Dolls & Magic

Shiner's four little girls! The one is all white as a ghost. Another is a masked bandit. All are Too Cute!

This puts me a bit more than half way through #1!

I'm adapting my Civil War novels, short stories, and poetry to comics. Here is the cover for #1. Within You will find Mrs. Lincoln's Letter, Soldiers and Sons, a ghost photograph, and a soldier doll. I'll let You know when the first edition is finished; it will take some time. Copies will be available through me and Etsy, but I've got some other things in store too. They will be $5.00 each, USD, including postage.

I'm actually blogging about a doll, witch' You know is strange, for me; but I doubt there is room enough in the caption to place her in the art gallery. Jane is a ten inch travel doll, and a first for me. She is, as always, handmade, one of a kind, sculpted of Premo, with a Premo skeleton, and wooden/Premo spine, beneath a cotton/wool blend herringbone body. Her wig is wool. She comes complete with a wooden, paper lined trunk and a small wardrobe: cotton pantalettes, nightgown, and apron, two gowns, one cotton, another cotton/wool blend, and a wool shawl. She also has a little portfolio, just like in Charlotte Bronte's lovely novel. She is very honest and easy to dress. She  comes along in an old case with a journal to document her travels. While travelling leave her trunk home for her safety, so she won't get bumped. Her cost is $360 US, postage, as always, is included.

Have you ever seen anything

so happy, delightful, and free,

as a diligent little bumble bee?

Hovering about the hyacinth,

that's when he sees

another, lovely lady bumble bee.

Two busy bumble bees,

bumblin' about,

when what do you know,

here is the third, the scout.

Bumble bee three,

blissfully,

for the honey,

for your tea!

     The old man with the feathery hair and sagging trousers led the small, wide eyed child across the desolate street. There, on the corner, stood the old Chambersburg hotel, an enormous two storied, red brick, circa 1776, that stood facing the west for over two hundred years; but most of the small town was like this. They stopped, facing the sleeping building.

     "When I was your age, my Grandfather stopped me here and told me a story about this place, the old hotel."

     "Is it still a hotel?"

     "Yes, and it almost always has been. See, it sits here at the crossroads; and long ago, before even the trains, people would stop here and stay.

     Well, long ago, when my Great Grandfather was just as big as you are now, your Great Great Granddad!, he heard a story about the sisters who used to own the place, the Shade sisters." He led the child to a bench alongside the wraparound porch.

     "What were the sisters like, Grandpap?"

     "Well, Elizabeth, she was old, not as old as me, but a spinster all the same."

     "A spider?"

     "No, a spinster is a lady who never gets married." The old man chuckled and shook his head.

     "Oh, like Mummy?"

     "No. Not really. See, Sam, times have changed since then, especially for ladies. Ladies were expected to behave differently back then."

     "Like how?"

     "Well, like with old Elizabeth Shade: she should have got married, shouldn't have run this old hotel, here, and believe me, it was old even back then, should have been kinder to her baby sister, Sadie, and never should she have housed a Rebel cavalry, but she knew this."

     "What's cavary?"

     "Horses, soldiers on horseback. See those old posts around the front there?"

     "Yes."

     "That's where they'd tie their horses."

     "Oh."

     "Well, there was a Civil War going on then, and men were dying to keep this country free. The Rebs, those were the bad guys, had just invaded from the South, led by Robert E. Lee; and it was a hot summer's day, just like today.

     So the Shade sisters' parents had died from fever when Sadie was just a baby. They, being the soul survivors, inherited the place, and Elizabeth decided to run the place as well as raise her little sister on her own.

     Elizabeth was a sharp boned woman with a bent back and white hair. People said her hair was always like that, and she always dressed in black, since her parents died. See, back then, ladies were expected to wear black for seven years to show respect for the dead."

     "Why do dead people like black, Grandpap?"

     "Now, just wait awhile, and maybe I'll get to that. Anyways, Elizabeth was very strict with the young Sadie, who was growing up quite beautifully."

     "Was she pretty, Grandpap?"

     "Yes, very, but as your Grandma will tell you, beauty is often a curse, as was the case with the little Miss Sadie.

     See, when the Rebs came into town, they took this hotel, here, as their headquarters. They took our railroad too. Oh, and they gave old Elizabeth a hell of a time."

     "What they do?"

     "Well, they cleaned out the cupboards first. They were hungry. Guests were robbed and turned out. They drank all of the brandy, coffee, and milk, had old Lizzy flying around the kitchen, muttering condemnations beneath her breath, baking rolls and frying eggs."

     "What's condemashun?"

     "That's a curse. She cursed them, and many a towns' folk believed her to have some skill in witchery. See, her Grandmother had come here from the Black Forest of Germany, where witches ran rampant, and many believed that she had inherited the dark knowledge from her.

     But, anyways, back to the story... See, Sadie, on the other hand, was secretly loving the invasion. She was used to Elizabeth barking out orders to her, keeping her in line, and she was always quiet, respectful, and obedient. What she wasn't ready for was the ragged, rough, and ready Rebels who stormed into her routine.

     They'd put their boots up on the table, and she saw that they were worn through to the bottom. The ladies owned a sewing machine, that was a luxury at the time, and she sat at the window mending pants and coats till the sun went down.

     The men went through all the paper products in the house, writing letters home to North Carolina and Georgia. They'd sit and write, gorging themselves on apples and cherries, and talk to Sadie as she sat at the old treadle, that still sits up there today, by the window, there. See?"

     The old man pointed, squinting his soft eyes. The child nodded, unwrapping a small satchel of Cherrybombs.

     "Well, there was one Reb in particular, who never wrote letters home, some said that he was deaf, dumb, and mute, others argued his brilliance, for he was a shark at cards. They called him Black Jack; he wore a black General's hat, a black silk shirt, and black trousers. It was said that old Black Jack had killed two hundred Union men, our men. He was both honored and feared, and folks seemed to stay clear of him, for he had a fire in his eyes and two stolen pistols at his sides.

     But it seemed that Black Jack must have developed some affections towards our little Sadie of sixteen, because he'd leave the card table to sit with her in that western room, alone.

     There was a curtain that used to separate the rooms back then, instead of a door. They've removed the added door and replaced it with a heavy velvet drape, just like the one that hung back then. Black Jack would close the dark drape behind him as he entered, and some said that you could hear them talking and laughing. Others said that Sadie would often leave the window, and then you could hear the shuffling of cards.

     He'd be seen rambling up the steps to her room, with a glint in his eye, and a tray filled with flowers from the garden and a pitcher of lemonade with two glasses.

     Sometimes they had the gall to pull the shade down, and this is what infuriated Elizabeth the most. Her little sister, in the hands of a murderous enemy.

     Some say that she cursed him, and it came back to catch her too, The South Wind. It doesn't really matter at any rate, because old Lizzy was wily, and she had her revenge.

     It started one morning as he was on his way up the stairs with the tray. A coughing fit caught hold of him and tripped up his gator skinned boots, sending the tray and its contents sailing, scattered roses, broken glass. He was cut, broke his arm, and was covered in the cold sour lemonade. But, he recovered, and continued his visits with the sweet Miss.

     The Rebs had now occupied the house for several weeks, and Miss Elizabeth was growing livid with secret rage, for she was  feisty and strong for the wraith that she was. She had also noticed that they were likely to burn the places that fell short of provisions. They had already burned the old boardinghouse and Miller's Pharmacy. They were loathsome, vile, looting, arsonists to her sharp little eyes, and she would not loose any blood over them, or her home; she had already vowed this to herself upon their first arrival, but now things were getting worse. They had long ago looted the place, scribbled maps and messages on her clean white walls, but at the rate that they were eating, she was liable to starve over the winter. But, they were stupid after all, for they hadn't found Miss Elizabeth's old .22 underneath the floorboards, beneath her bed.

     Black Jack was always respectful towards Miss Elizabeth, saw his reflection in the glint of her black eyes, but he never answered her or anyone else. This was known and acknowledged, except for the rumors of murmurs and poetry begot behind the dark curtain of room number nine.

     One dark night, Black Jack, too boldly, crept up the stairs, quietly, carefully, his arm in a sling made from a bullet eaten Union flag, but as he drew the curtain, he wasn't greeted by the sweet Sadie, but rather the snout of Elizabeth's rifle and a bullet to the chest.

     Just as she fired the shot, like a blessing from above, the night was twice, simultaneously, accosted with gunshot and the sounds of men approaching swiftly on horseback. She flew to the window to see the Rebel riders bearing lanterns and shouting to the startled men who ran out from her house to meet them.

     "Come on boys, down the road aways, to Gettysburg, should have been there yesterday. Come on, hurry up! Don't take what you can't carry!"

     She smiled like a dog as she watched them hull out into the night, but they didn't take her troubles with them.

     Sadie became despondent, sad, but Elizabeth attributed this to the war and the constant sound of canons and the smell of death.

     Nobody mentioned the missing cavalry man. They had taken his horse with them. Nobody noticed, or nobody cared.

     But Sadie cared, and she became sick with a fearsome cough. Elizabeth nursed her, stayed at her side always, and it is said that the night Sadie Shade died, she took three hearts with her, for Elizabeth closed the hotel and stayed alone in the house until her dying day, and I Leave my heart in your keep was found written on the wall of room number nine. It's still there.

     But, the name, Shade Sisters, has always stayed, for since then, many guests have claimed to see old Black Jack on the front porch or in the garden. Ghostly cards are shuffled, ice tinkles in invisible glasses, roses, broken glass, have been found on the stairs, laughter, coughs, are heard from behind the curtain of a room that forever smells of flowers. A sewing machine can be heard and a girl seen at the window if the shade is not drawn.

     Come on now, it's getting dark. Your Mother will be worried."

     The old man led the child back across the road.

                                                                                  5/26/01

                                                                                                                             July, 1908

     In my time of dying, I feel compelled to document the following tale as it occurred to me on a stormy night over forty years ago. This was when I started to die.

     Prior to the night of which I write, my Johnny and I had been wed in a heartbeat before he was rushed off to war on a wagon train heading north into the night.

     He haunted my thoughts and my dreams for many moons thereafter, and letters he sent by the score written on dampened old newspapers, brown bags and such. In these letters he documented his travels and struggles, always optimistic, brave and promising. These letters were my hope.

     I was only seventeen at that time, and he was the only love I had ever known. I could almost smell his skin and feel the frisk of the soft whiskers on his face. His cool blue eyes stared across the broken states through time and starlight to find me lying awake and waiting.

     Then one happy day it came! Johnny's letter saying that he had been wounded but recovered and was coming home to me. I didn't sleep much those nights thereafter in the waiting.

     The night of the storm found me awakened from my restless sleep with a start; thunder banged in the distance. The rain pelted down heavily against the roftop, and a gust burst in through the swinging shutters.

     Then the banging outside the door. Johnny! My heart screamed, and I ran down the stairs without slippers or robe through the darkness.

     Throwing open the door, there he stood, all dripping and white. The shoes were worn off his feet, and his eyes looked far off. I pulled him to me, clutching, not to let go; but something had changed.

     Of course he was thin and cold, a mere shadow of the boy who had left me, but something more. The love was there; I could feel its hum, but the electricity had been grounded. His warm smell had been replaced with the smell of the earth, moss, and soil. These things didn't mean much to me at the time though; I was so thankful to have him home.

     Alice Bailey's beau had died of pneumonia, and Janie Weathergrey's took a slug in the head. People all about town, myself included, rushed to read the papers and death rosters. A great fear and suspense hung over the waiting crowds; friends and family clung together for shelter and support. No news was a merciful tiding when your neighbor was wailing, and your cousin's legs were giving out from under her. The strong wind of fear could not be quelled. But my Johnny had come home!

     I took him to bed with me that night, and he held me through a sound sleep.

     In the morning he was gone. The bed, the rug, were damp and dirty, but my Johnny was not to be found. I wandered the house looking and figured that he must have gone home.

     Then the telegram came: simple and straight, it stated:

                                                                          July 2, 1863

Dear Mrs. Gray:

     I am regretful to inform you that your husband has passed away due to complications in the removal of his right arm. The infections spread quickly. There was nothing we could do. His remains may be sought after in Cashtown, Pennsylvania. He fought courageously, and his dying wish was to see you one last time.

                                                            With my condolence,

                                                             Colonel W. Hampton

     There was too, a small package containing a small battered tin-type, photograph of myself, an old soiled handkerchief, one of our love letters, and a lock of my curls, all of which I still have in my possession.

     I went on to remarry, have children and grandchildren, but that night has haunted me always. I never saw my Johnny again, and the family never could find his remains. And now I return to you, my lost soldier to my soul...

                                                             Virginia G. Lincoln

Mona's Ghost is the special Autumn edition of Tuatha De Danaan, the last issue from the first year. Printed on parchment, as usual, this edition is in black and white, with a card stock and silver vellum cover. If You order anything original from me between September and November '10, it's free, but it is available without purchase for $12 US, postage included. The remaining original works are available through me as well.

Tuatha de Danaan

A Seasonal Publication

Winter Premier Issue out after Thanksgiving

These brochures will be available Free to my Patrons. They will come along, signed, with a personal Thank You with All original purchases. If You purchase something in the Dolls & Magic Cafe Press Shoppe any time after Thanksgiving, contact me through my contact page here, along with your address, & I'll send one along...

What to expect? Tuatha de Danaan is an eight page pamphlet, printed on parchment, with full color seasonal artwork, faeries, poetry, quotes from my books, recipes, inspirations from The Shadows, Tarot, Magic, and...You never know.  I know a lot of fun & my gift to You. Thank You.

Point Pleasant

There are more than a couple of reasons why I have been putting off writing down this particular experience. First, I'm not sure whether to call it a ghost story or not, that is, I have no proof, not even for myself, which I consider important; because, believe it or not, I may be a scientist by nature, a naturalist, or what have You... So, we will have to refer to my intuition. Not that I knock it, I probably have more faith in it than anything else these days, but You cannot prove intuition, not really, not scientifically anyways. Secondly, this tale is hardly a welcome poster to come to Point Pleasant. I'll never go back. Ron just said today, "Let's go back to Point Pleasant", while he was looking at my cool Moth Man magnet hanging on the fridge. He must be joking. I don't advertise myself as a medium or anything, You know... I do, however, realize that I have some gifts or sensitive peculiarities at this point, maybe I've always known about. But, at any rate, You cannot take this story as The Gospel Truth. I don't. I can't bring myself to, anymore than I could venture back to Point Pleasant. The irony of it is somewhat astounding.

I also can't say that I'm sorry that I went. It was an experience, afterall. When we first arrived, I just wanted a cup of coffee. Well, let me tell You...Good Luck with that. The place is eerie...a real ghost town. It just gives the appearance that it is actually inhabited. Upon closer observation, You will see that nearly all the shops and restaurants are closed. Ask somebody...Ask them anything...You will get a glazed look and a grunt...Except for the guy in The Moth Man shop, he does speak English. We stayed at the historic Lowe Hotel, a grand old establishment with a balcony dining room, gilded moldings, an old organ, and an extraordinary green tiled fireplace in the lobby. We had an entire wing, overlooking the river, with, what should have been a lovely view, complete with sitting room, guest room, and adjoining hallway. I'm peculiar, but the place was very dirty. Ron was getting angry with me, but he had to admit how filthy it was when I discovered dirty towels in the bathroom. I tried being nice, as he loves West Virginia, and said, "It's probably the nicest hotel in the state." Once again, he had to agree. But, this story is not about insults; it's actually, just the facts, or how I saw it, for what it's worth. 

We both liked the Moth Man film, and my Best Friend had read the book and loved it too.  My Other Best Friend wants to actually visit Point Pleasant in the worst way. After I had that wyrd experience with the voice in the drain, I was fascinated enough with The Moth Man to make him my Death card in my Tarot. I did not see The Moth Man, but I will say that I wouldn't doubt it, not after a trip to Point Pleasant. Just being there made me a believer. The place has the worst feeling about it that I've never encountered like that before. I have been to Gettysburg countless times, many other battlefields, but none of them had this feel like Point Pleasant. 
                                                                                       

I will call it a vibe, a disorienting feeling of pure badness. That sounds awfully childlike, but that is the best way that I can describe what I felt. Sheer negative power and influence. After checking into the hotel, we walked around the town, which took about a minute. There is an old Confederate General's house. We know things did not go so well with him. I learned some things, like I knew that there were some Indian wars about the area, in the woods, I believed; but I didn't know The Revolutionary War began there and The Civil War was fought there too. Now, I can say that I'm not surprised. As we were walking towards the point, the place where two rivers meet, where the bridge collapsed, where The Natives buried their dead and believed that spirits abided, I was getting cranky. An old log cabin resides at the point. While there, Ron, went right into the cabin, but for some strange reason at first, I couldn't do it. I sat down outside. I saw, in my mind's eye, someone who I knew was not there. An Indian, a Native, his hair was pulled back with some braids and two feathers, a red and a white. He wore buckskin, a vest and pants, and had a type of wrap, red, and some other colors, around his shoulders. He was talking to me. His lips were not moving, but I could hear him in my head. He told me his name, which I did not understand. He began to tell me such things as I'm not sure that it's even legal to put into writing, another reason I've put off the telling. Basically, he wanted me to set fire to everything. That is putting it mildly. He was very angry. There was a fierce wind that blew right through me all during this brief encounter. There is a monument there, alongside the cabin, an obelisk. He told me not to read it, to forget, forget it all and knock it down. My eyes began to well with tears, then a searing sensation tore through my intestines. Ron came out of the house and coaxed me in, he was getting very angry and angrier by the minute; he thought, with me, but I knew it was the negative influence of the place affecting different folks differently. Inside the house there hung a beautiful seed mosaic, huge, very detailed, something like two-hundred years old. It was lovely, but I had to get back to the hotel, I was very sick.

Back at the hotel I threw up five times then passed out, only to awaken to what felt like a hangover, only I hadn't had a drink. I did, however, have a dream, totally unrelated to The Indian, I believe: a woman, in a gray, circa early twentieth century type of gown with corset. I think she is somehow related to the hotel, maybe even that particular room. She had brown upswept hair and was very pretty. I painted her, Mrs. Gray, I call her, if You are interested. Then I got up, alone, and haunted the hotel, myself, that night, in search of a cup of coffee that I never did find. I bet that's all that most ghosts want or are looking for anyways...a freaking cup of coffee...Point Pleasanters have not heard about Starbucks. Whether that is good or bad, is, once again, besides the point. I went outside for a smoke. The place was dead to the world, more quiet than the countryside, so quiet, that, itself, was scary. I couldn't even hear any bugs or nightbirds. Then, the strangest sight startled me for a moment, a huge gray Manx cat, who is a rare enough find, himself, strutted down the street, alone, totally mindless of me, as if I did not exist, and he owned the place. I think he does. Then I heard a cough, a carny, setting up for Fourth of July, scurried from his tent, that sent me back to our sitting room with the creepy view over the dark rivers. I painted Pleasantry, trying to cheer myself.

The following morning, (I did, survive, as the hotel does provide coffee, Thank God, in the morning), we went to The Moth Man Museum, which is worth the trip, as long as You don't try to spend the night. We also walked down along the rivers. Artists are working on an exspansive mural there, and I could not help but notice how like the Indian I saw were the figures there. I think The Moth Man has probably flown away by now, along with everything else from Point Pleasant, but I wouldn't be surprised if You hear about him coming back either.

Second hand Ghosts, Part IV

This will have to be my last ghost story until I hear another good one. This one is equally interesting and creepy. I believe it happened about six years ago, I met a paratrooper in a bar in The South Side of Pittsburgh; it was Mardi Gras, and he was leaving for The Middle East, or some place. I never saw him again, and cannot even remember his name, for it was just a chance encounter; but for some strange reason, even unknown to himself, he told me a story that I will never forget.

A couple of years earlier, his twin brother died. There was a party at their house, everybody was drunk. They had a sort of loft, overhanging the family room, his brother was sitting there, when he fell to his death, breaking his neck. He then told me that he not only saw his brother, that he not only looked to be very solid, alive, and real, but that he talked to him as well. He had no idea that he was dead. After he explained to his twin how he had fallen and died, he never saw him again, no sense, gone without a trace.

He then went on to tell me that he never told anybody and that he had no idea why he was telling me now. I think it makes for a good ghost story. You hear about ghosts that stick around because they do not know that they are dead, but this is the only one that I have ever heard about first hand. Of course, it may very well have been due to the fact that they were twins, and twins have a stronger connection than the rest of us.

Second hand Ghosts Part III

This chapter, (and in case You haven't noticed, I'm on a roll...), will begin with a slight ammendment to the previous, that is, ghosts and the telephone. I had already mentioned how the childrens' ghosts used to play on the students' telephones and answering machines  in the dormitory of that school where I worked. Yes, it was for the government, no I can't mention the name or location, which doesn't matter as You'd never get past security there anyways. They'd never invite the ghost hunters. If You are new to my ghost stories, that school was an old tuberculosis sanitarium. I had to go through some digging to prove my suspicions about that too. They don't like it when students run away in the middle of the night there. They didn't like it when I scared them either. But, I stray...I do have one other second hand ghost story involving a dear friend of mine from Erie. When her father died he called them on the phone as promised, only when her Mother answered, nobody was there; but, they knew it was him. He had fulfilled a Houdini type of pact with them, proving that the spirit lives. I should also mention that this friend of mine is very psychic. She is the one that shared my nightmare the morning of September 11th too, so it is possible that her Father had some special talents. He has also been known to haunt the psychics at Lily Dale too. So, the telephone is a sort of tool that some ghosts use to keep in touch. I, myself, have never had any supernatural fun with the phone, besides knowing who is calling and those middle of the night ones when somebody has died, but that's quite natural, I presume. But, I do find an interesting correlation between the passing of The Irish Banshee with the invention of the telephone. I guess I'm a Banshee, because I despise the thing; so don't worry, I won't call You when I'm dead.

The telephonic prequil actually works well with the next story about Irish immigrants, another Father of another Irish friend of mine, the lady that I student taught with. I'm sure they'd all like for You to know their story. Her parents immigrated here from Ireland in the thirties, along with their best friend, just as my Great-Grandmothers had done. The Father, he got up early every morning and made breakfast for the entire family; but breakfast always came with a song and dance, because they could all hear him down there, (must be an Irish thing). Exactly a week before he died, he told his wife that when he woke up that morning their best friend, that came over with them, who was already dead, was sitting, smiling, casually, at the foot of the bed, looking as alive as ever. His wife was worried about his story, and took it as an omen; she wasn't surprised when they heard him hit the floor making breakfast the following week. He went out singing and dancing. Then, his wife, was too visited by her husband and their friend, both, again, sitting at the foot of the bed. It was not long after that she too died, a matter of months. They all came over and left together. The Mother had confided the visit to my friend, her daughter, before passing. So, like mother, like daughter, she knew it wouldn't be long. My friend is a good Irish story teller, and I could tell that she reached into her heart to share it. It's an emerald as far as ghost stories go, I think.

Second hand Ghosts Part II:

These second hand ghost stories have been passed on to me by trusted sources. They are not the only second hand stories that I've heard, only the ones that I believe.

Having said that, this next one is creepy. This happened in the early nineties to my old boyfriend's friend. This is how my old boyfriend told it; he was not liable to make up nonsense, and he didn't spread the story around.

He was friends with these two best friends since high-school. They were out one night, and the two others dropped him off. For sake of ease I will refer to the three as Tom, Dick, and Harry, Tom being my old boyfriend, then. Dick then took Harry home. Only Harry's Mother did not know that he again snuck out late after hours to drink with Dick. The boys were just out of school and still underage.

When the police awoke Harry's Mother then at four in the morning to tell her that her son and Dick had been in an accident, and that Harry had been killed, she didn't believe them. She told them he was asleep in his bed, but he wasn't.

Dick survived. Harry was dead. That summer Dick worked double overtime at Kennywood in the heat of the sun to pay for college, and also to take his mind off the fact that he had killed his best friend. It was late August, and he had just started college. He came home one night to his dorm room, exhausted, and passed out in bed, but the phone kept ringing; he could hear it in his sleep. He was thinking this wyrd, as he didn't yet have a phone in his room, then, remembered the one in the hall of the dormitory. It was still ringing, only he was still asleep. Then, Dick had a dream. He dreamt that he got out of his bed, unlocked the door, and went down the hall to answer the insistent telephone. Only when he answered, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his blood ran cold. It was Harry. He knew the voice. Harry whispered, "Wake up, Dick, you're dead."

If that isn't scary enough, Dick did try to wake from the dream, only he couldn't. He went into some catatonic state of shock and fear brought on by working seventy-some hours a week in the August heat, exhaustion and guilt. He lay in a comatose state for several days before waking, and the doctors said that if he wouldn't have been awakened, that he very well would have died.

I still get the shakes and shivers telling this story from so long ago. It seems that Harry held no grudge against Dick in death, and in fact, is watching over him.

Illustrations for my unpublished childrens' book that I'm still sending around.