First in Flex Time
Copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
When I think back to my experience as the candy counter girl at the Avon Theatre all those years ago in Chicago, I realize that my persona as the dreamy, creative, writer-type was only partly accurate. While my apparent lack of practicality was considered charming by those who loved me, it obscured another layer of personality, a crafty and shrewd entrepeneur, who at the age of 13 anticipated job-sharing several generations ahead of its time.
It was the forties, and my father had died a few years previously. My family never lacked food or shelter, but money was scarce for clothes other than hand-me-downs or for the frivolous pleasures of that adolescent time such as ice-cream sodas and velveteen hair ribbons. Like many of my friends, I was always looking for ways to earn a little cash so I could buy the “Sloppy Joe” sweaters (cardigans worn buttoned down the back with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows) pleated skirts, and dirty saddle shoes which were as much the uniforms of that time as are the painted-on jeans and breast-hugging tops and thongs of todays teen scene.
If we could pass for 16, we could get part-time jobs other than baby-sitting and running errands. Being tall for my age, I had already worked for Lerner's Dress Store I hated, hated, HATED having to re-fold ladies' lingerie after it had been tried on and rejected, which I did for hour after dismal hour, three evenings a week, and then at night dreamed fitfully of doing it some more. Girdles, bras, panties, half slips, full slips, small sizes, medium sizes, large sizes, pink, white, ecru, rayon, (silk was too expensive for this line, and nylon was not yet available ) rumpled, wrinkled, and sometimes smelly from having been tried on and pulled off dozens of times, fold them up, put them back in stock, then do it again and again...
The "Help Wanted. Candy Counter Girl." sign (“equal opporunity” was further away in the future than nylon; boys ushered, girls sold candy and that’s the way it was) at the neighborhood Avon Theatre was my ticket out of underwear hell. I filled out an application, lying about my age as usual, handed it in, and a couple of days later was called downtown for an interiew by the Personnel Manager, a pleasant, portly man who hired me on the spot : five evenings a week and half-day Saturday.
“You seem like the kind of young person this theater chain likes to encourage,” he said. “ Perhaps eventually you can get a position with us as a cashier. Good luck!”.
My duties included dispensing candy bars (Hershey’s, Three Musketeers, Mars) boxes of Good ‘N Plenty, Ju-Ju Bees, Milk Duds, Cracker Jack, and Necco Wafers, and of course, popcorn. I was also responsible for keeping the popping machine machine clean and full.
Perks included free admission (regular ticket prices: ten cents.) any time, and unlimited flirting with the ushers, handsome as young soldiers in their royal blue uniforms. A vast improvement over Ladies' Lingerie with its puny discount on stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The downside was that working so many hours didn't leave a lot of time for homework, or for what is now called “hanging out.” I don’t think we had a term for it then, we just did it.
Obviously, working half time would be perfect. The solution was at hand: I asked my best buddie Margot if she would like to share the job with me. After all, we shared school lunches, homework answers, deep confidences, so why not employment? She'd gotten a look at the cute ushers; her family had even less money than mine; we cut a deal. The paycheck was mailed to me weekly, I cashed it, we divided it. No problem.
Oh, the adventures we had! Entertaining the customers with jokes and conversation;, seeing for free movies like “Now Voyager,” “Fugitive of the Plains,” “Hollywood Canteen,” “The Contender,” and “Mildred Pierce,” with stars like Bette Davis, Sidney Greenstreet, Joan Crawford, John Garfield, and Buster Crabbe; comparing notes on our mutual time off on the perceived excellence of cinema art and boys.
A highlight was when the tub of viscous yellow flavoring, labeled “butter” (like “equal opportunity,” we didn’t know from “truth in advertising” back then) had to be refilled. One of the ushers would accompany the candy girl of the moment to the dark store room behind the screen and gallantly help lug the heavy metal container out to the candy counter. And a nice opportunity it was for them to display their strength, shouldering the tub as though it were no heavier than the Jumbo size box of the popcorn it would soon more or less flavor.
Ah yes, behind the screen. In that dim cavern redolent of artificial butter going rancid, and ancient dust and mouse droppings, I was given, and lost, my big chance with the usher of my dreams, the one with licorice black hair and knowing blue eyes. He asked if he could kiss me. I wanted him to; it would have been my first “real” kiss. But infected by the teen magazine morality of those old days, (which believe me were not as good as you may have heard) I refused. Steadfastly. Stupidly.
Finally he gave up, with a disdainful “I thought you knew the score.” We emerged from the den of prudery to the hoots and laughter of all the other ushers who of course assumed that we had been passionately “necking.” My pursuer, who did know the score, let them think exactly what they thought; he smirked, winked, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief as though trying to erase smudges of the Ponds Lips (guaranteed to “not only get their man but stay on and on and on”) I sparingly applied. Now I knew what my mother meant by “having the name but not the game." My reputation was smirched, though I had not smooched, nor had one moment’s pleasure.
I determined to play my cards differently the next time, but while I was trying to figure out exactly what the rules and strategies were, I received a letter from the downtown Personnel Manager, tersely instructing me to appear at his office immediately
Perhaps I was getting a raise! Silly, naïve me. What I got was dressing down To the effect that I was not allowed to "sub-contract" on my own authority. What "subcontract?" I was just sharing with a friend.
It didn’t occur to me to wonder then, as I do now, how he learned of the unorthodox arrangement. The usher of my dreams had been working at the Avon for several years – perhaps he realized something was out of order, and – could he have been so low? – retaliated for my rebuff by turning me in for a working arrangement I considered sensible, not criminal.
However I had been brought to this reading of the riot act, it was a short performance. As I braced myself for the line “You’re fired! Clean out the candy counter and leave!” the Personnel Managed leaned his considerable bulk back into the leather swivel chair, replaced the punitve frown with a friendly, avuncular grin, and said,
“O.K. Ruth, you get the point. Now I don’t mind telling you that you are a very enterprising young lady, and I like that. I’ll also tell you that the manager at the Avon says you and your friend are both cheerful, efficient, friendly counter girls. Maybe a little too friendly with the ushers, but we’ll let that pass. I’m willing to fix it so you and your friend are each hired on a part-time basis. Just don’t take matters in your own hands again, or you'll both be fired, without references.” (The Chicago version of Hollywood’s “You’ll never work in this town again.”)
Had I realized that young people kissing in the dark is not necessarily the first step to wanton degradation, my first real kiss could have been to the accompaniement of dialog between stars of the silver screen, maybe even Kathryn Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
So much for what we now recognize as “thinking outside the box.”
As they say, “too soon old, too late smart.”
I didn’t get rich. I did get kissed, eventually.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
"What was I saying?"
copyright May 2008 by Ruth Lampert
As a child my notorious absent-mindedness was something of a curse. Today, having passed the three-quarter century mark, (I forgot exactly when) I think it was the proverbial blessing in disguise. Other folks, even those a decade or two younger, fuss and moan about how they enter a room and wonder “what did I come here for?,” or can’t remember their appointments and must rely on writing everything down and then remembering to read what they wrote, or want to introduce their boss and can’t think of her name.
Heck, I’ve been doing that stuff for a lifetime, so it doesn’t really bother me.
My prime example of the phenomenon goes back to when I was about ten years old, a student at Darwin Elementary School in Chicago.( As we know, long-term memory remains muscular) One of my chores was to drop the garbage into the backyard incinerator on my way to school. (No garbage disposals back then, and no restrictions on home incinerators)
The routine was to dump the brown bag, exit the yard into the alley, proceed to Kedzie Boulevard where the crossing guard “Injun Joe” (no political correctness back then either) made sure cars stopped for us and where I usually met two or three buddies to walk with the rest of the way.
Maybe I left early that morning, or more likely, late, because I didn’t meet anyone on the way. If I had, they would doubtless have inquired as to what exactly it was I was lugging to school that day. As with “highway hypnosis,” which years later would become a recognized phenomenon (what can I say? I was ahead of my time) I correctly executed all the required turns and stops, arrived at school, went to my classroom, and sat down at my desk while still deep in day dreams. …
. The next thing I was aware of was the teacher asking:
“Ruth, why did you bring a bag of garbage to school with you?”
What? Who, me? Garbage? School? Huh?
I looked at the desk top. Sure enough, there it was, the bag of garbage which was supposed to have been dropped into the incinerator. It must have been a sturdy bag because the contents had not leaked through. The same cannot be said of the odor.
Probably there were some titters, probably the teacher instructed me to take the garbage down to the basement and dump it in a trash can, probably I did; the last clear recall I have is of how strange it was to see a garbage bag on top of my desk, right next to the ink well.
Another school-related incident of what would nowadays probably be labeled Attention Deficit Disorder:
` The playground at recess was always a noisy swirl of activity, with frenzied competition to get in line for the long, winding slide, a favorite, if frightening activity. Somehow I never got into the line quickly enough (probably I was looking for a misplaced jacket or picking up the pencils and paper I had accidentally flung to the floor in my clumsy haste to , just once, get to the playground in time) and there I would be as usual, waiting, squirming in line ,when the bell went off signalling the end of recess and the return to the classroom.
So it was with a sense of being hit with a miracle on that bright day when I got to the playground to find it – empty! Thrilled at being the first one out I ran immediately to the coveted slide, clambered up the steps, slid on down, and got back in line again – except there still was no line. I figured this was a reward for my having endured so many disappointing recesses – Someone up there had decided to make up to me for all the slide turns I had never gotten.
After about the fourth “turn” however something about all the calm and quiet began to seem..if not ominous, curious…where, in fact, was everybody? Why was I the only one on the yard? And was that my mother hurrying toward me, wearing the familiar parental expression of mixed relief and anger?
“What are you doing here, Mom?” I asked as she grabbed my arm.
“What am I doing here?” she shrieked, What are you doing here? You should have been home 20 minutes ago! I’ve been worried sick!”
Why, I started to wonder, would I be expected at home during rec…oh oh. It finally dawned on me……this wasn’t recess, it was the end of the school day and everyone had left for home. (This was before there were after-school programs for kids whose mothers “,worked” , the accepted workplace of all mothers was in the kitchen.)
Nowadays I obsessively note everything in my appointment so as to be sure I will be there at the appointed time and place. It works, too; in almost three decades of private practice I have only double-booked twice, and completely forgotten once. In all cases my clients were gracious about it, remembering that my policy re cancellations is that everyone gets one free goof ( forgetting to call, or arriving at the wrong time) and in all fairness, that policy that includes me. .
But it is embarrassing to ocassionaly think I have left a phone message for someone only to discover later that I actually left it on my own voice mail; even worse is e-mailing to the wrong address, writing to one person about another person, and sending it to the person being written about. Fortunately my friends, like my clients, remain forgiving about this sort of thing. So far.
Thus do I manage to live with this troublesome aspect of aging. My mantra of denial is,:
“Hey, I’ve always been absent-minded!”
Whatever works, right?
As a child my notorious absent-mindedness was something of a curse. Today, having passed the three-quarter century mark, (I forgot exactly when) I think it was the proverbial blessing in disguise. Other folks, even those a decade or two younger, fuss and moan about how they enter a room and wonder “what did I come here for?,” or can’t remember their appointments and must rely on writing everything down and then remembering to read what they wrote, or want to introduce their boss and can’t think of her name.
Heck, I’ve been doing that stuff for a lifetime, so it doesn’t really bother me.
My prime example of the phenomenon goes back to when I was about ten years old, a student at Darwin Elementary School in Chicago.( As we know, long-term memory remains muscular) One of my chores was to drop the garbage into the backyard incinerator on my way to school. (No garbage disposals back then, and no restrictions on home incinerators)
The routine was to dump the brown bag, exit the yard into the alley, proceed to Kedzie Boulevard where the crossing guard “Injun Joe” (no political correctness back then either) made sure cars stopped for us and where I usually met two or three buddies to walk with the rest of the way.
Maybe I left early that morning, or more likely, late, because I didn’t meet anyone on the way. If I had, they would doubtless have inquired as to what exactly it was I was lugging to school that day. As with “highway hypnosis,” which years later would become a recognized phenomenon (what can I say? I was ahead of my time) I correctly executed all the required turns and stops, arrived at school, went to my classroom, and sat down at my desk while still deep in day dreams. …
. The next thing I was aware of was the teacher asking:
“Ruth, why did you bring a bag of garbage to school with you?”
What? Who, me? Garbage? School? Huh?
I looked at the desk top. Sure enough, there it was, the bag of garbage which was supposed to have been dropped into the incinerator. It must have been a sturdy bag because the contents had not leaked through. The same cannot be said of the odor.
Probably there were some titters, probably the teacher instructed me to take the garbage down to the basement and dump it in a trash can, probably I did; the last clear recall I have is of how strange it was to see a garbage bag on top of my desk, right next to the ink well.
Another school-related incident of what would nowadays probably be labeled Attention Deficit Disorder:
` The playground at recess was always a noisy swirl of activity, with frenzied competition to get in line for the long, winding slide, a favorite, if frightening activity. Somehow I never got into the line quickly enough (probably I was looking for a misplaced jacket or picking up the pencils and paper I had accidentally flung to the floor in my clumsy haste to , just once, get to the playground in time) and there I would be as usual, waiting, squirming in line ,when the bell went off signalling the end of recess and the return to the classroom.
So it was with a sense of being hit with a miracle on that bright day when I got to the playground to find it – empty! Thrilled at being the first one out I ran immediately to the coveted slide, clambered up the steps, slid on down, and got back in line again – except there still was no line. I figured this was a reward for my having endured so many disappointing recesses – Someone up there had decided to make up to me for all the slide turns I had never gotten.
After about the fourth “turn” however something about all the calm and quiet began to seem..if not ominous, curious…where, in fact, was everybody? Why was I the only one on the yard? And was that my mother hurrying toward me, wearing the familiar parental expression of mixed relief and anger?
“What are you doing here, Mom?” I asked as she grabbed my arm.
“What am I doing here?” she shrieked, What are you doing here? You should have been home 20 minutes ago! I’ve been worried sick!”
Why, I started to wonder, would I be expected at home during rec…oh oh. It finally dawned on me……this wasn’t recess, it was the end of the school day and everyone had left for home. (This was before there were after-school programs for kids whose mothers “,worked” , the accepted workplace of all mothers was in the kitchen.)
Nowadays I obsessively note everything in my appointment so as to be sure I will be there at the appointed time and place. It works, too; in almost three decades of private practice I have only double-booked twice, and completely forgotten once. In all cases my clients were gracious about it, remembering that my policy re cancellations is that everyone gets one free goof ( forgetting to call, or arriving at the wrong time) and in all fairness, that policy that includes me. .
But it is embarrassing to ocassionaly think I have left a phone message for someone only to discover later that I actually left it on my own voice mail; even worse is e-mailing to the wrong address, writing to one person about another person, and sending it to the person being written about. Fortunately my friends, like my clients, remain forgiving about this sort of thing. So far.
Thus do I manage to live with this troublesome aspect of aging. My mantra of denial is,:
“Hey, I’ve always been absent-minded!”
Whatever works, right?
Friday, March 21, 2008
Would I Lie?
Copyright by Ruth Lampert March 2008
One of the ways you can tell that my memoir, “Ruth on Wry,” is true is that it is not about surviving a cruel , abusive past. And if I did embellish a bit here and there to make an anecdote more entertaining, isn’t that what story-tellers always do? O.K., so maybe every little detail isn’t totally in accord with the known facts. Maybe I wasn’t actually wearing a plaid pleated skirt and knee socks on the day I carried the garbage to school instead of dumping it into the backyard incinerator. But I did carry the garbage to school one time, and I did wear plaid pleated skirts and knee socks, lots of times.
And the story about my thinking the hot tub was for nude bathing when actually it wasn’t, isn’t the most original embarrassing moment ever recounted – apparently not only in dreams does one find oneself semi or not-at-all clothed in places where the dress code means you can’t be butt naked.
The instances of fake memoirs are increasing, or maybe they are just coming to light more frequently these days. I find myself wondering if some of those famous/classic life stories, which I will not mention here for fear of legal
consequences were – well, if not completely invented, significantly fictionalized. Michael Kinsley in his recent Time Magazine essay, says “It is time for a prestigious commission to re-examine all autobiographies, including classics like Rousseau’s Confession and The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.” I presume he has competent legal advisors. At first I thought he was serious, but then he notes “It’s only a matter of time until Little Red Riding admits that her story is ‘exaggerated’ I have some grandmother stories myself that benefit from a touch of creative embellishment, although it is quite true that when she scolded the neighborhood children for drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk, and they responded “The sidewalk is public!” she did actually scream at them in her memorable Hungarian accent, “Your ass be public too!” I have witnesses to this and other less-than-typical-grandma anecdotes. .
Another way you can tell that my memoir is based on truth is that it is not particularly inspirational. Not that growing up was without trials and hardships, most significantly the tragedy of my father’s early death. But I did not experience sexual molestation, hunger, or homelessness. The apartment in Chicago was indeed crowded, and I guess by today’s standards five people and one bathroom seems semi-slum, but actually, it was pretty nice.
There is one inspirational aspect to “Ruth on Wry” – it may lead you to think “If this airhead can write a book, so can I.”
Margaret Seltzer was exposed by her very own sister for her recent, best-selling, and fraudulent, Love and Consequences. As for me, I am confident my sister will not blow the whistle on my creative exaggerations and adornments. She doesn’t have a computer, so she doesn’t read my blog.
About my brother, I’m not so sure.
One of the ways you can tell that my memoir, “Ruth on Wry,” is true is that it is not about surviving a cruel , abusive past. And if I did embellish a bit here and there to make an anecdote more entertaining, isn’t that what story-tellers always do? O.K., so maybe every little detail isn’t totally in accord with the known facts. Maybe I wasn’t actually wearing a plaid pleated skirt and knee socks on the day I carried the garbage to school instead of dumping it into the backyard incinerator. But I did carry the garbage to school one time, and I did wear plaid pleated skirts and knee socks, lots of times.
And the story about my thinking the hot tub was for nude bathing when actually it wasn’t, isn’t the most original embarrassing moment ever recounted – apparently not only in dreams does one find oneself semi or not-at-all clothed in places where the dress code means you can’t be butt naked.
The instances of fake memoirs are increasing, or maybe they are just coming to light more frequently these days. I find myself wondering if some of those famous/classic life stories, which I will not mention here for fear of legal
consequences were – well, if not completely invented, significantly fictionalized. Michael Kinsley in his recent Time Magazine essay, says “It is time for a prestigious commission to re-examine all autobiographies, including classics like Rousseau’s Confession and The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.” I presume he has competent legal advisors. At first I thought he was serious, but then he notes “It’s only a matter of time until Little Red Riding admits that her story is ‘exaggerated’ I have some grandmother stories myself that benefit from a touch of creative embellishment, although it is quite true that when she scolded the neighborhood children for drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk, and they responded “The sidewalk is public!” she did actually scream at them in her memorable Hungarian accent, “Your ass be public too!” I have witnesses to this and other less-than-typical-grandma anecdotes. .
Another way you can tell that my memoir is based on truth is that it is not particularly inspirational. Not that growing up was without trials and hardships, most significantly the tragedy of my father’s early death. But I did not experience sexual molestation, hunger, or homelessness. The apartment in Chicago was indeed crowded, and I guess by today’s standards five people and one bathroom seems semi-slum, but actually, it was pretty nice.
There is one inspirational aspect to “Ruth on Wry” – it may lead you to think “If this airhead can write a book, so can I.”
Margaret Seltzer was exposed by her very own sister for her recent, best-selling, and fraudulent, Love and Consequences. As for me, I am confident my sister will not blow the whistle on my creative exaggerations and adornments. She doesn’t have a computer, so she doesn’t read my blog.
About my brother, I’m not so sure.
My Reading Disorder
copyright by Ruth Lampert
Hello. I'm Ruth and I'm a periodicaholic. Here is my story. . It all started one night many years ago in Tucson, Arizona when I discovered I had nothing to read. I searched every room in the house, including the bathroom, but all I could find was either stuff I had already read (my habit is the kind that can’t be satisfied by re-reading,) or stuff such as third-grade readers, which, thank God, I had not yet sunk so low as to ingest. And while I might read the odd cereal box of a morning, it just doesn’t do for a bedtime fix.
It was too late to knock on a neighbor’s door, and anyway most of them were addicted to different sorts of substances. The library was closed. We lived too far from a convenience store to drive out for the literary equivalent of a bottle of cheap wine; jeopardizing the kids' safety by leaving them alone for a lengthy period would mean I had indeed hit the skids, if not the bottom. I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.
It was heartbreaking to see four innocent children huddled together as I wildly searched the trash bin, the top shelves of the cupboards, and the bottom drawers of the dressers. Poor babies; their parents separated, their mother an addict. For their sakes, I got a grip and stoically went to bed with my craving unslaked. But not before I went outdoors, shook my fist at the dry desert night and bawled ala Scarlet O’Hara,
"I'll never be without reading material again!"
Like many addicts, I suffer from dual dependency. As I have confessed on other occasions, I can't resist a discount. So when those enticements arrive in the mail --First issue free! Save 75 % off newsstand price! Renew now at lowest possible price! -- my resolve weakens faster than you can say "One page at a time." A quick check mark in the appropriate box delivers a twofold rush of relief: the prospect of unlimited reading material and huge savings.
So I bite, and what hook has a more seductive tang than "the first one is free?” I can always cancel, right? So no big deal, right? I can quit anytime I want. Or better yet, I'll just cut back. I'll limit the number, exercise discipline, contain, control, be civilized about it, be a strictly recreational user. And no more hard stuff, like books. . Hey, I put in a long day, and if I want a little diversion to help me wind down, what's the harm?
The kids are grown now, and yes, some of them have inherited, or learned my compulsions. (1) But they handle it. They are functioning well. And some of the sins of the mother are offset, I hope, by her virtues. I have kept my desert night vow. I am never without something to read., although I am sometimes without a place to set down a coffee cup. (Actually, that is as much the fault of my co-dependant who has a really big classical CD habit. But I know that the only person I can control is myself.)
So that’s my story. And the truth is, I really don’t want to reform. I just want a bigger place to store all this stuff -- and I want it at a real bargain price.
Thank you for listening. And reading.
Hello. I'm Ruth and I'm a periodicaholic. Here is my story. . It all started one night many years ago in Tucson, Arizona when I discovered I had nothing to read. I searched every room in the house, including the bathroom, but all I could find was either stuff I had already read (my habit is the kind that can’t be satisfied by re-reading,) or stuff such as third-grade readers, which, thank God, I had not yet sunk so low as to ingest. And while I might read the odd cereal box of a morning, it just doesn’t do for a bedtime fix.
It was too late to knock on a neighbor’s door, and anyway most of them were addicted to different sorts of substances. The library was closed. We lived too far from a convenience store to drive out for the literary equivalent of a bottle of cheap wine; jeopardizing the kids' safety by leaving them alone for a lengthy period would mean I had indeed hit the skids, if not the bottom. I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.
It was heartbreaking to see four innocent children huddled together as I wildly searched the trash bin, the top shelves of the cupboards, and the bottom drawers of the dressers. Poor babies; their parents separated, their mother an addict. For their sakes, I got a grip and stoically went to bed with my craving unslaked. But not before I went outdoors, shook my fist at the dry desert night and bawled ala Scarlet O’Hara,
"I'll never be without reading material again!"
Like many addicts, I suffer from dual dependency. As I have confessed on other occasions, I can't resist a discount. So when those enticements arrive in the mail --First issue free! Save 75 % off newsstand price! Renew now at lowest possible price! -- my resolve weakens faster than you can say "One page at a time." A quick check mark in the appropriate box delivers a twofold rush of relief: the prospect of unlimited reading material and huge savings.
So I bite, and what hook has a more seductive tang than "the first one is free?” I can always cancel, right? So no big deal, right? I can quit anytime I want. Or better yet, I'll just cut back. I'll limit the number, exercise discipline, contain, control, be civilized about it, be a strictly recreational user. And no more hard stuff, like books. . Hey, I put in a long day, and if I want a little diversion to help me wind down, what's the harm?
The kids are grown now, and yes, some of them have inherited, or learned my compulsions. (1) But they handle it. They are functioning well. And some of the sins of the mother are offset, I hope, by her virtues. I have kept my desert night vow. I am never without something to read., although I am sometimes without a place to set down a coffee cup. (Actually, that is as much the fault of my co-dependant who has a really big classical CD habit. But I know that the only person I can control is myself.)
So that’s my story. And the truth is, I really don’t want to reform. I just want a bigger place to store all this stuff -- and I want it at a real bargain price.
Thank you for listening. And reading.
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