A Musical Life- Songs and Stories Richard Arnold Beattie

• Walking the Same Ground – A book and performance series where Dick Jones reads from his book and Beattie performs songs inspired by folk heroes and Denver’s cultural history.
• The Back 40 – A recent album spanning 1984–2024, reflecting his long career in music and storytelling undiscovered.music.
• Original Songs: Many are tied to folk traditions, Denver’s history, and personal narratives, often recorded with vintage equipment for authenticity 

In cooperation with Sound Century Academy, the University of Colorado and The Harry Tuft Collection. 

Transcript

Speaker 0:00

Folk Heroes is a production of Sound Century Academy of Recording Arts and Broadcasting. Hi, neighbors. It's been a smoky week in our little towns in the Big Wet Mountain Valley. I'm Richard Arnold Beattie. A few weeks ago in June, Dick Jones and I did an hour benefit for the Rotary Club Van at Bob Fulton's Big View concerts. We did Walking the Same Ground. While some of the audio had some connection problems, I was able to salvage most of it, put together a recording that you can use of my songs and the stories from Dick about walking the same ground. Here we go. I walk this way for this way with the time.

Speaker 2 3:27

And uh we were remembering Westcliff's past, and Willene said, You know, there are books about the ranching history and the mining history, but nobody's written anything about the last 50 years, so you need to do it. My conversation with Waleen that day was the beginning of the book Walking the Same Ground. Terry's invited us here this evening to uh share a few of Richard's songs and my stories, people as I knew them. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, mainly because no one is innocent. Uh they're all guilty of helping to shape something called community. Now, whenever I speak at events like this, the first thing I do is look around to see if there's anybody here who's been in the valley long enough they can accuse me of lying. So if you're one of those people, bear with me tonight. As someone said, there are three sides to every story: my side, your side, and the truth. And usually no one's intentionally lying, we just remember things differently. And as Mark Twain once said, when I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. Now that I'm older, it's mostly the latter. As someone has said, there are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. Usually no one is intentionally lying, we just remember things differently. And as Mark Twain said, when I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. But I'm getting older and soon I shall remember only the latter.

Speaker 4:53

There's a right way and a wrong way. Sideways and long way. Here's my way to the highway. Besides you every so my way along the way. Every way is a day. So many ways. And your side, and there is the truth. There is my side, there is your side, and then there is the truth.

Speaker 2 6:58

Half a century ago, there were only a little over a thousand people in the whole of Custer County. This amounted to about one and a half person per square mile. Westcliff had one restaurant, five churches, no chain store, no dentists, no bank. And traffic was what you might call light. In fact, back then, if you saw five cars in a row, there probably wouldn't have been a funeral. A semi-truck was a rare sight on the streets of Westcliff, and if one did come to town, the school children ran to the fence to watch it pass. And they would motion the driver to honk his horn. Highway 69 was still a dirt road from the county line to Gardner. One time my old Jeep broke down on the Madinaw Pass and I set out to hitchhike back to Westcliff. In three hours, two vehicles passed. The second one picked me up. And at the intersection of Main Street and Highway 69, where the four-way stop is now, it used to be a two-way stop. And each year he listened to the line, you can. Well, Harry looked and turned his head this way and that and grimaced a little bit. Finally looked up and said, Look in here and read what? He couldn't read any of it. The examiner said to him, Okay, Harry, stay in the county and don't drive at night, gave him his license. He really didn't go fast enough to hurt anybody, and so when we saw Harry coming, we just all moved over a little to the right and let Harry pass. And so with 96 beginning here and much of 69 not paved, no internet, no cell phones, no direct dialing, no Google Maps, no internet to look it up, no GPS. Nobody was just passing through the valley. Fifty years ago, if you were in Westcliff, you either intended to be here or you were lost. And Westcliff was a little different in those days. No one seemed to mind that Otto Elsie had a junkyard behind his main street home. Sue Kanda and Ruth Lang, who lived on either side, didn't care because they never planned to sell their properties anyway. In those days it seemed as if our lives were woven together, both unintentionally and on purpose. We saw the same people in Jennings Market that we saw at school plays and ball games, in the stoffice on Main Street, or in Susie's Cafe. It was a time when a no-trespassing sign was just about as rare as a paved road. And over the years we gathered, branded, butchered, ate, fished, hunted, hayed, agreed, disagreed, worshipped, laughed, and cried together. We were a community. Times are different now, and I know that uh the details of what I've said can't be duplicated. But this is more than just nostalgia. There is a moral to the story. True community does not come through big events, surveys, meetings, or forums. And all that may be good, but community doesn't often come by aiming at it directly at all. Neither is it a product of common interest or conformity of thought. It cannot be planned or organized or imposed. Community is shaped organically, by the intertwining of lives in very ordinary and daily ways. It is nurtured by shared work and play, shared joy and pain, shared memories and stories, conversation and compassion given and received. It's forged out of the daily encounters and the relational nuances of life lived together. Community comes to us peripherally. Usually it simply overtakes us as we walk the same ground together. And there are no shortcuts.

Speaker 11:41

Against the rain. Talking together across backyard. Just slow down and go around and wave. Peripheral vision. That was a Westmoth wave. West of Waves. You see, in a small town, our strengths and our flaws slammed together against the senses. In a small town, our only cause is jamped into a basket for a neighbor in need. Peripheral vision. Peripheral. Smell the season. Fresh morning. When the fall tide rolls around, it will surely turn to winter. And the things that you can't see just look around. Peripherosis. Petherolism.

Speaker 2 14:54

It was March 1974. The weekend we saw our first movie at the Jones Theater. It was a new Disney flick called That Darn Cat. Now, unlike many, Barb and I did not come to Westcliff for the beautiful view of the mountains. On our only visit to Westcliff before we moved here, it had snowed 14 inches, and clouds completely hid the mountains from sight, and there was no internet to look it up. We were young, I needed a job, and Paul and Jean Zeller needed a Wrangler for the summer at Horn Creek Lodge. And so with teaching applications strewn all over the Midwest, we packed one suitcase each and came to Westcliff for the summer. Surely a permanent job would open up in the Midwest somewhere. It did not. Little did we know that we would soon bring to Westcliff a four by eight foot trailer with everything we owned. When August came and no other job had materialized, I decided to take Paul and Jean up on their offer to stay at Horn Creek through the winter. Having taught a year in Illinois, Barb applied for a teaching position at Custer County School. K-12 school enrollment back then was about 175 students. The 17 seniors of the class of 74 had just graduated from the old two-story brick building, which had served the students of Custer County since 1924. It was torn down shortly after that. Barb had called Charlie Blodgett, the school superintendent, several times for an interview, but he informed her that there were no positions open. Probably to keep her from bothering him and calling more. He finally agreed to give her an interview. The school was in the process of moving into the new building, and Mr. Blodgett's office was not known for its neatness during normal times. So when the phone rang during the interview, Charlie had to get down on his hands and knees and track the wire to find the phone. The whole interview lasted about two minutes, and he only asked one question. Are you old-fashioned or newfangled? And that was followed by a tour of the new school. Well, school started the day after Labor Day, and it was already August. We had pretty much given up on Barb getting a teaching position. However, we were just we were about the ones to be educated in Westcliff. I think it had something to do with the party line phone system. The Friday before school started on Tuesday, Barb was in Jennings picking up a few groceries. And as she was checking out, the cashier, Anita Henrich, saw the name on her check and commented, Oh, you're the new teacher. Barb denied it. And Anita said, Yeah, I'm pretty sure they hired you last night at the school board meeting. Well, those little buildings along 69 going out of town north, uh, Paul Zeller owned those little buildings and he rented them out for about 50 bucks a month. And when Barb got home, she learned that one of his renters had called and said she was leaving. Since the new school year would start in three days, Barb kept calling the school until finally an electrician who was wiring the building answered. He looked around, found the phone number for Iris Wilson, the school secretary, and uh she called her, and Iris said, Do you mean Charlie didn't tell you? Well, Iris gave her the phone number of Charlie who was visiting family in eastern Colorado, and when Barb called in, Charlie calmly replied, Oh, I was gonna call you as soon as I got back on Monday. Remember, school started Tuesday. Well, Barb then called Fred Luthy, the janitor, who led her into the building to work night and day until Tuesday, when she walked into a sixth grade classroom of 17 of the newest generations of Giroos, Cooks, Colemans, Roscoe's, Roy's, Rice's, and Campers. Some of them still live here today. And so Barb signed her first contract at Custer County School. Well, correction. Actually, she didn't sign it because Charlie hadn't even given her a contract. Uh Iris Philson discovered that in January. So that began a 42-year teaching career, the longest ever at Custer County. She is followed closely by Hattie McLeod, 39 years, Gordon Thornton 36 years, and Betty Munson 33 years. Betty lived right down here on 2nd Street. Well, talking about 2nd Street, Father Dan, some of you may know him, he's a traditional Catholic priest that lives right across the road over here, still. Well, he's a good friend and one of my old fishing buddies. And in the 70s, Dan owned a 1940 Chevy pickup that he had nicknamed Zeke. Dan is a very honest man. However, his fishing vocabulary is open to interpretation. For example, when Dan says to you, Oh, to get to that lake isn't really a bad trip, the interpretation is, oh, to get to that lake might be humanly possible. Well, it was mid-August, and Dan and I were going to fish. To get to Dan's chosen lake, we had to drive to the top of Hermit Road, hike down to Rito Alto, go over the next ridge, and down into the lake. Well, Hermit Road was and still is four-wheel drive road, but nobody had told that to Mr. Two-Wheel Drive Zeke. So we loaded our gear into Zeke and headed out about 5 a.m. We bounced our way to the top of Hermit, and there was a beautiful sunrise. We didn't see another vehicle or person. Just saw a lot of wildlife, caught a lot of fish, and got back to the truck around 7 o'clock in the evening. As we were passing Horseshoe Lake on our way down, Dan stopped the truck and said, Hey, I think the fish are breaking down there. Remember, we left at 5 in the morning. So Dan grabbed his rod and headed down to the lake. I took a nap in the truck. And when Dan returned, dusk had settled on the mountains, and we were on our way again. Barely below timber line, Zeke had a flat tire. And by the time we got the spare on, it was dark. We started down the road again, but we soon discovered that every time we went around a switchback, the tire rubbed the fender. Well, understanding Zeke's idiosyncrasies, Dan always carried a very large hammer with him. He knocked the running board loose and beat the fender out with a hammer so that the tire would clear. By now it was pitch dark, and as we slid into the truck with his head down again, Dan informed me that Zeke's lights didn't work. All the way down the mountain, I hung out the window with a flashlight, trying to keep us from going off the edge. We didn't get home till late. Barb was beginning to plan my funeral. That was fishing with Father Dan.

Speaker 22:09

More on that. See an escape is in the wind. I feel it blow by when I've gone missing to all places I've never been. Hang a sign on the door that says that I've gone to share. For everything we missed, we've gained something else. It's all a part of this life's mission. So be true to your word and to yourself. I thought of these things when I've gone a vision. Don't fishing for the book and the story. Gone a fishing for the rich prostitute. Weeds among the weeds. I ain't fishing for the way it used to be. No, I've gone fishing for this community. Summer fall, winter spring, all the things I miss I bring. The wisdom of waiting for a bite. No, the phone won't ring right off the hook. Wave the trap before it gets done. Take a minute, take a look on fishing. Fish and lore, that's another story. Rusty wheels guided by a flashlight. The rampling motor down the mountain has five. I remember the apple phone, but we've got this for the end of the story of this for the red called Wolfgang. If this whole way it is to be discommunicated, competition for the hook and the story. For the reality we won't we I ain't fishing for the way it used to be. No, I don't fishin' for this community.

unknown 26:04

I always wanted to go a little longer.

Speaker 26:09

So he told me he said that I they gotta keep it a short ratio of me.

Speaker 2 26:14

I remember one of the old ranchers here in the valley used to have a bumper sticker on his pickup truck. It said, born to fish, forced to work. And we did a lot of fishing. Someone has said that you know you live in a small town when the only time you lock your car doors is in the summer. And that's only to keep somebody from putting more zucchini from their garden in your back seat. But there are other nuances of living in a small town. Ruby Giroux called it neighboring. Neighboring is when the working that needs to be done was too big for you to do. So people came together to lend a hand. Used to be a common practice in the valley. And spring branding was one of those times, one of the best examples of neighboring. I've had the opportunity to help brand at several ranches. Most of the time I was on the ground crew vaccinating, branding, castrating the bull calves. And when I did get on a horse to rope, it usually gave the ground crew a rest. I caught one out of every eight, maybe. But in later years I moved to the other side of the fence and signed on as cook. Gathering the mamas and the babies often began at daybreak, and if everything went as planned, we would begin branding soon afterward. There were, however, other possibilities than everything going as planned. One time we had about 300 pairs just ready to funnel into the corral when a few cows did not share our enthusiasm for that plan. One minute we're looking at tails, the next minute we're looking at heads. They scattered, cows went south, calves went north. We spent all morning gathering them up again and didn't brand a calf till after lunch. But speaking of lunch, food was often a highlight of branding. Often it was a matter of sitting on the ground around a homemade feast while swapping embellished stories and outright lies. Other times lunch took place at a local hangout. When we were branding at Wolf Springs Ranch, it could mean a trip to Mandela's. Mandela's was the best Mexican restaurant in Gardner. In fact, it was the only restaurant in Gardner of any kind. Afternoon branding went a little slower after Mandela's. But the good conversation shared was well worth it. I've loaned my vehicle, barbed wire rollers, trailers, wood splitters. I borrowed horse trailers, bulldozers, tractors, trucks, horses, and tools. Everything was returned, or at least you knew where to find it if you needed it. Writer Wendell Berry called these friends the membership of our lives, and he explained it well in his novel Hannah Coulter. He says, Work was freely given in exchange for work freely given. There was no bookkeeping, no accounting, no settling up. What you owed was considered paid when you had done what needed doing. Every account was paid in full by the understanding that when we were needed we would go. And when we had need, the others, or enough of them, would come. None of us considered that we were finished until everybody was finished. The membership of our lives, neighbors, friends, whatever you call them, they touch, I believe, some of the deep God-given needs in our lives for belonging, for friendship, and community. Over the years, Barb and I also have tried to share what we had, give what we could, and be there when we were needed. None of us are heroes in a real community. It's just what you do.

Speaker 30:17

That's what winter does. Engineers my stops and starts, leaves behind what was. Like the coldness of night. Blanket of snow white, West of Winds blow behold tonight. Dark sky stars brings my darkness back to light. West of winds through the valley, West of Winds Through the Sally, West of Wind Coming home tonight So leave a candle in the window I'll just follow the light Whisper friends will follow me back home. Coffee cups and long haul trucks mom is on the line. The radio plays the song again, takes me back to another time. Did I wake you up? Will you wish me love? I'm not looking for a sign Except to where I'm going Highway 96 or 69 West with wind won't be holding Dark sky stars brings my darkness back to light West with wind through the valley West with wind through the saddle West with wind coming home tonight Now the snow is finally melted It's so good to be alive We got through another winter Not carried away by a mudslide Down Spain Street in another season in the chalet with my lovely ride We're happy to be home again Let's all enjoy the ride West with wind only hold tonight Dark sky start to bring my darkness back to light What's with wind through the valley What's with wind through the valley West with wind coming home tonight West with wins I'll be coming home tonight Whisk wins I'm gonna make it home tonight Alright I begin this last story with a few lines from a poem titled Child Herald's Pilgrimage.

Speaker 2 34:11

It was written between 1812 and 1818 by Lord Byron. All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep, but breathless as we grow when feeling most, and silent as we stand in thoughts too deep. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt in solitude, where we are least alone. Solitude. It's something little appreciated in our time. In our day we call employees team members. We form students into study groups, we have pools of office workers, we organize people into consortiums, coalitions, collaborations, and committees. I have a friend who says that in his church, if three of them fell out of an airplane, they'd form a committee before they hit the ground. And no doubt much good comes from all this togetherness. However, it sometimes seems that our culture has bought into the lie that nothing good can come from being alone. In the Sangries, when grazing leases were still in use, a sheep herder might spend weeks or longer alone in the mountains, moving flocks from canyon to canyon. A few miles up Hermit Road, there used to be a copper mine. Hardly anything is still visible of the mine today, but in a clearing on Middle Taylor Creek, there used to be a two-story boarding house for the miners. When we first came to the valley, part of it remained, and along with an old tin shack where they stored the dynamite. Ernest Sparling, again, who lived right over here on 2nd Street, once told me that the caretaker would go in after the mine shut down in the fall and stay all winter, snowshoeing out one time for supplies. Maybe that's how I got the name Hermit. In the wilderness, there are no man-made distractions. No televisions, no radios, no clocks, no computers, no phones, no to-do list, and no music other than what nature itself provides. I suppose with today's technology, you could take some of these things into the mountains with you. Because the wind would just laugh. We hurry and scurry and organize and plan, but the mountains are indifferent to human schedules and plans. In fact, the human the mountains are indifferent to human presence. The Sanger de Cristo Mountains are the most prominent feature of the Custer County landscape, and many people know them only as a beautiful view to be enjoyed over a cup of coffee. But some old timers, such as Harry Deakin, knew them much more intimately. See, there's a great difference between admiring the mountains through a picture window and standing in a dark spruce forest and being chilled by a sudden gust of wind, or being caught in a lightning storm that stands your hair straight on end. Or, as we used to do, drink from a mountain stream so cold that it hurts your teeth. As English author Clarence Henry Warren has said, aesthetic appreciation is inferior to active participation. To see something is not as good as to live it. I've been fortunate to spend a good deal of time up close and personal with the mountains. The Sangries have been both my close friend and my bitter enemy. There's a picture that you know well. I I don't have it with me, I wish I did. It's a picture of Horn Peak. All of you know the pointed peak. And it seems like it's the tallest peak, but it's not. 13,450 feet. But it's a dominant feature on the eastern landscape of the mountains. This view is not so familiar. Looking down the spine of the sangries from an airplane as it zigzags its way into New Mexico. Horn Peak is this little bitty pointy knob right here, which you can barely find. You see, the Sangre Cristo Range, I've heard, is the longest, highest, continuous range in the world. It's 242 miles long, covers 17,193 square miles or 11 million acres. The depth and magnitude of the sangries is not evident to the casual observer of a beautiful view. And neither is their depth of meaning. The wilderness, uncultivated, untamed, uninhabited by humans, it may conjure up images of quiet beauty, but it can also be a place of great danger and may even try to kill you, especially when you're alone. I've been in every canyon from Brush Creek to Music Pass, a few lakes over the top, and some others west of Gardiner, and I am humbled by the mountains. Wisdom tells me that in the wilderness we are visitors, not owners, not residents. We should tread lightly. To really enter wilderness, we must be willing to relinquish control and leave behind the safe and the predictable. It's the price to be paid for walking on this holy ground. Wilderness is more than a geographical location. It is prophet, priest, and teacher. It is a place of intense experience where the carefully crafted veneer of our lives is stripped away. Everything that seems so important down here money, position, ownership, power, control, getting things done, all disappear in the mountains. It was October 1975, and Kent Zeller was in junior high school. He's this dates me. He's now retired from the Colorado State Patrol. But we had planned to go elk hunting, and Kent's plans were changed at the last minute. So I went alone. I camped at Macy Creek, anticipating the next day's hunt. However, the quiet and serene beauty of the mountains was forgotten when I found myself lying on my stomach on the north face of Baldy in a hundred mile an hour wind, trying to keep from being blown off a cliff. Grabbing hold of one scrubby bush after another, I managed to inch my way along the ground until I finally got to a crevice, sheltered a little from the wind where I could sit up. I slid down on my backside and managed to get to level ground. With legs shaking, I returned to my camp. The elk were safe that day, as I spent the rest of it recovering and being thankful that I was still alive. On a beautiful day in May, some 40 years ago, I was hiking to Goodwin Lakes for a little fishing. Again, I was alone. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day. The snow was waist deep, but most of the time I could stay on top. However, I could hear water flowing underneath, so I knew the snow was melting underneath as well as on top. Suddenly my right foot broke through the snow and got wedged between two tree roots. My left foot, however, remained on hard pack snow above. I was a little more flexible in those days. I couldn't get my right foot free, and I also could not get enough leverage with my left foot to break through the snow to help. So there I sat, pondering my fate and wondering who might find my remains at the end of the summer. The mountains were totally uninterested in my predicament and continued on as if nothing had happened. I guess for them nothing had happened. After about a half an hour of thrashing back and forth, I finally managed to make a wide enough hole in the snow to lower my left foot, get some pressure off my right, and wrestle it free from the roots. I did finally make it to the lakes, enjoyed some fishing, caught a lot of fish, didn't see another human being all day. The wilderness is different. Two ladies in the valley here, Nellie Camper and Helen Montgomery, both lived to be over a hundred years old. Now, no offense to Nellie or Helen, but those who study such things tell me that the lichen on this rock that grows about timber line on it, grows at the rate of about one inch per century. Their whole lives would have fit in that little space. The oldest bristle cone pine in Northern California is thought to have been a ceiling when the Egyptian pyramids were being built 4,000 plus years ago. It's humbling to be among those ancients. However, if I allow them, they may help me gain perspective on my own life. Or not. Sometimes in Westcliff back then, I think I can spot people who probably love to look at the beautiful mountains, but have rarely, if ever, spent much time in them. And if they did, they didn't learn much. They're just a little too impatient, a little too self-important, a little too demanding. One morning several years ago, I was having breakfast at a little cafe Dave and Karen Purnell had down on Main Street. A young couple was sitting at the table next to me, and it was kind of a close space. I couldn't help overhearing the man with an air of condescension placing his order. He said, I want two eggs over easy, but I do not want the whites running. I want my bacon crisp. I want dry wheat toast. And what kind of potatoes do you have? As I listened, my mind wandered back to the many trips I had taken into the sangries and some of the meals I had eaten there. Those times when I had cooked in the rain while huddled under a tree, with smoke stinging my eyes and water dripping down the back of my neck. Eggs over easy, but whites not runny. You have got to be joking. In the mountains, I've eaten eggs that have been dropped in ashes, drugged through the dirt, and washed off in the creek. But the whites were not runny. They weren't white either. Crisp bacon? Well, in the mountains, if you take the raw ends of my bacon and factor them in with the burnt middles of my bacon, I guess you could say they kind of average crisp. And know this. In the wilderness, dry toast does not mean without butter. Dry toast means the part of the toast that's left after I retrieve it from my soggy boot that sits smouldering by the fire and I cut half of it away. The part that's left is dry toast. What kind of potatoes do you have? Well, in the mountains, it's probably best you don't ask any questions about my potatoes. Because you see, not only have there been unidentified black specks that were not ever, in the mountains I've stirred things into potatoes that at home I would have stepped on and killed. You see, in town or in a restaurant, we come to expect eggs down the way we want. And we're easily disappointed if the bacon doesn't live up to our expectations. I've even seen people become irritated and angry if they have to wait a few minutes for their food. But food that we complain about in town, we will be thankful for in the mountains. So in the wilderness, go ahead and demand away. Complain about the food or the service. Get a walk out. It'll be a long walk. I have often wondered why, when we're in a place that is void of the evidence of human presence, and surrounded only by what God has created, we say that we're in the middle of nowhere. I think Elizabeth Barrett Browning thought so too. In her 19th-century poem, Aurora League, she writes, Earth is crammed with heaven, and every common bush of fire with God. But only he who sees takes off his shoes. The rest just sit around and pick like earth. Browning suggests the creation will not give up its secret to the one who comes only for some beautiful view for some utilitarian purpose. The wilderness is a place to look on, listen carefully and under meaning. For me, the wilderness is not the middle of nowhere. It is a place where I've heard its whispered truth, inviting me into its mystery, its wisdom, and its ancient past. It has left me with questions and unanswered. But it's enough. I will come again. I will look and listen and ponder, and take off my shoes, maybe catch a glimpse of glory. In closing, a word to the impatient, the self-important, and those who demand safe, predictable, dry toast and eggs over easy. Stay out of the mountains.

Speaker 47:08

Just in right to give you the vote.

Speaker 2 50:22

But that was Lee and Celeste Adams' pasture. But it was painted. This was painted by local artist Andy Mast, and he did the uh cover for my book. And that's all we have here.

Speaker 50:36

You've been listening to Folk Heroes. It's a production of Sound Century Academy of Recording, Arts, and Broadcasting. Hi everyone, it's Richard Arnold Beatty. Thanks to Terry Rowanhurst for capturing a wonderful night at Bob Fulton's house concerts on YouTube. I did some repairs and replaced some of the rough spots of the audio and video. I hope you uh enjoyed that. Thanks for tuning in tonight, and we'll see you around town. I'd just like to give you the big stories. The rest rest. We're still It's what you catch, it's what you learn. Sending history. It's in the twist. It's what you catch. It's what you tell me, let's see. It's in the space. It's what you catch. It's what you're talking about. Just give you Story. Sorry, sorry.