May 14, 2011--A Day of Reflection, A Day of Memories

For a very long time, I've wanted to take a trip to the ranch to show Jack, where I grew up, where I was when I was his age, where my family made a connection to the land.

I have told him a lot of stories about growing up on the ranch, so today was important. Behind us is the old house. It had a large kitchen. In the back to the left was a TV room with a refrigerator/freezer and an oil stove. Occasionally, we used the stove during times in early summer, when it was cold at night.

There was a couch that made up into a bed, and that was where I slept.

My parents and sisters slept in two large brass beds in the bedroom. All the beds were comfortable. My memory of summers were watching the night wind, which came out of the canyon in the direction of the spring, toss the curtains gently.

The kitchen was extremely large. A large sink was near the entryway. A wood stove was at the opposite end of the room. We only used it when nights were cold in early summer. Dad sometimes was on the ranch in the spring, and he used it occasionally when it was cold at that time. I remember staying out with him for a couple of days, and it had to be cold to "fire up" the stove. Usually, the blankets were enough.

There was an electric stove with an oven for cooking. The wood stove was something very complicated, and only old timers understood the art of baking with it. Cooking was basically like using an electric stove. You put a pan on top. At least that's how I remember it, but we never really used it for cooking, except on occasions, where there was a power outage. That didn't happen often during the summer, and when dad was on the ranch, mom had lunches for us, although I also remember taking care of dinner on the ranch two different ways.

Dad would set the table. He and I would cover the plate with a wax paper. We used the utensils, but we just threw away the paper, so we used the same plates the entire spring when we were on the ranch doing work. I'm not sure, but I figure dad only cooked when I was there, and often, he'd have me cook dinner, while dad worked on something in the shed.

My mom didn't like the whole thing of using wax paper on plates instead of just using a dish and washing it. We rinsed the utensils, and each of us used the same ones each time. We did it to save time. Dad always made sure we put that arrangement away, before mom moved out to the ranch after school was out, but occasionally we became busy and forgot. We'd catch "hell," but dad would always grin, while mom cussed us for it.

There was only one door. A small entryway was where dad had someone build a "make-shift" shower. Earlier, there was a tin tub. His family heated water to fill it, and taking a bath was mostly an outside affair after dark.

An outhouse was eventually relocated in the back amid the trees behind the house when I was older, but as a child years earlier, it was in the front of the house--not far from the cinderblock chicken coop, that my dad eventually transformed into a shed to store the grain drills.

That building is easy to see at the left in the second picture at the top. I placed another picture of it immediately below.

All of these pictures show what my family called "The Old Place." It was the first land that our family cultivated. The bottoms was a part of the farm that sometimes was under water--especially if the spring weather produced a lot of rain. Occasionally during the summer, unexpected storms would fill it too.

Wheat crops there were always thick. The yield was usually heavy. When my grandfather was alive, prior to 1956, it was a field of dry-land alfalfa. An old loose stack at the opening gate, probably about where the Interstate is right now.

Deer would come into the fields at night. Dad and grandpa would call his brothers, and everyone came out to get meat. My dad always said that deer tasted far better when they ate hay instead of bitter brush and sage.

I figure, that given the fact that that happened over 50 years ago, and since every person who shot deer illegally and out of season at that time is now in a better place, no one can really assess a fine. Not one person is alive, who enjoyed those night hunts.

Our family figured, since we fed them, we could eat them too.

This blog is only the first part of a number of entries that show the ranch. It was an important day for me to be there, but it was also a difficult one. I still have a connection to the land, something my father taught me, something my family has had since Viking times--men who eventually became Normans, who invaded Britain in search of farm ground in 1066.

That connection remained in our family. Dad taught me to watch skies to predict storms, and what he taught me was accurate.

I did a Holocaust seminar in Reno, and a colleague and I were walking into the building. "It's going to storm tomorrow," I told him.

He assured me that it wouldn't happen, and I told him that "mare's tails" in the skies predicted storm. The colleague laughed, until it rained the next day. He was impressed.

Dad taught me to plant wheat as the moon grows. It always was something that worked.

He taught me to develop a sense of how tilled land felt as we stomped through newly tilled soil behind a tractor and plow. There is a feel you begin to understand.

But the thing that was most important about life on that ranch was understanding the importance of hard work, the value of quality labor, the necessity of needed responsibility. There was a time to do things, and putting something off was not to be tolerated.

You did what you had to do to succeed. The principles, that my father taught me led to my success as a professional. He died. The dream of continuing the family tradition died too.

There was no way for things to work differently. John Lennon said this about such situations: "Life is what happens, when you least expect it."

I am the sum total of what I learned on that farm, and that is what is important--nothing else matters now. Bitterness or regret is a waste of time, a waste of life.

The summer before my dad's passing, he and I talked about my eventually running that farm. Sometimes, the dream is still so clear to me, I still know what specific jobs my dad wanted to complete. It was a checklist, a timetable.

Then cancer played its role. When I talked to my dad shortly before his death, the purpose changed. Mom's security was most important, and he knew that no one could provide that security and still make a living on the farm. Farming is an expensive hobby, and it's also important to realize that you never really own the land. It owns you.

Dad wanted the family to work together to provide that security for my mom. For years, he did that for his mother. He wanted the same for his sweetheart. That was what was most important.

You can't change the course of life. It's like this river you run. The water is in spring runoff, and you ride it out the best you can. You meet challenges. You determine what you will do with your life.

My dad gave all of us in our family the ability to succeed. Those things he taught us is what will make us strong, what will help us create our own lives, what will enable us to do the same for our own children. It's about teaching them to be strong, to be hard-working, to be successful.

I owe what I am to what I learned in my youth in this beautiful place, even though it isn't what I remember it to be.

Williams Reunions: Memories of the 60's and early 70's

This is how I remember my grandmother, my aunts, my uncles. We had reunions every summer, and I looked forward to them.

My cousin Randy Culver would be here, and the two of us spent a lot of time on the ranch and in town on weekends. It was great.

It was different having someone in the fields doing work with me. Dad was there too, but I was alone when I did field work. Dad spent time doing other things. This way we were able to accomplish everything we did on such a large acreage.

I was mean in terms of playing practical jokes. During harvest, Randy and I were at a field on the Jules Harris place we bought in the early 70's or so. It was hot and dusty. At the end of each day, I would drive the truck from the field, after running the combine during the day.

I would stop at least 30 years away from the gate. There was a thick layer of dust in the wheel ruts out of the field. Randy would walk to the gate. I would rev the engine. After driving through the gate, it would take at least three or four minutes for the dust to clear. I did things like that every day, but in spite of everything, Randy and I had fun together.

One day, while getting sacks of rolled barley for the calves in the pasture behind the house on Bannock Street. I would drive through town. I'd stop.

"Randy, I think we left the endgate down on the truck."

Randy would get out of the truck and walk to the rear. I would drive off, Randy chasing behind me trying to catch up. I'd drive 200 yards and stop. He'd almost get to the truck, and I'd tear off again.

Randy was like having a little brother. In spite of my jokes, we had so much fun together. He did, however, on occasion do a few tricks of his own.

I remember after getting home from my mission, I lined Randy up with a blind date. Ann and I and Randy and one of Ann's friends went to Logan. I don't remember, whether we went to a basketball game at USU or a movie, but when we went to a restaurant, we waited for our food.

"I'm just too hungry to wait." Randy looked around. Some students next to us had french fries on a plate. Randy walks up to them and takes a couple of fries from the plate. It was hilariously funny. Only Randy could get away with something like that.

It's just a small sampling of the fun Randy and I had in those years of growing up in Malad. It was a reason I looked forward to summer and the Williams reunions.

Spoiled Pop Pop--Having Grandchildren Within Driving Distance

When Lydia and Jeff were only 12 hours away, it was not difficult to attempt the trip to see grandchildren at a moment's notice, and getting there was something that seemed to be as exciting as the trip itself--seeing Lydia with Tommy in hand and Anna in her arms. Both little ones waved their hands enthusiastically.

Tommy jumped up and down.

Eventually, the trip to Minnesota was a bit longer. It always involved an overnight stay, but the trip was fun too.

The ride through Montana and Wyoming and the Dakotas offered scenic views of

open grassland, and the sound of killdeer and meadowlarks and frogs at stops along the way was something I enjoyed.

However, it was never about the trip. The anticipation, the excitement, the joy of seeing family after a long period of time was what made things so fun.

Tommy and Anna would sit for long periods of time in front of a picture window, lined with pterosaurs and sauropods and other carnivorous model dinosaurs I sent him.

Anna collected things while we were there or while she visited us--pretty rocks, pine cones--anything that seemed to catch her eye.

It was fun for me to find things like that, either while we visited them or after they visited us.

Almost a year after their last time in Idaho Falls, Anna's imaginary friend's name still stands on a small chalkboard note accessory by the kitchen phone.

"What's Ema?" I looked at Ann when it first happened last summer, and my Sweetie smiled. She whispered the answer in my ear, and the name still is on our board. It will be there for a long time, but just in case someone erases it, we took a picture to remind us of the moment it represents.

The only thing I regret is knowing that children change so quickly. Once Anna's change in clothing happened four or five times daily.

Pink was her color, and she was like a tiny rainbow. Granted, sometimes things didn't match, but it was fun to see her pick and choose things--not to say she didn't have a sense of style or colors.

When I bought Tommy a cowboy hat, Anna was trying one on too. And yes, it was pink. She also found matching boots. Luckily, Ann talked some sense into my ear, because I would have bought those $85 boots in an instant. They not only completed the outfit she had on at that moment in the store, but the boots also matched the hat perfectly in every way--style, cut, mood. Anna will be a shopper, and she will always look beautiful, not just in Pop Pop's point of view.

Spring has suddenly arrived in Idaho, and each year it suddenly became the time, when we anticipated the drive to see the Zollinger crew, but this year is out of the question. It's just too far, not that we couldn't do it. Our cars are at a point that driving that far would not be wise.

Besides, we are excited, that in just a little over four weeks, Lydia and Tommy and Sammy will be out here for a visit. Yes, suddenly we have another little one, just as fun and just as exciting and just as creative in every way as Tommy and Anna. And then in a few weeks, Jeff and Anna will join us for a short time.

Worn To A Frazzle

We tried to pick Jack up from school early. He had a "fun run," which I always thought was an interesting term.

As an athlete, I ran. It was something you did to build endurance, to build strength, to enhance quickness. There was nothing fun about it.

We had cattle on the farm, and occasionally one of our cows would crawl through a fence and begin feasting on the delectable fields of neighbors. There was no tolerance of that in our family. We didn't like anyone allowing their cattle into our fields, and we refused to think, that we would allow ourselves such an outrageous exception.

One day, my brother-in-law Keith and I loaded four Blue Healers into the truck. They were all great on a day like this. The dogs could drive a cow back onto our property, and in most cases, it didn't happen again. A cow that made a habit of this made her way into the school lunch program.

Keith and I drive quickly to the cow. We get out. We run to get ahead of the cow, but she still runs a bit further. We run about three hundred yards, and the dogs are with us. They circle her. She lowers her head once, and then twice, and at that point, we knew what came next. Four dogs ran by us. The cow was in pursuit, but we were next in line.

Wearing boots is not for a sprinter, but when chased by a angry bovine, we only have to be second slowest on the field. I ran, extending my hands so my brother-in-law couldn't get around me. We made it back to the truck, three hundreds yards away. The run was in cultivated ground too, which made the workout more intense. Wearing cowboy boots that slipped and offered poor footing didn't help either.

I thought the whole thing was funny. Keith failed to find the humor in it, which I find funny in a way, but then again, I have a twisted sense of humor, yet I also realize that on that day, if I had been there with my metal walker, I wouldn't have found humor in it either.

To understand my enthusiasm for slapstick, when I'm not the one getting slapped by Moe, Curly or Larry, you have to understand, that I was the child, who sent the dog chasing after salesmen and the Utah Power & Light meter reader. Those situations made me laugh as a child--grown men screaming like little girls before then fell and rolled into a heap on our grassy lawn, but slapstick is only humorous when someone else gets slapped.

But this blog isn't about slapstick humor or chasing cows or my warped sense of humor. The point is this: whether in sports or on the farm, I have to admit, there was nothing fun or "funny" about running.

Jack and his school walked around an area of about three or four hundred yards. Ann and I watched for a moment, and as he approached, Ann went to get him. He refused to come with us. Missing juice and cookies at tents along the way was what made the run fun for elementary students. And I have to admit it, when it comes to cookies, I would walk a mile for anything with white chocolate chips and macadamia nuts. For a cinnamon roll, I'll talk marathon, but it would be a negotiation issue.

After the run, we pick Jack up from school, load the car and begin the drive to Salt Lake City for the weekend. Before reaching Blackfoot--only about 25 miles away--Jack was sound asleep. He had voiced his opinion for a healthy dinner. "Eat Fresh" was his suggestion, and Subway is his favorite.

I celebrated his nap. We drove to Salt Lake City. There we went to Gateway Mall, waited in The Apple Store, while grandma bought some technology for her contract job she does for ISU, and then we found a better way to eat "fresh." There was this Thai place. Jack was not excited at first, but after his meal came, he was enthusiastic. I think he is almost over the whole notion of fast food. At least that is the wishful thinking I am hoping for at this point in time.

We drive to the hotel. At midnight, Jack is wide awake. "I'm really not tired, Pop Pop." He sat in bed, headphones on and I-Pod in hand. There were countless movies on it for him to enjoy.

I checked one more time at 2:30 a.m., and again an hour later. There was the sound of a television at 5:30 a.m., and I looked into the room where he was.

"I told you I wasn't tired," he said. He wore this "I told you so" look on his face.

I went back to bed. At 9:30, I decided I'd go for breakfast. Ann was trying out her new I-Pad. Jack was sound asleep.

I finished breakfast and returned. Jack woke up, but he was grumpy. The fun part was that it didn't last long. We began a second day of walking in Salt Lake City.

It was an incredible day for pictures, and more importantly, it was a chance to see the roof of the new building, where the church does General Conference and other meetings.

The planters have trees in an interesting order. One side represents the vegetation on the eastern side of the valley. "Quakies" and pines appear with other grasses and plants.

Cedar trees and other scrub vegetation represent the western side.

The final section consists of meadow land, a few trees, abundant grasses and wild flowers.

It was a peaceful spot. Sitting there let you forget the sounds of traffic on the streets below. It's kind of a figurative way that healthy people view life. Distractions never affect them enough to make them bitter or angry.

The place was peaceful, serene.

A reflecting pool is near the entrance at the top of the building, and the sound of running water is another thing that made it the experience it was. There is nothing like the gentle sound of water, reminding me of a mountain stream or meadow brook.

A portion of the stream flows over the front side of the building. The cascade is beautiful.

Few buildings have the effect that this one had on me. I loved the FDR Memorial in Washington D.C. for similar reasons. There was massive stone, running water. The memorial was one that commemorated an incredible national leader, who helped our country at a time, when things were dire, when tyrants threatened the freedom of the world. I found peace there too: peace in knowing what that President did historically.

But this was different. It brought me peace, because it's a part of an important belief system that affected many in my family for generations. It didn't change what I already knew. It did however leave a lasting impression.

Choices

One of the best choices I ever made in my life came naturally. I fell in love with a Welsh girl from my hometown. We went to school together. We went to church together. We lived in the same neighborhood as children.

Ann and I noticed each other at various times during grade school. In first grade, my friend J Verlo Rose and I exited the bus.

"Let's play kissing tag," he whispered. "I'll get the twins, and you get the other one."

The other one was Ann. When I kissed her, she screamed her protest into my mouth--her chocolate brown eyes sparkling with contempt.

Then high school came along. We dated the first time, and I wrote about that in a blog a number of times. Dating began like that. We went on to college. I served a mission in Germany, and we wrote to each other.

That's when we became friends. I returned in early January of 1974, around the eighth or ninth. We began dating, and weeks later, we began talking about engagement and marriage. By February is was a "done deal."

My only regret about that short engagement is the fact that I should have married her sooner, which was not possible. It was a time of my life with memories, that I will always treasure.

We spent this past weekend in Salt Lake City, and while Ann and Jack walked around Temple Square, I took pictures to celebrate our "beginnings" as a family and as a couple. The weather was warm. The skies were blue with etchings of feathery clouds. The air was crisp and clean, typical of any spring I remember.

Walking about the grounds was interesting. The first time I saw the quail, I thought that I must have been been mistaken, that I must have just seen a couple of birds, but when I asked a couple of sister missionaries, they told me about the quail there.

In spring, the eggs hatch and young ones follow the hens about the grounds--each chick only an inch in height.

Some things never change. Looking at things on Temple Square, I found parts that had not changed, but things that were different were incredibly impressive.

By the time I snapped this photograph, it was already approaching late afternoon. Clouds in the sky were omens of spring showers that began on our way homeward, but it would be a gentle spring rain--one that always brought me comfort.

It is a time of rebirth, a time of sweet breezes filled with the scent of spring.

You have to be a farm boy to understand a notion like that. It's not about flowers. It's about soaking ground gently so that wheat can sprout and emerge into the air, eventually becoming waves of green in gentle summer breezes.

And 37 years ago on May 31, there was another beginning. One that Ann and I chose to make hand in hand. It's one that never ends, one that seems to be just beginning, although years have passed and left us older and wiser for the most part.

It's what happens. Life is an incredible journey.

My Baseball Player

I always loved playing baseball, and it's something I would love to have been able to do, but wasn't an option for a farm boy. Occasionally, I would watch classmates play in Little League, especially during their summer tournaments in Malad. Baseball was a sport that Malad did extremely well. It was not a shock to see them win against one of the Pocatello teams, a city with two very large high schools--a city, which at that time had at least 30,000 people in it. Malad's population was under 2000.

My baseball time was during the school year in fall and spring. It was tough. For years, I would stand in a group as team captains would choose teams, and each time they would pass me over. Eventually, one bunch of classmates--with girls and boys on teams--played together. They used a tennis ball instead of a regular baseball, which in those days we could still bring to school. Now schools don't allow students to play "hard ball" on the school grounds for fear of injuries.

I could hit the ball extremely well, and some of the classmates lucky enough to play on the top recess team laughed about it and chided me, because it was a tennis ball I was hitting.

Other times we played a game where three boys would hit the ball, and a group would field the hits. A pop up fly was worth 100 points, and a grounder was worth 25. Depending whether you played 300 or 500, you added points to be able to hit the ball for a time. It was where I practiced fielding skills.

I never gave up standing in the group at recess, hoping to be chosen by a team captain, and finally one day it happened, but he told me it was just that one day. It was during noon hour, and we had a full sixty minutes to play. I was up to bat. There were two outs. The bases were loaded. I stood with a bat ready to go. The captain tried to go in front of me, but I reminded him that it wasn't his turn. I said it loud enough for the opposing team to hear, which would have forced the out in our playground rules.

The captain gave me the stink eye, and he whispered that I had better hit well, if I ever wanted to play again.

I stood at the plate. I waited for the right ball. It was an advantage to play with our rules, because there was no ump. On the third pitch or so, the pitcher threw a ball just right, a bit low. I swung the bat hard, and I felt it connect. You know it's a good hit when you hear it and when you feel it on the bat--just like you know when a bat breaks.

The ball sailed into the air. The fielder ran forward. The captain cursed for a moment, but then he noticed that the ball sailed ten to twelve feet over the boy's head. I had hit my first home run, a grand slam.

Being chosen was never an issue after that. The same captain chose me, and he had me bat as clean-up batter every day.

It's a moment I'll always remember, a moment of the feel of warm sunshine and the smell cut grass.

That's why I was so excited to hear that Tommy was doing well in baseball. When he was young, I said several times that this would be one of his sports, along with track and soccer. And by the way, I also mentioned that he'd make a great defensive back or running back, but I have problems seeing my grandsons play football: the sport that riddled my ankles, knees and hip and shoulders, yet if I were 15 right now, and if it were August, I would be ready and excited for two-a-day practices. Even knowing what it did to me physically, I would do it all again.

So Tommy, here's to you in your new sport. One day when you are famous and playing serious ball instead of the fun stuff like now, sign a ball for your Pop Pop.

Place it in a spot that will be fun to see.

And remember that regardless where I am, I'll be watching proudly and smiling every time I hear you make that sound, the one a batter and fans hear when the hitter feels the ball absorb the wood of the bat from a solid swing.

Today's Front Page News

I opened the hotel door this morning on the way to breakfast, and our copy of USA Today waited at the door. The headline appeared boldly--Poll: Nuclear worries rising. My attention was on that immediately. A short secondary headline appeared beneath it--Officials scramble to contain radiation; emperor offers prayers.

For a brief moment, I thought about the city where I lived and the soap magnate, who seems to control the political climate with his constant urge to pay for full page ads to promote his own views. In Idaho Falls, the man appears to view himself in some sort of Imperial role.

And since nuclear power is such an issue there with the the lab in the desert a short distance away, my thoughts still wallowed in the night's rest. My eyes squinted in the bright illumination of a hotel hallway.

The man is praying to prevent radiation fears, I thought to myself. For a moment, I actually believed that our local robber baron, whose soap--in my opinion--smells like kerosene, did something that was not self-serving, something that was not arrogant or even pompous. The man sounded almost . . . altruistic. He sounded noble and idealistic.

A flickering florescent light brought me back to reality, or maybe it was the scent of pancakes in the restaurant section downstairs that brought me back to reality.

I realized the whole article was about the horrible tragedy in Japan, and it didn't take me long to realize that the man I knew wouldn't pray for victims of any kind, unless of course he hoped someone might spend a buck on that soap he peddles, or unless there was profit as a bottom line or at least a tax break or even some sort of mention in the media to focus attention on that nasty scented soap with an ambiance akin with diesel fuel. At least that's the opinion I have of our local robber baron.

However, I have to agree about one thing: the man knows how to promote a product. I took some students to Prague in the mid 90's. It was a time, when the former Eastern European country was still making early political adjustments leading to democracy and economic change. Western ideas were new and seen only in television programs with subtitles. The characters appeared similar to what I remember seeing at least a decade before, but their voices were notably different and words came out of their mouths that I could not understand, yet in the shower room, there was a bottle of this man's shampoo. Someone left it there, and it amazed me to see it so far away from the desert plain of Idaho.

But it didn't mean I liked the man any better.

I like many of the people who work for him, and I hope things go well for these people. I respect them, because I could never work under the conditions they must find every day on the job--having a boss seeking to control my political opinions, having a boss treating other workers and me as pawns and "underlings." At least that's how I view those misfortunate people who work for the man.

So within minutes, I realized that it was the Emperor of Japan, who prayed for his people. And I refused to allow thoughts of the Schweinehund affect the taste of my stack of hot cakes.

Calling Pop Pop

When my phone rings before 7:00 a.m., for an instant I think it's Cles calling like he once did regularly. He would forget that he was two hours earlier in North Carolina or even Virginia, and sometimes we would get a call before our alarm sounded in the morning.

It was great hearing from him, regardless whether we fumbled about in the dark trying to find a phone.

Now it's different. We get calls again lately, but sometimes it's silent on the other end of the connection. "Sammy?" I always say automatically.

The caller ID shows that the call is coming from Lydia's cell phone in Florida. As soon as our little one hears her name, she squeals and then starts to talk to us, in some sort of language that only Sammy can understand, but I never quit trying to decipher the words.

When Jack was that age, he did the same thing, and I eventually could understand him, but this situation is different. We only get a chance to talk to Sammy once or twice a week when she hits the speed dial.

The first call was hilarious. It surprised Lydia as much as it did Pop Pop. I see the caller ID. "Lyda?" I say repeatedly. I can hear background noise. Lydia is at the computer keyboard. There are beeps occasionally.

Then I hear Lydia's voice. "Samantha, don't hit me with the phone. That hurts." Sammy starts to cry, but she puts the phone to her ear. She can her me. I can her mourning the moment.

"Sammy, this is Pop Pop." I start to growl into the phone, and then I do the Pop Pop Wolfman howl. Sammy stops crying. There us a click, and the line goes dead.

I call Lydia. She answers on the first ring. "Did Samantha call you dad?" We laughed about it for a moment, especially when Lydia said how she noticed the strange noise coming from the phone. She heard my growling and howling for Samantha.

Since that call, Sammy calls us by hitting the speed dial, but she called Cles this past week as well. This time she "texted" her uncle.

Ug appeared in the text. Cles, afraid that Lydia had a bad day or something called immediately. Lydia told Cles that Sammy had been doing her "thing" with the cell phone.

It's just another example of how simple things make life so interesting. I don't mind getting calls from Sammy or Anna or Tommy or Cles before 7:00 a.m.

But if the reader of this posting is selling a condo, or you if have some Third World family you want me to help by loaning them $2000 until their "fortune" arrives, don't call ever. Although I like those calls too. It gives me a chance to feel anger, to vent frustration, to voice vengeance. It has been over six years since my retirement, so I don't get a chance to practice being mean. I just don't see high school administrators on a regular basis anymore.