Weekends

When I worked 9 to 5, weekends had special meaning. 

When I worked for Digital Credit Union, I often worked home on Fridays. It meant that between preparing reports without interruption I could do things like laundry. It made the weekend seem longer.

My boss once asked how he could prove I was really working. My secretary responded, "By me. She brings in tons of stuff for me to do on Monday."

Most of my working life, with one exception, I was either neutral or loved my work. I also loved my personal life and was able to balance the two more often than not.

Weekends were for chores, doing MY writing, reading, seeing friends, movies, dinner out, inviting people in, etc..

Then I retired. I started a newsletter for Canadian credit union leaders. 48 times a year I produced anywhere from 30-50 stories, mostly under 50 words although every now and then there would be a long report.

I never promised an exact delivery date, so I could  juggle my time and take time off during the week. That had advantages of doing errands without crowds.

I also could write my fiction anytime. Weekdays and weekends melded.

Marrying my aviation journalist husband, not much changed. Depending on his assignments, I could find him writing any hour of the day or night or weekends.

Weekends were for other people. 

Between now and Easter this will change. My husband is taking an intensive French course, 3 hours a day, five days a weekend. There are no weekend classes.

Thus, instead of deciding to do something impromptu at 10:30 Wednesday, for example, we are scheduling things in advance on Saturday or Sunday. 

Where sleeping in depending on our moods, weather and what we wanted to read, it is limited to the weekends. 

If nothing else, this temporary change of almost routine, for our lives are seldom routine, will make us appreciate even more, life before French class.

Roots

Roots are strange things. Perhaps the desire to know more about our own explain why people are having their DNA tested and searching records for their ancestors.

If anyone had asked my mother what nationality she was, she would have said, "English." She was born in Wakefield, MA and had only lived in the area except for a short stint in Bluefield, West Virginia, which to her was a foreign land.

My father? She considered him French and foreign. He had been born in Nova Scotia but took American nationality in 1925. Ask him his nationality he would say with pride, "American."

If I traced my family roots to the old countries, Michel Boudreau left LaRochelle, France in 1640. My mothers ancestors arrived in New England in 1636 on the Blessing. It sailed from London.

I left the U.S. permanently in 1990, became Swiss in 2006 and painfully gave up my American citizenship in 2011.

Roots are not a passport. They are a state of mind.

Some people never venture far from home. Others roam the world never putting down "new roots."

A word for "new roots" could be "integrating." That means adapting to the new culture, its ways, making friends, participating in local activities.

Almost all cities have their ethnic neighborhoods, where food, friends, customs, values and events are similar to the old country. When expats are asked what they miss, it is often the food.

My daughter gave me the Boston Roots decoration because she knows my roots will always be New England Yankee or even Bostonian. However, I've put down roots in Switzerland and also in southern France. 

If I had to describe myself nationally, I would say I was an international. Over the decades I've picked up traces of being a Scot, a German, a Swiss, a French. There are places in these countries, where I could live and put down new roots, but the roots would grown from those already there. 

We had our dog Sherlock's DNA done to discover his roots besides being Catalan. That was the area in France where we discovered him as a rescue pup.

Too early

The Reserve takes a good half hour to walk. Once we pass the sport center with its tennis courts and restaurant, the paths wander through fields for as far as the eye can see.

My husband and I take our dog Sherlock there regularly. We know different landmarks such as the beaver damn. When we come to it, we see it has a huge hole in the middle and we wonder where the beavers have gone.

Half way through the Reserve is a bridge leading to the ruin of a 12th century castle/fortress that is said to be haunted when the moon is full at midnight. We've never checked it out although we have considered it. Our bed is too comfortable.

The sky was an unreal blue, more like those in Southern France which we had just left. Sherlock ran back and forth covering at least ten times the space we did. He adores walking running, sniffing here. 

His imitation of a rabbit could not have been better as he crossed the bridge over what once must have been a moat and ran up the hill to the castle.

The Reserve is a large area. We came across one -- one dandelion. One, only one.

It is too early for dandelions.

Unlike most people I love these hardy little yellow flowers. Anything that pretty shouldn't be called weeds. They are cheerful. Their leaves make a good salad. The Café du Soleil in Petit Saconnex serves one in season.

But this isn't the season for dandelions. Is it global warming, or did this one brave dandelion offer to do reconnaissance for others?

When we were leaving France to spend the rest of the winter and part of the spring at our home in Geneva, the mimosa was already in bloom.

I love it when the countryside turns to sunshine from trees and trees of mimosa trying to out shine the sun.

Except.

Except

Except mimosa should not bloom until February. It should not be celebrating the new year.

Compared to the fires in Australia, early blooming flowers are not catastrophic. Yet a pleasant symptom of climate change, does not mitigate what our leaders are still ignoring.

Amazon women

I kiddingly call myself an Amazon women, or I have since I lost my right breast and didn't bother to replace it. I tell people, like the legendary Amazon women who removed the breast to be better shooters with a bow and arrow, I wanted to be a better markswoman.

To do that I would first need to pick up a bow and arrow. The last time I shot with one was in the early 1970s on a camping trip in Colorado. Any connection to the target and my arrow was purely an accident.

I like to think I have other Amazonian female characteristics in the sense of emotional strength and perseverance. 

Today I came across an article that Amazonian women were not a myth.

The Institute of Russian Archeologists have revealed that they found a grave with four women, bows, arrows, horseback riding paraphernalia, in a tomb in western Russia where the women were supposed to have lived. They varied in age from a teen to a woman in her fifties.

More research is going on. Maybe I need to go to a sporting goods store and get the bow and arrow to live up to my foremothers.

Bye Bye Boston

When I left Boston area three years ago, I had never planned to go back to the States even though I loved the city where I'd spent much of the first half of my adulthood.

It was my husband who thought spending Christmas with my daughter in Boston was a good idea. Time with my kid is always great, time with her and my husband is even better.

We leave for home tomorrow landing first at Heathrow, on to Toulouse and finally back to Geneva.

I take with me many joys of the trip.

• Visits with high school friends Dave, Jack and Barbara
• Trips past my old high school, homes and golf club
• Eating/drinking cider, egg nog, raisin bagels, Stouffer's Welsh Rarebit, Maine lobster -- foods next to impossible to get in France and Switzerland.
• Harvard Square
• Meeting up with Bruce, Nicole, Wendy, Richard, Rosana, Rossi from different stages of my life
• Seeing my grand nephews for the first time
• Chatting with my niece face to face
• Snow
• Cold weather
• Breakfasts at Dempsey's
• Dancing to Lord of the Dance at the Revels
• Laughing at a performance of Shear Madness, which I'd seen years before. It is coming up for its 40th year anniversary.
• Walking around Quincy Market
• Eating once again at the Union Oyster House, the country's oldest restaurant again
• Riding the T
• Smelling Llara's coffee in the morning
• Not having my Boston accent stand out but fitting in
• Hearing the Boston accent
• Visiting the campus of Lowell University where I earned my B.A.

There were many other people we could have seen had we had more time to travel a bit further away and/or another week.

I almost knew my way around, but buildings had disappeared and others had appeared.

At each encounter, I brought out a bit of my past, a memory of things done that have made me me.

Still, I am ready to head home to where I now belong to current friends, Sherlock my dog, places I love in Switzerland and France. I need to get back to my writing.

I appreciate my husband's suggestion that we spend Christmas as we did.

One of the Christmas gifts from my daughter was a decoration, a silver medal engraved with a tree with deep roots. It reads "Boston Roots."

I have Swiss and French roots, too, attached to the Boston ones.

Bye, bye Boston. Hello home.

Communication

My husband and I are professional communicators. We've been journalists, marketers, teachers of communication, fiction writers and editors. We blog regularly. We are fully committed wordsmiths.

Saying that, it is amazing how often we miscommunicate. In fact it happened seconds ago as I was writing this. 

In asking what our greatest miscommunication today was he replied,"50 pounds." He was looking how to get some stuff back to Europe from our Christmas holiday in Boston or at least that is what I thought he was doing.

Today's biggest miss went like this. We were on our way to visit my niece and grand nephews in Merrimack NH.

Rick: If you see where you want to eat, just say so.

Me: Longhorns (As we pass Longhorns. Yesterday I selected a fish restaurant and he think that poison and French for fish is poisson is a warning. I name several other restaurants and he drives past them all.)

Rick: Where do you want to eat?

Me: I keep naming restaurants to eat at.

Rick: Is that what you're doing?

Me: YES!!!!! (Note: We went to Longhorns and it had some of the best bread and baby BBQ ribs I've had in an age.)

However, later that day I started a sentence, "Have you ever..." when a license plate caught my eye. "Zebra," I read, He didn't understand, not should he have. 

It is a good thing we can laugh at ourselves.

M*A*S*H Memories

The final episode of M*A*S*H was being shown. My housemates and I had decorated the library where the TV was like the set of the program

Before it started, my artist Bill Venter, rang the doorbell. Rather than have him drive to Maynard which would take about two hours out of his day, I had him drop off any projects we were working on at my house. It was on his way home from his studio saving him time. As he often did, he stayed for a little while this time to watch the show and share in our goodies.

A few weeks later he gave me a poster of the cast with a special matting and frame. I kept it for years.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned it to my husband. I wasn't sure what had happened to it in my many moves.

We came to Boston for the holidays staying with my daughter. 

Unlike other trips, I would no longer be able to meet up with Billl. He passed away last month, a stomach-wrenching loss.

I looked at my daughter's wall. There was the framed poster. 

Another memory of happy times washed over me. Good memories never come with gift wrapping. They just are.

The Revels

It had been 31 years since I attended a performance of the Revels. This Winter Solstice celebration began in1971 and now exists in 11 cities in the US.

The founder was the late John Langstaff (1920-2005), a musician who believed there was "a need for connectedness, to each other and to the ancient rituals of our ancestors' ancestors that, quite magically, retain their meaning to this day."

When I lived in Boston, I tried to get tickets each year, but they often disappeared faster than I could get to them. One way to get a first crack at them, is to be sponsor, and my daughter in Boston, used this device for us this year. Still she said even at 10 am of the first sales day, they were almost all gone.

The theme of the performances may vary in epoch and nationality, but there are some standards. One is the "Lord of the Dance" at intermission.

Because I live in Europe, I thought that I would never be able to join this soul-binding dance. However the music began, men dressed at Mummers came out of stage and began to sing "Dance dance, wherever you may be..." and the audience wended its way up the aisles, down the stairs into the hall, holding hands. How wonderful to be wrong and to once again celebrate the Winter Solstice in this manner.

Who I am

As we drive down Reading's streets, I feel as if I am in a movie that mixes time periods.

The houses where Elaine, Jeff, Janet and others lived decades ago are occupied by different families, probably several families since I visited in their living rooms, made chocolate chip cookies as part of being a Brownie, dropped them off after some event, etc.

Vacant lots and farms have become housing developments.

The Lowell Street and Prospect Street Schools are now homes. Highland Street School is the town library. The High School has a new building on the old site. Only the Parker Junior High still functions, but Mr. Butcher, Mr. Ganley, Mr Spencer, Mr. Copithorne teachers I loved, are no longer with us, I am sure. They were old when I was young. They taught me well and gave me a love learning for most subjects and a tolerance for the rest--except math. I didn't care how beautiful Mr. Ganley's eyes were, I still didn't like or do well in math.

Having tea at Christopher's, the old Pewter Pot with a high school friend was followed by a tour of Haven Street. The third and fifth Friday nights where I attended Rainbow is under transformation, and my friend said Rainbow doesn't exist.

The post office front is still there, but is dwarfed by a huge condo project. Nothing is quite the same. Nothing is totally different.

I was much loved as a child. Despite my parents being divorced, my mother and grandmother reinforced my intelligence and gave me confidence in my appearance. Although I suspected they were prejudice, I had enough confidence based on the fact that my image never cracked a mirror.

From the time I was at Mrs. Jones' kindergarten, I felt I didn't belong. It was more a niggle than a shrink-necessity illness. I would look at maps and try an figure out where I belonged and where I should go. We seldom left town.

My mother felt the golf club with its pool and tennis courts provided the social life and vacation destination we needed. The town center provided all the shops needed, although we might drive down the road to the Northshore Shopping Center in Peabody once or twice a year.

I always felt that I should join the world outside even to Boston 12 miles away.

As a new bride my ex was assigned to Stuttgart, Germany, and I felt freed. I was in the world. However, we came back to Reading and the gate closed.

We drove by the house my ex and I bought. Even that had changed. It had grown a second story.

It was from there, I escaped to Waltham, then Boston and finally France an Switzerland where I live happily today.

Riding those streets, I saw a very pretty, typical middle to upper-middle class community. There are still lots of Cape Cod houses, split levels and ranches. Not so many McMansions. The homes are well taken care of as they were when I was growing up.

Under it all was a past. I don't regret it...it gave me my education, my ethics, my sense of the importance of people and how to treat them well. The lessons of my childhood have formed the base for who I am today. I was able to keep the feeling of being smothered by a society where I never felt I belonged at bay.

Winter Solstice

The winter solstice is today, Saturday. 

Here in Boston it is below freezing and snow is on the ground. The red, yellow and orange leaves have wither been swept away or are under the snow protecting the earth under them.

The more poetic meaning of the word solstice is that the sun stands still. The more astrological concerns the tilt of the earth away from the sun.

In the Northern Hemisphere, the North Pole tilts about 23°27′ making it the shortest day and longest night of the year. In Boston there will be about 9 hours and 15 minutes of daylight.

The world lies dormant. Winter has started.

Different cultures mark the Solstice some with feasts, lights, rituals. Names include: Yalda Night (Iranian), Toji (Japan), Dong Zhi (Chinese), Inti raymi (Inca), Saturnalia (Roman) and Yule (Scandinavian, Pagan) to name a few. Yet, almost all cultures have had some type of recognition.

Farmers see it as a time of rest from the constant labor or the growing season, although it is also the time to mend equipment and sort seeds.

Some societies consider it the time of rebirth like the legend of Mithra. Some Romans consider that God’s birth the most sacred day of the year. Christmas, itself, is said to be an off shoot where early Christian leaders thought it would be easier to wean people off Paganism if one kept the same traditions.

For me, the seasons represents what is natural in the world. The planet turns in its orbit and move around the sun. The solar system is so much more than man’s petty quarrels and habits. 

I mark the Solstice each year. It is absolutely necessary to bring some green into the house. We did that before we left Argelès. It doesn’t have to be a full tree. In some places I’ve lived, it has been a small branch of an evergreen.

Of course, there are the years when it is a real tree, decorated with ornaments that have memories. hunkering down at home with tea, books, warm clothes and those I love.

To me the real meaning of the solstice is the promise that the world will continue turning, each day will be a few minutes longer, new crops will provide food for the planet. In that, I am no different than my fellow man, all over the world since time began.

Who cares?

"Merry Christmas," the cashier said in the biggish box store. Her hands flew to her mouth maybe to push the words back? "My daughter says I shouldn't say that. It's happy holidays."

"Ridiculous," I said going into my rant about 27 different religious holidays at this time of year. If we know the religion of the person than give the correct saying, but if we don't just sharing a good thought is nice, I said.

I pointed out as an atheist, I'm not offended when someone wishes me anything good. I didn't say that for me the important date is the winter solstice, This year will be extra, extra, extra special because we will attend the Revels, a Boston tradition celebrating different traditions including the solstice. Sharing this loved program with my husband will make it special, and sharing it with my daughter will bring back memories of when we did it together in her teenage years. It's the closeness

Christmas day is extra, extra special because I have BOTH my husband and daughter with me. Usually my daughter is an ocean away. 

Only in the US do people get "their knickers in an uproar" over the phraseology of December seasonal wishes. I used that phrase to the cashier who thought the phrase "hilarious" Obviously she does not have a lot of Brit friends who use it regularly. Probably she doesn't watch a lot of BBC dramas either or it wouldn't have been a novelty.

The store was empty of people. We parted with big smiles wishing each other "Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year with all good things to come."

Touch and go

Would we or wouldn't we.

Our plans were to fly from Toulouse to Heathrow to Boston on Dec. 17. The strikers protesting pension changes were upping activities that day. Actions would include blocking autoroutes and reducing flights.

What were our chances of making Boston without major problems?

"If we drive to Toulouse-about three hours from Argelès and leave around 3 in the morning at the latest, I'm sure the truck barricades won't be out," I said. My husband agreed so by three in the morning we were on the highway which was deserted.

At the airport at different it was announced our plane would be delayed a half hour, two hours, one hour, etc. Since we had a three-hour layover in the UK worry was alternated depending on the announcement. It left five minutes late.

Strikes are a national pastime in France. As much of a pain as they are at times, the unwillingness to take abuse from the powers that be is a good thing to keep those powers from being abusive.

There have been times we've had to modify our plans. One strike which kept gas from gas stations, meant we never passed one that we didn't top up the tank if we could when we were driving from Normandy to Argelès. A train trip may be replaced by a car. With the gilet jaune, we kept a yellow vest on our dashboard to show solidarity and were waved on by the protestors.

The worse that could happen this week, was that we would have to take the back roads to Toulouse and if we couldn't get out Tuesday, than Wednesday or Thursday. A friend living in Toulouse offered to let us stay with her family if we had to stay overnight.

I'm writing this from my daughter's home in Boston. We made it. Rather than still be scrambling to get from Toulouse, we enjoyed the snow and are cozily ensconced in her flat and are looking forward to the holiday, going to the Revels and Shear Madness and seeing friends and family.


 

End of the year

End of the year letters are drifting in and I love to hear about my friends who live so far away. So, I'll inflict ours on you.

Our year was marked with good health and being flooded out of our Geneva apartment. We were in better shape than some of the 2,500 others that suffered in that spring violent rain storm. It was November before we could get back in. Love the new rug, curtains and frigo. A tarnished silver lining.

We started the year with a trip to St. Gallen to order custom Hickory golf clubs for Rick, which has given him a greater enthusiasm for the sport if possible.

Our base remained Geneva (before and after the flood) and Argelès-sur-mer, both of which we adore.

Although we said we'd travel less this year (do I hear laughter?) we wandered hither and yon combining Rick's business conferences, golf, and just wanting to look around.

Some places:

In Stockholm Sweden we visited the VASA museum containing a ship raised from the deep, and we sang with a hologram of ABBA.

Onto Davos for a golf tournament. Sherlock went too and had his own bowls, bed, and treats provided by the hotel. He was warmly greeted and oohed and ahhed over every time we went to the lobby.

Edinburgh again but mainly for golf where Rick had first discovered hickory golf. Before and after we played tourist including Hadrian's Wall and seeing a lock of Mary Queen of Scot's hair. My daughter and her lovely Swedish friend joined us. We all adore that city.

Rick added Orlando, New York, Berlin and Paris and the UK on business and family.

Rick's daughter, grandkids and son-in-law let us introduce them to France. When asked what was different from Dallas, 10-year old Georgia replied, "EVERYTHING!"  Rick and his daughter also got away to a theatre weekend in London, just the two of them. Nice that they could. Time together is precious.

My daughter came over as well and joined us in Edinburgh, a city she's loved since getting her masters there. Or she was back in the land of Irn Bru as we all say. (I love scones, Bobbie Burns and hundreds of other writers, etc.)

One of the most exciting nights of the year was the Fête des Vignerons, a 5000-person, every 20-year spectacle put on in Vevey, Switzerland. When I asked Rick to get tickets (he had the credit card) he asked why. I said "Just do it." He did and was as thrilled as I was. It was even better, if possible, since the one a couple of decades ago.

The entire three hours can be watched here.

Among the museums we visited, one of the most fun was Charlie Chaplin's home and study along the lake. I never appreciated him as a child, but as an adult, the man was a genius.

We've both been writing. Rick produced a yearbook for the UN and magazines for other clients/friends. We've deliberately reduced workload; considering he's retired, it seems reasonable. He loves what he does.

My daughter continued to send out Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles.

Triple Decker, a novel about an Irish Catholic Boston family almost torn apart by the Iraqi War, was published.

Murder in Edinburgh is ready for publication early next year.

I finished Daycare about four single mothers and it is in the proofing, reproofing, reproofing and reproofing stage. A talented artist Lori deBoer will do some illustrations and my favorite book cover designer Deirdre Wait will do the cover as she has done all my covers. www.donnalanenelson.com

I'm casting around for a new project.

Sherlock continues to be "our baby" and has friends all over ASM and many in Geneva. We've found a play group for him, Furry Friends, outside of Geneva. When we are in ASM, his walking group knocks on the door and takes him, sometimes for hours. He loves the beach in ASM and the reserve with the ruin of the château in Geneva, and laps, especially laps. Don't sit down near him if you don't want a lapdog.

Rick's passion for hickory golf continues to grow and he's played in three international tournaments. He was elected to the Society of Hickory Golfers board of directors. He's begun work on a book about some of the most interesting Swiss golf courses.

He continues to work on his French having done an intensive course in French  and planning on a several month intensive course when we get back from visiting Llara for Christmas in Boston. I tried to convince our bilingual friends not to speak English with him, but so far it hasn't worked. He reads it well, writes it slowly but well. The hearing still presents a bit of a problem.

Throughout the year we have been blessed with wonderful friends from all over the world. Some visited, including a high school friend. Some come regularly. Some live here all the year round.

In Geneva, we had two Thanksgivings with friends and family of choice.  We are blessed.

Four Trumpless days

I live in France and Switzerland.

I speak French.

Anyone listening to me knows I have an American accent, and Americans who know both languages say my Boston accent comes through in my French.

Since Trump was elected people picking up on my accent immediately go to the subject of the US President. It has happened on the Paris metro, restaurants, cafés and in the emergency room at the Les HUG (Hôpitaux Universitaires de Genève)as my blood pressure was being taken.

People who ask express

• Shock
• Hatred
• Confusion
• Curiosity on why
• Disbelief

I can honestly respond "I'm not American, I'm Swiss."

Today, I was at Chez Elisabeth, my green grocery (photo above). Often when shopping customers join into a conversation on any number of topics:

• Family
• A certain local
• A village event
• Something about the local sports team
• People we know
• Food
• Television show
• Animals
• etc.

Today when Elisabeth mentioned I was American, I corrected her for the umpty-umpth time, she laughed, but the woman she said it to, asked me about Trump anyway.

My tactic now is to ask them what they think.

And although the American president claims to be loved, I have yet to hear a positive response.

It had been four days since someone said Trump to me. Of course, I'd spent most of the time at home.

No electricity

I was in the shower when the lights went out.  I could hear the workman from the upstairs flat owned by my landlord who lives a couple of hours away, clump up then down the stairs. He didn't hear me call out. By the time I was dressed, he had left.

Our flat has a second entrance that opens into the entryway for the apartment upstairs and where the electrical box that would allow me to flip the switch and have light is located.

The door between my flat and the entryway was blocked. I could peek and see wood and furniture.

On the other side of the entryway is the place where I could flip a switch and restore the electricity.

I needed to email or call my landlord. His contact info is on my laptop. Of course, no wifi. No telephone access.

I packed up the laptop and threw myself on the mercy of Jonathan and Matt, owners of L'Hostalet, the hotel around the corner.

They not only set me up in their dining room, they brought French Breakfast Tea and Matt lit a fire.

I'd left my mouse at home. After chemo, I have little feeling in my fingertips so to use the arrows, etc. on my laptop is not easy to impossible. Back home for mouse, which I hadn't realized I'd dropped before I could use it at the hotel. I later found it.

The laptop is old. New ones await us in Geneva. The battery was dying.

My mobile to call my husband in Orlando so he could contact our landlord didn't want to connect.

On my way home, I stopped by my other flat, a small studio, which I call my Nest.  I knew that there was electricity there and I could connect my laptop and wifi. Gigi, a workman and friend, is redoing the stairs to the 4th floor where the Nest is. He offered to try and budge the door between my flat and the entryway. Using all his strength, he managed to open it three inches, two more than I could, but not enough to get to the electrical box.

Oh, and I got paint on my coat when going up to the Nest, not adding to my day.

I have one of two keys to open the other entrance to my landlord's flat. That is the entryway that I was blocked from entering. We keep keys for many people, few labeled, and I tried everyone of them on the top lock. No luck. However, the bottom lock opened, but I still couldn't get in.

I decided to take a lunch break at La Noisette with Sherlock. Upstairs in the Nest, after eating, I was able to use the landline to call Rick in Florida. It was a bad connection and my explanation was not complete enough. He thought it was a drain problem, which is something else we are working on.

He called me back to tell me the drain man was coming.

No, no, no.

I ran into the drain man on my way back to my flat. Rick was talking to him. I explained to the man in French, the problem. Although he was drain not electricity, he offered to try to open the door to the entryway. He pushed, pushed, pushed. There was the sound of falling boards and moving furniture. He got it open enough to climb over the debris, went to the electric box.

Voilà!

I had electricity.

He also explained the drain problem, but that is for another day.