Linda and Johnny were married Friday night, on the 23rd day of September, 2011, at the Quail Spring Church of Christ in Oklahoma City. I was there.
Sometime earlier, Johnny called me and told me he and Linda were going to be married and would I perform the ceremony. He started the conversation by saying, “Hershel, this is Johnny.” I replied, “Okay.” I had no idea who this person was and tried to run through my mind who I knew by that name, and I couldn’t come up with anyone. The first person who entered my mind was Johnny Weissmuller, but I was sure it couldn’t be him as he was dead. Even following several moments of awkward silence, even after he had told me his last name, I was still perplexed as to the identity of the caller.
I hadn’t seen Johnny since we graduated high school in May, 1962. He, Linda and I were classmates in Sayre, Oklahoma. I had kept up with Linda somewhat over the years. We had a similar background in that we were both raised in the Church of Christ. I remembered her from when we were in elementary school, she in Sayre and I in a little country school of eight grades called Hext. I remembered her coming to Hext to play sports, especially basketball. I remember her as one of the cutest little girls I had ever seen. Of course, like most boys that age, I thought all little girls were cute and fell in and out of love easily.
My freshman year of high school, I went into town to continue my education and found myself in class with both Johnny and Linda. Those four years were not the most momentous of my life, nor can I say I really enjoyed my high school years. But, I did form a few friendships. I have not remained very close to any of them, but there are some I have reached out to from time to time. I lost contact with Johnny altogether after graduation. In high school, I knew he had had a difficult childhood, but I wasn’t sure it was any more difficult than mine and several others. He was quiet, as was I; an average student, as was I. Socially, both of us were reserved and, somewhat uncomfortable in the social structure in which we found ourselves. We perceived ourselves as of a lower socio-economic class than our peers. All of this may have very well been just a perception, not an actuality. Johnny was an athlete and participated in most of the high school sports. My only extracurricular activity was public speaking in those venues provided by the Future Farmers of America (a social and academic organization run in conjunction with the Vocational Agricultural program in the school). Linda was much more involved in high school activities than either Johnny or me.
We graduated from high school in May of 1962 and that would have been the last time I had seen Johnny until the wedding last Friday night.
Not long after our graduation, Linda had suffered health problems which resulted in her being left with difficulties in speech and mobility. She had to learn to crawl and to speak babbling words all over again. Her vision was impaired. She worked hard at her rehabilitation and eventually reached the point that she could continue on with her education. And, then she was able to secure employment in the state library system where she worked until retirement. She still has some vision and speech problems, but nothing which holds her back from living a normal life. She does not consider herself handicapped or limited in any manner. She uses a cane to walk, but, then, don’t we all.
Johnny had lived away from Oklahoma his entire adult life. He tells me he had lived in Phoenix until his retirement recently, whereupon he wanted to come home. I don’t know how he and Linda made contact, but after a renewed friendship of several months, they decided to get married. That was where I came in.
Earlier in the evening, we went through the rehearsal. I assured them I had never seen a good rehearsal or a bad wedding. It was quick and uneventful. Then, at 7:30, Johnny and I stood behind closed doors, awaiting the sound of music. There was a flautist who began playing, our cue, and we entered the sanctuary, taking our place in front. I was frankly somewhat surprised at the number of people there. I would estimate the number to be about 150 people. We stood there as the maid of honor entered the room and took her place. We looked toward the other entrance and watched as Linda entered. I asked the audience to stand and we turned as if at attention to watch her make her way to the altar.
She looked lovely. Radiant. A smile crossed her face like I had never seen, something like sheer happiness warming those of us blessed to be sharing the moment. “Do you take Johnny to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I asked. “Do you promise to love, honor and cherish him, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in adversity, and do you promise to keep yourself to him and to him alone so long as you both shall live?” “I do,” she replied.
I had Johnny place a ring on the third finger of Linda’s left hand, hold it and repeat after me, “With this ring I thee wed, and all that I am and all that I have, I give to you.”
With the exchange of vows in the presence of God and in the presence of that company of friends and family, sealed by the giving and receiving of rings, “by the authority vested in me by the State of Oklahoma, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And, with that, they kissed.
It was a joyous event. We don’t often marry at our age, usually that is something younger people do. But, as I stated during the ceremony, the thing we have in common with the younger people is that we have the rest of our lives ahead of us. And, Linda and Johnny have the rest of their lives ahead of them. If there was any sadness in the whole evening, it was that Linda’s mother and father were gone and did not get to see her happiness that night.
My best wishes go with the two of them.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
By the River of Babylon
In 587 B.C., Nebuchadnezzar’s armies from Babylon surrounded and conquered Jerusalem. The numbers of Jews slain at the hand of this fearful war machine can only be speculated at. Over four thousand of the most influential people, those who determined state policy and were responsible for carrying out its policies, were carried to Babylon as captives. They lived there for nearly a century before they were allowed to return to Jerusalem and attempt to reestablish their nation. It was a hard time for these people who had seen their homeland scorched by the enemy and their city, their national and religious identity, decimated. And, their Temple completely destroyed.
Judeans living in captivity under the Babylonians was better than being in such circumstances in some other nation. Israel had been conquered by Assyria nearly a century and a half earlier and Assyria’s policy toward its captives was much harsher than the policy of Babylon. The Israelites were carried off and dispersed. Their identity was completely destroyed and lost. These are the ten lost tribes of Israel, around whom there is so much mystery and speculation. The Babylonians set the Judeans up as a community within their borders. The Judeans were encouraged to enter business, marry and have children, and, generally, live as well as possible. But, they were still living in bondage, something the Judeans would have found intolerable. Their shock at their circumstances was heightened as they recalled their existence as slaves in Egypt, from which they escaped and formed their national identity.
The Judeans also had the national memory of seeing their city and temple burning as they were force marched away from their homes and toward Babylon.
While they endured their existence in Babylon, they continued their community. They engaged in commerce, both among themselves and with others. They married and raised families, always telling their children about Jerusalem and the temple. Their stories were a longing for what was, sometimes coupled with what might be.
One of the most beautiful poems written was produced by one of these captives in Babylon. In it he shows the longing for Jerusalem and the temple. It is recorded in both the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Old Testament as Psalm 137.
1By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
2We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
3For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
4How shall we sing the LORD's song in a strange land?
5If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
6If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy. (KJV)
Sitting by the river of Babylon, the poet recalls Jerusalem. And, everything he remembers is good and beautiful. Everything he remembers about the temple is righteous and holy. He may have never seen Jerusalem. As he writes, there doesn’t appear to be any shackles or forced labor. He is sitting by the river writing poetry. They have been there long enough that they have either broken out or replaced their harps. They have time to sing and play harps. Their life is pretty good considering the circumstances, but it’s not in Jerusalem. They have hung the harps in the willow trees because they refuse to sing for their captors. Even when requested or demanded to do so.
I will never forget Jerusalem, declares the Jew. We will never forget Jerusalem, sings the poet. I would rather lose my right hand than forget her. I would prefer to lose my ability to speak than to forget Jerusalem.
This is a beautiful poetic expression of a people’s love for their homeland. Their belief was that this land and this city were given to them by God, a fulfillment of a promise He made to Abraham. And, it was more than that. It was where they met with and communed with God. They believed there was one God and that he was the God of the world, but they knew that in Jerusalem they communed with Him.
Judeans living in captivity under the Babylonians was better than being in such circumstances in some other nation. Israel had been conquered by Assyria nearly a century and a half earlier and Assyria’s policy toward its captives was much harsher than the policy of Babylon. The Israelites were carried off and dispersed. Their identity was completely destroyed and lost. These are the ten lost tribes of Israel, around whom there is so much mystery and speculation. The Babylonians set the Judeans up as a community within their borders. The Judeans were encouraged to enter business, marry and have children, and, generally, live as well as possible. But, they were still living in bondage, something the Judeans would have found intolerable. Their shock at their circumstances was heightened as they recalled their existence as slaves in Egypt, from which they escaped and formed their national identity.
The Judeans also had the national memory of seeing their city and temple burning as they were force marched away from their homes and toward Babylon.
While they endured their existence in Babylon, they continued their community. They engaged in commerce, both among themselves and with others. They married and raised families, always telling their children about Jerusalem and the temple. Their stories were a longing for what was, sometimes coupled with what might be.
One of the most beautiful poems written was produced by one of these captives in Babylon. In it he shows the longing for Jerusalem and the temple. It is recorded in both the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Old Testament as Psalm 137.
1By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
2We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
3For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
4How shall we sing the LORD's song in a strange land?
5If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
6If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy. (KJV)
Sitting by the river of Babylon, the poet recalls Jerusalem. And, everything he remembers is good and beautiful. Everything he remembers about the temple is righteous and holy. He may have never seen Jerusalem. As he writes, there doesn’t appear to be any shackles or forced labor. He is sitting by the river writing poetry. They have been there long enough that they have either broken out or replaced their harps. They have time to sing and play harps. Their life is pretty good considering the circumstances, but it’s not in Jerusalem. They have hung the harps in the willow trees because they refuse to sing for their captors. Even when requested or demanded to do so.
I will never forget Jerusalem, declares the Jew. We will never forget Jerusalem, sings the poet. I would rather lose my right hand than forget her. I would prefer to lose my ability to speak than to forget Jerusalem.
This is a beautiful poetic expression of a people’s love for their homeland. Their belief was that this land and this city were given to them by God, a fulfillment of a promise He made to Abraham. And, it was more than that. It was where they met with and communed with God. They believed there was one God and that he was the God of the world, but they knew that in Jerusalem they communed with Him.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Elsie
I don’t have all the dates worked out completely in my mind, but my dad bought a new milk cow sometime in the middle or late 1950s. We had other cows, six or seven at a time, which were part of our small dairy herd. In those days, our farms were not exactly subsistence, but we did try to produce as much as we could for our own living. A family of four young kids could always use the milk to supplement their diet, it’s being a staple in both drink and in cooking. After drinking all we wanted, we separated the cream from the milk and saved it aside until the coming Saturday when we would take it into town to sell. This produced a small cash income for the family which would go a long way toward meeting our regular daily needs. The left-over milk was fed to the hogs to help fatten them up. They were another cash crop on those small farms in Oklahoma during those years.
Most of our milk cows were just range cows we had tamed for the sole purpose of milking. For some of them, it was a challenge to sit down on their right side near their hind leg, place yourself in a position of danger and start the milking process. These old range cows considered this an unnatural intrusion on their dignity and their only response was to kick the fool out of you. We did have a somewhat gentle cow, a large one which was part Jersey or Guernsey. Her name was “Babe.”
We named our milk cows. While I don’t remember them all, I do remember Babe and another named “Flossie.” The others escape me. Then, one day my dad brought home a small Jersey cow, yellowish tan in color with small horns curving to the front of her face. She was the perfect appearance and disposition of a Jersey cow, very gentle and productive. She looked exactly like the mascot for the Borden Dairy and, probably for that similarity, we named her Elsie.
As time went on, we pared down the dairy cows. As they got older we didn’t replace them and reduced the numbers we were milking. Eventually, we were down to Elsie and Babe, and still later we were just milking Elsie. My dad had found employment nearby which reduced the necessity of selling cream for cash and my older brothers left home which greatly reduced the milk hands, reduced, in fact, to me. Wherever we lived, my parents always wanted to have a milk cow. It was probably in part to give me something to do and it was their way of holding onto their past. They were children of the Depression and remembered times when people had little to eat. I believe they felt so long as they had a milk cow and a fattening hog, they would be alright. They might have to buy flour, salt and corn meal, but so long as they could do that, and so long as they had milk on hand, they could feed themselves and their children.
As kids moved away and the family at home got smaller, the one cow produced more than enough milk for us. It wasn’t pasteurized and the facilities were not at all sanitary, but we never got sick from drinking this raw milk. Milk, butter milk, cream, sour cream, butter, cottage cheese, all these were staples in our diet. We might sit down to a simple supper (dinner to the rest of the world) of cornbread and milk, but we were grateful to have it. And, as I look back at it now, mother had been working on the family farm as much and as hard as the rest of us, if not more, and she was probably too tired at times to prepare anything other than a pan of cornbread. Our diet was usually much more hearty than that simple fare, but at times that was all we had and we never complained.
We reached the point that Elsie was the only milk cow we had. When we left the farm, we took her with us. The galvanized milk buckets we used held about 3 ½ gallons and she always produced enough milk to fill it, twice a day. And, I would say that at least a third of that was cream. That much cream twice a day makes a lot of butter and whipped cream. She remained almost a member of the family. Even when a fifth child had been born and there was no one there but me and my younger sister, 14 years my junior, and my parents, we kept Elsie as part of our daily routine. When we moved even further from the farm, we finally quit milking. Elsie was allowed to run with the remainder of the cows, a small herd of mixed cows usually run with a pretty good Angus bull, to produce calves which were a cash crop on the family farm.
Elsie was getting older and I was told to go by the farm and feed her apart from the others. I locked her up in a lot and gave her a special feed, some sorghum rich grain and some hay. She had water available and I petted her and talked to her while she ate. I left her there in the lot, intending to come by later and let her out. I don’t know what it was that I had to do, but I was distracted and forgot to come back by the farm. Two days later, my mom and dad went by and found her dead there in the lot.
I felt terrible and my dad, foolishly, ate me out for leaving her there so she could starve to death. That bothered me for a long time until I finally realized that a cow, which had access to water, won’t starve to death in a day or two without food. It’s not good for them, but it won’t kill them. The truth of the matter was that she was old and weak and that was why I was feeding her a special feed. She simply got old and died. As do we all.
We never had another milk cow, Elsie was the last. I remember well those cold winter mornings I would trudge out into the freezing weather to call in the cows. We would bring them into the barn and put them in the feeding and milk stations. We would sit down beside them, place our cold hands up between their flank and their udder to warm them, and then milk until the bucket was full. The cats would come around and make a nuisance of themselves and we would squirt some of the warm milk into their face. They would lick it off and go back to bothering us. By then we would have enough to pour some into a pan so they would leave us alone and quit trying to climb into the bucket. They had their job and we had ours. Theirs was to kill as many mice and snakes as they could and that was worthy a drink of warm milk a couple of times a day. It wasn’t really hard work, it was just constant. Every morning, every evening, the cows had to be milked.
Milking the cows was my dad’s job. Then it became his and my oldest brother’s job. Soon, it was the job of my two older brothers. Then my middle brother’s and mine. Then mine. Then, we were out of the milk cow business. It’s funny how that works. My sons would have probably been better people if they had had a cow to milk.
Most of our milk cows were just range cows we had tamed for the sole purpose of milking. For some of them, it was a challenge to sit down on their right side near their hind leg, place yourself in a position of danger and start the milking process. These old range cows considered this an unnatural intrusion on their dignity and their only response was to kick the fool out of you. We did have a somewhat gentle cow, a large one which was part Jersey or Guernsey. Her name was “Babe.”
We named our milk cows. While I don’t remember them all, I do remember Babe and another named “Flossie.” The others escape me. Then, one day my dad brought home a small Jersey cow, yellowish tan in color with small horns curving to the front of her face. She was the perfect appearance and disposition of a Jersey cow, very gentle and productive. She looked exactly like the mascot for the Borden Dairy and, probably for that similarity, we named her Elsie.
As time went on, we pared down the dairy cows. As they got older we didn’t replace them and reduced the numbers we were milking. Eventually, we were down to Elsie and Babe, and still later we were just milking Elsie. My dad had found employment nearby which reduced the necessity of selling cream for cash and my older brothers left home which greatly reduced the milk hands, reduced, in fact, to me. Wherever we lived, my parents always wanted to have a milk cow. It was probably in part to give me something to do and it was their way of holding onto their past. They were children of the Depression and remembered times when people had little to eat. I believe they felt so long as they had a milk cow and a fattening hog, they would be alright. They might have to buy flour, salt and corn meal, but so long as they could do that, and so long as they had milk on hand, they could feed themselves and their children.
As kids moved away and the family at home got smaller, the one cow produced more than enough milk for us. It wasn’t pasteurized and the facilities were not at all sanitary, but we never got sick from drinking this raw milk. Milk, butter milk, cream, sour cream, butter, cottage cheese, all these were staples in our diet. We might sit down to a simple supper (dinner to the rest of the world) of cornbread and milk, but we were grateful to have it. And, as I look back at it now, mother had been working on the family farm as much and as hard as the rest of us, if not more, and she was probably too tired at times to prepare anything other than a pan of cornbread. Our diet was usually much more hearty than that simple fare, but at times that was all we had and we never complained.
We reached the point that Elsie was the only milk cow we had. When we left the farm, we took her with us. The galvanized milk buckets we used held about 3 ½ gallons and she always produced enough milk to fill it, twice a day. And, I would say that at least a third of that was cream. That much cream twice a day makes a lot of butter and whipped cream. She remained almost a member of the family. Even when a fifth child had been born and there was no one there but me and my younger sister, 14 years my junior, and my parents, we kept Elsie as part of our daily routine. When we moved even further from the farm, we finally quit milking. Elsie was allowed to run with the remainder of the cows, a small herd of mixed cows usually run with a pretty good Angus bull, to produce calves which were a cash crop on the family farm.
Elsie was getting older and I was told to go by the farm and feed her apart from the others. I locked her up in a lot and gave her a special feed, some sorghum rich grain and some hay. She had water available and I petted her and talked to her while she ate. I left her there in the lot, intending to come by later and let her out. I don’t know what it was that I had to do, but I was distracted and forgot to come back by the farm. Two days later, my mom and dad went by and found her dead there in the lot.
I felt terrible and my dad, foolishly, ate me out for leaving her there so she could starve to death. That bothered me for a long time until I finally realized that a cow, which had access to water, won’t starve to death in a day or two without food. It’s not good for them, but it won’t kill them. The truth of the matter was that she was old and weak and that was why I was feeding her a special feed. She simply got old and died. As do we all.
We never had another milk cow, Elsie was the last. I remember well those cold winter mornings I would trudge out into the freezing weather to call in the cows. We would bring them into the barn and put them in the feeding and milk stations. We would sit down beside them, place our cold hands up between their flank and their udder to warm them, and then milk until the bucket was full. The cats would come around and make a nuisance of themselves and we would squirt some of the warm milk into their face. They would lick it off and go back to bothering us. By then we would have enough to pour some into a pan so they would leave us alone and quit trying to climb into the bucket. They had their job and we had ours. Theirs was to kill as many mice and snakes as they could and that was worthy a drink of warm milk a couple of times a day. It wasn’t really hard work, it was just constant. Every morning, every evening, the cows had to be milked.
Milking the cows was my dad’s job. Then it became his and my oldest brother’s job. Soon, it was the job of my two older brothers. Then my middle brother’s and mine. Then mine. Then, we were out of the milk cow business. It’s funny how that works. My sons would have probably been better people if they had had a cow to milk.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
A Tribute to an Oklahoma Staff
In a previous treatise, I related my experiences with a police officer from the University of Oklahoma who was rude and boorish at a concert. (The essay may be read in Thoughts I Thunk, a collection of essays written in 2010.) It was a critical commentary, however, in order to be completely fair to the University, a further comment is appropriate.
On September 3, 2011, I attended a football game at the University of Oklahoma, in which we were playing Tulsa University. I have been attending these football games for the last 25 years and in recent years it has become difficult to sit through them. My legs hurt. A few years ago, standing on concrete for four hours began causing extreme pain and a Saturday’s pain didn’t subside until Wednesday or Thursday, just in time for another game the following Saturday. That was in earlier days; it is worse today. Now, I try to go to one game a year and rely on television for the rest.
As we played Tulsa, I was continually standing up and sitting down, pushing myself off with my cane each time I tried to rise. The pain is caused by arthritis in my knees and nerve damage in the feet and legs, the result of diabetes. Most of the time I was standing on concrete and the pain got steadily worse. We decided to leave at half-time.
I got up to leave and had to walk through a crowd of people sitting on my row. Uncomfortably insecure, I used my cane to help keep me from losing my balance, and, even then, I had to reach out and hold onto a stranger’s shoulder to keep from falling on him. People moved over to give me some room to maneuver, and a young girl held back to allow me to get into the aisle so I could leave. I walked up four or five steps with some difficulty and then there was a long ramp leading down into the common area beneath the bleachers. Walking down the ramp, one of the ushers stopped me. She asked if I needed help going down, apparently noticing how difficult it was for me. I thanked her and told her that once I got to the rail I would be able to make it down.
After getting to the bottom of the ramp, with some difficulty, I still had quite a distance to go before leaving the stadium. I was moving very slowly with small, short steps. It was a hot night; the temperature at the beginning of the game had been over one hundred degrees and it hadn’t cooled down in the last couple hours. As I approached the exit, a second young lady saw me coming her way. My family had gone ahead and as far as she knew I was alone. She saw me looking like I was bothered by the heat and walking with a cane in those short, halting old-man steps. My legs were hurting and felt very weak, as if they could give out on me at any moment.
The staff member asked me if I was all right. I assured her I was okay and she offered to get me a chair to sit down. She also offered to get me a wet rag to cool my face and neck. It was a generous offer, but I assured her I would be alright and didn’t have all that far to go until I would be able to sit in an air conditioned car and that I was not alone. I thanked her for her kindness, and really did appreciate her expressions of concern. I was also appreciative of the other usher and for the kindness she showed. I continued my walk and soon ran into my family who were coming back to see if I was dead.
The kindness of the staff at the game meant a lot to me. After my disappointing encounter with the young police officer, I was glad for this experience. I only wish my legs were not quite so weak and painful.
On September 3, 2011, I attended a football game at the University of Oklahoma, in which we were playing Tulsa University. I have been attending these football games for the last 25 years and in recent years it has become difficult to sit through them. My legs hurt. A few years ago, standing on concrete for four hours began causing extreme pain and a Saturday’s pain didn’t subside until Wednesday or Thursday, just in time for another game the following Saturday. That was in earlier days; it is worse today. Now, I try to go to one game a year and rely on television for the rest.
As we played Tulsa, I was continually standing up and sitting down, pushing myself off with my cane each time I tried to rise. The pain is caused by arthritis in my knees and nerve damage in the feet and legs, the result of diabetes. Most of the time I was standing on concrete and the pain got steadily worse. We decided to leave at half-time.
I got up to leave and had to walk through a crowd of people sitting on my row. Uncomfortably insecure, I used my cane to help keep me from losing my balance, and, even then, I had to reach out and hold onto a stranger’s shoulder to keep from falling on him. People moved over to give me some room to maneuver, and a young girl held back to allow me to get into the aisle so I could leave. I walked up four or five steps with some difficulty and then there was a long ramp leading down into the common area beneath the bleachers. Walking down the ramp, one of the ushers stopped me. She asked if I needed help going down, apparently noticing how difficult it was for me. I thanked her and told her that once I got to the rail I would be able to make it down.
After getting to the bottom of the ramp, with some difficulty, I still had quite a distance to go before leaving the stadium. I was moving very slowly with small, short steps. It was a hot night; the temperature at the beginning of the game had been over one hundred degrees and it hadn’t cooled down in the last couple hours. As I approached the exit, a second young lady saw me coming her way. My family had gone ahead and as far as she knew I was alone. She saw me looking like I was bothered by the heat and walking with a cane in those short, halting old-man steps. My legs were hurting and felt very weak, as if they could give out on me at any moment.
The staff member asked me if I was all right. I assured her I was okay and she offered to get me a chair to sit down. She also offered to get me a wet rag to cool my face and neck. It was a generous offer, but I assured her I would be alright and didn’t have all that far to go until I would be able to sit in an air conditioned car and that I was not alone. I thanked her for her kindness, and really did appreciate her expressions of concern. I was also appreciative of the other usher and for the kindness she showed. I continued my walk and soon ran into my family who were coming back to see if I was dead.
The kindness of the staff at the game meant a lot to me. After my disappointing encounter with the young police officer, I was glad for this experience. I only wish my legs were not quite so weak and painful.
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