I live in a very small community that is indeed boundless.
Small drops make ever expanding ripples that are noticed.
If someone loses a dog, others know, and what is more they care. When there is news of a baby's arrival, whether locally or hundreds of miles, even thousands of miles away, hearts celebrate.
When anyone is sick or leaves the community they are missed.
Several weeks ago, there was a horrific car accident on a rural road, late at night. Two teenagers were thrown from the car and gravely injured. They were flown to Halifax by helicopter, because they needed highly intensive care. Just recently they were moved from intensive care. Their lives have been drastically changed, but everyone is hoping for the best. The members of the community are heartbroken.
As the news spread so did the question "What can I do ? ". The answer was a lot. Some addressed the immediate needs of the families. Some opened their wallets to help with the immediate expences. Notes were written, prayers continue and I can just imagine the casseroles that were flying out one door into another. Everyone did what they could.
Good people organized an incredible brunch at the Community Hall. The spirit of the event was even better than the excellent breakfast, with all the trimmings, right down to homemade jam. The next day a Bean Supper was held at the large firehall in the nearby town. The building was overcrowded with musicians, tables covered with items to be auctioned, a string of individuals carrying in large pots and trays of fresh sweets and happy people enjoying the homemade baked bean supper.
At both events, there were boxes, for freewill donations, by the door. People gave as they were able. For the most part the contributions were five, ten and twenty dollar bills and a significant jangle of loonies and twoonies. When the money was counted there was over thirteen thousand dollars. This is from a community with deep pockets but not all that much in them.
The amazing thing is a family friend is fighting the good fight after a surgery gone very wrong, in a prestigious Toronto hospital. There will be no Bean Suppers for him and his family, but there are people scattered across the continent, who would be having them if they were needed. It might be a little more complicated, but it would happen.
It is comforting to know that the spirit of practical compassion that is so present here is present wherever people care. Community is an essential foundation stone of living.
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Dreary Fall Days and Halloween
The hills are beautiful. The vivid reds, oranges and yellows paint the hills. The tall dark spruces accentuate the out of control colour. The many days of steel grey skies are the perfect backdrop.
In the garden the last of summer flowers hold forth. The bright, pink honeysuckle doesn't know it is past its time.
In all this beauty there is a unique sadness. Rambunctious summer is gone and not yet replaced by winter fun.
Stacked wood fills the porch, as the long, evening gatherings have disappeared with the evening light. The white wicker chairs are dragged off to the barn.
Life's grand questions that seem to evaporate in the warm sunshine, gradually find their way home.
It is not yet cold enough for a warm fire to help quiet some questions.
Hearts have given thanks for the autumn abundance. The rush and crush of Christmas lies ahead.
Let's light the jack o lanterns and wait for the excited voices of small children in the dark night.
In the garden the last of summer flowers hold forth. The bright, pink honeysuckle doesn't know it is past its time.
In all this beauty there is a unique sadness. Rambunctious summer is gone and not yet replaced by winter fun.
Stacked wood fills the porch, as the long, evening gatherings have disappeared with the evening light. The white wicker chairs are dragged off to the barn.
Life's grand questions that seem to evaporate in the warm sunshine, gradually find their way home.
It is not yet cold enough for a warm fire to help quiet some questions.
Hearts have given thanks for the autumn abundance. The rush and crush of Christmas lies ahead.
Let's light the jack o lanterns and wait for the excited voices of small children in the dark night.
Saturday, 6 October 2012
Canadian Thanksgiving Addendum
Today is the beginning of the Canadian Thanksgiving Weekend. Be assured that I am thankful for much that, I assume, would appear on most Thanksgiving lists.
I am also thankful
1. that I see my food growing, as I take my car on roads through abundant fields when I go to town.
2. that I know that the best don't necessarily make it to the top. There are big hearts, fine minds and willingness to work hard at all levels of society.
3. that I know so much of what is happening, good and bad, from varying points of view on the internet.
4.that Canada attempts to offer good healthcare to all.
5.that I get to breathe fresh sea air.
6.that so many people in my life have well developed senses of fun.
7.that I am a grandma.
8.that my dog is such a fine companion.
9.that the weather forecasts are so often wrong.
10.that the wood is almost stacked.
11. and that it is such fine hardwood.
12.that a friend makes the best cookies.
13. for tea.
14.that my water keeps flowing when the electricity goes off.
15.that I live in a community of people of all ages.
16. that my garden got a good start.
17. that there is always next year.
18.for Frenchies clothing stores.
19.for flannelette sheets in winter.
20. for waterproof boots all year.
21. for spontaneous shore suppers.
22. for a car that I can count on to get from a to b.
23. for senior citizens discounts.
24.C.B.C.
25. P.B.S.
26. that we don't have to register to vote.
27.that we get to vote.
28.that the system is as good as it is.
29.that children still learn to read.
30.for free spirits.
31.that I am not a perfectionist.
32.for an old house.
33.for poetry.
34.that I learned how to knit.
35.for concord grapes, horseradish and almonds.
36.for the many shades of green.
37.for writing paper.
38.unorganized time.
39. paint.
40.for chickadees.
41.for my mailbox.
42.local music.
43. Cirque de Soliel.
44. for lobster rolls.
45.that I have so many happy memories.
46.that bad memories fade.
47.that I know a big city.
48.that my apple tree is so loaded with fruit.
49.that I have lucky stones from childhood.
50.and
I am also thankful
1. that I see my food growing, as I take my car on roads through abundant fields when I go to town.
2. that I know that the best don't necessarily make it to the top. There are big hearts, fine minds and willingness to work hard at all levels of society.
3. that I know so much of what is happening, good and bad, from varying points of view on the internet.
4.that Canada attempts to offer good healthcare to all.
5.that I get to breathe fresh sea air.
6.that so many people in my life have well developed senses of fun.
7.that I am a grandma.
8.that my dog is such a fine companion.
9.that the weather forecasts are so often wrong.
10.that the wood is almost stacked.
11. and that it is such fine hardwood.
12.that a friend makes the best cookies.
13. for tea.
14.that my water keeps flowing when the electricity goes off.
15.that I live in a community of people of all ages.
16. that my garden got a good start.
17. that there is always next year.
18.for Frenchies clothing stores.
19.for flannelette sheets in winter.
20. for waterproof boots all year.
21. for spontaneous shore suppers.
22. for a car that I can count on to get from a to b.
23. for senior citizens discounts.
24.C.B.C.
25. P.B.S.
26. that we don't have to register to vote.
27.that we get to vote.
28.that the system is as good as it is.
29.that children still learn to read.
30.for free spirits.
31.that I am not a perfectionist.
32.for an old house.
33.for poetry.
34.that I learned how to knit.
35.for concord grapes, horseradish and almonds.
36.for the many shades of green.
37.for writing paper.
38.unorganized time.
39. paint.
40.for chickadees.
41.for my mailbox.
42.local music.
43. Cirque de Soliel.
44. for lobster rolls.
45.that I have so many happy memories.
46.that bad memories fade.
47.that I know a big city.
48.that my apple tree is so loaded with fruit.
49.that I have lucky stones from childhood.
50.and
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
Good-Bye, Sam the Record Man
Sam the Record Man, like Honest Ed, is a person who helped to bring about a new city of Toronto.
Unlike my cousins and many around me, I am not a musical aficionado. Music is a significant part of my life, but it is not my passion. Nevertheless, Sam Sniderman's store on Yonge St. was an important part of my teenage years.
Going to Sam the Record Mans was an event. We snooped through a warren of rooms, on many levels, connected by various stairs, in various directions and of various lengths. Each room was filled to capacity with vinyl records, mostly LP's. Cool dudes, and not so cool dudes stood by pillars with bulging sets of headphones. They checked out the intended purchase, before they put down the cash at the register. The coolest of all were the sales help, who obviously lived music
I guess I was a Folkie. My odd collection of records was of the Peter, Paul and Mary sort. Hootenanys were bright spots on my unimpressive social calendar.
I would trudge up to the third floor and flip through the records. The third floor at that time had folk music and jazz. Those who had not completely emerged from the Beatnik era, hung over these records in their solid blacks. The Greasers with their fancy hairdos rocked in another room downstairs.
Boxing Day was the big day. Despite the law that stores were to stay closed, Sam's was very much open. SALE.SALE.SALE. Ragged lines formed along the street. Sam stood by the front door welcoming everyone, as he did most days, the store was open. We were crushed by a mass of humanity, mostly young, from all parts of the city and beyond.
It was a sad day, when decades later, a cardboard Sam stood in his place.
The City Fire Marshals must have been aware of the doings and had a hard time sitting on their hands.
Toronto was very waspish in those days; Toronto the Good, Hogtown, City of Churches. Here a dinner of prime rib roast and Yorkshire pudding, at the Royal York Hotel, was the epitome of fine dine dining.
The city has changed. This is a good thing. It is now Toronto the Good, a different kind of good. Characters who lived in brash, new ways opened up doors, meant to stay closed, letting in freshness from all over the world to become a global happening. Sam was one of those characters who opened doors.
Thankyou Sam. Safe journey.
Unlike my cousins and many around me, I am not a musical aficionado. Music is a significant part of my life, but it is not my passion. Nevertheless, Sam Sniderman's store on Yonge St. was an important part of my teenage years.
Going to Sam the Record Mans was an event. We snooped through a warren of rooms, on many levels, connected by various stairs, in various directions and of various lengths. Each room was filled to capacity with vinyl records, mostly LP's. Cool dudes, and not so cool dudes stood by pillars with bulging sets of headphones. They checked out the intended purchase, before they put down the cash at the register. The coolest of all were the sales help, who obviously lived music
I guess I was a Folkie. My odd collection of records was of the Peter, Paul and Mary sort. Hootenanys were bright spots on my unimpressive social calendar.
I would trudge up to the third floor and flip through the records. The third floor at that time had folk music and jazz. Those who had not completely emerged from the Beatnik era, hung over these records in their solid blacks. The Greasers with their fancy hairdos rocked in another room downstairs.
Boxing Day was the big day. Despite the law that stores were to stay closed, Sam's was very much open. SALE.SALE.SALE. Ragged lines formed along the street. Sam stood by the front door welcoming everyone, as he did most days, the store was open. We were crushed by a mass of humanity, mostly young, from all parts of the city and beyond.
It was a sad day, when decades later, a cardboard Sam stood in his place.
The City Fire Marshals must have been aware of the doings and had a hard time sitting on their hands.
Toronto was very waspish in those days; Toronto the Good, Hogtown, City of Churches. Here a dinner of prime rib roast and Yorkshire pudding, at the Royal York Hotel, was the epitome of fine dine dining.
The city has changed. This is a good thing. It is now Toronto the Good, a different kind of good. Characters who lived in brash, new ways opened up doors, meant to stay closed, letting in freshness from all over the world to become a global happening. Sam was one of those characters who opened doors.
Thankyou Sam. Safe journey.
Friday, 31 August 2012
Under Appreciated Hammocks
The sea air has changed from a breeze to a wind, the sun is shining brightly, the splendid, fuchsia, hollyhocks have almost finished their summer extravaganza AND I am in a colourful, striped canvas hammock on the good, old front porch. I have my beloved computer in my lap. I couldn't ask for more at this moment.
Hammocks are highly under rated.
I have been going through bushels of old photographs, very old photographs, sorting out so much past. This is a nasty task; what to keep, what to burn, where to find more appreciative homes for the photos. In one picture my paternal grandmother languishes in a hammock set up by the massive stone Presbyterian walls of her family's farmhouse in southwestern Ontario. Her five grown sisters gather around her in their long, starched, white summer dresses.
There is no question of burning this picture of my grandmother, Junie. I am given a glimpse of an unhighlighted time in a family's story. Her father died when her youngest brother was a baby. Her oldest brother, John, kept the farm going well enough that all of the sisters were able to eventually finish high school in various Girls Schools, as country one room schools only went so far. They went on to graduate from Teachers College. This was quite an accomplishment for a family of very limited means, at the beginning of the last century.
My grandmother knew more than a little about hard work, but there she is lolling in a hammock. This is an addendum to "the idle hands are the playthings of the devil" theology that seemed to permeate family ethos. Perhaps this was a Sunday when hands had a day of rest.
I kept the picture of my grandmother, Ethel, smiling as she rests in a hammock at the cottage on Lake Simcoe. This picture would have been taken a few years later, probably the summer of 1909, as my mother in another picture, taken at the same time, in the same hammock is about two years old. This grandma was familiar with hammocks every summer day. Leisure was part of her routine
At our home in Markham, a canvas, green striped hammock stretched out between the apple tree and the pear tree. My cousins and I didn't do much lolling. The hammock was an active recreation. We would take turns winding up the hammock as far as it could wind. Cocoon style a cousin was inside. When let go, the hammock spun its contents round and round until it became untwisted giving the cocoon quite a thrill, leaving the cousin slightly dizzy.
One of the great tragedies of my young life happened as I actively participated in hammock fun. My cousin Myra was wrapped up as tight as could be. I let go. She spun happily until she spun out onto the ground. Unfortunately she landed on tree roots and broke her collarbone. Unfortunately for me, I was held somehow responsible. My mother felt compelled to present her with a gift each day as she lay resplendent, recuperating outside in a lawn chair. The hammock was taken down.To be honest, I felt sorry for my little self with such wounded, tender feelings.
Last summer my younger daughter with her watermelon belly tried to rest in the very same hammock in which I now lie. Her young nieces constantly urged her on to more rambunctious endeavours.
This summer her baby boy wasn't really in to gentle swinging. He had his own swing. The little girls took over the hammock with a passion. Boy can that hammock swing. We had to go into town to buy an egg timer to accurately define each child's hammock time. I dreaded the accident in waiting, but it never came. A box and a half of bandaids were used up during their visit but none of them were hammock related.
My daughters and I had odd moments in the hammock, usually as the sun was setting.
My oldest cousin and I gave a huge handmade hammock with all the accessories to my daughter and her husband as a wedding gift. It would be fun to know what memories will swing into family lore from that hammock.
Hammocks are an essential part of summer.
Hammocks are highly under rated.
I have been going through bushels of old photographs, very old photographs, sorting out so much past. This is a nasty task; what to keep, what to burn, where to find more appreciative homes for the photos. In one picture my paternal grandmother languishes in a hammock set up by the massive stone Presbyterian walls of her family's farmhouse in southwestern Ontario. Her five grown sisters gather around her in their long, starched, white summer dresses.
There is no question of burning this picture of my grandmother, Junie. I am given a glimpse of an unhighlighted time in a family's story. Her father died when her youngest brother was a baby. Her oldest brother, John, kept the farm going well enough that all of the sisters were able to eventually finish high school in various Girls Schools, as country one room schools only went so far. They went on to graduate from Teachers College. This was quite an accomplishment for a family of very limited means, at the beginning of the last century.
My grandmother knew more than a little about hard work, but there she is lolling in a hammock. This is an addendum to "the idle hands are the playthings of the devil" theology that seemed to permeate family ethos. Perhaps this was a Sunday when hands had a day of rest.
I kept the picture of my grandmother, Ethel, smiling as she rests in a hammock at the cottage on Lake Simcoe. This picture would have been taken a few years later, probably the summer of 1909, as my mother in another picture, taken at the same time, in the same hammock is about two years old. This grandma was familiar with hammocks every summer day. Leisure was part of her routine
At our home in Markham, a canvas, green striped hammock stretched out between the apple tree and the pear tree. My cousins and I didn't do much lolling. The hammock was an active recreation. We would take turns winding up the hammock as far as it could wind. Cocoon style a cousin was inside. When let go, the hammock spun its contents round and round until it became untwisted giving the cocoon quite a thrill, leaving the cousin slightly dizzy.
One of the great tragedies of my young life happened as I actively participated in hammock fun. My cousin Myra was wrapped up as tight as could be. I let go. She spun happily until she spun out onto the ground. Unfortunately she landed on tree roots and broke her collarbone. Unfortunately for me, I was held somehow responsible. My mother felt compelled to present her with a gift each day as she lay resplendent, recuperating outside in a lawn chair. The hammock was taken down.To be honest, I felt sorry for my little self with such wounded, tender feelings.
Last summer my younger daughter with her watermelon belly tried to rest in the very same hammock in which I now lie. Her young nieces constantly urged her on to more rambunctious endeavours.
This summer her baby boy wasn't really in to gentle swinging. He had his own swing. The little girls took over the hammock with a passion. Boy can that hammock swing. We had to go into town to buy an egg timer to accurately define each child's hammock time. I dreaded the accident in waiting, but it never came. A box and a half of bandaids were used up during their visit but none of them were hammock related.
My daughters and I had odd moments in the hammock, usually as the sun was setting.
My oldest cousin and I gave a huge handmade hammock with all the accessories to my daughter and her husband as a wedding gift. It would be fun to know what memories will swing into family lore from that hammock.
Hammocks are an essential part of summer.
Friday, 24 August 2012
Sleeper Inners and Getter Uppers
It is a difficult life being a sleeper inner in a world of getter uppers.
For the most part my friends are getter uppers. By the time I enter consciousness, my compatriots, scattered hither and yon, have taken significant bites out of the day. Dogs have been walked, tea leisurely savoured, clothes washed, The Globe and Mail consumed, muffins baked. It goes on and on.
I know this because I get up early to feed my impatient dog. Before I crawl back into bed, I can hear the familiar buzz of a world awake, both literally and figuratively.
In a small fishing village, five o'clock isn't that early. It is the tides that tell the time. For the many farmers that load down my family tree, the day's schedule was guided by the needs of the animals, the demands of the land and the control of the weather.
Why should this matter to me ? I don't know, but it does.
I put much of the responsibility on the long gone shoulders of Calvin and John Knox that shaped the Protestant Work Ethic with the strong power of social pressure.
It is a decree of my grandfather, long gone before I was born, that has taken root in my psyche. "Five to seven victory, five after seven defeat." I can't seem to rid myself of the concept.
I am a nine o'clock kind of gal. I go for a leisurely morning awakening,unfortunately lightly coated with strong, flavourful sense of guilt.
Thankfully, nightwear and daywear, these days is almost indistinguishable from each other. I can almost convince myself, that the early riser at my door doesn't necessarily guess my morning secret.
For the most part my friends are getter uppers. By the time I enter consciousness, my compatriots, scattered hither and yon, have taken significant bites out of the day. Dogs have been walked, tea leisurely savoured, clothes washed, The Globe and Mail consumed, muffins baked. It goes on and on.
I know this because I get up early to feed my impatient dog. Before I crawl back into bed, I can hear the familiar buzz of a world awake, both literally and figuratively.
In a small fishing village, five o'clock isn't that early. It is the tides that tell the time. For the many farmers that load down my family tree, the day's schedule was guided by the needs of the animals, the demands of the land and the control of the weather.
Why should this matter to me ? I don't know, but it does.
I put much of the responsibility on the long gone shoulders of Calvin and John Knox that shaped the Protestant Work Ethic with the strong power of social pressure.
It is a decree of my grandfather, long gone before I was born, that has taken root in my psyche. "Five to seven victory, five after seven defeat." I can't seem to rid myself of the concept.
I am a nine o'clock kind of gal. I go for a leisurely morning awakening,unfortunately lightly coated with strong, flavourful sense of guilt.
Thankfully, nightwear and daywear, these days is almost indistinguishable from each other. I can almost convince myself, that the early riser at my door doesn't necessarily guess my morning secret.
Friday, 17 August 2012
A Challenging Year
The End of Summer is nigh. The trees have lost their robust green. Some are even tinged with Autumn's yellows.
For me this is the end of the year. September brings a new season with a new pace. Some summer dreams are folded up for another time. The happy times recorded, wait on full cameras. The world drifts in lazy quiet.
This has not been a gentle year and I am tired.
In several weeks we will celebrate the first birthday of my grandson. He is a bright spark of humanity, with a gentleness that helps calm the world. His entry into the world was not a gentle one. For the first few weeks, he did not thrive and his mummy was in and out of the hospital with unrelated health issues for three months. I thoroughly enjoyed being a presence in his early days and now delight in his healthy pudginess. My daughter will return to work soon from maternity leave. His father is a wonderfully engaged parent. However the worry beads got a good workout.
My sweet, old rabbit hound died before our life could return to normal. She was an eccentric bundle of joy and I miss her daily. She died Thanksgiving weekend.
I never find Christmas an easy season. There are happy times, but it also comes loaded with grand expectations and memories of not so happy times. Last Christmas was spent at my daughter's house. Her little girls were spending their first Christmas apart with their daddy and his large family merriment.
On their return, we did our best to fill the house floor to ceiling with fun. We had fun, but it was a tough Christmas.
I love my house in winter. The fire burns and the living room glows. This past winter did not offer many chances to enjoy such warmth. My cousin, who lives nearby, went into the hospital for a relatively simple operation, and was caught in a grand struggle between life and death. Long ago warnings of blood poisoning in my mother's stories, became a reality. A once healthy man became a frail image of his former self. His friends rallied, his family rallied, indeed the whole community rallied until in fact he rallied. We finally were able to take a deep breath as he became able to return to his former life.
Spring brought with it fresh air and bright sunny days.
Unfortunately, all was not well in this small kingdom. For reasons beyond my understanding, we had a mini outbreak of unkindness. Words were spoken that could not be taken back, actions sometimes spoke even louder than the words. Good people acted in nasty ways.
It took an act of will to fully appreciate a wonderful world that usually, continuously seeps in.
.... and then my grandchildren arrived.
I cannot claim that an exuberant six year old and and her no less exuberant four year old sister brought about a peaceable kingdom. I do know that an egg timer measured hammock time, little baby cousin could not have got more love and attention and the nearby beaches of the shore absorbed so much energy and offered endless adventures and fascinations.
Water gun fights, trips to swim in a freshwater lake, late night sparklers, a living room filling challenging puzzle, creations involving puddles of glue and unwashable paint, endless watermelon, a fort in the bushes, dress up clothes, dolls from another time. The squeals of joy and the not so joyous squeals.
I became very aware of the wisdom of young women and men holding the reins of parenthood.
The house is quiet now, just old Moe and me. Maybe just a little too quiet. Good byes are not easy.
However, there is time to rest, and as I rest gradually kneed everything into a loaf of memory, for future baking.
For me this is the end of the year. September brings a new season with a new pace. Some summer dreams are folded up for another time. The happy times recorded, wait on full cameras. The world drifts in lazy quiet.
This has not been a gentle year and I am tired.
In several weeks we will celebrate the first birthday of my grandson. He is a bright spark of humanity, with a gentleness that helps calm the world. His entry into the world was not a gentle one. For the first few weeks, he did not thrive and his mummy was in and out of the hospital with unrelated health issues for three months. I thoroughly enjoyed being a presence in his early days and now delight in his healthy pudginess. My daughter will return to work soon from maternity leave. His father is a wonderfully engaged parent. However the worry beads got a good workout.
My sweet, old rabbit hound died before our life could return to normal. She was an eccentric bundle of joy and I miss her daily. She died Thanksgiving weekend.
I never find Christmas an easy season. There are happy times, but it also comes loaded with grand expectations and memories of not so happy times. Last Christmas was spent at my daughter's house. Her little girls were spending their first Christmas apart with their daddy and his large family merriment.
On their return, we did our best to fill the house floor to ceiling with fun. We had fun, but it was a tough Christmas.
I love my house in winter. The fire burns and the living room glows. This past winter did not offer many chances to enjoy such warmth. My cousin, who lives nearby, went into the hospital for a relatively simple operation, and was caught in a grand struggle between life and death. Long ago warnings of blood poisoning in my mother's stories, became a reality. A once healthy man became a frail image of his former self. His friends rallied, his family rallied, indeed the whole community rallied until in fact he rallied. We finally were able to take a deep breath as he became able to return to his former life.
Spring brought with it fresh air and bright sunny days.
Unfortunately, all was not well in this small kingdom. For reasons beyond my understanding, we had a mini outbreak of unkindness. Words were spoken that could not be taken back, actions sometimes spoke even louder than the words. Good people acted in nasty ways.
It took an act of will to fully appreciate a wonderful world that usually, continuously seeps in.
.... and then my grandchildren arrived.
I cannot claim that an exuberant six year old and and her no less exuberant four year old sister brought about a peaceable kingdom. I do know that an egg timer measured hammock time, little baby cousin could not have got more love and attention and the nearby beaches of the shore absorbed so much energy and offered endless adventures and fascinations.
Water gun fights, trips to swim in a freshwater lake, late night sparklers, a living room filling challenging puzzle, creations involving puddles of glue and unwashable paint, endless watermelon, a fort in the bushes, dress up clothes, dolls from another time. The squeals of joy and the not so joyous squeals.
I became very aware of the wisdom of young women and men holding the reins of parenthood.
The house is quiet now, just old Moe and me. Maybe just a little too quiet. Good byes are not easy.
However, there is time to rest, and as I rest gradually kneed everything into a loaf of memory, for future baking.
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