When I checked into my Facebook page this morning I found a reminder of two posts I had done a while back. The first was posted five years ago when I had just emerged from surgery for my second knee replacement, having had my first knee replacement three years prior to that. Ironically, the second post was from exactly two years later and was about my grandkids and me downhill skiing. This should serve as inspiration to anyone in or nearing the process of this type of surgery, the message being don’t wait so long that you give up something you love because your knees are telling you no.
For me, these posts are a reminder of what lies ahead and that once again I will have to put in the work to regain activities that are currently being withheld. Back in May, thanks to my impatience, I suffered a severe injury to my shoulder. Though I have been doing PT for the injury, I was recently told that I will not progress much further without a shoulder replacement. It was good to be reminded by these two old posts that recovery is doable if I stick to the PT. There will again be days of discomfort, but also days of progress if I am willing to stick to the plan. I admire the PT doctors who provide the plan, the patience, and the hope. As an aside, in one of my recent visits, my PT doctor asked if I had any questions. I said I did and asked, ” Will I be able to ski?” Her reply was to ask me when I planned on doing that. As I told her December or early January, she said, “You overestimate me. If you had a cast on your arm and you were wearing a sling, would you go skiing?” My reply was, “You underestimate me.” As we both shared a laugh, I admitted that I might have tried her patience.
My surgery will take place in February and I do have hope. Some of that hope comes from the surgeon who convinced me of the need, my PT doctor who promises to give me the plan and encouragement to work my way back, my wife who will once again become my support and healing presence, and a little bit of myself as I will grit my teeth and get to work of healing.
All of these replacements could leave me feeling broken and vulnerable, but I choose to look at them from the aspect of a finely tuned sports car. Even it needs a few new parts along the way.
I had just arrived at my Saturday morning men’s group. In that group, we talk about issues facing men in general and specifically those that confront us. I had dragged my sleepy butt out from under my very warm covers and oh so soft pillow and was still questioning my reasoning as I grabbed a seat in the circle. Not knowing the topic for this day, I could only hope it would be something that would resonate with my needs. As I sat there pondering just that, the topic of the day was announced. We would be talking about purpose.
Purpose has always been an issue with me. Beside the fact that I preached it to my clients as what they needed to find in their life and for certain, in retirement, there are multiple dimensions to the idea of purpose. Many will state that purpose is what we do, while others will say it is how we conduct our life. I believe, and my fellow men affirmed me, it is the why we do what we do. Imbedded in the notion of purpose is the passion we feel for what we do. It is not enough that we are busy or even that we can tally up all the things we have accomplished, but rather that we are exercising our passion in the purpose we are serving. It is the exercise of those things that we are most passionate about that gives us the sense of purpose. To paraphrase my pastor, who might have paraphrased someone else, it is the difference between a human-being and a human being.
My epiphany about purpose is that it isn’t what I do to solve my need but rather what I do to help others. A life of purpose gives me a sense of accomplishment, even joy, when I can see what it does for others. So back to retirement. The most difficult issue that holds a person back from retiring, isn’t truly the financial or even the insurance, it’s what will they do when they no longer work for that company or run their business. How will they fulfill that need to be useful? I am not discounting the fact that finances and insurance play a big part, I am just saying that it is the fear of no longer having a purpose that causes them to hesitate, in some cases, to even throw down other roadblocks to retirement even when they don’t exist or at least are not that critical. The mistake is believing that doing our job was our purpose. It seems appropriate to quote Marley (A Christmas Carol), “Mankind was my business.”
I was a tax and investment planner by trade and worked with hundreds of clients as they tried to make sense of their finances. It is what I did, and when I wasn’t taking time to put it in perspective, I would often believe that solving those problems was my purpose when in reality it was something much different. When it finally came time for me to practice what I preached and face retirement, I realized how if I wasn’t deliberate, I was about to fail miserably. I needed to come to grips with just exactly what was my purpose. After some introspective and a lot of listening to others as they tried to define me, I came to the realization that it wasn’t what I was doing, but why I did it. Throughout my career as a teacher and then a planner, it was the opportunity to help others solve their problems. Not the solving of the problem, but being able to help them solve their problem. That is what I was passionate about and has proven to be the why of my purpose.
I am seven years into retirement and still learning the power of purpose and understanding what it is that will let me find my sense of that every day of my life. I still listen to every discussion shared about the topic. That’s what I was doing in my men’s group that morning. Some of what I heard was affirmation of my belief. Other parts of the conversation deepened my understanding of purpose offered through the perspective of the other men in the group. Some were even epiphanies, reminders that learning never stops until we do.
I will continue to seek my purpose in the things I do and the people I meet. I will try to be a better person every day, but not for me. I will do it for you.
We arrived in California last Friday for a family reunion of sorts. Since then, other than out of state tourists, we have had our friendly Wisconsinite greeting acknowledged a grand total of twice. Though we stared people down intently as we greeted them walking by, we got an effort laden nod and a grunt that I think was hello, but could have been leave me alone, and a genuine call out greeting. My suspicion is that the latter was a transplant from Wisconsin who had not yet been here long enough to have been tainted. Further observations have led to the conclusion that no yard is complete without the wall of China replica keeping all but the clearly invited in, out. Mind you, these are observations, hardly scientific data or carefully gathered survey responses, just observations. There may be very friendly Californians out there waiting on a conversation starter, or they may have been warned of my imminent arrival and the dangers of starting one of those conversations with me.
I do have another possible explanation for the difference between a homegrown Californian and a homespun Wisconsinite. It might be that people in other areas of the country are more reserved and far more private with their lives than Cheese heads. I blame this phenomenon on the painful fact that for nine months of the year, we are cooped up in our homes staring at each other wanting for a new conversation, or we are so bundled up against the elements as to have no ability to communicate through the turtleneck, parka, and scarf keeping us warm. Spring arrives and we are like lemmings headed to the sea, that sea being anyone and everyone who have ventured back outside. We are starved for conversation and we will glad hand anyone within reach. It is almost an unwritten law that you are not allowed to pass each other without offering up a “howdy neighbor” and “how’s it going”.
So, I don’t blame Californians for being less that conversational, and I certainly don’t doubt for a moment that they are not a truly industrious population and downright friendly once you are invited through a break in the wall and allowed to enter their kingdom. I just must realize that I am a foreigner in this land, one my mother used to refer to as “out there”, and that as such, I will respect their fences, literal and figurative. After all, I have two sisters “out here” and the reason for my trip. I have penetrated their walls and crossed their moats to find out what was in there. Turns out it was friendly welcoming people, willing to share time and conversation, even pizza and wine. Just turns out that one needs to wait for the invitation before you storm the walls.
Moments in time. Remember that first date, first kiss. The birth of your children, graduations, their wedding days. The birth of my grandkids. Maybe that argument with your spouse when all the wrong words came out. Our lives are made up of these memories. When they go right, they’re perfect. When they don’t, wouldn’t it be nice to go back?
I had just left the local Walgreens, licorice whips in my hand, and was walking home after accomplishing my list of “to do’s”. The licorice was my self purchased reward for accomplishing those tasks and will play a part in this story. As I walked through the intersection, I heard my name shouted out from one of the vehicles waiting at the stoplight. As I turned toward the street I spotted a driver trying to hail my attention and realized it was a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile. Pete shouted out to me “I hope a piece of that licorice is for me.” Caught of guard, I awkwardly replied “no” and then just stood there. The light turned green and his truck and my friend moved on.
On the remainder of my walk home I continued to dwell on that moment and how I wished it had played out differently. If I had it back, it would have gone something like this. Pete spots me and yells out. I turn and spot him and excitedly wave back, jump off the curb, dart between the vehicles, and hand him my licorice, possibly the entire bag. I let him know we need to get together to catchup and then weave my way back to the curb. Such a better scenario. But it wasn’t ever going to happen that way because that moment had passed. I was still standing there, seemingly dumbstruck, licorice still selfishly tight fisted in my hand, as Pete pulls away.
How often has something like this happened to you? If you are like me, you probably fantasize about having the ability to go back in time and replay the moment, making sure that you get it right this time, making sure you say just the right words. I watched a movie where the main character had the ability to do just that. I actually watched it multiple times because the premise was so tantalizing. Every time he missed a moment or got it wrong, he would go back in time until he got it perfect. If only, but unfortunately the real world doesn’t work that way. Once a moment has passed it is part of history and will forever be viewed exactly and only the way it happened. Sure, we can always try to correct the results by explaining what we had meant to do or say in that moment. I could contact Pete and apologize for my awkward behavior that morning, but it wouldn’t be the same. My only hope is that history won’t repeat itself and next time an opportunity comes along, I will get it right.
How do we get it right the next time? I am recalling several adages I have heard along the way. “Think before you act”, “think before you open your mouth”, “take a deep breath” all come to mind. I suspect the authors of each of those were speaking from experience. They must have experienced at least one moment they wished to replay and being the wiser for it, thought to warn the rest of us.
Every day is a collection of moments. We have the opportunity to make them memorable or forgettable. If we simply stumble through our day never taking the time to think before we act or speak, those moments will likely be forgettable. If, on the other hand, we approach our day with a conscious effort to make them memorable, we will succeed more often than not. We just maybe can get them right.
As humans, we are not perfect, not even close. We will invariably get it wrong almost as often as we get it right, but we can at least try to improve our scores. When I get up in the morning, along with all my inane tasks and habits, some good, some not so good, I want to think about the moments that might come that day and make a commitment to do the best I can within them. I want to give myself the chance to get them right, to make them memorable.
I have recently, by my youngest daughter, been graced with a new granddaughter to shower with hugs and kisses. I look forward to the moments she will add to my life and I do not want to miss a single one. She is in part the inspiration for this piece today and definitely a powerful reminder to always be present in those moments I get to share with her. Life’s moments are granted to us but once. Authors and movie directors hold the power to rewrite a scene, but we don’t. What we do and how we behave in the moment is etched in history the instant the moment passes. Watch for your moments, be present in them, and then try to get them right because you’ll only get one chance. No mulligans, no replays, no do overs. Be prepared, those moments are coming. And now that you’ve been warned, the pressure is on. Will you be the star of the moment or just another extra?
To tell this story, I will need to go back some time. It was a Saturday morning and I was working in the garage when my six year old daughter, Bailey, walked in and asked if she could tell me what she had learned in school the previous day. When your child offers up that sort of info, you stop and listen. “Please tell me”, I replied. She puffed herself up and declared, quite forcefully, “You just say no to drugs!” I thought about that for a second or two, sort of happy to know that this info had been supplied to her, but then this anxiety began to creep into my thoughts. Was this her belief or was if just a mantra said without a basis? Was she just saying it, or did it really represent her belief? Did she actually have faith in that statement when it came to her future decisions? As she stood there waiting for her pat on the back or maybe even a high five, I knew I had to challenge her belief. I had to give her a foundation to build that belief on, one solid enough that it would stand up to the test that would inevitably come one day. I started the conversation, “Why do you just say no?” “Because they are stupid and only stupid people would do them”, came her reply. And there was the challenge, “What if one day your best friend, who is just as smart as you, asks you to do drugs?” She looked at me and nearly broke my will. As alligator tears streamed down her face, and without another word, she ran out of the garage. I knew my daughter and I knew she would come back. A few agonizing minutes later, she was back, now almost defiant. “Why would she do that if she was smart?” she asked, and that opened the door for a very meaningful discussion as to why even smart people, even your best friends, might one day do drugs.
A belief is what others tell you to do, but it’s faith in that belief that allows you to apply to your own life. I heard those words in church this morning and was immediately taken back to that day in the garage with my daughter. Those words affirmed something I had always believed. Unless you have a foundation, beliefs are all too often things we say but often struggle to follow. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”, “Just do the right thing”, “Leave judgement to others”. We have all heard these and we tell them to our children, okay grandchildren in my case, in the hopes they will make them good people. The truth is that the statement will not guarantee results unless they believe them and that will only happen when they are connected to our core beliefs as to who we really want to be. Take “Just do the right thing”, why would I do the right thing, when I see people around me do the wrong thing and not only get away with it but sometimes even be rewarded. How do I follow that mantra when I see people in leadership roles, roles of power, do the wrong thing. The answer lies in that same conversation I had with my daughter, I do the right thing because it is in alignment with my internal core beliefs, I have faith in that statement, and that in the long run, the best chance for a rewarding life lies in the act of doing the right thing in the first place. Please don’t take that to mean I never slip up, but if I don’t do the right thing, at my core I know it. My understanding of and my faith in the statement helps me make the right decision. Without that, the statement is just that, a statement.
Just say no to drugs, to speeding, to theft, etc. even when others might not, but say no because you have faith in the belief based on your core values. As for my daughter, I will believe that the conversation we had so long ago gave her the strength to handle those tests I always feared she would face.
It was one of those rainy days you experience on vacation. Our family was holed up in our cottage waiting for the rain to let up. My grandchildren, Jackson age 9, and Adela age 6, were doing their best to keep themselves busy but there is only so much you can do inside. We had already used up the TV time and were working into the kids games, when my daughter decided we should try cards.
I come from a long line of card players, Sheepshead, Solitaire, Euchre, and Cribbage are a few of the games we played. I had taught my daughter to play cribbage as soon as it was possible for her to deal with the math and strategy the game required. I relied on the same tactic my dad had used when he taught me so many years ago, show them a hand played out, repeat the rules once, and then play for blood. The result was that my daughter was a show no mercy cribbage player. She would steal your points if you miscounted and harangue you if the rules of the day were gentleman’s cribbage with no point stealing allowed. We were starting our third game tied at one each, There was the usual heated conversations over who had the advantage and the third game, being for bragging rights, was already heating up when we noticed Jackson off to one side, checking out the game as we played. It was at this point that Bailey and I looked at each other with that “he’s ready to learn look”.
Generally, when indoctrinating a newbie to the game of cribbage, it will take several open dealt hands and games before they even catch on. After that, one must allow for another raft of games before they are not a straight up easy mark for the seasoned player. Jackson seemed to have some inane logic / intuition for the game. We wrote off his first win, after just three hands, to pure luck. But as the week wore on and he began to best both his mom and I, we began to concede the fact that we might have created the fourth generation cribbage playing champ in the Wundrow bloodline. Game after game, he either bested us or at the very least, held in there to make the game tight.
Just as I was with my daughter, and I am sure, my dad with me, Bailey had to be proud of the fact that Jackson picked up one of her favorite games so quickly and so avidly. There really is no greater pleasure to be had than when the protégé is able to beat the teacher. To watch something taught to me by my dad now being taught to my grandchild, reminds me of the legacy of family that is passed down through the generations. I am sure my dad was there watching over Jackson’s shoulder each and every hand. At least that would explain how easily he learned and how quickly he excelled. Way to go dad, way to go Jackson.
There is a metaphor in here somewhere. Every great teacher appreciates that moment when the student becomes the teacher. The passing down of a skill learned is a testament to the generation before. Never stop learning from the generation that came before so that we might pass that what was learned to the generation that follows.
I need to close now as I have Jackson, cribbage board in hand, asking for one more game before bedtime.
I have been seriously looking into this art of being lazy. It seems it is not something that comes naturally to every individual. For some, there must be a series of practice leading up to successfully doing nothing. This is the case for me.
I had always been accused of never sitting still. My mother complained vehemently about it all throughout my youth. My elementary and high school teachers further added their critique to my resume of restlessness. Eventually, my wife and my children would come to mock me anytime we went somewhere where relaxation was supposed to be the call of duty. Cottage stays in our cabin up north frequently turned into work sessions where I would find projects, one after another, to keep myself busy. Admittedly, many of those projects weren’t found, they were created. And if the projects didn’t fill my relaxation time, then work did. I would swear I was not going to respond to that annoying ding on my cell phone as another email or text beckoned me, but seriously, how could I not?
But then I retired and that should have solved the problem. Doing nothing was suddenly almost demanded. What obligations did I still have? But I am a restless person and as such I needed an outlet for all that time. Find somewhere to volunteer, that would fill the need. And so I did and all my old work habits followed me. Now it wasn’t paying clients and employers reaching out to me on vacation, it was non-paying clients and fellow volunteers seeking my time. When would I ever start practicing the art of being lazy? I was too busy to find the time to practice not spending the time getting in the way of my time to be lazy.
I am coming off of two weeks at the cottage with all of my family members in tow. There are nine of us ranging in age from one month to, well, my age. I promised I would be lazy. Week one……FAIL, fixed the deck rail, repaired the pontoon seats, repaired the window screen, and replaced the gas connections on the grill. But in my defense, I had shut down my volunteer job, almost. It was a brief meeting and ended with the warning that I was signing off and was not going to be returning any requests for the next two weeks. So, some success. I might be getting closer.
Here is the good news. After that last project and that last meeting, I did pretty well. No more projects, not even looking for one any more, and some pretty mind numbing do nothing days. Admittedly, three days of rain tended to help, but I hiked with my grandkids, held my newest one as she slept in my arms, and did a little serious fishing. All in all, I felt pretty darn lazy. I might be getting the hang of it.
The art of being lazy is just that, an art. Like all good art, it takes effort to create a masterpiece. I am a far cry from claiming my Davinci of Lazy, but I am making strides, and I might add, enjoying the effort to be effortless. I’d write more but I am being lazy and the campfire demands some serious staring into the flames.
Faye Wundrow Peterson entered into our world this morning weighing in at 7 pounds 9 ounces and measuring 20 and 1/4 inches. Her parents, Kathryn and Eli have just made me a new and very proud grandparent.
Let’s explore some obvious truths. It is a given that Faye will call me Opa and that she will melt my heart a thousand times over in her life time. She will manipulate me, enthrall me, and generally keep me on my toes. Faye will con me into trips to Culvers and McDonalds. She will convince me to buy her milkshakes, slushies and cndy even when I know her mother would say no. She will take me on adventures and all the while keep me young at heart while she does. In short, she will rock my world and I am ready to be rocked.
When I look at this picture of her, swaddled in her hospital bassinet, I can’t help but speculate on what her future holds. Will she ever actually drive a car, or will she simply ride in self driving vehicles? Will she ever keyboard as I am doing right now, or will she simply think and the computer will record her thoughts? What will her career look like and would I ever have seen that coming? For that matter, will she be rich by today’s standards, or will she live in an entirely different world where success is measured by her worth and not her wealth? Will she grow up in a society that values all of its members, no matter their race, creed, or gender? Please let at least that one be true for her.
As I look at Faye in her innocence, I am filled with hope that her life will be all that it can be. That she will feel love and happiness in the world she grows up in. That she will find success and recognize it when she achieves it. That she will seize the opportunities every time one presents itself. That she won’t lose that innocence before she replaces it with the experience to make her best decisions.
If years from now you are reading this Faye, know this about your Opa. No grandfather could ever love his grandchild any more than I love you right this very moment, nor could they ever compete with how much I will love you for all of the life I get to share with you. Know this Faye, you are loved, now and forever, no matter what.
Welcome to the world Faye. How would you feel about sharing some of your journey with me? All you need do, is hold my hand.
I occasionally walk our neighborhood with a couple other gentleman and today was one of those mornings. As I walked, I couldn’t help but notice the things around me. I walked on nice sidewalks, past parks recently mowed, with basketball and pickleball courts (the latest craze, but more on that in a different blog), playgrounds, and sports fields. I saw bike trails, clean tree lined streets, and crews treating the ash trees to save them from the ash bore beetle. If it had been Monday, I would have seen street crews picking up my rubbish.
So who pays for all of this? We do of course. We do that through are real estate taxes and our state and federal income taxes. We live in a great country, because for the most part, we are willing to pay into the cost of providing the services and protections we want, need, and all too often, demand. The problem is determining our “fair” share of that cost.
We are living in an era I dub the War on Taxes. The battlefield is the citizens’ definition of fair. We believe that taxes should be fair but in the same breath state that what my neighbor pays is fair, but that what I pay isn’t. It is a perception war. One political party stands against taxes altogether in a belief that if the wealthiest people were given the chance to pay less in taxes, they would spread the wealth down to the lower classes making their life better through the businesses and jobs they would create. The problem is businesses with the capability of doing this are owned by the shareholders who expect a return on their investment. This often traps the wealth at the top and the trickle down is exactly that, a trickle. Meanwhile, the other party proposes that the lower class needs the services and protections that will help them improve their lot, while the middle class needs a break on taxes so that they can fuel the economy by buying the goods and services the businesses provide. The issue here is that someone else must pay higher taxes to support that system by making up the difference. And the battle rages on. In the last decade or so, that war has begun to divide the country, and, in that divide, other ideologies are given fertile soil to grow and fester.
You and I alone cannot end the war, but we don’t have to continue to fight it. When I was still plying my trade as a tax planner, I would help my clients understand the necessity of the taxes they paid and the good those taxes could do in the hands of leaders who adhere to the practice of making common sense decisions. Decisions that benefit the country not just their position. I do not spend my time calculating the percentage of my income that goes to taxes, nor do I spend my time comparing what I pay to what my neighbor pays. I just pay them knowing that if I vote to elect leaders who will spend those taxes dollars wisely and oppose those leaders that would devote their time to cutting taxes and the programs that go with them, I just might continue to enjoy my morning walks through the streets, trails, and parks that my taxes helped to provide.
Next time you put your garbage and recyclables out to the curb, the next time you play pickleball in the park, or the next time you watch your children and grandchildren play soccer or T-ball on the neighborhood ball fields, ask yourself if it is worth paying your share of the cost? I answered the question for myself long ago. No matter the share I paid, in my mind, it was fair.
I have to go for another walk now, after all I paid for the views and they are worth it. I leave you with a picture of a state park treasure I recently visited, and they didn’t even charge an entry fee. I guess someone else paid for it with their fair share.
So I went golfing yesterday. Why not, the weather was perfect, 39 degrees, light rain until it became heavy rain, and a 40 mph wind. The course was in good shape, just a little remnant snow in the sand traps that only made them more of a challenge, which is exactly what they were meant for. At least when I was down in them, the wind seemed less noticeable and the sand had absorbed the standing water.
If you are one of the rare breed of golfers who understand this, you might even be wishing you had been there. If you are not a golfer, you are wondering what in the world I was doing out there. So let me explain.
It would be easy to say it’s just a man thing, but that wouldn’t be true as there were several women out there as well. To think that only men are crazy enough to do this would be sexist. Women golfers can be just as crazy as their counterparts. There’s more to it than just being crazy. True golfers have a passion for the ssport that surpasses sanity. What other explanation would there be for driving out to your favorite course in a downpour, surrounded by lightening, saying I’m sure there will be a window and I can get in a quick 18. Quick 18, that’s another strange description of a round of golf, unless you feel four and a half hours to be quick. And why would these same golfers venture onto a course at midday, with temperatures just below the boiling point and a humidity index nearing the century mark on one day and then golf with the temperature nearing zero and winds gusting at cat one hurricane force the next day? In the case of the later, at least the humidity was down.
The answer lies in the rewards of a good round of golf. There’s the obvious exercise one gets driving that golf cart. Don’t be shaming me, I still had to get in and out ninety to a hundred times, okay a hundred to a hundred and ten times. And then there’s all that shoulder exercise I get. And don’t forget the local flora knowledge I gain as I search through the underbrush and tree thickets, searching for the final resting spot of my drive. In this last case, proper identification of the poisonous plants versus the just plain irritating ones might determine a retrievable shot from a small contribution to the golf industry as I open another sleeve of balls.
So why do golfers seem to ignore the elements, no matter how cruel, to go hit that tiny white ball through eighteen holes, avoiding deep sand traps, ponds full of water, and deep dark woods? It’s the walk. I became a golfer the day I took a servers position in a local private country club. As one of the perks, I was allowed to play the course every Monday morning from 6:00 to 8:00 AM. All I had in my possession was an old wood shafted 2 iron, a sand wedge, and a novelty putter, but they were enough to get me around the course, or at least through a few holes. That experience was enough to hook me on a sport, that at 72, I still play even though I still don’t score much better than when I began. But it’s the walk. Every course is laid out different from the next, but they all have two prime objectives, the first is to challenge you with long holes, short holes, doglegs, sand traps, water and trees. The second objective is to accentuate the beauty of the location with long undulating fairways, so lush and green, followed up by a tabletop, tiered green set into a grove of evergreens or maybe stately oaks. The course begs you to walk it, to take in the views and the smell of new mown grass. This is what brings me back time and time again and begs me to not miss the opportunity to play a new course. The challenges forgive my occasional bad shot or even bad hole and the beauty rewards my willingness to play and allows me to forget the three or four golf balls I donated to the next golfer who finds them.
Golf is not for the faint at heart. It will punish your score almost as often as it rewards it. It will bring you out in days too hot to do anything else or so cold you have so many layers on that it’s difficult to even swing the club. It can wear you out or it can refresh your spirit. The true golfer finds the joy in the challenge and the beauty in the game.
I just noticed the clouds breaking up, temperatures up to 45, and the course is open. Time for a quick eighteen holes.
kenisms 