End of Texas, Start of a Year

Feb. 1- 5

Friday we took a stroll through the Dallas historic district near the hotel.

Founders Plaza has a tiny log cabin, about the same size as the one mistaken as Lincoln’s birth cabin in the Monument in Kentucky.

It was moved from several miles away to the site because all the original log cabins in Dallas burned sometime in the 19th century.

It’s behind the Old Red Courthouse, now a museum, which is on the site of an older courthouse that also burned down.

Across the street is a cenotaph dedicated to John F. Kennedy. It’s a block-like structure of concrete lifted on small pillars to give it an airy feel. 

The food has been only OK at best for days, so we went back to Bullion for happy hour and stayed to have the Friday special, Dover sole. The waiter said it is caught off the coast of Calais and flown to Dallas weekly.

I can’t confirm any of that, but can confirm first-hand that it was a superb dish. 

It is cooked whole except for the head. The usual practice is to serve it complete and then take it aside to filet it. 

Joanna likes to eat the meat off the bone, so we asked them not to filet it for us.

Saturday we headed west to Sweetwater.

There’s nothing much to do in Sweetwater. The rattlesnake roundup is in mid-February; the big gun show isn’t till March.

Not much looks promising to eat, either. 

We walked next door from the hotel to Skeet’s Texas Grill.

Texas so far is the only place I know where people have to keep reminding themselves of where they live. They also have to affirm that everything is big (or sometimes grand) and that they should be proud of it. Gun stores, auto lots, restaurants, pawn shops, you name it, have names like Grand Texas this, Big Lone Star that, Texas Pride something else.

Skeet's steak fajitas tasted all right, but they were some of the toughest steak I’ve eaten. I liked the refried beans and guacamole sides better.

Joanna had grilled tilapia. It was all right, but no better than most bar food. And Skeet’s wasn’t a bar, so there were none of the drinks that make bar food taste better. 

Sunday we had a six-hour drive to El Paso.

The sights along the way were mostly windmills and oil pumps spread over some of the flattest ground in the world.

We took a break at a rest stop near Rattlesnake Training Camp, a World War II Air Corps training center. During construction, machinery kept unearthing rattlesnake dens. 

There were rattlesnake warnings at the edge of the parking lot. Every time I see a sign like that, I look around. But I still haven’t seen any rattlesnakes in the wild.

Farther west we came to hills. We took a turnoff to sample the view from a scenic overlook. We climbed the hill on concrete steps. Joanna looking like Sacagawea is at the top of the stairs is the photo of the day.

We obeyed the sign and were careful about rattlesnakes. I still haven’t seen any.

It was Sunday in the Bible Belt, so most of the state of Texas was closed. We found that the Rib Hut was open. So it was back to red meat. For me, with a fatty but inoffensive ribeye. Joanna opted for grilled fish.

They had two craft brews: Happy Camper IPA from Santa Fe Brewing Co., and Texas Red, an American amber from Rahr & Sons Brewing in Forth Worth.

Happy camper had a light fragrance and a good mouth-filling flavor. The red was lighter, more watery than the IPA. It was drinkable, though. There was some bitterness, but it wasn’t in the class of ESB.

I had brought a six-pack with me to the hotel and had a couple of beers when I got home. It was an IPA from Deep Ellum, a brewer named for an entertainment district in Dallas. It wasn’t bad at all, but not flavorful enough to be a favorite.

Monday we drove to downtown El Paso. Most of the historical sights in Texas were lost decades ago for commercial development or post-war sprawl. 

Sometime in the 1930s, developers actually tried to tear down the Alamo, of all things in Texas. Then a group of rich San Antonio ladies—maybe the Junior League, I don’t know—said, “No, you’re not.” They formed a private organization to take it over, and that’s the only reason it’s still there.

So there hasn’t been much to see in Texas, and much to my disappointment, El Paso is no exception. Its historic districts are mostly imposing houses from the late 19th century, of a sort that I’ve seen in hundreds of towns. 

Although, in El Paso's favor I have to add that a sign says Pancho Villa lived in one of them for a while.

Downtown has some tall buildings, and then as you get nearer the border wall, a stretch of decrepit Mexican businesses.

The border fence is the type that you’ve seen in the news lately, the tall structure of metal slats and gaps.

We came across something called the Chamizal National Memorial. This is a park commemorating a treaty reached in the 1960s by the U.S. and Mexico to settle a long-simmering border dispute.

The border in this area had been defined by the deepest channel of the Rio Grande. Only the river kept shifting course, as meandering rivers do.

The solution was to create a channel lined with concrete to make it permanent. Apparently several established neighborhoods were disrupted by the arrangement, and people had to move to stay on their respective sides of the border. 

We had one pleasant surprise in El Paso. It was another pricy but very good restaurant called Cafe Central.

It was like being back in Dallas. 

We started with a plate of escargot, which was delightfully light on garlic and delicious.

Joanna had grilled Chilean sea bass, browned just enough to look like salmon. I tried a bite and it was succulent.

I had to have something weirder than that, just to say that I did. It was duck belly, medium rare. The skin was like bacon. 

It came with grilled vegetables and a risotto made with a blue cheese, maybe Gorgonzola. Joanna had jasmine rice with ginger.

Tuesday was another long drive, several hours to Tucson.

When we set out, it was only 25 miles to New Mexico. I was so glad to be out of Texas.

We stopped at the New Mexico welcome center for a road map, but the office was closed. There was some informative stuff in a case on the wall outside, including a rattlesnake skin with a story. 

A soldier walking home to Colorado from New Mexico—yes, that’s what it said—slept in a shelter at the rest stop and saw a rattlesnake. He killed it and ate it.

At some time, maybe the next morning, he donated the skin to the state.

Signs around the parking lot warn about rattlesnakes. I still haven’t seen any. 

Then we started to see billboards for a place called Old West—maybe a dozen in a row advertising kachina dolls, fireworks, Indian jewelry. It was like Wall Drug. We had to stop there. 

It wasn’t as big as Wall Drug, but it was crammed with stuff. Lots of turquoise, as you’d expect, including a white variety that looked like jasper, cowboy hats, moccasins, lamps in the shape of pistols, a foot-tall effigy of a cowgirl holding a calf, things made out of rattlesnake heads. 

One of the billboards promised “guy stuff”—that is, knives and replica guns. We saw dozens of switchblades, various firearms, and an $800 Bowie knife.

The signs hadn’t said anything specifically about girls’ stuff, but we did find a selection of “concealed carry purses.”

I still haven’t seen any live rattlesnakes.

Farther along we drove past more billboards, identical except for the name of the store. One I remember was called Butterfield Trail. The Butterfield Stage line came through the area where we are traveling Interstate 10 now.

When we saw a sign for tourist information, we decided to follow it and maybe pick up a road map, and also to stretch a bit. That’s how we landed in Deming, N.M. 

It’s a small town named for the wife of a partner in the Southern Pacific Railroad. Deming was the union point of the second Transcontinental Railroad. Its ceremony, in 1880, merited a silver spike.

A map outside the information office shows sights of interest in the area, including Pancho Villa State Park to the south, near the Mexican border. 

That got me to thinking about a great-uncle, Maximilian Stern, who helped invade Mexico.

Pancho Villa, one of the top rebels during the Mexican Revolution, led a raid on Columbus, N.M., in March 1916. 

Uncle Max at the time was a U.S. Cavalry trooper. He was in the contingent under Black Jack Pershing that invaded Mexico to track down Villa.

But Villa got away with the stunt. He avoided the Americans, who were recalled from Mexico when the United States entered World War I.

Uncle Max went on to become a celebrated member of the community in Sacramento, Calif., and also published sheet music written for the zither.

Villa eventually made a deal with the government , which made him a big landowner. But he made the mistake of getting back into politics. In 1923, a half dozen riflemen unloaded their weapons into Villa’s Dodge, killing him instantly.

Even with all that history beckoning, we had to bypass Columbus and the Pancho Villa State Park. They were more than 30 miles south of Deming, and we still had a long haul to Tucson.

At the first Arizona rest stop there was no welcome center. But we saw signs to tell us that “venomous insects and snakes inhabit this area.” OK. I saw scorpions in Phoenix once. I looked around here, too, but still haven’t seen any wild rattlesnakes.

Somewhere on the route we passed what seemed an endless stretch to the horizon of cattle feed pens. They were small pens cordoned off by metal fences. Two or three animals were lying or standing in each pen. 

I’ve heard that limiting the exercise of the animals keeps the beef fatty and therefore tender. Besides limiting the movement of animals, feeding pens are also a way to use some of the country's surplus of grain. 

Either there was a cattle drive blocking traffic or it was rush hour when we got to Tucson.

We had been barreling along for hours, and it felt strange to go bumper to bumper for a while. We made it to the hotel at five.

Feb. 5 was the Chinese New Year. According to tradition, we had to eat chicken and pork. Where better to go for that combination than to a Mexican restaurant? We had a chicken mole enchilada, a chile relleno pork enchilada, and a pork fajita—in addition, of course, to beans and rice.

I had a Margarita, the first in I don’t know how long.

The mariachis serenaded.

All was delightful and perhaps auspicious. All, that is, save the heartburn in the middle of the night. 

So here’s to a happy new year, everyone.

And to all a good night.

Harry

History Ancient and More Recent

Jan. 29-31

So far we’d avoided the worst of this winter. The blizzard that coated Washington and Virginia came when we were just south of it, in North Carolina.

Sure, the weather has been cooler than normal, but even so, my overcoat has spent more time in the car than on my back. Roses have been in bloom all along our route since we entered Georgia.

So here we were, in Vicksburg, Mississippi. To my ear, the name is a synonym for “sweltering.” 

But we got a forecast of actual snow before we left. Only 1 to 3 inches, but still it was damned snow. Snow is cold; snow is nasty; snow is hard work. I hate snow.

It started to rain in the evening and then froze up sometime in the night. This isn’t snow country. The forecast said sleet, snow, sheets of ice. Public schools, colleges, even government offices were shut down. 

Kwun Yam, Joanna, or somebody was praying for us because it wasn’t as bad as all that. We got an icy dusting on the grass. By the time we got up, the streets were dry.

The daytime high was only 40. Scattered snow and ice lingered in shaded spots all day. But that was all.

We had expected to spend the day indoors to avoid the weather. So it was a pleasant surprise that we were able to get out and visit the Cairo.

We became interested after we met one of the keepers of the Cairo at the Historic Klondyke bar. 

The Cairo, pronounced like Karo, the corn syrup, not like the capital of Egypt, was named for the city on the Ohio River. It was one of a fleet of United States river gunboats that joined in the attack on Vicksburg. 

It was a steam-powered ironclad that was wrecked by an explosive mine and sank on the Yazoo River. It was raised, with much difficulty, a hundred years later.

It is on display under a large canopy on the Vicksburg battlefield, near a section of the Union line that included artillery from the U.S. Navy. The hull and much of the superstructure, minus the original iron cladding, are more or less intact.

I think the boilers and remains of the paddle wheel are original, but am not sure.

There is a walkway that lets you stroll over the deck.

A museum next to the boat has a large collection of artifacts found in the wreck, including one sailor’s wallet. No one died when the boat sank, but everyone had to get off fast, so personal possessions and all equipment were left behind.

Good food is hard to come by in Mississippi and Alabama so I did some research online for dinner.

Google told me about a restaurant that looked promising, Walnut Hills. It was even easy to get to. We just had to turn onto Clay Street, which runs past the hotel, and then turn right at Adams.

When we got to Adams, Walnut Hills had its own sign on Clay St. pointing the way. So far, so good. Then we saw the sign on the porch: Closed Tuesday. Who closes on Tuesday?

We were in the old town, so we went exploring. We found a bar called Martin’s, and decided to try it.

It was mostly sandwiches on white bread. I opted for something they called a Cuban. It was not quite recognizable as such, although it had pork with pickles and cheese, and was finished in a press.

Joanna had an OK portion of grilled chicken, creamed spinach, and black-eyed pea salad.

We stopped briefly at the Klondyke, but it was very quiet and no one we knew was there at the time. We stayed for a beer, then took a couple of standards, including a can of Oskar Blues IPA, back to the hotel.

Wednesday we had a three-hour drive to Shreveport, La., but it took longer than that because we had two important detours to make. Both were important sites along our route that were recommended by Dave at the Klondyke.

One is a collection of very early Indian mounds with the unlikely name of Poverty Point. It is a Unesco World Heritage Site, like Angkor Wat or the historic center of Avignon.

The earthworks were the site of a city with a population estimated between several hundred and a few thousand people. The oldest mound dates to about 1700 B.C. People lived there until about 1350 B.C.

There is no evidence of agriculture. So given the dates, it is believed that a hunter-gatherer society built it and lived there. 

There are the remains of six concentric ridges surrounding a huge plaza, about 37 acres of ground leveled by hand. The outermost and largest ridge is about 3/4 mile long.

Remains of cooking fires and other evidence shows that the residents built their homes on the ridges.

The people built four or five mounds, one of which is several hundred feet long and still stands 60 feet high today.

Nowhere else, in the Americas at least, if not the world, is there evidence of a hunter-gatherer population of that size, or of one settling down at all.

I assume the alternative theory is that all this was done by ancient astronauts.

One estimate is that the works required moving more than 1.2 million cubic feet of earth by hand. The earthworks are the largest for their time anywhere in the world.

The site is near Epps, La. The name Poverty Point comes from a plantation that occupied the site in the 19th century. The plantation plowed the area where the ridges are. That’s why they aren’t clearly visible from the ground. 

They were discovered by an aerial photograph of the site. 

Next stop on the road to Shreveport was Gibsland, La.

Gibsland has an annual Bonnie & Clyde festival. Highway 154 passes through town past the Bonnie & Clyde Museum and a short distance later turns right at New Lebanon. 

About 4 1/2 miles south of that turn, two highway markers—a beat-up old stone one and a new, shiny bronze plaque—detail the police ambush that killed Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker.

We stopped in the museum gift store. It was filled with expected stuff, postcards with photos of Bonnie and Clyde (who didn’t look at all like Faye Dunaway or Warren Beatty), reproductions of old newspaper articles, costume gangster hats, that sort of thing. The two I liked best were a jigsaw puzzle of Bonnie and Clyde photos and a box of bubble-gum cigars.

According to one book I read, Bonnie Parker was upset when that photo was published because she was afraid that everyone would think that she really smoked cigars. Shooting policemen is one thing, but being a lady is something more important.

After we got to La Quinta in Shreveport, we wound up at Sam’s Southern Eatery for dinner. It was a couple of blocks from the hotel, which made it easy to find, and served nothing but Dixie fry. Joanna had a plate of fried catfish and oysters. I had shrimp and oysters. 

They weren’t bad, but the portions were huge.

Joanna took most of her catfish filets home and ate them for lunch the next morning. She says they were even better cold.

Thursday we traveled a little over three hours to reach Dallas.

I was a bit nervous about the end of the trip. We had three sets of directions.

Google as usual wanted to send me the shortest way, which involved all kinds of connections that became increasing frequent as they got closer to downtown Dallas.

I worked out a route that was a little longer, but involved only two interstate highways until we got downtown. 

The only problem is that we were getting different directions at the end of the ride, and some involved local streets that didn’t show up on the map.

It turned out that all we had to do was follow signs to Commerce Street and follow Commerce till we turned right onto South Houston. 

Our hotel, a La Quinta, is a block from that intersection. The other side of the same intersection is Dealey Plaza.

Our room has a view of the plaza and the School Book Depository.

We arrived early enough that we were able to tour the Sixth Floor Museum that afternoon. When we saw Maryellen and Ken in Atlanta, Mare mentioned how informative and striking the museum is.

That’s why we decided to go to downtown Dallas.

The building that was the depository is now a county administration building. The entrance to the museum, which is privately run, is separate from the county business entrance.

An elevator took us directly to the sixth floor. The price of admission included an audio guide. The exhibits are photos and videos about John Kennedy and about controversies of the time, especially issues involving the overturning of many Jim Crow laws.

The corner where Oswald is said to have fired at Kennedy has been recreated. The arrangement of boxes that were described as a rifle rest and a sniper’s seat were never recorded, because investigators moved boxes in their search for evidence. 

So any photos from the time were reproductions of the arrangement, based on the memory of witnesses. That’s the model for what you see now.

You can stand at a window, not the corner window where the shot was fired, because that is sealed off behind a glass wall, but at the next window. You can look down on Elm Street where Kennedy was shot. There are large white Xes on the street where bullets hit.

The museum also has a replica (at least, I have to assume it’s not the original) of the FBI’s reconstruction of the crime. White threads show the approximate paths the bullets took.

We had been eating a steady diet of heavy food, some of it very good, some not so good. So it was a big change when we discovered Bullion, a French restaurant two blocks from the hotel.

It’s a bit pricy, but worth it. The menu is nouvelle cuisine created by a chef from the Loire Valley.

We had a beet salad with mandarin sections and pistachios. On the side was something like a salty cannoli, mascarpone wrapped in a crisp crepe.

Then came the escargot ravioli. Each pillow had a snail inside it. The cream sauce was lightly flavored with garlic. 

We shared a principal plate of rabbit done two ways. One was braised, falling apart like good pot roast. Even the pearl onions, something I usually avoid, were good.

The other preparation was shredded rabbit meat mixed with foie gras and baked in a patty inside a ring of bacon. That, too, was fantastic.

I had two very good reds from 2016: a Rhone Valley Grenache blend by Paul Autard, and Cabernet Franc from a domaine called Arnaud Lambert, Clos Mazurique, Breze. 

The Grenache was very nice, especially after the food came. It had a slightly alum-like effect on my tongue at first.

The Cabernet Franc, which I may have had only once or twice before, had a touch of that overwhelming flavor that you get from Cabernet Sauvignon. I liked the Franc better any Cab Sauvignon I’ve had. 

Dessert was a deconstructed Napoleon called Mille Feuille, thin cookies separated by layers of cream. 

And on that note, let me wish you all sweet dreams, gang.

Harry

M, I, Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter …

Jan. 27-28

From Montgomery we followed a route almost due west toward Meridian, Miss.

It wasn’t only the shortest route between two points. It also took us through one of the legendary towns of my time, Selma.

We wanted to cross the bridge where the police attacked the marchers. We hoped it was marked, but had no idea if it was. 

Our concerns were unfounded. We were on U.S. 80, which is the historic trail of the Selma-to-Montgomery march. The first attempt of that march ended when the Mississippi State Police started a riot.

We came down the highway and then there it was. The Edmund Pettus Bridge is the principal way into town.

We weren’t ready for that, so I had to U-turn and do it again. 

This time, we noticed little park just before the Pettus Bridge.

It’s a moving combination of naive folk art and marble monuments. 

Several monuments have been erected to celebrate key figures in the voting rights struggle in the area.

There are symbolic graves. One for the unknown slave, and another for the unknown soldier, commemorating the black troops of the Union Army.

There’s a noose on a tree over the slave’s grave.

The wall of the building by the park has a mural depicting rights activists, including Martin Luther King, who were murdered. 

Downtown Selma is a little less inspiring. Several boarded storefronts have apparently been empty a long time.

An unusual feature of the main street is a lamppost with two lights. If one side is lighted, there has been a murder. It was a peaceful day. The “no murder” light was on.

Meridian, Miss., is mostly closed on Sunday. I hadn’t expected to find much to do there in the first place. It was just a convenient stopping place on the way to Vicksburg. 

Google turned up a couple of promising restaurants, but they were shut.

The Brickhaus Brewtique, on Front Street right off 22nd Avenue, proudly declares that it is open 365 days a year.

Now, I’ve never been in Mississippi before, but when we walked in, I knew this place: exposed brick walls, beat-up looking bar, stickers and taps all over the back wall.

It wasn’t my first choice because it had limited eats. Not much to choose from, for instance, that wasn’t deep fried. 

I had yet another burger with fries. Joanna did her best to get a little variety with a  Philly steak.

They had run out of a couple of local brews. When I asked for either an IPA or a pale ale, the bartender suggested Envie, from Parish Brewing in Broussard, La. It had a pleasant floral fragrance and flavor, and a nice spicy end. Not too strong, 5.5 percent alcohol.

Next was Abita Amber, also from Louisiana. It wasn’t as sharp as Abita’s IPA, but it was all right. It was mild, 4.5 percent, and not quite a bitter, but also not too sweet. It had a metallic finish.

That was it for local ales, so I went for an old stand-by, an ale from Stone Brewing in Southern California. Stone makes IPAs. All kinds of IPAs. 

This was a new one to me, ParaXtranormal. At 7.7 percent, it was strong, as many Stone brews are. It had a mild fragrance. It was bitter enough to be satisfying but the flavor still managed to have a fruity edge. 

Stone never lets me down.

Monday we crossed the State of Mississippi to reach Vicksburg. 

We’re staying at La Quinta a mile from the visitors’ center at the Vicksburg National Battlefield Park. 

Somebody in Washington must have heard that we were coming this way because they reopened the government so we could get in here. We flashed our old-folks pass and the ranger handed us a park brochure.

Thanks to whichever one of you let Washington know.

The park has very detailed markers every so many yards identifying positions held by units of both armies. Every military company that was here might have its position recorded, blue signs for Union, red for Rebel.

Way more information than anyone needs, but fascinating nonetheless.

We stopped and looked down the mouths of cannons. I don’t know if the earthworks around them are original or restorations by the Park Service. 

We stopped at the Shirley House, the only building on the battlefield that was there at the time. The sign says the Shirleys were Union sympathizers and their teenage son joined the Union soldiers in fighting the Confederates.

There’s a photo of a hobo jungle of rough shelters built on the hillside below the house. They housed Union troops during the battle in 1863. Now the same area is covered by trees.

The Illinois state monument is on a hill a short walk away. We climbed the steps and stood under the dome, which like the Pantheon in Rome and the Duomo in Florence, is open to the sky at the top. 

The echo in there is fantastic. Joanna tested it with a bit of the chorus of “Hallelujah.” 

Later we walked on a knoll above a trench that was part of the Confederate defenses. That, I’m pretty sure, was original.

Terrified and angry men once stood in there and shot at advancing men just as terrified and angry.

Somebody during the Civil War called Vicksburg the Gibraltar of the South. The Union had occupied New Orleans but couldn’t use the Mississippi to connect with states up north because Vicksburg’s artillery controlled this section of the river.  

There had been other strongholds, but they weren’t as strong and so had fallen. Vicksburg remained like a plug on the river.

In the museum at the visitors’ center there’s a quote from Lincoln on the wall saying that Vicksburg was a key to ending the war, and the Union had to have that key in its pocket.

The ground of the battlefield is a mass of rolling, steep mounds of earth. Given their size and extent, they are probably natural formations, maybe due to erosion after the forest was cut down.

It all looks like badlands that have mended their ways and started to support grass.

I guess it was better suited to defense than to assault. Grant’s army tried several attacks, beginning in late March, but couldn’t take the city by direct force. 

The only alternative was patience. The Army of the Tennessee surrounded the city on the landward side. U.S. Navy gunboats bombarded the city from the River.

The siege lasted from late May till July 4, 1863, when starvation, disease, and attrition made resistance useless.

The surrender of Vicksburg came one day after the Union victory at Gettysburg.

We’ve been having a lot of fun, and Monday night was another golden moment.

We had a choice of a few local places and decided on one because it took us through the old town. That’s how we chanced upon the Historic Klondyke Trading Post.

You park in the back and come in that way through metal door. You walk in and everybody, including customers, is yelling “hi.”

An exception is made for one lady who came in later. Everyone is supposed to applaud for her.

It’s one of the country bars that crop up along highways. It’s full of curious clutter: a couple of doors from retired government supercomputers, an ancient Coke machine, antique rifles, an elk head draped in Mardi Gras beads. 

Before the night was out, Joanna posed for a photo holding a Choctaw bow and arrows. I took the shot freehand without flash, so it’s a little fuzzy, but it gives an idea of the Klondyke, so it’s the picture of the day.

We’ve been in the Confederacy for a couple of weeks and still haven’t had one of the delicacies of the region. So we both had catfish. 

Mine was Dixie-fried and to top it off, it came with crawfish sauce. Catfish is always tender and savory. I could have eaten the sauce by itself as gumbo.

Joanna asked for the grilled version, but they may have sent it to her blackened instead.

The owner, Dave, told us he plans to sell the place, and in his retirement, he and his wife plan to travel the world. 

Funny you should mention it. We started talking about places we’ve seen.

He mentioned Bangkok. We told him about Chiang Mai. 

He and his wife liked Spain. So did we. 

We suggested they may like Avignon and other cities in Provence, too.

He talked about searching newly plowed fields for arrowheads. He brought out a display case with his collection. One piece was a stone tool for shaving the fur off hides.

He took it out of the case and handed it to us. After 3,500 years it still has an edge.

Much of this was going one while the regulars were up practicing their karaoke.

A good time, needless to say, was had by all.

And here’s wishing all of you good times, as well.

Good night, gang.

Harry