As September strides in...

We're missing you and wish our collective school year well, from Glenbard, Lake Forest, Champagne, Pecatonica, as well as here in Prague.

For Emma, Katerina and I, we're almost two weeks in and flush with assignments and such. For the boys, school starts Tuesday at Jan Kepler Gymnasium and Petrin Sever Art School. We had a great final weekend with them and Babicka in Krkenose--a wonderful cap to an unforgettable summer.

I may be heading to Manila for a hastily announced workshop, so that further busies things for me. Classes have begun well, so that helps justify the long trip.

Here's a poem in the glow of the number of runners (add Emma) we have in our family:

            August in Beijing

Thank God the Lightning Bolt believes in you,

apparent less in ritualistic pointing to the sky

and more in popping up and to that Segway guy

who deigned to mow him down without a clue.

Thank Confucius guy on Segway isn’t going to die

of scandal, maybe, or of shame that through

the rolling post-haste seconds subject to review

exposes multi-tasking hubris and ineptitude. I

saw Usain had taken off his spikes and thought

‘it must be liberating to shed those very tools

that got me here’, silencing the likely din of fools

who’d just assume his wins were steroid-bought.

Thank Ras Tafari reason’s not outpaced by rules

when any tiger freely strides for what it ought;

our kids dream infinitely fast, and now they’ve got

Jamaican heat to challenge any course that cools.

Coda

The room waited,

            bated breath,

      for the verdict to come

down. Jem was certain that we’d won it;

            Reverend Sykes was none-

                  too-trumpish in tying ‘we’ to ‘won’.

      Instead, he hearkened to experience

and maybe tacitly to God,

            maker of Tom Robinson and Helen,

                  Jean Louise, Mayella,

                        Dolphus Raymond,

            Cal and Atticus—every soul in sight;

and maybe even Bob, good gawd!,

                  and certainly, using Jem’s

                        assurance, the

                              ghost in every

                                    room:

      {palpable as heartbeats on a pillow—Boo}

Then the jury woke Judge Taylor

                        Scout,

                  and all who slumber through

            an end-of-summer read.

      Tom assumes the walking dead,

                        the truer Boo that folks could say

                  they somewhat knew,

even in the pages now unglued.

      I’m with Jem in hoping,

            Sykes for standing up for

                  something, even little Dill as

                              stowaway;

            I’m amply thrown apart each time

                  I entertain a

mockingbird {fluting in my heart}

It's raining, as I write

In my busy reading this week (code for: I can't find the article source), recent droughts in Russia may have been a contributing factor in the run-up of Arab Spring. Russia, more than EU countries, supplied grain to North Africa at reasonable prices, but when Russia's supply dwindled, they stopped exporting and sold grain to themselves; average Africans were depleted of free-market access to bread and dysfunctional government rations, greasing the democratic (since dashed) hopes of many in the region to self-actualize and rely less on the policies of hegemonic 'providers'.

Some personal associations are close at hand: most recently, 'Feed My Starving Children' was a definite highlight of our trip to America this summer; my Model United Nations trip to Cairo, October 2010 happened naively just a couple months before 'Arab Spring' activism; a controversial symposium at Concordia College, c. 1987, had Garret Harding argue 'Lifeboat Ethics' and the rationale to let the sinking world sink (as Western well-intended motives only add weight to the individual and collective rafts of self-survival).

Returning to Prague's Vaclav Havel airport is always a joy, especially in the glow of good trips: God has blessed us with many good homes. I was astonished, however, with the brown landscape. A long-term colleague here remarked that 'our Garden of Eden is no longer', inviting evangelical opportunities! In context, those assuredly happen!

Below is a poem I'm still scraping out. It's naturally about global warming/climate change but not in any way reacting to political discussions that frankly defy educational respect. Pope Francis will speak to Congress next month and invariably address our negligent stewardship to the neighbors we least associate with and the earth we exploit. In ways, he is ahead of his times, but lagging behind the times we could/should figure out for ourselves, with the balance of the Bible and common sense (devoid of self-interested political pragmatism). In the spirit of a symposium--including disparaging voices like Garret Harding--we have to do better than how we're doing, pleasant people that we are.

            Apollo, let us run

The sun is reason, qua-Apollo, as myths go,

and while I worship nothing of his brother,

I run a hellcat from this ball of fire and dive

(in not-so-feline fashion) into a sea of other:

a spangling envelope of simulated shade,

a lake or stream that flows my way, or, times

being what they are, into a pool man-made,

anything in sight to ward off what we know:

we’re burning up. Agent Orange is too select

a nightmare to assign as déjà vu, yet now we

lie exposed—the lab betrays our intellect,

as those who’ve been at either business-end

of hellfire can attest: what is heard or seen

must now be felt, faint hopes to comprehend.

Of all phenomena (here let definition grow:

Husserl and others render what exists, what

comes as an event, what we are in that mix)

I love a gentle sun-shower: rain at root, if

not exempt from quick evaporating force. One

falls against the other’s lift and full predicts

our lean relief, yet still will make Apollo run.

the love of summer

You know me well enough to project love for autumn (Pushkin, cross-country, All-Saints' Day, school stretching out of its cocoon). Summer gives reunions, resplendent waters to swim and canoe, heat and due relief, sing-alongs and chances to feed my starving children. This was a summer to love and appreciate how our children are growing up in grace. I'm grateful beyond recount. Below is a quick sonnet--as ever, any revision suggestions or (better yet) matching efforts would be welcome.

Teleology

Young Rockers, try to begin ‘you better

you better, you bet’ or glimmer through ‘hope-

lessly in love with you’, primally scream

The Immigrant Song or groove with a pict

‘so this aint the end, I saw you again

today—I had to turn my heart away.’

Reset your waking dreams with ad-hoc drive

and launch a wily search for mother lode;

it’s out there in the instinct you behold,

and if you’re Yorke or Schulz or Waits (any

TDH), that’s icing on the sponge cake.

Worry not about mistakes, the ends do

justify the Jack White chords you mean to

play. Because you’re young, be dolphins all day.

2 poems from Uncle Beep

The Metamorphic Bluebill

Greg Elstad shot a Bluebill Duck one cold and windy day.

            At least he thot he did.

It came down hard—made quite a splash!—then in pristine beauty lay

snow white belly gleaming in the setting sun’s last ray.

(The Bluebill is Greg’s favorite bird: the prey for which he’d pray.)

Greg paddled out, picked up the duck, and saw with some dismay

            it had a pointy beak!

“Now I’ve really gone astray.

            This is not a Bluebill. It’s a Fish Duck!

And a Fish Duck in my game bag is really NOT Okay!!”

What else COULD he say?

Greg paused there, thinking (while his Fish Duck

kept on stinking) what his hunting friends would bray:

            “He’s lost his mind!”

            “He must be blind!”

            “He’s not our kind!”

“At least, from now on he must pay

strict attention to the species of the ducks that fly his way!”

Greg next thot, “Could I revive this duck so it could swim away?”

            But the duck was far too dead for that.

Escape was not a game the duck could any longer play.

Greg’s remaining hope was to tuck his duck into the muck

So deep that it would stay.

            That didn’t work.

Up thru the muck the duck unstuck to resume its late array.

The only change? Now the duck was tinted gray.

At last, Greg had an inspiration!

            “I’ll claim I shot this Mergus* Duck for public education!

            I’ll have it stuffed and write a plaque

AND PUT IT ON DISPLAY!!!”

*Actually Murgus merganser americanus, more commonly known as the American Merganser.

Fred

He’s a big guy

            6’, 2” high.

His name is Fred.

Carol is the love of his life

            And for 47 years, his wife.

Fred is smooth shaven; never furry.

            Always laid back; never in a hurry.

Retired printer; retired guard.

            Even working security he was never hard.

In High School Fred was a champion swimmer with local acclaim.

Now Fred is a master fisherman with much local fame.

            His sign says it all:

“Fish tremble when they hear Fred’s name!”

Father of two, grandfather of three;

            His grandchildren get one dollar per day for free.

Most important: Fred is a devout Christian.

            His favorite saying:

            “The best is yet to come!”

                                                                                                —Greg Elstad

The Shelf Builder

The Shelf Builder

by Gregory P. Elstad

This house was once home to a Swede we called Stan,

     Content to live here with no shelf building plan.

Stan and wife "Bunny" lived here a long span,

     Loving each other the most two folks can.

"We've plenty of shelf space!" they said after a scan.

     (But their shelves were all full when their marriage began!)

"Anything extra goes in the trash can!

     Or we'll give it to Goodwill wrapped up in Saran."

Bunny & Stan moved to town by their plan,

     They gave us this house since we're part of their clan.

 They gave us their Chevy - a really nice van.

    Now we're thinking of selling our trusty sedan!)

Most of their stuff they left here when they ran.

     The shelves were all full when our move-in began.

We've crowded our stuff in as best as we can.

     Now Lola prays this, again & again.

"Dear God in Heaven, please revamp my man,

     To one who builds shelves just as fast as he can.

Do this for me and I'll be Greg's best fan,

     I won't scare him stiff with my Shelf Empire Plan!

Please don't make Greg like those men from Iran!

     You know the type - they're a very dark tan,

They mutter a lot of a shelf-building ban.

     (They base their beliefs on their prophet's Koran.)

Make Greg a man who builds shelves with elan,

     Good shelves!  Not cheap ones like those from Japan!

Shelves for my dishes, and boxes of bran,

     And one shelf for storing things kept in a pan!"

Postscript: My poem is complete.  But......

I've still got 4 words to use ending with "an".

     The pie nut - the fattening but tasty pecan.

The Indian tribe, river, or city - Cheyenne.

     My niece & my nephew - Ms. Ann(ie) & Dan.

                                                     July, 2010

mixed news

Katerina's back is better, day-by-day, and prognosis for nerve inflammation is time, rest, rehabilitation. That is the good news; the less-good news is that she'll forgo America and stay in Prague this month to keep her treatment plan.

I secretly think she likes the prospect of walking Bronko (that's a touch tongue-in-cheek)! He's increasingly been a presence in our greater community, holding court at Emma's scout finale at this parents' weekend.

Meanwhile, the 'lessor pets' of Roztoky have had a weekend less sublime:

            Abscond, with Care

Wonder why they flew the coop,

   budgies green and blue, content

to chirp our mornings through and

      leave their sometimes open hatch

   untested—our house too huge

a cage, and outdoors we would

         rarely raise their gate. Until,

      unwittingly, today. How

         they got the birdbath off may

   strain the inquiry—yet why?

Wonder less about the newt,

   veteran of captivity,

having crawled outside the tank

      a couple times before, climbing

   up the intake of the pump

that keeps her atmosphere clean.

         Wanderlust, perhaps, but then

      Penelope (I rendered)

         would remain, as last year’s male

   might reappear and make sense.

What I wonder more, this lost

   menagerie, are reasons

why they coincide: before

      today such furniture pets

   seemed disinclined to venture

out, abandon domiciles

         for more than just a little

      while. We thought we fed them well—

         well, flakes at least of freeze-dry;

   we forgot to feed them why.

Annotation 101

Ro[2^nd letter of the Xp]s[snaking in the sibilant]es[being, en Español] are[being, at least 2] re[journeying back]d[mindful of past],

V[Pynchon’s debut]io[Galilean moon]lets[allowing for volcanoes] are[being, beyond this world] blue[nobody sings in singular];

A[indefinite]s[möbius, almost] flo[rhymes with the p]we[D-503]r[uncertain inflection]beds[sleep separately] go[at Fortinbras’ command],

I[no i in…]t[IT resets us]’[to an urn]s nic[with Slavic negation]e gr[recycle toxins]o[in this distracted globe]win[or die trying]g[if gently bemused] you[(; no endstop]

Protagonists, We

       

“A person who becomes a character—

positive or negative, makes no difference—

always suffers a little”

(Primo Levi, 1982)

One footnote from The Agony and Ecstasy

is Michelangelo’s b.o.—yours and mine

in mid-July may not contribute to a legacy,

stretching necks to capture the Divine.

Our footwork, carbon copies of the Appian Way,

makes no difference (truth behind The Truce);

like Jacob’s bout at Yabok, darkness turns to day

and angels we might wrestle we let loose….

Such footfalls we own up to pace our memory,

allow a further agon to the characters we cast,

Bottom as an ass, Macbeth to hijack history—

readings of each person in a race not meant to last.

Seek footing, then, at Calvary, carved out

once in miracle and sign, if carried on through

mind and handcraft from disciples all about:

Michelangelo, Rembrandt, likes of me and you.

Cathedrals of Assisi

by Marilyn Jaeger

Brother Francis likes not legs
of those who wear short shorts;
to Sister Claire, they're overlooked--
quaint irony, in walled Assisi,
sun kissed, clinging to high hills,
laced with cobbled roads which
beg for walking, using legs.

Brother Francis, blessed by birds
glorified by sights and light
in shining Assisi.
Four stories up, on San Rufino Square,
a loud bird sings ceaselessly,
disturbing and delighting daytime sleep,
prayers of God who loves the birds.

Brother Francis, spirit of Apollo,
and Sister Claire, of Athena fair,
join, conjoin in awesome Assisi.
Ginger Joe claims prayer of Claire:
"Totally love him who gave himself
over totally for love of you."
Transcending journeys of legs on earth.

Emma's 10 songs again & again

Hi!  This year I'm  gonna see you in America. I have made a list of songs to listen to again & again. The reason I listed  these songs down is because in some of the songs I think there is a strong  meaning. These songs have interesting bridges for example Panic Ensemble's How Many Ways has a beautiful bridge with the viola. It has a bit of the Israeli culture music. My friend Lihi is from Israel and she would love this song. My 7th song I listed  because I danced to in my dance group. Space Oddity reminds of my friend Tony Mobbs, whose cats were really great. He let me pet them. I hope you like my unique list! I will see you in a while!

1. How Many Ways by Panic Ensemble, Israeli band
2. Space Oddity by David Bowie
3. Countin' Stars by OneRepublic
4. Take My Hand  by Dido
5. Fire on the mountain by Asa
6. Another Brick in the Wall part 2 by Pink Floyd
7. Kamos  by Zuby Nehty
8. Lovers On the Sun by David Guetta
9. Erase/Rewind by the Cardigans
10. I See Fire by Ed Sheeran

inspired as much by cousin Bruce

             Beyond Golden State

           (for anyone forty years young)

Goose-egg, be gone: you’re not going to pander

to Thomas no more. Decidedly old,

calculus dribbles the length of waxed floor,

drives a new alchemy into fool’s gold,

takes rather makeshift shots for the gander

to live in relief, with goslings galore,

my myopic dream: ruling the roost ’til

I’m fifty or more, putting an orb through

a hoop not errantly worth knighting for,

paying the piper self-levied bills. You

have reason to question wherefores and will,

daft premonitions to prove I can score,

and there I’d tend to turnover the ball—

a few moments more (what anyone needs

to get back on D) to freshly ignore

it’s only a pastime jealousy breeds….

Maybe the game needs such geese after all:

golden egg baskets to bring to the store.

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2015)

Inveterate

our daughter, spurred by vet advice, put pen to

paper (crumpled that) then brushed the teeth

of Bronko (undecrepit pet), new to such quotidian

bent—puerile fangs just softly clench—and so

she put to rest another of the old wives’ made-

for-TV tests, stopped a home-grown cure at horse’s

mouth—Bronko, barely bucking back or forth,

trusting brushing teeth a somehow sound idea,

seeking someone’s utter truth. Tread, by contrast,

rarely needs accouterments of grammar school

purview (let alone a truth), and so a business

piddle-paddles forth: dogs for dentists or, the versa

any kid with grit can tweak—‘local hygiene for

humanity’s best friend’—what could interfere?

Hardly hoping not to kick a cat when (toothless, in

the main) bents of days begin to calcify (unfaith-

fully, as they do), why not scrimp the makings

of simple escapades? Bid wild things interface with

paste, and let our daughter serve her better days

in spurs she’ll likely make—matron to mongrel,

in their mutual space. God knows we’ll more than

acclimate to cobwebbed brush strokes (foreign,

family held) upon dogmatic palettes, panting still.

Jot out, meanwhile, what we will—hold those

jowls and don’t surmise we’d want none of that—

a family, after all, enameled to a keeping clean.

Help me.  Thank You.

by Marilyn Jaeger, after Baccalaureate 2015

Help me.

Thank You.

Graduates, garbed in green and gold,

File quite willingly to the front,

Front of the altar, gazing out

To parents, in prayer or in waiting.

"Sing a song, 'Be Thou my vision':

It's a prayer, you know, just talking to God.

Simple conversation."

Then the light dawned.

How about this?

Reduced

Minimum

Chat.

Help is what we need

Beyond us,

We're not in control,

Whether a lost earring

Or ruined relationship

Or college complications

Or plane plummeting down.

Failure.

Help!

"Me" is the center,

Center of my world.

There are a few of us

Who make that claim.

Philanthropic service,

Altruism,

Compassionate giving,

Sacrifice,

At the core

Still

Me.

"Thank the lucky stars"

Or...

Who?

Attitude

Of gratitude,

Because

Beyond you and me,

God

To 

Thank.

"You light up my life."

You saw

Spoke

Hands moved in creating,

Divesting Self of Son,

Sun of galaxies beyond

Comprehension.

You, Jehovah

Adonai

All in all

Help me thank you.

Mad Cow Disease, revised

   by Marilyn Jaeger

       (I really meant this as a joke, but Dick thought it was far too negative an ending...)

Grandma  J took the girls out awalking

In a red wagon, they fit oh so fine.

Up Sawmill Road, back through the green fields

Finally bumping ‘cross corn in a line.

Molly was four, and Lia just two

Wide-eyed and precious as gold.

Mom and Dad Potter, gone on a date

With Grandma in charge, safe, we’re told!

Of course the bumping soon brought a spill.

No problem, and the little girls giggled.

Small problem, the field was full of manure,

So into a suds bath they wiggled.

Now years later we always can wonder:

Were there really latent effects?

Mad cow disease?  Can that be their excuse?

If ever met with less than success?

Two teens, achievers, lights in our sky,

Expanding their learning wide.

Even failure is a teacher, sometimes the best kind,

But no mad cow we will ever abide!

Mad Cow Disease

Mad Cow Disease

by Marilyn Jaeger

Grandma  J took the girls out awalking

In a red wagon, they fit oh so fine.

Up Sawmill Road, back through the green fields

Finally bumping ‘cross new corn in a line.

Molly was four, and Lia just two

Wide-eyed and precious as gold.

Mom and Dad Potter, gone on a date

With Grandma in charge, safe, we’re told!

Of course the bumping soon brought a spill.

No problem, and the little girls giggled.

Small problem, the field was full of manure,

So into a sudsy bath they wiggled.

Now years later we always can wonder:

Were there really latent effects?

Mad cow disease?  Can that be their excuse?

When things fail to turn into success?

Conquered the Capitol!

Results are in:

 

For Saturday night's 10K: 52:33, 183th out of 1138, 11/33 in my age/gender division (M50-54), 8:28 pace.

For Sunday morning's 1/2 marathon: 2:04:10, 991st out of 2166, 38/70 division, 9:29 pace.

For the 19.3 mile overall challenge: 2:56:43, 59th out of 245, 3/7 division, 9:09 pace.

 

The half marathon was tough, and a sore throat took its toll (not to mention hills and age and a late night hockey game to watch), but I got through it!  Saturday's 10k time boosted me up in the overall standings, but for humility's sake, in that race I was 14:30 behind the best in my division, and 17:00 behind the leader.  But there is a smile on my face!

 

Thanks for cheering me on!

 

 

 

Mirror Test

Ben saw results of the first: a woodpecker corpse

in a tuft of grass he would have mowed down

but for his eye for things unseen (and perhaps just

a trace of remorse for mowing so close to the guinea pig

cage some summers before—the roar, not the blade,

put an end to that pet). So Ben stopped this roar

and planned for its grave. Meanwhile, while pruning

the roses a stone’s throw away, I spied results of the second:

woody’s twin sister (or brother—the head too young

to be red); I called out for Ben to double the plot.

He’d already gone to wash up for lunch, and no one

discussed the deaths in our yard. I chalked it all

up to an orphaned nest, fledglings too young to fly,

sufficiently fed for the days they had grown, their mama,

not anywhere known, leaving the rest to fend for own.

Imagine instinct-less leaps, where hunger may

trump teen-age dreams taking world by its tail, and

somewhere is mama, a worm, or a prayer. One fell as far as

the tuft in the shade of the tree; the other to roses, a

flight in its own fragranced right, nose-divingly.

Results of the third, after lunch, caused concern: how

many birds would be killed off today? This one lay

beside the thick trunk, the spot Ben had chosen to dig

the mass grave… My wife blamed the magpies that ravage

our yard, chortling riff lines like Jimmy Page, Radioactive

with actual rage. Be smart in a dog-eat-dog world

and make any upstart go down—so the magpies believe.

To think we play host to Bonnie and Clyde, staking their claim

in our bonny backyard with results of a fourth: one of us!

Toss out a mirror—they can see self—and reflect.

Heaven On My Shoulder

(Inspired by a misheard line from “There There” by Radiohead

Heaven on my shoulder,
if the burden I should bear,
will be my undoing,
a magnificent obsession
that could prove, to the delight
of my detractors, to be fatal.

But heaven on my shoulders,
if as wings by which I’m carried,
will be my unburdening,
the uplifting and sustaining
that will be, to the core
of my belief, my vitality.

Heaven on my shoulder
as a whisper in my ear
will challenge my attention
ever straining to listen
past the buzz of the world
and through the noise of mortality.

But heaven on my shoulder
as a quiet voice to hear
will sing softly in the background
as a constant reminder
that I can know, now,
the music of eternity.

Heaven is believing
that life is worth living.
It would be hell dwelling
on some life ever after
without celebrating
the life we are given today.

Heaven in the distance
is the dream of flying
and escaping the gravity
of physical weight,
a load not on my shoulder
but from the ground.

But heaven in the present
escapes the weight of waiting
and takes flight in knowing
now, that life is for living,
forever forgiving,
and death will not hold me down.

Heaven on my shoulder
with a whisper in my ear
will keep me on this journey
provisioned and encouraged
and will move me through each day
towards tomorrow.

Parlour Game--nicknames!

So, Em and I attended a vintage car exhibition at our quaint castle in Roztoky and, wuddayaknow, we found Del's Mustang. On the same day, for whatever reason, I was reminding myself of erstwhile baseball players and came upon Von Hayes, whose nickname (apparently) is "five for one" based on the speculative trade that got him to Philly for five players, including Manny Trillo and Juan Guzman. Got me thinking:

What are the nicknames in our family tree? What would we appropriately propose?

Mustang Del seems right.
Grandma Bunny, too.
Smokin' Joe..., could use review.


At Mantrap Lake my elder cousins called me Boris, because (obviously), "Go play somewhere else, Dan, you bore us!" Little did they know I'd go on to be an aficionado of Russian literature! Revenge! So, for the purposes of this parlour game, I'll consider "Boris" appropriate (but call me "baldhead", I might pray for she-bears to maul the offenders a la II Kings 2:24;)

Back to sporting celebrities, we'd wonder if Carlton Fisk smiled at his moniker "Pudge", or if Sandberg wanted something more imaginative than "Ryno". Some, like Paul Pierce "The Truth" self-nominate. And that is fair fixings in this suggested parlour game.

Let's use the comment feature--I'll demonstrate:

Prospect Heights

It’s May, and Labor Day, as

Irish blessings meld with eastern

Europe’s wishing wells—Mácha’s love

brigade, ’midst cherry blossoms rife

from Tokyo to Jefferson’s lagoon,

if love defines the tides of how

a country comes to be. Meanwhile,

May secures modality—the should and

could and would of might and may,

the underlying undergrowth of

winter dreams in states of disarray;

summer’s quick to compensate:

heat and freedom demarcate the

ground control of budding, breaking

pestilence. Anticipate another

Labor Day, end of summer, start of

stacking wood—‘May roads rise up to

meet you’ as a gauge of doing good.

Lutherans know the road is less

mechanical, more a pebble in my shoe.

I heard this Godspell rhapsody

at Wagner’s, ’73, when ‘where are

you going’ meant vastly more than

what I’d count as true, starchy

famines we might labor through. May

God hold you in the palm of His hand.

May we see each other in familiar,

interim points-of-view. May we

shirk the politburo protocols and

weave instead the silken threads

we use to mark the liturgy, ‘finally glad

that you are here, by my side’—singing

softly to the child in me, May and

sometimes martial months as they’d

unfold, all told, graciously. I had

brothers, cousins, sister-on-the-way,

friends and dogs to guide me through

the machinations of a million signs

and what they try to say; I had two dads

and due theology to wordsworth poems

and plans; I had a thousand questions

for John 1:14. Whatever labor brings our

savior to ourselves, it’s cause to celebrate,

from cherry trees to routeless roads.

A pebble whispers, ‘take me with you,’

callouses and corns too readily reduced.

We know the footfalls hurt, but now

it’s First of May, with ample proof

we’re blessed along the way.