To Live Deliberately Requires Giving Up Stuff

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

The great philosopher and writer Henry David Thoreau said that he wanted to live deliberately, so he conducted what he called an "experiment in living" by going to Walden Pond and building a cabin. As Thoreau says in the opening of Walden,   

"When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my own hands. I lived there two years and two months."

I often think how nice it would be to live like Thoreau did during that period of his life, to leave behind the rat race of modern civilization and spend my days sucking out “all the marrow of life.”  

The problem, as we all know, is that no one in today’s world can so easily escape that rat race. For one, we cannot afford to escape. We are tied down by our financial obligations. We have to pay ever-increasing health insurance premiums, gasoline prices, food prices, doctors’ fees, etc. After all, nothing is going down in price. Everything is getting more and more expensive. And that includes the price of housing. Granted, some homes have decreased in value because of the sub-prime mortgage fiasco; but if you’ve been paying attention, I am certain you have noticed that houses cost a small fortune today. Even the most modest of homes is often unaffordable for many people. 

And that brings me to my point. Thoreau built a modest cabin on Walden Pond. It was “tight-shingled and plastered.” It was 10 feet wide and 15 feet long. It had a “garret and closet, a large window on one side, two trap doors, one door at the end, and a brick fireplace opposite.” Thoreau also built an adjoining woodshed. Plus, although he purchased some materials, others, like timber, stones, and sand, he “claimed by squatter’s rights.” He also kept a detailed log of all associated expenses. And in the end, his total financial outlay was the huge sum of $28.12½ cents. That’s right, $28.12½.  

Do you have any idea how much it would cost Thoreau to build the same cabin today? I read not too long ago that the average cost per-square-foot to build a modest house is roughly $100. So, if you want to build a cabin 10 x 15 feet, that’s 150 square feet, if I’m doing my math correctly, which means the same cabin today would cost Thoreau approximately $15,000. Not bad, you say, even by today’s standards. But be honest; do you really want to live in 150 square feet? Heck, most people today have bathrooms larger than that. And now that I think about it,  maybe that’s the real reason why no one today—including yours truly—will ever go to the woods to live deliberately. Unlike Thoreau, we have yet to learn that “a man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone;” and that includes houses bigger than bathrooms. 

Eating Bugs Is not My Idea of Excitement

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Okay, I know what happened in Miami was a tragic event, and I feel sorry for the contestant's family and friends, as well as the deceased contestant; but still, I have to wonder about anyone who would eat insects, alive or otherwise. 

In case you don't know to what event I'm referring, I read an article in Wednesday's The Advocate (my newspaper of choice) by Tamara Lush (I did not make up that name) and Suzette Laboy of the Associated Press about a man who died after eating dozens of live insects in a contest to win a female ivory ball python (a big snake). The insects were roaches, three to four inches long; crickets; and worms. Hmm, I didn't know worms were insects. Are they? The classification of worms aside, however, this guy consumed dozens. How did he eat them? Well, according to Sarah Bernard, an entomology student at the University of Florida, who videoed the event and and was interviewed by Lush and Laboy, "He had a clear strategy. He would push everything into his mouth and try to swallow them with water. He figured out what worked and he did it" (p. 7A, para. 16).

When my brother, sister, and I were growing up in rural Georgia, we did a lot of foolish things, and we sometimes ate things that weren't fit for human consumption, for instance, dirt, persimmons, fried pork rinds, and dog biscuits (Don't ask). We never once, though, considered eating bugs, at least not intentionally. Granted, we occasionally swallowed a bug or two when we were bicycling with our mouths open, but we did not intend to swallow those bugs. And I'm sure that when my brother got older and went through his motorcycle phase, he probably swallowed a few bugs. After all, I always heard, "You can tell a happy motorcyclist by the bugs between his teeth." Still, again, let me emphasize, no one in my family ever intentionally put a bug in his or her mouth, chewed on it, and then swallowed it.

Of course, bug eating for fun and profit isn't a new phenomenon. As Lush and Laboy relate, people ate Madagascar cockroaches, which as I learned from research are really, really huge and hiss at you, a few years back for a chance to win passes to Six Flags in Illinois; and last year, "people ate live roaches at the Exploreum Science Center in Mobile, Alabama" (para. 8). Why did folks eat them in Mobile? I don't know because the article didn't say. Maybe they just like to eat bugs in Mobile.

Anyway, what I've been wondering ever since I read the article in Wednesday's Advocate is why on earth people do such outrageous and totally disgusting things for fifteen minutes of fame? It's one thing to stuff your face with hot dogs like contestants do at Coney Island every year, but bugs? Well, to answer that question, Lush and Laboy say that "experts point to the rise in reality TV shows and movies such as Fear Factor as egging people on and breaking down the ick factor" (para. 6). Moreover, they cite Lou Manza, a psychology professor at Lebanon Valley College, who contends that "folks who participate in extreme events like bug eating 'are looking for things to make life interesting'" (Lush & Laboy, para. 8). 

I have news for you. My life may not be overly exciting, and I may not experience an adventure every waking minute, or even every year for that matter, but there is no way on God's green earth that I am going to stuff my mouth with insects, alive or dead. I mean, come on, contrary to what my ex-husband thought, and probably still thinks, my mama didn't raise no idiot.  

Source: Lush, T. & Laboy, S. Death sparks daredevil questions. Baton Rouge, LA: The Advocate. Wednesday, October 10, 2012. p. 7A

The Downside to Being a Somebody

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

Okay, so now I have to eat my words. Last night I blogged about the humiliation of tweeting on Twitter without having any followers. Well, as of today, I now have five followers. Yes, that's right, five! 

Of course, I have to wonder about anyone who would want to follow me on Twitter. After all, who am I? To borrow from the late-and-great Emily Dickinson, "I'm nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody too?" See, there, I admit it: I'm a nobody. Then again, being a nobody has certain advantages, wouldn't you agree? 

For instance, when you're a nobody, you don't have to worry about other people's admiring, emulating, or imitating you. Just think about it. If you were, oh, say, Jennifer Anniston or Johnny Depp, you'd never be able to enjoy doing things like shopping at Walmart (not that you'd want to shop there, but this is hypothetical situation) because you would be constantly inundated by adoring fans wanting your autograph or, heaven forbid, wanting to pinch you to see if you were real and, therefore, capable of feeling pain the way a real person does. You'd also see "clones" of yourself everywhere, since people would want to look like you. They would fix their hair the same way as you, dress the same way, and even walk and talk the same way. What's more, you'd never be able to go out in public wearing just any old thing or with your hair mussed, gain a few extra pounds, or stuff your face with double-cheeseburgers at a drive-thru without waking up the next day to extremely unflattering photos of yourself plastered on the covers of all the tabloids, which, by the way, you would try to read in the checkout line at Walmart but not be able to read because the checker would be pinching you to see if you were real.

Now, all of that said, I am still admittedly quite amazed that anyone would actually want to follow my tweets on Twitter, as well as a little thrilled--not a lot thrilled, just a little. The problem, however, is that since I now have followers, I feel obligated to give them something to follow, and that sense of obligation just adds to my already hectic schedule. Moreover, the time I spend tweeting on Twitter could be better spent writing something considerably more substantial, for example, my next novel. Hmm, then again, now that I think about it, maybe I should simply write my next novel as a series of tweets. I'll title the novel The Tweet That Never Died; The Long, Long Tweet; or, hey, what about, Tweet to Eternity?

Oh, The Humiliation of Tweeting without Followers

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

I actually opened a Twitter account around two weeks ago. Don't ask me why. I really don't know why I opened the account. Perhaps, though, somewhere deep down in the dark recesses of my psyche, or what passes for one, I thought it would help my writing career. Not that I have a writing career, but I am earnestly striving to have one. I do, after all, now have three novels, a collection of short stories, and as of today, a horror novella, all of which have been published. Have I earned enough from any of them to enable me to give up my day job and write full-time? Well, honestly, no, although I have earned enough for maybe two full meals at McDonald's, but I keep hoping that someday something I write will take off and become a runaway bestseller. Hey, it doesn't hurt to dream, now does it?

 Wait a minute, where was I? Oh, I remember; I was relating how I opened a Twitter account, even though I think twittering and tweeting should be left to the birds and I have to wonder about people who share their every thought, however insipid it might be, and their every action, however insipid it might be, with other people, especially total strangers. Hmm, then again, I also have to wonder about the people who want to read about the thoughts and actions of total strangers. And what about this fascination with celebrities? I mean, who cares what Jennifer Anniston or Kirstie Alley or Lady Gaga had for breakfast or what thoughts ran through their heads as they sat in the dentist's chair waiting for a root canal? Do I care? Quite frankly, no. I don't give two hoots in you-know-where. Oops, I think I've gotten off the subject again, so let me refocus:

As I was saying, I opened my very own Twitter account, after which I proceeded to post some "tweets," and trust me, writing something in 140 characters or less was not easy for me. In case you've never noticed, I do tend to be quite wordy. Well, my wordiness notwithstanding, I posted some witticisms and insightful observations on life, in my own inimitable style, and felt quite pleased with myself. My sense of self-satisfaction and accomplishment was short-lived, however, when I returned to my Twitter account a few days later, only to learn that no one had read anything I had written. In other words, I had no followers, and when I checked again tonight, I still had no followers. Can you imagine my sense of rejection? I feel totally unloved and unwanted. "Poor pitiful me," I thought. 

The reality, of course, is that I don't have the time, or the desire, to post "tweets" every few minutes or even every few hours throughout the day, even if anyone did care to read about what I was thinking or doing, so maybe it's a good thing I have no followers. What's more, I think I shall now return to Twitter and close my account. But then, if when I return, what if I see that I have actually attracted a follower, maybe even two, in my absence? Talk about a dilemma. Oh, whatever shall I do? I know, I'll write a tweet!

And that's it from the swamps of south Louisiana for October 8, 2012. May all your tweets be good tweets.

Mr. Fix It--Not My Husband

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

I have a confession to make: Even though I know it’s wrong to categorize all members of a particular group of people based upon the behavior or traits of a few members, at times I have been guilty of harboring certain stereotypes about the opposite sex. For one, I once believed that all men enjoyed beer, football, and belching; then I married my now ex-husband, who demonstrated that while men might enjoy belching, they did not necessarily enjoy beer or football. Another stereotype I once embraced was that all men were born with a wrench in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. In other words, I believed that all men were like my daddy and “handy” with tools. And, being handy with tools, they could fix anything that needed fixing around the house, from a broken bicycle chain to a malfunctioning toaster to a leaking roof. However, this stereotype was shattered—in fact, it was shattered so resoundingly that the earth trembled from the aftershock—when I married my current husband, Chet.

You don’t know Chet, but believe me when I say he looks very “manly.” He’s six-feet-tall and weighs 205 pounds (all muscle since he works out, pumping iron like a fiend). But Mr. Fix It, he isn’t.

Not that I knew this about Chet in the beginning. Instead it was a gradual realization that crept up on me, rather like a fog curling in over the Appalachian foothills on an August morning, although I had the first inking that he might not be “Mr. Fix It” shortly after he and I were married. 

What happened was the dryer broke. Yes, the dryer broke; and since I knew, based upon a long-held stereotype of the male gender, that all men could fix things around the house, when Chet said, “I’ll fix it,” I never gave it another thought. Well, at least not until Chet pulled the dryer out into the middle of the kitchen, where he proceeded not to fix it, but instead to analyze it.

I kid you not. See, Chet has a Ph.D. in history, and being highly educated, he’s a really smart guy; however, since he’s so educated and so smart, Chet believes that one must do one’s research before drawing a conclusion or taking any course of action, even if the end result of that course of action involves a procedure as relatively uncomplicated as fixing a broken dryer. This being the case, instead of promptly repairing our broken dryer, Chet, with tablet in hand, proceeded to call several appliance-repair shops in the area and take voluminous notes, after which he wandered off to his office, where he studied those notes in order to learn all he could about the “inner workings” of electric dryers. This process, however, took him about a week since Chet alternated studying his notes with teaching at the local college, working out at the gym, and drinking beer while watching football games on television.

Not that this was all Chet did because at some point (probably during a commercial), he did manage to pick up a pair of pliers and take apart the dryer. But did he fix it? Not exactly, but he did manage to take apart the dryer. And that dryer stayed in that condition, taken apart, pieces scattered hither, thither, and yon all over the kitchen floor for another week. And why did the dryer remain in pieces? Well, it remained in pieces because my dear hubby decided that he needed to conduct additional research.

According to Chet, he needed to perform one-on-one, face-to-face research with an appliance repairman instead of over-the-phone, voice-to-voice research with said repairman since he feared he might have transcribed some data incorrectly during his first fact-finding mission.

So, to make a long story even longer, another week passed, during which I lugged detergent, fabric softer, and hampers filled with dirty clothes to the local Laundromat in between working as a telemarketer for a local heating-and-air company and taking courses at the college, while Chet conducted additional research, after which he studied his voluminous new notes in between teaching, working out at the gym, drinking beer, and watching football. 

Then, one day I returned home after an American Lit class and the dryer was back together again, all in one piece, with Chet standing beside it and beaming with pride.

I froze in the doorway, overcome with emotion. I’m not sure what emotion, although I think it was shock.

Waving one hand with a flourish, Chet tapped the top of the dryer and announced, “Voila, it’s fixed.”

“It’s fixed?” I managed to say.

He shrugged as he pointed to the table, upon which lay several bolts and a metal plate of some kind. “Well” he said, “I did have a few parts left over, but I don’t think they’re vital.” With another shrug he added, “And maybe the door won’t close all the way, so you’ll have to prop something against it; but watch this!” He then reached over and pressed the button to start the dryer. And do you know what? That dryer came on and worked like new. Granted, it had taken Chet three weeks to fix it, and, granted, it had missing parts and the door wouldn’t close properly, but I’ll hand it to my husband; he did fix that dryer. And do you know something else? Not once during those three weeks did Chet belch, at least not within my hearing.

That’s it for now; but maybe in a future blog I’ll tell you about the time Chet fixed the vacuum cleaner. Better yet, the kitchen sink. No wait; let’s make it the time he attempted to fix the light in the bathroom. Now, that’s a story that’ll curl your hair.

The Perils of Winning a Sweepstakes

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I keep receiving letters from Publishers Clearing House about this really great sweepstakes with a grand prize of $5,000 a week for life. That’s right, for life. I mean, you do the math; that’s $260,000 a year; and as my daddy would say, “That ain’t nothing to sneeze at.” Look at it this way: If a person wins the grand prize and he’s, oh, let’s say 30-years-old, and the average life expectancy is 78, then that person will receive $260,000 a year for 48 years, which, according to my trusty calculator, amounts to over 12-million smackeroos.. Of course, at my age I might be lucky to receive the money for only 30 years.; but, still, that’s a lot of money, and I was thinking the other day about what I’m going to do with all that money when I win it (How’s that for positive thinking?).

First, I thought, I’m going to retire. Second, I’m going to move back home to Georgia. Third, I’m going to buy a place in the country where I can have a horse or two and a vegetable garden. Fourth, I’m going to help other people, since what good is money if you keep it all to yourself? Of course, I’m also going to order several cases of wine from Eveningside Vineyard in New York State, since it’s “like drinking pure nectar” (Okay, Karen, there’s the plug; now send me some more wine.)  

As I sat there, however, envisioning what I was going to do with all that money when I won it, I had an epiphany (a moment of profound insight), at least one of sorts. “Okay, so what’s the catch,” I wondered. “Surely, after all, there has to be catch. I mean, is Publishers Clearing House really going to shell out that kind of money for someone’s entire lifetime? Hmm, but wait a minute—what if PCH can shorten a person’s lifetime?”

And that’s when I began having visions of hit men sneaking up on me when I least expected it (Does anyone ever expect it?). I could easily see these burly guys, dressed all in black, and looking amazingly like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, lurking around corners, trailing me relentlessly, sneaking up on me in the dark or even in full daylight, just waiting to spring out and with a “Plop!”, since hit men’s guns are equipped with silencers, put an end to my guaranteed lifetime income.

So, what’s my point? Hmm, let me think a minute. Okay, I thought about it, and I think my point is that maybe I’d be better off not to win the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. No, wait, that can’t be my point. After all, at least I’d be rich, which means that I could afford to install an electrified fence around my property; buy a pack of attack dogs, probably Dobermans and Rottweilers; and hire a body guard, preferably one that looked like John Travolta did in Pulp Fiction, because he sure looked intimidating in that movie—cute, too.

What's Happening to the English Language?

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Today I was thinking about our language and how people, both Yankees and we Southerners, misuse certain words, specifically the five little words “up, down, bring, take,” and “catch.”

What started me thinking along these lines was something my husband, Chet, said just yesterday. He said, “I’m going to call up Pete.” "Call up?" I thought. "But how do you call up someone? 

After all, according to Webster’s, the word "up" means, (1) “from a lower to a higher place; away from or out of the ground; in or on a higher position or level; (2) in a direction or place thought of as higher; (3) above the horizon; (4) to a later period (from childhood up); (5) to a higher or better condition; (6) to a higher amount or degree; (7) in or into an upright position; (8) in or into existence, action, view, evidence, etc.; (9) into an excited or troubled state; (10) aside, away, by (lay by grain for the winter); (11) so as to be even with in space, time, degree," etc.; and the list goes on and on and on; but not once does Webster’s provide a definition that would allow one to call up someone else on the telephone (Webster’s, 1990, p.1559).

And then there’s the word “down.” People say, “I’m going to go down to visit Aunt Jo at the rest home;” or “I’m gonna really get down tonight and bogie at the Country-Western joint out yonder on the highway.” Okay, although I won’t bore you with all the definitions of “down,” like I did “up,” suffice it to say that, just like up, the word down has myriad definitions, none of which support one’s using it as it’s used in those two examples. 

Next, there’s “bring” and “take,” two words that people misuse all the time. For example, someone might say, “I’m going to bring Mama to the store.” “No, wait,” I want to say. “Don’t you mean you’re going to take Mama to the store? You’re only going to bring her to the store if the store is here and Mama is somewhere else.” After all, we “take” things away from where we are at any given moment, but we bring them toward us. For example, “I am going to take this chocolate cake to the meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary tomorrow; but I hope to be able to bring home some of Charlene’s coconut pie if Myrtice doesn’t eat it all the way she did last time.” I don’t care what people say, but we bring things or people from a place that is distant to a place that is nearby; however, we take things or people from a place that is nearby to one more distant. Yes, we can, however, take things, meaning retrieve of pilfer them, from someone or someplace; for example, "He took all my money and spent it on beer;" or "I am going to take this book and carry it over to the sofa, where I am going to lie down and read for a while."

Finally, there’s the word “catch.” I don’t know when I first noticed this trend, but people today say things like, “She caught a heart attack;” or “He caught a headache.” What? How on earth can anyone catch a heart attack or headache? Since when are these maladies contagious? Yes, one can catch a cold, but a heart attack? I don't know about you, but, although I could perhaps tolerate catching a headache, a heart attack is a different story entirely. If I can catch a heart attack from being exposed to someone who has actually experienced cardiac arrest, then it's enough to make me want to stay indoors and call up people and not bother with bringing or taking anything or anybody anywhere.

Webster’s New World Dictionary (1990); New York; Random House

In the News in Southwest Louisiana: Lil Wayne’s Fireplace, Cat Hoarder, Wannabe Sheriff, and Microscopic Mites

Okay, I know I’ve been neglectful when it comes to writing for my blog, but I have to work for a living, and there are only so many hours in each day, as well as each night. This morning, however, (It's now after 1:00 AM), I’m going to make up for my negligence by sharing the latest news from the murky, alligator-and-mosquito-infested swamplands of southwest Louisiana.

Photo by Bob Carriker

Are you ready? Well, ready or not, here is the latest news from an area known for its drive-thru daiquiri shops, fanatical Saints fans, zydeco and swamp pop music, and seemingly endless round of festivals in celebration of everything, and I do mean everything, not just Mardi Gras, but really strange things like frogs, crawfish, rice, and boudin (that's rice-stuffed hog guts, and there's actually an annual "boudin cookoff"). In fact, I have never seen people so into partying as they are here in “The Heart of Acadiana.”  But that’s enough chitchat for tonight (this morning). As promised, here’s the news:

According to a brief item in Monday’s The Advocate, aka “my newspaper of choice,” a rapper named Lil Wayne, of whom I’ve never heard, probably because I don’t listen to rap music, was cited in Kenner, Louisiana for an  “unmowed lawn” (“Unmowed” isn’t a recognized word, but since this is a direct quote, I’m using it.) The citation was issued “sometime between February 26 and March 2,” (I guess no one’s sure of the date) because Lil Wayne’s grass was threatening to grow over the roof of his $1.7 million mansion, which, by the way, is for sale if you’re in the market for a mansion. Oh, and get this, according to the article, “The master suite has a fireplace with his and her baths and a steam room sauna and Jacuzzi” (2012, p. 2B, para. 5). I don’t know about you, but I would sure like to see that fireplace. How on earth, pray tell, did the builder get two baths, a steam room, a sauna, and a Jacuzzi in a fireplace? It sure must be one heck of a big fireplace. 

Photo by Tobias Toft

Next, again according to Monday’s The Advocate, a “cat hoarder” was arrested in a “narcotics case” (p. 2B). Anyway, this woman had more than 50 cats inside her mobile home (Hmm, I wonder whether it was a singlewide or doublewide). As the article relates, the deputies “were met with an odor of ammonia and a ‘bunch of meows’” (p. 2B). Well, I’m sure they were. Can you imagine the smell of that litter box? Then again, surely there was more than one litter box. We are talking about 50 cats, after all. But maybe there was only one litter box, and the mere thought of the odor that had to be emanating from that one box is enough to make my hair stand on end. And can you imagine the cacophony created by 50 cats meowing in unison? Now, don’t’ get me wrong, because I love cats. In fact, we own two (Or do they own us?), but 50? Why, the mere thought of 50 cats running around in a house, not to mention a mobile home, is enough to give me nightmares. And come to think of it, I did have a nightmare about our house being overrun by cats the night after I read this article, and I awakened in a cold sweat. 

All right, and for the next bit of news from southwest Louisiana, we turn to Tuesday’s The Advocate, which relates how a former candidate for a parish sheriff’s position “was booked on counts of insurance fraud and felony theft,” according to Louisiana State Police (p.8B). Turns out this guy allegedly claimed “three television sets and a laptop computer were stolen in an April burglary” (p. 8B). According to the article, as the investigation demonstrated, the guy ostensibly purchased the goods at a Walmart in one town then returned them to a Walmart in another town several days later, where he received a full refund, after which he purportedly claimed the goods had been stolen, provided his insurance company with the original receipts, and the insurance company issued him a check for slightly over $2,000. And what’s this guy’s excuse? (Crooks always have an excuse, don’t they?) Well, he said that “the entire incident was a mistake” (p. 8B). It was a mistake? Ah, come on now. I’ve got news for him; the word “mistake” means “error, blunder, oversight, or boo-boo.” Doing what he “allegedly” did was not a mistake; it was a crime. It was also stupid. And he wanted to be Sheriff? Give me a break. Would Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry do something that stupid?  I don’t think so.   

Also from Tuesday’s The Advocate (p. 8B), we have this newsworthy item: There were “16 confirmed cases of scabies reported among students at an area elementary school and high school (the two schools share the same building). In case you are unfamiliar with scabies, as the article relates, it is “a contagious skin infection caused when microscopic mites burrow into the skin and lay eggs, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s website” (p. 8B). Oh, well, but not to worry, for the outbreak has obviously been contained because “workers disinfected the school over the weekend” (p. 8B). Hmm, right, but if I had kids attending either of those schools, I think I would spray them down with Raid before I’d let them back into the house.

And for the grand finale, which is from Wednesday’s The Advocate . . . . Uh, oh, and I guess I now have to apologize, for I just reviewed the Acadiana & Business section of the paper, which provides the local news, and there isn’t one even remotely amusing account to be found, and I don’t want to write about news that isn’t at least somewhat amusing, anyway not tonight. So, that said, I guess that’s all the news for today; and don’t forget; you heard (read) it first here on Georgia Southern Exposure, the news source for “folks who just gotta know but don’t wanna read the newspaper,” leastwise not The Advocate, aka “my newspaper of choice.”  

Source:

The Advocate (2012) Acadiana & Business; Baton Rouge, LA; Monday, March 20, p.2B; Tuesday, March 21, p. 8B.