Heading Home

Given a choice, my mother preferred not to travel. She enjoyed being in new places, visiting family members and taking in the occasional entertainment, but she despised the process of getting from point A to point B. Packing for a trip was agony – so many decisions needed to be made!  Even getting the house cleaned and put in order before leaving created high anxiety, but it had to be done. What if you died on the road? Certainly you wouldn’t want strangers roaming through your bedroom, running their fingers over a dusty night stand and telling one another you were slovenly.

As for those hours in the car, there weren’t enough magazines, knitting projects or books in the world to overcome her impatience. Sometimes she seemed to be thinking, “If only I could close my eyes and discover when I opened them this misery had passed.” Other times, she put her feelings into words: “If I’d known it was going to take this long to get there, I would have stayed home.”

Now and then someone with an inclination to tease would call her “Dorothy”, and everyone understood the reference. She’d just laugh and say,  “If someone gave me a pair of ruby slippers, I’d be out of Oz in a minute. Being able to click my heels and go would make life a whole lot easier.” 

Now, Dorothy’s Kansas lies far behind, as do Nebraska, Oklahoma and Texas. We’re in Iowa, Mom and I, in a lovely aerie only a few miles from the house in which I grew up. There are squirrels and birds, tree frogs at night and lovely, cool air filled with drifting autumn leaves and moonlight. Soon there will be family arriving, a tender commitment to a final resting spot next to her husband, my father, and at last, a final goodbye.

It’s impossible not to smile at the irony of it all. Even without any heel-clicking, Mom’s last trip has been her easiest in years.  No slightly impatient daughter stood in the doorway, asking, “Aren’t you ready yet?”  There wasn’t any last-minute fussing about which shoes to take, or confusion about plans. Even the mysteriously difficult issue of what to wear while traveling was resolved for her by friends in her knitting group. Digging into her stash of yarn and using her own needles, they knit and crocheted a  drawstring bag, just the right size to embrace a small box of ashes. Passing around the completed bag, they added personal notes meant to accompany her on her way:

“Wanda, Watch over us and enjoy knitting – we miss you.”
“I am short. Wanda was short, so we figured short people have more fun – have fun knitting in heaven!”
“You were such a gentle, gracious lady. I enjoyed knitting with you and you will be missed.”
“May you enjoy knitting forever.”

My original intent, to complement their knitting with a needlepoint cover for the box containing her ashes, was overly ambitious. Without time or skill to do it properly, I contented myself with a small, needlepointed brooch bearing her initial. Pinned onto the knitted bag, it makes me smile with satisfaction. Mom always swore, sometimes with laughter and sometimes in apparent seriousness, that she would be taking both her knitting and needlepoint yarn “stashes” with her when it came time to move on. Now that the time has come, at least a part of that stash is going with her – a token of all the warmth, love and appreciation she engendered here on earth.

She may have hated travel, that mother of mine, but at this end of her days she’s traveling in style, wrapped in warm, fuzzy love by those who cared for her. If, as they say, home is where the heart is, then surely she is at home.

Comments are welcome. To leave a comment or respond, please click below.

67 thoughts on “Heading Home

  1. I’ve tried to write ten different thoughts and they keep getting jumbled up into a turmoil of emotion. All I can do is send hugs and a wish for your safe return trip.

    1. Texasjune,

      Thank you so much for those good wishes.From what I’m told, the primary danger I face now is explaining my absence to a cat who’s beside herself with anger. ;-)

      As you can imagine, I’ve been a little behind in my blogging, but I’ve also responded to your aside about the GPS, a couple of posts back. They’re good, but they’re not perfect!


    1. Snoring Dog Studio,

      We’re all resting well. And there’s some humor to be had, around that particular issue. The folks who run Aerie Glen have another business – a funeral home. As they like to say, they help to give people rest, one way or the other!


  2. Linda,
    This final step is never easy, but I feel your peace in this piece – eloquent as always and a gift to your readers.

    How appropriate that her friends came together to make a fitting last gift for her, and your brooch was perfect. I wish you well and your mother godspeed.

    1. Bella,

      The absence of “hoopla” through all this has been truly wonderful. When I went out to the cemetery yesterday to check on things, I happened onto the fellow who digs their graves. He was, in fact, busy digging Mom’s – with a shovel, of course, because of the size. We chatted a bit – he’d lived in Ardmore, Oklahoma for a few years – and it was comfortable as could be.

      I couldn’t help but think of another conversation I’d had with a fellow in Kansas. “Oh, yes,” he said. “When you walk the pastures, it’s not terribly unusual to come across a grave or two. People died on the trails, and they were buried on the trails. It’s just the way it was.”



  3. Linda,

    I really enjoyed reading this tribute to your Mother and what her “knitting” friends did for her.

    She must have been one special lady to have raised such a talented and special daughter like you.

    May the day be filled with loving memories.

    1. Patti,

      It was a wonderful day – perfect weather, no travel troubles for those who came from out of town, and only one “glitch” that truly was insignificant. We shared lunch after the internment, did a little visiting and then parted ways – tired, but satisfied.

      There’s always a bit of nostalgia in “going home”, but I’m ready to move on – and tomorrow’s the day. Minnesota next, then the Mississippi River Road to Hannibal. After that? Back to Texas, and some new routines.

      Thanks so very much for stopping by – I appreciate it.


  4. A very matter of fact, humorous and yet bittersweet tribute to Mom and the final journey north to take her home.

    I’m sure you’ve had conversations with Mom along the way, the same way I have conversations with my brother at times. So far, he hasn’t answered but I’ve felt him near.

    1. Gué,

      Oh, yes – we’ve talked things over a good bit, Mom and I. Like your brother, she doesn’t answer directly, but I’m never going to discount the possibility!

      One of the best things about the place I’m staying are the trains that roll through. Tonight’s freight is a long one – lots of whistles, and wheels rolling for nearly six minutes – fast, too. It’s a sound i never tire of – a healthy sound, like harvesting equipment at work.

      Bittersweet’s a good word for today’s experience, and another reminder of home. Autumn bittersweet’s as common for decorating as pumpkins and gourds up here – if I’m lucky, I’ll find some!


  5. I must come back and read this again, for the photos aren’t showing up today. Perhaps at home they will. I have to say, I’m glad my office door is closed because I have tears in my eyes. This is simply lovely, Linda. More poignant than I can imagine. A journey difficult and easy at the same time, I’m sure.

    I chuckled at the thought of her stash going with her. I’m glad it was shared with her yarning buddies — and with yours! (Thank you!) I still find it simply beautiful that her friends made the pouch and included their messages. Thank you, thank you for sharing this.

    1. jeanie,

      As a great stash-keeper yourself, I knew you’d enjoy this.

      Ironically, the couple who run the B&B where I’m staying also run a funeral home in town. They were utterly taken with the bag and brooch and took some photos. As they said, with cremation becoming more common and people looking for ways to personalize the experience, it will give them another option to share with others. Who knows? Maybe someone with an entrepreneurial spirit could start a different kind of B&B – bag and brooch!

      I know this – the entire experience was comfortable and deeply personal, just as it should be.


    1. Oh, good. I’m glad you could see it. Everything truly did come together in a way I couldn’t have predicted. When I get home I’ll send you a photo of the bag and brooch together. For some reason, I was reluctant to post that here, publicly.


  6. My mother didn’t want a final resting place – too morbid for her! So her ashes are in four parts – I have one bit of them which I’ve stored in a pottery vase (with a stopper!) which is itself stored in a wooden puzzle box. My father has a portion stored in the base of a birdbath made for just that purpose, my brother has a portion that is probably still at my dad’s house, and then, against her wishes, a portion is in a niche at the cemetery because her best friend really needed a place to mourn.

    After all, these bits and pieces are what remains for the living. It sounds like your mother’s are in a lovely place indeed.

    1. Bug,

      It’s amazing to me, the decisions people make about what funeral directors euphemistically call “the final disposition”. I have a friend whose mother’s been on a shelf in her kitchen for years. Another friend has sailed back and forth across the Atlantic with his brother on board the boat.

      Originally, I’d thought of scattering some of Mom’s ashes at her various homes, or at least at her final home in Iowa. One night I realized that would be precisely the wrong thing to do – and I knew the reason why. But that’s a story for another time!

      You are right – what remains is for the living, however that final dispostion is made. It seems that everyone was happy with the decisions that were made on Mom’s behalf – and that’s a blessing in itself!


  7. If, as they say, home is where the heart is, then surely she is at home.

    A few weeks ago when I went north to do my ancestry search, one thing suddenly hit me. My parents aren’t in the churchyard with all their other family members. In the local family cemetery I found aunts and uncles, grandparents and their siblings, their parents and siblings, and my great, great grandparents. My own parents chose to have their ashes sprinkled in a wood around a tree where they used to “court”. There is no plaque, stone or rose tree, so once my sister and I go, who will know where they are? But to them, it was where it all began, where their hearts grew as one – they have “gone home”.

    Safe, but interesting, travels home.

    1. Sandi,

      Reading your comment, I thought of the famous quotation from Pascal: “Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas. …”
      That is, “The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.”
      Your parents are a perfect example of that – and so it should be. We spend enough time in life trying to satisfy others. Surely in death we should be free to satisfy ourselves.

      On the other hand, my discovery of my great-great-grandmother’s friend’s grave on this trip has made clear the “power of place” in death. Had that pioneer woman been scattered to the four winds, I never would have found her. Having spent so much time combing the records and the graveyards, I know you understand that aspect of it, too.

      In any event, I’m glad to begin traveling again. I’m not quite ready to be buried or scattered – not just yet!


    1. Andrew,

      Thank you so much for your good wishes. And yes – that last journey is simple, although we sometimes tend to complicate it. Perhaps many of the “ceremonies” we adopt are merely a way of distancing ourselves.

      I’m not sure about that, but I know that there was much about today’s internment that was healing, helpful, and simple beyond words. I was glad of that – for myself, for those who joined me, and for Mom herself. She always did like simplicity. ;-)


  8. A loving tribute to your dear mother. How happy she must be to be finally reunited with her husband, and how proud she certainly is of her loving daughter.

    1. Maria,

      If you haven’t seen it yet, I mentioned to you elsewhere that Mom was reunited with more than a husband today. She and Dad, together with many of their good friends, purchased adjoining cemetery plots at the same time. They all were in bridge club together – now that Mom is finally there, they have a full four tables – they may be dealing the cards now!

      It was a lovely service and a beautiful day that I’ll long remember. There is so much that can be difficult or distressing at such a time, but we were blessed, indeed.


  9. Your post just brought tears to my eyes! If I could reach through cyber space I would give you a big hug! Your mother was very lucky to have such a wonderful daughter and friends in her life. This post is a beautiful tribute to her memory!

    1. belle,

      When I was a kid and we were signing each other’s autograph books – or sending notes in class! – we used an acronym – CYK.
      It meant, “consider yourself kissed”. I’ll just consider myself hugged, instead. Thanks!

      This was a little hard to write, but I needed to let people know where I’d disappeared to, and this seemed the best way to do it.
      And Mom certainly deserved a final tribute!


    1. Susan,

      Certainly in this case, the “right words” took some effort to find. Still, it’s always worth that effort – for Mom, for myself and perhaps for others as well.

      Thank you so much for your kind words.


  10. I have no words to respond, Linda, except to say this is one deeply moving post. Thank you for sharing something so personal, that yet can touch many, many hearts. You’ve delivered with poignancy and style.

    1. Arti,

      Mom wanted to “come home” in the autumn, when the leaves were beautiful and falling – the thought of that “slow road home” made me smile more than once. Slow is good for so many things in life – whatever society at large may say.

      I’m in Minnesota now, and some of the landscape reminds me of your beautiful photos of the countryside – especially the blue skies. It’s been bittersweet, yes – but lovely in ways I never expected.

      I’m missing you – I see Flannery’s at your place again. I’ll come visit soon!


  11. I am new here but nonetheless taken with your words and your homage to your mother. I am sorry for your loss, but feel that she would smile at what you have shared here. Beautiful.
    ~ Lynda

    1. Lynda,

      How kind of you to stop, and thank you for affirming what others have said – that Mom would be smiling at all these “goings-on”.

      I appreciate your kind words – and by the way, welcome! You’re always welcome!


  12. Linda,

    Although we both are feeling the loss of our moms right now, you and I are both honored to have been able to say goodbye in ways that really celebrate who they are!

    My mom’s sarcastic sense of humor was still at play when the very serious priest got up to say a few words at the funeral home. A DVD with a lot of family pictures and music had been playing all along, barely heard with all the loud Jersey conversation during the viewing. Now all was quiet. Just as he began talking about Betty’s spirit going up to heaven, our eyes looking upon Mom lying in the casket, Frank Sinatra’s lyrics belted out: “All of me! Why not take all of me?” One of my nephews knew he’d better turn down the volume because we’re not a good family to keep something funny from taking over any occasion.

    When I’m missing my mom, I often think of you missing yours, too.


    1. Claudia,

      Oh, my gosh! What a wonderful story. I just read it aloud to a roomful of friends here in Minnesota and they’re still wiping the tears – of laughter – from their eyes.

      The best decision I made was to keep traveling for just a bit, rather than turning around and headng straight back to Texas. Tomorrow I’m off to the Mississippi River, and once I’ve found some good fish and a six-pack of Leinenkugel, I’ll head south along the river.

      I’d better get home – word is the cat hasn’t come out from under the bed since I left.


  13. Wow Linda! What a beautifully written account of your Mom’s final journey. I also cried when I read it. It’s so thoughtful and so full of love to send a loved one to her resting place warm and cozy in a bag made with her own wool scraps by her best friends, with a needle-point brooch of her initial made by her daughter. I do think you’ve started a tradition. Your Mom must be so proud up there.

    I also love the photo of the autumn leaves.
    Thank you for sharing the journey with us. (((CYK)))

    1. dearrosie,

      You know, it’s so silly – Mom always was cold, and I just loved putting her to rest with a “sweater” on. The whole experience had a warmth and comfort about it I just never have experienced with more traditional settings.

      And it was just as beautiful as she’d wanted – the day after the service, the leaves started to fall like crazy, but that day, they hung on in every shade of red and gold. Just lovely.

      Today, instead of north and west, it’s going to be east and south. I’m starting to twitch just a little – ready to get home, myself. ;)


  14. What’s so beautiful about this is that it’s real life. Not a piece from a novel, not wishful thinking, but actual, real life, this chapter you write that reflects also the love of friends – knitting friends! – and the love of a keen daughter – all knitted together in this touching, beautiful send off.

    1. oh,

      Real life, indeed.And the reality of it all isn’t painful, but comforting. Real grief, real family, real resolution. What more could any of us hope for?

      Thought and thought about St. Louis, but just don’t have the time this trip. I’ll do the upper Mississippi this time,and the middle the next time around!


      1. Ah! you’re right! the word “muse” in museum. How could I forget the Muse(s)? Maybe because we’ve (those ephemeral tricksters) and I have eluded each other somewhat lately.

        OK, I’m back on board with the word “Museum” as term for those treasure boxes of life and inspiration.

        1. When my Muse disappears, I always check out Poughkeepsie first. Why? I don’t know. It’s just laugh-out-loud funny to me, the thought of such a powerful yet ephemeral creature ending up there. Sort of like Indianapolis, or Little Rock. ;)

          Home now – and I missed the museum in Des Moines, mostly because I cruised past on the interstate at 8 pm and wasn’t ready to backtrack when Minnesota lay ahead.

          But my gosh! Did I love Galena and Hannibal. There will be another trip, for sure – such beautiful country you have!

    1. Desirée,

      Thank you so much. And congratulations are in order to you for getting into the top 50 with “Tommy”. I think the announcement will be made the day I get home – can’t wait to hear!


  15. Linda, I so appreciate your thoughtfulness in many ways. One of them being to share with us the journey towards home with your dear mother.Someone said that “it is not the destination that is important but the journey”.

    I believe that the journey home was a wonderful opportunity to recall memories of your family life, especially with your mother. The destination is just as important since it was your mother’s wish. I feel very moved reading you. Thank you.

    1. Isa,

      It was a wonderful journey, in every way. Not only were Mom’s wishes observed, it was possible to share the experience with family and friends. Many of the neighbors we knew still are in the same houses, and we also visited with them. Most amazing is that the family home still matches my memories of it. Two families have owned it since Mom moved, but little has changed except the size of the trees.

      And best of all, the day of her internment was perfect – blue skies, cool breezes, red, yellow and gold trees with leaves drifting down around us. The next day? Gloomy, windy and rainy! What a blessing we were given!


  16. Linda, this was a lovely piece – sad, but tender as well, with lightness and appreciation – a joyfulness peeking around the edges of the hard transition. May your mother be at peace, and your heart as well. Glad you spent a bit of time in my state – though perhaps you caught the late raininess instead of the earlier lazy extended summer.

    1. Mary Ellen,

      The unexpected benefit of time between Mom’s death and burial is that, by the day of the internment, the grief had been nearly replaced by peace. Every thing was simplicity, and in the end, everything “came round right”. It was wonderful.

      As for Minnesota – oh, my! What a delight my time there was! There will be more mention here on the blog as I get settled and posting again. After all – who could resist sharing Blue Earth and the Jolly Green Giant? ;-)

      There was a bit of rain here and there, but there was plenty of sunshine, too, that made the corn glisten and shine. Only a born-and-bred midwesterner could be overcome by the sight of so much beautiful corn, I suppose. Six dollars a bushel was the last figure I heard – my gosh! I suppose that’s partly the ethanol effect.

      I’d best stop before I post about Minnesota right here! Thanks for stopping by – when I get back to your state (which I will) maybe I’ll make it as far north as your home!


  17. That needlepoint is exquisite and the beauty of it simply elegant. I love what her friends did for her with their thoughts on paper. It gives them some closure, each in their own way. I’m sure the notes must have been your idea. I’m touched by this story, more than I can put into words. So, just know that I am one, among many, who have been warmed by the memories wrapped in love. Wendy

    1. Bayou Woman,

      Actually, those notes were a total surprise to me. They were completely her friends’ idea, and they were doubly touching because of it.

      It’s funny how so-called “primitive thinking” can appear now and then. When it began to get cold in Iowa and Minnesota, I was so happy for that knitted bag. After all, I thought – Mom always was getting cold and putting on a sweater! ;-)

      i’ve been reading but not commenting much – I do hope that new bulb still is doing what it’s supposed to and you’re not having to heave anchors around!


    1. everythinginbetween,

      I’m safe at home, reading to snuggle back into my routine, and make some changes to that routine at the same time.

      It was a wonderful trip, filled with discoveries, closures, beatiful weather and enough great midwestern food to make me think a first project will be taking off a few pounds!

      Thanks for stopping by, and for your good wishes. It is, as they say, time to move on – albeit in a slightly different way.


  18. Somehow, I clicked over to you from somewhere and am glad that I did. This post is so beautifully written and through your Mother I was able to see mine . That is something….. Thank you for sharing this.

    1. lesliepaints,

      Actually, I suspect I know how you got here. Steve Schwartzman left me a link to your post about painting with your granddaughter on my post called “The Foreign and the Familiar” – the next one down on the page. You probably got a trackback. Isn’t the web wonderful?

      Thanks so much for your kind words. Our mothers are so precious – in life or in death. It’s touched me so to know that my words about my own Mom have resonated with others.

      Thanks for stopping by – you’re welcome any time!


    1. maggie,

      So many of those life-lessons linger for those of us born and bred in the 40s and 50s. Even today, when I pack for a trip, I always include double the underwear that might reasonably be required. After all – you wouldn’t want to embarass yourself by needing to do laundry, now would you? ;-)

      As for the rest – I’m at peace with it all now, if occasionally a bit teary (as when I come here). It’s time now for new postings and moving on – harder to do than I’d imagined.


  19. Linda – I loved your story about taking your mom ‘home’. I’ve always been more about the journey than the destination! I just loved everything about this story, and with what happened in my small little town recently, it was extremely calming to me to read of a gentle, final resting place. Thanks for sharing!

  20. Karen,

    Death is one thing. Sudden, shocking death as you experienced in Seal Beach is another. Still, there can be resolution in both instances, and that’s what I see happening in your town. It will take time, of course. But it will come.

    I’ve looked but can’t find a prayer I remember from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. The phrase I remember is the petition for a “good and gentle death”. It seems I’ve always known Dylan Thomas’ poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night”, but I’ve come to think his assertion that old age should “rage” against death is – well, can I say dead wrong? Sometimes rage is appropriate in the face of death – as in your town – but how blessed when it gives way to peace.


  21. Perfect! I was wondering how you were going to manage this part of the journey and you didn’t disappoint. So glad to have met you en route–and to have received such a blessing. (The gas can wasn’t too shabby, either!)

    1. Tom,

      I wondered how I was going to manage it, too. ;-) Next challenge? Making use of my own remaining years.

      It did occur to me somewhere along the way that the bag was very much a little hand-knit cairn. We all deal in our own way, for sure.
      Glad I got to see you & L, and your own memorial to a loved one, while I was traveling!


  22. In your writing of this, Linda, I feel the sense of humor, comfort, and peace, in spite of the myriad emotions you must have felt on this, her last journey from A to B. I can’t think of a more loving way to say Farewell to your mother. Surely she looked down on you and smiled, “Well done!”

    The gunkholing trip back-n-forth…I feel the catharsis of it for you!

    1. Ginnie,

      While Mom was still living and in my care, I often wished I could travel. How ironic, then, that my first traveling should be to take her home – ironic, and appropriate.

      The truth of it is that the trip – the whole trip – was enjoyable and comfortable. Of course there was sorrow, and a sense of loss. But wrenching grief? Regret over words unspoken or wrong actions? No, there was none of that. We were given the gift of time to say goodbye, and we did.

      Now, she’s at rest, and it’s time for me to start traveling for real – whatever that means.


  23. So sorry to hear about your mother, but it’s nice to see you have so much respect for dying relatives. For me it has always been the hardest when relatives are not doing well, but holding on in pain or with their mental state not what it used to be due to their age.

    Two of my relatives, a grand mother and a great grand mother have lived long, hard honorable lives. Humble and gracious, hardworking, working class from families that created wealth, but lost everything due to the stock market crash (even though they had no money invested, only in their savings) They came out west again with nothing and took job in a factory (Mcdonnell Douglass both my grandfather and grandmother) working far past standard retirement age)

    These people, all deserve respect, esp when it they are not exactly doing well, like I am sure you and your family appreciated your work and posts as a tribute to them. I should send you some pictures of them, because it is eerie how closely they resemble your relatives in other heartfelt posts. I only hope that someone from my family can pay tribute to my loved ones in such respectful ways so that their accomplishments and other deeds they may have been modest about the private lives, yet honored in blogs posts so that their bright sides shine.

    1. who,

      Thank you so much for your condolences, and for sharing so much about your family. There’s no question that our predecessors understood both hard work and the importance of living honorably.

      I suppose this year what I’m most grateful for in this season of Thanksgiving is that I was able to keep Mom from most of the worst aggravations and worries of age. There were things I missed, and things I could have done differently, but that’s true for any of us, in any circumstance.

      Thanks again for your kind words – I know that when your time comes to pay tribute to someone, you’ll do well.


  24. God bless you and your Mom. A most apropos departure for a loved one.

    I remember spreading half of my Dad’s ashes in the flower garden bordering his church in Victoria and the remainder in the Pacific Ocean, cast from his sail boat. The church has a plaque carved by his brother with the words: ‘ To a kind and faithful servant – a job well done.’

    May all our loved ones not be forgotten, and may they rest in peace. Their spirits live on forever.


    1. Rick,

      You may have seen elsewhere (because I say it often) my conviction that “everything counts”. A corollary is that “nothing is forgotten”. Those are statements of faith, of course, but being unprovable in a laboratory doesn’t make them less true.

      The words on your father’s plaque are an interesting and lovely twist on the old saying – not “good and faithful” servant, but “kind and faithful”. I like that, and the fact that the change in wording happened is itself a tesament to the kind (of) life your father lived.

      These entries were difficult to write, but I’m so glad I made the effort. I’ve enjoyed re-reading them, myself. Thanks for your kind response.


  25. “wrapped in warm, fuzzy love” ~ nothing could be better. But I also think of the loving hands involved in this final journey. They are as gentle and comforting as those that welcome us into the world. The cycle is complete.

    1. Indeed. And just yesterday, I resolved a lingering issue that had been bothering me: what to do with my mother’s wedding rings. With no one to pass them down to, I’ve worried that they would be tossed once I’m gone, or sold by someone who didn’t care about them — and I simply couldn’t sell them myself.

      The solution’s too complex to go into here, but I’m going to try and write about it. Suffice it to say I found a small-town solution in the midst of a very big city, and it’s perfect. There’s not much perfection in this world, so it’s always heart-warming to stumble over a bit.

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