Almost Southern (excerpt the last)

I'm posting this one early (even though it will have Thursday's date on it) because I'm going to be busy on Thursday. I'll fill you in on that "why" later. A brief setup for this one... it happens pretty late in the story. It is actually the final turning point, before the end of the book. This story is basically a 4 parter, and this scene sets up the end. If that makes sense to you, great. If not, check out the HW/SW How To Write Workshop, and maybe it will.

"But Granny Grace, I don't know what to do. Can't you just tell me? Tell me what to do," Glory all but wailed. Sitting on the swing of the enormous wraparound porch, using her left foot to move the swing into the rhythmic motion she'd always found so soothing as a child, Glory pleaded with Grace for guidance.

As usual though, Granny Grace's lips were sealed tighter than the lid on one of her mason jars of pickled beets. Grace simply stared at Glory, looked at her with a combination of pride and exasperation, and made no sound at all.

Frustration getting the better of her, Glory stopped the swing and jumped to her feet. Sitting here on Granny Grace's porch wasn't doing a damn thing for her. Frankly, Glory couldn't remember the last time that Granny had given her more than a slight hint at anything. Granny seemed to love to just sit there in her rocker, watching Glory stew and huff and swing herself with her left foot. Well, enough was enough. Granny was the matriarch, and she needed to start living up to her responsibilities and dishin' out some advice, real fast.

"Fine. Don't say anything. I'll figure it out on my own. Without your help, as usual. You just sit there rockin', with your lips practically sewn up, and keep all your words to yourself. I don't want 'em, and I don't need 'em. I can figure this out on my own," Glory all but spat. She was hoping that her outburst would cause Granny to react, to open up.

Reverse psychology always worked in the movies. Of course, that was Hollywood. Not Brimstone, Mississippi. Glory should have known better than to even try. There were some things that almost eighty years in the world protected you against. Apparently, reverse psychology from a fuming grandchild was one of those things. She watched as Grace kept rocking, the steady squeak of her chair reminding Glory of how many times she'd been out on this porch, hopin' for some answers.

"Look Granny, I get that you're not gonna tell me what to do. Hell, even you can't have the answers to everything, right? But at least tell me how to make this up to him. The man loves me. I know he does. And I love him right back. I've always loved him, Granny, and it's killin' me bad right now, thinkin' that I let him walk away. But I really didn't have a choice, did I? I mean, I've seen what The Curse does to the men that hook up with us. I know I don't stand a biscuit's chance at the breakfast table of marryin' that man and livin' happily ever after. Still though, I want to go find him, Granny. I want to find him and tell him how much I love him. I want a shot at happily ever after." Glory glanced at Grace and noticed that her spine had stiffened.

Right then, Glory heard the sound of footsteps, coming from the edge of the porch near the steps. Glory looked over and saw her momma, walkin' the length of the porch, eyes glued to Granny Grace. Having no idea what her momma was doing at Granny's house after more than two decades, Glory fastened her eyes on Granny's and waited for an explosion, or at least a minor disturbance.

"Hear that, Grace? Glory wants you to answer her. She's already lost one good man because of your 'curse'. Don't make her lose another too. It's time she knew the truth. Tell her," Mercedes implored.

"Mercy, you have no right to be spoutin' off at the mouth. We made a deal, you and me. I've kept my end of it for over thirty years. You better not stop keepin' yours," Grace replied, with her typical steely determination. When she used that tone of voice, nobody dared to argue.

Nobody but her daughter.

Mercy squared her shoulders and took a step forward, putting her cool hand on Glory's arm as she came to her side. Glory turned slightly so that both women were in her line of sight. Both of these women, so strong in different ways, both held the answers to what Glory needed. One of them had always been the past that Glory tried to outrun, the crazy momma that left her baby girl in front of the double doors on the wide wraparound porch. The other one had always been the pillar of strength that Glory leaned on, like the oak tree in the backyard that she scaled as a child. Glory held her breath and waited, sensing that explosion any second.

"I don't want your deal anymore. It's not worth it. Not if it means seeing Glory in this much pain. Don't you see that? The whole reason for that stupid deal was to make sure that my baby girl never felt pain. Well she's feelin' it now. You can stop it, you know. All you have to do is tell her the truth. Just tell her, momma," Mercy added that last word as a whisper.

Glory flinched at the use of the maternal name. As far as she knew, Mercy hadn't called her mother any other name besides Grace for over thirty years. That same feelin' of walls crashing, of tumbling, of having the air sucked right out of her lungs, hit Glory in that instant. She snatched her arm out of Mercy's grasp and directed the full force of her flashing blue eyes at Grace.

"What deal, Granny? What's she talkin' about?" Glory questioned her grandmother.

"Now chile', don't go listenin' to her babbles. You know she's most likely off her pills right now. She has no idea what she's yammerin' on about. Go on in the house and fetch me a glass of lemonade. I believe your momma and I have some words that need to be said betwixt us," Grace reached out and tried to pat Glory's hand, but for once Glory stood her ground.

"What deal, Granny?"

"I said to go on inside, Glory. Don't you stand there on my front porch and give me lip. I've already heard you swearin' like a sailor today. You think I'm gonna sit here and listen to you demandin' things that you got no right to demand? Now get inside and let me speak to my daughter," Grace demanded.

"No way. Not this time. In this past week alone, I've watched a baby-faced preacher bury my great-grandmother and helped deliver a baby. I've lost one man and chased away another. My momma's waltzed back into my home and I've seen [removed, by author. You have to buy the book or bribe McB to find this out!!]. Now you're sitting there, rockin in your damn chair, with some big secret that's about my life, refusin' to tell me. Well I got news for you. I'm not leavin' this porch until I know what it is." Glory was shaking as she finished, her voice louder than she'd ever used with Granny Grace and much more forceful.

"Oh Glory. Sweet Glory. Hallelujah! Finally yer showin' some fire. I was wonderin' how long it would take you to break those damn reins you been keepin' on your spirit.About this man, Glory. What does your heart tell you to do? What do you want?" Grace demanded.

Confused by the abrupt change of direction of the conversation, and even more confused that Granny Grace hadn't washed her mouth out with lye soap for her outburst, Glory took a second to try to decide how to answer.

"Want? Well, I guess I want what the fairy tales promise. I want a happily ever after," Glory finally answered. "But I don't see what that has to do with any deal you made with my momma. You're not gettin' out of it, Granny. You gotta tell me."

"All in good time, child. All in good time. First though, let me tell you something else. And you listen up good, y'hear? Happily ever after does not exist. It never has and it never will. If that's what yer lookin' for, then that man is better off without you, and you're better off without him. Now, I can see by the look on your face you think my mind's as jiggled as your momma's but hear me out. The best that you can get is happy, Glory. Just happy. Sure, you may get beyond that some days. You may feel like you're livin' on top of the ferris wheel sometimes, or that big rush you get when you're drivin' your car too fast down the road. But that feelin' don't last longer than a gray hair at Edna's beauty shop. There is no ever after, Glory. That's what I'm sayin'. You just have to be willin' to take each day as it comes, the good with the bad. Don't worry about the ever after. The good Lord takes care of that for you. You just search for that happy. And if you can't seem to find it, then you make some of your own, with the person you choose to share your days. You bake' em a pie, pick 'em some flowers, rub their back. Do whatever it takes for you to find that happy every single day, Glory. But don't you expect it. Don't you ever expect that it will be there, just because you think you deserve some fairy tale. You treasure those happy moments when you get them, and remember that they might not last forever. But live like they will," Grace finished, in what was surely the longest uninterrupted string of words Glory had ever heard come from her Granny's mouth.

Shocked almost speechless, Glory asked the one thing that she couldn't help but ask. "But Granny, what about The Curse?"

"Yeah, Grace. Tell Glory about The Curse. I can't wait to hear this one," Mercy said, taking a seat on the swing.

Grace fixed her eyes on Mercedes and uttered eight words that tilted Glory's world so far off its axis, she wasn't sure how she was still standing.

"The curse - -. - - - -[again, removed by the author. Sorry, can't let this one out just yet.]."

And for the third time in a week, Glory felt her legs give out as her butt landed firmly on the ground.

Almost Southern (excerpt the fourth)

Glory pulled the worn afghan around her legs, legs that were currently tucked next to her aching backside, and settled into her favorite chair, in the corner of her quiet room. The steam from the oversized cup of coffee was wafting straight up her nose. As she sniffed in the heavenly aroma, tears coursed down her cheeks. You can't count on anything in this world turning out exactly like you plan, except your coffee, Glory thought to herself.

Pete had left the night before, in a cloud of anger and hurt . Glory could still see the disappointment shimmering in his eyes that last time he'd looked at her. All of their years together, in fact all of their lives that they'd spent side by side, minus those four years when she'd gone off and ruined almost everything, had pretty much disintegrated when he walked through her door and found her in the arms of another man.

Since they'd been no taller than carrot stalks, Pete had been her near constant companion. They'd learned to swim in the little crick that ran right behind Granny Grace's field, stolen pecans from Ol' Mr. Cratcher's yard, and talked about everything under the moon. Pete was the first boy she'd ever kissed, and everyone around had been so sure that he'd slip a ring on her finger right after graduation. Of course, nobody had counted on Glory taking off in the middle of the night, much like her own momma had done eighteen years before, and heading up North to go to college.

She'd been gone for four years. Four long years of living away from Brimstone. No Granny Grace's wisdom dished out with bowls of steaming greens, no wiseass cracks about not really being Southern, no Pete with all of his expectations and promises of forever. Just four years in which she'd lived in a place so foreign to her soul she might as well have been on another planet.

For four years, she'd tried to hide her accent, that thick drawl that some people associated with stupid. She'd put away all of her favorite sayings, bottled up every ounce of Southern that she could, and tried to fit in to the place of her birth. She even tried to enjoy the food, though God's angels only knew why those people thought gravy came from jars.

Alice couldn't have felt more out of place in Wonderland than Glory had felt during those years. If it hadn't been for meeting Jackson Edward Hastings the Third, Glory might have just come running home to Pete. Her story might have been different.

But she had met Jack. She'd loved him, in a way that she'd never even known love could be. He was like the other half of her very own self, the half that she'd always been missing. Jack was a sunrise over the cotton fields on a quiet late summer morning, full of fire and bursting with the promise of a brand new day. Jack was the only person she'd ever truly considered testing the powers of the Baker Family Curse on. She had been fairly sure that he'd be strong enough, man enough, to stomp that ol' curse into the ground, smash it faster than the fireflies Glory had squished in her fat fingers as a kid.

Of course, in the true way of Fickle Fate, Jack had disappeared from her life in the same way that every other man had disappeared from the life of every other Baker woman for the last few generations. One day he was there, in all of his splendor. The next day her world came crashing down right around her ears. Just like her world was crashing right now.

Lost in heavy thoughts and feeling like she was drowning in a river of pain more potent than her Uncle Tommy's strong cider, Glory didn't hear the front door to her house open. She didn't see the figure standing in the doorway of her quiet room, staring at her from faded denim eyes that were the same color as the stonewashed jeans she was wearing. When she finally realized she wasn't alone, she raised her tear-stained face and her mouth dropped open almost to her chest.

"Well damn, Glory. Shut yer mouth before you catch a mess of flies. And get up of yer butt and come hug me. I'm tired as a dog, haven't seen you in month of Sundays, and I'm hopin to high Heaven you've got something stronger than coffee in this house."

Glory shut her mouth, looked straight into that face, and couldn't think of a single thing to say. She slowly set down her coffee, pushed aside the afghan, gingerly straightened her legs, rose to her feet and crossed the room. She stopped two steps from the arms that had been flung wide open for her and took a deep breath.

"I don't know why in God's acres you're here, but you need to get the hell out of my house. Right. Now." Glory started shaking, with either rage or fear. She wasn't quite sure which. Maybe a little bit of both.

"Now Glory, is that any way to talk to your Momma?"

Almost Southern (excerpt the third)

A loud banging on the door brought Glory straight up out of the depths of one of the most sensual dreams she'd ever had. She struggled to ignore the loud, insistent pounding on the door. Tried in vain to escape back into that haze of pleasure that she'd been experiencing before the banging started, to slip back into that soft, warm place where she could hear a sweet voice whisper her name. Finally, Glory realized that trying to grasp those last, willowy wisps of fantasy was futile. The dream had floated away on wings as light as Granny Grace's butter cookies, and all she was left with was a very rude person trying to pound a hole into her front door.

She trudged down the stairs rumpled from sleep, wearing only a pair of men's pajama pants and a tattered Ole Miss t-shirt that could have held three more women her size knotted at her navel, missing her left sock. As she reached the front door and glanced down at her feet, she wondered, as she did every single morning, if there was a magical fairy that slipped into her room in the middle of the night and removed one sock, one left sock, and hid it away in a grove somewhere.

With her right hand firmly grasping the doorknob before giving it a slight twist and tug, Glory was in no way prepared for the sight that greeted her when she flung the door open and grumbled "Alright already. You can quit your banging now."

Standing there on her front porch, in the dead center of Brimstone, Mississippi, wearing a smartly pressed, probably Italian, suit that easily cost twice as much as her car, was a man that sucker punched the air right out of Glory's body in one quick whoosh. And he didn't even have to raise a hand to her to do it.

He quirked a dark brow at the sight of her, noticing how the pajama bottoms rode the curve of her hips. He glimpsed the creamy expanse of skin that her tied shirt exposed. The corners of his mouth, oh Lordy what a mouth, lifted upwards, in the hint of a smile. His eyes sparkled as they roamed her body, taking in every detail, mentally drinking in the sight of her like a man that's been standing too long in a field of cotton on a sweltering August afternoon. His slow perusal of her trembling body took in her missing sock, the cuffs of her bottoms, the knot in her shirt, the bared shoulder from a neckline that was four sizes too big, the wild auburn that framed her startled face, and ended with his emerald eyes settling into a quiet contest of wills with her denim blue eyes.

"Mornin', Glory."

That voice, a blend of rich dark chocolate and sweet smelling cigar smoke, rolled over Glory's senses like the waves of the Gulf of Mexico rolled over the sands of Gulf Shores, smooth, tickling, relaxing. Relentless. Just a hint of danger was there, at the very edges, almost imperceptible. But Glory recognized it immediately. It was a voice from a long time ago, another life really. The voice belonged to someone that knew her, knew every crevice of her body, every hidden corner of her soul. That voice was from her past, a past so hidden and secret, so closely guarded, that not even Pete knew about it. Granny Grace might have suspected, but even she wasn't really sure.

It was the voice from her dream.

Almost Southern (excerpt the second)

Short note: Different place in the story. Not sequential. That's just how I write. Deal with it. And YES, I changed my blog. :)

"Granny, I've got to head out of town for a few days. I won't be gone long. I promise to be back by the weekend. I just wanted you to know that I won't be here. I've already told MaryLynn, and she's gonna stop in to check on you while I'm gone, ok?" Glory explained to Grace, as she was setting the table for Sunday dinner.

Sunday dinner was a Tradition at Granny Grace's house, and Traditions were something not to be taken lightly. As the only daughter of the only daughter of the new family matriarch, Glory was pretty sure that her Sunday dinner duties might soon be expanding. She had disturbing visions of future Sundays, where hoards of the Baker clan would descend upon the house and demand food. It had happened at Grandmother Rose's house until last week. They vultures would need a new place to eat. Glory had no problem believing that the small dinner between two, or oftentimes three, would soon become An Event.

"Well, Miss Glory, I s'pose I'd like to know where you're headin' off to this time. It's not like I don't have enough on my plate these days, what with my mother dyin' and not even knowin' how to get hold of your own momma. Now you're up and leavin' me too? That's just what I need right now, about as much as I need another hole in my head," Grace pointedly stated, before huffing into her seat at the head of the table.

"Oh Granny, don't be like that. I'll only be gone a few days. I have to go down to New Orleans to meet with a client. I'll call you three times a day while I'm gone, I promise. Besides, with MaryLynn around, you won't even know that I'm gone," Glory soothed.

"Oh peeshaw. MaryLynn. Like that silly girl is gonna be any help. She couldn't find her way out of a cardboard box, iffn the lid was left open. That gal's one rock shy of a full load, I'm tellin' you. Well, at least tell me you're takin' that young man of yours with you. And tell me you're maybe gettin' married while you're gone. That would be somethin' to lift my spirits," muttered Grace, around a mouthful of greens.

"Married? Granny Grace, how many times do I need to explain to you that I am not going to marry Pete Wilkes? Isn't it enough that we've been datin' for six years? Why would I want to ruin a perfectly good relationship with marriage? Besides, I love Pete, and I have no intention of lettin' the Baker Family Curse kill him," Glory replied, clearly exasperated with the turn the conversation had taken. It was a conversation that had been had many times in the past, and knowing Granny Grace, they'd be having it many more times in the future.

"Ruin your relationship? By gettin' married? Glory Bea Baker, you was raised better than that. And I don't want to hear any of your foolishness about killin' that poor man by marryin' him. What happened to your grandfather was a long time ago. It was the war that killed him, Glory. Not any curse. A bullet from a sniper caught him right in the neck and he drownt in his own blood. It had nothin' to do with marryin' me."

"Well, that may well be, but it doesn't explain my own Daddy, now does it. One dead man might be an accident, but two dead men married to Baker women clearly means a curse in my book. And I just don't want to take that chance. Not with Pete. He's the best man I know, Granny. I'd like to keep him alive, if it's all the same to you," Glory explained, for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Your Daddy was a fine man. And that was about as freak an accident as anyone's ever seen. And that preacher man dyin' on the way to the courthouse had nothin' to do with any curse either. You wanna know what I think? I think you're just tryin' to connect all of these random events to git you out of a big ol' Southern weddin'. That's what I think," Grace stated emphatically. "And you're breakin' your poor Granny's heart in the process," she added for good measure.

"A freak accident. A freak accident? Granny, he choked on a lemondrop the first morning of his honeymoon. Nobody chokes to death anymore. Clearly, that was a sign from God Himself that my parents were not supposed to have spent their lives together, don't you think? And then the preacher was killed when his car hit a gator on his way to file the papers after the wedding. Who in the world tries to drive over a six foot gator in Mississippi? No wonder my mother ran off up North to have me. I bet she thought she could get rid of The Curse as long as I wasn't born right here in Brimstone."

A deep voice broke into their conversation. "How are my two favorite ladies this afternoon? From the sounds of it all the way out on the sidewalk, y'all are havin' your typical Sunday Curse discussion. What did I miss," Pete asked, bending to kiss Granny Grace on the cheek and wink at Glory across the table.

"Well, young man, I was wondering when you were going to stop by. We missed you at the service for my mother the other day. Glory said you were out of town. Again. I'm hopin' all of these trips are going to stop when you finally make an honest woman of my granddaughter," Grace sighed, as she patted Pete's hand.

"Now Miss Grace, you know Glory is about as honest as they come. Besides, if I stop takin' trips, then how am I goin' to still be able to find you these?" Pulling the backpack off his shoulder, he extracted the ugliest ceramic chicken that had ever been made. It had an unusually long, skinny neck, short legs, and one eye was painted closed. One of its wings was ruffled, making it look like it had been chewed on by a fox. Setting it gently on the table next to Grace, Pete smiled across the table at Glory.

"I have no idea why you keep bringing her those God-awful things. Like she doesn't have enough crap in that living room to stock a rummage sale for nine years already, you bring her something new every time you stop by," Glory chided, almost under her breath.

"Well, since you refuse to marry this man, and that means that you're not going to be bringin' any babies into this house, I don't see why I can't have all of my pretties sittin' out wherever I happen to want them. Do you?" Grace pouted, clutching the hideous chicken gently in her hands like a Faberge egg. Not that she'd ever acually seen a Faberge egg. Grace had always thought it silly that people collected single eggs, when there were so many whole chickens out there to choose from.

At the mention of babies, Glory went silent. It wasn't often Grace brought up babies anymore. Usually it was a topic that they steered clear of, by mutual, though unspoken, agreement. Thinking of the children that would never run through the house, the giggles that would never be heard, was enough to dampen Glory's spirits.

Damn, and damn again, Glory thought. Damn the Baker Family Curse.

Almost Southern (The excerpt, in case you were looking)

"And may Almighty God receive this beloved soul to the gold lined streets of Heaven this very day. Amen." The impassioned voice of the baby-faced country preacher mercifully came to a halt. It had only taken 27 minutes to deliver the funeral service. A lifetime full of ninety-nine years, fourteen children, fifty three grandchildren, one hundred sixty seven great grandchildren, eighty two great great grandchildren, fifty nine years of marriage, fifty eight years of hatred, a lifetime of ambivalence, and one incredible journey was reduced to a twenty seven minute eulogy by a man barely old enough to remember to shave before the service. The irony of it grated on Glory Baker's last nerve.

Walking down the steps of the church to the sidewalk that would take her to the waiting processional, Glory felt heat rising in waves from the sun-bleached pavement. It felt like opening an oven in the middle of baking a cake, but without the sweet smell of chocolate wafting up to slap you in the face. It was yet another miserably hot day, in a long line of miserably hot days, that marked the beginning of summer in Brimstone, Mississippi. Another miserable day in a life that had seen its share of misery. Thankfully, the windows in her car still rolled down. Lord knew the air conditioner had given up the ghost ages ago. As she got into her car, Glory thought of just driving away from Brimstone, out onto the interstate, pointing her car North, and not stopping until she either ran out of gas money or the sputter in the engine finally turned into a full blown pneumonia.

Instead though, she poured a few drops of warm bottled water onto a napkin and dabbed the napkin between her breasts, up and over her left collarbone, and across the back of her neck. She could imagine, if she really concentrated, that she felt the faintest stirrings of a breeze across her moistened skin. It was almost enough to offer some relief. Almost, but not quite. Glory started the car, fell in line behind one of her hundreds of cousins, and glanced in her rearview mirror before pulling out onto the street.

However, the thought of standing outside in this sweltering Mississippi heat, listening to that overzealous young man talk of love and eternal rest in the same breath as her great-grandmother Rose's name, was just too much to bear. Instead of following the snake-like trail of snail's paced cars heading for the small cemetery on the outskirts of town, because Heaven help you if you buried your dead in town like the Catholics did, Glory did the unthinkable. She turned left when she was supposed to turn right, and headed straight to the Sonic. A cherry limeade would make this day ten times better. It always did.

Walking into her grandmother's house an hour later, Glory's senses instantly went on high alert. She noticed the typical mothball smell had a faint tinge of something sweet today. As Granny Grace had given up any type of cooking that did not involve steaming the life out of raw vegetables in the microwave, the smell could only mean that Granny Grace had yet again picked up a stray. Wondering if this time it would be a young man, or maybe an old woman, Glory called out her typical greeting, "Hey Granny, I'm home from the front lines. Did you miss me?"

Holding the extra limeade in front of her like the peace offering that it was, Glory wended her way through the maze of old furniture and tables topped with every form of bric-a-brac known in the South, to the back porch. As suspected, Granny Grace was holding court in her favorite rocking chair, looking for all the world like the matriarch her mother's recent death made her. As the oldest female in the family, Glory was pretty certain Grace would play that matriarch card often, and mercilessly. That was just the way of the Baker women. Use the gifts that God gave you, take control of every situation, and stretch the truth to serve your needs. That should have been embroidered on one of the dozens of pillows that lay scattered around the Baker house, their family motto in cross-stitch, for all the world to see and heed.

"Well, Glor-ee Bea. Where in tarnation have you been? We all gathered out there at the side of that gaping hole in the ground, and I couldn't find you for lookin'. One of the boys swears he saw you turn left onto Main, but I told him his eyes must be going quicker than mine. You know the way to the cemetery, and there's no way you'd have missed Rose's service for no good reason. No self-respecting Southern woman would miss the funeral of the head of her family. So tell me, what good reason have you brought me?" Grace's steely voice dribbled juicy drops of Southern Mississippi onto Glory's screaming senses. Glory knew that the accent could come or go, strengthen or wane, at a moment's notice, at the whim of its owner. Right now, tone and inflection combined to equal one royally pissed off Granny, trying in vain to project the living personification of grace under duress.

Glory leaned down to plant a kiss on a papery cheek, and simultaneously slip the still miraculously iced drink into waiting hands. "Now Granny, your one mistake of the day was spent on me. And so early in the day, too," Glory teased, lovingly.

"Mistake? Now you listen here, Missy. It was not a mistake to expect you to be at that funeral. You know good and well that -" Grace started, before Glory cut her off with the one thing guaranteed to silence her, every single time.

"Southern, Granny. I can't be a self-respecting Southern woman, because I'm not Southern. Your daughter made sure of that. Remember?" Glory finished, full of wistfulness at the one thing in her life that not even her Granny Grace could change.

For it was true. Glory Bea Baker was not Southern. And there was nothing anyone could do to change the twist of fate that brought her into the world across the river in Cincinnati, Ohio. In the North. As a damned Yankee.

Yeah, an excerpt. Not much of one, admittedly. But it's a start. Tell me what you think.