Monday, April 23, 2018

The door is open

The song greeted me as soon as I opened the door. Open the door. Song. Close the door. Silence. I did that about five times then determined that indeed two birds were singing their little hearts out to the sun's warmth coupled with the smell of spring. Needless to say, the door stayed open.

Most of the country, including you on Neff Road, have had a long, cold winter. We in Oregon have had cool, rainy weather. And, contrary to belief, the weather here is not always rainy. In fact, Oregon is the 39th wettest state. So, for a state that had not met its needed rainfall this year, we found it all in April. On Wednesday when this column comes out, it is predicted to be 86 here. Where's my sunscreen!

The weather affected those in that house back the lane. Weather was often the topic of discussion. Farmers depend on good weather for healthy crops and money in the bank for the long winter. A dry year and plants struggle. I remember walking the field with a bucket of tobacco plants replacing those drooping and dying. Livestock seemed to feel the weather. Grazing land was sometimes meager. Rain kept animals in the barns. Farmers often could not plow due to wet fields. And erosion accompanied dry, windy weather. The land coupled with the weather either made it a year of bounty or a year of struggle. We creatures felt the fear of lean years, hoping to hang on until the weather changed.

I remember those nights lying in my bed just praying for a breeze to pass through the window. Just a faint breeze tickling the sheer curtains would have been a blessing. I tossed and turned finding sleep an allusive bedtime companion. In the winter, I prayed that the heat in the one radiator upstairs would reach my bedroom. Comforters piled high, I snuggled into a cocoon wishing for the days when I shared a bed with my sister June and had her warmth to keep me warm. The people in that house back the lane on Neff Road felt the weather even though we were sheltered.

The weather affects us all. Depression sets in when we have too much of any type of it. Grey days. Hot days. Snow that seems to never end. We hibernate waiting for spring. We hibernate waiting for a breeze. Rain comes as a relief. We smell it before the first drop strikes the earth. We stand in it and revel in the freshness we have missed.

After all those years of soaking up the sun, I find my skin damage makes me angry that we did not know that sun exposure was harmful. I now know that much of the illness I had as a child came from allergies and changes in barometric pressure that affect me. After all these years, I am very aware of how weather affects me. Weather. It affects all living creatures.

The weather is no longer ours to depend upon. Changes are happening, and we are learning how to adjust. Animals are disappearing as their environments change. Glaciers are disappearing. Water is rising. Island people are searching for places to move their tribes as their land disappears beneath the sea. The great coral reef is dying, not to be revived. The ocean warms and food sources for sea life suffocates. Satellites circle this ball we live on and track its changing surface. The change in climate will not go away.

So as I warm up this week, I will keep my mind on the big picture. Not everything is the way we want it to be, and we can't make it change. Well, we can. Maybe not a big change but making wise decisions on the way we live can allow us to be proactive.

National Geographic photographer Joel Sartore has been shooting Photo Ark (http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/rare/) for eleven years. He is capturing photos of animals endangered and those almost extinct. Those so rare that he must climb mountains and hike through impossible terrain to capture them. In many cases, they are the very last of their species. There are many fighting to save this planet. As we struggled on the farm wondering what the crops would do and if we could survive the winter on the productiveness of those crops, we have to wonder with the changes in the earth, how soon we will be on the extinction list. The extremes in weather, the rising and warming seas, the loss of incredible species are signs of the earth crying out. The question is, "Are we listening?"

The door is open.

Monday, April 16, 2018

Depth of field

There's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away.- Sarah Kay

We sat looking over the blue Pacific. Shades of blue melting together from shallow to deep. A slight wind pushing sailboats across the horizon as an occasional sea lion bobs to the surface then disappears. I missed our Oregon coastline on this beautiful ocean but savored our moments as we watched nothing but water, knowing that we were receiving a gift. A gift of the deep blue sea.

Loren was invited to participate in Rfotofolio Depth of Field at a gallery in Carmel, California. So we packed our bags, photographs and eagerness to get out of Oregon rain and headed to Monterey. Sometimes things work the way they are meant, and you don't quite get it until the moments have passed. Our three days in the beautiful sunshine were filled with such as these.

This new life of mine with this gentle spirited photographer is an adventure for both of us. He has the seeing eye of the camera, and I have the words to accompany his gift. We are an indomitable pair. Our conversations and observations definitely have depth of field. (Depth of field is the distance between the closest and farthest objects in a photo that appears acceptably sharp. For me, it narrows down the area that you look at in a normal view but what you might end up finally focusing on in a wider view.) I know Loren will correct me if I have this wrong. So where Loren focuses on life through a lens, I see it in all its possibilities.

Loren spent time with a very prestigious group of photographers, while I soaked up sun and visited with a very sweet lady named Sele. In a matter of minutes, we had covered life, politics, religion and relationships. On the surface we had nothing in common. Peel away the layers, and both our lives were enriched. I came away from that afternoon and evening with many new friends. Those I will in likelihood never see again. 

We enjoyed the beauty and uniqueness of Carmel then spent time at the Monterey Aquarium. In Carmel, we saw a town filled with beautiful buildings and people. In Monterey, we marveled at what lies beneath the beautiful, blue Pacific. We sat overlooking the ocean drawn into the sheer loveliness of it. We wondered what it would be like when the water begins to rise with global warming. We were concerned that the water temperatures are rising. What then of the lovely life that lives below that deep blue sea? This was a new depth of field. 

Our seats on the way home were on different sides of the plane. I was tired and not really wanting conversation. I heard Loren laughing across the aisle. He had made a new friend from Pátzcuaro, México, who was visiting in Portland. The young lady next to me finally made me talk (hard to believe, huh?). She is a preschool teacher from Vancouver. In just a few minutes, we were sharing pictures and stories, ways to engage young children, marriage and twins (her having a twin brother). Parting we finally exchanged names. Two more people we were gifted with to share our lives for just a bit of time. Our depth of field truly focused us in on people who were just part of the mass when we first boarded the plane.

What is your depth of field? What do you see when you focus on something that is near to you? Do you look beyond and find a new point of focus? Do you find something interesting or even life changing in the view? I learned a great deal about photography and people on this trip. I learned a great deal about me.

We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.- Mother Teresa

Monday, March 26, 2018

In your Easter basket

The smell of vinegar permeated the kitchen, along with the smell of freshly boiled eggs. Not really the smells we crave unless you are about nine years old. Lined up on one of her thin, white dish towels spread across the table top, Mom set the big, white coffee cups filled with boiling water and a bit of vinegar. June popped out the little red, yellow, orange, green and blue tablets, dropping them into the cups and cut designs from the waxy tissue paper imprinted with bunnies, baskets, chickies and perhaps a cute little duck. They also included an egg in those sweet pictures; it never made sense to me why you would imprint an egg on an egg. Nevertheless, the egg coloring event commenced.

I remember June taking the wax stick and imprinting our names on the eggs. We all had our favorite colors thus the name on the named egg met with the chosen colorful bath. She also tried her artistic hand at wax designs. Hers were much better than mine. Hard to draw on an oval egg held in a little hand when the egg rolls as you try to draw on it. Yes, Easter was once more alive in the Loxley kitchen.

Easter was always one of the main events in our family. The egg coloring was important. But one of the highlights for little me was the shopping trip to Greenville to find a new frock. To this day, I still remember the pink dress with the lace trim, the blue dress with a smocked top and the yellow dress with the full skirt. It tied in back. I always had a new chapeau. Well, it was probably the same hat hidden away each year. And, just maybe I got new shoes. It was a rare day when we got new clothes. Obviously true since I remember each and every one. It was the one day that I felt pretty.

As I grew older, I found that the sweetly dressed me discovered solace and warmth in that Easter congregation that surrounded me. It was different on this one Sunday of the year. We sang the hymns that had carried me throughout my life  (except when June told me that the words were "Up from the gravy He arose). The lilies in the church. The choir singing a choral cantata practiced for weeks just for this special day. We seemed to greet one another with a renewed love. Families had come from all over just to be with their own on Easter, so old friendships were embraced. The church rang with song and love.

Mom, of course, had dinner in the oven just waiting for us to return home. Easter was usually spent with the Johnson's, bringing their favorite dishes along for the celebratory meal. I have a picture of my niece Jobi and my cousin Sue when they were just little girls. In their hands were some of those colored eggs that left the adults with colored fingers.

I cannot look at an Easter without remembering those wonderful traditions and the people who shared them with me. The farm was coming alive with new buds on trees and bulbs promising to open just for this special day. New lambs were in the shed and soon baby chicks would join the menagerie. It was the birth of spring and the love of God for all.

Whatever your belief, I come not to ask you to celebrate Easter with me but to embrace the love that we are all reminded of and the birth of spring. As many the colors of eggs, be they one solid color or a beautiful mix of colors, they are all beautiful in that Easter basket, the unity of love. Today I am blue, red, orange, green and yellow. I am white, black, yellow, tan, slightly apricot and a whole lot love. Happy Spring. Happy Easter. Happy world of so many lovely colors.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

I belonged to it

The house was quiet with only the whispers of yesterdays tucked in closets and in each crevice of the house. No furniture slept quietly on the floors. No pictures hugged the walls. The smell of all those yesterdays remained but only that.

I don't know what it is that causes me to love that house so. The memories were both good and bad. The winters were cold within the walls of the bedrooms. The basement was often damp. Ash hung on the walls of the fireplace and the rock walls held the memories of children laughing. What causes one to love a house so dearly?

I cannot look at an old house without wondering who lived there. Even the old house we lived in had been built by someone else. It was not our house. We were just the next to love and cherish it. It had been remodeled, hence many of the sweet walls were gone with a remodel of an old house. Who were those first people. There were many bedrooms. Were they full? Did they choose to build there because it sat on a hill? Was it once surrounded by trees? Who dug the well and lit the first lamp.

Yes, I love old homes. They have personality and character. A charm surrounds them and even though they need work, the thrill of giving them new life is exciting. New additions, walls removed, a new bathroom or two, paper torn off and paint applied. Old creaky windows replaced with thermal panes. Storm doors and perhaps a bit more insulation. New siding replaces old and outdated. Carpet covers those once cold floors. The wash pan is replaced with a marvelous new dishwasher. Even a microwave hums in the corner. Clothes no longer hang on the line. Instead they are in the house in the fluff cycle. A bathtub is added to delight the woman of the house.

Yes, I grew up in that house. I walked the rooms on that last day memorizing the feel, the smell, the shadows and mysteries played out within those walls. There I could hear my mother's voice and feel the presence of Dad. Memories of childhood were stored there. The essence of who I am would always stay there. I would take a bit with me, but the love of those walls would always possess me.

My children have memories of the house. My grandchildren have no idea where it is or what it meant to me. It belongs to me and I to it. Creaking boards, rattling windows and rain on a tin roof. My heart warms and yearns at the thought. Home. Forever in my heart.

Monday, March 5, 2018

Women of the land

Up early to cut the bacon from the slab and set it to frying. Breakfast for Dad who had already gone to the barn to feed the animals and get prepared for the days work in the field. Children wander in sleepy from a dark night's sleep drawn to the kitchen by the smells of breakfast, hoping that maybe mush would be on the morning menu. Beds were made, laundry started. A child followed Mom to the hen house to help gather eggs. Baking commenced and preparations for lunch, feeding Dad and the hands. A chicken killed, dressed and in the skillet. Potatoes peeled and beans gathered from the garden. A pie sat cooling. It was nearly eleven in the morning.

Hands fed, children off to play, laundry hung on the line, hoeing the garden and taking in what was ready. Canning jars sat in the garage. Mom paused her day to take a little something to the field for the men to eat. Sometimes she even drove the tractor. When we raised tobacco, she worked in the fields and in the strip shed while continuing her daily routine. Her day was finished when we were all fed. It was evening, and she could finally sit down and rest.

In Mom's spare time, she gave all she could to the church. She cleaned it, taught, sang in the choir and sometimes directed it. She played the piano and lead the youth group and young marrieds. She babysat for all the neighbors and took in anyone who needed a home. She never thought of herself or allowed herself to be tired.

My mother was remarkable. Farm women are remarkable. They work all day long and give their families every bit of themselves. In olden days, they helped a neighbor prepare a deceased loved one for viewing. They sometimes helped with a birth at home. They worked the fields and were always available for their husbands. They could plow the field, reap a crop, bend over the dirt for hours and chase cows. They knew how to milk those cows and could help a ewe lamb. They made bread, they slaughtered chickens, they beat rugs with a rug beater and stuffed down comforters. They cooked on a wood stove and wove rugs. They could ride a horse and hitch a buggy. They could lift a bale and feed a lamb from a bottle. They bore child after child and lost often. They climbed out of the birthing bed and went back to work.

Farm women never leave their job. They are remarkably strong. They don't wait to see what must be done. They just do it. Never do they ask for anything, because they know they have everything in the world just outside their back door. The flowers they grow and the seedling they see pushing through the earth give them pleasure. They love deeply because of this life lived where work and family are a twenty-four hour a day blessing.

Today I salute farm women. I honor them for their strength, their goodness, their dedication to their land and their families. You are quite marvelous, you women of the land. Oh, yes, you are.

Sunday, February 25, 2018

Like a poorly written novel

The stories we don't tell. This history hidden away in diaries and old letters. Scattered remarks that make you want to know more. However, sometimes we do not realize until it is too late that there is no one left to fill in the blanks.

Our family had so many stories with no followup. We had our share of black sheep and shady history. Not that our family was all that unusual (well, maybe it was).  My parents' day and age was tougher. There were fewer people and maybe strangers on horses passed through, stopping at a grandmother's door asking for a meal. Maybe a relative had a terrible accident falling off a chair, hanging herself. Funny thing that the chair was against the wall.

Sometimes I think I should delve deeper, visiting archives in order to find out what I can about those incomplete stories. These things sound like some poorly written novel, but then it was a rougher time. In many homes and neighborhoods women had no voice and children were not cherished. The generations of settling things consisted of a rod, a whip or maybe even a fist. Gentleness was considered weakness and free thinking was unheard of. So stories were written. A woman found at the bottom of the basement stairs. Oh, found by the husband at the top of the stairs. A woman found dead in an outbuilding after days after the postman tried to deliver a registered letter. A theft and a war. A history where no one talked. Not in the home. Not to neighbors. Children terrified to be in the house. Children terrified to leave the house. It was a different time when the family stories were buried beneath silence and fear.

As that silent child who heard everything, I learned about the history of the neighborhood along with the gossip. The secrets covered up so long ago surfaced. The adults around me laughed and told more details, according to the age they were when events happened. A new history, one not written down, came into my life. It was colorful and sometimes disturbing. Still I did not ask the questions that now my sister and I debate. Maybe this is part of the reason I write. I open those doors and look for answers. Maybe I even challenge you to do the same.

 In one of my mother's journals, she relates a story that I heard over and over in my childhood. My Aunt Iva was Mom's oldest sister and just about as wild as they came (according to the family). I think I would have liked her, but I never had a chance.  She died in 1940 under suspicious circumstances.

Mom's journal entry:

After my sister Iva graduated from grade school, she went to Dayton and got her a job. And she met a man from Chicago. She would come home sometimes on weekends and one Saturday she came and was in a Chrysler car and we had never seen them. Her beau asked me if I'd like to take a ride and I said yes. When we were riding, he told me his name was Bugs Moran, a Chicago gangster. I didn't know what that was. So after they went back to Dayton, I asked my dad what a gangster was. He never brought Iva home again.

Colorful and crazy. I think perhaps my family was a bit more colorful than most, but then, what's a writer to do?

Monday, February 19, 2018

You can do it

Canasta. Euchre. Uncle Wiggley. Scrabble. Games. We all grew up with them, didn't we? Well, let me tell you that being the youngest was not all that great back the lane on Neff Road. Coming along late in life, I was often alone. Had it not been for my relatives and neighbors, I would not have known what it was to play a game or to have an adult play with me. Mom and Dad were great parents, but they were busy with the youth group and my older sisters. I was the tag-along.

However, I was given a wonderful gift by this alone time. I developed a wonderful imagination. And, by tagging along, I learned to observe. See, being shy has advantages. You get to be invisible thus giving you opportunity to learn by what you see. You pick up little things that outgoing people miss. You learn to listen to adult conversation. You learn to play independently. You learn to create your own world of imagination.

I didn't really realize this wonderful gift I was given until I became a parent. It was then that I found my voice. It was then that I opened that box of wonderful ideas that had hidden so deeply in my past. My home filled with musical instruments and no holds barred on the handling of them. I gathered art supplies for everything from coloring and cutting to painting and creating. Those observations I had as a child showed me what I missed. I determined that my children and theirs would never lack for creative outlet. They have been exposed to concerts, plays, museums and other events. Throughout all of this, conversations and a closeness develop. With stepping into a world of creativity, windows are opened into what is possible.

I was at the end of the kid line in our family, but the experiences (as well as lack of) made me into who I am today and gave me insight to offer my family more.

What has made your heart sing? It is never too late, you know. Those of you who worked hard all of your lives and put off trying something new, do it now. Maybe you  were shy and silent. Find your voice. You can't fail. You only fail when you don't try. Too old to try to paint, write, draw, sing, dance? No, never too old. The beauty of being older is that you learn that you cannot embarrass yourself. You do not need to be perfect. You can try anything you have wanted to try and not go through life wondering if you could have done it. You can open doors for the children in your life by your example.

So today, I hand you your dream. I challenge you to take that first step. Perhaps it will be a new beginning. I know you will find joy. Go for it!

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Love comes in remembering

Focusing on Valentine's Day just around the corner, once again I turn to love. Nothing could be more worthy of my attention.

Yes, it was long ago that I was a child back that lane on Neff Road, but there are things that crop up from those years that almost catch me breathless. Little acts of love that I had forgotten or taken for granted. We sat at the table ready to eat. I usually sat by Dad. He would cut up my food (an act of love) and tuck the napkin into the neck of my shirt. Wow, I had forgotten about that tuck. My small frame dwarfed by the large piece of cloth placed there to keep me a bit neater, placed there by hands that loved me. Love comes in a piece of cloth.

Mom loved to make her pies saving the scraps for a very special reason. She squished the odds and ends together then rolled them out with her old rolling pin. She dusted the dough with sugar and cinnamon then rolled the dough tightly finally cutting the pieces into small rounds. After baking these to a soft brown, she gave the hot, little rolls to her children. We were at her elbows through the entire process. Sometimes she allowed us to complete the process on our own. I think she enjoyed seeing her daughters learn the beginnings of baking. She loved to give us sweets from her hands. Love comes from flour and a rolling pin.

Doris Lavy watched over me. She sat on the porch and watched for me from my earliest memories to the last when I came as an adult. Margaret Stager saw me in her house almost as much as she saw her own children. She was my other mom who scolded me as well as loved me. I never doubted these neighbor women's love for me. Love comes from the front porch.

Aunt Welma Johnson played cards with me, made cookies with me and allowed me to play beauty parlor as I combed her hair. She taught me what it was like to have the complete attention of an adult. Aunt Kate Loxley taught me about respect. She loved me with all her heart from the beginning until the end. Uncle Phil Barnhart took time with a little girl answering her questions and listening as no other adult ever did. Love comes in the interaction with adults.

I laid my head across the front seat, resting my head on Dad's lap and my feet on Mom's. (good way to get your head crushed) We often took to the road on a Sunday afternoon. Love comes in the touch of a hand.

My sister June was the other part of me from my childhood to now. She teased me and loved me by those very actions. Even though years parted us, our hearts grew closer together. Geneva Lavy Yoder held me when my father passed. She loves me like a sister and perhaps holds that other part of my heart. Love comes in the embrace of a sister.

A napkin tucked, a mother's purse filled with wonderment for a little girl wiggling on a church pew, a voice raised along with your own song, a mother's hands on a rolling pin covering those of her daughter, a few coins tied in the corner of a handkerchief, a large sugar cookie straight from the oven, a string and a Cat's Cradle, a licked finger wiping a bit of chocolate from a cheek, a large hand lifting some leaves to reveal baby bunnies, a hand reaching out to hold your own, all of those little things we knew but didn't understand as the ways of love. Love comes in quiet moments.

Little things do reflect love. Truly I believe they are the reasons we all try to stay in contact by mail, Facebook, all those ways of saying I love you. I remember. Pictures of the old neigborhood from Janet Rhoades, a letter in the mail from Janet Douglass filling me in on the family news, Cousin Patra Loxley Sengsy finding me after all these years, reconnecting with the Eliker kids, Linda Newbauer, friends from high school and relatives and friends after years and miles of separation. A column for the local paper and old friends. Love comes in remembering.

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Beating of the human heart

tick tock, tick tock, tick tock....
tick-tock (dictionary.com) 
noun: A clock; also, by extension, the human heart

The sound of a clock ticking drew my attention to the TV. I was thrown back to another 'time'.  I landed in Pop and Mom Johnson's living room. The clock ticked and tocked throughout my childhood. A sound that was soothing, relaxing. A sound that was so familiar that I do nothing else but remember.

When I was a child, clocks were a part of the sounds in a household. They chimed, they tick tocked, they played music and sometimes they mesmerized a little girl as she watched the gold pendulum swing back and forth. Mantel clocks, pocket watches, huge wall clocks that hung in banks and other city buildings. In some homes, Cuckoo clocks announced the hour. Small figures danced around the bottom of those same clocks.

I remember walking into a jewelry store and hearing the clocks on the walls playing tick tock tunes so randomly that one could get lost in the chaos. Yet when the hour arrived, they played in unison. Some clocks were part of bronze sculptures, while others were merely clock faces with no adornments. 

Then came digital. Hm. The numbers glowed and the tick tocking ceased. The lovely wall clock was obsolete and the mantel clock became an antique. The grandfather clock seamed incongruous with modern interiors. Clocks were seen less in businesses, probably in hopes that customers would shop longer if not watching a clock. Indeed employees would work harder. Now the clock resides in our phones. More arms are free of watches and the tick tocks I listened to on Daddy's watch are now silent.

I have a mantle clock that doesn't work, but it reminds me of another time and of other people. The large key that opens it is a treasure in itself. It holds a history of other hands winding the gears, keeping time on time. An action that began the tick tocking for another day. An action that probably was accompanied by putting out the lights, checking the children and saying good night. 

For those of us who are older, we have memories of places and of people stirred by the sound of one of those old clocks. Today that ticking and tocking took me back to the farm on Yount Road. A trip home to visit my grandparents once more. A sound of a clock...and the beating of the human heart.

Sunday, January 7, 2018

A noble cause

Standing sentry over my little domain, it gave its life and limbs. The noblest of nobility. The beauty of the holidays greeted me and held me wrapped in delight each time I looked at my lovely Christmas tree. Indeed it brought new life to my home.

Trees. They have indeed been a huge part of my life. With Dad and his family being true naturalist, at an early age, I learned to love trees. I embraced many a tree in Dad's company. His explanations of bark, leaf and bloom gave me the backstory on every type of tree on the farms on Neff Road and Byreley. Moss and lichen, toad stools and mushrooms, woodpecker holes and birds' nests were all part of my earliest education. Dad knew his trees, and I was the blessed recipient of his wisdom.

I never had a tree house. Oh, how I would have loved to play in one. A few curtains. An old fruit box. I believe I could even have fashioned a lift so my faithful dog could be part of the fun. Perhaps the tree house could have become a pirate ship. An old pipe from the brooder house would make a fine cannon. A bit of old tin would make a great wall. A couple of tobacco lath for swords, a red handkerchief, and a patch over one eye, and Captain No Beard would be on her way. Ah, the dreams of a little girl without a tree house.

We picked pears and apples off the trees. A bucket of apples fell out of a tree cracking my head open. I sat in the shade of the mulberry tree.  I played on hug rocks beneath trees and swung from a trapeze hanging from a tree. My horse about knocked my head off under a low limb. Lavy's had two trees that passed lightning from one to the other. An old tree rested comfortably for years in the creek bottom. A few initials were carved there. My dad carved he and mom's initials in a tree in the catalpa row. A tree had fallen over in the old pond where Dad said the bass were ever present. Dad chopped down trees to build the barn. I sat on many a teeter totter that was made with a board from a tree. Fire wood burned in our fireplace, in bonfires and in the tobacco strip shed. Trees enriched our lives.

Yes, it was time to take down the Christmas tree. The sweet noble hadn't dropped a needle and was as fresh as the day I got it. I said farewell to this sweet tree. I knew it was raised on a tree farm to be chopped down, yet it was sad to see it give its life for my delight. I was blessed to have this beautiful tree for a couple weeks. I celebrated the holiday as it looked on. Boy Scouts picked up my tree and had it ground up. Perhaps it will be return back to where its roots began. Good bye, dear noble. Your time with me was a noble cause.