No, this is not going to be about Steve Jobs. He was a remarkable guy but this is, as usual, about me.
Some time ago, as I was trying to fall asleep, my brain fell upon the subject of jobs. I think it had something to do with the fact that both Pete and Danny were between jobs and seeking that elusive "career".
Men in general seem to be defined by what they do for a living whether it's CEO or HOBO. For most of us, or at least me, finding what that defining job was a very difficult process. I doubt many men know from an early age what they really want to be when they grow up.
My first remunerated employment (one that I got paid for) was as a 7th-grader working on a combine during spud harvest to the tune of 70 cents an hour. I think that had something to do with living in the county in Idaho known as the Potato Capitol of the World. Indeed, over one fourth of the potatoes in the world come from good old Bingham county Idaho.
We didn't live on a farm, thankfully, but they had us completely surrounded. I hauled hay, hoed beets, moved sprinkler pipe, shoveled cow poop, milked cows, harvested spuds, worked in a potato cellar and a potato processing plant. All of which taught me that I didn't want to be a farmer or have anything to do with things that grow from the ground other than to eat them. It was and is far too much like work.
I also worked at a service station. That's what gas stations were called before they became mini-marts and people pumped their own gas. Believe it or not, you would just sit in your car and tell the guy (me) how much gas you wanted and I would pleasantly ask you if you wanted regular or ethel then start the gas a pumping. While that was happening, I would clean your windshield, check your oil and tire pressure. I would automatically put any needed air in your tires (since the air was free) but if you needed oil I was required to show you the dip stick so you would know I wasn't just trying to milk you out of 25 cents that you really didn't need to spend. You would hand me the money and I would go get your change and bring it to you. They even had new-fangled things called gas cards (this was way before Visa or Master Card). They were only good for a single brand of gas so you had to have a separate card for Texaco or Shell or Utoco or whatever. There was no magnetic strip on the back of the card either. That's what those raised numbers and letters on the card were all about. We had a gizmo to put the card in, slap a multi-part form on top of it, set the numbers to the proper dollar amount, then run a roller across the form making a permanent record of the transaction. A return of your receipt, a smile and tip of my hat, and our business was complete and you were on your way. What a country.
I seem to have rambled enough for this installment and have only covered my employment up to high school graduation. I'll have to break this saga into palatable chunks. To quote Mr Jobs' last words, "Wow, oh wow."
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Day of Infamy
December 7th was this past Wednesday marking the 70th anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It has been a significant day in my life because it marked America's entrance into WW II.
I was speaking with my uncle Lloyd Wednesday night. He winters in Hawaii and said there was a lot going on there at the time. He told me how he was ten years old at the time of the attack and remembered it like it was yesterday. He said it was fast Sunday and after church he had ridden his bike down to the blacksmith's shop in Arimo, Idaho and was watching the smith do the cool things smiths do, when the guy's wife came from the house and told them Pearl Harbor had been bombed.
When I was a kid WW II was our "play" war. When we weren't playing cowboys and Indians we were shooting down Japanese Zeroes or Throwing grenades(dirt clods) and machine-gunning the Krauts. I don't know if my boys played war or if their boys do, or who they fought or fight.
For me WW II was huge. Eight of my uncles served during that war from Pearl Harbor to Iwo Jima, Battle of the Bulge to bombing missions over Germany. One served in Burma and another spent the whole war in Canada. All of them came home safe.
My mom's brother Francis, was in the Navy and was at Pearl Harbor for the attack. I never heard him speak about it or his other experiences during the war but I do know he was on survivor's leave three different times. That means he was on three ships that were sunk but he managed to get off in time. He told his brother Arthur, who was a machine-gunner in the Army, that he should join the Navy because that gunner job was too dangerous. Francis was killed years after the war while driving a water truck in California.
My father-in-law, Ernie Parkin was also assigned to Pearl Harbor at the time of the attack but he was in Massachusetts attending his brother's funeral. His brother, Joe had gone down when the Ruben James was sunk.
Ernie died 36 years later, on December 7th.
I was speaking with my uncle Lloyd Wednesday night. He winters in Hawaii and said there was a lot going on there at the time. He told me how he was ten years old at the time of the attack and remembered it like it was yesterday. He said it was fast Sunday and after church he had ridden his bike down to the blacksmith's shop in Arimo, Idaho and was watching the smith do the cool things smiths do, when the guy's wife came from the house and told them Pearl Harbor had been bombed.
When I was a kid WW II was our "play" war. When we weren't playing cowboys and Indians we were shooting down Japanese Zeroes or Throwing grenades(dirt clods) and machine-gunning the Krauts. I don't know if my boys played war or if their boys do, or who they fought or fight.
For me WW II was huge. Eight of my uncles served during that war from Pearl Harbor to Iwo Jima, Battle of the Bulge to bombing missions over Germany. One served in Burma and another spent the whole war in Canada. All of them came home safe.
My mom's brother Francis, was in the Navy and was at Pearl Harbor for the attack. I never heard him speak about it or his other experiences during the war but I do know he was on survivor's leave three different times. That means he was on three ships that were sunk but he managed to get off in time. He told his brother Arthur, who was a machine-gunner in the Army, that he should join the Navy because that gunner job was too dangerous. Francis was killed years after the war while driving a water truck in California.
My father-in-law, Ernie Parkin was also assigned to Pearl Harbor at the time of the attack but he was in Massachusetts attending his brother's funeral. His brother, Joe had gone down when the Ruben James was sunk.
Ernie died 36 years later, on December 7th.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Stanley, My Brother
Now that my summer vacation is over and being inspired my Linda's blog, I figured I'd best be getting back at my "memoirs".
My only brother, Stanley, died a few weeks ago (November 4th) so I have been thinking about him quite a bit and wanted to pass on to whomever would be inclined to read my ramblings some of those thoughts.
He was the second child and first boy born to Pete and Ida Howe who were living in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho at the time. They named him Stanley Clarence Howe. Stanley, after the beautiful Stanley Basin area in central Idaho, and Clarence because that was Dad's real first name and it makes a better middle name. I made up the part about Stanley Basin. It is indeed a beautiful place and my sister Lorna, the firstborn and my only living sibling now, had no idea why.
Since he was 13-and -a-half years years older than me (I know that's grammatically incorrect but it sounds better) I have no recollection of him living at home (trailer) with us. My first memory of him is when I was about six years old and we were moving back to Atomic City from living in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. He was evidently helping with the move. I remember this because we had to share a small bed in the trailer and he pinched me for crowding him too much. I have photographic proof of this (the move, not the pinching) and will make every attempt to attach it to this post.
My next memory of him is when he got married to his first wife, Lila. I had looked up to Stan even when I grew to be taller much larger that he was. He and Lila had three boys and were kind enough to let me stay at their home in Blackfoot when I was in high school and sometimes got caught without a ride back to Atomic City. They added a girl to their family while I was on my mission. He and Lila later divorced and Stan married several times after that, once to a girl who was in the class ahead of me, and twice to a woman named Peggy. My Mom used to say her current news at any given time was that Stanley got married and Ron & Barbara were having another baby.
Stan was one of the few men I have ever known who was without guile. He was genuine in what he said and what he did. I can't remember a single time he spoke poorly of another person or held a grudge against anyone. He was 76 years old when he passed away and had spent the better part of the last six or seven years of his life in nursing homes. Lorna and I visited him when he was in Salmon and in Pocatello, Idaho and took him to the Potter Family Reunion. He had been in a home in Shelly, Idaho for about a month to be closer to his youngest son, Joe when he passed way in the TV room. He was cremated and wished for his ashes to be spread on the Snake River. I feel I am a better man for having had him for my brother.
Lorna and I are all that's left of our family. Bookends...
My only brother, Stanley, died a few weeks ago (November 4th) so I have been thinking about him quite a bit and wanted to pass on to whomever would be inclined to read my ramblings some of those thoughts.
He was the second child and first boy born to Pete and Ida Howe who were living in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho at the time. They named him Stanley Clarence Howe. Stanley, after the beautiful Stanley Basin area in central Idaho, and Clarence because that was Dad's real first name and it makes a better middle name. I made up the part about Stanley Basin. It is indeed a beautiful place and my sister Lorna, the firstborn and my only living sibling now, had no idea why.
Since he was 13-and -a-half years years older than me (I know that's grammatically incorrect but it sounds better) I have no recollection of him living at home (trailer) with us. My first memory of him is when I was about six years old and we were moving back to Atomic City from living in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. He was evidently helping with the move. I remember this because we had to share a small bed in the trailer and he pinched me for crowding him too much. I have photographic proof of this (the move, not the pinching) and will make every attempt to attach it to this post.
My next memory of him is when he got married to his first wife, Lila. I had looked up to Stan even when I grew to be taller much larger that he was. He and Lila had three boys and were kind enough to let me stay at their home in Blackfoot when I was in high school and sometimes got caught without a ride back to Atomic City. They added a girl to their family while I was on my mission. He and Lila later divorced and Stan married several times after that, once to a girl who was in the class ahead of me, and twice to a woman named Peggy. My Mom used to say her current news at any given time was that Stanley got married and Ron & Barbara were having another baby.
Stan was one of the few men I have ever known who was without guile. He was genuine in what he said and what he did. I can't remember a single time he spoke poorly of another person or held a grudge against anyone. He was 76 years old when he passed away and had spent the better part of the last six or seven years of his life in nursing homes. Lorna and I visited him when he was in Salmon and in Pocatello, Idaho and took him to the Potter Family Reunion. He had been in a home in Shelly, Idaho for about a month to be closer to his youngest son, Joe when he passed way in the TV room. He was cremated and wished for his ashes to be spread on the Snake River. I feel I am a better man for having had him for my brother.
Lorna and I are all that's left of our family. Bookends...
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Olio (not to be confused with Oleo)
It's amazing what a difference one letter can make to a word even without changing the pronunciation. I really don't plan to write about butter substitute.
I'm quite excited to head East for Jeremy Jr's graduation. I have been working far to many hours and will enjoy the vacation. When Babs left for Alabama last Friday she told me to take it easy so I can recover from the pneumonia. I took her advice and wound up watching all 29 episodes of the TV series "Jericho." That's right, ALL 29 episodes. Fortunately I watched them on Netflix so there were no commercials. Still, 44 minutes a whack is still a lot of time to spend in a Lazyboy. I loved every minute.
Sometime Saturday during the Jericho marathon Benjamin called and asked if I would watch their five kids for a couple hours on Sunday morning so he and Lesley could go to separate meetings. No problem. I have had more kids that that of my own to watch at times.
Ok, I forgot that Bekah, Dan and Pete would all be gone. I was on my own. The kids were really rather fine. They picked out a church video to watch and settled down it the family room. All was well until the first video finished and one of them came to ask me to put the next one on.
As I walked into the family room it was like walking into a wall of absolute solid odor. I coulden't believe so much foul stench could come from cute little AJ. I was even more amazed that the other kids were completely unfazed by it. In the Air Force I had been exposed to a room full of tear gas without a mask. It was not as bad as little AJ.
Much water has passed under yon bridge since I changed a "soiled" diaper but I had no qualms of leaping into the breach since Ben ad left some fresh diapers and I remembered that we keep a package of wipers in the hall bathroom.
It turned out to be quite an easy process once I got past the gag reflex and put the offending nappy into the trash outside. I guess it's a like riding a bike. I didn't even have to call in reinforcements. I think I did quite well, thank you.
New subject. I noticed the other day something that I have lived with my whole life but now I feel the need to find out how many of my progeny have been affected by it.
My second toe is longer than my "big" toe. As a kid I remember being confused as to which one was the big toe. Did they mean the short, fat one of the long skinny one? So, I interested in knowing how many ad who of our ten kids have this condition as well as the same information about the 26 grandchildren.
Only Bekah's left foot counts, but it still counts. Pete says it's not that my second toe is long, my big toe is just way short.
Please let me know. It's not earth shattering or anything, I'm just curious.
I'm quite excited to head East for Jeremy Jr's graduation. I have been working far to many hours and will enjoy the vacation. When Babs left for Alabama last Friday she told me to take it easy so I can recover from the pneumonia. I took her advice and wound up watching all 29 episodes of the TV series "Jericho." That's right, ALL 29 episodes. Fortunately I watched them on Netflix so there were no commercials. Still, 44 minutes a whack is still a lot of time to spend in a Lazyboy. I loved every minute.
Sometime Saturday during the Jericho marathon Benjamin called and asked if I would watch their five kids for a couple hours on Sunday morning so he and Lesley could go to separate meetings. No problem. I have had more kids that that of my own to watch at times.
Ok, I forgot that Bekah, Dan and Pete would all be gone. I was on my own. The kids were really rather fine. They picked out a church video to watch and settled down it the family room. All was well until the first video finished and one of them came to ask me to put the next one on.
As I walked into the family room it was like walking into a wall of absolute solid odor. I coulden't believe so much foul stench could come from cute little AJ. I was even more amazed that the other kids were completely unfazed by it. In the Air Force I had been exposed to a room full of tear gas without a mask. It was not as bad as little AJ.
Much water has passed under yon bridge since I changed a "soiled" diaper but I had no qualms of leaping into the breach since Ben ad left some fresh diapers and I remembered that we keep a package of wipers in the hall bathroom.
It turned out to be quite an easy process once I got past the gag reflex and put the offending nappy into the trash outside. I guess it's a like riding a bike. I didn't even have to call in reinforcements. I think I did quite well, thank you.
New subject. I noticed the other day something that I have lived with my whole life but now I feel the need to find out how many of my progeny have been affected by it.
My second toe is longer than my "big" toe. As a kid I remember being confused as to which one was the big toe. Did they mean the short, fat one of the long skinny one? So, I interested in knowing how many ad who of our ten kids have this condition as well as the same information about the 26 grandchildren.
Only Bekah's left foot counts, but it still counts. Pete says it's not that my second toe is long, my big toe is just way short.
Please let me know. It's not earth shattering or anything, I'm just curious.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Pneumonia, Feels Like the Same Old Monia
I still think silent letters in any language are beyond stupid. All they do is make spelling hard.
Last Sunday morning around 2:30 I awoke coughing and with my windpipe on fire. Not just burning but shooting three-foot flames out like some kind of dragon. I tried some Pepto but it just cooled my throat and turned my poop dark. Evidently I had acid reflux and aspirated some. I'd had that happen before but never that bad. It kept me up all night hardly able to breathe.
I spoke with the on-call nurse at the Base and she said to call 911. I thought she was crazy at first but then realized she was right. After all, if an old fat diabetic guy called me about having chest pains I'd have him call 911 too.
It was cool knowing the siren I could hear was actually coming for me. The EMTs wired me for sound (EKG) and found no heart problem (phew) and said I should to the ER. My favorite way to kill a few hours. By this time my shortness of breath was the big problem so off we went to St Josephs Hospital.
If you ever want to be seen quickly at an ER, show up as an old fat guy with shortness of breath and chest pains. It works like a champ. It didn't get me out any sooner, but I did get seen quickly. The nurse must have gone to the Marquis de Sade School of starting IVs. I was way dehydrated so I know it would be harder to find a vein to hydrate me, but sweet Florence Nightingale, that's me under there.
It turned out to be pneumonia in my left lung so they pumped me full on antibiotics and sent us on our way with instructions for me to rest for a few days. I only worked two hours on Monday, six on Tuesday, and seven on Wednesday and Thursday. By then I was so tired of not being able to breathe that I stayed home today (Friday). I'll take it easy for the next two days even though it means missing the fine and pleasant misery of the father and sons camp out.
I do enjoy the time with my sons and grandsons but I really would like to breathe normally again
Last Sunday morning around 2:30 I awoke coughing and with my windpipe on fire. Not just burning but shooting three-foot flames out like some kind of dragon. I tried some Pepto but it just cooled my throat and turned my poop dark. Evidently I had acid reflux and aspirated some. I'd had that happen before but never that bad. It kept me up all night hardly able to breathe.
I spoke with the on-call nurse at the Base and she said to call 911. I thought she was crazy at first but then realized she was right. After all, if an old fat diabetic guy called me about having chest pains I'd have him call 911 too.
It was cool knowing the siren I could hear was actually coming for me. The EMTs wired me for sound (EKG) and found no heart problem (phew) and said I should to the ER. My favorite way to kill a few hours. By this time my shortness of breath was the big problem so off we went to St Josephs Hospital.
If you ever want to be seen quickly at an ER, show up as an old fat guy with shortness of breath and chest pains. It works like a champ. It didn't get me out any sooner, but I did get seen quickly. The nurse must have gone to the Marquis de Sade School of starting IVs. I was way dehydrated so I know it would be harder to find a vein to hydrate me, but sweet Florence Nightingale, that's me under there.
It turned out to be pneumonia in my left lung so they pumped me full on antibiotics and sent us on our way with instructions for me to rest for a few days. I only worked two hours on Monday, six on Tuesday, and seven on Wednesday and Thursday. By then I was so tired of not being able to breathe that I stayed home today (Friday). I'll take it easy for the next two days even though it means missing the fine and pleasant misery of the father and sons camp out.
I do enjoy the time with my sons and grandsons but I really would like to breathe normally again
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Washday
Sunday seems to have become the new Thursday for me. I used to write on Thursday night but found nothing happening two Sundays ago so I wrote then planning on making that a habit. The following Sunday though, Benjamin and family came over and we played a rousing game of Boggle. I would much rather have family over to enjoy whatever we do than write this blog. Besides, even though I lost (Dan won) , it was great to see Pete get his comeuppance by losing to his little brother.
Melissa and kids came over tonight but we menfolk were at our stake general priesthood meeting so we missed them and I now have time (and quiet) to continue my (almost) weekly waste of cyberspace.
Lesley commented on my last bog that I predate Zip-lock bags. Well kiddo, I predate a whole bunch of things not the least of which is permanent-press which brings me to my topic of washday.
When our kids were young and multitudenous every day but Sunday was washday. A daily (except for Sunday) rotating chore for one of them was to fold two baskets of laundry. An eon-and-a-half ago when I was a lad washday happened about every two weeks or whenever I wanted to play ball with my buddies. It was always on Saturday when I was home from school except in the summertime when it could strike at random, unannounced, killing what would have been a fine and pleasant summer day.
We had a washing machine that was state-of the-art with TWO agitators and a wringer that could swing between them and also run in reverse. It was HUGE. You don't know what a wringer is do you?
This was way before the spin cycle was invented so to wring the water out of the clothes, you put them through two horizontal rubberized cylinders that would squeeze the water out. Then they would go into the first tub of rinse water, through the wringer, into a second tub of rinse water, back through the wringer, and into a basket to be taken to the back yard and hung on the clotheslines. Unless they were white clothes or sheets. They went into yet another tub of bluing so they would look even whiter then, you guessed it, back through the wringer. It was quite effective. Tedious, time consuming and a ton of work, but effective.
My sister Bonnie wrote a poem about washday extolling the virtues of the wonderful clean smell of the sheets and clothes as Mom would take them off the line and pile them them up in our arms. All I knew was I was missing out on playing with my friends.
The washing and drying was really only half of the chore. All but the sheets, towels, and my whitie-tighties had to be ironed. What I thought was ironic (wink, wink) at the time was Mom taking clothes that were now quite dry and sprinkling them with water so they could be ironed later. We had a dryer (or wrinkler as my Dad called it) but it was only used in inclement weather.
You've come a long way baby!
Melissa and kids came over tonight but we menfolk were at our stake general priesthood meeting so we missed them and I now have time (and quiet) to continue my (almost) weekly waste of cyberspace.
Lesley commented on my last bog that I predate Zip-lock bags. Well kiddo, I predate a whole bunch of things not the least of which is permanent-press which brings me to my topic of washday.
When our kids were young and multitudenous every day but Sunday was washday. A daily (except for Sunday) rotating chore for one of them was to fold two baskets of laundry. An eon-and-a-half ago when I was a lad washday happened about every two weeks or whenever I wanted to play ball with my buddies. It was always on Saturday when I was home from school except in the summertime when it could strike at random, unannounced, killing what would have been a fine and pleasant summer day.
We had a washing machine that was state-of the-art with TWO agitators and a wringer that could swing between them and also run in reverse. It was HUGE. You don't know what a wringer is do you?
This was way before the spin cycle was invented so to wring the water out of the clothes, you put them through two horizontal rubberized cylinders that would squeeze the water out. Then they would go into the first tub of rinse water, through the wringer, into a second tub of rinse water, back through the wringer, and into a basket to be taken to the back yard and hung on the clotheslines. Unless they were white clothes or sheets. They went into yet another tub of bluing so they would look even whiter then, you guessed it, back through the wringer. It was quite effective. Tedious, time consuming and a ton of work, but effective.
My sister Bonnie wrote a poem about washday extolling the virtues of the wonderful clean smell of the sheets and clothes as Mom would take them off the line and pile them them up in our arms. All I knew was I was missing out on playing with my friends.
The washing and drying was really only half of the chore. All but the sheets, towels, and my whitie-tighties had to be ironed. What I thought was ironic (wink, wink) at the time was Mom taking clothes that were now quite dry and sprinkling them with water so they could be ironed later. We had a dryer (or wrinkler as my Dad called it) but it was only used in inclement weather.
You've come a long way baby!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
More of Frightened Ma
I can't really blame this on my sweet mother because the time I spent as a zygote and ever-expanding young fetus took place from about mid-year 1948 to March of 1949, long before the invention of Zip-Lock bags. Plastic was a newfangled thing back then and not to be trifled with.
You couldn't even buy unused plastic bags then unless you had a bread factory or some other type of factory that made stuff to put into plastic bags. Ok, maybe that would be called a bakery but whatever, you get my point. I remember that Wonder Bread not only would build strong bodies 8 ways (whatever THAT meant), but it came in a plastic bag with multicolored balloons on it (on the bag not the bread).
Mom was way ahead of her time because she would save the bags and use them for her own bread or whatever else she might think of to put in them. My primary use for them was to wrap one around the end of a stick, light it on fire, then drip the flaming plastic onto ants, scorpions or anything else that got in the way. My bare foot did that once and taught me to wear shoes during the process.
Bottom line: plastic bags are good. At least they were until some idiot thought twist-ties weren't modern enough and came up with those stupid plastic tab thingies. Ugh! Just let well enough alone wouldja? I hate those things too. Twist ties are so much easier to deal with, which brings me back to my real subject: Zip-Lock bags.
I despise them. They are odious to the absolute max! I never know if I have sealed the dumb things or not. No matter how hard they try to make it easy for me to tell. Changing colors, making a little zipping sound, a brass band marching through the kitchen playing "Ta-Da!." I still don't know until air starts oozing out and I have to start all over.
Now Babs has paid good money for some that have TWO lines of zipitude! As if I didn't have enough trouble with just one. And the dopey things are made of plastic so thick you could use it for a tarp! A very small tarp, but a tarp none the less. What am I supposed to put in there? Cactus? Used razor blades? Broken glass? Unexploded ordnance? I just want to have a handful of goldfish with my brown bag lunch for Pete's sake.
Don't even get me started on opening them.
You couldn't even buy unused plastic bags then unless you had a bread factory or some other type of factory that made stuff to put into plastic bags. Ok, maybe that would be called a bakery but whatever, you get my point. I remember that Wonder Bread not only would build strong bodies 8 ways (whatever THAT meant), but it came in a plastic bag with multicolored balloons on it (on the bag not the bread).
Mom was way ahead of her time because she would save the bags and use them for her own bread or whatever else she might think of to put in them. My primary use for them was to wrap one around the end of a stick, light it on fire, then drip the flaming plastic onto ants, scorpions or anything else that got in the way. My bare foot did that once and taught me to wear shoes during the process.
Bottom line: plastic bags are good. At least they were until some idiot thought twist-ties weren't modern enough and came up with those stupid plastic tab thingies. Ugh! Just let well enough alone wouldja? I hate those things too. Twist ties are so much easier to deal with, which brings me back to my real subject: Zip-Lock bags.
I despise them. They are odious to the absolute max! I never know if I have sealed the dumb things or not. No matter how hard they try to make it easy for me to tell. Changing colors, making a little zipping sound, a brass band marching through the kitchen playing "Ta-Da!." I still don't know until air starts oozing out and I have to start all over.
Now Babs has paid good money for some that have TWO lines of zipitude! As if I didn't have enough trouble with just one. And the dopey things are made of plastic so thick you could use it for a tarp! A very small tarp, but a tarp none the less. What am I supposed to put in there? Cactus? Used razor blades? Broken glass? Unexploded ordnance? I just want to have a handful of goldfish with my brown bag lunch for Pete's sake.
Don't even get me started on opening them.
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