BREAKING ICE IN FINLAND

 BREAKING ICE IN FINLAND - Ravibala Shenoy

The taxi meter was rising, and I realized that I wouldn’t have enough Finnish marks for the museum ticket and the return trip if I didn’t halt the taxi and walk the remaining distance to the Gallen-Kallela Museum. Credit cards were not so prevalent in 1971. I fished out of my wallet several bills wrapped around my house key and paid the driver. 

It can’t be that far, I thought, scanning my guidebook. The sky looked as if it could snow anytime. This was the only museum I had not seen at the end of our short stint in Finland. We, that is my husband (a visiting scientist at the Low Temperature Laboratory in Otaniemi), and I, lived in a detached home in the nearby garden city of Tapiola, famed for its architecture.

Why it seemed so urgent for me to visit this museum before we left Finland, I attribute to what we now call FOMO. According to the guidebook, it was located in Espoo and showcased the African paintings of a Finnish painter who spent two years in Kenya. Why it seemed so urgent for me to visit this museum before we left Finland, I attribute to what we now call FOMO or the Fear of Missing Out.

”I was clad in my native saree, beneath a heavy winter coat, gloves and walking shoes. I had been tramping on a road that led through a wooded grove surrounded by a deep silence. I could see neither buildings, human beings, nor automobile. Oddly, I remembered something I’d read about a man who was attacked by a bear and saved himself by climbing a tree. Would I be able to clamber up a tree in my saree? I walked faster.

Soon I saw the welcome sight of a postal van trundling up the road. I waved for it to stop. A rosy cheeked matron with brown hair tied in thin pigtails on the top of her head, looked out of the window. “Where is the Gallen-Kallela Museum?” I asked in English. My words came out in puffs. She pointed. I saw nothing but trees in the direction she pointed.

“Please take me there,” I said, wiggling into the passenger seat.

She dropped me on a side road and pointed to what looked like a country house angled on top of a sloping backyard. The postal van vanished. Snow embankments over six feet tall bordered one side of the road. Beyond it, I could hear the cars zooming on the highway. I took a few steps up the slope of a tree-covered backyard, when the barking of a German Shepherd straining at his leash tied to a tree, caused me to step back. Without my glasses I could not see how far the leash and, therefore, the radius of the Shepherd extended.

I gave up the idea of visiting the museum. So close, and yet so far! It was well past two in the afternoon. A weak sunlight filtered through the milky air. In December, the sun set a little past three. My fingers were already beginning to burn beneath my gloves and my toes were numb. A few flakes brushed the air. I could freeze to death, I reckoned. The cars on the highway could not see me. And I could not climb over the embankment and be seen. A weak sunlight filtered through the milky air. In December, the sun set a little past three. I would have to telephone my husband to make arrangements to be picked up, but first I would have to find a phone. I pulled out the card with the phone number for the Low Temperature lab from my wallet.

There were two white frame houses next to each other on one side of the road. I rang the bell of the first one, knocked, then tried the front door; it creaked open to a bare living room. I called out — no one answered. I walked in, there was no one there. I walked to the second house. Here too, the door was unlocked. On a sofa against the opposite wall lay a body covered by a sheet. I have never moved so quickly in my life, I scrambled out, banging the screen door behind me.

Back on the road, I had no idea what I should do, when I saw a long-distance runner coming towards me. One saw runners everywhere in Finland, in the early morning, late at night. (Once, as my husband and I walked to the lab at midnight to fill liquid helium into cryostats, we marveled to see a runner, legs and arms pumping like pistons — even on Christmas Day! Were these runners training for the Olympics? Perhaps it was just part of the culture.)

I stopped the runner mid-stride. He was the first human I had seen on that road. “Take me there.” I pointed to the museum. “There is a dog tied to a tree, but I cannot see how long the leash is.” The runner accompanied me past the dog, and I entered by the back door of the museum.

The two elderly women at the desk beamed at me. I had been the sole visitor that day, and they were about to close shortly. They chuckled when I tried with much gesticulation to tell them about the body on the sofa, but I had hit a language barrier. The two elderly women at the desk beamed at me. I had been the sole visitor that day. ” How do I get a cab back?” I managed to ask. One of the ladies lived in Tapiola. She offered me a ride home.

On the ride back, I thought about the body under the sheet on the sofa. Perhaps it was only a sculpture, I reasoned. It was dark by the time we reached Tapiola and it had begun to snow in earnest, but despite the traffic and the snow, I had made it home. And there was still time to shower, rest, and fix supper before my husband returned! I thanked the woman profusely. The taillights of her sedan disappeared into the swirling flakes. I opened my wallet to pull out the key to the house. This can’t be happening! I thought. I had lost my key.

Indian Labor Problems

 Indian Labor Problems — An Historical Account

by Ravibala Shenoy

I was born in India, a nation that bears the world’s first rank for population and my grandmother herself had seven children, so it was surprising that I had no notion of what it meant to have a child. When my husband and I were expecting our first child, we were living in Europe.

Collier’s Encyclopedia enumerated all the dangers in wait for the unborn: radiation, drugs (even aspirin), dogs and especially cats—and the last thing I heard of was potatoes! The restrictions in diet did not prevent my weight from shooting up.

“Do you think I am expecting twins, doctor?”

“No, you eat too much.”

With no one in whom to confide the fears of a first pregnancy except an equally inexperienced husband, fears became magnified, and I decided to have the baby in India.

I whispered to the gynecologist’s assistant.

“Is it safe for me to fly to Mumbai in the seventh month?”

“Well, you’re brave,” she replied.

In those days concern about flight hijackings and terrorist attacks was not uncommon, but I was not afraid, I trusted the advice given on a greeting card: “The more you weigh, the harder you are to kidnap. Stay safe, eat cake!”

“But one hears of babies being born on the plane.” The nurse continued.

All the way home I tried to figure out if this was exciting or terrifying. Was it exciting to have the stewardess cutting the umbilical cord with the plastic cutlery on board—thirty thousand feet in the air midway over the Arabian Sea?

Meanwhile, I boned up about childbirth by reading five books about childbirth, notably Dr. Grantley Dick Read’s Childbirth Without Fear and the Official Lamaze Guide. I fussed over 100 grams of liver, spinach and drank four glasses of milk every day.

“I have come,” I announced to my parents in Mumbai after an absence of two and a half years. Their reactions were off-putting.

“But it’s too early! We’re delighted, but look here, having a baby is no sickness. Everyone has babies!” (As if to prove this, the maid was pregnant too and went about her domestic duties cheerfully, fetching heavy loads of grain on her head from the government ration shop. Her husband carried the ration card. Division of labor.

The maid drank huge cups of black tea, licked bilious green ice candy and caught the flu half a dozen times.

I, on the other hand, did my breathing exercises with great ceremony, underlined passages from Childbirth Without Fear, and recounted to my mother the name of every bone in the pelvis. When some new wave film depicted the honest anguish of a woman in the second stage of labor, I stamped my foot in irritation. “Such stereotyped ideas! Haven’t they heard of Dr. Grantley Dick Read?”

My gynecologist was widely regarded as the cheapest and the best. With the intuition based on long experience, he felt my abdomen and said, “The head is in the right position. She’s due any day now.”

“Who’s worried? As Dr. Grantley Dick Read says…”

There was a special ceremony for the wellbeing of the mother and the unborn child. I received a saree and presents from friends and relatives.

When the first “pains”—no, contractions—began, like a swarm of ants on my abdomen, I was overflowing with joy. “Isn’t it thrilling? Labor has started!” According to Dr. Read, such an attitude is commendable. I forthwith snapped shut the two suitcases for the hospital.

“But isn’t it too early?” my mother asked.

“Mother,” I said testily. “I have been careful about my diet; I have done my breathing exercises. With these modern methods, there is no pain—it’s like coffee out of a vending machine.”

The matron at the hospital, the one with dyed hair and heavily penciled eyebrows, grimaced. Her crimson mouth drooped as she said, “My, you look too comfortable to be having a baby!”

Another Mrs. Gamp.

Yeats said, “That one must labor to be beautiful.”  I looked unbeautiful, writhing, shrieking, panting, sweating, racked by convulsions that sent me skittering across the ward. Labor continued into the silent hours of the night. It seemed like a lifetime, then almost the end of my life.

“Matron, do you think I will survive this?” I gasped.

The baby arrived—the natural way, without gas or analgesics. And when I beheld the puny monster that the doctor held upside down all the pain was forgotten. After all, it was my very own precious, puny monster baby girl.

What the books hadn’t prepared me for was the postnatal period. The fatigue, the stitches. I couldn’t even sneeze, the cramps in the abdomen. I’d rather have the baby again than what comes after. Would I ever again walk upright? I felt totally abandoned. Dr. Grantley Dick Read never said anything about stitches.

At home, the old guard took over. I had a belt around my abdomen so tightly I couldn’t breathe.  (All to the good, I was to discover later.) I had oil massages to improve circulation. All day I was admonished:

“Be careful of your teeth.”

“Don’t expose yourself to the wind.”

“That spicy, fatty food is bad for you,” as I bit into a banana fritter.

I put one last word for Dr. G.D. Read. Now Benjamin Spock had joined the fray. “Neither have traced any connection between a mother’s diet and her milk.”

“Nonsense!” thundered my grandmother. “Do you know that when our cow ate the bitter grass from over the hill, her milk tasted bitter?”

I gave up. Who was I to censure superior wisdom? As I have said before, my grandmother brought seven children to this earth. It was like a high school sprints champion challenging Usain Bolt.

The maid’s baby was one pound bigger. It arrived without gas or sedatives. Labor lasted two hours.

The hundred grams of liver, one egg, four glasses of milk have alas thickened my waistline. Since the delivery, I have been permanently on “girth control.”

A BAOBAB IN THE MIRROR by Ann E. Funck

The night before our excursion, I laid out my feather-weight chambray pants and my new

off-white blouse with the a/c sleeves/eyelet for the hot weather. The next afternoon, I pulled on

the pants and tucked in the blouse ending my formerly hour-glass, though aging, figure. In the

mirror, my bod was a gigantic trunk – with no waist whatsoever, and no distinguishing feature.

Every angle looked the same: a barrel that had morphed into a total sequoia.

I was utterly speechless about my image, phoning my friend Ellen during my whine,

which included: “I’m late and can’t go out in public like this!” (I’m never completely

speechless.)

“Just yank on some black pants and a top. We’re waiting!” Ellen said. I also heard the

mumbled, “A baobab tree.”

“Whaaa?” I said.

Eventually, I looked up that tree. There are many varieties but only one shape that

resembled mine. The tree is found in Africa, Australia, and Madagascar, is quite slow-growing

and long-lived. Some photos look like mature bonsai trees. In the island country of Madagascar,

there is a baobab tree that is claimed to be one thousand years old. Several of the trunks are

gigantic, appear swollen, and resemble a barrel . . .

Did someone invent a camera a thousand years ago? Who can prove that tree’s age?

If I inhaled, I had several bulbous rolls blooming. Even standing, with my arms overhead,

my waist had definitely disappeared. The photos matched my mirror image. I had never heard of

the baobab tree before. Legend has it that “the devil plucked up the baobab, thrust its branches

into the earth, and left its roots in the air.”

My fine, fly-away hair resembled the misty greenery topping of the trees in some of those

Googled photos.

Consider another “tree” that I knew nothing about: the saguaro cactus of the Arizona

desert. It also has nocturnal flowers as fascinating as the large, white flowers of the baobab. And

both tree types are often pollinated by bats (let’s hear it for the bats!) and can store much water in

their trunks; they both are succulents in that way. The baobab’s fruit, when ripe, hangs like “dead

rats by their tails.”

Now, that’s a sight that would give anyone sore eyeballs! And here I was going to

mention, eventually, a holiday tree that gives a bejeweled glow to every face around it. But this

rat-tail sight is the opposite of any glowing vision of a holiday tree.

However, locals call the baobab tree “The Tree of Life.” They have used the fruit and

other parts for culinary and medicinal purposes. The fruit can produce a healthy soup. Whether

or not we ever taste the soup, we have to admire the ingenuity of the people harvesting the

goofy-looking fruit and making the soup.

Boosting the immune system, the fruit reduces fever and improves digestive health.

Emphasis on digestive health is a current concern of us Americans obsessed with using

probiotics . . . Whatever happened to Tums?

Would you believe that Amazon carries the organic fruit powder (gluten-free) and

“African baobab seed oil” for hair and skin? This oil is advised for use on the body, lips, and

nails. What oil isn’t?

The tree’s seeds are also for sale – if you are a patient gardener and can include the tree in

your will.

How could I not have heard of this intriguing tree? Shapeless, skinny, or bulbous, the tree

is a wonder. And my friend Ellen had heard of the tree.

I have watched with interest the documentary of a Burkina Faso hero. Where in the heck

is Burkina Faso? This country is landlocked in West Africa. The capital is Ouagadougou.

For 47 years, this man, whose name is less pronounceable than the capital, has planted

baobab trees. For several years, he has planted 400 trees each year. Children help him, as well as

adults. He began planting mango trees but learned that many people did that, so he chose to go in

a different direction. I had heard of Burkina Faso, which is, in itself, remarkable.

This man tells us in the documentary that tradition says that whoever plants a baobab tree

will die. He notes that his father never planted a baobab tree but died. What logic!

Regarding what I thought was my stunning ensemble, I returned the off-white blouse to

Old Navy. I told the clerk that the blouse was too short to tuck in properly (true!), especially with

my arms raised above my head while trying to get a flattering gander. That definitely was a

failure.

I did not get into detail about the baobab tree; the clerk was way too young to have heard

of it. For the rest of this year, I have avoided pulling on those chambray pants with the silver-

studded front pockets and string tie. Maybe I will never.

When I was kidnapped by African Cannibals or Me Jane, You Tarzan

In my previous life I was an English teacher to seventh graders in a  middle school. Sometimes a teacher is asked to teach one or two classes of another subject because that's the only way to work out a decent class schedule for that year.  For instance, one year our music teacher had to teach one class of Spanish.  Once I spent a year teaching a class of girls physical education.  However, the best change was when I was asked to teach one class of seventh grade  social studies. I smiled and agreed but I did not feel agreeable.

Social studies consists of history, economics, civics, geography, government, sociology, and anthropology. That is a lot of stuff!  I knew I needed help. There are national organizations that teachers can join that advocate  high-quality in a subject area and provide leadership, services and support.  I already belonged to the National Council of Teachers of English so I joined the National Council for the Social Studies.  

To shorten this account of my African adventure,  when  I joined this new organization I discovered that the Social Studies Convention that year was going to be in Nairobi, Kenya in late June. What a great organization.  What luck for me!   I immediately decided I was going to go.  It was just too coincidental that I was a member  now and eligible.  The trip to Africa just fell into my lap.  I made sure I could afford it and signed up.

Soon after I registered, a travel agent in Washington D.C. whose agency was making all the arrangements for the trip called me.  She asked if I was interested in going on a safari at the conclusion of the convention. You bet I was. Everything  kept falling into place so nicely.

I made it through the school year and soon I was on a plane to London.  After a quick stop there, I would fly to Nairobi.  In London they inspected my purse and bags. Extra cautious  at Heathrow because of the former troubles in Ireland they not only inspected before you boarded a plane but after you got off.  The Brits did not like to be randomly bombed.   An officer checked  through my purse.  He gave me a stern look and told me to follow him.  It seems I had an attachment on my keys to protect me in case of assault.  These are not allowed on airplanes.  He told me that if I was a British citizen I would be arrested. However, since I was not I would just have to sign a paper that acknowledged that they took my spray thing away.  We solemnly took a bit of a walk and went through the formalities. I was not scared. I was tired and kind of interested in the whole experience.  Then he took a second look at my passport.  He smiled and wished me a happy birthday.  I smiled back because that was the only birthday greeting I would get that day.  Very memorable.

And so, I flew to Nairobi.  When I arrived at my hotel it was full of American social studies teachers.  After checking in, I decided to take a walk outside to get my bearings.  I exited the revolving door.  Oh, the culture shock.  My only impression of African cities came from movies.  In the movies the people were always pale  British people  living in Africa while they hunted lions, had affairs, or  dug for diamonds or something.  The people I saw walking on the streets  were not a bit British.  They were very, very dark and they did not look at me kindly.  In fact, they seemed annoyed. Maybe they thought the Brits had returned! I hurried back to the hotel feeling a bit ashamed and confused. I thought the movies always portrayed real life.  Later I was told by hotel workers that we should never walk outside alone but only in a group.  For a minute I wished the Brits were still in charge but I quickly slapped myself and came to my senses.

I met a friendly teacher who suggested we go to an African movie that evening.  That sounded better than sitting in my room trying to adjust my sleep patterns.  She had made arrangements for a cab to pick us up. We were dropped off and bought our tickets.  We found two empty seats but things were strange because everyone was looking at us and talking. They were not smiling. The film started and I have no idea what it was about.  Finally it was over and we left the theater.  Did I mention we were the only white persons anywhere in sight?  We waited and waited for our driver to come back.  I do not remember being scared but I was never more uncomfortable and so astoundingly alert. My world travels never prepared me for this. The other teacher and I  chatted together in the lowest tones possible.  We were attracting enough attention by just being there.  

The driver did come just as we were ready to give up. (I have no idea how we would give up.)  I was so happy to be back at the hotel.  I saw my friend from the movie the next day and she informed me that one of the reasons we were discussed so much at the movie house is because all the seats were assigned and we mistakenly just sat wherever we wanted.   Entitled white people!  I felt shame.

The convention went well.  I learned some things and I ate some strange foods.  Finally it was time to meet my Safari group. There were about eight of us plus the travel agent and the South African guide. The first thing we did was drive to Mombasa.  This is smaller than Nairobi and seemed more typically African.  In the city center there are huge tusks on each side of the street that cross each other in the very  center of the road.  These were put up for a visit by Queen Elizabeth in 1952.  I loved the look. So.....African?

We had lunch in Mombasa and proceeded to a village that was more rural.  We stayed overnight here and I slept beneath netting in what seemed like a screened-in  porch.  I was a bit worried about nighttime trips to the washroom.  The bath room was a squat toilet away from the building and Americans like me are not used to squatting.   Gosh, I have a hard enough time getting up from a couch.  What would a squat do to me?  Thankfully I do not remember if it became a necessity or not.  Memories that fade  are sometimes the very best thing that happens.

The next day we ate breakfast and I think that was the first time I ever ate mangos.  We were invited by an elderly man to come into his house for tea.  It was really more of a shack and chickens also seemed to live there.  I wondered about sanitation but then I remembered that I never get sick on trips so I wasn't going to on this one. I was going to be a good American and represent my country as well as possible.   I drank my tea and tried my best to converse with him and the others.  The chickens were not fully grown and just wandered around our feet looking for food.  The tea was good.  I think the  old man scored social points for having us visit him for tea.

Mombasa is on the Indian Ocean.  When we left the village we got into a boat and sped along until we could not see land.  When the boat stopped we went swimming.  I was just thrilled because I was in the Indian Ocean.  There was also a certain edge  to it because we could not see land and no one was a life guard.  I appreciated how lucky I was to be exactly where I was and it all happened because of a quirky change in my teaching schedule.  Sometimes life is very good.  And none of us looked that great in a bathing suit when we climbed back into the boat!

We survived our swim and our little group proceeded to a train station.  We boarded the train and had a wonderful dinner in the dining car.  We chatted and got to know each other better.   Later in the sleeping car I somehow got an upper bunk.  I do not remember exactly what was wrong but somehow I had to hang on to something all night to make sure I did not fall out.  We also made several stops and noisy people got on.  Once again I was not going to make a pit stop because I had no idea who was where in our sleeping car or when we would stop to welcome strangers aboard.  It was another night with not a great deal of sleep!  

The next day when we got up for breakfast the dishes from our dinner the night before were still on the tables. We worked our way around that, had breakfast and finally arrived at our destination.  We continued our journey in one of those vans which has a top that opened so you can stand and see the animals.  Our guide was a whiz at finding the animals and knew just how to approach them. They were so majestic and oblivious to our presence.  We saw rhinos, hippos, zebras, cheetahs, dik-diks, hyenas, and all sorts of creatures.  I loved the elephants most of all.  Our guide could read their intentions because if an elephant decided to push over our van we could not do anything about it.  We were  able to get very close to the huge creatures.  I think my best moment was stopping and having a celebratory glass of wine right there in the savanna.  Was this real or was I in a movie? 

We stayed at different places as we traveled.  Several times we experienced flat tires.  Finally, we had to stop because we ran out of spare tires.  Our driver had to walk somewhere to get a few new tires.  I was a bit anxious about this. We seemed to be in the middle of the jungle on a worn dirt road.  We got out of the van and walked on  a smaller path. There in the middle of Tarzan country was a little store.   It was just a shack in the jungle but evidently they had a good business going.  I thought as I approached the place that they would naturally jack up their prices because we were stranded with nowhere else to go.  Cynical me.  I was wrong.  We bought soft drinks and snacks for a decent price and waited for our driver.  He finally returned rolling a tire.  The bad one was quickly replaced and we were on our way.

Another roadway incident occurred on a regular highway with normal traffic and this time it was at night. Our van was stopped by some uniformed men.  The driver and our guide got out.  There was a lot of talking and some of it sounded angry.   Finally, our two people returned and got in the van.  A uniformed man with a machine gun also got in the front next to the driver.  We were told he was there to protect us in case someone tried to stop us. The area had been plagued by bandits.  I do not know why I wasn't frightened and possibly hysterical.  I think  my inner self was confused and thought we really  were in a movie.  This was such a different country and setting.  We were definitely off any beaten path taken by normal tour companies. 

On one of the last nights of our Safari we were supposed to stay in a gated area.  Somehow our reservations were not found or it was too crowded or we were late or something.  We were separated to sleep in  different buildings outside the compound.  All night long I heard people chattering and moving about outside.  It was hard to sleep and I was not relaxed at all.  My imaginative mind decided that there were men visiting a building that had prostitutes. The next morning I discovered we were just across the way from a community washroom.  That seemed very boring in comparison to my imagination.

We had different accommodations. One night we were in a place where the lights went off automatically at ten.   Some time later I needed to use the facilities.  There is no place darker at night  than in an African village.  I had to walk with my hands stretched out in front of me. I moved while I rubbed my hands on the wall until I felt the door jamb.   I decided that I would remember this experience forever.  It was so completely without light because wherever we were all  electricity was completely shut down.  Kenya is near the equator so the sun rose at seven and went down at seven all year around. 

One night we stayed at a rather posh resort-like place.  There was even a restaurant.  The restaurant  was like any restaurant at home.  However, we were uncomfortable.  The other people staying there were all hunters talking about their big kills.  We told our guide  we wanted to have more simple accommodations. He was delighted that we felt that way.  We were going to stay one more night but he decided we would leave right away. We ended up in a primitive camp with no sign of any people nearby.  There was no one  there but us.  We cooked our own food (rather the guide and our travel agent did) and they told us that this was once a place where Queen Elizabeth  stayed when she was in Africa at the time her father died.  I am sure it was much fancier when she stayed there but it certainly did not look as nice as her dwellings did on the series "The Crown." In the morning while they cooked breakfast for us outside we could see the mountains.  Usually they were surrounded by clouds.  Although Kilimanjaro is actually in Tanzania, it is the highest mountain in Africa.  We watched the clouds begin to clear and we could see the famous Killy.  It was especially memorable because the date was July 4.

Our guide who really knew the animals and terrain of Africa was born and raised in South Africa. His family lived in the U.S. and he was in the process of becoming a U.S. citizen.  He said  the main reason he wanted to become a citizen was because of our U.S. Constitution.   I would love to see him now and find out what he thinks about the current threats to our Constitution. Ironically one of my social studies duties was to teach the Constitution to my seventh grade class.  Before a student in Illinois can go on to high school they have to pass a test on the U. S. Constitution.  They also have to pass a test for high school graduation. In fact, you can't teach in Illinois if you don't pass a test on the U.S Constitution and the Illinois Constitution.  So his talk of our Constitution really resonated with me.

My safari was over much too fast.  Some of the sights were breathtaking.  There were the crocodiles near streams.  They are so still they are difficult to see because they look like fallen logs in the water.  They are also very dangerous.  Luckily, we were with people who not only knew how to look for crocs but knew how to be safe around them.  Then there were the monkeys.  They were not cute.  They loved parking lots and were excellent at breaking into cars.  They would be after the food left there and it was so much easier to get food from a car rather than the jungle.   I loved the elephants best of all.  They just went about their business and completely ignored us.  

The landscape was gorgeous.  The people were friendly.  While in Nairobi we visited the Parliament.  One member spent a lot of time talking to us.  He was also interested in hearing about O. J. Simpson as that was around the time of his trial.  So that's how long ago I took that trip. I always thought I would go back but I never did. I made it to Morocco and Egypt which are also in Africa but completely different than Kenya in many ways.  All are trips worth taking though! 

What about the cannibals in the title of this epic journey?  Shucks, I was just trying to get you to read this.  Did it work?