I have 80 pounds of peaches sitting on my front porch. Excessive? Maybe, but when I bit into the first one tonight I couldn’t help but smile.

The T-shirt read: You can squeeze our peaches but you can’t beat our meat.

It was my first job. I worked at a one part gas station, one part fruit stand, one part butcher shop in my hometown. Luckily, I never actually had to wear one of those shirts. They were mostly lore among the other teenagers I worked with but I did once see one. There it was – a saying – a little lewd, a little funny but splashed across a yellow shirt with giant, faded peaches on it.

This is, of course, in a state where one of the largest state colleges, the University of South Carolina, has a Gamecock as its mascot. A fighting chicken probably doesn’t raise the ire of many folks but the first time you see a COCKS hat out of context, it’ll make you look twice. We’re used to it, as Gamecock fans. We’re used to in garnet and black on everything you can possibly imagine on a fall Saturday in Columbia, South Carolina. We’re used to it on our cheerleaders’ backsides, we’re used to it when 80,000 people holler GAME then COCKS at each other at Williams-Brice stadium. What can say?

Go Cocks!

Somehow it isn’t offensive, cocks, and somehow neither were the T-shirts at the Peach Stand. Maybe I was too young to notice. What I did notice was the spring after I turned 15 my stepmother set about looking for something productive for me to do. She was from this town, knew the owner of the Peach Stand and within a few minutes of talking to him, I had a job. That’s how things are done where I’m from. When your mama went to school with the boss’ sister or something like that and they’ve all known each other since kindergarten, you get a job.

That’s how it came to be that I was a peach girl. I went to work that summer early every morning when it was still cool outside which is to say it hadn’t quite gotten to 90 degrees yet. We’d cull basket after basket of peaches, putting over ripe fruit into a basket that we’d keep under the counter for Mrs. Teal.

She’d call mid-morning, “Hey honey, got any culls?”

“Yes ma’am,” we’d say.

We’d open our little stand and wait for our boss to tell us when the next trailer of peaches would arrive always careful to keep a peach basket between us and him. We’d unload the trailer, split our hands on sharp basket staples and sweat in the heat of the South. Then we’d fill bags, place them in the window and wait for customers.

It’s the waiting I remember most. We were situated at the crossroads of two main highways and if anyone was going or coming, we saw it. We had country music on the radio, a prime perch from which to watch a small-town in summer and most importantly, a phone to call in all the happenings to our other friends.

I might have been the best job I’ve ever had.

When Jason drove by in his little read truck, I’d get butterflies that first summer. I’d look down, focus on produce when he stopped in for something for his mother. Then, the next summer, when he crunched my heart, I’d sort peaches in the early morning, talk all day on the phone about my miserable life and go dancing at night with my fellow peach girls. I’d ride horses with Daniel on Saturday mornings later that summer. One of us would bring sausage biscuits. We’d ride through the peach orchards, fish in a pond with red dirt banks. He once brought live crickets as bait and I can still remember them jumping onto my hand as I reached into the cup to grab one. That’s when I remember thinking for the first time there’s something to this country boy thing. But, alas, Daniel and I always hovered around friend. Then came a blonde soccer player with a funny name who had me all butterflies again and I dated him until the end of college.

Those summers working at the Peach Stand, that’s when Cathy started dating Ben, when Alex moved to some northern school called MIT, when we rolled Katherine’s house and got in so, so much trouble. It was when Brian and Matt worked in the butcher shop. When Matt was dating Kim and Tonya worked the cash register at the front of the store. It was when Lee dated Lee and Nikki would get us, in all our teenage awkwardness, onto the dance floor at BarNone, Coyote Joe’s and that sketchy little place on Highway 21 that I’m kind of glad I’ve forgotten the name of. It was summer soft nights and going to the dam and tonight when I bit into a ripe peach all of it, every memory, was dripping down my chin.

I have a friend who has a little problem with the Twlight movies. I think she’s seen the last one two or three times. She’s read a few too many articles about Robert Pattinson, the Brit actor who plays the tall vampire Edward. This friend is definitely on Team Edward, she has no use for Jacob the wolf and can’t believe she’s this interested in any of what I’ve been jokingly calling teenage vampire porn.

“You know what it is,” she said the other day. “It’s seventeen.”

I knew exactly what she meant. It’s the drama, the angst, the time when you know everything before you slowly start to discover you don’t know anything at all. For her, Twlight captures that time, for me, strangely, that time is in a ripe heap of produce.

Another friend has a magnet on her fridge that says, “You couldn’t pay me to be 22 again.” I agree, nor could you pay be to be 17 again. But, I’m going to can these 80 pounds of peaches and on some dark winter night when I open a jar, sit at my kitchen table and roll the sweetness over my tongue, I’ll gladly close my eyes and remember.

I had planned to write my mama digs column late Sunday night. Instead I held a wide stance and deeply bent knees, my arms and hips flailed purposefully to beats of Tupac and Ice Cube. I wasn’t in a city, at a club or a concert. I was shaking my booty with a bunch of white people in a barn in south central Montana.

Last week we traveled to Red Lodge for our friends’ wedding. It was an exciting one because my husband and I have deep histories with both the bride and groom. So in addition to the wedding there was this big friend and family reunion, days of hikes, bike rides, beer and hugs. And lots of meeting and reacquainting with the new generation of humans our people have created. I heard a rumor that there were 30 kids at the wedding. I believe it.

Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends bounced and rocked kids through the several day gathering. We took turns singing to the babies and locating the toddlers. Has anyone seen my kid lately? It didn’t matter whose child had fallen or needed to wash her hands, the closest adult was responsible and willing. I think I could happily live on a commune. As long as adult-only hip hop dance parties were part of the deal.

As the wedding night darkened and kids fell like pick up sticks all about the reception, a mob of bouncing thirty-somethings gained enthusiasm. Ruby was asleep on Andy’s back and Margot in her grandma’s arms. My non-dancing husband was dancing with a giant grin and I was headed home with our daughters when I realized I could lay my sleeping babes in their grandma’s house and return…I knew I’d perhaps regret the big idea when I had to wake and sooth Ruby at 4am or that I’d most likely be a bit foggy on the long drive home in our once-big station wagon that now feels like a Shriner car what with the animals, children, adults, recreational equipment, coffee cups, fruit leathers (I want a minivan).

But even though I knew in my bones I don’t have the recovery or fancy free-ness of a 23 year-old, I also knew in my bones that this 32 year-old needed to swing dance to Billie Jean until breathless. So that’s what I did.

I, with help from my village, carried my sleeping babes in their party dresses through the windy, dark 45-degree air to the car and I miraculously carried both both by myself into the house. I slipped Margot into her grandma’s bed, her face painted with chocolate icing. Night mama she whispered. I wrapped, nursed and kissed Ruby. I thanked my mother-in-law and sister-in-law, changed into jeans and flat shoes, threw on some red lipstick and headed back to that barn for some roof-raising.

The crowd had thinned and it was my husband’s childhood friends and their partners who remained. We danced. Marge knew all the words to Snoop, Molly did the robot. Jason hung from the rafters, Paul grabbed the mic and rapped. I split Joey’s lip right open in a passionate spin. Ryan got gangsta and Maggie got down. Andy felt NWA and Ben did the pretzel. At one point we all huddled around the newlywed Charlotte and Brad and hugged and jumped.

I was moved by the scene because of the confidence we all have now. Even though we had kids at home and early wake up calls the next day, even though we had important jobs to get home to and older knees that might ache from getting so low and shakin’ our junk in the trunk, it was way, way better than those late nights in our twenties. Nobody trying to impress anyone else or get lucky with anyone other than their spouse. No insecurity in dancing, only feeling so wonderfully alive.

The day was beautiful-the forecast promising.  Our family decided to pack up the raft, head to some new water to check out the scenery and the fishing, and spend a nice day reconnecting with each other.

We packed plenty of food, and as an after thought, I suggested we bring a few jackets because there was a chance of clouds and rain later in the day.  Although it was hot when we launched, the river water was ice cold. This was a huge change from two weeks ago and was making swimming not as appealing to Grace, our tween daughter.

Riley immediately donned the fly-fishing rod among our pleas to not catch US, as he has before on a few occasions. Grace entertained us by sitting behind Cade at the stern of the boat so we could only see his face, and used him as a longhaired puppet with her own hair. She has learned that little brothers are occasionally useful for tween imagination.

The trip was beautiful, and I repeatedly felt grateful for where we live and the recreational activities we have that are so abundant.  I took over the rowing for a while and after a bit felt the wind picking up.  The sky, which had been deep blue with some clouds on the horizon, started rapidly changing to mostly cloudy with a chance of you are in trouble!

It happened so fast!  We felt the drop in temperature. I was patting myself on the back for throwing extra jackets in the dry bag as I handed them out to the kids.  By the time we recognized that a storm was upon us, the gale force winds hit…and then the rain. I had relinquished control of the oars to my husband Mark, who is much better at battling the stubborn wind. Even he was struggling, though, as the winds shoved us upstream.

Then we saw the lightning.  We heard the booming voice of the thunder. When Grace was hit by debris flying from nearby trees and the rain started pummeling down on us, we knew we had to get to shore and bail out….quick!

Mark managed to get us to the bank, where we scrambled up a steep hill and sought shelter in a stand of aspen trees and shrubs. The wind blasted us, lightening made a laser show around us, and we were drowned out by the symphony of thunder ricocheting of the mountains. To my pleasant surprise, I remained remarkably calm during this entire time.

The unexpected storm was fast.  It made a grand entrance, and disappeared without bidding adieu. We made our way back to the bank of the river and as I looked up on the horizon, I saw the blue sky laughing at us toward Missoula.  What an adventure!

When we returned home that night and the kids remarked about how fun the day was, I realized that the weather we encountered was much like my life as a mom.

I became a “weathermom” the day my first child was born.  The certification came upon the announcement from the doctor that “It’s a boy!”  My job from that day on has been to forecast and predict, and hopefully prepare and weather the storms as they blow through in each stage of parenthood. It has also been about enjoying the sunny days and learning how to dance in the rain!

Just like our local weathermen, I can only control so much.  I can read up on parenting, talk to other moms, be open and honest with my own kids, and try to have the tools to be ready for any situation. Just like our weathermen, I am sometimes taken off guard, and sometimes wrong.

My hope is that I can be the calm one as I was that day on the river.  Perhaps if I can act as the “eye of the storm” my tween daughter will always seek shelter and safety in our relationship.  It is easy to be bogged down by her unpredictable nature these days.  The weather pattern changes frequently.

There is a saying in Montana that you probably all have heard. “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.”  Such is the case with weathering the storms of parenting a tween.  Hold on tight, get out of the storm, and recognize that the sun will come out again in a short while.

GUTS! encourages young women to explore their personal values and discover their strengths through summer wilderness adventures, after-school groups and community service. Volunteers gain valuable professional experience as action group facilitators in Missoula’s schools. The role of a volunteer is to help girls develop as leaders and create positive changes in their lives, as well as the Missoula community and the environment.

“With peer pressure, bullying and popularity contests, school can be a daunting place for girls,” said Rohanna Erin, an AmeriCorps VISTA for GUTS!. “The program strives to create a fun environment that equips young women with the tools they need to deal with the issues they face.”

Volunteers must commit to a full semester, and preferably the entire school year – September to May. Training sessions are scheduled for Saturday, Sept. 25, 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. and Monday, Sept. 27, 6 – 9 p.m. The last day to submit an application is Monday, Sept. 20. Applications can be downloaded at http://www.ywcaofmissoula.org.

I’ve got that old feeling.

The one that comes from very little sleep.

I pulled myself out of bed yesterday morning, my bones heavy with fatigue and started on the to-do list I’d been writing in my head for the past few hours.

Check temperatures. Lucille had Tylenol last, Eliza Advil.
Give medicine.
Shower?
Call preschool, tell them we won’t be there for the first day.
Call friend who was to take care of Lucille.
Go to doctor.

It all started around 2:30 a.m. “My throat hurts when I drink mama,” Eliza said standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was shivering and she had a temperature of 103. Advil.

By 4:30 a.m. Lucille had made her way to my side of the bed. “I wanna lay witch you mama,” she said. She was hot to the touch. Temperature: 102.8. Tylenol.

They tossed, turned and finally fell asleep, sweating out their fevers. When I woke up at 7:15 a.m. they were sprawled across our bed (Seth retreated hours before to Lucille’s bed). I took their temperatures while they slept. Eliza was cycling up, Lucille down. Or was it the other way around? I wiggled out of bed. Eliza was awake but didn’t move, which I knew meant she felt pretty bad.

I worked my way down my mental list and finally broke it to Eliza that she’d have to miss her first day of preschool this year.

“It’s okay mama,” she said. “I’ll go tomorrow. I don’t feel like going to school.”

There was no whining, no complaining. Just cold juice in metal cups, coffee, jammies off, clothes on and a silent agreement among the three of us that, yes, we should go to the doctor.

When we arrived, my favorite doctor was there, the one I like to think saved my life. She told me once, “I think you have meningitis. Go to the hospital. Go now.” I did as she said. She was right.

Yesterday morning, she called us back, took vitals and looked in Eliza’s mouth.

“That is strep,” she said. “We’ll swab just to make sure but that’s what it is.”

She moved on to Lucille who opened her mouth without fuss. “Oh, and you are only about a day behind your sister,” she said. “She’s got it too.”

As she looked my little girls over I knew they were in good hands. The doctor called in antibiotics as I sipped my coffee and tried to keep Lucille from turning on and off again the exam table, the lamp beside it.

Watching them, I couldn’t help but think that I spent years of my life feeling this tired, this depleted.

Eliza wasn’t a sleeper and by the time she was only waking a few times a night we’d had Lucille and it felt as though we were up all night, every night. I remember dreading going to bed because I never knew what would come. And often, it was just a rough and tumble ride from midnight to 6 a.m. when I’d gladly get out of bed just to get off the sleep-wake cycle. I spent my days in a fog, on a steady stream of caffeine. I didn’t eat well and ran on raw adrenaline until I didn’t have anything left.

Now, most nights, I sleep. I don’t walk through my days stone-cold exhausted. Having a little distance from all those sleepless nights makes me realize just how intense our lives were for a few years. This realization helped me put into perspective two kids with strep throat. Medicine, popsicles. We will sleep again.

But the feeling of exhaustion was so familiar yesterday morning that it was tempting to move through the day like I had so many other days, poorly fed and at capacity. It was tempting to slip into that comfortable place of neglecting what I needed in the wake of a crisis.

Then I did a mental check of a different kind. They are being taken care of, I thought. What do you need? Did you eat this morning? Drink water? I had only had coffee.

After a spin around Target, two doses of antibiotics and the saving grace of a Dora the Explorer DVD, I sat down to a meal that I made just for me. I took my vitamins. I drank a lot of water. I quickly moved myself up from the bottom of the list.

Today, I turn 35. Hopefully I’ll arrive squarely in my mid-thirties with some amount of grace. And, I like to think I’m learning a few things the older I get.

I have a doctor appointment at one fifteen this afternoon. I feel the pressure as soon as I wake up. We can’t dally through breakfast. We have to hurry and get my daughter’s diaper changed and both of us dressed in our barn clothes as soon as we are finished eating. Then we hurry outside and I have to decide – do I leave her in the stroller while I quickly feed, grain, turn out horses and muck stalls or do I let her help me feed her ponies and then put her in the stroller while I finish up or do I just let her roam around while I do the chores.

The latter is the most enjoyable option for both of us but is not for mornings when there is a schedule to up hold. I elect to let her feed her ponies with my assistance and then I feed a couple of the easy horses in outside paddocks while she wanders around picking up rocks. I expedite things by putting her in her stroller while I feed the horses in the barn, grain and turn a couple of horses out to pasture for the day. I decide I don’t have enough time to clean stalls this morning so I save it for this evening which I hate doing. It really doesn’t matter but it always feels better to have all the chores done before I leave for Missoula.

I quickly feed the cats and am further hurried through chores by Cede’s impatient cry from the stroller – she complains as only a one year old can that she would much rather be wandering around picking up rocks, dragging baling twine around with half a dozen cats chasing behind her or throwing bits of hay to her ponies or my horse, Woody. I feel the stress of her impatience in my shoulders and I tell her that I understand she is frustrated and that I am hurrying so we can go take a shower. This buys me only a few seconds before she begins complaining again.

I get through chores, hurry back to the house jump in the shower with Cede in tow, get both of us mostly clean enough to go town, jump out, dry us, clean up the four places Cede pees on the floor before I can get her diaper on, dress both of us, stock up the diaper bag and my purse for the day and fill a sippy cup of water and ice to take along. I throw in a few snacks, a couple of books and toys for entertainment during my doctor appointment and then haul everything out to the pick-up. I put Cede in her car seat and we start off on our fifty mile drive to Missoula which takes us an hour. We aren’t ten miles from home when I hear a ding from the dashboard and see my fuel light illuminate. My husband has been changing pipe with my pick up and apparently used most of the quarter tank of fuel I had when I came home last time. Now I have to make it to Arlee which is the closest gas station that has diesel.

I don’t have time for this but if I hurry and only get enough fuel to get to town, I can still be on time. As I drive, I think irritably of the next conversation I am going to have with my husband. Am I going to be angry or understanding? I mull this over all the way to Arlee and through the fueling process. Now I am back on the road and feeling better about things when, just as I am leaving Arlee, I see on the side of the road an orange sign. They are re-painting the lines on the highway from Arlee to Evaro. Now I am going to be late. I get through the painting, to Missoula, to St. Pat’s and am lucky to find a parking space on Broadway that is big enough for my pick-up. I unpack my diaper bag, my purse and my daughter, pile them all on to the stroller and jog toward the building. The elevator takes forever to get to the fifth floor and I hurry to the reception desk. I am feeling pretty good because I am only ten minutes late after all of that. There is one person in front of me and it doesn’t take long for me to realize that she is a first time patient. I wait fifteen minutes for the receptionist to check her in. Finally it is my turn.

I give my name and the receptionist calls someone in the back. She tells me they can no longer take me. This appointment is the only reason I have come to town today. Usually I have a list of errands but today this was it. I can feel the tension in my shoulders and something happens that surprises me. I start to cry. The receptionist reminds me that I should have been here ten minutes prior to my appointment even after I have plead my case about the highway line painting and the fifty mile drive I have just made. I leave out the part about my pick-up being out of diesel, the pain of hurrying a one year old though breakfast and shower and the list of chores I had to do before I left. I spare her the details of packing the diaper bag for a day trip and lugging it all out to my pick-up and the scene it must have been cramming all of it along with my daughter onto my little tiny ten dollar town stroller. And the even better scene when I jogged down the side walk with its plastic wheels struggling to turn that fast and stay straight at the same time and how they got stuck in the elevator gap when I was trying to get in the elevator. I just stand there eyes welled up with tears in shock that I am crying, tired by the effort I have just made to get here and lost as to what to do now.

She offers to try to get me in with another doctor but I don’t want to see another doctor although I don’t know why. I helplessly ask about rescheduling and she points around the corner to the appointment desk. I push my stroller around the corner and there is another line. I wait a few minutes but my daughter is starting to become impatient again and I decide I will call later to reschedule. I come back around the corner and walk past the receptionist desk toward the elevator. The woman who was behind in the check-in line says she is sorry as I walk by. I thank her for her sentiment and she says it again with more feeling and adds “I have been there” as she looks at me and my daughter and my ridiculously overburdened stroller. I can feel in her energy that she has been there and while I am still teary, her offering has relieved some of my burden. I accept her effort to reach out to me and I take my daughter to my favorite sandwich shop downtown and then to the carousel for the afternoon.

We head home having finally gotten the gold ring after I don’t know how many rides. We get home in time to repeat the morning chores and clean stalls before dark all while Cede follows me around ‘helping’. As I settle in for the night and put my daughter to bed, I am thankful for this day and I think about the lady at the doctor’s office. What a lovely woman and what a lovely day she gave to me.

Cathe Carruthers-Hartung is a freelance writer who lives in the Moiese Valley. She and her husband raise beef cattle, wheat, corn and hay for a living. Her passions are being a mom to her one and half year old daughter, Mercedes, and riding dressage on the Thoroughbred and Lusitano horses she raises.

It was 2:37 am when I slipped into bed last Friday. I had been sewing and I kept checking the time, making deals with myself. I’ll just attach the facing and then I’ll just finish the hem and then I’ll just cut out the pattern for the next project. I made deals with myself for hours and, while I was physically alone, I felt camaraderie and encouragement to keep going. I was sewing with my mom and my grandma.

I haven’t been sewing that long. Just three years ago I sewed only rectangles. One can never have too many pillow cases and curtains, although my husband might have a different opinion on that one. At that time I was more in love with the idea of sewing than actually doing it. I had a hard time taking necessary steps like ironing, pinning and paying attention to seam allowances. I was impatient and impulsive and wanted to real quick whip up an apron that was beautiful, functional and sturdy. I would instead end up with a whole lot of frustration and another item in the someday I’ll fix it pile.

I wanted the glory without the work and that never pans out.

My mom is an amazing seamstress. When I was a child she made me sweet little a-lines with matching pinafores for holidays and drop-waist dresses when I was in my Pollyanna phase. She made demin folders for my homework until I decided I needed a peachie like all the other kids. She made dolls and their clothes.

She learned to sew from her mom on a beautiful black metal Singer Featherweight. When my grandma died I inherited that machine and a wonderful archive of stories. My mom kindly told me that, when I was ready, she’d show me the ways of the Singer. I said I was ready right then. Despite her patient, dedicated efforts, I tripped on my twenty-something over-confidence. I remember one exchange in particular where she said was showing me how to do a clean finish hem and I asked, “Why does it matter if there is a mess of threads on the inside? People only see the outside.” And she replied, “A good seamstress always pays attention to the details. A good seamstress wants the inside to be as beautiful as the outside.” I think I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t ready to be a good seamstress.

The Singer sat in an important place in my art studio. I adored that machine even though I didn’t use it. I loved it’s history. Every so often it would whisper an alluring tale and I’d sit to listen as I clumsily wound the thread over the hooks and through the needle to sew a rectangle.

When I got pregnant with Margot in 2007, a little piece of my grandma pricked my heart. I thought of her often, how I wished she could meet my kid and sing gitsy gitsy goo gitsy gee. My belly grew and I learned to sew. I read the manual and practiced. I spent dozens of hours and explicatives on a simple mobile. I took a class and admitted to my fear of zippers and button holes. I straightened my fabric, noticed grain and found peace with thread tension.

I grew more and more pregnant and more and more in love with sewing items for my family and friends. Sewing and pregnancy have a similar progression: to start from scratch, grow an idea with love and patience and end up with a really cool, unique object. And so my baby and my seamstress evolved together.

Margot is nearly three now and she has a little sister. In my studio last Friday, I skipped sleep to sew dresses for each of them. I effortlessly threaded the machine, snapped a bobbin in its casing and guided fabric over the feed dogs that have moved many generations of fabric. Ruby’s is sprightly in a grass green floral, perfect for hip-perching. Margot’s is twirly in a polka dot that she picked out all myself, mama, perfect for dancing. I read pattern steps out loud over and over when I was confused, just like my mom does. I paid attention to the details and made the inside as beautiful as the outside.

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*Mamalode MomGeek, Laura Parvey-Connors

Yesterday I went to the grocery store for a few things and you know how that can be. But on this trip I didn’t come home with a $12 pint of huckleberries or a $25 bottle of shampoo. I got what I needed with my two children writhing in and out of the cart.

Bananas. Yogurt. Oatmeal. Butter.

My dad, Eliza and me

As I packed my groceries into my car, I opened the bottle of Gain just to get a whiff. It smelled like my Dad. The Palmolive, my grandmother’s kitchen.

Standing in the Safeway parking lot all I could think was how much I miss them.

My grandmother and Eliza

But, I suppose, it’s not worth getting into all that right now.

I love where I live and I do not regret the decisions that brought me here but there are days that if I could wish myself anywhere in the world, I would wish to be standing on my grandmother’s driveway, my bare feet burning in the August heat. I would walk up the smooth brick steps to her back door, listen to the screen door groan as I pull it open and step into the relative cool of her kitchen. I would eat a livermush sandwich with mustard on white bread and drink her cold, sweet tea. I would hear her feet sweep purposefully across the linoleum. I would even settle in and watch Fox News with her, that’s how bad I miss her some days.

Other days I would trade nearly anything to be riding shotgun with my dad on some curvy mountain road. I would listen as he told me the history of this dam, that lake, how the next town finally got electricity way back when. I would listen to him tell stories of when I was little, when he was little, when we lived just the two of us. I would drink a Cheerwine and he would drive slowly just as his father did. We would talk money or politics and I would feel as safe as a person can.

But I can’t wish myself across the miles. And my children don’t seem to want to let me talk on the phone much these days. So I catch the scent of where I’m from where I can and sometimes it’s in a bottle of Palmolive, a jug of Gain.