Gainsborough Street

Back in the day, there was an expression ....."Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll." But if you loved folk music, there was a variation..... "Music, sex and cookies."

When I think about the folk music that I love so dearly, I think of Dylan, Phil Ochs, Tom Paxton, Christine Lavin, Elizabeth Cotton, Steve Goodman, Arlo Guthrie and Tom Lehrer .... from protest songs to satire and everything in between. And I think of a time when there was a war going on. We lived in a Back Bay apartment then, two rooms and a Murphy bed. We listened to the clarinet player across the alley practicing at all hours of the day and night. We watched the cat sit on the window sill and coo at the pigeons. Evenings, the front steps of all the buildings would fill up with the eccentric and colorful people that made up the neighborhood. We ate at small out of the way places, things like fondue and cheap wine. We watched protesters gather and the police break them up. We wore jeans and beads and long hair and thought we would live and love forever. We were young and idealistic, dedicated and driven. We were youth, the hope of tomorrow.

It was the night after the Kent State shootings and there were more people out then usual. They were drinking wine, some were smoking a little dope, most were gathered in small groups around portable radios. Snatches of conversations drifted by and bits of music. Sheets turned into banners and painted with slogans - Peace Now! - hung from open second and third story windows. It was a still May night, the best kind of New England spring evening. We were a neighborhood united and promise was everywhere.

We heard the police before we saw them.

It began as a distant sound not unlike the low rumble of thunder but there was a cadence to it, steady and quick. Heads began to turn toward the sound, trying to identify it. It became sharper, louder and clearer. People began to clear the street and move upwards on their steps, some sort of left over 60's instinct, I suppose. We all looked toward Huntington Avenue, expectant and a little anxious. No one was prepared for a phalanx of police in full riot gear, marching shoulder to shoulder the width of the street. Their boots were shined, visors pulled over their faces, row upon row upon row. It was an awesome sight.

They passed without incident, no one broke ranks, no one looked sideways and no one changed pace. On the street, no one spoke or jeered, no bottles were thrown. We felt them and the street went into slow motion then froze. It wasn't respect or fear precisely, we were more stunned than anything else. This was a show of force and power the likes of which most of us had never encountered in real life.

That spring passsed into summer and summer into fall. Eventually the snow came, an endless cycle of digging in and digging out. Perpetual cold forced us inward and inside. Streets were often impassable, snow emergencies common, cars were buried under snowdrifts so deep they were unrecognizable. There was no place to get warm.

These days that street has been transformed. The apartment buildings have been converted to luxury condominiums and the neighborhood is exclusive and reeks with the prestige of the wealthy. Classical music and standard poodles reign and in winter the plows lift their blades around the carefully parked expensive cars.

It is, as my cousin Linda wrote, a lesson about the transformation, survival and the mystery of life. The music changes but it plays on.

Meaning What You Say

I'd found the baby raccoon out in the country and carried him to my vet's in a cooler. Doc opened it and as he was reaching in said "The secret to not being bitten by a raccoon is to close your fist." That baby animal took one look and latched onto his fist with everything he had. Doc shook him off in a shower of blood and with his other hand reached for a towel. "Well," he said with a resigned shake of his head, "Maybe that was horses."

The voice on the other end of the 'phone said "Is Pat there?"
Feeling a little more literal than usual, I said "Yes."
There was silence, considerable silence until I said "Did you want to talk to her?"
And without the slightest hesitation the voice said "No, I'm taking a survey."
Dial tone.

My friend Henry answered the 'phone sounding harrassed and busy. I said "Do you have a second?" And without missing a beat, he said "A second what?"

I envy quick minds and quick wits.

Zero Tolerance

My mother used to buy pre-done needlework. She would work the background and then take credit for the entire piece. The walls in the house held a number of paint by numbers pictures, all of which she claimed to have done herself. She began drinking in the mornings before we left for school - sherry, in a faded coffee cup - graduated to beer by lunch - and icebox manhattens in the afternoons. Regular as clockwork.

Supper was at six and you were never late because late didn't fit into her schedule. Conversation was limited and most nights it was just a prelude to whatever explosion had been scheduled for after supper. She would pick at her food, planning her moment and ever so gradually let the tension build. Dad would be resigned, knowing that he could escape back to work if it got too bad. I would pray silently that he'd take me with him.

The fight would go on well into the night, some version of no one loved her, she was too unhappy, he was a failure and how she wished she'd never married him or had kids. He rarely responded to any of it and eventually she would wear herself out.
They went to their separate corners and after she was asleep, he would come to my room and tell me not to worry, she was not well, she had a difficult life, he'd been a disappointment to her, she was unhappy. It was almost like a lullabye.

There might be a day or two or relative peace before it began again, there might not. Some nights he would pack us all up and take us back to work with him. Some nights he would take us to my grandmother's. Some nights, we just went driving in whatever direction suited him , staying out until he thought it was safe to go home.

He did his best, did what he thought was right at the time. He used the tools he had - self sacrifice, secrecy, and denial. He made exuses for her, blamed himself. If there was a road to least resistance, he always found it. And I thought he was a hero,
could not imagine that he would ever turn on me. We had made an alliance against her and it held for years. When I said I could not, would not see her again, he was hurt and he asked me to reconsider. I said no.

When her cancer was diagnosed it was far too late for any hope of treatment or recovery. Dad called to tell me and although I heard the words, heard the pain in his voice and wanted to feel something, I didn't. He said she wanted to see me, wanted to reconcile. I said no. And very slowly, very reluctantly, he said that if I refused to see her, then he would refuse to see me, that the only thing that mattered now was that she was dying, that she had to have whatever she wanted and what she wanted was to see her daughter. I said no and that was the last conversation we ever had. A few weeks later, he had a friend call to let me know she had died. I was set free.

He remarried not too long after my mother's death and I was glad. I hope that he was set free as well.

A Passing Storm

The music had already started when I walked in. I spoke to some friends, got a coke, and found a table in front. It was around the third song when I was blindsided by a wave of sadness that came from nowhere and pulled me under.

I tried to think it through. I was somehere I wanted to be, hearing the music I love best, watching musicians I love best. I had walked in happy, ready to listen and take pictures and suddenly I realized I was almost in tears. It didn't make any sense.

The feeling stayed with me through the entire first set and the second and the third. It intensified but got no clearer. I tried to shake it off, tried getting angry, tried analyzing, but the harder I struggled, the harder it held on. Hormones, I thought. A little left over menopause, I thought. This is too silly, I thought. I finally picked up my camera and began focusing on the musicians and willing myself to hear the music. During a break, my friend Aj found me. He took hold of my wrists, looked me straight in the eyes and asked what was wrong. And panic set in. I gave him a quick hug, assured him I was fine, just fine, and ran.

Once home, I crawled into the couch and pulled the blanket over my head. The small dog arrived, dug her way under and nestled up against me. When I began to cry, she looked at me then worked her way up til she was resting her head against my arm. Warm and secure, we both fell asleep to the dialogue of "The Maltese Falcon". Dreams came and went - fragments of the evening, the music, and snatches of dialogue from whatever was on the television. There is always some reality in dreams but it's jumbled and mixed up with other thoughts and different times and it rarely makes sense. In between dreams I was aware of a small, warm body curled up against me and I thought of all the times I'd had to hold her and stroke her, talk to her softly and reassure her. Not so very different than humans when they are frightened or hurt or alone or just sad.

Beginnings and endings are different parts of the same journey. Over the course of a lifetime, each will lead to the other and back again in an endless cycle of repetition. Ride them out and all will be well.

Fisherman's Watch

His name was John Sullivan but we all called him Long John Silver. He and his brother kept their fishing boat just across the road from us in a place we were forbidden to go and where we naturally spent as much time as possible. He was a large man and usually a silent one. Early every morning he and brother headed out to sea and late every afternoon they returned, unloaded their catch, and pulled the old boat ashore. Late at night we could see the glow of soft, yellow lights and - very faintly - hear music coming from the boat. Sea songs, mostly and occasionally, one of the old Baptist hymns that we sang in church.

Every Saturday night, Long John trudged across the road to our house. He carried a yoke with a bucket on either side and walked slowly and patiently, the measured steps of a man who is accustomed to the path. My grandmother would be at the screen door in the back of the house and as he passed she would nod to him and say "Evenin', John." and he would stop, put down the yoke, tip his cap and reply "Evenin', m'am." and then resume his pace. His objective was the well where he would fill both buckets, replace the yoke on his shoulders and carry the water back the way he had come. To wash with, cook with, I never knew but it was a Saturday night ritual and it never varied.

On Sunday afternoons John and his brother worked on their nets. They would sit on overturned kegs and repair the tears, replace the hooks. Both wore fishing boots with the tops turned down, flannel shirts over
long underwear and ragged, faded trousers. They rarely spoke or acknowledged us except for the now and again reprimand " Mind yer footin' there, missy." When the nets were baited and ready for the next day, John would pull out his pipe or his tobacco and papers and lean back against the shack and smoke silently while he looked out across the water.

He was doing just that when I stepped on the nail. It went clear through my foot and I went down in a tangle of old boards and fishing line, screaming bloody murder and terrified. John was on his feet in an instant and I was being carried in his arms the next. He produced bandages and disinfectant, extracted the nail in one swift gesture, wrapped the wound and carried me to the doctor's house up island - all in perfect silence. And then he carried me home. Just before we came in sight of the house he said very quietly, "You'll not be tellin' yer folks about this, missy...it were my fault."

News travels fast in small fishing villages, even ones without telephones and as my mother was on the mainland that night, my grandmother met us at the back door. John carried me into the sunporch, had a hushed and brief conversation with Nana and was gone. The incident was never mentioned again. I spent a few days inside, and although we had more visitors than usual for the next week, John Sullivan wasn't one of them.

Protectors of children are everywhere in this world. They find you when you need them the most.

Life's Lessons

The gray cat wrapped herself around the top of the fence post and glared down at the small brown dog. She was being intentionally spiteful, knowing full well that she was out of reach. The dog was a whirlwind of excitement, pawing the fence, barking hysterically, dancing on her back legs, wagging her tail. This was not one of her cats and she was joyfully overcome by the prospect of a new friend.

The cat appeared to see the situation somewhat differently. There was hostility in her yellow eyes, defiance in each quick whiplash of her tail, contempt in her body language but no sign of fear.

The small dog continued her frantic dance. Branches bent and dead leaves scattered beneath her paws. The cat continued to stare menacingly but made no move to join the game or to run. After several more minutes, the dog gave out and sunk to her belly in the leaves, breathing hard and cocking her head up with bewilderment and hope. The cat, sensing victory, slowly got to her feet, yawned, and with one brisk, dismissive switch of her tail was gone.

The small dog stood up and shook off the grass and leaves. Without so much as a backward glance, she trotted toward the back door, the brief encounter already a fading memory. Game over and everybody won.

You don't have to go to every arguement you're invited to.

Plan B

I'm a twelve stepper.

I grew up with alcoholism and later married it. It felt like going home because it was so familiar but actually it was no more than sickness calling to sickness. About ten years in, I was weary, used up, broken and desperate. I couldn't see a way out or a way to stay and I was too afraid to run. The man I'd married had turned into a stranger who had three personalities - drunk, getting over being drunk, or getting ready to get drunk. I'd protected and covered for him so long that it was second nature but the money was gone and the promises were stale. Everything was at risk. The next lie, I told myself, will be the last.

Plan B was Al Anon. I was so ashamed to be there and so scared that it was all I could do to get out my name. I listened though and I learned two vital things - I wasn't alone in this insanity, that in itself was like setting down a knapsack of bricks - and I wasn't losing my mind. I didn't much like most of what I heard because no one seemed to be offering me a plan to cure him. They seemed to be suggesting that I would have to be the one to change.

I hated change. I hated looking inward for solutions. And I went back the next week because when I left, I felt the slightest stirring of something that might've been hope.

He went through rehab twice but it never took. We had a few superficially good months during which time I ignored my instincts and refused to listen to that nagging little voice that kept saying "You're being had again." The end came when I opened a little used cabinet and came across a paper bag of empty beer cans. At first I mercifully went into mild shock. Then I broke down and completely unraveled. Then and only then, I got angry but it was a cold kind of rage, a sort of purposeful fury than lends itself well to the gathering of strength and resolve.

It wasn't an amicable ending. There were restraining orders and changed locks, police came and went, and I spent far too many sleepless nights. It was a painful and hateful time, far too reminiscent of childhood. Memories of my family intruded into my dreams at night and haunted me during the days. Healing came slowly and even now those old wounds can still be opened if I don't pay attention.

It's often hard to let go. Detachment can feel like abandonment and bring on guilt. Depair is so much easier to embrace than hope. In a way, we become the choices we make, so........... resent or forgive? Accuse or understand? Control or let go? Suffer or celebrate?

Sometimes it's as simple as getting out of your own way.

A Blues Story

My cousin Linda - in her own right, an amazing woman, strong in her beliefs and proof that you can live your faith - asked me to contribute to her blog. I wrote a true story about the healing power of music and what follows is that story. It's a thank you to all the musicians in my life.

After my second marriage failed, I decided to retire from the world for awhile and spend a little time with myself.
I didn't plan on it becoming a habit or a way of life but several years passed and I found myself going to work and coming home. I slept in between without having to answer the 'phone or talk to anyone or see anyone. I re-read my favorite books, watched old movies, listened to old music and tended my animals. I dug in. And eventually I built a wall around myself and my heart and felt secure.

Someone I worked with persuaded me to go to the opening of a bar she and her husband had bought, I said yes because I was weary of saying no and she wouldn't stop nagging. I planned a quick entrance and a quicker
exit - the thought of a crowd was paralyzing to me - way outside what had become my comfort zone. I was
about to leave when the music started. It was old Delta blues and something about it caught my ear. I turned to look at the stage and saw nothing remarkable, a blues band with guitar, bass, drums, keyboard and harmonica.
They were playing tight, easy with each other and never missing a note. To my surprise I found myself sitting back down - it was music I hadn't heard for years, hadn't even thought about in years and when I heard the first notes of the harmonica it was as if a a lighthouse beam was shining and pulling me in. When the vocals began, I was lost and I knew it.

If there really are crossroads where you make a life altering decision in a heartbeat, on an impulse you can't even explain to yourself, I found myself at one. The music reached inside me where no one was allowed to go and it took hold. Not only could I not leave, I didn't want to. I forgot about where I was, forgot about protecting myself, forgot about the fact that I was surrounded by people.

The next weekend, I found myself standing in front of a bar... shaking with self consciousness and fear, convinced that I was about to do the most foolish thing of my entire life and not able to resist. I'd never walked into a bar alone in my life and had never intended to. But I could hear the music, I could hear the sweet sound of that harp. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let the music in.

A blues band and a harmonica player saved my life. The music led me back and has since led to other music,
other musicians, festivals, concerts, jams...to friends and a life outside myself. Needing a way to say thank you, I began taking pictures again. I shoot musicians wherever they play. And the people and places and things that I love. Music brought me back from a dark place and the blues showed me the way.

The Journey of Friendship

There are not enough truly brave people in the world.

We have more than our share of heros - 911 comes to mind - but the everyday brave people, the people who struggle each day to show up and do their best despite the odds....they don't make headlines. My friend Tricia is one of those people. She lost her parents and only sister in a tragic car accident when she was in school. She survived cancer and then lost her husband to it. She's brought three children, all shining and strong, into adulthood.


We don't spend as much time together as we used to - we have separate lives and obligations, lots of common interests but lots of different ones as well. We're older and wiser, at least we hope so, but we still share mutual friends and enemies, we both like life to be little on the solitary side, we remember needlepointing and weekends at the lake and trips to market and dinners with friends. We remember when there four of us ... when there were red beans and rice parties and crawfish boils. Life, however, is not stagnant. We grow, adapt, change, reevaluate and move on. Children change us, divorce changes us and
death changes us. But still we stay connected, Tricia and I, connected and grounded.

Through the years that we've known each other, we've worked together often and unlikely as it seems, always managed to do it successfully. She has children, I have none. She saves everything, I save nothing. She likes to cook, I rely on fast food. She reads paperbacks, I read hardbacks. She knows every back road and will stop at nothing to avoid a traffic light. I travel at right angles. She embraces technology and I resist it. She's perpetually late and last minute, I'm hopelessly early and too well prepared. She drinks Dr. Pepper, I drink diet Coke. She's not a morning person and I am. She likes quiet and I like noise. I read British novels and she has no use for them.

Friendship is a product of shared experience, of commonalities and differences blended togther. When someone knows your sins and secrets and loves you anyway, you won't find a better friend.

Piano Man

My daddy was a musician of sorts. He played in a band in the Canadian Armed Services, and later formed a quartet that sang a little of everything. He taught me to play the piano and though I never had his gift and can only remember a handful of songs, I can still remember how I loved for him to show me things and how he laughed when I "jazzed things up".

He played piano mainly and his record collection included a lot of Dixieland, Nova Scotia folksongs, British satirists like Flanders and Swann, Pete Fountain, musicals, and gospel. He had grown up poor and had a finely tuned sense of appreciation for everything. For years he would tape a music program from the local public radio station and send me the tapes. We were both huge fans of Prarie Home Companion and he made tapes of all those shows as well. Simply put, he loved music and taught me to love it as well. And he was tolerant - always willing to listen to anything even when it just hurt his ears. Rock and roll was pretty much of a mystery to him but he never condemned it and I think now that he heard in music what I hear in blues - something that stirred his soul, comforted him, coaxed out his feelings and articulated what he couldn't put into words.

We were estranged when he died and I only learned of his death from my cousin, Linda. He remarried not long after my mother's death and I never got to meet his second wife. I would've liked to apologize to her for the way my brothers treated
her. I would've liked to tell her that I was glad they had found each other. I would've liked the chance to explain what had caused the rift in my family and why I felt I couldn't be the one to repair it. But some wounds don't heal, and some amends can't be made. So I choose to remember my daddy and I side by side on a piano bench, laughing and improvising "Sweet
Georgia Brown".

Music is every bit as essential to me now as it was then - a world without it would be silent, colorless, and nearly pointless.
I depend on it to heal, to lift my spirits, to make bad days evaporate, to help me appreciate the sound and feel of it and those who make it. Music calls to me and thanks to my daddy, I hear it.

Salt water and Rainbows

An island is a good place to grow up.

My island was in Nova Scotia and it was always more home than anyplace I've ever been. Every Memorial Day, we would pack up my grandmother's Lincoln Contintental - kids, dogs, American cigarettes and the like - and drive off. Every Labor Day, we would pack it up again to come home. In between were some of the happiest times of my life.

It was a small island. A church, a bank, a closet sized post office, a picture show and dance hall, a barber shop that was only open on Saturday nights, a one room schoolhouse, and two small general stores that doubled as social clubs. You could buy canned goods, milk in bottles, notions, penny candy, flour, but no meat and no liquor. Meat came from the truck that made it's rounds once a week from the mainland and you had to go to the mainland for liquor or you had to know how to locate the nearest still. My grandmother stoked a cast iron wood stove every morning for cooking and heating, water was drawn from a well, and every Monday was wash day, rain or shine. You could earn a quarter for filling the wood box. When the boats came in late in the afternoon, you could take another quarter and bring home supper right off the boats. Bedtime was eight o'clock every night, precisley when the red light in the lighthouse came on.

Our house sat right on the ocean, only the front yard which led all the way to the road and the road itself were between us and the water. Across the channel, you could see the next island unless of course we were fogged in and then you couldn't see
your outstretched hand. The foghorn sometimes sounded all day and all night for a week or two at a time and then the sun would suddenly be there one morning and everything would look new and clean and so beautiful that it took your breath away. You could taste salt water in the air and see rainbows.

We played everywhere - on the rocks and around the fishing shacks, in the fields where the dried fish was laid out, on the breakwaters, in the hidden coves that were "up island". The dogs would curl up outside the back door and sleep all day in the sunshine and we'd pick wild strawberries from the field beside the driveway or blackberries from the patch around the flagpole.
We climbed the mountains of wood in the woodshed or listened to old 45's on the sunporch while we played cards or read or wrote letters home. There were Sunday School picnics and softball games after church and the house was always full of people. My great grandmother's wake was held in the living room.

Later on, I smoked my first cigarette there. Had my first drink. Played my first game of Spin the Bottle on the steps in the town square, had my first date, first kiss, first proposal and first broken heart. We would sit on the steps and sing while the heat lightning cracked over the water and then all pile into an old pick up truck and drive up to a pasture to neck and watch the stars and listen to the ocean. It was all magical and in memory becomes even more so.

Everybody should have a magic place to remember and dream about.

No Place to Put the Dirt

I've never been much for gardening - when push comes to shove, I'll take white gravel and pink flamingos anyday -
but I live in the South and women are supposed to garden. It's supposed to be about heritage and image but I wonder if maybe we just like to dig holes. We all do it in life often enough and as I approach my 58th birthday, it seems to be on my mind more often than not. I suppose when we give up the idea that life will last forever and that there will always be time for everything - to apologize, hear the music, hug a friend, stroke a cat, laugh,
shed real tears, make love, create time for ourselves, pray, reach out - that's when we realize exactly how precious and how brief life really is.

Live, love, laugh, and be grateful. Every day really is a gift. And if you find yourself in a hole, remember that there are two ways out. You can dig or you can climb but digging is going to take a long time and there's no place to put the dirt. If you climb, you're much more likely to find an outstretched hand to help you up.

July 10, 2006

The Five O'clock Shipment

A customer stands across the counter from me, looking expectant. I smile and ask how I can help. "What time does the 5 o'clock shipment come?" the customer asks. I covertly glance at my watch to confirm that it's 3:45 and give myself time to cast about for a suitable answer, knowing I'll not find one. There's no good way out of this.
"Same time as the 5 o'clock news." Sarcastic, even if I smile.
"In about an hour and a quarter." Just as bad, even if I smile.
"Same time as always, 5 o'clock." Snippy and abrupt. And they'll think I've already heard this a dozen times just today. Which, of course, I have. But I live in the south and have learned a little about language arts ... you can say anything about or to anyone as long as you follow it up with "Bless your heart...." For example, "Don't you know she's gained nearly 40 pounds, bless her heart...." or "Bless his heart, I just know he's drinking a quart a day." So, I smile again and say, "Bless your heart, you are anxious! Should be here in a little over an hour."

I love language. In the 6th grade, I discovered the school library. In junior high school, I found the branch
libraries and in high school, I found the main library...three floor of books and leather chairs with reading lamps.
It was safe, quiet, and you could stay until nine at night and all day on Saturday. The library became a refuge
from the chaos of a home ruled by alcoholism and perpetual rage. Nobody yelled at the library, nobody threatened you, nobody shamed you. And you could get lost in Nancy Drew or H. Allen Smith or best of all, Walter Farley.
The peace of the library was very precious. No harm could come to you, the real world couldn't even come in.
I would take out as many books as allowed and head home slowly, looking forward to the chance that I could get to my room without incident and once again lose myself in language.

My tastes have changed since then and now I spend more time in bookstores than libraries but language is still
one of my favorite things. And I can still find an escape in reading. I never did find all the answers to all the silly and impossible questions but I did make many friends along the way. And the 5 o'clock shipment still comes at 5 o'clock.

Room for All

The dogs treed another neighborhood cat this morning. She was perched on top of the fence, growling and hissing and they were frantically trying to claw their way up. Having seen this particular little drama before, I know my part and set about to give the cat an opportunity to flee but instead, she leaped over their heads and streaked across the yard at the speed of light. With both dogs in frenzied hot pursuit, she launched herself onto the opposite fence and climbed to the top where she turned, gave one final spat and then then jumped into the adjoining yard. The dogs were left howling dismally and circling like whirling dervishes. And I suspect, feeling slightly foolish.

I have cared for and loved animals as long as I can remember. I began life as a dog person, partially I think because of the unconditional love they give. I was drawn to creatures who were always overjoyed to see me, made no demands, wanted only to be loved in return. Dogs don't judge. They come when they're called, they're sensitive to your moods, they forgive in a heartbeat and they ask nothing in return. They're loyal to a fault,
trust absolutely, and could care less about skin color, gender, religion or sexual preference. It's no wonder I've
almost always preferred most animals to most people and am suspicious of anyone who doesn't love animals.

Marrying a cat person was a risk though. Cats are independent, arrogant, standoffish. You love a cat on its terms or not at all. You don't hold a cat so much as you provide a place for it to perch. Cats are indifferent,
too proud to apologize, too demanding and unlike dogs, complete control freaks. Acceptance comes easily to a dog and must be earned with a cat. So, I wondered, will this work? What will people say? Is it natural? Can I make room for a cat in life?

Ultimately though, cats and dogs are not natural enemies. Hatred is a learned behavior and though sometimes the most I can expect is a mild form of peaceful coexistence, my cats and dogs do live together. A little patience,
a little tolerance, a little space and a great deal of love can go a long way. So celebrate the differences. Embrace what you may not understand or approve of. There's room for all of us.