, intentionally or accidentally, either consciously or unconsciously, in rain, sleet or snow, in sickness or health, pre-conception or postmortem. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned..." was my Saturday afternoon mantra, a ritual that was supposed to "...stop God from crying over all the bad things you did during the week," said Sister Perpetua. I thought God must be nuts to cry because I'd rolled my eyeballs at my mother when she told me to dry the dishes. But just after I thought about the possibility of God being cuckoo, I realized the thought was sacrilegious so I'd wait in church all afternoon until the priests changed shifts and the refugee Croation priest, who spoke almost no English, came on duty. No matter what you confessed, he'd say, "Okay, tree r fodders, tree Hey, Marys. Go."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That I accomplished anything in school was astounding seeing that I was so busy dissecting, analyzing and seeking second opinions from my girlfriends on the gravity of my sins.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Josephine, I know snitching is a sin, but what if I snitched on my brother because I heard him use a swear word? I don't think it's a sin because it did stop him from saying hell."<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Well, you just committed a sin yourself because you said the "H" word," said the pint-sized Elmer Gantry. "Plus snitching is a sin no matter what your brother did."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Another sin just because I said the "H" word?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Yes, but it’s just a Venial--you only go to "H" for Mortals," she said. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I ran to Confession, and was relieved when I smelled beer through the little screen which meant Father Alky was on the other side. He probably didn't know what rolling eyeballs were since he too had language limitations. But then I worried that if he didn't understand me, his forgiveness wouldn't count so I added yet another sin by lying that I'd left my prayer book in the pew and fled.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I ran across the vestibule, and got in Father Steve's line. He had escaped the Communists too and his English was not the best, however, he was up on the latest sins. Sometimes you'd be waiting your turn and you'd hear him bellow, "YOU DEED WHAT?" Within minutes you'd see a blubbering eight-year old exit, and run down the aisle with his jacket pulled over his head hoping not to be identified. One time Peter Manzino crashed right into the baptismal font as he tried to make a break for it. Sister Praxeda caught him and dragged him back to the box. Pushing Peter to the front of the line, she made him go in and confess that he'd broken the baptismal watering hole. This time Father Steve's "YOU DEED WHAT?" shook the choir loft. I went in right after Peter, and the kneeler was all wet. I pretended it was holy water. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Over the next few years, my repertoire of sins expanded. Envy, wrath and eavesdropping reared their heads when my brother turned sixteen and got his first part-time job and a paycheck. His tales about the shoplifters, quick-change artists and crazy customers caused me to covet his exciting life.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Then came the day I had long prayed for: a Kiki update. Her mother popped up at my brother's store.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Ma, remember Lucy, our old neighbor--Jujube's mom? She came shopping today."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My Dumbo ears flapped at the mention of Lucy's name. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Oh, I haven't seen her in ages. How is she?” my Mom asked.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“She’s fine; she has a new husband and another baby.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“How’s Kiki?” I blurted. "Is she alive?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Well, </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">yeah</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">," he said with a '</span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">you are such a knucklehead' </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> look. "Most people are still alive in fourth grade." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"I meant to say is she normal?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"Yeah, I guess so," he said, "but they don’t call her Kiki anymore—she’s Katherine, and Jujube only answers to Jerome. He’s studying to be a detective.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Good for him,” my mother said.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Yeah, it is, but Lucy’s really braggy. She said detective like it was a big deal.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“It is a big deal,” I chimed in. “She probably thought that with his uneven ears he’d never make it through school. But what did she say about Kiki?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Katherine,” he corrected me, and turned back to Mom. “Mom, do you ever brag about me?”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“No,” she said as she greased a pie pan. "Your father and I don’t believe in it. We expect you to do well, and we don't need to advertise."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“I get it, but I’d appreciate a little bragging once in a while.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I agreed. “You could at least say something like my daughter is very intelligent.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Ma can't say that because she doesn't want to lie,” he smirked. And then he dropped a bit of gossip that was intended to make me jealous, but instead took a ton of weight off my heart. “Lucy said Katherine got to be May Crowning Queen because she got straight A’s.”</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Straight A’s?” I screamed, "You're kidding! Kiki, straight A’S—May Crowning Queen--wooohoo!" Bubbles of shock, disbelief, gratitude and relief fizzed in my head. "That’s the best! I can't believe it! Go, Kiki, go!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Mom, she is psycho,” he said, his mouth twisted like he was sucking on a dirty sock. "I'm positive that one day when you weren't looking, someone dropped her on her head."</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-80792388295910474932011-08-09T00:51:00.017-05:002011-08-16T22:50:43.704-05:00ISRAEL HERNANDEZ LEARNS TO READ<link href="file://localhost/Users/fraser/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal;"></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; line-height: 17px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqAzKlx6uP37dk20QLKJbFMQCnMh1-mtp6REGOOCo-0RL8G1gRmfaxHX1nOLa7EU0hEpQUQ9VMi9zXH9g9ZfA2LdP5Qmtuc1IP2SfagB0TI7fSdjWn_F9ykcjp7GgnE78sFkFScXTft0/s1600/519JRAYQ35L.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqAzKlx6uP37dk20QLKJbFMQCnMh1-mtp6REGOOCo-0RL8G1gRmfaxHX1nOLa7EU0hEpQUQ9VMi9zXH9g9ZfA2LdP5Qmtuc1IP2SfagB0TI7fSdjWn_F9ykcjp7GgnE78sFkFScXTft0/s200/519JRAYQ35L.jpeg" width="186" /></span></a></div><div style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;"><br />
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</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Israel, I've repeated that word at least six times," I said. "You're making me crazy."</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">For five weeks, I had tried to teach him to read and he'd made no progress.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Makin' you crazy? How 'bout me? At least you're gettin' paid to do this shit."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"That's true, but I'm not getting paid to bang my head against a wall. Come to think of it, maybe I am."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">We both laughed. He was laughing, I'm sure, at the thought of me smashing my head--I laughed because crying was not an option.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Israel was just one of the many students stockpiled in warehouses called Educational Vocational Guidance Centers where I was assigned. If teens hadn't learned to read after a decade in the Chicago school system, and didn't have the courtesy to join the high-school dropout brigade of their own volition, they passed to the Educational Vocational Guidance Center where they got a lethal dose of shame and boredom and finally pulled the plug on themselves. For some reason, Israel refused to jump ship.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Day after day, this Mexican man-child, his legs bouncing like jackhammers, sat beside my desk as we slogged through an out-dated pre-primer designed to teach kindergartners. Who cared that black and brown teen-agers had little in common with Dick and Jane though, in this case, the lack of age-appropriate materials didn't explain, but only complicated, Israel's problems.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Long before Attention Deficit Disorder became the go to diagnosis for kids whose short attention spans and frenetic energy drove teachers crazy, Israel swaggered around the classroom, a roving ambassador of diplomacy, flirting, wisecracking and entertaining those easily amused. As the lone Hispanic in the cadre of black students, he fine-tuned his people skills and charmed even the most hostile competition. He hung out with the "baddest" of the gangbangers, but showed no allegiance to a particular gang, an astounding accomplishment.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Israel threw his lot in with any antisocial scheme which came his way, often cutting classes to head to the near-by Gold Coast to knock hipsters off their $2,000. Colnago bikes. He and Curtiss, his black amigo, would return to class, revved up and sweaty, spouting some cockamamie story about running to Curtiss' crib in the Projects to retrieve a forgotten math book, but the sleek Italian racer, parked in the gym for safe-keeping, announced another mission accomplished.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">When cops showed up, Israel was never a suspect because the victim, too shaken to be precise, invariably told the cops he was robbed by a bunch of <i>black</i> kids. Since light brown-skinned Israel flew under the radar, he became the hood's Clarence Darrow, launching preemptive strikes to protect his posse.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"These guys didn't do nothin'. Leave 'em alone. We was all in gym class shootin' hoops."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">The gym teacher, who never bothered taking roll-call, dittoed the explanation. Flimsy as it was, the alibi worked--the cops avoided reams of paperwork and the flash mob avoided the lock-up. Everybody was happy except for the injured party, but Israel said that the victim should've been happy too, happy that he didn't get killed.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Though he had just begun to sprout peach fuzz, Israel was a seasoned con man. He could sell you the Brooklyn Bridge and demand a tariff for the privilege of jumping off.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"You read good, Miss S, fast, like you got the words memorized," he'd say, "You're the smartest girl I know."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Thanks, Israel. Now let's finish this chapter."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I ain't doin' no more today. My brain's tired."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Your brain would be fine if you'd use it. Let's finish this page."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I use it, just not in school. Vowels? Come on, ya gotta be kiddin' me. Who gives a fuck?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"You're right, Israel, this is a stone joke. I have a job to do, and I can't do it without your cooperation. We're wasting our time," I said, closing the book. "I'm done. You don't want to learn to read."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">In a flash, his too-beautiful-to-be-wasted-on-a-boy eyelashes fluttered from a breeze of anger, but then, fast as Michael Jordan when he snatched a rebound, he reclaimed his bravado.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"You know, Miss S, you're smart, but you don't know everything. You don't have no clue about not bein' able to read. If you knew, you'd <i>never</i> say I don't wanna learn how to read."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Well, what am I supposed to say? You come in here and clown around, you goof off, you entertain the class with your ridiculous behavior, and I'm supposed to think you care?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"That's because I don't want nobody to think I care," he stage-whispered, the breeze of anger whirling into a tornado. "I don't want nobody to think I can't learn. Let 'em think I don't give a fuck. But you're smart, Miss S, you should know that's bullshit, you gotta' know not bein' able to read is a bitch."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I can't imagine it," I said. "It's got to be a nightmare."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"A nightmare? Nightmare? Really, ya think?" he sneered. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 14px;">"How'd you like to go out on a date and have to say I'll have whatever she's havin' cause you can't read the menu? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Do you have any idea what I do when I wanna' take a girl to the movies and I don't know what's playin' cause I can't read the sign over the Rialto?</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Well, Teach, let me tell you how I do it. I buy a newspaper and I fold it open to the movie part and I go home and I hope that my brother, Hector, is there so I can throw the paper in his lap. 'Find me a good movie,' I say, as I head to the bathroom.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">'Find it yourself, asshole.'</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">'Come on, bro,' I yell from the bathroom. 'I'm in a hurry, I gotta take a shower. Just tell me what's playin'.'"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Hector doesn't know you can't read?" I asked in amazement.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Nobody knows," he seethed. "Nobody except you. Don't you get it? I'm ashamed. Besides, it's nobody's fuckin' business."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I had no idea. I'm sorry."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Sorry? What are you sorry for? It ain't your fault," he said, settling down, as though coughing up his secret had halted the cement mixer in his gut. "You don't have nothin' to be sorry for."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i><span style="line-height: 14px;">Nothing to be sorry for,</span></i><span style="line-height: 14px;"> I wanted to scream, <i>you've got to be kidding</i>, but instead I said, "Israel, I promise we are going to learn to read if it's the last thing we do." </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"<i>We're</i> going to learn?" he said, flipping back to his cocky persona. "Miss S," he laughed, "you already know how to read. Just teach me, okay?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Deal. Tonight I'm going to write a story about this and tomorrow you're going to read it. We'll make a book about you, your stories."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Cool. We'll call it <i>Israel and Miss S</i>--forget <i>Dick and Jane</i>. Dick. Can you believe that? Dick. I mean, what kind of fuckin' name is Dick?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I'm not going there, Israel. Here's a pass for Social Studies. You're late."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I ain't goin' to Social. I'm meetin' Curtiss."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Go to Social. Mr. A. will be mad if you ditch."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Get real. Mr. A don't even know who's in his class plus he hates me. He says Israel is not a person's name--it's the name of a country. 'From now on, I'll call you Jew,' he said. I told him 'Hey, no problema, man, I'll call you Fuckin' Idiot.'"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Over the next couple of months we turned dozens of conversations into stories. We wrote and read about his family--his brother Hector's new car, his sister Rosita's son, getting busted, his father's accident, Lupe's brutal husband and the first time he read a menu. He wrote a poem about his brother Oscar and a song for his girlfriend. We wrote and he read, stumbling and stuttering, but he was reading. "Hey, Miss S," he crowed one day, "do you believe I just read that story about my ma's cooking, and I didn't fuck up one word?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">There was no stopping him now.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">When we finished our <b>Israel and Miss S</b> spiral notebook, Israel announced he was going to write his life story. "I'm starting it with the day I was born even though I don't remember that much. I'll get my Ma to help with the details."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Mark Twain said when angry, count to four, when very angry, swear. That Wednesday morning, I was in swear mode. I discovered that some brainiac used a ballpoint pen to draw Gilligan's Island on the long-awaited globe that'd been delivered only two days earlier. I stood there disgusted over the fucked up world I was holding when Curtiss and Leotis charged through the door.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Miss S, Miss S, Israel shot in the back las' night. He dead."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Dead? Who? What are you talking about?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Israel, Israel Hernandez, he dead. He gone."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"They be washin' his blood right now by the alley on Division Street," Leotis added</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">I don't remember much more about the day--clusters of kids in the halls, girls crying, boys talking revenge, teachers saying "...<i>what could you expect...it was only a matter of time..."</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">The following day, a note was scotch-taped next to the teachers' sign-in sheet.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">ISRAEL HERNANDEZ IS BEING WAKED AT HOME TONIGHT</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">AND TOMORROW. FUNERAL SATURDAY MORNING</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">10 A.M. ST. DOMINICK'S CHURCH</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Mr. A was signing in too.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Are you going to the wake?" I asked.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"What the hell for?'" He went over to check his mailbox.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Curtiss was in a reflective mood as we walked over to Israel's house after school.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Where you think he be now, Miss S?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Some place good, I hope. Maybe with his father."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I'm thinkin' he be in heaven. I'm thinkin' God be sayin', "What the fuck you doin' up here, Lil' Man? Who tol' you you could come here?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Yeah, and he probably told God 'You can't tell me where to go,'" I said remembering his arrogant, defiant side.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Yeah, I bet Jesus jus' be crackin' up."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">The smell of flowers and the food heaped on the kitchen table lent a combination funeral parlor/restaurant air to the space. The hushed quiet of the packed basement apartment was interrupted by sobs as friends joined the crowd. All eyes darted to the entryway, the arrival of a white woman and a black teen-ager stirred whispers. I spotted Hector, an Israel clone right down to the thick eyelashes that had always reminded me of awnings.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I am so sorry, Hector," I said. "This should never have happened."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">For once, Curtiss put his swaggering self on hold as he extended his hand. "Israel be my frien'," he said.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Suddenly, from another room, I heard shrieks of <i>La maestra! La maestra!</i> and a little rotund woman, straight out of a Botero painting, shuffled toward me. "La maestra," she kept wailing, as though she was seeing an apparition.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Alternating between sobs and smiles, we spoke through Hector.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"My mother cannot believe a teacher would come to our house," he translated. "She is honored that you come here. She says that Israel told her you were the smartest woman he ever met."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">I stood there, unable to cope with the attention and awe, fixated on the drain tile at her feet. "Tell your Mother Israel was a very smart and beautiful boy."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Si, si," she sobbed. "Muy bonito."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Tell her he wrote a story about what a good mother she is and he says she's the best cook in the world."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">She took my hand and guided me to the wooden coffin which rested on the dining room table and contained the youngest of her children. Standing guard over their baby brother were Lupe, Raul, Juan, Rosita, Oscar, Sergio and Rico. We had written about them all.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">Israel lay there, in a sort of mariachi suit--a dark jacket with huge lapels, a narrow string of black leather tied around the collar of a white ruffled-neck shirt, a red satin cummerbund and black pants. Someone had painted a little mustache on his upper lip with eyebrow pencil. His chalky hands held a rosary and his First Communion prayer book. I remembered the story about his First Confession when he'd asked the priest, "So why do I gotta' tell you all this shit?" He was seven years old.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Let's go, Miss S, come on," I heard Curtiss mumble. "You can't make him come back to school wit us."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">I handed Hector an envelope as we exchanged good-bye handshakes. "You know, Miss S, Israel had stopped throwing newspapers at me," he said, the tears slipping past the awnings.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Dang, Miss S," Curtiss said as we walked back to school, "Israel be pissed off if he see that Maybelline thing they drawed on his face. He be too cool to look the fool. Why they do that?"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I guess they wanted him to look like a man--maybe it's easier for them to pretend that he wasn't just a kid."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"Well, he be ashamed if he saw hisself."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 14px;">"I don't think so, Curtiss," I said, "I know only one thing that Israel was ashamed of, and we were working on that."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-55209335775897776302011-05-11T00:21:00.001-05:002012-04-12T14:14:03.626-05:00ABANDON ALL HOPE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRl4aW8Y62z9WzqzvB-4q0FSLjjPlYEyVEE5fYBymaCXc4S1V2ykYZl7KqpMLvAA_QMn2Q6qeFtY7sRA5eLsWPOCu2BB9Z09ERZeD6MhG0tvmGszzjtvJ8TCp1xPPnvqNcBxIdOEur90/s1600/abandon-all-hope.jpeg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608648598290685602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRl4aW8Y62z9WzqzvB-4q0FSLjjPlYEyVEE5fYBymaCXc4S1V2ykYZl7KqpMLvAA_QMn2Q6qeFtY7sRA5eLsWPOCu2BB9Z09ERZeD6MhG0tvmGszzjtvJ8TCp1xPPnvqNcBxIdOEur90/s200/abandon-all-hope.jpeg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
The two ten year old girls raced in, an hour late for school. Wendy, the brains of the outfit, signaled she was going to launch into the latest episode of "How the World Turns in the Projects." Janell, from her perfect little rosebud lips to her parakeet ankles, exuded a don't mess with me attitude.<br />
<br />
"Miss S, don't expect me and Janell to do no work today. We was trick-or-treating 'til twelve o'clock last night."<br />
"Twelve o'clock? You were out 'til midnight trick-or-treating?"<br />
<br />
"Uh-huh, we was out from after school and was jus' finishin' up when some Kings ripped us off. Tell her, Janell. Our pillowcases was filled to the top and they just grabbed 'em and took off."<br />
<br />
"Wendy ain't lyin', Miss S, them bastards got it all 'cept the fuckin' Skittles we was eatin' an' it was pass ten o'clock," Janell testified. <br />
<br />
"So you went home without candy?"<br />
<br />
"No candy?" Wendy flashed the same you-are-so-stupid look she'd bestowed on me when I told her that third-graders shouldn't wear lipstick. "We got us some garbage bags, Miss S, and started all over again."<br />
<br />
"Go to your seats, we're on page forty-seven."<br />
<br />
Go-to-your-seats? Two ten-year old girls had been out on the street past midnight, and I was beyond shock. <br />
<br />
To a kid from Catholic school, public schools sounded like mysterious gulags. The nuns' favorite threat, "If you don't behave, you'll be sent to public school..." made an impression that went unchallenged until I went off to the University of Illinois and saw firsthand that the parochial system didn't have the corner on education. So when I heard of a special Chicago Board of Education program designed to address a desperate teacher shortage, I applied. While contemplating what to do with my life, I figured I could try to provide kids with a trampoline to a better future. <br />
<br />
I agreed to take twelve hours of education classes in night school and, on the spot, received a provisional teaching certificate. Few "provisionals" were there because it was their dream job. The men wanted the Viet Nam draft exemption; the females had visions of LBJ's Great Society and summers off. I joined the ranks because my father had declared that I'd storm Broadway with my Theatre degree over his dead body, and I needed time to determine how I was going to maneuver around the corpse.<br />
<br />
We were an odd lot from big cities and small towns—twenty-somethings who hadn’t a clue that we were the "ye" Dante meant when he wrote Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. <br />
<br />
A week long in-service, paid for by Great Society dollars, qualified us to teach. We got the CliffsNotes version of The Psychology of the Inner-City Child, role-played parent-teacher conferences, signed mountains of forms, and had a "you've got a pulse/blood pressure normal" physical. <br />
<br />
The last afternoon we were given sensitivity training by a dashiki-clad Reverend who raged about nobody wanting goddamned stupid honkies teaching Black kids. "The best White teacher," he declared, "will never compare to the worst Black Teacher!" Some of us were a bit taken aback by his diatribe, but many of the Ivory recruits admired "...his honesty for telling it like it is." I thought the Brother had it partly right, without a doubt, many honkies were stupid. <br />
<br />
The Reverend needn't have worried about me invading his no-fly zone. In Chicago, zip codes pretty much determine race, and my assignment's zip was smack in the middle of Latin King turf with a few residents tossed into the mix who’d have belonged to the Klan if they hadn’t left Dixie.<br />
<br />
In the gangbangers' stomping grounds, I learned what made for a successful provisional teacher. Showing up for work qualified dead men walking as SATISFACTORY. Those who prevented the children from killing each other were labeled GOOD and those who did both were deemed EXCELLENT. If you were a male gym teacher, you were EXCELLENT PLUS.<br />
<br />
NO GYM CLASSES TODAY scribbled on the teachers' sign-in sheet was all it took to put Coach in charge of the building while the principal ran off to a Cubs game. Bonding over sports and tales of frat escapades, plus the on-the-job training, guaranteed a man, whose IQ was equal to the final score of a Bears game, a slot on the executive roster. It was no wonder that administrators, who evaluated struggling teachers, were often more incompetent than their quarry. Long before William Bennett, then Secretary of Education, labeled the CPS “…the worst school system in the country,” pathetic administrators and pitiful teachers were diligently laboring to earn the title.<br />
<br />
In fairness, though, they did not destroy public education on their own.<br />
<br />
In the 50's, Chicago had the largest parochial school system in the country supported by the city's huge Catholic population which formed a monolithic voting bloc. Since these voters neither used nor cared about the public schools, the Chicago machine decided that the system, a huge drain on the city's coffers, was expendable. The politicians did not intend to eliminate public education, they just didn't want to fund it. There was no grand exit strategy, the powers that be just walked away. And no one blinked. Decades before George Bush's No Child Left Behind Act became law, Chicago implemented the Throw Public School Kids Under the Bus Initiative.<br />
<br />
The system never recovered.<br />
<br />
Now we provisional teachers, unqualified, untrained and unprepared, were being foisted on an operation that had long been tottering on the edge of a cliff. <br />
<br />
The assistant principal assigned classrooms—girls to the lower grades, men to the Upper Grade Center. I was given a "kindofa third/fourth grade class," by Mr. Second-in-Command who, no doubt, yearned for the day when he could play dead in the principal's chair. But he'd have a tough act to follow.<br />
<br />
The day after Martin Luther King was killed, Chicago’s Westside went up in flames. No teacher was to leave early, the principal dictated, but with the action less than three miles away, tension was high. After lunch, when the melee was revving up to a full-blown disaster, but before Mayor Daley's infamous "shoot to kill" order, Captain Courageous chose to jump ship and had Coach drive him home. Unfortunately, Coach drove his convertible straight into the conflagration, where the angry mob tore into the canvas top. Coach was unable to shield our fearless leader from the unruly crowd. The following day word of the incident provided the silver lining in the catastrophic cloud.<br />
<br />
But on my first day, I was not privy to the history of dysfunction. I had to hit the ground running which meant inhaling the Chicago Public Schools’ curriculum du jour known as Continuous Progress. I was baffled by the concept; in a school setting I assumed continuous progress was a given. I wondered if Stalled Progress and Intermittent Progress had been tried and found wanting. <br />
<br />
Continuous Progress was based on a “spiral concept.” If a child failed to grasp short vowels, for instance, the teacher proceeded to the next concept. The unlearned material would be repeated somewhere up the spiral as the spiral continued spiraling. I'd yet to take a methods course, but the idea sounded like teaching a student to merge in traffic when he couldn’t get the hang of starting the car.<br />
<br />
The primary grades were organized in divisions of P1, P2, P3 and PZ. PZ stood for Primary Zero, code for third-graders who could not function in fourth. To protect their self-esteem, PZ was invented.<br />
<br />
"So you're the new PZ rookie," the man said when I answered his knock. “Good luck with those morons tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
"Morons?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah, I taught your kids last year. Well, I didn't actually teach them because they're incapable of learning. I tried for months to get them to add, and then finally I thought screw it and moved on to borrowing.” <br />
<br />
"How did you teach borrowing if they couldn't add?"<br />
<br />
"Well, I didn't teach borrowing because they couldn't get the hang of that either. They were hung up on place value so I just dropped math and concentrated on science."<br />
<br />
"You just ignored math?" I asked, thinking he was pulling the newbie's leg.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, Continuous Progress is great. If you get sick of teaching the idiots the same thing day after day, you just move on to something else. The fucking curriculum spirals."<br />
<br />
"John Dewey would've put a gun to his head if he'd ever heard of Continuous Spiraling," I said.<br />
<br />
"Speaking of guns, did I tell you I was a cop?"<br />
<br />
"A cop? I thought you taught my kids last year."<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm a cop too. During the day I teach, and at night I'm a Chicago cop."<br />
<br />
"You cannot be serious."<br />
<br />
"No, for real. I work the night shift for the CPD."<br />
<br />
“You must be exhausted, teaching and holding down a second full-time job with so much stress."<br />
<br />
“Nah, I just hide my squad under a viaduct and catch some z’s and, when I teach, I mostly sit. Gets a little tricky during tax season 'cause I do taxes too."<br />
<br />
"You're quite the Renaissance man," I marveled. "How do you handle discipline? Pull out your gun when the kids act up?" <br />
<br />
"Believe me, I felt like it sometime. These kids are wackos," he said. "I’ll give you a tip. If a boy acts up just make him wear a babushka, and stand in front of the class the rest of the day. Works like a charm. A little embarrassment, and they shape up,” he bragged. “Except for one kid, Ricardo—he really loves babushkas. He wants to wear lipstick too. I think he’s a fag—watch out for him. I called his mother in for a conference once, and she said he was the only one of her ten kids born with a veil over his head, and that's good luck. Tip number two--do not call parents--they're crazier than their fucking kids."<br />
<br />
While the teacher/cop/tax man blabbered on, I fixated on a Thomas Jefferson quote on the wall behind him that said something like education is the antidote to the disease of ignorance. I wondered if the Renaissance man had come into teaching with a pre-existing condition or if he'd gotten infected on the job. <br />
<br />
"Call me if you need anything," he said, "I'm the go-to guy around here when Coach and the principal run to Sportsman's to play the ponies."<br />
<br />
"I'll count on you," I lied, closing the door. "Hey, by the way, what was your college major?"<br />
<br />
"Phys Ed," he said, "I wanted to work for the Park District but teaching paid better."<br />
<br />
I returned to reading the cumulative cards of my PZ students--thirty boys and eight girls, between the ages of nine and twelve. I expected to find scribbled notes about Eduardo's allergy to strawberries or Brenda Jean's routine tardiness, but the anecdotal comments, left by previous teachers, noted truancy, multiple school transfers, juvenile detention and incarcerated parents, trifling issues that indicated I just might be in over my head. That flash of insight was replaced by the scarier thought of the imminent influx of my PZ'ers. From the get-go, they needed to know that our classroom was open for business, they needed to think that I knew what I was doing. <br />
<br />
I went to the Resource Room to find desks, textbooks, a blackboard and chalk.<br />
<br />
“Materials?” asked the assistant principal. “Like what? Like what kind of materials?” He acted as if I’d requested chainsaws.<br />
"Textbooks would be great," I said.<br />
<br />
“Scrounge some second and third grade readers—they didn’t understand the books the first time around."<br />
<br />
“I don’t even know where to start scrounging. I’m short thirteen desks.”<br />
<br />
“Desks you need,” he conceded. “The kids have to sit somewhere, but you don’t need thirty-eight—absenteeism is high. I’ll send a few up later; I’m swamped right now. Downtown sent only half of our book order."<br />
<br />
“Please could you maybe send up a blackboard and some chalk?”<br />
<br />
"Do you think this is U of C’s Lab School? You have the dogs; just make sure they don’t get out of the kennel.” Noticing my shock, he changed his tone. “Look, I’m snowed under right now, but I think I have some geography books that I could send up when I get a chance. Use them until we get some readers.”<br />
<br />
Just then the music teacher barged in. “Someone ripped out the keys on my piano. How am I supposed to teach music?” <br />
“Use a flute,” the boss responded.<br />
<br />
I staggered out of the Resource Room. An ancient busybody, who’d been looking for dictionaries with no success, followed me. “You new teachers kill me. In my day you made do with what you were given. When I didn’t have history books, I taught with puppets." She headed to the teachers’ lounge for a cigarette.<br />
<br />
No readers, or blackboard, a piano without keys, puppets, PZ, spirals—by the end of the day, I figured the conscientious objectors turned teachers would regret burning their draft cards.<br />
<br />
The next day school started more or less at nine o'clock though many students adhered to arrive-when-you-feel-like-it. It was not hard to identify the babushka brigade, amazing that Renaissance man got by with only one headscarf. By lunchtime it was obvious that the few students who wanted to learn had come to the wrong place. For the most part, the girls were passive, the boys' speedometers were set between leave me alone and watch out. <br />
<br />
Often I wondered why I stayed. I wasn't earmarked for Saigon so I could have hit the door.<br />
<br />
Maybe I stayed because I knew these kids could be subjected to much worse. After all, I was literate, drug-free, emotionally stable and I didn't inflict cruel and unusual punishment. <br />
<br />
Maybe I stayed because I'd become attached to the kids. I respected eleven-year olds who fed breakfast to their siblings because mom was sleeping off a bender, students who missed school because they had to baby-sit and wrote their own notes claiming they were absent due to amonya. I had a soft spot for eleven year olds who read at the first grade level, for kids who were ten going on thirty. I was taken by boys who replaced lost textbooks with stolen library books figuring a book is a book, and besides, who cares? My heart went out to kids who trudged to school on snowy February days wearing gym shoes without socks.<br />
<br />
And I adored spunky little girls who trick-or-treated 'til midnight.<br />
I stayed, but for only the year.Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-6681813091207390572011-04-11T23:22:00.001-05:002012-04-12T14:14:44.620-05:00SAVING HER FROM NEVERLAND<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMV6TrrMZw7qbySelnC_hMFo8_ZIvSZiYdreJQG-ChxkktOgg5KgqQR8t5qgLNnizLy4JKvGEHMitfNdF5RLhPOeocbHIjih6YNi2Smsf3PVBJeuBUdruiFFI4fwZYmKAZ8TUU5NMpNmk/s1600/First-Look-At-Neverland-lg.jpeg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608658066950626850" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMV6TrrMZw7qbySelnC_hMFo8_ZIvSZiYdreJQG-ChxkktOgg5KgqQR8t5qgLNnizLy4JKvGEHMitfNdF5RLhPOeocbHIjih6YNi2Smsf3PVBJeuBUdruiFFI4fwZYmKAZ8TUU5NMpNmk/s200/First-Look-At-Neverland-lg.jpeg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<br />
"I'm working an eight hour day next Thursday."<br />
<br />
"That's good," I said, intent on reading the latest issue of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Vanity Fair</span>.<br />
<br />
"Mom, you didn't hear what I said," my 20something persisted. "I'm not working my usual three hour shift--he scheduled me for an <i>eight hour day</i>."<br />
<br />
"I heard you, Honey. Eight hours a week won't hurt you."<br />
<br />
"Won't hurt? You think that's a good thing--being a go-fer for my Art teacher for eight hours straight? Did you ever hear of throbbing feet or varicose veins?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Sweetheart, I have heard of the tortuous blood vessels, but you can get saline shots, the veins collapse, and you're not disfigured."<br />
<br />
"Not disfigured? Is that your yardstick? I can work until I'm disfigured? Don't you care that I could get scoliosis and need to have a rod put in my back?"<br />
<br />
<i>Count to ten, hold your tongue, 25 is the new 15, I said under my breath.</i><br />
<br />
"As I understand it, Darling, scoliosis develops in early adolescence so I think you're out of the woods. And I do care about spinal curvatures and, more importantly, I care about you."<br />
<br />
"Well, it sure doesn't sound like it. Aren't you worried that I could get a collapsed uterus from being on my legs all day and never be able to bear children? That no man will ever want to marry someone who's physically flawed--that I could die a spinster painting landscapes in a nursing home?"<br />
<br />
Her losses were escalating so fast I feared she'd have nothing left for the final chapter of her book <b>I Am a Prima Donna</b>.<br />
<br />
"Yes, Angel, I do worry. I worry that if you don't get over your aversion to an eight hour day, you'll be living at home until you're menopausal. That, my love, is a very scary thought."<br />
<br />
"Mother, you are heartless. I can't believe you support child labor."<br />
<br />
"Child labor? I was married at your age, for God's sake. It's time you joined the real world."<br />
<br />
"Don't try to change the subject, Mom. This isn't about just one eight hour day. I'm also on the schedule for eight hours next Thursday."<br />
<br />
"Eight hours next week too?" I said, lapsing into my Dolly Parton voice. "Well ain't that sad. You should just put the paramedics on alert right now in case you pass out from fatigue."<br />
<br />
"You're being sarcastic, Mother. Go ahead mock me, laugh at me all you want, but I'm under a great deal of pressure. If I'm chained to a job, I can't have a social life. Michelangelo probably had a better social life than I do even though he was gay and had to be in the closet."<br />
<br />
"Look, I know eight hours a week cramps your style but, and you need to sit down for this, many people work eight hours a day on a regular basis, back to back, five days a week."<br />
<br />
"I'm well aware of that, but I don't intend to be a slave."<br />
<br />
"Slave? What are you talking about? A forty-hour work week is not fun, but living in a cardboard box is not exactly a blast either."<br />
<br />
"You're suggesting I'm going to be living under a bridge? Thanks for the vote of confidence. When I finish my degree, Sarah, Kirsten and I plan to share an apartment in the John Hancock Center."<br />
<br />
The Hancock Center? I didn't want to disillusion her by mentioning that, on their combined salaries, they couldn't afford a closet in the skyscraper.<br />
<br />
"Interesting, but first you really should graduate."<br />
<br />
"Don't you think I know that? That's why I'm trying to concentrate on my studies, but I can't do that if I'm always working."<br />
<br />
"Always working? Eight hours a week? Are you serious?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, I'm serious. Eight hours in one day is challenging because I really don't like my job. I mean working in the art studio is okay, but it's not my passion."<br />
<br />
"Passion? Well if you'd quit changing majors like that Lohan girl changes rehabs, you just might finish up and follow your bliss. One semester you're majoring in Art Design, the next in Painting, then Art & Media Management, whatever that is. You probably won't believe this, Snow White, but some kids finish college in four years."<br />
<br />
"You should be glad I'm staying in the School of Fine Arts. My friend, Ian, switched from Electrical Engineering to Dance. He transferred from Princeton to Juilliard in his senior year and he had a full-ride at Princeton."<br />
<br />
"Well his parents must be brain-damaged to allow that. If you switch majors one more time, I swear your father is going to say <i>teacher or nurse--take your pick</i>."<br />
<br />
"Mom, I could never be a nurse. They're on their feet eight hours a day. It's a very stressful job. I want a job where I can relax."<br />
<br />
Was I watching a rerun of an ancient TV show where unsuspecting victims were placed in ridiculous situations while a hidden camera recorded their reactions? Surely someone was going to jump out and shout <b>Smile, You're on Candid Camera</b>.<br />
<br />
"Relax? Sweetie, I have another news flash for you. One goes to a spa to relax. One goes to work so she can buy food, keep a roof over her head-- you know, the finer things in life."<br />
<br />
"Yes, and many have heart-attacks before they're forty or they die of mesothelioma from breathing in coal dust."<br />
<br />
"Well, you needn't worry about that. Last time I applied they weren't hiring at the coal mines."<br />
<br />
"And that's another reason I'm in no hurry to graduate. There are no decent jobs out there. I should rush through college to work at Steak n' Shake? I don't think so. Are you aware there is a recession out there?"<br />
<br />
"Really? You're kidding? I thought your dad lost our retirement nest egg in Las Vegas."<br />
<br />
"Don't worry about retirement, Mom. If you fall on hard times, you can count on me to catch you. That's why I want to go to Florence to get my master's degree."<br />
<br />
Bless her--her heart was in the right place--it was her head that was on another planet. The vision of being caught in a safety net that was one huge hole flashed before me, but it was immediately replaced by flares at the words Florence and master's degree in the same sentence.<br />
<br />
"Florence? In Italy? You're joking, right?" <i>Please, God, let the Candid Camera man jump out now. "Tell me you're kidding."</i><br />
<br />
"No, I have to get my master's degree--a B.A. in Art is practically worthless. Do you remember when we were in Italy and I met Gianmarco? He suggested I do graduate work in Art Restoration at the Florence Academy. He said you can set your own hours. Can you imagine what it would be like to restore a Caravaggio?"<br />
<br />
"Caravaggio?" I was setting some kind of record for responding to comments with a single word of incredulity. "Caravaggio? Did that Gian gigolo tell you how to finance this adventure?"<br />
<br />
"Mother, you-are-putting-a-<i>price</i>-on-passion?" she wailed, as though I'd suggested she sell her firstborn, forgetting that she'd never bear children due to her fallen uterus. "That is soooo cynical. You <i>follow</i> a passion, not <i>finance</i> a passion!"<br />
<br />
"You know, Cinderella, unless you find a glass slipper in your bottomless closet, you might have to put in a few eight hour days in order to <b>follow AND finance</b> your passion. Even Michelangelo had to make tough choices. Sculpting was his passion--he considered the Sistine Chapel project a huge distraction, but he needed to pay his bills."<br />
<br />
"That's exactly my point," she said. "Michelangelo compromised, and he was chained to scaffolding for the next forty-years. What was he thinking?"Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-37908082198873762942011-03-11T00:24:00.001-06:002012-04-12T14:15:08.589-05:00DEATH VALLEY SPAFor the past four months, my friend Margaret and I'd been able to cobble together daily hour long walks, aided by the fact that she was in the midst of a contentious divorce and dissecting her almost-ex made the time fly. I was on a roll with these treks, and I was reluctant to jeopardize this long aspired-to accomplishment by accompanying my husband on a business trip to Scottsdale. I feared that without the almost-divorcee keeping my feet to the pavement, I'd slack off.<br />
<br />
"I can't believe you're not interested in escaping a minus ten degree wind chill," he marveled. "People do walk in Arizona, you know."<br />
<br />
"I know, but I'm afraid I'll be tempted to just sit by the pool and not move my butt."<br />
<br />
"There's a resort that adjoins the desert. You can walk the Sonora trails, I'll golf." <br />
<br />
By the end of the month we were in Scottsdale, and the morning after our arrival I was at the concierge desk.<br />
<br />
"Did you want to walk Trail A or B?" the concierge asked.<br />
<br />
"Which is easier?"<br />
<br />
"Trail A varies from one to three shoes. Trail B is quite challenging," she explained. "One shoe is the least demanding, five shoes requires a lot of stamina. Don't forget to take water and a hat. It gets hot out there."<br />
<br />
"I'm not going to be out long," I said, distracted by her spectacular turquoise jewelry. "I love your squash blossom necklace."<br />
<br />
"Thank you, it was my grandmother's. If you're into Native American jewelry, you'll be in heaven in Arizona. Here's a map of all the jewelry shops in the Old Town area where you can do some serious shopping."<br />
<br />
I stuck the map in my pocket. "Well right now I need to get some serious exercise."<br />
<br />
"You came to the right place. I'm not a hiker, but our guests rave about the trails. Enjoy yourself."<br />
<br />
"I will, and I'd better get moving if I want to check out the Navajo silversmiths this afternoon. I'm taking a pass on the five shoe route; just point me to the beginner's trail."<br />
<br />
"Go behind the restaurant, between the tennis courts, past the gate, through the tunnel and you will emerge on Trail A. Have fun!"<br />
<br />
Within minutes, I crossed into God's country--a landscape at once both brawny and delicate. Muted terra cotta, vibrant purples, and hazy greens stippled the scene. This was not the desert of pyramid fame, where I'd scorched my soles in the Sahara sand, but the desert of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly--the majestic stomping ground of Geronimo.<br />
<br />
Nothing prepared a girl from the Prairie State for this vista. <br />
<br />
I pictured Butch Cassidy galloping over the saguaro-studded hills, Wyatt Earp hunting down cattle rustlers, John Wayne lassoing varmints. This was desperado territory.<br />
<br />
Setting forth, I almost twisted my ankle on my first step into the wild. 'Be careful in these flimsy sandals,' I reminded myself. 'This trail is not asphalt.' I noted a Visitors Center and a BE PREPARED sign, that smacked of overkill. Hikers should carry a gunnysack of paraphernalia. Some nut must have dreamed up the list while working on his Wilderness Survival Badge. For starters, he suggested a whistle, water, compass, map, knife, mirror, matches, candles and a blanket. Matches, around tumbleweed? Water, with no porta-pottys? A blanket in this furnace? Ridiculous. Besides, I was going for a walk; it wasn't as though I was Sacagawea on an expedition with Lewis and Clark.<br />
<br />
I marched onto the one-shoe trail, the piece-of-cake one, where I'd planned to walk for a half-hour and then turn back, all the while keeping my eye on the Visitors Center. Every so often, I murmured good morning to a jogger or a dog-walker. "Oh, she's adorable," I gushed over a puppy who sported saddle-bags and a water bottle. I passed a few Girl Scouts laughing and a woman, on her cell phone, bleating, "Snowing again?...Well, it's absolutely gorgeous here." At every turn, I encountered desertscapes I'd only seen in movies in which cowboys fell in love with Indian maidens, and white men smoked peace pipes with the Chief. Images of gun-slingers, runaway stagecoaches and saloon hussies ran through my head.<br />
<br />
Each time I thought to turn back, I discovered a new distraction--a giant cactus pockmarked with bird pecked holes, a mysterious rock pile, a jackrabbit zigzagging out of harm's way. Moseying from pillar to post, it occurred to me that I'd not passed a human for awhile, and the sun was bleaching out the aubergine highlights I got at the Buzz Salon just before we left Chicago. It was time to get out of Dodge, and fast.<br />
<br />
I did a one-eighty, but when I turned around, the shiny roof of the Visitors Center was nowhere in sight.<br />
<br />
You're a little off course. No big deal. You curved to the right when you entered, so just hang to the left. You should've worn a hat. Maybe I shouldn't have worn velour; I'm melting. The Center is just around the bend. Are these buffalo footprints? Do buffalo bite?<br />
<br />
Then, an hour later, I knew I was in trouble.<br />
<br />
Nothing looks familiar. Don't shed a tear, you'll dehydrate. Do they have desert rangers? Keep your wits about you. If only I could see a landmark like Sears Tower. I should have brought a knife or a mirror like the sign said, but what was I supposed to do with a mirror anyway? Too late now, you're toast.<br />
<br />
Just as I was about to gather rocks to spell out "farewell," I spotted a metal marker with an arrow pointing to Trail 306 and another to Trail 100 in the opposite direction.<br />
<br />
What's with the trail numbers? Where was the one-shoe trail? The U.S. Wildlife Service lures visitors into Death Valley, and can't even post an EXIT arrow? Just choose a trail--you have a fifty-fifty chance of being right. Turn to the left. You are not lost; you've just strayed a bit off the beaten path.<br />
<br />
Before me was a two-foot high, log-shaped cactus lying on its side. <br />
<br />
And then it clicked. You-are-lost. You are so lost. If you'd passed this heat-stroked, phallic symbol on the way in, you'd have remembered--it looks exactly like Margaret's description of her husband's erectile dysfunction.<br />
<br />
I scanned for a human--a nomad, a migrant, a wrangler, even a gold prospector, anyone. I caught sight of a jogger.<br />
<br />
"Stop! Stop!" I shouted, afraid he might not see me in the withering inferno. "Please help me," I begged. "I'm lost!"<br />
<br />
"Relax. You're just turned around. Where do you want to go?"<br />
<br />
"To my hotel--I'm a tourist." <br />
<br />
"Really?" Just what I needed, a condescending savior, but I was in no position to call him on his attitude. "Where's your map?"<br />
<br />
"The concierge gave me this map of the jewelry stores in Old Town, but it's of no help."<br />
<br />
"A map of jewelry stores?" he asked with a 'there's no cure for stupid' look. "Alright, let's get you oriented. You see the sun overhead? It's a bit to our left because it's still early, so that's East. Now because it's late February it makes a bit of a wider arc as it crosses the sky to the...to the...?" <br />
<br />
"To the other side?"<br />
<br />
"Well, yes, but we call the other side the WEST," he said, taking a long draw on a tube connected to this CamelBak HydroFlo contraption strapped to his back.<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell Mr. Professor that I hated Geography and Astronomy or wherever the hell you learn about the Big Dipper and the solar system, but I didn't want him to think I was direction-impaired.<br />
<br />
"Now pay attention. This will always be East, that will always be North and this will always be South," he said, pointing to the three directions. "Where did you enter the canyon?"<br />
<br />
"From the tunnel."<br />
<br />
"Seventh Street or Seventh Avenue?"<br />
<br />
"I have no idea. How many blocks is it to the Visitors Center?"<br />
<br />
"Blocks? How many blocks?" he repeated, as though he'd caught me tossing beer cans on the trail. "Where are you from?"<br />
<br />
"Chicago."<br />
<br />
"Ooookay, so, now you know North and South. Do you see that dip between those two mountains, kind of looks like a camel's back?"<br />
<br />
This whole town is camelback crazy, Camelback Estates, Camelback Country Club, Camelback Condo...<br />
<br />
He interrupted my thoughts. "You're not paying attention. That's how we got lost, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
Whose 'we,' Tonto? I'm the one who's lost, and right now I could be shopping for a turquoise bracelet in Old Town.<br />
<br />
"Stay on this trail, and keep heading toward the dip," he continued. "Pretend you're a soccer ball rolling..."<br />
<br />
Now I cut him off. "Dude, I understand sports only slightly less than I understand the solar system."<br />
<br />
"Never mind. Do you see that white dot way down there?"<br />
<br />
"The trash bag on the cactus?"<br />
<br />
"That's NOT a trash bag. It's a woman in a white robe meditating. Head towards her. Follow the curve and you'll come to the iron railing you passed on your way in. You do remember the railing, right?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, I lied, "I remember the black railing."<br />
<br />
"It's green," he said, with a look that telegraphed, I'd flunk your ass, if you were in my class. "Grab onto it, it leads to the tunnel. By the way, your cell phone has a GPS."<br />
<br />
"I only know how to make calls and text." He took a deep breath as though I'd just declared I was a saturated-fat addict.<br />
<br />
"Well, next time, let's hope you come prepared," he said with a fake smile.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I don't think there'll be a next time," I said. "Thanks for your help, but I'm pretty sure I'm done with the desert."<br />
<br />
I could tell he thought that wasn't a bad idea. "You'll be okay now; just don't leave the trail." He took another swallow from his CamelHydroFlo and trotted off.<br />
<br />
"Thanks a lot," I shouted after him. "You saved my life!"<br />
<br />
He wasn't my kind of guy, but he did save my life. I could've run into a Peyote-munching gangbanger marauding the happy hunting ground. A century from now, a Boy Scout could have stumbled on my little carcass and wondered why a fossil was wearing a tiny jogging suit. <br />
<br />
Within minutes, I spotted the shimmery roof of the Visitors Center. I texted Margaret.<br />
<br />
GOT TRND ROUND IN DESERT. CLOSE CALL.<br />
<br />
She responded within a second.<br />
<br />
OMG! U CLD HV DIED!! FRND LOST IN PALM SPRGS DESERT OVRNGHT. RATTLESNAKES SCORPIONS ALMST FROZ 2 DEATH! IN A.M FOUND CAR IN PKG LOT ONLY 1 BLOCK AWAY! B CARFL!<br />
<br />
That was the straw that, and I couldn't believe I had to say it, broke the freakin' camel's back. The next time I needed a desert fix, I'd order Blazing Saddles from Netflix.Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-23166500364452661142010-01-19T13:50:00.018-06:002012-05-30T10:54:32.672-05:00BLUEPRINT FOR AN EATING DISORDER<strong><span style="color: #ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards</span></strong><br />
My brother, our family's first-born, had been finicky, only five pounds, colicky, a fussy eater. A strange baby for our family said my father's three sisters who were in the habit of birthing jumbo jets.<br />
<br />
When my brother wa<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOKHazvIV0r417O5R3uoGKJhDHqSQaRvS273lfXKVk3zgYOO-6_EPDWfmhBLzfexkw6Wzbuhtn_YEov7d9bJ1wZUFSIwTABoYDmDALMuqSEIEHDmALc5jME5tDeXjRDRXJ4v1zZbwnPQ/s1600-h/Blueprint+for+an+Eating+Disorder+picture+.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428543727004396402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOKHazvIV0r417O5R3uoGKJhDHqSQaRvS273lfXKVk3zgYOO-6_EPDWfmhBLzfexkw6Wzbuhtn_YEov7d9bJ1wZUFSIwTABoYDmDALMuqSEIEHDmALc5jME5tDeXjRDRXJ4v1zZbwnPQ/s320/Blueprint+for+an+Eating+Disorder+picture+.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 201px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 251px;" /></a>s but a week old, my father's eldest sister placed her two-month-old daughter, nine pounds at birth and gaining weight at warp speed, on the bed next to her new cousin.<br />
<br />
"Oh my God!" my aunt exclaimed, "we've never had such a scrawny, pathetic baby in our family! How did this happen? He doesn't even look like he belongs to us."<br />
<br />
Humiliated by the stamp of maternal failure, my mother vowed to rectify her mistake. She devoted herself to straining liver, mashing vegetables and pureeing perfect fruits to fatten my brother, hoping to make him worthy of the three arrogant aunts, the arbiters of family acceptance.<br />
<br />
Her efforts were a waste—he gained not an ounce. Tony, the neighborhood druggist, prescribed weight gain tonics and appetite enhancers to no avail. The thin, bony infant developed into a slender little boy—adorable and bright, true, but shockingly "skinny and scrawny" blabbered the three crones.<br />
<br />
Four years later my Mother was given an opportunity to atone for her sins. Again pregnant, she made novenas, not for a boy or a girl, but for a healthy baby that would eat. God answered her prayers.<br />
<br />
Encouraged by the entire family, I was a "good eater" who redeemed my mother of her previous ignominy. I ate solids before I had teeth—eschewing mushy cereal in favor of pizza--a fabulous achievement. I preferred pasta to a pacifier. By age four, I could eat almost as much as a grown-up, cause for applause. I never refused seconds and always had room for more. I could eat dinner at home, supper at my Big Nonna's, a snack at Little Grandma’s, biscotti and milk at bedtime—all in one night.<br />
<br />
I was a veritable mini-eating machine, the answer to my Mother's prayers. I put my monkey-jawed brother to shame as his cheeks puffed full of macerated food he refused to swallow.<br />
<br />
"Okay, chew all night and you won't go to Kiddieland," my mother would threaten during dinner. "Look at your sister--she finished everything on her plate—such a good girl!"<br />
<br />
My mother alternately lobbed shots of admonishment and approval, threats and compliments back and forth like some schizoid game of table tennis. "Please, Honey, eat," she pleaded, "Your sister ate her dessert and yours too because you didn't finish your meat."<br />
<br />
Her head swiveled between the two of us as the drama of good and evil played out in front of Daddy, the scorekeeper, who cheered every swallow.<br />
<br />
For all of the disappointment and aggravation my brother's eternal cud-chewing brought, my gobbling locked in my title as undefeated eating champion--a title that was not in the slightest way threatened even by the arrival of my baby sister. My chubby cheeks, wrinkly thighs and robust health clearly signaled that this sturdy twig would strengthen the hallowed family tree. The three drones were forced to reconsider their original disdain for my mother's genetic contribution.<br />
<br />
"She is gorgeous," they exclaimed, "A perfect cherub! Look at those pudgy, strong legs! She's beautiful!" they cooed as I waddled about cookie in hand.<br />
<br />
Then the cookie crumbled.<br />
<br />
We almost never went to the doctor. Other than measles and mumps, we were healthy and, for the occasional sniffles, there was always Tony at Gabric's Drug Store.<br />
Once, however, my sister, seventeen months younger than I, became lethargic and developed a croupy cough that wouldn't go away. Alarmed, my parents decided that a trip to the North Side—a world away—was in order to consult with our real doctor, the one who'd delivered us.<br />
<br />
Russell Barrett M.D. was a massive, silver-haired general practitioner in the days before each body part had its own specialist. When not delivering babies, he amputated arms, repaired varicose veins, corrected crooked spines, cut out tonsils, healed ulcers and generally fixed whatever was broken. He diagnosed by sight and sound rather than textbooks and his booming pronouncements were indisputable though his expertise left something to be desired when dealing with the psyche. Once when my mom, whose daily responsibilities included the care of her terminally ill mother, octogenarian grandparents, perfectionist husband and three kids under the age of six, mentioned she was feeling a bit swamped, Doc prescribed she go downtown and buy a hat. That she had not a minute to breathe, was financially pressed, physically drained, mentally exhausted and emotionally depleted apparently escaped his medical radar. But he'd delivered three healthy babies, and had initials after his name so he had a lock on his sacrosanct status.<br />
<br />
Dr. Barrett had seen neither my sister nor me since birth. As we entered his office for her appointment, his megaphone voice thundered,<br />
<br />
"My God, what took you so long to bring her in—she looks awful!"<br />
<br />
My mother was taken aback. "Does she really look that bad?"<br />
<br />
"Bad?" he roared, "She's a mess. How could you allow this to get so out of control? This is a shame!<br />
<br />
"Well," my Dad countered, "she's only been really pale the last day or two."<br />
<br />
"Day or two?" he hollered, "This doesn't happen to a kid in a couple of days. Put her on the scale."<br />
<br />
And, for the first time, everyone present realized he was talking about me.<br />
<br />
"No, no, no, Dr. Barrett, we're here for the little one," my mother protested, "she's almost lost her voice from coughing so much."<br />
<br />
"She'll be fine," he decided with a cursory glance at my sister as he rolled his chair back from the scale to his desk. "This one is in serious trouble."<br />
<br />
My parents attempted to mount a defense.<br />
<br />
"Doc, she's smart as a whip—her vocabulary is astonishing. She reads the Tribune to her Nonna all the time," my Dad offered.<br />
<br />
"That's irrelevant—she weighs too much," he responded dismissively while scribbling on his chart.<br />
<br />
"But she's a good swimmer and jumps double-dutch better than ten year old girls,” my Mother proffered. “She’s quite a gymnast—does birds’ nests on the rings."<br />
<br />
"She's five and she's fat. The rest is unimportant. Put her on a diet!" he roared. "No more cake, no candy, no sweets, period! Do you hear me, Mother? Nothing in between meals, no snacks, no bread, cut out desserts. Are you listening, Mary! No cookies, skim milk, eliminate second helpings. I want to see a different kid in front of me when you bring her back in eight weeks."<br />
<br />
He was glaring at my mother and had really worked himself into a lather. I wanted to ask my brother if a doctor has a heart attack does he go to another doctor or can he fix his heart himself, but then I figured my brother would say I was stupid so I just stared at the doctor's jacket which had Russell Barrett, M.D. written in red thread above a little pocket.<br />
<br />
"What about the little one?" my Mother thought to ask.<br />
<br />
"She'll be fine. Put a vaporizer on at night," Dr. God ordered as our family trooped to the front desk to make a new appointment.<br />
<br />
I had a million questions leaving the doctor's office. Why didn't Dr. Barrett pay attention to my sister who was really the sick one? Why didn't the big fatso go on a diet himself if it was such a great thing? Why did he shout at mommy and not say anything to daddy? Why didn't it matter that I was smart and could read and swim? How could I change into a different kid? How do you lose fat—where does it go?<br />
All these concerns were whirling in my head, but my mother looked very sad, and I didn't want to bother her with questions so I just whispered, "I'm sorry the doctor was mean to you. I promise I will stay on my diet so he never yells at you anymore." She squeezed my hand. “Really, Momma, you will never be ashamed of me again. I won’t ever get you in trouble.” She gave me a little, tiny smile that made me want to cry, but I couldn't cry and make her feel worse.<br />
<br />
I had no idea, that over the years, the worst was yet to come for me.<br />
<br />
The emaciated look of models and movie stars was speeding into vogue and voluptuous women were admired only in Rubens' paintings. Overweight kids reflected on a mother asleep at the wheel so there was no time to waste in preparing a girl for one-size-fits-most.<br />
With the metamorphosis scheduled in eight weeks, the diet had to be fast-tracked and the scale god would decide my fate forevermore. In a culture that prized chubby babies, but looked askance at plump kindergartners, where mangia, mangia was a mantra, the goal would be a challenge.<br />
<br />
Counting calories ranked right up there with counting blessings, and while health was important, image was almost on par so if lecturing, shaming and restricting were what it took to protect little butterballs from cookie jars and candy bars that was the way the ball bounced.<br />
<br />
Overnight the fat little girl became the family’s designated obsession.<br />
<br />
No sooner had we gotten in the car than my brother began what would become a childhood of sibling taunts.<br />
<br />
"You can't go with Daddy to the drugstore for Green Rivers anymore!" he sneered. "You can't have milkshakes at David's or stop the Good Humor Man when he comes down our street," the teasing continued. "You can't have Italian lemonade when we go to Taylor Street because you are a fatty, fatty two by four!"<br />
<br />
With this my mother, who adored her first-born son, reached over the back seat and smacked him in the mouth.<br />
<br />
That slap was no match for the emotional hit I'd suffered.<br />
<br />
At age five, I lost twenty pounds. My brother and sister gleefully consumed any contraband that accidentally came my way and snitched about any they were too slow to snatch from my hands. "We're only trying to help you. We don't want you to be a tub of lard," they sing-songed as they policed my every mouthful.<br />
<br />
Everyone contributed her two cents about my diet, my body, me. My dad bragged they'd caught "it" in time. Sister Lucille, my kindergarten teacher, said now I could swing on the monkey-bars. Neighbors raved they didn't know me anymore. My Godmother said now my new body matched my beautiful face. Even the milkman said he didn’t recognize me.<br />
<br />
But not everyone agreed.<br />
<br />
"Madonna mia!" the three harridans lamented, "she used to be so gorgeous,” assuming, I suppose, my hearing had disappeared along with the weight. My friend, Connie, said she liked me just fine the way I used to be. The man at the shoestore asked if I'd been sick. Nonna wondered where her baby had gone. "You're disappearing before my eyes," she said in broken English.<br />
<br />
No one noticed in the swirl of conflicting opinions my biggest loss had nothing to do with pounds. All of the qualities that had been praised and valued no longer mattered--being me was not good enough. The blueprint for an eating disorder had been drawn and the foundation built of words, mortared with mixed messages, would last a lifetime.<br />
<br />
<strong>MLSE 01/10</strong>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-70019269745273851892009-12-18T10:06:00.011-06:002010-04-10T21:07:15.351-05:00When You See with Your Heart<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Mary Lou Edwards<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Dear Lia,<br /></span></em></strong><br />Shortly after Thanksgiving, you sat on Santa’s knee in front of the magnificent Christmas tree at Marshall Field’s<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisKzAR0xWbci_fRAaRiI3egI2HT3XbKdrzNsJT478CAH69XDiOBde5WUU2f8CFBWAgaaJ4bkfAXXzYPCPieWtQOAzl8oDhlAu7fmM60y-KP1med0o7UrMx2bBjzcOypxR3nhKKRCogeik/s1600-h/When+you+see+with+your+heart+title+and+picture.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 229px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416608534037411762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisKzAR0xWbci_fRAaRiI3egI2HT3XbKdrzNsJT478CAH69XDiOBde5WUU2f8CFBWAgaaJ4bkfAXXzYPCPieWtQOAzl8oDhlAu7fmM60y-KP1med0o7UrMx2bBjzcOypxR3nhKKRCogeik/s320/When+you+see+with+your+heart+title+and+picture.jpg" /></a>, and you gave him your not very long wish list—a baby doll, a bicycle and, of course, Barbie. You had only been in the United States for 6 months, but Barbie already was your new best friend.<br /><br />Daddy hurried to Carmen’s Bike Shop to order your first two-wheeler, in part because he couldn’t bear to disappoint you, and also, I suspected, because he feared getting stuck assembling a last minute purchase.<br /><br />“Please don’t buy a Barbie bike,” I begged as he headed out. “I’m already Barbie’d out.”<br /><br />“I’ll look for a Susan B. Anthony bike,” he teased, “or maybe one with defiant little fists waving from the handlebars.”<br /><br />“I’m serious,” I said. “Girls relate to their dolls, and, if Barbie was real she’d be 6 feet tall, weigh 100 pounds, and wear a 42 FF bra. Lia does not need to be a moving billboard advertising the shameless hussy.”<br /><br />“Oh, stop it. If you feel that way, I’ll order a Flying Nun bike,” he said, as he kissed me good-bye. “And get shopping before the dazzling damsels disappear from the shelves."<br /><br />I enlisted Nonna for the attack on Toys “R” Us before the hordes invaded. We found the Happy Holiday Barbie, the Stupid Barbie, the Malibu Barbie, the Doctor Barbie—a few of the many little anorexics you just had to have. Taking a deep breath, I tried to select the least offensive of the idols and settled on Veterinarian Barbie and Little Mermaid Barbie. Feminist that I was, I hoped not to run into any friends who might spot the pert-nosed, Aryan femme fatales in my shopping cart.<br /><br />“Guard the cart with your life,” I said to my mother. These Barbies are hot items. I’ll track down the baby dolls.” Fortunately, the human-looking dolls were not in such high demand. I found two infant dolls--one for you and one for your sister, Gianna.<br /><br />I returned to Nonna who was on guard-duty with the Barbie babes.<br /><br />“What do you think of these, Mom?” I asked, holding up the baby dolls. “They drink a bottle, pee, and cry. Do you think the girls will like them?”<br /><br />Nonna looked at the babies. “They’re adorable,” she said, “look at the eyelashes and little bonnets. They’re so lifelike,” she marveled, “but, Mar,” she smiled, shaking her head, “<em>they’re brown.”<br /></em><br />“Ma,” I said, “Are you kidding me? My kids are brown.”<br /><br />“What do you mean, your kids are brown?”<br /><br />“Mom, my girls are from Colombia. They’re not blue-eyed blondes. They have brown skin,” I said, incredulous that we were having this genetic refresher course in the middle of Toys “R” Us while, in the next aisle, maniacal parents fought over the last of the Teenage Mutant Turtles.<br /><br />“Oh my God,” said Nonna. “I never thought about it, but you’re right.”<br /><br /><em>I’m right?</em> Now it was my turn to be puzzled.<br /><br />“Ma, you’re putting me on, right? I mean, <em>you have noticed</em> your adopted granddaughters have dark skin?”<br /><br />“Well, I guess so,” she said. “Now that I think about it, I must have, but I never really paid much attention. I mean, what difference does it make? Who cares?”<br /><br />Indeed, why would anyone care? When you see with your heart, you’re colorblind.<br /><br />Love,<br />Mom<br /><br /><strong>MLSE 12/09</strong>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-24418192767126195702009-11-12T09:03:00.007-06:002010-01-26T13:03:58.634-06:00Sometimes We Jump<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards<br /></span></strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1ODL6zxG0irH2Psan8HjAUGzrpD1CdsRR2sxX6HYvfQ3DoqFQeU_QzcL8Zau5Q6TCAU6m7HWTuioI7KeFJaPR9DyyA-1DNNVIJLmt5lUvfUgjLreTKd17ky9bOyNqarWwKuzmRZHjDs/s1600-h/Sometimes+We+Jump+Picture.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414366356273525282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 237px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 205px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1ODL6zxG0irH2Psan8HjAUGzrpD1CdsRR2sxX6HYvfQ3DoqFQeU_QzcL8Zau5Q6TCAU6m7HWTuioI7KeFJaPR9DyyA-1DNNVIJLmt5lUvfUgjLreTKd17ky9bOyNqarWwKuzmRZHjDs/s320/Sometimes+We+Jump+Picture.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>“This is not a good idea,” I said to my daughter, certain my advice would be ignored.<br /><br />Her illegal alien friend was handing over one of his many part-time jobs he no longer wanted. That she thought being the delivery girl for Toppi Thai Restaurant was the perfect job for a college student amazed me, despite the fact that I had witnessed many of her imprudent decisions in the past.<br /><br />“Mom,” she tried to convince me, “Pablo says I can make $50 to $120. a night for 4 hours work. No taxes. I can study between deliveries. You are being a snob. This is a very cool job.”<br /><br />“Cool job? Are you kidding? Lia, think about the wear and tear on your car, the teen-agers who will tip you .25 cents, driving in bad weather, the horrendous cost of gas, creepy strangers coming to the door,…”<br /><br />She didn’t let me finish. “Mom, you’re being negative. I’m taking the job.”<br /><br />Obviously seizing this opportunity of a lifetime was not my call.<br /><br />Not a month into this lucky break, she became disenchanted with rude customers, poor tippers, mean dogs, wrong addresses, and kitchen help hitting on her. Just another day in Paradise I thought, taking a pass on the temptation to say This was your idea, Sweetheart.<br /><br />I was intolerant of her complaints, though one day her grievance did send me into high gear.<br /><br />“Mom,” she wailed into the phone, “you won’t believe this!”<br /><br />“Were you robbed? Did you have an accident?” I shrieked, projecting my worst fears. “Are you Ok?”<br /><br />“I’m fine, but you won’t believe what just happened. I walked into Dr. Cannon’s office to make a delivery and the receptionist looked at me and started screaming, ‘We didn’t order Mexican food! We don’t want Mexican food!’ She went crazy.”<br /><br />“Why did she say that?” I asked bewildered.<br /><br />“I guess she took one look at my Colombian skin and assumed I was delivering Mexican food.”<br /><br />“You have got to be kidding,” I gasped, “that is incredible!”<br /><br />“I know, Mom, I was shocked too. The lady really went ballistic.”<br /><br />“Lia, what did you do?” I asked stunned.<br /><br />“I just told her to calm down--that I was delivering their Thai food.”<br /><br />“That’s all you said,” I probed, offended not only for myself but for my Colombian adopted daughter as well.<br /><br />“What could I say, Mom? The lady was just stupid.”<br /><br />“Lia, I would have thrown the food on the floor; I would have turned around and walked out, ” I said, jumping into my self-righteous, anti-discrimination mode. “She saw brown skin and assumed you were delivering Mexican food? Tomorrow I’m calling Dr. Cannon’s office to let her know she has a racist moron sitting at the front desk. The woman should be fired,” I ranted.<br /><br />“Mom, stop. I told her it was Thai food and she settled down.”<br /><br />“Lia, I would have opened the container and dumped it on her desk.”<br /><br />“Mom, that’s crazy. Why would I behave like that?”<br /><br />“Lia, to assume someone is delivering a certain kind of food based on the color of her skin is stereotyping. What would she say to a Black person who was delivering egg foo yong? What would she say to an Oriental pizza driver? Her behavior is outrageous.”<br /><br />“Mom, if she has something against brown skin, that’s her problem. Who cares if she’s prejudiced? I just won’t deliver there anymore. You’re over-reacting.”<br /><br />“I am not overreacting. I just hate jerks.”<br /><br />“Then you’re prejudiced, Mother, prejudiced against jerks. If I’d known this was going to upset you, I wouldn’t have told you. I only shared it because I was so taken aback. The lady is pathetic.”<br /><br />“Pathetic? Your illegal friend probably passed the job on because he’d met one too many Neanderthals.”<br /><br />“No, Mom. Pablo gave me the job because his driver’s license expired and he couldn’t afford to get another counterfeit one. Did you know counterfeit documents cost a fortune?”<br /><br />“Lia, I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. You’re making me crazy. Would you please quit this stupid job?” I begged, smoke coming from my ears. “We'll talk later, I have to go."<br /><br />I slammed down the phone, desperate to share my fury.<br /><br />“Why don’t you find something else to worry about?” my husband suggested when I related the egregious offense. “Lighten up—it’s not illegal to be an insensitive clod,” he said blowing off my tirade.<br /><br />I was incensed by his lack of indignation.<br /><br />“Lighten up, <em>lighten up</em>? You’re telling me to <em>lighten up</em> when some ignorant wretch slaps our daughter in the face because of the color of her skin? You have the audacity to tell me to lighten up,” I shrieked.<br /><br />“Calm down. You are over-reacting,” he said ignoring my pain.<br /><br />“Overreacting? So you think I’m overreacting? You reduce my outrage to overreacting? I could just scream,” I proclaimed in my best Bette Davis voice.<br /><br />“You are screaming, Honey. Don't get so excited. Did it ever occur to you that the woman might be allergic to tacos or maybe was having a bad day?”<br /><br />“Oh, a bad day, that’s a good one--a bad day justifies racism,” I seethed. “Maybe if more people took action when they witnessed something like this, maybe if more people stood up…”<br /><br />He cut me off. “Oh, I get it. This is your new action plan—dumping food on the floor. Flinging a piece of moo satay in someone’s face is fighting injustice. That is absolutely brilliant!" he declared, eyeing me as though I were some kind of unbalanced bag lady. "Saul Alinsky must be rolling over in his grave," he said referring to a legendary iconoclast.<br /><br />“Okay, make fun of me. You know I'm not advocating throwing pad thai in people’s faces although, come to think of it, that'd be a novel way of dealing with disparate treatment," I said just to push my husband a little closer to the edge where I was already standing. "Oh, no, now I get it. You're mocking me because you envy my pluck."<br /><br />“Pluck, <em>pluck?</em>” he retorted with an Elvis-like sneer. “Don't you think it a bit strange to make some tactless person’s aversion to Mexican food into a hate crime?”<br /><br />Just then the phone rang.<br /><br />“Mom, you’re not going to believe this.”<br /><br />“Please, Lia, I can’t take any more tonight--I’m too aggravated."<br /><br />“Listen, Mom, just stop and listen. This is the best. You know that Toppi owns Toppi Thai, right? And that her husband owns La Lupita?”<br /><br />“Yes, I know that, Lia, we’ve eaten there many times.”<br /><br />“Well, not anymore. La Lupita went out of business last week and Toppi is using La Lupita’s leftover bags. When I delivered to Dr. Cannon’s office I was carrying a La Lupita bag with a logo that says ‘THE BEST MEXICAN FOOD IN TOWN.’ The lady wasn’t commenting on my skin--she saw the bag,” she laughed.<br /><br />“Oh-my-God, Lia. That is unbelievable. Imagine if I’d called Dr. Cannon tomorrow. She’d have thought I was a lunatic demanding the receptionist’s head on a plate.”<br /><br />“Imagine if I’d dumped the food on the floor, Mom, that would have been so awful. I can’t believe you gave me such bad advice.” Then, going for the jugular, she proceeded, “I think you let your emotions get in the way. You tell me to count to 10 before I act, but you need to count to a thousand," she lectured. "You’re too quick-tempered. You’re not just a reactor, you’re a nuclear reactor.”<br /><br />I had it coming.<br /><br /><strong>MLSE 11/09</strong> </div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-55499830160362327002009-10-11T20:00:00.003-05:002010-01-26T13:04:41.536-06:00Crash Course<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards</span></strong><br /><br />Where did I come from—how did I get here? No one agreed.<br /><br />My brother said "the stork brought me".<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIBV4PL9C64CIAaK92JgttkysioFbWjq66qWPOc88mIoKT6Gb1_OyYQJt7n6ips6TMzT8i02ZK9W-KFZWD7n3F4mwoMCL2WX-DwhhKRcOltSm78PZMwIhyFyl0lx4YAXhrwhu1nozvLM/s1600-h/Crash+Course+picture.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403031364538152466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 226px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikIBV4PL9C64CIAaK92JgttkysioFbWjq66qWPOc88mIoKT6Gb1_OyYQJt7n6ips6TMzT8i02ZK9W-KFZWD7n3F4mwoMCL2WX-DwhhKRcOltSm78PZMwIhyFyl0lx4YAXhrwhu1nozvLM/s320/Crash+Course+picture.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />My girlfriend said "fairies delivered babies".<br /><br />The girl upstairs said "babies were left on doorsteps".<br /><br />My cousin told me doctors carried dead babies in their black bags and a mother gives life by breathing into the baby’s nose.<br /><br />Raphaella (Raphy) Paradiso, my fifth-grade best friend forever, told me she saw some weird looking babies in glass jars at the Museum of Science and Industry.<br /><br />“Raphy,” I said, “That is so stupid. Babies do not come in glass jars.”<br /><br />“Well, I went to the Museum’s Chick Hatchery, and I saw with my own eyes baby chickens pop out of eggs. If a chick can crack out of an egg, why can’t a baby come packed in a jar?” she reasoned.<br /><br />Maybe she’s right I thought. Everyone says I look like my dad. Maybe my mother picked my jar because I had eyes that reminded her of my father.<br /><br />“That makes sense, Raphy, but you’re forgetting one thing. Mothers get babies from hospitals not museums,” I said with more than a bit of scorn.<br /><br />“Not always,” Raphaella countered, “you heard Sister Praxeda tell the Christmas story about the stable, and you saw the eigth graders' Nativity play. Jesus was packed in straw. They didn’t show how he got in the manger in the first place.”<br /><br />Just when I thought I was making headway with the puzzle, Raphy brought up another piece that added to the confusion.<br /><br />“None of this makes sense,” I admitted. “They say Mary and Joseph left Nazareth on a donkey and she was great with child. I think they meant she was great with children.”<br /><br />Raphaella, who’d obviously given this a lot of thought, said she’d found out in second grade that Santa Claus was a fake, that he didn’t fly over houses or come down chimneys, that it was all a big fat lie.<br /><br />“OK, so Santa’s not real, but you’re not saying Jesus was a fake too, are you?” I asked aghast.<br /><br />“Of course not,” she reassured me, “but I do wonder what exactly they’re talking about when I hear the Christmas story. For instance, what’s "a Virgin"? Was Joseph the father or wasn’t he?<br /><br />And what the heck are swaddling clothes? And you know what else? I think the Three Kings, The Magi and the Wise Guys are all the same people.”<br /><br />“They are the same, and they’re Wise Men not Wise Guys, though I don’t know how wise they were bringing frankincense and myrrh to a baby instead of a toy. But why,” I asked in exasperation, “are we talking about dumb presents and Santa? We’re supposed to be figuring out how kids are born, and we’re not even supposed to be talking about this.”<br /><br />“I know,” Raphaella lamented. “My mother said I should always come to her if I have any questions, but when I asked where babies came from, she blew her cork. She said, ‘I’ll tell you when you need to know. I’ll tell you when the time is right.’ In my house, that means never.”<br /><br />I was too embarrassed to tell Raphy how asking about babies almost got me killed.<br /><br />Once during a family drive, my mother mentioned to my dad that a cousin was “expecting.”<br /><br />Piping up from the backseat, I asked, “When is she due?” I was about eight years old and had no idea what that meant, but I’d heard a neighbor ask that of a pregnant lady, and I thought it sounded grown-up.<br /><br />“When is she due?” my father shouted as he practically ran our car off the road and screeched to a halt. “Mary,” he thundered, “what are you teaching this kid? Where did she learn that? Who is she talking to,” he continued bellowing. “You’re not watching her friends,” he accused. “You need to talk to her teachers! This kid is out of control.”<br /><br />The virulent tongue-lashing almost had my mother in tears and, cowering in the backseat, I vowed never, ever to get my mother in such trouble again, and I never did. Thanks to fear and shame, I remained ignorant for a very long time.<br /><br />When I became a mother, I vowed no question would go unanswered and no subject would be off limits.<br /><br />One day, when my daughter was about seven, I found her and her friend, Cara, playing with their beloved Barbies. There were about a dozen of the stupid strumpets swimming in the Barbie pool with a few boyfriend Kens floating around too. One doll caught my eye.<br /><br />“Lia,” I asked, “what’s with Ken’s head on Barbie’s body?”<br /><br />“Oh, that’s Barbie’s gay friend,” she chirped. “They’re going for a swim before they go shopping.”<br />I swear I heard a car crash.<br /><br /><strong>MLS 10/09</strong>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-82021613137267639832009-09-20T11:10:00.009-05:002010-01-26T22:42:59.099-06:00Not Good Enough<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards<br /></span></strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuZtmtFP1w-cuBbOAsmU1Fdo-zDzxTuUOT07EHNzWpN19cNhZUVEjI2VmWxhlmk-15bnHjLy5g2UjgtkC4bFENI5DvdhxD7CYGDkAKfNFHJVOP4Wz77l_ogdcmHALlC15nu8dUOAlSQE/s1600-h/Not+Good+Enough+Picture.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403034304038156658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 275px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuZtmtFP1w-cuBbOAsmU1Fdo-zDzxTuUOT07EHNzWpN19cNhZUVEjI2VmWxhlmk-15bnHjLy5g2UjgtkC4bFENI5DvdhxD7CYGDkAKfNFHJVOP4Wz77l_ogdcmHALlC15nu8dUOAlSQE/s320/Not+Good+Enough+Picture.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>“Who do you think you are? You’re not a movie star. This is good enough for you.”<br /><br />A freshman in high school, I was shocked when my dentist bellowed this comment with such fury. I sat in the chair perplexed.<br /><br />“What are you talking about?” I asked the hulk who was barking in my face. “How do you know what I’m going to be? Why is this good enough for me?” I asked, as I held the small round mirror in my mouth studying the porcelain glob. The blinding, garish light illuminated the tiny white lump that was supposed to pass for a tooth. “This looks OK for a temporary fix , but I don’t want this forever.”<br /><br />“If you don’t like it, don’t come back,” he shouted, yanking the little mirror out of my hand. “No brat is going to come in here and criticize my work!"<br /><br />Now I was angry. I didn’t even care if he told my dad.<br /><br />“You said you’d fix my tooth,” I said as I climbed out of the dental chair. “Don’t yell at me because you didn’t do it right. This doesn’t even look like a tooth--this looks like you painted a tiny piece of Tootsie-Roll white and glued it in my mouth. And don’t worry about me coming back,” I added, as I ran out the door, “I wouldn’t come back if my teeth fell out!”<br /><br />I cried all the way home—partly because I was going to be in big trouble with my dad who revered the dentist because he had a college degree, and partly because my tooth looked like an eraser on top of a pencil.<br /><br />My mother was cooking at the stove. I didn’t want to bother her because supper had to be on the table at 4:30 sharp or my father would…actually I didn’t know what my father would do if dinner wasn’t on the table because my mother was never a minute late. No one wanted to irritate a man whose tantrums were legendary. Sometimes his rages were pretty funny—a grown person acting like a spoiled baby—sometimes I’d aggravate him just to see him throw a fit.<br /><br />“You’re home early. Why are you crying,” my mom asked as she bustled around the kitchen.<br />“Didn’t the dentist give you Novocane?”<br /><br />“You won’t believe my snaggle-tooth,” I sniveled, hardly able to catch my breath. “I’m never going out again as long as I live.”<br /><br />“Oh, stop it--let me see,” she said, squeezing my chin and forcing my mouth open. “Well,” she said after the inspection, “at least the tooth isn’t in the front. You’re lucky, you can hardly see it.”<br /><br />“See,” I wailed, “even you think it’s bad. You can see it when I smile big. I’ll have to talk like a ventriloquist.”<br /><br />“Don’t be ridiculous. The rest of your teeth are perfect. Are you going to let one little nub botched up by an incompetent upset you?”<br /><br />I was about to start raving about her calling it a nub, a nub, my own mother calling it a botched- up nub, but I stopped in amazement.<br /><br />“Did you call Dr. Matich incompetent?” I asked.<br /><br />I knew she didn’t much care for him. Once I overheard her say to my father, “Jim, the man is so high and mighty. He puts his pants on one leg at a time like everyone else,” but she’d never say that in front of us kids.<br /><br />“Momma, he is incompetent. I told him my tooth looked like a bitsy stub and he yelled that I shouldn’t come back, which is fine with me. I hate the guy.”<br /><br />“Watch your mouth,” she warned.<br /><br />“OK, then, I can’t stand him. He told me I’m not so important that I need a perfect tooth. He said this tooth is good enough for you.”<br /><br />Hearing that, my mother, who had been hustling to make that 4:30 deadline, spun around from the kitchen sink. I didn’t know if the steam was coming from the pot of scarole she was draining into the colander or from her ears.<br /><br />“He said what?” she snapped.<br /><br />“You heard me. He said this ugly tooth is good enough for me,” I repeated.<br /><br />“Well that bastard,” she blurted.<br /><br />My eyes popped open like one of those push-button umbrellas. My mother never swore. Sometimes she said heck or darn, maybe dammit if she was really ticked, but bastard, never ever. I was shocked, and then, she said it again. "That bastard"—only this time she said it quietly and slowly as though I wasn’t even there, as though she was looking at a picture only she could see.<br /><br />“Quit whining and sit down. We’ll get it fixed right,” she promised, “but what that bastard said is unacceptable.”<br /><br /><em>Whoa, that was the third time she swore. Was she forgetting that God was listening and she’d be punished?</em> Getting a little nervous—about God, about 4:30—I said, “Mom, you’d better finish cooking.”<br /><br />“Don’t worry about dinner, honey. This is more important,” she said, tapping her finger on the kitchen table.<br /><br />Was she kidding--more important than my dad walking through the door at supper time?<br />This I had to hear.<br /><br />“Never let anyone tell you who you are or what you’re worth,” she seethed. “ Never believe anyone who says you’re not important—that good enough is good enough for you! That arrogant bastard.”<br /><br /><em>Four times, that was the fourth time! She is playing with fire,</em> I thought, but there was no stopping her.<br /><br />“That arrogant bastard thinks he can look down on people because he has a couple of capital letters after his name—that he’s better than everyone else. He’s a poor excuse for a man.”<br /><br />“Mom,” I said startled, “I’m mad, but you’re even angrier than I am.”<br /><br />“That's because I was subjected to bastards like him when I was growing up."<br /><br /><em>That’s it. Here comes the lightning bolt. My father will come in expecting supper and find us slumped over the table.<br /></em><br />“I encountered skunks who thought it was okay to treat people like dirt. I had a priest make me stand in the vestibule during Mass because I didn’t have a nickel for the collection basket,” she said as though she was scooping out a memory she'd buried long ago. “I went to a grocer who switched a loaf of fresh bread for a stale one, and said, 'This is good enough for your mother.'”<br /><br />Now she was on a tear.<br /><br />“Years ago, epileptics weren’t allowed to go to school. My father died in the 1918 flu epidemic, so my mother had to work. My younger brother, Salvatore, suffered seizures. He would come to my school and stare at me through the window. He longed to be like the other kids, but my teacher said he was a distraction--he wasn't good enough to come to school so I should stay home with him. 'Obviously your grandparents can't handle him,' she shrieked, in front of the entire class."<br /><br />“Mom, stop! They were so mean. I feel like crying.”<br /><br />“I’ll stop," she said standing up and kissing the top of my head. "Now set the table,” she ordered, noticing the time, “but don’t ever forget,” she said wagging a finger in my face, “you are better than no one and no one is better than you. That bastard had a hell of a lot of nerve.”<br /><br /><em>Two swear words in one sentence. God must be croaking.<br /><br /></em>I said a little prayer that God would forgive her as I put the last knife and fork on the table. My father walked in through the back door.<br /><br />“What smells so good?" he inquired peering into the pot on the stove and pecking my mother on the cheek.<br />As he turned to hang his jacket, he noticed me sulking at the table. "How was school?”<br /><br />“School was fine, but look at my ugly tooth,” I wailed, stretching my mouth so he could see the mediocre job.<br /><br />“Give Dr. Mat time," he said, yanking on my jawbone to take a good gander. "When he’s finished it’ll look good as new—that’s only a temporary.”<br /><br />“No, Jim,” my mother said, “that’s the finished product. Obviously that jerk's specialty is pulling teeth. He thinks that’s all people in this neighborhood deserve. He’s a bastard who thinks who he is.”<br /><br /><em>Oh, no</em>, I thought, <em>jerk, bastard. Dad's going to blow his cork. That’s almost worse than getting God angry.<br /></em><br />“Really, daddy, it’s true. The tooth is finished,” I said trying to stem a tirade, but my dad paid no attention to the swear word. “Dr. Matich said I’m not a movie star—that this is good enough for me.”<br /><br />“Really? “ he said, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. “Really? He said that? To you? Not good enough? Well, after supper we’ll pay him a little visit.”<br /><br />I got the feeling my dad was going to go there and have a major tantrum, but I didn’t feel one bit sorry for Dr. Matich.<br /><br />He was going to learn that we weren’t better than anyone, and no one was better than us.<br /><br /><strong>MLSE 09/09</strong></div><br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc66;"></span>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-86277926845110125832009-08-31T15:52:00.015-05:002010-01-26T10:22:08.087-06:00Don't Be Cruel<strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards</span></strong><br /><br />"Ma'am," the lady from the Visitors Center responded, "This is Elvis Week. There ain't a room for miles around--not even one with a bathtub never mind a swimmin' pool. Why the whole town is jam-packed. Fans come from all over the world!"<br /><br />Welcome to Graceland, a place we'd managed to avoid but finally agreed to visit thanks to the relentless badgering of Gianna, our 12 year-old Elvis groupie. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyV58SuVSJ7rJnX8JJ-Av4BtwF7CjSCNg0p7o32GGOwKWFbikaipF-rEsF5KMRIPTypalfd8w5HN6U1m28JrCQOm9VS0iZiDn082QbrYS_auWxFqmx4mYgU73kqjKxBmdOLS-RM7NIzbU/s1600-h/elvis.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380316128351649362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyV58SuVSJ7rJnX8JJ-Av4BtwF7CjSCNg0p7o32GGOwKWFbikaipF-rEsF5KMRIPTypalfd8w5HN6U1m28JrCQOm9VS0iZiDn082QbrYS_auWxFqmx4mYgU73kqjKxBmdOLS-RM7NIzbU/s200/elvis.jpg" border="0" /></a> Elvis had been dead since 1977. Twenty years later, I assumed he'd have very few fans left so I made no advance hotel reservations.<br /><br />Having driven the last 400 miles in a rain storm, "no room at the inn" was the last thing I needed to hear. I had four little girls in tow, ourdaughters, Gianna and Lia and their friends twelve-year old Amy and seven year-old Elise. They'd been good sports for 800 miles, but it was obvious they needed to work off some energy. My husband's twitching eyes suggested he was a bit on edge, and the "are we there yet" and "we're hungry" whines were not helping matters. The single stroke of luck had been that I walked into the Visitors Center alone and no one else heard the dire news. If my husband found out that I'd not booked a hotel during Elvis Week, he'd go absolutely ballistic. I had to get to a phone. <em>Please, God, take pity on me and come through with a last minute cancellation</em> I prayed.<br /><br />I spotted the Family Fun Buffet--a drenched purple dinosaur waved people into the parking lot. "There's Barney!" I cheered, "Let's eat here!" With the sigh of a martyr, George turned into the parking lot.<br /><br />"Go ahead and get a table while I stop in the Ladies Room," I said as they tore out of the van and streaked through the monsoon. Exiting the van, I slipped and plopped into a puddle. The soggy dinosaur waddled over and giggled, "Mam, let me help you. You look like you're in trouble." <em>If Barney only knew</em> I thought.<br /><br />Limping into the restaurant, I found the Yellow Pages and a phone and dialed six hotels in a row only to hear, "Sorry, booked solid." On the seventh, I hit pay dirt. Yes, they had a room and they were located right across from Graceland! <em>Is this luck or what?</em> I thought. It proved to be <em>or what?</em><br /><br />I found George in the dining area, cradling his head on the table, exhausted from the long stormy drive. Each of the girls was inhaling a plate of desserts--cupcakes, pie, brownies, ice cream, Jell-o and cookies--all smothered in marshmallow fluff.<br /><br />I winced at George's willingness to let the inmates run the asylum, but something told me I'd be pushing my luck if I started lecturing on nutrition. Instead I herded everyone back to the van and gave George directions to the Graceland Hotel.<br /><br />"How did you find this place?" my husband asked as we turned into the ominous parking lot. Huge, burly men in uniform surrounded the property. "It looks like they have good security," I observed. "Good security? Are you nuts? They're carrying shot-guns."<br /><br />"Maybe the hotel wants to discourage the Graceland fans from running across to use the bathrooms."<br /><br />Later I learned of Graceland's unusual historic odyssey. Long ago, when a local doctor built what was to become Elvis' Graceland, the property was in a very rural area far outside Memphis. Years later when Elvis bought the house, Memphis had grown some, but the area was still a good distance from town and semi-rural. In the last 25 years, however, Memphis had grown by leaps and bounds and Graceland now sat in the middle of a rough, drug-riddled section of the city, but the armed militia did strike me as a bit over the top.<br /><br />The desk clerk's tattoos suggested he could be an Insane Disciple gangbanger, but his demeanor was more menacing.<br /><br />"Whatta you want?" he barked, as though we were trespassers.<br /><br />"You have a reservation for Edwards," I said, gawking at his inch long pinkie nails and the hotel's Early Trailer Park decor.<br /><br />"Oh, yeah, yer the lady called a few minutes ago. Room for six. That's $400."<br /><br />"$400? You must be joking," I blurted. Making a quick recovery, I said, "If it's not too much trouble, may we see the room first?" We did not need to get on the wrong side of this guy.<br /><br />"OK," he shrugged, "we'll take the stairs--elevator ain't workin'."<br /><br />"This place gives me the creeps," George whispered as we made our way up the dingy stairwell. "It's either a drug den or a whorehouse."<br /><br />"It's convenient to Graceland," I whispered back, "we'll push a dresser in front of the door."<br /><br />We exited the stairwell, creeping along like a company of moles. The hall smelled of cigars and sweat. The carpeting was threadbare and stained.<br /><br />When the intimidating desk clerk unlocked the room, the kids tore past us and immediately stripped to their swimsuits. I wanted to accept this room, but a layer of grime covered the bedspread,carpeting and windows.<br /><br />I had to think of a diplomatic way to back out of this deal without aggravating the frightening thug.<br /><br />"Girls," I called to the boisterous brood, "we can't stay here. We need more beds," I added, as we made a beeline for the door.<br /><br />"Stop!" the biker ordered. "You <em>din't</em> seen the beds in the adjoining room." The adjoining room was a miniscule closet in which two sets of bunk beds had been crammed. The soiled mattresses had no linens.<br /><br />"Look," Elise crowed, "a clubhouse!" The older girls scampered up the ladder.<br /><br />"I figgered they'd like it," the biker remarked. "You git sheets at sign in."<br /><br />As I sagged into defeat, I thought to ask about the pool.<br /><br />"Sir, where is the swimming pool?"<br /><br />"Filled it with <em>see'ment</em> during the remodel."<br /><br />"No swimming pool?" I exclaimed loudly so the girls would hear. Thank God, they did.<br /><br />They flew out the door chanting <em>we want to swim...you promised</em>... They couldn't have been more appropriately obnoxious if we'd rehearsed.<br /><br />"They <em>prolly</em> covered a few <em>ho'tel </em>guests with <em>see'ment</em> when they remodeled," George remarked, as we squealed out of the parking lot.<br /><br />Within minutes, he stopped in front of a <strong>Buy Your Elvis Souvenir Here</strong> store. "I'm running in to buy Graceland tickets," he said. "You did such a great job creating this disaster, think about straightening it out, Sweetie."<br /><br />Threatening bodily harm if anyone dared leave the van, I found a phone and called the Visitors Center with a gut-wrenching tale that happened to be true--four children, an exhausted husband, a marriage at stake and nowhere to go.<strong><br /><br /></strong>"Well, we do have a special facility for emergency situations," the Greeter drawled. "It's a ho'tel on the outskirts of town that is completely filled up, but during Elvis Week, and only during Elvis Week, Memphis allows them to subdivide their banquet room into small cubicles and put some fold-aways in--that's all I got."<br /><br />"We'll take it," I said.<br /><br />"Now, mind you, this is special for Elvis Week since it is against the Memphis Fire Code. The roll-aways are $50 per night. Check-in is at eight and check-out is at eight and there's a swimmin' pool under the escalators in the lobby."<br /><br />My husband returned. "Did you find a room at Heartbreak Hotel?"<br /><br />"No, but I found a cubicle with six roll-aways. Check-in is at eight."<br /><br />"Cubicle? Check-in at eight?" He viewed me with narrow-eyed suspicion. "Are you sure this isn't a homeless shelter?"<br /><br />"No, it's a Suckers' Shelter--the roll-aways are $50 each. Did you get the tickets?"<br /><br />"As Elvis liked to say, I take care of business. There's a Silver ticket for$25 to tour Graceland, a Gold ticket for $40 that includes Graceland and Elvis' Auto & Cycle Museum and a $50 Platinum ticket that covers Graceland, the Auto Museum and Elvis' plane-the <em>Lisa Marie."<br /></em><br />"You did get the Silver ticket, right?" I asked holding my breath.<br /><br />"No, no, Little Woman, I splurged on Platinum. Tomorrow, all Elvis, all day."<br /><br /><em>I should just slit my wrists now</em>, I thought.<br /><br />The aroma of chlorine stung our nostrils as we entered a lobby with a guitar-shaped pool. Good ‘ole boys in blue jeans and their girlfriends in Daisy Dukes were swan-diving off the escalator rails, beer cans in hand as Don't Be Cruel blared over the sound system.<br /><br />"This isn't a pool," George shouted over the din, "it's a huge toilet. The bacterial count must be astronomical. If Elise contracts a flesh-eating disease, her parents will sue our asses off." Elise's parents were attorneys.<br /><br />His point well-taken, I declared, "Girls, no swimming just yet."<br /><br />"Please, please," Lia screamed in my ear, "could we at least put our feet in the water and let the fish bite our toes?"<br /><br />"There are no fish in swimming pools, Lia," I snapped.<br /><br />"Yes, there are," she insisted as she dragged me to the edge. "Look at the bottom!"<br /><br />"Oh, my God," I gasped as I ran over to my husband who stood mesmerized by the Fellini-like scene. "You are not going to believe this. There is shit in the pool."<br />"<br />"Really," he said, "I'm shocked."<br /><br />A bellboy with a bullhorn bellowed, "Edwards' room ready!"<br /><br />"Oh, great," George said, "Jist win I was goin' ta order martinis fer the kids and let them chill by the toxic latrine."<br /><br />Up the escalator and into the third floor banquet room, we found our cubicle with six cots, each covered with a white tablecloth, and the banquet room's refrigerator.<br /><br />"I've never stayed in a hotel before, Mrs. Edwards," Amy announced. "Why is there such a big refrigerator in our room?"<br /><br />"That's where you buy food," Gianna, who'd gotten us into this train wreck, explained. "It's filled with little bottles of whiskey and bags of peanuts."<br /><br />Suddenly I realized we hadn't had dinner and it was ten 0'clock. Since the buffet binge, the kids had only had more sugar--candy bars, ice cream and gallons of Slushees. George volunteered to get some hamburgers. He returned with $20 worth of vending machine junk food.<br /><br />"You're not going to believe this, but they lock the hotel doors at 10 to keep the ‘riff-raff' out."<br /><br />"Mr. Edwards," Elise, the future mini-litigator piped up, "tell them we demand to get our suitcases so we can put on our pajamas."<br /><br />"Oh, no this will be more fun," I interrupted, "We're going to eat Doritos and Twizzlers and then sleep in our clothes!"<br /><br />"Yippeee," Elise shouted. "When I tell my Mom and Dad what we did on this vacation they're not going to believe it!"<br /><br />"After Elise's parents finish with us, we'll lose our kids to the Department of Children and Family Services," George commented, "and I'm not going to appeal."<br /><br />"Let's try to get some sleep," I said, confident he'd relent and appeal after a few months.<br /><br />At six George announced it was time to rise and shine. No tooth-brushing, no showering--no dressing, for that matter, just breakfast and head over to Graceland. Arriving at eight, we found a huge crowd ahead of us.<br /><br />"Probably everyone comes here first," my husband figured. "Let's start at the airplane instead."<br /><br />After an hour and a half in the plane line, we entered the cockpit of the <em>Lisa Marie,</em> Elvis' beloved jet named after his only child<em>. </em>He must have decorated the plane about the time his drug use was spinning out of control. Only an hallucinogenic could have prompted 24 karat gold-flecked sinks and gold-plated seat belts. WARNING-DO NOT TOUCH! signs were plastered everywhere. Suddenly alarms and bells were going off and security was rushing the plane as though a sniper was holed up in the fur-walled bathroom. Lia was not in sight. Sure enough, she had jumped on Elvis' bed. Within minutes, we were escorted off the <em>Lisa Marie.</em> Being kicked off the plane suited me just fine.<em> </em><br /><br />We stood in line for only an hour at the Graceland Auto Museum to view the Pink Cadillac, Ferrari, John Deere tractor and Harley. This time the temptation proved to be too much for Gianna who climbed onto the King's Harley when our backs were turned and, again, Elvis' security force promptly took care of business. We were back in the broiling sun before we'd even seen Elvis's tractor.<br /><br />Sensing I was near meltdown, George suggested a bit of shopping while he stood guard over our little terrorists outside. I ducked into the Elvis Store where I found a colossal supply of ashtrays, lamps, guitars, lawn mowers, teddy bears, teapots, brassieres--all with The Great One's Coat of Arms, a lightning bolt. The only thing not on display was a replica of the toilet seat he was sitting on the night he fell off the stool and died on the bathroom floor.<br /><br />As I exited the store, I found Gianna wailing--she wanted to buy an Elvis guitar, Elise pouting--she needed an Elvis wig--and the other two arguing.<br /><br />"I think they're hungry," my husband said. "Let's go to the Elvis Café."<br /><br />They ordered Elvis' favorite--a deep-fried sandwich of bananas, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff with a side of French fries and a deep-fried pickle. The big girls shared a piece of Sweet Potato Cream Cheese Pie. Lia and Elise had Moon Pies.<br /><br />We waddled over to Graceland where the line of mutants from another planet snaked around the block--75 year-old ingenues with lightning bolts tattooed on their breasts, dudes in high heels and make-up, a man in SCUBA diving gear and a lady with a raccoon on a leash to name but a few. Taking up the rear, Lia threw the mother of all tantrums-"I hate Elvis! This is the dumbest vacation I ever went on in my life! This is all Gianna's fault! I am sick of Elvis and his stupid songs!"<br /><br />"Calm her down," George hissed. "People are staring."<br /><br />"Staring? <em>At us</em>?" I ranted. "They're staring <em>at us</em>?"<br /><br />"Mom," Lia, having tantrumed out, called to me, "what does 'Elvis sucks elephant dick' mean?" I spun around to read the graffiti that completely covered the five-foot stone wall surrounding America's second most visited historic residence after The White House. Amy ran over with an eye-witness report. "Mrs. Edwards, a guy dressed like Elvis just peed on the wall to clean off a space so he could write something." "Amy, maybe it was Elvis peeing," Gianna suggested. "That lady over there in the nightgown told me Elvis is not dead."<br /><br />I<em> </em>could not fathom what I'd done in a past life to deserve this. <em>Would our country make it to the new millennium,</em> I wondered<em>, and, more importantly, did we deserve to?</em><br /><br />At last we entered the hallowed Graceland.<br /><br />Saddam Hussein had nothing on Elvis in the home decor arena. The "jungle" den, the billiards room, the TV room where Elvis shot out the screen once when he didn't like the program, the gun room where he practiced target shooting, past his parents' bedroom, into the kitchen where he'd made his ‘heart-attack on a plate' snacks-we saw it all. We ogled his trophies, Gold Records, jewelry, costumes and awards. The only significant sacred site we did not see was the infamous bathroom.<br /><br />The tour ended in the Meditation Garden where speakers, hidden under bushes, blared <em>How Great Thou Art</em>. A bit to the left of the swimming pool, flanked by the tombs of his parents, Vernon and Gladys, Elvis rests.<br /><br />His autopsy revealed he'd ingested at least 10 different drugs, including morphine, within the last 24 hours of his life.<br /><br /><em>How many drugs</em>, I wonder, <em>would Elvis have taken if he'd known Michael Jackson would one day be his son-in-law? Would Elvis be included on the Platinum T</em><em>our of Neverland?<br /><br /></em><strong>MLSE 08/09</strong>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-58215074438284974402009-07-29T11:59:00.007-05:002010-03-23T21:19:51.121-05:00Confessions of a Serial Forwarder<span style="color:#ffcc66;"><strong>Mary Lou Edwards</strong></span><br /><em><strong><span style="color:#ccccff;"></span></strong></em><br /><em><strong><span style="color:#ccccff;">God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,<br />The courage to change the things I can,<br />And the wisdom to never forward another email as long as I live…<br /></span></strong></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgld_LmKLY7ek69HMJjmYR2WHqe_4bQlusJbBvotDxlKraDHKpvuVyVrWgaqgYAkpVSRi4NnSYkqVl22pumlXcrEDkYJnAW9Zt30pyhy9dKrxNl3SbXln7HDEOH9yGsJnMWyqvEcL3Pk1M/s1600-h/confessions+picture.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 231px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 231px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370979155737191554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgld_LmKLY7ek69HMJjmYR2WHqe_4bQlusJbBvotDxlKraDHKpvuVyVrWgaqgYAkpVSRi4NnSYkqVl22pumlXcrEDkYJnAW9Zt30pyhy9dKrxNl3SbXln7HDEOH9yGsJnMWyqvEcL3Pk1M/s200/confessions+picture.jpg" /></a><br />I am done. Finished. Fini.<br /><br />I will never pass on another funny joke, lifesaving tip, critical warning or virus threat. Call me selfish, but I’ll not even pass on a Code Red Alarm. I will no longer be the Paul Revere of the Internet. I will not attempt to brighten anyone’s day nor feel compelled to tell acquaintances that, like a thousand helium balloons, their friendship lifts my heart. I will not pass along Amber Alerts or Novenas to St. Dymphna, patron of the psychologically impaired.<br /><br />I was never an irresponsible forwarder. I regularly snopesed things that came my way. If I got an email that claimed women who’d had breast augmentation survived the Titanic because their breasts served as life jackets, I verified it before hitting the <strong>SEND</strong> button.<br /><br />I didn’t fall for the promises of a cash windfall stuffed in my next Whopper Burger if I said a certain prayer for our soldiers in Iraq. I didn’t believe I would contract leprosy if I let the flame on the Candle for World Peace, which has been circulating on the net since October 8, 1952, burn out.<br /><br />I only disseminated material that would cheer-up shut-ins, brighten the days of the depressed or enlighten the imprudent who gave me their email addresses. I didn’t shot-gun messages to my 174 best friend contact list. Rather, I meticulously tailored my forwards to special interest groups—recipes to the Julia Child devotees, Amber Alerts to those who cared about their children, warnings to pet lovers about tainted cat food from China.<br /><br />I didn’t betray confidences about my friends’ husbands who were undergoing sex-change surgeries or blabber about my manager’s son who was working his way through mortuary school by selling crystal meth.<br /><br />In short, I was cyber responsible which is why this slip has shattered me.<br /><br />My friend, an ex-nun, forwarded a story about two old ladies in a nursing home. It was not in the best of taste. I judiciously selected several girlfriends who enable my forwarding addiction, and carefully clicked <em>bcc</em> so no one else would know of their morbid fear of drooling away their golden years. I wanted to reassure them that, despite qualifying for Long Term Care Insurance, they need never surrender their prurient imaginations. I took every precaution. I refused to be known as the wreckless forwarder, one whose name on the <em>You’ve Got Mail</em> screen prompts <strong>DELETE</strong>. I abhor indiscriminate forwarders who willy-nilly send pictures of nursing baby cows, never once considering whether or not the recipient is into bovines.<br /><br />I am prolific,but selective except for this one freaking time I goofed up.<br /><br /><em>My, oh my, you do have quite a sense of humor!<br /></em><br /><em>Please, God, no,</em> I thought as I stared in horror at the computer screen. In a flash, I realized that, in my forwarding frenzy to get this oh, so important joke out, I inadvertently bcc’ed the name directly above my friend Susan Grote's, and sent the story to a professional acquaintance--a very reserved, genteel minister/psychotherapist.<br /><br />“George,” I shouted as I ran up to our bedroom, “you are not going to believe this—I am mortified. Wake-up! I want to die!”<br /><br />He continued to snore.<br /><br />“George,” I shrieked, flipping on the light switch and tearing off his blanket, “wake up! I am totally humiliated. I can never show my face again! Get up—this is a disaster.”<br /><br />“Lower your voice and turn off the damn light,” he growled, not at all grasping the gravity of the situation. “It’s midnight. What the hell is wrong with you?”<br /><br />“I just got an email from Rev. Grier, Dr. Grier,” I cried, kneeling at the side of our bed. “I cannot believe I did this. I am so stupid! I should not be allowed to own a computer. I am an idiot!”<br /><br />“Could you please save your self-flagellation for the morning? I have to be up at six.”<br /><br />“Oh, you don’t care! You don’t care that I’ve just humiliated myself--that I may have to live in a cloister for the rest of my life. Please! Sit up at least,” I said, turning the ceiling fan on high to get his attention.<br />Suddenly it was as though we were in front of a jumbo jet on the tarmac at O’Hare. Olivia, my cat, had come in to investigate the ruckus only to have her long hair blown back as though she were in a wind tunnel.<br /><br />It worked.<br /><br />He got up and stomped over to the fan switch almost twisting the knob off the wall. “O.K., O.K. I’m awake. I do care. I’m very interested in why you’re suicidal.”<br /><br />“I accidentally forwarded a really, really offensive email to Dr. Grier. I mean really offensive!I’m so embarrassed I could die!”<br /><br />“I warned you about sending that shit out all the time. Why do you insist on forwarding that crap?”<br /><br />“I can’t help that I’m easily amused and besides, it’s not crap—they’re little jokes that just might bring a bit of sunshine into people’s lives.”<br /><br />“Sunshine?” he exclaimed as though I was a schizoid bag lady. “If your friends need your junk mail to bring a smile to their faces, they’re in bigger trouble than you. Why don’t you just stick to sending out computer viruses?”<br /><br />“Thanks a lot. I’m glad you woke up to tear me down,” I said in my best Meryl Streep voice. “I told you it was an accident. Do you think I wanted to send him an email about two old ladies in a nursing home?”<br /><br />“Old ladies in a nursing home? Are you nuts? Look, I’m sorry if you think I’m tearing you down, but you are a maniac on that computer. It’s a wonder you have any friends left who will even open your stuff.”<br /><br />“Well,” I said haughtily, “I happen to have 174 friends in my address book. I’ll bet you don’t have half that.”<br /><br />“Look, I’m not having this stupid-ass conversation at this hour. Let’s get some sleep.”<br /><br />“Sleep? No, no, listen to me! You haven’t heard the joke. It’s so outrageous I wish I could go into witness protection,” I moaned. “O.K., here’s the joke."<br /><br />"<em>You don't get it! I NEED SLEEP. I don't care about this nonsense! I do not care about the joke. I have a life!"</em><br /><em></em><br />His insensitivity never ceased to amaze me. I ignored his unreasonable objections.<br /><br />"Two old ladies in wheelchairs were in a nursing home. One old lady asks the other, '<em>Do you ever get horny?' </em>The other says, 'Yes.' So the first old lady says, '<em>What do you do about it?'</em> and the second old lady says, '<em>I suck on a Lifesaver.' </em>and the first old lady says, '<em>Who drives you to the beach?'”</em><br /><br />For a minute there was dead silence. He stared at me as though I were a postal worker with a gun. I could tell he was counting to a hundred. Finally he said quietly, “Well, wasn’t this a car crash waiting to happen.”<br /><br />And that's why I will never again forward anything as long as I live. I don’t care if someone sends me a YouTube of Barbara Bush giving Barack a lap dance, I swear I will not pass it on.<br /><br />O.K. Maybe I’ll call you on the phone and give you the URL, but believe me, that’s it.<br /><br />MLSE 07/09Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-19856427061125336452009-06-28T08:07:00.013-05:002010-02-05T20:10:49.084-06:00Life Has to Be Hard<strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards</span></strong><br /><br /><em>Life has to be hard.</em> Not life <em>was</em> hard or life <em>is</em> hard or life <em>can be</em> hard. No, <em>life has to be hard.</em> This was my father's mantra.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQ1Buiy0YGfgDDQXqudoSytflJ6x_Q17naZ5iAnR2yL9TksIDCcVzmwvdW3FxV5s_w-QrIj_fr3I9mdLNd2xdFOLA3VZCD17D8jaCTUBchDLBcSKXQesYW8rBiHeBcyJPkeFTsPz8Cp8/s1600-h/Come+Straight+to+me+just+picture.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 226px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 196px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363503698292324706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjQ1Buiy0YGfgDDQXqudoSytflJ6x_Q17naZ5iAnR2yL9TksIDCcVzmwvdW3FxV5s_w-QrIj_fr3I9mdLNd2xdFOLA3VZCD17D8jaCTUBchDLBcSKXQesYW8rBiHeBcyJPkeFTsPz8Cp8/s320/Come+Straight+to+me+just+picture.jpg" /></a> Experiencing the Great Depression as a teen-ager, he observed the travails of the jobless. Land mines of economic destruction and desperation exploded around him, wounding not only his sense of personal dignity and self-worth, but also scarring those who would later share his life. The Depression, the economic vulnerability, were proof that God wanted life to be hard--its psychic imprint served as a constant reminder of His wrath.<br /><br />From 1932 forward, good, beauty and accomplishment were viewed through astigmatic eyes that did not allow the celebration of life’s gifts or achievements. Hard work was the protectant; enjoyment the enemy.<br /><br /><br />He acknowledged God’s gifts, but dared not savor them because life had to be a struggle and the Great Scorekeeper kept a sharp eye out for those who searched for the easy way. A God who deprived the undeserving, punished the ungrateful and exacted a price from those who didn’t use their gifts correctly was not to be crossed. And because some people were not listening, despite Matthew, Mark, Luke and John having spread The Word, He deputized Jim, and Jim, my father, became God’s translator.<br /><br />In the deaf community, there is a huge debate about the responsibilities of the translator. Does the translator relay the exact message of the deaf or a sanitized version? Does the translator communicate only the literal or tinker with intent, and, beyond that, does the translator interject what he thinks the deaf person really meant to say? In my father's world, we were all pathetic scofflaws, and in the colloquial sense, deaf and dumb too.<br /><br />Dad interpreted what God meant—what God intended—what God wanted. In fact, his pipeline was so direct, he understood what God demanded even before God knew, and, because the Deity was preoccupied with wreaking economic havoc around the world and sorting through the wreckage, dad, familiar with the drill, filled the vacuum. Whether a trifling matter or major issue, he never strayed from the message—life has to be hard.<br /><br />One didn’t really know how to drive unless the car was stick shift nor eat a genuine sandwich unless the bread was homemade. A four inch footing was insufficient for a proper concrete patio, a three foot pit had to be dug. A week's vacation involved mending broken screen doors, fixing appliances that were on their last legs and repairing squeaky floor boards in a rented summer cottage. Picnics required homebaked cakes and hauling 4 course meals a mile, under scorching sun and over burning sand, down to the beach. The inside of a refinished dresser drawer had to be as flawless as the top. And all because, in order to grow, in order to really live, life had to be hard. The tougher it was, the better one was, the closer one came to earning life’s gifts and God’s approval.<br /><br />Swimming, biking, ice skating, chess were not pastimes; they were skills to be perfected through effort and practice. Hobbies were a waste of time unless one intended to incorporate them into a career.<br /><br />College students, according to dad’s Gospel, needed to study two hours a night for each scheduled credit hour. In response to his constant badgering that I was a bogus scholar, who really didn’t value, care about, want, appreciate or all of the above, an education, I attempted to reason with him.<br /><br />“Dad,” I tried to explain, “I carry 16 hours a semester. I’d have to study 32 hours a night.”<br /><br />“Do you think they’re just going to hand you a diploma? Do you think life is a cakewalk?” he thundered. “There is no easy way out!”<br /><br />How silly of me to think good grades indicated sufficient study when only blood, sweat and tears could provide real validation. How stupid of me to forget life had to be a bitch.<br /><br />When life got too good, as sometimes happened, Dad would temper it with shame. Shame was the antidote to toxic enjoyment. Shame was the “go to” emotion that ensured one never forgot that life had to be hard.<br /><br />As a kid, my brother was quite a good baseball player. He did not brag about it, but he made the fatal mistake of being comfortable with his competence, of knowing he had skill and talent, of believing in himself. Life was good for a 12 year-old gifted athlete--maybe too good. He needed to be cut down to size. He had to pay for his imagined adolescent cockiness. He needed to know that life was hard and, if he was not getting the message, then God would teach him and the great translator would deliver the news.<br /><br />Once during a ballgame, my brother knocked the winning run out of the park. Thrilled with his accomplishment, he sauntered around the bases basking in the admiration of the crowd. My father was incensed and awaited him at home plate. Yanking my brother by the shirt, he shouted, “Who do you think you are? You need to hustle, move your ass around that field—run like you mean it!”<br />One can only imagine the embarrassment and humiliation my brother felt at being criticized and ridiculed in front of the crowd. But God wasn’t finished--sometimes life had to be extra hard.<br /><br />Grabbing my brother by the uniform, God dragged him over to the coach. “Don’t count that run in the score,” He ordered. That homerun doesn’t count. The kid didn’t earn it, he doesn’t appreciate it,” He bellowed. “Take it off the board!”<br /><br />Suddenly it was no longer about the winning homerun. It was about God running amok.<br /><br />The boys on the team crowded around stunned. The spectators watched in amazement as though they could not believe their ears. The coach, astounded at the outrageous request, glared in disbelief. My mother stood frozen by God’s rage.<br />Actually, it was all my brother’s fault for forgetting that life had to be hard. God had no choice but to teach him a lesson he’d never forget, had no choice but to etch that reminder on his young psyche.<br />Dad continued to carry the message everywhere and never missed an opportunity to educate us about life’s trials. No event was too trivial or grand to ruin--one really didn’t <em>deserve</em> to be on the honor roll, dinner time was for eating not <em>chattering</em>, proms were <em>nonsense</em>, getting a degree from a world-class institution was <em>a fluke</em> and a great job was yours only because the employer had yet <em>to find you out</em>.<br /><br />But as I grew, I started to question my father's "no matter what you do it's never good enough and you must always work harder" ethic. Despite his thinking we kids hadn't worked hard enough for the honor roll, we consistently made it so it couldn't have been by chance. Some slackers probably made it through the University of Illinois, but most degrees were hard won. Could it be that human beings weren't supposed to be perfect?<br /><br />And then I heard about Louie Aparicio hitting a homerun and swaggering around the bases at a White Sox game. Perhaps life didn't have to be hard. Perhaps life is only as hard as you make it.<br /><strong>MLSE 06/09<br /><br /></strong><strong></strong>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-73228638382474132482009-05-25T10:44:00.027-05:002010-01-27T00:21:24.096-06:00Disgusting Four-Letter Words<strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMrQW4gQVAmz5mvzmuZtox76Y8_73nEIfWBASXcpKoXNbTL83wQgDUJ5v7YT44TztRnizKh8zFSrEG_4g8MvcR3mJx7O-disWFsb4eZAftBaau6-_DTpwyTSZktE5mwuFwBlddycpRw0/s1600-h/Mother+of+the+Year+title+page.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtVpErVP1ua49S6mvpMNxf6AbbAOh1mLAyVKuf6MfcowwkFY67tNRbOz251ouufzqcKHHMEmLOZCi9AkymI8te1ZU1pKZ5OaryyUnbqKWXu1vWF7XJDE3Fo57kVShyphenhyphenVvyRWH_zQlAXfP0/s1600-h/Disgusting+four-letter+words+title+page.jpg"></a><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyJ3HybuGl2vyz0tIxP2TZPrY45xYmCT53KauLoyVkNGBOewYS-o8aAz-IZXePiwVv81kuv8t3GgnLEHNxAgcjCLj42KkPThcehBXnbE84ODUH23KPnMh4UhtXEndf0SRtT66MXaIwaKw/s1600-h/burned+kitchen+with+microwave.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345358229466288818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 264px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 221px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyJ3HybuGl2vyz0tIxP2TZPrY45xYmCT53KauLoyVkNGBOewYS-o8aAz-IZXePiwVv81kuv8t3GgnLEHNxAgcjCLj42KkPThcehBXnbE84ODUH23KPnMh4UhtXEndf0SRtT66MXaIwaKw/s320/burned+kitchen+with+microwave.png" border="0" /></a><br />My friend, Domenica, maintained that after a woman got married, if she kept a clean house and didn’t get fat, she could be an axe murderer and no one would care. Men reserved a particular scorn for wives who did not keep a house spic and span or who, God forbid, “let themselves go,” but I feared the scorn of men far less than I feared household drudgery which I suspected caused brain damage. Polish furniture that was already shining? Scrub floors that weren’t even scuffed? Launder clean curtains just because it was Monday? <em>I don’t think so. </em><br /><br />I considered housework a form of domestic violence and C-O-O-K, I-R-O-N, and D-U-S-T offensive four-letter words. My aversion was not genetic. My mother’s housekeeping made Polish cleaning women look like slackers and she was a world-class cook on top of it. ‘Til today I rarely eat in an Italian restaurant since no dish ever comes even kind of close to hers.<br /><br />I could claim I was intimidated by her extraordinary culinary skills, but I’d be lying. The truth was preparing, cooking, cleaning up three times a day, for a family that considered memorable meals an inalienable birthright, was just not part of my plan. I was not going to be trapped in a kitchen.<br /><br />It wasn’t as though my mother didn’t try to steer me toward domesticity.<br /><br />“Mary Lou,” she’d say as she stirred at the stove, “come watch how I do this.”<br /><br />“I’ll know how you did it when I eat it, Ma,” I’d respond, trying to dodge the bullet.<br /><br />“No, you need to see how I make it. Someday you’ll be sorry you didn’t learn how to do this.”<br /><br />“Ma, I told you I’m going to college. I don’t need to know how to cook.”<br /><br />“Don’t be stupid. College people eat. What are you going to do when you get married?”<br /><br />“I probably won’t get married and, if I do, I’ll find a man who’s not that into food. Or I’ll marry someone who likes to eat out,” I said, thinking of solutions on the spot. “Then again,” I mused, “maybe we’ll just eat at your house every night or my husband will cook like daddy.”<br /><br />“Cook like your father?” she responded, her eyebrows leaping to the ceiling.<br /><br />“I saw daddy make eggs for breakfast once.”<br /><br />“It was probably when Nonna was dying and I was sitting vigil at the hospital.”<br /><br />“Well, it was the only time I ever saw him cook, but you never know. Look at Bo.”<br /><br />My father’s friend, Bo, made the best sopresatta in the world. To this day, not here or in Italy, have I ever found anything that could compare. Just the thought of walking past his house and spying the mini-salamis hanging by their strings air-drying in his attic makes me yearn for giardiniera with fresh Italian bread.<br /><br />“I could marry a chef. Ma, did you know women can’t be chefs?” I said, trying to take the spotlight off my recalcitrance. “I read that all of the world’s great chefs are men.”<br /><br />“Sure,” my mother agreed, “when it’s a man cooking they call him a chef and pay him big money. Mothers, who make great food every day, are just plain old cooks.”<br /><br />“But, Mom,” I teased, pecking her on the cheek, “you get paid in love.”<br /><br />“I know. I know. I’m a lucky woman,” she smiled. “I always wanted to be a wife and mother. I’m not complaining.”<br /><br /><em>You should complain</em> I thought. <em>If I were you, I’d be complaining big-time</em>. What is so rewarding about having 'floors you could eat off of' or shining kitchen tile every week with Jubilee?<br />Perhaps none of this appealed to me because I was a disaster at it. Even when I tried, I got it all wrong.<br /><br />Once I attempted to help my mother with the ironing, but I had no sooner dug into the bushel basket when she yanked the iron cord from its socket.<br /><br />“Your father would never wear such wrinkly underwear plus you scorched a pillowcase. You’re impossible,” she railed, as she collapsed the ironing board with a thud almost amputating my fingers. If I’d known that a burned pillowcase would be my ticket to freedom, I’d have scorched from the get-go.<br /><br />Mama was right though--I was impossibly incompetent. I couldn’t even hang laundry right. I let the sheets drag on the grass because I forgot to use the pole to prop up the clothesline. I hung the socks by the ankle instead of the toes. I mixed articles of clothing instead of grouping them. And my towel hanging was a complete disgrace.<br /><br />“Look at how you hang towels,” she said with disgust. “You’re using two clothespins for every towel and wasting clothesline between them.”<br /><br />“Ma, you make it sound like there’s a clothespin shortage.” And I wanted to add, <em>you have</em> <em>enough clothesline for the entire family to hang themselves</em>, but I knew when I was walking on thin ice so I kept my mouth shut.<br /><br />“Keep it up, Mary Lou, and you’re going to be in real trouble. Try following directions, for a change. Put one towel on the line and put a clothespin in the left corner,” she demonstrated, “then instead of wasting another clothespin, take the second towel and lap it over the first a tiny bit and use another clothespin to hold the two together, then add another towel and do the same thing and keep going until you’ve hung all the towels together. For every two towels you should only use three clothespins. I’ll watch you finish this row.”<br /><br />“Ma, you have got to be kidding? This is moronic,” I argued, “I can't believe you expect me to do this. Let's just throw on a few extra clothespins and really live it up.”<br /><br />“Capo tosto! You're such a hardhead, you never listen,” she scolded. “You think everything’s a joke. You’re hanging things willy-nilly. Put all the handkerchiefs together, all the dishtowels together.” Lowering her voice to a stage whisper, she added, “And hang the underpants on the inside clothesline where the whole world can’t see them.”<br /><br />“Mother,” I protested, “I think the neighbors <em>know</em> we wear underpants and brassieres. I mean, <em>what’s the big secret</em>?”<br /><br />“Shame on you--panties are private, hide them on the inside. Put the sheets and towels on the outside lines so the sun can get at them, and quit being a smart-aleck.”<br /><br />I hated the tasks I was given, and I was always deemed too young for the jobs I coveted. </div><div><br />I yearned to sit on the windowsill, my legs dangling in the house, my torso outside, my face reflected in the glass, and pull the window sash down on my lap to squeegee. Jenny Next Door used to sit almost totally outside (because she had a long torso and stubby legs) on her third floor sill holding onto the frame with one hand, squirting her vinegar spray bottle with the other while her long black hair blew in the breeze. Gawking from my backporch, letting my Popsicle drip on my pedalpushers, I was amazed at her courage, mesmerized by her dexterity. Once, and I am not kidding, <em>she even stood up outside on the window sill to reach the upper sash</em>, one hand holding on, the other swiping the rag back and forth over the glass, and all the while yelling at her sons down in the yard who were chasing each other with a hammer. It was like watching a tightrope walker cross the Grand Canyon. I was in awe.<br /><br />“Ma,” I begged, “please, if you let me wash windows sitting half outside like Jenny Next Door, I promise I’ll make them sparkle.”<br /><br />“No,” she said, “you have to be at least fourteen to do that. The last thing I need is to find your body crumpled in the gangway. People would never stop talking and you’d probably leave the windows streaky.”<br /><br />“We live on the first floor, for crying out loud," I whined. "I'll pull the window down tight on my thighs. You just don't want me to have any fun."<br /><br />“Knowing you, Sarah Bernhardt, you’ll fall out the window and crack your skull just to get attention, and I’ll get stuck sitting with you in the hospital. You can run around on window ledges all you want after you’re married and your husband has to worry about you."<br /><br />I think she knew, before I knew, that my ineptitude was a subversive form of passive resistance. Somewhere deep inside my little noggin I must have realized that if I excelled at domesticity, I’d be signing my own death warrant. My mother, however, attributed my aversion to a “...combination of laziness and reading too many damn books.” She refused to accept that I was beyond domestication.<br /><br />One of her last ditch efforts was registering me for eight weeks of sewing lessons at the Salvation Army Settlement House (commonly known as "The Sal" where mostly non-Catholic urchins ran amok) but my mother was desperate. Perhaps she thought she’d appeal to my creative side but, alas, I continually jammed the sewing machine while trying to fashion her Mother’s Day gift of a tea apron. I assured the teacher my mom did not need a tea apron because she only drank coffee, but Mrs. Muscolino snarled, “You are making a tea apron and your mother will love it!” In the eleventh hour, when I burned out the pedal on the ancient sewing machine, Mrs. M took pity and gave me a needle and thread, but I had no luck with that either so I opted to staple on the waist ties. I considered glue, but I figured staples would hold up better knowing my mother’s propensity for obsessive laundering.<br /><br />My teacher checked over the finished product. “What exactly do you think your mother is going to be putting in this pocket? It’s huge--almost as big as the apron. And the waist ties? They’re supposed to be <em>equal</em> in length.” Whipping off her measuring tape from around her neck, she said, “One of the ties is four inches, the-other-is-fourteen. Unless your mother has the waist of a wasp, this will <em>never </em>fit her.”<br /><br />“Well, if the ties are too short she can give it to the lady upstairs. Her baby could use it as a bib,” I suggested, vowing never to sew another blessed thing as long as I lived.<br /><br />On Mother’s Day, after we gobbled up the delicious frittata my mother cooked for the special occasion, my brother, sister and I brought out our presents.<br /><br />She opened my brother’s first.<br /><br />He gave her a breathtaking Our Lady of Fatima statue. Our Lady was standing on a blue plastic ball which my brother said was the world. I could see how he thought that, because it was round like the Earth, but it was all blue and everyone knew the Earth was only two-thirds water.<br /><br />“I don’t think it’s the Earth, there’s no<em> land</em>,” I snapped, jealous that my mother was acting like he gave her a relic from the Vatican. Shooting me a dirty look and completely ignoring my input, my brother played his trump card.<br /><br />“Ma, twist the globe—it opens.” Sure enough, she twisted and this huge black rosary fell out of the Earth. “Anthony,” she exclaimed, “I will treasure this forever.” He stood there beaming like an altar boy who gets to lead the casket out of the church after a funeral. I felt like snapping Our Lady off her perch, but I was not going to commit a Mortal Sin and risk going to Hell because of my brother. It was always obvious my mother adored him just because he was her first-born and only son. As far as she was concerned he could do no wrong, and she rarely punished him for anything. Once I saw him actually walk into our kitchen with his muddy baseball spikes on, and she barely yelled at him. The truth was if he had given her an elbow macaroni necklace, she’d have been just as over the moon so I pretended I didn’t care, but secretly I had to admit it was a very cool present. The way the Earth twisted open around the equator, and the giant rosary beads fell out, was extremely impressive.<br /><br />My sister gave mom a floral handkerchief on which she’d embroidered MOTHER. I didn’t think it was a big deal but my mother said, “Oh, Anna, this is just what I needed. How did you know?” as though she didn’t have an entire drawer full of cleaned and pressed hankies.<br /><br />“Open mine, open mine, Ma, I sewed it just for you at the Sal,” I said, thinking perhaps I should have evened out the waist ties before I wrapped it. My mother opened the box and pulled out the apron from the tissue paper. “Ohhhhh, isn’t this an <em>interesting</em> apron,” she said, as though I’d given her a stupid pencil holder made out of a ridiculous tuna fish can.<br /><br />My brother, still smarting from the fact that I had pointed out Our Lady of Fatima was not standing on the Earth, interjected, “Apron? It looks like a cockeyed shopping bag, if you ask me. She didn’t even sew it—it’s a bunch of staples.”<br /><br />“No one asked you, Anthony,” my mother said, shooting him the evil eye. “I’m sure your sister worked very hard on this.”<br /><br />As my father sat at the kitchen table with a “what the hell is that” look on his face (he was into details like measuring and neatness) my mother looked up from the tea apron and said quietly, “Mary Lou, you must stay on the Honor Roll and do well in school. You will never make it as a housewife.”<br /><br />After the apron caper, little was asked of me outside of picking up dog crap in our yard, running errands and drying dishes.<br /><br />I could see I was a huge disappointment to my mother. She was getting very close to the final stage of grief, acceptance. Now I seriously began to beg for God's help with my domestic disability.</div><div></div><div>"Dear God, please send me a rich husband so we can have a housekeeper. My mother has told You over and over <em>'God, this girl will never learn to do housework!</em>' and You know she is right. It would be nice if he's handsome, smart and likes to have fun too but, really, the maid thing is the most important. There's no hurry, You know I have to go to college first, but please start looking for him now because everyone says it's going to be impossible to find a husband interested in a wife who only wants to read books all day. If you can't find a rich one for me, at least find one who doesn't care about home-cooked food. I'm willing to do a little dusting and vacuuming plus I'll be happy to work as a nurse or a teacher. Please bless my family and friends and our dog Skipper. Thank You for listening. AMEN."</div><div></div><div></div><div>I said that prayer often, and it worked, sort of. God sent me a husband with all my requirements, except he was not rich, but, here is where I knew God was really on the job, my mother-in-law had been such a horrible cook my husband thought Cheerios with a banana was a gourmet dinner. If I so much as made toast, which I didn’t do often, he was grateful. Thanks to peanut butter and jelly, lunchmeat, cereal and carry-out, we did just fine. Occasionally I went all out and cooked, but I always seemed to miss the mark.<br /><br />In a fit of madness one day, I decided to make fried smelts for supper. I have no idea what possessed me, but it sounded easy enough when I overheard someone say you just put oil in a frying pan and throw in the smelts. Had I done this <em>and </em>stayed in the kitchen, we might have actually had a home-cooked meal. Instead, someone called needing a phone number which I went upstairs to retrieve. As I stood on the landing returning to the kitchen, phone number in hand, black smoke billowed up the stairwell. Taking a deep breath, I flew down the stairs and out the front door, sooty and shaking. </div><div></div><div>Standing across the street from my house, I saw the smoke pouring out the front door,and I just knew my husband was going to be furious. Several months earlier, he had been really aggravated when the microwave door blew off while I was sterilizing my contact lenses, and that little caper had only involved replacing the microwave and patching a hole in the wall. I was sure he’d be over the top if the house burned down. Fortunately a neighbor called the Fire Department and the hook and ladder arrived minutes before my husband pulled up and jumped out of his car leaving it in the middle of the street.<br /><br />At least a dozen firemen charged through the front door, giant boots flapping, pick-axes at the ready, smashing out windows.<br /><br />“What happened? Where’s my wife?” my husband shouted as I came charging across the street to explain.<br /><br />“Are you OK? What happened?” he hollered amidst the chaos. “Did something explode? Were you smoking? What’s going on?” he asked as the flames waved hello out the kitchen window.<br /><br />Just then the fire chief, in a huge rubber raincoat with Chicago Fire Department emblazoned on the back, walked toward us.<br /><br />“Don’t worry, sir. We’ve got this under control,” he reassured my husband. “It’s a run-of-the-mill kitchen fire—lot of smoke, not too much damage. We knocked out some windows and the cabinets are shot, but it looks worse than it is.” Turning to me, he said, “And you, little woman, better be more careful when you’re cooking dinner.”<br /><br />“Cooking dinner?” my husband choked out, his eyes the size of bowling balls. “<em>You were cooking? In the kitchen? At the stove?”<br /></em><br />“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I was frying smelts.”<br /><br />“Frying smelts? Like fish smelts?”<br /><br />“Yes, I wanted to surprise you by frying smelts.”<br /><br />“What in God’s name were you thinking? Smelts? We've never had smelts. I cannot believe that you were trying to cook smelts?”<br /><br />I was getting a bit annoyed with his shock and disbelief, acting like I’d never stepped foot in the kitchen. Was he forgetting I had almost savant-like talents for making chicken wings? Was he blocking on the fact that one Thanksgiving I cooked a turkey which wreaked havoc with everyone's digestive tract? It was not as though I never cooked.<br /><br />“I wanted to surprise you by frying smelts,” I sniveled. “They’re not that hard to make.”<br /><br />“Not that hard? You’ve practically burned down the freakin’ house. Whatever possessed you?”<br /><br />“I don’t know,” I said shrugging, “all of a sudden I felt like cooking. <em>Is that such a sin?”</em> I wanted to add “<em>you ungrateful bastard</em>” but the neighbors were crowding around, jumping over the fire hoses ostensibly to comfort us, but really to be nosy. “I can’t explain what came over me."<br /><br />A year prior when we were having the kitchen redone, the remodeler was peppering me with questions. “So what kind of fridge do you want? Side by side, freezer at the top, ice-maker on the door? Cold water dispenser? Twenty-four cubic feet?”<br /><br />“Look,” I had told him, “I just want a plain old refrigerator. I’m not really into kitchens. If I had my way, we’d turn this room into a den, but my husband says that would hurt the resale value.”<br /></div><div>“Yeah,” he had said, “most buyers are lookin' for a kitchen."<br /><br />So we put in the new kitchen, and now it was in shambles.<br /><br />“Promise me, look into my eyes and promise me you’ll never do this again,” my husband pleaded as the firemen gave the all-clear sign. “You could have been incinerated.”<br /><br />“OK, alright, I promise,” I assured him. “If the smelts had turned out, I was going to bake you a birthday cake next week but now I won’t even bother.”<br /><br />“Good. That’s why God invented bakeries."<br /><br />About six months later, in another fit of impulsive recklessness, I decided to make an egg.<br /><br />“Honey,” I yelled, “have you seen my frying pan? I’ve searched everywhere.”<br /><br />With a look of alarm, he walked into the kitchen. “Yes, I did see the frying pan. Do you remember when you set the house on fire frying smelts?”<br /><br />His tone of voice suggested I was some kind of demented pyromaniac.<br /><br />“Well, during the blaze,” he continued in a Mr. Roger’s voice, “the firemen threw the skillet out the window. When the snow melted in the Spring, I found the pan and threw it in the garbage. Is this the first time you’ve noticed it’s gone?”<br /><br />Apparently he’d forgotten he made me promise not to cook so I ignored his snide remark.<br /><br />“Thanks a lot," I snipped, highly insulted. "You at least could have told me it was trashed. That was a very expensive frying pan I got for my shower and I hardly used it. Now I have to go to the hardware store and buy another one. How am I supposed to make an egg with no pan?"<br /><br />“You're not supposed to--grab your coat," he said. "We’re going out for breakfast.”<br /><br /><em>Mama, reading those damn books paid off after all.<br /></em><br /><strong>MLSE 05/09</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyJ3HybuGl2vyz0tIxP2TZPrY45xYmCT53KauLoyVkNGBOewYS-o8aAz-IZXePiwVv81kuv8t3GgnLEHNxAgcjCLj42KkPThcehBXnbE84ODUH23KPnMh4UhtXEndf0SRtT66MXaIwaKw/s1600-h/burned+kitchen+with+microwave.png"></a></div></div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-81647209959958346172009-04-20T19:20:00.022-05:002010-01-26T12:57:37.184-06:00Trapped by Circumstance<strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards</span></strong><br /><br />“I don’t need a University of Wisconsin directory. I need a talented young lady like you to work for me,” the man on the other end of the line phone flirted.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5tdmuB6GZaMVdu9oUBmiTfyfUqMCH3NCne8rnNU_XOJnVfnsiQ2djxf_sPE5267cbQVz9cMa-xCfTXYFHOUfeyJekWaixJdk05jTMnVO2aCu8qSDU9XzVL-7m8WGbefGQ8OQyB9LnPi0/s1600-h/moving+up+in+the+world+picture.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326933323919063218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 355px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 262px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5tdmuB6GZaMVdu9oUBmiTfyfUqMCH3NCne8rnNU_XOJnVfnsiQ2djxf_sPE5267cbQVz9cMa-xCfTXYFHOUfeyJekWaixJdk05jTMnVO2aCu8qSDU9XzVL-7m8WGbefGQ8OQyB9LnPi0/s320/moving+up+in+the+world+picture.jpg" border="0" /></a> Pushing the most recent edition of the UW Alumni Directory, dialing telephone numbers non-stop--busy signals, hang ups, rude refusals--made this alum’s response both intriguing and enticing.<br /><br />Quickly perusing the bio of my potential savior, I noted I was talking to the owner of a well-known photography studio with an impressive Michigan Avenue address.<br /><br />“Sir,” I responded, “I’ve had my offer of this directory refused, but I have never had such a creative rejection.”<br /><br />“Rejection? Young lady, you come see me tomorrow and you’re hired!” he boomed. I had no idea what his job offer entailed, but escaping the hellhole of tele-marketing was too tempting.<br /><br />“I will be at your office tomorrow right after work—at 5:15,” I said, wondering how I’d make it running in high heels from Wacker Drive to 620 North Michigan.<br /><br />“See you then.”<br /><br />From sweatshop to Magnificent Mile in one five-minute phone call? Maybe this would be the Chicago version of Lana Turner’s Hollywood discovery at Schwab’s Drug Store. I prayed I was worthy of the opportunity. I was the luckiest girl in the world.<br /><br />The next afternoon I rushed up Michigan Avenue to Valhalla dreaming of working for this prestigious operation. With a bit of luck, I might be able to continue on a part-time basis when I started college in the Fall.<br /><br />As I ran up the street, I thought of the time I had served at Rockwell Publishing with a hundred quasi-literate dialers, working on commission, elbow to elbow in a boiler room dive hawking this incredibly detailed piece of drek. Even on a good day, it was impossible to make a living wage, never mind my college tuition. Hour after hour we dialed Wisconsin graduates with a canned pitch designed to appeal to memories of their glory days. The spiel was lame, but it was worth listening to if only to hear our preposterous rebuttals when an alum was reluctant to waste his money.<br /><br />If, for instance, someone said he couldn’t afford the directory because his house burned down, and he was destitute plus he just found out his wife was the arsonist who wanted him incinerated to collect on his insurance so she could run off with his best friend, I would have a perfect response. Even if he added he was contemplating suicide.<br /><br />“Sir, now more than ever you need this directory. You cannot pass on this incredible resource. It is filled with names of contractors who will rebuild your torched house, stockbrokers who will make you wealthy, financial planners, divorce lawyers, criminal attorneys who will put your ex-wife in jail, insurance agents who will write a policy that will make your spouse wish she’d not acted so precipitously, and psychiatrists who will help you deal with the pain of betrayal by your best friend. And the support team will all be Badgers eager to assist a Badger brother.”<br /><br />If, by then, the alum wasn’t begging for a copy of the directory, I’d continue.<br /><br />“You will also have this handy referral to help you when you begin dating—hundreds of educated women who need not make money in the sleazy way your soon to be ex-wife tried, women who will renew your will to live. Cultured women who share your love for your alma mater bonding with you during Wisconsin football games.<br /><br />I guarantee you will regret not having purchased the leather-bound edition since your copy will be dog-eared from constant use reaching out to your Badger family who share your Badger pride!”<br /><br />Fortunately most of the alumni didn’t have such complicated problems, but I did use some variation of the above on most solicitations. Sterling Catch, who offered me the job, hadn't even heard my dazzling sales pitch. What impressed him so that he wanted to hire me sight unseen? Was it my precise diction? My sophisticated delivery? Did he detect the conviction in my voice?<br /><br />But it didn't matter. Right then, as I hurried along Boul Mich, my focus was on my lucky break.<br /><br />The Michigan Avenue address reeked of status and respectability. Mr. Catch awaited my arrival and, after a cursory interview of sorts, said I could start the next day. Having asked nothing about my education and/or experience, I figured he was just an excellent judge of raw talent. He was, however, a bit vague about my job responsibilities.<br /><br />He said, “I am designing a position just for you. While I work out the details, you can familiarize yourself with the studio and staff.”<br /><br />A job. created. specifically. for me? I was awestruck.<br /><br />For the first week.<br /><br />Then I realized Mr. Catch was the anti-Statue of Liberty, welcoming the hungry and tired, as well as the naive and stupid. He preyed on vulnerable souls.<br /><br />Apparently years before, he had been the photographer of choice for the North Shore’s upper crust, but his glory days were behind him. After succumbing to too many glasses of bubbly and a plethora of sweet, young things, he was left only with arrogance and his extraordinary sales skills. Indeed, if Mother Teresa herself appeared in his studio, he would have considered seducing her. If she failed to recognize her good fortune, he would interpret the rebuff as her loss, and immediately shift into Super Salesman mode to offer her, at a greatly reduced price because of the sheer volume, individual portrait sittings of every forlorn wretch who had ever crossed her path.<br /><br />Something in his life had gone awry resulting in vanities and character defects so enormous that even an Oprah intervention would have been wasted. His targeting the pathetic resulted in a staff that perfectly reflected his predatory proclivity.<br /><br />Mandi was the Anna Nicole look-alike receptionist who had been married and divorced so many times she stopped changing her last name because of all the paperwork. She was late a lot and had many court dates. Her complex child-support and alimony arrangements, she said, required frequent tweaking, but I suspected the chronic tardiness and incessant lawyers’ calls had more to do with her nighttime activities.<br /><br />Mort, the genius retoucher, smoked in the darkroom, and, I reckoned, drank the photo- developing chemicals in there as well. Like a mole, he ventured out of the darkness only occasionally, blurry-eyed and shaky, searching for “… that bastard Sterling!” who routinely demanded he do the impossible.<br /><br />Theodosia Goodsell was a munchkin widow who suffered ill-health and was particularly vexed by self-diagnosed “neuralgia” which caused her to disappear for days on end. Only gallons of gin soothed her pain. On her good days, that is, the days she showed up in working condition, Mrs. Goodsell’s sales skills put even Mr. Catch's to shame. Her job was to call on the recently bereaved to offer them a once in a lifetime opportunity to order an outrageously overpriced oil painting of their newly deceased loved one. Unfortunately though, her frequent slugs from her thermos of “cough syrup” while telephoning potential patsies led to more than a few bizarre scenarios.<br /><br />Irene, the resident artist, who executed these paintings was responsible for making the bereaved’s dream a reality. She spoke five languages fluently, but only enough English to keep us confused. Her salad days were spent fleeing the Nazis and now, because she’d lost everything in the war, including her academic credentials, she was reduced to painting over huge enlargements of snapshots. Often the head of the subject in the original photo was pea-size and Mr. Catch would insist Mort blow it up to 16x20, thereby obliterating the facial features. It was Irene’s job to paint a face that would be somewhat recognizable to the widow. Much of the time, not because of Irene's lack of expertise, the finished portrait would make a paint-by-number picture look like an Art Institute masterpiece.<br /><br />Completing the off the wall cast was Evelyn Bates, a society woman who’d fallen on hard times. She never quite came to grips with the fact that life had relegated her to soliciting portrait sales from survivors of the dead. She took great pains to maintain the pretense of working “just to keep busy…” but her hopelessly outdated wardrobe, and tales of forty-years past soirees signaled her denial.<br /><br />It was an unusual group, but even more peculiar was the fact that there was no photgrapher on staff. Instead we had a series of photographers who would apply for the "vacancy," work like demons during their unpaid month-long "audition" photgraphing weddings, bar mitzvahs and debutante debuts and pray they'd get hired. They would cover a variety of events so Mr. Catch could get a "valid sample of your work," but, alas, at the end of a month they never quite had what it took. "You are a competent photographer, but you're missing that 'certain something' I can't explain," Mr. Catch would say. "You're just not a good fit for my North Shore clientele." It was a brilliant never-fail scam.<br /><br /><strong>The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari</strong> had nothing on us--a talented addict, a wacko single mother, an ancient alcoholic widow, a delusional has-been with a dying husband, a Displaced Person who had lost everything in the war, an "auditioning" photographer and a broke college kid.<br /><br />Trapped by circumstance, desperate for work, we were a captive crew ripe for exploitation which Mr. Catch scented like a foxhound.<br /><br />Outside of the events captured by the "probationary" photographers, the dearly departed were the headliners. In the days when Kodak Brownie box cameras were considered high tech, when certain socio-economic groups cherished a snapshot of a loved one the way blue-bloods revered a John Singer Sargent portrait, Mr. Catch carved a predatory niche, and he never looked back.<br /><br /><strong>MLSE 04/09<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></strong><strong></strong><strong></strong><strong></strong><strong></strong>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205688388565031536.post-89120675041249977812009-03-25T12:29:00.013-05:002010-01-26T12:12:59.282-06:00Not Every Woman's Dream<strong><span style="color:#ffcc66;">Mary Lou Edwards<br /></span></strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nznddhMiRLgYEwEM-fT4x7MpQovTxUWM2_RuMs91osFWsXOGyTSOU4cQ6F_Sm0ab6Ry2cBUpaeijuiuWOd0wR04y6hWZDCjFikGg4B2ToRAl6T4IVJjSkOdZMBgJyegFd3zh0vlE1FQ/s1600-h/the+unwilling+bride+picture.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317179060126374546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 221px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nznddhMiRLgYEwEM-fT4x7MpQovTxUWM2_RuMs91osFWsXOGyTSOU4cQ6F_Sm0ab6Ry2cBUpaeijuiuWOd0wR04y6hWZDCjFikGg4B2ToRAl6T4IVJjSkOdZMBgJyegFd3zh0vlE1FQ/s320/the+unwilling+bride+picture.jpg" border="0" /></a> Long ago there lived a girl named Thumbelisa who did not want to be a bride. Actually, it was not being a bride that bothered her, it was marriage, but Thumbelisa lived at a time when most maidens became brides, when it was very important to be married.<br /><br />Thumbelisa had studied the ancient civilizations and was not impressed with the Greeks who believed it “…a woman’s duty to remain indoors and be obedient to her husband” nor with the Romans who declared “…a woman had no rights. In law she remained forever a child.” Then there was the Jewish law that said “…a wife was owned by her husband.” Even when she dismissed these notions as relics of the past and set aside the biblical teachings that ‘a wife was to submit to a husband,’ ‘he will dominate you,’ ‘you are subject to him,’ she was still looking at wives in the village who were overworked, underappreciated, overwhelmed and undervalued. No, Thumbelisa thought, this is not something I want to do.<br /><br />Her culture, however, dictated three choices--nun, spinster, wife. Exist under God’s thumb, suffer under the King’s thumb or languish under the Master’s thumb? Name your poison. She couldn’t fathom being dictated to by the Pope, perishing in a convent, much less subsisting as an old maid in the kingdom forced to live with her parents forever, so, by default, it was marriage. But, adding insult to injury, Thumbelisa had not even a poor prospect, let alone a worthwhile catch. “Settling” was out of the question. Bad enough to shoot her future from a cannon without tethering it to someone she’d “settled for” ‘til death do us part.'<br /><br />She’d had a bit of a reprieve because the King believed every maiden should be educated—an unusual notion in the old kingdom. His theory was a maiden needed an education <em>to fall back on in case she married a louse,</em> not the most sterling of reasons to pursue learning, but she was not one to stand on ceremony. School bought her time, and she was grateful. Her family had always said, “Oh, she’s the one into books, not boys…” as though she had to choose between knowledge and knuckleheads, but schooling did postpone the moment of truth. Now, though, her education was complete, and she was eligible.<br /><br />Thumbelisa considered running away, but leaving the village was treasonous. She prayed to St. Quirinus, Patron Saint of Obsessions, since that was what her problem had become. In a state of rapture, a vision appeared and spoke. “It is not the thought of sharing thy life that that thou fearest—it is the thought of having a husband! Get married,” the voice commanded, “and pretendeth thou are not. Catholics believeth in denial.”<br /><br />Thumbelisa thought the solution peculiar, but she could not be choosy. She would get married and, in her mind, pretend she was not. She would search for a man who would become her best friend. They would fall in love, and, before she could back out, walk the plank of matrimony.<br /><br />She switched her allegiance to St. Raphael, Patron Saint of Friendships and Good Marriages. If this plan was to work, if she was not to get cold feet, a short engagement was essential followed by a swift wedding. Then she would have a friend, a partner, a <em>husband</em>, and the dreaded word would no longer strike fear in her heart.<br /><br />She called upon St. Jude, Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes, and before she’d even finished her Nine-Day Never Fail Fast, a prospect appeared.<br /><br />A man whose values aligned with hers like tumblers in a lock giving access to a space that was safe and comforting. A person whose manner suggested he had no interest in using his thumbs for anything other than a gesture of encouragement. A friend who allowed her to be herself, who prized an independent woman, who wanted an equal partner. That--he was an impressive gentleman--handsome, tall and distinguished—was a bonus. Best of all, he had a great sense of humor--her knight without the armor.<br /><br />She began to consider taking that leap of faith.<br /><br />She was not so naïve to think him perfect. She’d been raised by King Perfect and that was a harrowing journey. No, this man was better than perfect—he was perfect for her.<br /><br />From the outside, they were almost a comic study in opposites—tall/short, blonde/brunette, WASP/ethnic, agnostic/Catholic, reserved/brash. Yet though they differed in background, politics, personalities and demeanor, their hearts were of the same mold. They shared many a shortcoming, complementary ones too. But neither ever entertained the notion of changing the other, in part because they were smart enough to know that would be futile, but more importantly, because they loved and accepted the other just the way they were.<br /><br />Her friend didn’t always understand her fears--some funny, some not so—but he respected them.<br /><br />“If we wed," she would remind him, "I must keep my checking account, have my own coach, and work outside the castle. I will also maintain my friendships with my maids.”<br /><br /><em>That’s up to thee, if that is what thou desires</em>, he would respond, wondering how the seed of dread had been planted.<br /><br />“Also," she would persist, “Can we vow to love, honor and respect, instead of obey?”<br /><br />“It is called wedlock," he tried to reassure, "but you will not be imprisoned."<br /><br />If Thumbelisa survived one hundred plagues, she knew she could not find a finer man.<br />He knew she carried a lot of baggage; he had met the royal clan. She must have had, he thought, a lot of help packing those bags. He trusted she would divest herself of some of the items when she realized they no longer fit, if indeed, they ever had.<br /><br />She had found the perfect traveling companion. For the first time, she trusted the journey could be equally rewarding.<br />Critical details remained. It was customary to have long engagements--less than a year raised eyebrows, but if she couldn't get past the betrothal quickly, she would never make it down the aisle and yet another hurdle remained--the King's imprimatur.<br /><br />“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” the King inquired, when the Knight asked for Thumbelisa’s hand in marriage. “She is an awful lot of trouble, very strong willed--almost impossible to control, challenges my orders," he ranted. "You will have your hands full. Are you up to the task?”<br /><br />Those comments gave the Knight a clue as to why her dread was so deep. He understood why she wanted the hoopla over quickly--how a long waiting period might provoke anxiety, cause her to doubt her choice, allow her fears to implode.<br />Yes, the King was vexed at the suddeness of the wedding, but he appreciated divesting himself of the thorn in his side.<br /><br />They would wed the following month. The event would be put together in record time with just enough trappings to keep the villagers' tongues from wagging. There would be no engagement ring, a borrowed wedding gown, no bridesmaids, simple gold bands, a banquet small by kingdom standards. They would omit the word "obey."<br /><br />The eve preceding the nuptials,though, King Perfect, who was not happy with the plans, ordered Thumbelisa to tell the Knight to get rid of his beard for the ceremony. “I would prefer a clean-shaven face,” he declared.<br /><br />“He is perfect just the way he is,” she smiled.<br /><br />The morning after as church bells clanged, Thumbelisa handed over her heart. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><br />THE END<br /></div><div align="left">MSLE 03/09</div>Mary Lou Edwardshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00307103188436654254noreply@blogger.com1