In the season of waiting....

 

        There was a time when it all seemed so right. Don't we hold dearly to some shred of those hopes, even now? It is the season.

      Jim, with the drum, gone at 27. John, with the camera, gone at 33. Even still they wait with me, through another season of anticipation and watching and the seemingly eternal passion of yearning. Those days on Muncie's South Ebright and Ft Wayne's Rose Lane, Colson Drive, or the cold drafty year in the old farmhouse in Cumberland and the "new" house on Lawnhaven visit again, Christmas ghosts, like snow around the foggy lamp post. 

     With so many of others we've learned to invite losses and disappointments to our hearth. It's a good thing, to remember, to reflect, better even, sometimes, with tears. I think it all gets framed up somehow in a hall of time. We deck the halls, with joys of the past. We sip melancholy, we wade into time, and smile at old dreams. 

    We get to an age when those missing from our table, or those who are slowly departing somehow fill us with feeling, a muted trumpet, crying. The young fill us with cheer and kindle our aging imaginations.

    Those who celebrate this as a holy season lean into the circular, recurring nature of it all. More than catharsis, it is like the birth we celebrate. This season is a cosmic in-breaking, a moment poignant, which scatters. Past, present, future fuse, and then go again to their own places in the unconditional, the unending, that beyond the names we give it.

    We wait, all of us, for a spark, that moment when everything truly is right. Out of it, we come away, again, with another shred of hope, held dearly. It gets us by. 

    I live on a ridge along the Santa Lucia mountains, a coastal range that nestles our village between the rocky bluffs of the Pacific. There's a lot of space and few people so it's easy to give over to my interest to see what's up with Mother Nature in this time of winter fallow. I went for a drive.

On grazing slopes, new members of herds. Rain season has just begun so green is still to come. Furrows are laid, so plans are underway. The vines await

    The tidal currents keep their solstice approaching rhythm.

    The week before Christmas and it seems even the land is waiting.

This is the western edge of the US. As I look east we face culture shift and political uncertainty. It is a time for vigilance. 

This season heralds a better way. Goodwill, Joy and Peace will benefit all. We wish those for you, all that your heart can hold. 

See you down the trail. 

   

A FEW JABS AT THE COMING DARKNESS

 

                            "The voice of sanity is getting hoarse,"

        Irish poet Seamus Haney said as he observed a war of soul, "the troubles."

                "Cut it loose or let it drag you down,"

        Bruce Springsteen wrote in Darkness at the Edge of Town, seeing the advance of nihilism. 

        Admonitions, across cultures, with divergent nexus points, but warnings, relevant still.

        Culture, soul, belief, enshrouded in a deepening darkness.

        Americans live with competing realities. It is a madness. There is no good in such a state.

            "Lives on the line-where dreams are found or lost."

                                                        Bruce Springsteen

            Who gains? Who loses?

        Many of us find pronouncements of "existential threats" wearing, but we must listen. We live with a serial "What If " pointed at our temple, loaded and cocked.

        What if the Supreme Court reverses Roe V. Wade?

        The court will be dangerously out sync with the American population, and even with policies of Catholic nations.

        What is the calculus of damage when the nation's highest court loses touch and behaves as an extremist moving against the beliefs and wishes of the majority?

        What other rights might then be targeted?

          Venality and deception were weaponized and turned against the republic and so it is true Democracy is under threat.

            The republican party is an agent of destruction of all the American experience has been. 

            Recent findings of the January 6th Investigation and independent journalists put it out there in black and white. The Trump regime tried to execute a coup. We knew that in our gut. We know that now by fact.

            The Kaiser foundation reports Republicans make up a majority of unvaccinated people. Unvaccinated people are those who are dying and who are spreading the virus and who are crowding hospitals to the breaking point.

            Too frequently we've heard about those about  to be put on a ventilator asking for a vaccination, only to be told it is too late. 

            Truth, fact and political sanity are under attack. 

               "...where tongues lie coiled, as under flames lie wicks"

                    Seamus Heaney  Whatever You Say Say Nothing

            What if?

         The "Troubles" of Northern Ireland were/are deep by generation, belief, politic and sense of identity. 

        Heaney observed it and withstood pressures so as to clarify, to seek rationality and to uphold humanity. 

        Bold honesty in the face of madness.

        

        Rationality, clarity and the advocacy of humanity are difficult to find in the US. The nation, tired from pandemic and the upending of all that is prized as normal, is angry, self- absorbed, and failing to think clearly. Broadcast and social media are contributing factors. Few people read. Fewer research, analyze and think. 

        Frenzied attention spans overlook a stability. Biden's approval rating does not give credit to the historic accomplishments of a first year. Historians, already hail the achievement and note it has been done without a real majority and while cleaning up after the debacle. 

        The pushback on the mask mandate is good for the system. I'm not convinced a President has the authority to insist companies do what he asked. I applaud his intention, but as an institutionalist,  I question that use of power. It is good to let the body politic argue about it.          

        Like junk yard rats, republicans feast on the flack, while their constituency dies of the virus. Sad and tragic facts and it should not be so.

         Economic and market strength, low unemployment, the recovery acts, the infrastructure programs, the massive vaccination totals, the steady hand at the tiller of the ship of state, the decency, the humanity, the display of traditional American values, and a genuine humility are all there.

        If we are to prevent the darkness from descending and snuffing the American beacon, America as hope, work is to be done. 

        The voice of sanity, hoarse or not, must make itself heard,  in the darkness. Reason, rationality and humane action radiate as powerful light. 

                                "History says, Don't hope

                    On this side of the grave,

                    But then, once in a lifetime

                    The longed-for tidal wave

                    Of justice can rise up,

                    And hope and history rhyme."

                                Seamus Haney from The Cure at Troy

        Dear readers, please accept this as this a Christmastide ghost story.  

        See you down the trail.

        

        

            

Christmas Ghosts Visit Donald Trump

    If Harvey Weinstein were still in the game he might be doing a remake of The Three Amigos- Jesus, Donald and Vladimir.

      Although the Christianity Today editorial would probably change that. The magazine that Billy Graham founded and that has been down the middle and a little to the right on most secular and theological issues has sent a broadside to the right wing of the evangelical brothers and sisters.

     It said Donald Trump has abused his power, violated the constitution, has dumbed down the idea morality with his government and is himself "a near perfect example of a human being who is morally lost and confused." They say he should be removed from office. 

     I have a bone to pick with CT and a thought about the impact of this further down the post, but first...

a personal note to the president

   Mr Trump,

    It is highly unlikely these words will find their way to your possibly soulless and certainly empty eyes, but I wish they would so you cannot escape a reality, the truth that people know about you. (By the way, your eyes would not look so beady if your face were not so bloated and you could change that if you did some real exercise. Getting in and out of a tanning bed, creating that coiffure and eating KFC does not count as exercise.) 

   Perhaps you will be visited by the Ghost of Richard Nixon, or Abe Lincoln if the Dicken's specters are busy lobbying at the McConnell house. Abe and Tricky Dick might run you around the presidential bed. Until then, my Christmas message here will try to channel the Ghost of Christmas Future.

     When you die, as you will, the taint of impeachment will be the first thing future generations will know about you. A close second will be what a foolish, pathetic, deceitful and abusive oaf you were. With time will come the myriad details of your massive tax fraud, business failures, cheating, and pages of despicable behavior and judgement. 

     Your presidency, including your court appointees, will be with an asterisk, that is denoted as a campaign assisted by a foreign power. History will record how you then became a lap dog and stooge for a ruthless Vladimir Putin complete with all manner of speculation as to your "bromance" with him. 

     Perhaps he was the "real man" whom you could only pretend to be. He was a tough guy KGB apparatchik when you were filling tabloids with your own tales of deception and cheating in your personal relationships. Who calls radio and tv stations using a fake name and posing as a spokesman for Donald Trump to brag about Trump's romantic prowess? Who? You did.

your legacy

     At some point cultural history will dissect your classless demonstration of "new rich" with your garish and tasteless faux opulence? There will be theories about  trying to be a king. It's a cliche', the trashy trying to gild with gold. It's like putting lipstick on a pig.

    You will probably be remembered as one of the biggest liars in history. It's so serious major news organizations actually do tabulations. 

    First president to be impeached in a first term-there's another historical note that will follow you when you are dead and unable to tweet a retort.

    But mostly you will be remembered as a joke. You are the lying hustler bully who played the race card, appealed to the angry and yes some legitimately overlooked citizens, along with kooks, xenophobes, residual nazi and fascist sympathizers (Steven Miller), racists, the poorly or uneducated, and just plain losers. You stirred a cult that worships the absolute worst of American culture. You have unleashed division, legitimized stupidity, nurtured meanness, crassness and hatred. You demean manhood and you degrade humanity. 

your list of kings

    I know you call yourself a Nationalist. The world may remember Hitler and Mussolini as nationalists on the list of evil humans. There have been other dictators; Amin, Stalin, Franco, Duarte, Mao, the Kims, Caesar, Ataturk, Garibaldi, Duvalier, Attila the Hun, Torquemada, Khan and others. But you are not on that list. No, you will be remembered as the not so bright and troubled little rich boy who wanted to grow up to be on that list, but were too incompetent. You passed only the disgusting level. 

     Your distinction is that you are forever great fodder as a joke, a laughable would be tyrant. You have been a tool, a stooge. You are the man who went broke running a casino, who failed, always. The name Trump will go down in the halls of history as meaning failure, clown, disgusting, a kind of biological waste product.  In our house, as our grand daughter was working on toilet training, we referred to her filling her diaper as "making trumpies." 

     Isn't that a wonderful legacy mr president?

     I wish you a Merry Christmas and hope the happiness of the New Year is that you return to Trump Tower and/or Mar a Lago where you contemplate the stunning change of fortune in the Senate and meet continuously with a team of lawyers helping to prepare for the first of a lifetime of trials. 

      Sincerely,

      A Tax Payer

the evangelical thing

   I know people who are otherwise pleasant but with whom I disagree on theology and politics. They are representative of who I hope will read the CT article, because while it may be comfortable to think you have it all figured out, a neat and tidy understanding of, as Bill Buckley said, "God and Man...."such thinking can lead you to dark places of wrongfulness, including judgmentalism and false teachings. 

     In making the case to the right wing of the Christian world CT say the Trump administration is morally unable to lead because of "gross immorality and ethical incompetence."

      To the many evangelicals who continue to support Mr. Trump in spite of his blackened moral record, we might say this: Remember who you are and whom you serve. Consider how your justification of Mr. Trump influences your witness to your Lord and Savior. Consider what an unbelieving world will say if you continue to brush off Mr. Trump’s immoral words and behavior in the cause of political expediency. If we don’t reverse course now, will anyone take anything we say about justice and righteousness with any seriousness for decades to come? Can we say with a straight face that abortion is a great evil that cannot be tolerated and, with the same straight face, say that the bent and broken character of our nation’s leader doesn’t really matter in the end?

    That part of the editorial cuts right to the heart of matter for some of Trump's base---- though many of his supporters are only as "church going" as is Trump himself! Just another fraud, working both ways.

      I take exception to this CT contention

Let’s grant this to the president: The Democrats have had it out for him from day one, and therefore nearly everything they do is under a cloud of partisan suspicion. This has led many to suspect not only motives but facts in these recent impeachment hearings. And, no, Mr. Trump did not have a serious opportunity to offer his side of the story in the House hearings on impeachment.

But the facts in this instance are unambiguous: The president of the United States attempted to use his political power to coerce a foreign leader to harass and discredit one of the president’s political opponents. That is not only a violation of the Constitution; more importantly, it is profoundly immoral.

    The first paragraph is, in a non-theological phrase, pure bull shit and it is one that Trumpists and Republicans have used from the beginning. 

   And Trump had a chance to participate, send records and witnesses, but defied congress, and thus the obstruction charge. CT-you get an F on that.  

   BUT hold that thought and suspend my judgment and consider that on the night of Obama's inauguration Republican leaders met for four hours to plot how to block the Democrats on "every single bill and every single issue."

    Then less than two years later in October on the eve of the first mid-term election McConnell admitted what was the Republican interest when he spoke to the National Journal

   "The single most important thing we want to achieve is for President Obama to be a one term President."
                            Mitch McConnell

   The rest is history, including the abusive act of denying a supreme court appointment to Obama.
    I do not think the effort to impeach began with the election. The effort to impeach began when Donald Trump proved true to what 55 top Republicans who served at the highest levels in Republican Presidential administrations warned in August 2016 that he was unfit, unqualified, lacked the character and would jeopardize national security.
     Like right wing evangelicals, Republicans have been fooled, or worse, with Trumpist perversity. My understanding of Christ's teaching and practices lead me to different understandings than right wing evangelicals, but I paraphrase an old saying. You need to be careful with whom you dance.
      While the group CT is trying to reach, and while the once Republicans the Lincoln Project are trying to "deprogram" may not be dancing with the evil one, they are dancing with Donald Trump, who CT says is a perfect "example of someone who is morally lost and confused."
       I am not so charitable. From my secular side of the street, whatever else he is, Trump is a traitor to the US.
        The Ghost of Christmas Future is still conjuring what that will mean to "us all, everyone."

         See you down the trail.

WHERE THE PAST LIVES

   My gratitude for your visits to this little spot of the blogosphere. You have kindly indulged these quirky essays, ramblings and flights of thought. 
   In this season of light and hope I wish you the abiding peace and joy that is the nexus of Christmas.
    And too it may be a time for pleasant visits from Christmas ghosts. Speaking of such, here is a visitor from the past.

WHERE THE PAST LIVES
Published December 17, 2013

     Snow had turned to freezing rain and the old wiper blades spread a smear of icy trails across the windshield. It was dark but the snow covered road shone in the headlights courtesy of the glaze of ice. It was late Christmas Eve and I seemed to be the only car on the highway and now on this county road.

      I saw the old beater off the road to the right with the hood up when a dark figure stepped around from the front of the car and stood there. It did not beckon or wave but  simply watched me approach as though resigned to see me drive by. The headlights caught the visage of an older black man in a threadbare overcoat. Ice crystals matted into his hair. He appeared surprised I was pulling the old Studebaker over to park behind his even older car, I think it was an Oldsmobile.  As I started to alight he walked toward me wearing a smile that shone.

     I had worked late at the commercial radio station in a city some 60 miles away. While my college was on holiday recess, I needed to be back at the station the next morning to sign it on at 6:00 AM. The winter storm had slowed my progress to get home to my parents house to spend a bit of Christmas. I knew my parents and brothers were probably concerned about my travel in the snow and ice. This was long before cell phones or adequate snow clearing equipment on county roads or state highways.

     Something "froze up" he said.  He was on his way to his daughter's house with part of their Christmas Eve meal.  He'd been there "a while" he said and the few cars that had passed slowed down, but sped by "when they got a look at me."  A black man on a county road.  

     He was headed for a neighborhood near the downtown of Indianapolis, a neighborhood I would not normally frequent nor drive through.  We chatted about how our Christmas fates had put us together as we navigated the ice covered road that led to suburban streets which in turn fed us into the car lined streets of old houses, commercial buildings and vacant lots.  Lights gleamed from windows, rimmed with Christmas decorations.  We chuckled at how a few of the homes had painted snow scenes on windows or doors.  No need for that now as the ice had turned back to snow and the drive crunched on.

     His daughter and son in law looked curiously out the door and then came down the steps when they saw the old man get out of the car. They were visibly surprised to see a young white man get out of the other door.  

     Two or three little faces peered out of the large window on the porch, their eyes were wide.  "Those little angels are my grand children," the man said, his smile even wider now.

     Both the old man and his son in law went to their billfolds as though to offer me money.  No way I said. It's Christmas Eve.  I'm just being a Santa's helper I added, looking at how other doors were opening and seeing people appear in windows.  The daughter wanted me to come in and warm up, have something to eat. I explained my family was waiting and I needed to get on.  We shook hands and his big grin had a special quality of that caused a tingle in my chest.

       As I picked my way back to the suburbs the aroma of the dish that had rested on the back seat continued to fill the car. It had a sweet scent that activated my hunger sensors and I began to think about my parents and brothers and how I hoped they had dined.

      When I made it to the driveway Dad was first out of the door, as Mom stood behind him, in her apron.

       "We were very worried about you," Dad opened the Christmas Eve conversations.

       Later when I had relayed the story and we had begun to eat the feast Mom prepared, I noticed she was sitting there, looking a bit distant, but smiling.

       "You did the right thing," Dad said, "but you took a chance in doing it."

        I never confessed my nervousness, in making the stop or driving into that neighborhood. It was the mid '60s and times were different.

        A ghost that visits me this time of year is that picture of Mom, sitting there and smiling. Later, and she would often remind me of the story, "you were a Christmas angel for that man."

        At least I was a young white lad who saw another traveler and realized color makes no difference. 

       The other ghost I recall is that heart warming smile. It spoke more than words.

a Christmas pastiche

  

                            Merry Christmas. Peace!

    See you down the trail.

   

A COUPLE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS

DECEMBER DREAMING
and ghosts-see below

WHERE THE PAST LIVES

     Snow had turned to freezing rain and the old wiper blades spread a smear of icy trails across the windshield. It was dark but the snow covered road shone in the headlights courtesy of the glaze of ice. It was late Christmas Eve and I seemed to be the only car on the highway and now on this county road.

      I saw the old beater off the road to the right with the hood up when a dark figure stepped around from the front of the car and stood there. It did not beckon or wave but  simply watched me approach as though resigned to see me drive by. The headlights caught the visage of an older black man in a threadbare overcoat. Ice crystals matted into his hair. He appeared surprised I was pulling the old Studebaker over to park behind his even older car, I think it was an Oldsmobile.  As I started to alight he walked toward me wearing a smile that shone.

     I had worked late at the commercial radio station in a city some 60 miles away. While my college was on holiday recess, I needed to be back at the station the next morning to sign it on at 6:00 AM. The winter storm had slowed my progress to get home to my parents house to spend a bit of Christmas. I knew my parents and brothers were probably concerned about my travel in the snow and ice. This was long before cell phones or adequate snow clearing equipment on county roads or state highways.

     Something "froze up" he said.  He was on his way to his daughter's house with part of their Christmas Eve meal.  He'd been there "a while" he said and the few cars that had passed slowed down, but sped by "when they got a look at me."  A black man on a county road.  

     He was headed for a neighborhood near the downtown of Indianapolis, a neighborhood I would not normally frequent nor drive through.  We chatted about how our Christmas fates had put us together as we navigated the ice covered road that led to suburban streets which in turn fed us into the car lined streets of old houses, commercial buildings and vacant lots.  Lights gleamed from windows, rimmed with Christmas decorations.  We chuckled at how a few of the homes had painted snow scenes on windows or doors.  No need for that now as the ice had turned back to snow and the drive crunched on.

     His daughter and son in law looked curiously out the door and then came down the steps when they saw the old man get out of the car. They were visibly surprised to see a young white man get out of the other door.  

     Two or three little faces peered out of the large window on the porch, their eyes were wide.  "Those little angels are my grand children," the man said, his smile even wider now.

     Both the old man and his son in law went to their billfolds as though to offer me money.  No way I said. It's Christmas Eve.  I'm just being a Santa's helper I added, looking at how other doors were opening and seeing people appear in windows.  The daughter wanted me to come in and warm up, have something to eat. I explained my family was waiting and I needed to get on.  We shook hands and his big grin had a special quality of that caused a tingle in my chest.

       As I picked my way back to the suburbs the aroma of the dish that had rested on the back seat continued to fill the car. It had a sweet scent that activated my hunger sensors and I began to think about my parents and brothers and how I hoped they had dined.

      When I made it to the driveway Dad was first out of the door, as Mom stood behind him, in her apron.

       "We were very worried about you," Dad opened the Christmas Eve conversations.

       Later when I had relayed the story and we had begun to eat the feast Mom prepared, I noticed she was sitting there, looking a bit distant, but smiling.

       "You did the right thing," Dad said, "but you took a chance in doing it."

        I never confessed my nervousness, in making the stop or driving into that neighborhood. It was the mid '60s and times were different.

        A ghost that visits me this time of year is that picture of Mom, sitting there and smiling. Later, and she would often remind me of the story, "you were a Christmas angel for that man."

        At least I was a young white lad who saw another traveler and realized color makes no difference. 

       The other ghost I recall is that heart warming smile. It spoke more than words.

        See you down the trail. 

HE KNOWS WHO I AM

BEING THERE

    Joy in this season, or any other, is seeing parents or family members watching their kids in chorales, plays, skits, ballets, concerts and the other performances that make this season so merry.

       Love is modeled best whenever it happens and we get to absorb a large gift of it during the holidays. Seeing proud parents and those little communications from kid back to them is a heart-warming information loop. It's good for all of us.

DECEMBER FLIGHT AT MORRO BAY

CHRISTMAS GHOSTS

  Dickens demonstrated for us how Christmas ghosts play a role.  Don't you think memories morph into a kind of apparition?  I think of old stories as becoming a kind of ghost of times passed. 

THE GRIZZLED VET

     You may need a context for this.  

      

Bruce Taylor, a.k.a. CatalystDecember 10, 2012 5:22 PM

I would just like it recorded here that, in spite of my post recently, I have never known this man nor do I know him now.

A Story AS Response

        That goofy shot from the beach where swim suit and the beach chair matched the color of peppers on the grill prompted the above comment.  You would know this if you read the comments below the post.

        Despite the denunciation re-printed above, his recent post about our long friendship, renegade forays at political conventions and other carrying on is mostly true, as either of us remember those years of "pedal to the metal" television news.

         It started in radio.  My first day on the metro news staff of the 50 thousand watt "Voice of News" found me assigned to shadow the veteran Bruce Taylor.  It was the pre computer era and the old line station had truly been the Voice of News for the state capitol. Unimaginable today, our radio news staff was larger than one or two of the television stations in the city.  It competed with the  three, then two, daily newspapers to break stories.

         I had been hired to work 3PM to Midnight, starting my day by picking up city government and/or state house leads before sources left their office or the bars some retreated to. Then I moved into our cubicle at the "cop shop" to cover police, sheriff, fire and emergency news.  At some point in the evening I went back to the studio where I wrote and produced the 15 minute 10:00 PM news.  I was to learn that newscast had thousands of listeners, many of whom had listened for years.  Back then people would get what they needed from our cast and didn't need to wait up until the late local TV news.

        Taylor had been working that beat for a while. I'd heard him on the air.  He wrote great copy, used a lot sound in stories, had a very professional big market style. Here I was, the new kid from a smaller market getting my orientation from the old vet.

        He wore a pin stripped shirt, mint green as a I recall, and an orange patterned tie, loose at the neck, as he sauntered into the news room.  His jacket was on his finger over his shoulder, he carried a cup of coffee, a cigarette clamped in his teeth.  His face and eyes said this was a guy who you could not bull shit.

      Our boss, a legendary radio news man and ex sailor, who swore better than the best, said something about "glad he could make it!" 
      "It was one of those kind of nights,"  Taylor shot back. 
       He looked to me like a guy who probably was a veteran of those "kind of nights."   
      I was a year out of college and had worked radio news in a medium sized factory town.  I'd been around a little bit, but I knew this guy Taylor was from the major leagues in being around.  

      We'd been dispatched to a north side shopping mall where a works project had changed the flow of water and several shops had been flooded.  It's hard not to be impressed by a guy who smokes, drinks coffee, talks on the two way radio and drives like a bat out of hell simultaneously.  
       Heading to our first assignment I thought a couple of things; man, this new job is going to be a blast!  And what a cool dude Taylor is.  He even liked jazz. That was a start to a friendship that for many years existed in those famous letters he wrote of.

      So, let him deny knowing me now, but let me tell you this.  Lana and I showed up in Phoenix one year for our periodic visit.  I was surprised when Bruce met us at the airport.

        "I thought you had to work," I said.

        "I quit.  They didn't give me the weekend off, so screw em!"

         We had a wonderful weekend up in Zane Grey country and created another story or two, as we always seem to do.

        Some time we should tell you about the Democratic mid term convention in the Kansas City landmark Muehlebach Hotel.  Here's the teaser-Bruce, a friend who is now a respected broadcast executive, a woman who ran for congress and I find our way into the deep innards of the old hotel.  It was a portion of a floor that had been walled off and had not been remodeled as the rest of the hotel had been.  It was a kind of 1940's pastiche of old hotel in decline. We were in a Felliniesque scene. It looked like an old conference room, now a storage area of dated furniture and other discarded stuff on the way to being junk.  

         Cutting to the chase-Taylor is jamming away on an old piano, clunking out a version of Sentimental Journey. The lady is singing, someone is pounding on a chair bottom like a drum and someone is trying to modulate the blast of a fire extinguisher to ape a trumpet when we are suddenly interrupted in our dusty jam session, by a Secret Service contingent. The lead guy asks "Can you tell me what's going on here?"

         All of that was early in the evening. It gets more interesting when Hubert Humphrey and George Wallace work into our evening.

        Don't believe for a moment what he wrote above!

See you down the trail.