Family – Here Back East

Dad’s Civil War Sword

I cannot recall exactly when my father told me the story of how he acquired his famous Civil War sword. He had collected junk and castoffs during his time peddling in western New York in the mid 1920’s and found the sword in a pile of debris from a household somewhere around Elmira, New York. My father lived on and off for several years in Elmira, near his brother, Sam, who was newly married and had established a small grocery store business there. My parents were not yet married at that time. I picture my father –a handsome, tall, robust youth of around 18, a recent immigrant to the U.S., driving a wagon with a raggedy old horse. He would later graduate to an early 1920’s Model T truck for his travels throughout upstate. My father relished that he had found this antique, valuable sword dated l864. He promised it to me as a child as I was the only one of my siblings to show any interest in it. My brother and sister perhaps knew better. Occasionally he would take me down to the root cellar of our home on Navarre Road in Rochester and show me the rusted metal scabbard in which the sword was encased. It was so rusted the sword could only be removed with some effort. The sword, later wrapped in an old blanket, has been with me since the old house was sold in the 1970s. It remained in the basement of our East Hampton home in a corner for years, still rusted and dusty. Then in 2018, when I was gathering “stuff” to send to my fishing camp in Maine, I packed it up along with my older fishing equipment, winter clothes, my Indian racer bike and numerous tchotchkes that would decorate the place that came to be called Camp Kabrook.

Now I come to the present. I am sitting in a barber chair in Minneapolis, awaiting a shave. We are visiting some of Patti’s college friends from Northwestern and I am getting ready to attend a “Beatles” concert in which one of the friend’s husbands plays the keyboards. I see a book on the counter of Civil War stories. I engage the barber and learn that he is a Civil War re-enactor in Battery H, 5^th Regiment of Artillery. He participates in recreating the battle at Chickamauga that took place in southeastern Tennessee and northwestern Georgia in 1863. I told the barber my Civil War sword story and he asked me if it was an officer’s sword. No, it was a common calvary saber made of steel and brass, the handle wrapped in leather. He said he wished he had an original sword for his re-enactments as they use replicas. He related his passion for Civil War history and talked about how there were numerous volunteers from the Minneapolis area who sympathized with the North and meandered down the Mississippi River to join Union forces. He said children visiting his reenactment camp query him and his fellow soldiers on the history of the Civil War and said few people these days realize the human cost of that conflict. Most of the volunteers from the era were youngsters no more than 18 years old. I told my new friend about a recent column I had written –“July 4, 2022”– on Stephen Crane’s The Red Bag of Courage, and how the narrator is also an adolescent Civil War volunteer. I asked what keeps him continually interested in doing the re-enactments and he said, “I want the young people to understand that war is not a fun game of shooting off cannons but violent and devastating. The re-enactments keep history alive for new generations.” It was a terrific shave.

Blueberry Fair

During the last week of July, there is an outdoor marketplace in Kennebunk called the Annual Blueberry and Craft Fair. I attended this year for the first time as a “vendor” and spent a sunny Saturday on the tree-shaded lawn of the First Parish Unitarian Universalist Church, the event sponsor. I arrived early to arrange my fold-out card table with an assortment of my watercolor paintings and copies of my new book, Fishing the Morning. I had my kids and Patti with me, and Brooke and Billy helped set up the table display very professionally ala Peter Marino (where Brooke works as an interior decorator). I brought my newspaper and a book in case it was slow, but the crowd grew quickly. I had an ideal location, adjacent to the local library which was holding their annual book fair at the same time. The shoppers coming from the library had to pass me before making their way to the tables and tented booths at the craft fair. There was an interesting assortment of browsers: young, old, retirees, college students, children, visiting family and friends and of course all the regulars who attend year after year. My first buyers were two youngsters who were drawn to the title of my book and immediately charged into questioning me for the best fishing locations in Kennebunk. Well, I had to be on my toes for these kids. They wanted to know the where, the when and the how about fishing the morning in Kennebunk – a place I have never fished. Well I took the boys aside and suggested a couple of places that I had scouted to sketch some of my paintings—an area at the entrance to the Kennebunk River with the tide coming in. I seemed to have satisfied them such that they asked their mom to buy my book. I explained to her that the book was a compilation of columns about a lot of things not only fishing. The boys didn’t care—they were already scanning my fishing paintings and questioning me about each of them as to the type of fish and where I caught them. The boys were sold and their mom had no choice but to buy my book. I threw in a painting of a trout as a bonus. Next were some women visiting from western New York. One picked up my book and saw that I was from Rochester. That was enough for them. A book sale and a Maine painting of Cape Porpoise. The fact that I was both the author and painter required for each sale a personal handwritten note and signature on the item sold. Later, a youngster standing back from the numerous browsers finally asked if I had anything for $5.00. I had been selling everything for $20.00 but said “Of course!” It was the end of the day, and I was ready to fold up my operation. I offered her any painting left. She carefully looked through my entire inventory—I sold more than I ever expected so there was not much left—but she found a touching piece I had painted from the deck of our house in Kennebunk of sailboats swaying in a gentle breeze at high tide. Just as we were closing the deal, her mother and aunt came over to round the youngster up to go home. Hearing about our transaction, the mom bought my book and the aunt a painting. It was a trifecta of sales. I never finished my newspaper and the book I brought never made it out of my tote. We toasted the day by sharing a basket of organic blueberries, purchased from one of the other sellers. Thanks to Tom Veronisi from the church for running a terrific fair.

Typewriter

This year July 4th fell on a Tuesday, so the office was closed today, Monday. Most people look forward to the extra holiday time off, but I am accustomed to a structured schedule during the week. My days are consumed mostly with work and the occasional social event, so the open-ended time leaves me feeling a bit adrift. Like other mornings, it began with the newspapers, coffee, and a few pages from one of the many books I am reading. Predictably there were a few emails from old friends who, like me, were also unoccupied, and looking for some casual conversation. But by then I was already onto a cleaning project instead: my vintage 1940s Smith Corona typewriter — a gift from my kids on Father’s Day, purchased “fresh” from someone’s attic in Maine through Ebay. Though it had a new ribbon, the machine was otherwise in need of a thorough Lenny cleaning. With tools in hand, including several brushes, mineral oil, a clean rag and cotton Q-tips, I started the process slowly. The case was musty from years of storage and disuse. I ran my finger across it and picked up a film of brown dust. I did not want to ruin the patina on the metal exterior or be too aggressive with the inner workings as I could mess up something that has been working for the past 70 years. I cleaned the keys just enough so they didn’t stick. I can only imagine the essays and perhaps novels written on this old Smith Corona. Like a later-model Smith Corona purchased during my high school days in 1955, I am certain it was used by a student in the 1940s.

This Corona is going to camp to replace the old Hermes 1940s vintage typewriter that has been my accomplice in writing since 2017, when I started visiting camp during the summer months and wrote letters and journal entries, then my weekly column. Unfortunately, the tab button broke during my last stay at camp. My kids found me a replacement for it instead of lugging the heavy machine back to New York for a visit to the typewriter doctor. Eventually I will get it fixed.

I’ve had a long-term fascination with typewriters, from the first one I received in the 1950s to my current collection–an Olympia, two Smith Coronas and an Hermes. I am motivated to write when I am seated in front of one of these machines. The touch of the keys, the sharp clicks of the letter bars striking the rubber barrel (unlike the hushed, smoothed-over tapping sound of a laptop keyboard) and then rolling out a finished column—that is satisfaction. Sometimes I wear an old hat while I am typing. It is the way I imagine writers of the past worked when they were at a keyboard.

Now that I have cleaned my new typewriter, I am content to have accomplished something that was important to me. Lunch will be ready soon. If the rain stops, maybe Patti and I can bat a few tennis balls, or even better, I will wash the old Jag and ready it for a ride to the beach.

The Trail – Again

Last week at camp I ventured out onto the Wheaton Trust trail off Route 1. It is the same trail where I lost my way back in 2018, sweating through the wilderness to find myself only 500 feet from the highway, but some miles from my initial point of entry. This time I was accompanied by my kids and had the benefit of the new trail map brochure prepared by the Trust. The brochure is now available locally and at the trail sign-in post. The route is well marked and provided one pays attention to the map and the trail markings, getting lost is not an issue, though none of that is any use without the stamina and balance to handle the two or so miles of natural terrain to Sucker Lake.

The trail begins rather seductively some 1000 feet from the turn-off, with a cleared walkway to a car-width sized opening, everything plainly marked, and open to the skies. A few feet away a wooden bench is chained to a tree – undoubtedly a welcome sight to exhausted, returning hikers and perhaps a bit of a hint to what lies ahead. Eager to be on my way, I darted into the thick woods, my daughter Kara and her husband behind me. The trail quickly narrowed to the width of a bleacher row at Yankee Stadium – little over a foot wide. The ground was uneven with roots bared and tree stumps and sawn branches from a recent cutting. The light was much dimmer. There was no reason for sunglasses so I tucked them into my shirt pocket and slowly adjusted to the reduced light in the heavily canopied wood. I noticed how quiet it was. There were no morning birds or sounds of water lapping against the rocks– just stillness. We were alert at every turn for the next small directional sign nailed to a tree and the occasional painted limb indicating a trail marker. It was easy to miss these clues when forest debris or mud puddles obscure the obvious pathway. The trails are not level and obstacles, such as a fallen tree blocking the path, can be disorienting– like taking a wrong turn an unfamiliar city. Without clear detour signs one quickly loses direction. I always keep my head down to avoid a stumble, however with eyes on the ground it is easy to miss the trail markers. I learned my lesson the last time. These trails are marked early in the season and nature has a way of not adhering to anyone’s schedule. Avoiding the mud puddles from the recent rains then returning to the prescribed marked area on the map took a bit of walking back and forth to reorient ourselves.

The hike from the trailhead to the picnic area at Sucker Lake took us an hour and a half—a distance of only two miles. The over, the under, the balancing, the crossing of small streams, the muddy, low-lying areas and the large granite boulders all made for a bumpy trek. This time, with the help of my ever-alert children, the well-marked trail, and the new map, we did not get lost and together conquered a great hike. I sent my kids back to camp through a shortcut in the woods from the lake and I ventured on to pick up the truck from the trailhead. My cell gps calculated another hour walk so I decided it was enough. I turned around and took the same familiar shortcut back and hitched a ride with Katie to my truck. It was enough hiking for one day and I most certainly did not want to push my luck.

Father’s Day Menu

After a day of rain, temperature in the 40s, and heavy wind from the northeast, I awoke to calm waters, a bit of sun breaking through the dark clouds and weather in the high 50s. Enough reading by the fire. After lunch, Darci drove my 1950 motorboat up to the dock and off we went, Kara, Peter and I, to explore the shoreline of East Grand Lake. A lot of trouble with maneuvering in and out of gear—there were a few bangs into the rocks. Eventually, I figured out reverse was too difficult, so we paddled off into the open water, then used only forward gear around Greenwood Island, watchful for the large boulders now submerged by the recent rainfall. The afternoon sun created a mirror-like reflection of the island in the water off to the east. The effect was like a magnificent, panoramic painting.

The camps along the shoreline were mostly unoccupied, the occasional American flag whipping in the breeze to indicate someone was home. We passed a motorboat tied to a dock, awaiting the owner for the weekend, and a few chimneys with smoke. It was a quiet lake day. I was in the driver’s seat and the kids sat in the back. The motor made a loud hum, but I could hear the kids’ conversation and it was about me: Why is he so quiet at camp? He is not his usual talkative self? He seems to be in a quiet mood? Yes – I am all those things. Being away from the office, my cell phone, the computer screen, all the everyday noise, allows me the space to be more contemplative.

The next day was Father’s Day. I had planned a day of fishing at Wheaton’s with Andy and the weather forecast was encouraging: a slight chance of rain in the morning and clearing in the afternoon. Up early, before the sun. Eager to be on the water, I hustled the kids into the truck by 8:15 a.m. Andy was already launched. The kids had a new guide – Butch. Andy and I pushed off at Spudnick launch at 9:15 a.m. The water was calm. Andy gave me some rain pants. I am the optimist when it comes to fishing weather – “It will be fine!” All bundled up we sped off to one of Andy’s coves where the bass are drawn to the rocky shallows. Itching to cast, I stood up in the canoe and threw a fly to the hungry fish. I envisioned that they were awaiting my arrival. Right away a fish rose to the bait. By lunchtime I had hooked and set a dozen bass. Andy was relieved–no rain and plenty of catch. I am always amazed at how stressed he becomes if I don’t reel in my fair share before lunch. We landed for a picnic at Birch Trees, a public campsite – a bucket for a toilet makes it a campsite. Lunch was my four-pound salmon which was caught and frozen two weeks ago, grilled chicken and of course, lemon meringue pie. The perfect menu for an ideal Father’s Day.

Camp Opening

Mid-May is the customary camp opening target date. The usual tasks include emptying out the storage garage of porch furniture and the assortment of watercrafts: a 1950’s motorboat, a Grand canoe, oars and kayaks. The main cabin needs cleaning from the family of mice who live there rent free over the winter. The kerosene heater needs finetuning. The water pump needs priming. One special job this season was the completion of the bookshelves in my recently constructed office cabin overlooking the lake. Over the winter Greg –my regular handyman and fishing buddy –and his partner Jimmy built wall-to-wall bookshelves out of cedar, filling two full walls, floor to ceiling. I had shipped up around 1,000 books from the Florida and East Hampton houses, and my trusty assistant Ali spent a weekend sorting all the books by author and subject matter. Sometimes I refer to this new space as my studio, where I have my office and my watercolor painting supplies and easel. It will also have a fly-tying nook. Once it is all completed, I will have a perfect, separate, place of privacy—100 feet away from the main cabin—where I can work and play without disturbing anyone, or vice versa. I find it is usually the first place I go to in the morning to check my email and the last at night to steal a few moments with a good book.

I have a list of adventures planned for the summer season. There is a new trail guide that Wheaton’s Trust recently published. I intend to take a few outings with my kids and friends to prove I do not always get lost in the woods. I intend to learn to drive my little 30-horsepower Johnson motorboat on my own. It is like a Corvette when it takes off and planes at a 45-degree angle for a bit. I am building up my confidence to deal with that. I want to explore more off-road trails in my four-wheel drive. Last year I took the Bronco out a few times on the path up to Sucker Lake. More of that looks like fun. Sucker Lake – I really love it for its solitude. I am trying to encourage a family member or two to join me and Greg for a campout there one night but no takers. It is always the bathroom thing.

Being in Maine at my camp is always an exciting time for me. Much of my enthusiasm derives from trips as a youngster to Camp Seneca, a sleepaway camp on Seneca Lake in upstate New York. The outdoors has always attracted me despite the black flies. I suppose that is why I enjoy fishing so much. A bit of wilderness on the water, a good lunch and the peace and quiet way from life’s daily bubble.

A Day at the Gun Range

In West Palm Beach, many local families partake in a leisurely Saturday afternoon activity shooting pistols at Gator Guns and Archery Center on Okeechobee Boulevard. My experience at this huge, indoor firing range and gun shop was limited to a visit last year with my friend Chris who introduced me to the place. Chris is something of an expert with his cache of guns, pistols, and hunting rifles. My grandson Billy was here this weekend and considering my need to keep a 12-year-old busy, I asked Chris to introduce Billy to the basics of gun safety and target shooting at Gators. As anyone who reads or watches television knows, the gun control issue is an urgent matter after the many tragedies in Nashville and elsewhere, with semiautomatic weapons behind the worst of the massacres. As a responsible grandfather I believe a youngster from New York City should know more than what he reads and hears about guns in the news, and indeed a trip to Gator’s gun range was an enlightening experience for Billy. First, he saw the massive and exhaustive collection of armaments on display and for sale there, all legal under Florida law. The pistols Chris taught him to handle were small arms typically used by law enforcement. Billy was very surprised to see entire families there—mothers and fathers, grandparents, and young children –all out target shooting with their weapons. According to the rules at Gator’s, if a child is tall enough to see over the table and is accompanied by a parent, they are permitted to shoot in the range. For many of the participants it was not just a leisurely outing but a practice round to keep their skills honed for safe handling and to burnish their hunting skills. Some were there for the fun of target practice. It was clear that from an early age they are held accountable for the proper use of a gun. It is the duty of parents, especially in a gun-friendly state like Florida, to instruct their children about gun safety and when it is appropriate to use such a deadly weapon. Most people at the range on Saturday owned their guns and kept them in their homes. It makes sense that the children learn how and when to use them. There were instructors also working the range helping the newbies to the sport. Others seemed to be professionals, possibly law enforcement. This is Florida—the wild west where the right to carry a concealed weapon is allowed without a permit. It is a law that invites more gun use and gun education I suspect. Billy left Gators clutching his paper target showing near perfect hand-eye coordination. He came away from his time there with a new skill, and he was excited about wanting to go out target shooting again. More importantly, he learned to respect the power of a gun in the hand and why safety and constraints are necessary for their use.

Passing Through

It has been almost six months since I last walked the streets of New York City. I am glad to be back to my old routine: early morning New York Times pick-up, visit Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, haircut and shave at York Barber, and then breakfast at Neil’s Coffee Shop. Except Neil’s is gone, evicted for nonpayment of rent. I read about its demise in The New York Post before I left Florida. Apparently, the longtime owner filed for bankruptcy in 2022 and died in early 2023. Now it is in the hands of the landlord. As Yogi Berra said, “In New York nothing changes but everything.”

I found an old interview with the late proprietor, who said ownership of Neil’s was handed over only once, in 1980, from the original owner to him, and he was determined to keep everything as it was, including the same 1951 cash register and 1954 milkshake blender which “still work just fine.” The upholstery was updated and that was it. Neil’s first opened its doors in 1940, one of the many Greek diners that proliferated in mid-century Manhattan, serving coffee to go in the iconic Grecian-themed blue paper cups–a New York artifact once seen everywhere, but now a rarity since the invasion of Starbucks. The original neon sign hung out front on day one was there for the next 83 years. I went myself to confirm and for once The Post got it right. Neil’s was closed, dark and locked. I peered in the window. Chairs upended on tables. A lone can of spray cleaner on the counter.

I had been going to Neil’s since 1964, when I moved into the city from New Jersey after law school. It was my go-to diner after I got married and we bought an apartment on 71^st Street. Our girls were small when we moved again to 68^th Street—also an easy walking distance to Neil’s. We had countless family breakfasts and father-daughter lunches in those old booths, until we moved out of the city in 1972. I returned to Neil’s periodically over the years since then, while visiting my grandchildren who live on the upper east side. We meet at the Carlyle hotel, where I stay when I’m in town, only a few blocks from our favorite coffee shop. They enjoyed it I like to think because they could see how much it meant to me to take them there. That and the ice cream sundaes.

Rough around the edges, I don’t think Neil’s had an indoor paint job in the 50-plus years I went there. The tables and booths were squeezed into space that should accommodate half the number. The fire code inspector must have been a regular and looked the other way. Visiting the men’s room in the basement was like going down into the subway. But the food was consistent –the oversized omelets and home fries were reliable breakfast comfort food. Nothing like a toasted bagel and cream cheese from Neil’s. Oh, how I miss those early morning wake up meals.

There are other changes in the neighborhood. The CVS on the corner of Third Avenue and 68^th Street has shut its doors. As I write this I see the windows at The Food Emporium across the street are filled with closing signs instead of the usual grocery store displays. Things feel diminished. Except for the New York Hospital workforce crowds coming up from the subway at 68^th and Lexington, the pedestrian traffic seems to have abated. It seems like there are even fewer dogs on the sidewalks. Perhaps it is the weather. It has been colder and people are staying indoors. Could it be spring break time for schools, so everyone is away? Restaurants seem quieter too. Something is happening here in New York City. People are leaving it. Now that office attendance is not mandated, there has been a migration to more affordable places to work remotely. I work in my own office in East Hampton no more than six months out of the year. With Zoom and before that Skype, I connect remotely with my office and have been doing so for 15 years. I met a young woman recently while playing tennis who works for Goldman Sachs. She relocated from New York to work in West Palm Beach. “A better environment,” she said. “More outdoor time and less expensive.” Yes, New York may be shrinking a bit.

I found one busy place on my walk around the neighborhood: the local library on 68^th street. Drawn in by the comfortable seating and a change of scene from an apartment–as well as the fact that it is “free” –people are flocking to libraries, sanctuaries of calm and quiet, no matter what might be going on outside. I belong to one on 79^th Street where I hang out and work when I am in town. The Starbucks across the street is also lively. New York may be slightly less populous, but it will never be totally abandoned. As time passes however, with the loss of places like Neil’s, there may not be enough to keep some of us here in place or coming back.

The Brightline

          For those who travel along the coastline in eastern Florida a train ride is usually Amtrack, which runs between northeast and southern Florida. I discovered a recent addition to this route: the Brightline, a new, modern short-run train between West Palm and Miami. Many of my friends recommended using this mode of transportation as a more comfortable means of travel than driving I-95, so when I had a business meeting last week in Coconut Grove, I decided to go by rail.
          Settling back into my seat I closed my eyes and thought back to my first train ride with my mother on the New York Central from Rochester to New York City in 1954 to attend my brother’s engagement party. I was 15 years old and mom had brought a picnic basket of food to hold me over during the 8-hour trip. My parents were kosher so there was no thought to ordering anything in the dining car except soda pop. I recall distinctly as the conductor came down the aisle to retrieve our tickets, Mom said to me “Lenny, you slink down and don’t show how tall you are” – my ticket was for ages 12 and under. Dad had warned her not to pay extra for an adult ticket for me. The conductor was none the wiser and I passed for 12 on that trip though I don’t think the charade would have worked for much longer. My father was an experienced train rider having traveled alone in 1918 at age 12 from his shtetl in Russia to Hamburg, Germany, to board a ship to Argentina. He had a singular train experience and it was certainly not a fun one, but that is a story for another column.
         There was no entertainment on the New York Central for a 15-year-old kid like me, but fortunately, I had a library copy of Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” to pass the time. When I tired of reading I ran up and down the aisles of the train cars. I was always a talker and I recall making friends with some of the other adult passengers in the general seating areas. The uniformed ticket collectors were entertained by me and gave me a tour of the various railcars. The kitchen car was the most fun. I watched the cooks in their sparkling white chef’s caps preparing delicious-looking meals of chicken, roast beef, crab salad, and strawberry shortcake–none of which I was allowed to have. The baggage car held an orderly assortment of luggage and boxes for delivery ala FedEx today. There was an open-top observation car that must have been First Class. I spent a lot of time peering out the windows at the miles of farm fields as we passed through central New York and then turned south at Albany towards New York City, finally arriving at the gigantic Grand Central terminal. Seeing the mighty panoramic Kodak “Colorama” in the lobby was thrilling to me. My brother Marty met us in the main concourse and hustled us through the underground tunnels to his parked car. It was my first, unforgettable train adventure to New York City.
          I commuted by train later during my college years, between upstate and Newark, but soon I had a car –a Morris Minor –and drove the New York Thruway and New Jersey Turnpike back and forth to law school. Ultimately train travel ended for me and I like most people, except commuters and train enthusiasts, travel by air. The Brightline trip to Miami brought all these memories back and I thank that someone out there who created such nostalgia for me.

Fishing the Mitchell River

I fished a bit of the North Carolina-Virginia border last week. The Mitchell River near Dobson, North Carolina, is a short drive from Winston-Salem. A visit to my granddaughter Lilly, who is a freshman in college, provided me cover to take a day off to wet my toes and fingers in a cold, 40-degree trout stream. My trip started with a short plane ride to Charlotte and then a drive to Winston-Salem where I spent an afternoon at Wake Forest with Lilly. Lilly, our first grandchild, is a modern-day woman brimming with confidence and exuberance. Our time together reassured me that my concern for her happiness, which incented me to visit, was misplaced. Lilly has acclimated well to college life and is a mature young adult. I was comfortable taking a day away to fish the morning not so lonely with my guide Dave Bergman, a transplanted New Jerseyan who, like all fishing guides, dreams of having his own fly shop someday. We set out early morning with temps in the 40s. I was geared up with my Icelandic kit – long johns, flannel pants, thick waders and layers of outer wear. I was ready. We fished a 4-weight rod nymphing our way along the riffles. We scouted in vain for Browns and Brook but the Rainbow trout- 9” to 13” were plentiful that morning. The sky was bright. The farmland surrounding the river was cut bare. All the fishing paths to the water were devoid of fellow fishers. The air was clear and smelled of recently plowed-over fields of soy. I could have been in Maine, Pennsylvania or out west. I felt complete. My vocabulary was enriched by some new terms Dave taught me: “chowder” (rough water); “boogie water” (shallow, rocky water moving at a swift pace). There is something unexplainable for me about fishing the mornings. My mind is clear out on the water—a reminder of the times past before cell phones. In fact, there was no cell service where we were. Another reason to go back. My only thoughts are to my back cast—to not entangle my line– and to keep my frozen feet moving. Otherwise, I am happy and secure.