John Doe

His only memory was of an old house, a brick Cape built by unreliable and unskilled volunteers. Just how he knew this detail of its construction, along with everything else, was a mystery. 

They found him in a ditch on a back road near Waynesboro, Virginia. He was unconscious and naked, his body covered with scratches and bruises. He had no identification. The State Police rushed him to the hospital in Charlottesville where he was treated day and night for two weeks before finally regaining consciousness. It was then that the doctors and nurses discovered that he had no memory of anything except a vivid description of the old house. They dubbed him John Doe, and every nurse on his floor soon fell in love with him, not the romantic kind but the kind of tender hearted love that rises up in the hearts of nurses for their most pitiful patients. And there was no one in the University of Virginia hospital more pitiful than John Doe.

When he first opened his eyes there was a moment of delirium, loud screams and fruitless attempts to get out of bed. When the nurses arrived in his room he seemed terrified, looking them over from head to toe, his face filled with bewilderment. He was quickly sedated and surrounded by the several doctors who had been in charge of his care, some of whom were surprised that he had woken up at all, the rest fascinated by the novelty of his case. When he slowly came out from under the sedation he was restrained and talked to gently by Carol, the night nurse who had cared for him each evening for two weeks straight and had grown fond of him.

Hello there. So glad to have you back among the living. You’ve had quite a nap, young man.

Carol had no idea whether or not John Doe was young. He had been so battered and bruised when he arrived it was hard to tell one way or the other. And since there was no identification his age was anyone’s guess. But she had noticed that he had no grey in his hair and his hands were free of callouses. So she held his smooth right hand in hers and gave it a soft squeeze and referred to him as a young man. This time he didn’t scream, didn’t try to get out of his bed, but the bewildered expression was still on his face.

Where am I? He asked just over a whisper.

The doctors leaned in as Carol answered, You are in the hospital. You’ve been here for a couple weeks now and this is the first time you’ve been awake. Can you tell me your name, honey?

John Doe looked around, noticing the team of doctors and nurses surrounding him and the leather straps securing him to the bed. Fear returned to his eyes. He looked back at Carol who was still smiling and holding his hand. She said, It’s alright. I’ve got you. What’s your name?

She saw the tears quickly forming in the corners of his eyes then stream down his cheeks…I don’t know…he said. She had been a nurse for nearly 20 years but had never been as moved by any patient as she had been when John Doe woke up all alone in the Universe.

They gave him a couple days to rest and start eating again. He had lost fifteen pounds in two weeks and was weak as water. The nurses began taking him for walks around their duty station. Each time he would stare at everything like he had never once been inside a hospital, like it was all brand new, but he never spoke a word. Just did what they asked him to do without complaint.

The nurses picked out pajamas for him to wear from the clothes closet for the indigent found on every floor. He ate everything they gave him slowly with perfect manners. He smiled at each courtesy and nodded his head in appreciation, but never spoke.

It was on the third night after he woke that he began to talk about the old house. Carol had brought him a glass of juice and he had surprised her by taking hold of her hand.

I remember an old house. I keep seeing it in my dreams. Its all I have from…before.

Carol smiled down at him, overjoyed that he had finally said something, knowing that it represented some kind of breakthrough. What kind of house?

Nothing special. Just an old brick cape. Small. Run down. There’s a porch off of one side with a hole ripped in the screen and another porch off the back. There’s a small kitchen, a bedroom and small bathroom downstairs, with two bedrooms and a big bathroom upstairs. But its in bad shape. Poor workmanship all around, like it was built by a group of building trade trainees, like apprentices maybe. 

Carol pulled up a chair and sat close to his bed, not letting go of his hand as he went on and on.

There’s a road close to the front yard. Across the street there’s a church, an old white clapboard building with a steeple. There’s a stop sign on the road by the church. I can see myself walking through the house. Its messy, dirty clothes piled up, dishes in the sink, trashcan overflowing. But nobody is home. Its just me walking through the house.

Carol picked up the notepad and pencil that was on his nightstand and began writing  down everything he said. I don’t want to miss anything, John. I’ll need to let the doctors know about this before I leave in the morning…but this is wonderful news, don’t you agree? This is the first of many memories to come. I’m sure of it!

John didn’t seem to share her optimism but wanting to be agreeable he said, Well, its something, at least. He had grown fond of her. She was especially kind. Maybe it was because she came at night and there wasn’t as much going on. Some nights he had been her only patient, or so it seemed. She paid special attention to him and his spirits always were lifted by her appearance at the door. 

Then he called her by name for the first time.

Carol, I need to ask you a question.

You can ask me anything, John.

John sat up straighter in the bed and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper…What year is this?

She was startled for a moment, raising her eyebrows trying to comprehend the extent of the man’s isolation to have to ask such a thing.

Why, its 1939 of course…September 1, as a matter of fact. You were brought in on August 14th I think. What year did you think it was?

John had leaned back down onto his pillow at her answer and turned his head towards the window. I didn’t know…that’s why I asked.

You looked surprised, that’s all.

She watched him pull up his covers and curl into a ball on his side. He was finished talking for the night. She turned out the light in his room then immediately set about fleshing out the notes she had furiously scribbled into complete sentences while it was fresh in her mind. The Doctors would want to know every detail of what was said. As she did she thought of the sound of his voice, the unfamiliar cadence, the odd lilt of his accent, one she couldn’t quite place. It figured that he wouldn’t know what year it was. He didn’t even know who he was or his name so naturally he wouldn’t know what year it was. But there was something about the way he asked the question, with so much apprehension in his manner, and then his abrupt change in mood upon receiving the answer. She thought back to the look on his face as she had taken him on his first walk down the hall and around the nurses station, the way he stared at everyone and everything with such confusion. He seemed enthralled with the most mundane things, reaching out to touch the most rudimentary items like pictures on the wall, light fixtures and the door knob to the supply closet. When he would encounter a visitor or a nurse walk by he would stop and stare them down from top to bottom, not like a drunken lecher but more like someone who hadn’t seen another human being in a long time and wanted to take it all in from hat to shoes. His behavior only served to endear him further to everyone who had contact with him. To the doctors and nurses on the fourth floor he was a lost soul who was lucky to be alive and about whom very soon a decision would have to be made. They couldn’t just keep him there indefinitely waiting on him to regain his memory or wait for someone to show out of the clear blue to claim him. But he had nothing. No money, no clothes, and no name. Where would he go?

The police had been no help. There were no missing persons claims filed that matched his physical description within 250 miles of Virginia. They had taken his fingerprints to see if they were a match for anyone in their records. Although it was a long process, so far no matches had been found. There wasn’t anything else they could do. They could send him out to Western State for evaluation, but it was basically an insane asylum and John Doe was not insane by any measurement. But as he got stronger, eventually…and very soon, they would have to release him and the thought of this kind and gentle man alone and penniless on the streets was Carol’s worse fear. 

The next day, John Doe asked the morning nurse if she could bring him a newspaper. She sent for a copy of the Daily Progress and delivered it to him with his breakfast. John unfolded it and saw the large block headline about Germany invading Poland and the outbreak of war in Europe, proof that the previous night’s conversation with Carol had not been a dream. He sat the paper aside and devoured the grits, eggs and bacon.

With each passing day his appetite improved and his body got stronger. As he adjusted to his new reality, he seemed less afraid, less hesitant to engage with those trying to help him. Each night when things slowed down Carol would pull up a chair beside his bed to share a glass of juice with him and try to get him to talk. He was always polite and appreciative of her company, but each conversation always came back around to the old house across the street from the white clapboard church. Carol would lean in and ask clarifying questions…Do you think you once lived there John?

I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not. Its the only thing I remember. I know I must sound like a broken record.

Not at all. I don’t mind. One day soon other memories will start coming back to you, I’m sure of it.

I’m glad somebody is sure of something.

Carol came in one night and asked him if he would like to venture outside for the first time. She told him that it would be good for him to stretch his legs and it was lovely outside, the fresh air would do him good.

She led him to a courtyard behind the hospital which featured a Parisian water fountain that sent streams of water out of the mouths of lion heads into a pond filled with giant goldfish. She led him to a bench to let him rest. His eyes were alive with wonder at every detail of the garden, fascinated beyond understanding. Carol watched him carefully as his eyes scanned the horizon.

They never told me where they found me, as he ran his fingers gently over the iron work handle of the bench.

They didn’t? Its no secret. Did you ask them?

I’m asking you…

Carol hesitated, worrying that she might be violating some protocol of his care by answering the question. But his eyes were so filled with pleading she decided on telling him the truth.

They found you in a ditch on a backroad near Waynesboro. Its about a half hour, forty-five minutes from here. You were in pretty bad shape and you didn’t have any clothes on. You were unconscious and had lots of bruises and scratches all over your body.

His facial expressions registered no surprise. He said nothing but kept his eyes focused clearly on her.

Does anything I just said ring any bells at all?

I’m sorry…no.

She reached out for his hand. You have nothing to be sorry for. You are lucky to be alive. Obviously you suffered some incredible trauma, but these doctors are some of the best in the country and you are making wonderful progress. In no time at all your memories will come back to you and you’re going to be as good as new.

If I was found naked in a ditch, why would regaining my memories be a good thing? Can we go back now? 

Carol walked slowly by his side through the hospital doors and down the hallway until they reached the door to the chapel. It opened slowly. An old man came out holding a handkerchief to his eyes. John looked through the door and saw a stained glass window, then the bright white keys of a small spinet piano. He took a step towards the door and stood still in the doorway.

This is the chapel, John. Would you like to see it?

John walked inside without taking his gaze off the piano. The chapel was empty and dimly lit. There was a crucifix with Jesus hanging forlornly. Carol followed along quietly, tentatively. When John reached the piano he stopped and once again ran his slender fingers across the keys as if for him touching would bring knowing. Then he sat down on the padded bench, placed his hands on the keys and began to play. The sounds which he brought forth from the instrument were full of longing and beauty and Carol touched her fingers to her lips as he played, tears filling her eyes. She saw that his eyes were closed. The music continued its magical flow. The tune was familiar in a vague sort of way. She knew she had heard it before but could not remember when or recognize the name. She instantly knew that this old piano in this old prayer chapel had never been played this way with this much feeling, this much palpable anguish.

She saw the door open in the back of the chapel and recognized one of the doctors who had been brought in on John’s case. He took a few steps then stopped to listen. He stood still as a statue until the music stopped. John folded his hands in his lap, his eyes still closed and bowed his head. The doctor approached carefully, barely making a sound walking across the carpet. He stood at Carol’s side and looked down at John who seemed to be in another place.

That was Chopin, the doctor whispered. One of the Nocturnes, I can’t remember which one but by God I don’t think I’ve heard it played any better. I’m thinking that the odds are pretty good that there was a piano somewhere in that old house he keeps talking about.

A GREAT Teacher

This coming Friday will be Pam’s last day as a teacher. She was a full-time 1st grade teacher for the first five years of our marriage, then quit to raise our kids. Then 18 years ago she went back as a reading and math interventionist, working with small groups of elementary students who struggled with those two subjects and needed extra instruction. This morning on Facebook she posted her stats—kinda like the back of a baseball card!!

In celebration of Teacher Appreciation Week, and to commemorate my FINAL YEAR OF TEACHING, here are my stats:

🍎 23 Years Teaching

🏫 3 Elementary Schools 

🇺🇸 1 School District

👩🏼‍🏫 Grades taught: 1st (5 yrs), K-5 Reading Intervention (18 yrs)

🍎 Principals: 5

✈️ States Taught: VA

👧 Number of Students Impacted:  over 450

🍎 Certification: N,K-4

🎓 Highest Degree Earned: BS in Early Childhood Education 

🏆 RETIREMENT DATE:  May 9, 2025

Love it. But like all statistical summaries, it doesn’t tell the whole story. Over the past 18 years, all at River’s Edge Elementary, Pam has had the privilege of teaching students from all over the world, kids who spoke a ton of different languages, none of them English. There were kids from Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Vietnam, Russia, Ukraine, Brazil, Honduras, Syria, Egypt, the Sudan and many others. She taught Christians, Hindus, Jews, Buddhists and Muslims. There were what seemed like insurmountable obstacles in the path of learning from attention deficit problems to emotional issues, not to mention some kids who didn’t even know the letters of the alphabet when she got them. But each and every year she would somehow make measurable progress with them. She would come home each evening telling me stories about her students. Some were hilarious stories of crazy things that would happen when trying to explain American english to some second-grader from Kurdistan. Other stories were disturbing, others sad and overwhelming. But Pam always had something good to say about every kid she taught, of course—some more than others.

But the one thing that can’t be quantified with statistics is the following story. It’s what made my wife such an amazing teacher and such a valuable asset to her school.

This particular story was from several years ago. River’s Edge was overcrowded that year so Pam’s classroom was in a trailer behind the school. I showed up in the afternoon, after her last class was finished to bring her something from Starbucks. It was about 2 o’clock or so. This was back when the front office people would let me deliver treats directly to her classroom. Today—because of the horror and shame of school shootings in America—there are metal detectors everywhere and I am not allowed free access in the building. Anyway, on that day I walked back behind the school to her trailer and quietly opened the door to her classroom. It was then that I saw my wife sitting on the denim loveseat she had bought for her room as a reading sofa for her students. She would use it as a “reward” for good work, if you did well you could read on the reading sofa! There she was laid back in the loveseat next to a little boy reading a book. I could see the backs of their heads, Pam’s blond hair and the little boy’s Afro. It was a kid from the Sudan who was a hot mess, with reading, learning and family troubles. Pam often spoke of her frustration with him. But there he was, his head resting on Pam’s shoulder as she read. I stood there at the door and watched them for a minute, listening to their interaction. There were occasional giggles from the boy. I remember thinking…This is why she’s so effective as an interventionist…she loves them, and they know it. For the last 18 years, in twenty-five minute encounters, she has helped over 400 kids discover the magic of reading, changing the trajectory of their lives forever. She has also taught them that they are inherently valuable and worthy of love. I can’t think of more important work. Can You?

Snuggle-Ready

So, a couple weeks ago Kaitlin mentioned to her mother that the two of us needed to get a TDAP booster shot before little Silas is born. Her doctor recommended it to anyone who will be in “close contact” with the baby in the first couple months of his life as an extra precaution. Of course, I had never heard of the TDAP vaccine. Apparently it was one of the many vaccines I received when I was a kid—along with polio, the measles, mumps and rubella. Since I dodged those bullets, and had no desire to get either tetanus, diphtheria or acellular pertussis, I was all in, waltzed into Publix and took care of it yesterday morning!

While I was at it, I got the second shingles vaccine in the other arm. Then I went to the gym to workout, sporting two upside down bandaids. While there a stranger noticed and asked if I had just gotten vaccines. He looked quite concerned. Guy looked to be in his late 40’s early 50’s. I explained the situation. Finally he said, “To each his own…” Then I asked him if he was a doctor or something. He said, “No, I run a landscaping business…but I’ve done a lot of research.”

Another Google PhD. You remember them right? Back when we were all terrified about COVID and even more terrified when the vaccine came out, these folks appeared all over my news feed. Instant experts on infectious disease were suddenly popping up everywhere. Some dude who installed AC units during the day had done the research and was 100% sure that there was a conspiracy afoot in the land. Dude spends two days on the Internet and suddenly he’s Jonas Salk! Men and women with advanced degrees and 30 years of experience in the field of immunizations were all desperate to keep the truth from you in a grand scheme whereby a few elites would—I don’t know—make a fortune trading pharmaceutical stocks, or indoctrinate millions of people by slipping some sort of liberal drug into the vaccine which would make everyone vote democrat. Good times.

I never did my own research on vaccines for much the same reason as I don’t do my own research on why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. I’m on life’s great back nine. Time and resources are limited. I don’t have time to reinvent the wheel every time I leave the house. The sun rises and sets like it has done since the dawn of time. I choose to not spend an awful lot of time pondering this fact. And since I have literally never once met a single soul with polio, never known anyone who died of whooping cough…I’ll take that as a sign that vaccines probably work. On the other hand, my trick knee tells me that the chances that I might give my grandson a deadly case of rubella without this boosted shot are slim, but it took me fifteen minutes and cost me zero dollars to get it. Now, I am ready to snuggle the heck out of my first grandchild. My daughter is happy. I’ll save all the research for when one of my arms starts getting longer than the other and I suddenly find myself growing fond of Bernie Sanders. No wait…maybe that comes from chemtrails. I’ll have to do the research.

Persistence Pays Off

I have a friend who I love to pester with Dad Jokes. We go way back, I’ve known her for years. Aside from her inability to appreciate great humor, she is an otherwise wonderful person. But primarily because she has no sense of humor, I enjoy nothing quite so much as lighting up her social media feeds with my favorite jokes. All of her friends laugh while she pretends not to think they are hysterically funny. A while ago I stumbled across a classic of the genre and couldn’t resist sending it to her via private message:

Me: There was an old man who lived beside a great forest. As he grew older and older, he started losing his hair, until one day, on his deathbed, he was completely bald. That day, he called all of his children together for a meeting…

He said, “Look at my hair. It used to be so magnificent, but it’s completely gone now. My hair can’t be saved. But look outside at that beautiful forest. It’s such a lovely forest with so many trees, but sooner or later they’ll all be cut down to make way for more and more people and this great forest will look as bald as my head.”

“What I want you all to do”, the old man continued, “Is every time someone cuts down a tree or a tree dies, plant a new one in my memory. Tell your descendants to do the same. It shall be our family’s duty to keep this forest beautiful forever.”

So they did.

Each time the forest lost a tree, the children replanted one, and so did their children and their children’s children, and their children after them. And for centuries, the forest remained as lush and beautiful as it once was, all because of one man…

…and his re-seeding heir-line.

There was a long silent pause before she finally responded:

Her: That seemed like it was going to be a beautiful story... and then YOU happened.

Don’t know about you but I think all the years of annoying her with jokes was worth it—just for that response!!

New Dangers!!

My fourth month of retirement is nearly in the books and things are going well. I’ve settled in to a comfortable routine. The sciatica business has been annoying but I am experiencing some improvement. I’ve spent a couple weekends visiting each of my kids. Kaitlin’s pregnancy is coming right along quite nicely. My grandson will be here in less than six weeks! A new volunteer opportunity has presented itself to me which will occupy me for a couple months. Baseball season is up and running, and we will be heading to Maine in 70 days!

This is not to say that retirement has been all fun and games, all moonlight and magnolias. Why, just the other day I was reminded just how precarious retired life can be. One minute you are blissfully enjoying the comforts of life and then…BAM…danger rears its ugly head. 

There I was at the Cafe getting ready to enjoy my mid-morning brunch of one Asiago cheese bagel with cream cheese, and my second cup of coffee of the day. I will admit that my guard was down. I had no idea that peril was near. I had taken my bagel out of the toaster, slathered it with cream cheese, then walked over to get a cup of coffee. When I took my first bite of the bagel I felt a strange sensation as I lifted it to my lips. There was brief discomfort, a slight stinging sensation, but as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone and forgotten. But then I took my first sip of coffee—there was blood on the rim and dripping down the side of the mug. What the heck? I lifted my napkin mouthward and dabbed at my lips only to find the napkin bright with red blood. When toasting my bagel I had apparently left it in too long which had burned the sharp edges black and rigid enough to make a small slice in my bottom lip! Eventually the lip stopped bleeding. It was then that my fellow volunteer reminded me that this catastrophe had happened while I was on my shift. Perhaps I could file a Workmen’s Comp claim! Never a dull moment.

Now, I have added—“eating bagels fresh out of the toaster”—to my list of potential dangers to life and limb.

Church on Interstate 81

Last weekend Pam and I made the drive to Nashville to spend Easter weekend with my son and his wife. It was a wonderful experience all around. We love them so much and wish we could spend more time with them, but Nashville is 9 hours and two dystopian interstates away, so we pick our spots. 

On our way home, by the time we hit 81 the traffic was heavy, particularly a fleet of semi tractor-trailers that I had unfortunately fallen in with. If you’ve ever spent any time on Interstate 81 you know what a white-knuckled thrill ride it can be. To make matters worse, my sciatica nerve was plotting violent Revolution from hip to knee, making the trip even more intolerable. Then, out of the blue, my wife says, “Would you like to listen to the service?”

As many of you know we attend Hope Church. Luckily they have a YouTube channel which airs all the services for three groups of people—folks too lazy to crawl out of bed and go to church, people who are too sick to attend, and people who find themselves going 80 miles an hour in a pack of truckers with throbbing pain in their hips. So I said, “Sure.”

My son attends West End United Methodist church in Nashville, an old school church that features Gothic architecture, the largest pipe organ in Tennessee, ancient liturgy and a robed choir. When the congregation broke into Christ the Lord is Risen Today, we were moved by a powerful and enchanting soprano descant that brought me to the edge of tears. Later, the gifted organist let loose with a spellbinding solo that shook the rafters. It was an incredible experience.

While driving down 81, I couldn’t watch the video of our service, I could only listen. It opened with three songs that I didn’t know, performed not by a choir but the praise band at Hope, a mixture of full-time and volunteer musicians, many of whom I have come to know in my time at Hope. They are devoted followers of Christ who happen to be musically gifted. Although, I tend to prefer traditional music on special days like Christmas and Easter, I quickly became enthralled with what I heard. The band was as tight as I have ever heard them, the voices were clear and confident. I found myself listening to the words and being caught up in what it is that we actually celebrate on Easter. Then I heard a strange voice reading the scriptures. Pam told me it was Anthony from the Thrift Store. Of course it was…I would have eventually recognized him. Then David Dwight delivered the sermon, the kind of message that felt prayed over and creatively conceived.

It was about halfway through the message when I felt an odd sensation as I dodged in and out of gaps in the traffic. It was as if I was in a bubble of care, like our car had been slipped into a protective sleeve. For an entire hour I listened to my church worship and celebrate the risen Christ. Seventy-five miles later, the service was over and I snapped out of it. The pain in my hip and hamstring returned with a vengeance— Where had it gone?—The traffic was still off the chain but seemed easier to manage somehow.

It occurred to me as we finally took the exit off 81 and on to 64 to Richmond, that this is why Christians need to be attached to a fellowship, an assembly of disciples. Listening to the Easter service of my church a day late united me to them, soothed me for an hour, and reminded me of the transcending power of the resurrection.

Every church has deficiencies. There will always be something not to like. You might not like this or that. Such is the way of the world. But spending your life looking for the perfect place to worship is a fool’s errand. Join an imperfect group. Attach yourself to a fellowship who tries to do great things even if it means failing sometimes. Get out of bed on Sunday morning. Don’t miss the assembly, the gathering together because there is power in it. But if you find yourself out of town and in a stressful situation, give the service a listen. Picture their faces and thank God for each of them.

Easter Sunday and Donald Trump

I have a few friends on Facebook who are constantly posting anti-Trump content…I mean like every single day. It’s like their entire world is consumed by the man. There are others who seem to think it is their mission in life to defend all things Trump. Sometimes I will block content from all of them for a month or so, but then 30 days later there they are, still at it. Some of it seems unhinged. Some of it is laugh out loud funny. I never enter in to the fray by making a comment, because I would rather endure a root canal without anesthesia than argue with anyone about politics in general and Donald Trump in particular. Even now I have huge misgivings about this blogpost. Do I even want to publish it, send it out into the world? Don’t I run the risk of pissing off half my readership? Probably. But every once in a while I encounter political behavior that staggers even my imagination. Donald Trump is not the first President to behave badly. He’s certainly not the first politician to say stupid things. It’s practically a qualification for higher office anymore to be a moron. But on Easter Sunday a shark was jumped.

It is common practice for Presidents to issue official proclamations on special days throughout the year like Christmas and Easter etc.. The White House issued the following statement from the President on Easter morning…

This was entirely right and proper, and his statement was practically perfect in tone and content.

But Trump being Trump, he just couldn’t let it go. There was no way that the guy was going to let anyone—even the risen Christ—upstage him. No, this statement wasn’t enough. He added a second…

Try as I might, I couldn’t think of any other President in my lifetime or indeed the history of this Republic who would release this sort of political diatribe…on Easter. This is the language of a middle school child. For reasons that escape me he chose the day of the resurrection of Jesus Christ to air his grievances, to call out his enemies, and to belittle his predecessor.

Ok…for the sake of argument, even if you agree with the assertions in this statement, even if you think that Joe Biden was indeed a moron, even if you think that the 2020 election was stolen and that judges who disagree with the President are weak and ineffective—what kind of person would think to use this sort of language, make this sort of political broadside on Easter Sunday Morning?? 

Maybe this is what politics will be from here on out. Maybe all future Presidents will take their cues from the current one—always attack, attack, attack. After all, losers don’t get copied. But if this is what we have become, something valuable has been lost. If we can’t even take one lousy day off from politics, we all have lost something that’s difficult to get back…dignity.