I was standing in front of our new old house, studying its unusual architecture. Marc was at his new junior high school, and Al was at his new job in a federal office in Athens, Ohio. Yes, that’s right, we’d moved back to where we met, went to college, started our life together, and where our son was born. It had been about 13 years since we left the hometown of Ohio University,
and now we were back. Al applied for a supervisor position in the Athens office, a promotion, and got it. I resigned from my job at Kent State after nine years in higher education.
Our son was still resisting the transition from a town where most of his classmates would go on to college to a city where a good percentage of them would not. During deer season, more than half of his Athen’s 7th-grade class (at that time) skipped school to go hunting. The day we moved back to Athens, Marc ran away from home for a few hours, absolutely refusing to live in what he felt was such a backward place. I was a wreck until finding him a few blocks away. I was also angry but held it in check because I knew this move had been hard on him. Three months later, he seemed to have accepted his new school better, didn’t hate our new old house so much anymore, and was beginning to make new friends.
We had to rent a different house for the first three months since the one we bought still had students renting it until June. I was waiting for a moving van to bring our furniture from the rental to this odd-looking house on Home Street. When it was built in about 1875, this area was farmland. The house was a simple structure with two front doors, a pretty front porch, and an unusual brick chimney that rose up from the roof in a spiral shape. I had studied old houses for a long time and had never seen one quite like this farmhouse, sitting on the city's edge (back then). Across from the house was a massive field with no structures, just tall weeds, birds, and, I suspect, other critters. This short little street called Home was a haven in the middle of a bustling community. Almost every house in this 1920s-era neighborhood had students as renters or were the homes of college professors and their families.
When Al was deciding whether to accept the new position in Athens, he said it depended on me. Instead of trying to get a new non-academic job at Ohio University, he hoped I would consider starting a full-time business as a professional artist, doing art shows and putting my work in galleries. He felt that since I’d worked all those years so he could get his three degrees, I should have the chance to follow a dream I’d had since college.
That decision was not difficult for me. I cashed out all of the money I had in the Kent State retirement system to have funds to operate a new business until I could begin to bring in profits. My long-range intentions were to save as much as I could to put our son through college in just four more years. I should’ve been scared, but I wasn’t. I’d had a taste of making money by selling my artwork in Kent. Now I would need to be disciplined enough to work each day to build enough inventory for upcoming shows. So I hit the road running.
The best parts of our new old house were an unusual chimney and two front doors. After some research, I learned that back in the day, the door on the right led to the everyday living quarters, with a fireplace and many windows. The door on the left led to what was then a parlor for Sunday guests. I would now use the Sunday parlor as my studio. It was a large open room with built-in shelves, a shared fireplace, and many windows. It was bright and charming in a simple way and would be a perfect place for me to work every day.
Beyond the living quarters was a nice-sized kitchen with plain wood cabinets from the 1950s, I guessed, and a green Formica countertop. It was nothing fancy but usable. To the left of the kitchen was a small dining room with a period chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. Off the back of the kitchen was the only bathroom, and off the dining room was a small room with a washer and dryer, plus the hot water heater. Finally, up a very steep staircase between the kitchen and dining room were two large rooms on the second floor; Marc’s bedroom was on the left, ours on the right. It was a basic old farmhouse, but fine for the three of us.
All of us had gone through a big adjustment. Al was in a new job, Marc had to enter a new school in the middle of the school year, and I was starting a new business. If any of us should’ve panicked, it ought to have been me. I was the one whose head was figuratively on the chopping block. If I did well enough in my new business, it would be a rousing success, but if I failed, I’d have to go back to the grind of working for someone else, and I did not see myself doing that ever again. Way down the road, I’d have to rethink that assertion.
While waiting to move into our new old house, I’d already applied to most of the best art shows in Ohio. There was a network then which still exists now, a guild that lists all the shows, dates, and addresses of the promoters or organizations. I’d used that information to request applications. I then applied to the chosen ones, using slides of my artwork taken by a professional photographer. I planned on building a professional show booth that would be easy to set up alone if Al could not go with me. It was an exciting time for all of us.
I was inspired to paint full-time, using old photos of period paintings from Norwegian museums, a month-long trip to Norway, and many books I’d obtained there to study details of the historic designs. Once acceptances came in, I realized I’d be on the road during weekends most of the year, a boon for me. In addition, many of the shows I’d been accepted to were ones that I had a good chance for excellent sales. I based that on reviews in publications and feedback from artists. So my first year as a self-employed artist was looking good.
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ROAD TRIPS
For over twenty-five years, I was a professional working artist. During that time, I eventually made a relatively good income. It is one of my proudest accomplishments to have put my son through his bachelor’s degree and then to have helped him with law school from the profits of my business.
As I said, I painted an 18th-century folk art from Norway called Rosemaling. In my part of the United States, there were few professional Rosemalers. However, because the art is so unique, intricate, and challenging, I was fortunate that some of the best art and crafts shows in the Midwest and East Coast selected me to participate. Being a driven person with a lot of self-discipline, I produced a sizeable amount of work during all those years.
You must travel to make a good living in the fine arts and crafts business. There are certain critical geographic/demographic areas where many people live who have enough money to buy art and fine crafts. Those same people also need a certain amount of cultural appreciation to purchase such things. I did many shows regionally in Ohio and nearby states, but the big money was in the East. On average, I participated in seventeen shows a year. That meant painting every day, year-round, and lots of travel along the roads of America.
As you may have noticed, many of my GOTR tales happened along roads and highways. Let me give you a few examples of what happened to me as a Guardian of the Road while traveling to make my living.
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DEATHS ALONG THE HIGHWAYS
First, let me say that I dislike the term roadkill. However, many know this descriptive word for what it is. As I drove the highways of America, there was no way that a High Order Sensitive Person like me could avoid noticing a large number of animals that were dead on the road and median. Remember, one of the optional duties of a Guardian is to say a simple prayer for these unfortunate creatures so their spirits can go home. Now in over twenty-five years on the road, that is a lot of praying, let me tell you. Some prayers are split seconds, a single thought, or I might close my eyes for a quick moment. Others are more... complicated.
My best art shows happened in the greater Washington D.C. and Baltimore areas during the spring, fall, and early winter. The highways I took to go to them were usually four lanes and fast, but mostly through rural West Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland. I drove an ancient stretch van for many years. The first one was old and had no radio since it had died long ago. Two of the pistons in the engine sometimes did not fire or misfired. Later in my career, I bought a second cargo van that was somewhat better but still rough. Most of the highways I used passed through and over the Allegany Mountains with monster hills. My first old van with a bad engine struggled valiantly to make it up to those steep mountain ranges. Even the slowest car passed me on these stretches. I went so slowly that it was possible to study the side of the road.
On one of my trips out East, the whole Guardian concept came to me. I had a lot of time to think about the dearly departed creatures along the road. You have read about my life as a sensitive young GOTR and young adult Guardian. However, I did not formulate the concept of Guardians of the Road until the years when I traveled the highways.
It is sad when a human driving a car kills any of earth’s creatures. But, admit it, you must have thought the same way I do, at least some time in your life. I would drive the roads and see so many that the sadness of it all made me think about saying a prayer. I am not talking about a specific religion here, just a simple prayer like...I’m so sorry, you poor little thing. That kind of prayer. I am sure animals go to heaven, although many have challenged this idea. But as my mother always used to suggest...it never hurts to say a prayer.
I first sprung the Guardian concept on my husband decades ago, and he was a bit amused at first. (Remember, he is a TOP). After that, it got to be a familiar subject with him, as he intentionally would point out poor kittens, dogs, groundhogs, squirrels, rabbits, muskrats, mice, rats, shrews, birds of all kinds, turtles, frogs, and deer, etc...all killed by cars. He did so to see if I was praying for them, which I was, of course. People have made fun of my animal prayers, but that’s their problem, not mine.
The deaths of cats and dogs along the highways are often... if not always... our fault. Pet owners allowing their animals to stray jeopardize their pets’ lives. The poor dead cats and dogs on the roads are more difficult for me because they were someone’s pets, so they get longer prayers. I can tell you so many tales about cats and dogs that I’ve tried to help in one way or another. Nevertheless, let me relay true stories about other animals I love.
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TURTLES AND THE LAW
Turtles are unique creatures that are holdovers from another age, prehistoric even. They move slowly and are, unfortunately, susceptible to fast-moving cars. I read once that some horrible people actually make a sport out of running over turtles. There should be a national law that fines these brutes heavily for their terrible deeds; I do not care who they are.
Recently, there have been stories about people in this country poaching our box turtles and shipping them overseas for various reasons. I understand that most of those reasons are reprehensible. I know what I’d do with these people, but I’ll keep that to myself. I can remember when it was common to see a box turtle cross our yard. My siblings and I would take them lettuce or tomatoes for snacks along their trek. As far as I can remember, none of us took them in as pets. We often saw them along the small drainage ditch beside our property, especially on a hot day. They’d wade in and sit in the mud, which would have been fun if you were a turtle.
As I made my way on the roads and highways to the East Coast to do art shows, I’d see lots of turtles, especially in the spring. The region I traveled through is a wilderness of sorts, so the dear things must thrive there. Turtles appear bent on crossing any road, I’ve noticed. I sometimes think it is because there is a water source on the other side. Maybe it’s because a female or male turtle is calling for a mate that precipitates that risky route. But, on the other hand, they could want to see what is on the other side of the blacktop.
Anyway, when I see a turtle on the road, I always stop, with no exceptions. That means I stop in heavy traffic, high mountain regions, rain, snow, urban settings...you get the picture. My brother Rob, also a Guardian, always stops to relocate turtles on his business trips in West Virginia. I am very proud of him. My usual approach to such a turtle rescue is to pick it up with two fingers on the widest part of its shell and carry it to the side it was trying to reach.
However, I was driving on a rural road in the mountains of Western North Carolina with relatively steady traffic. I suddenly spotted a large snapping turtle in the middle of the road, trying desperately to reach the grass and hillside on his right. I had to think quickly as a car was fairly close behind me. I put on my right blinker, stepped on the brake, and promptly pulled off the road about five feet from the turtle. Cars went around me and missed the turtle, but I feared he’d get hit. Unfortunately, nothing in the car could help me capture him safely. All I had was my two hands and fear in my heart. I’d encountered snapping turtles in the past, and they can be ferocious and fearless when approached by man or beast. This turtle continued to creep across the road, his mouth open and his beak snapping so hard I could hear it. I did finally and carefully pick him up and hurried to put him down on the hillside, heading away from the road.
I tried to capture a snapping turtle two years earlier to move him off the road. Regrettably, my fingers were too close to the turtle’s head, and he lunged at my thumb. I still have a scar where he bit me. I never did that approach again. I keep my fingers as far away from the turtle’s beak as possible. I also never placed a turtle in the opposite direction, fearing it would try to cross again.
Sometimes, my husband would go with me to help at major art shows. One spring, he had to stop many times so I could assist turtles in their crossings. If you know anything about turtles, you know they let go of their urine when you pick them up, just like frogs. I think it is a fear response and a defense, along with retracting their heads inside their shells. Every time I tried to save a turtle’s life, it peed on me. Numerous stops, however, meant other stops so I could wash my hands. I finally started carrying a jug of water and paper towels on board, just in case of a turtle stop. Hopefully, I have saved many turtles in my day and continue to do it now.
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One such incident happened on my way back from Virginia, and I was alone this time. I had just completed a lovely art show in Crozet, near Charlottesville. I was thrilled my sweet sister Angel and her daughters drove from Richmond to see me there. I left in the dark the next morning, hoping to make it home as early as possible. It was a lovely spring day after a terrible storm, and I was just about the only car on the highway.
I passed the charming and historic town of Clifton Forge when I saw four box turtles on the highway ahead of me. This was a special treat; I’d never seen four at one time. I stopped the van at the foot of a steep climb in the road and proceeded to help them get across. I worried they would get confused, so I took each one deep into the brush. That meant eight trips back and forth. I stood and watched after the last one to make sure they all would continue in the direction away from the road. Once confident, I got in the van and struggled up the mountain. As I mentioned, the van had no working radio, so I listened to music on a tape player with headphones.
Again, ahead of me was a box turtle right before another steep climb. I vaguely noticed a car far behind me but paid it no mind. Once more, I did the same turtle routine and was soon back on the road. I bounced along, listening to some upbeat music and singing. Then, out of the blue, I heard a siren behind me. It was a Pinto, I think, with one of those temporary flashing light bars strapped to the roof of the vehicle. I did notice there wasn’t a Sherrif’s emblem on the car, which puzzled me. What appeared to be a deputy was sitting inside. I pulled the van over and waited.
I couldn’t believe he was stopping me; my van would not exceed fifty-five miles per hour. A gruff-looking man wearing a deputy’s hat and a belt with a gun holster but no uniform walked over to my vehicle. In the rearview mirror, I noticed his hand on his gun. I am among the least threatening people, and I had no idea why this officer suspected me of something nefarious. I watched in shock as he slowly unsnapped his gun holster. He stood back a bit and demanded I get out of the van. I must admit here I was scared.
He started by asking me a lot of questions. What was all that stuff in the back of my van? Where was I heading? What was I doing on this particular road?
I told him my artwork and display shelving were in the back of the van, that I was heading home to Ohio from an art show in Crozet, and that this was the quickest route to get there. Huffing, he walked around the van and looked pointedly at my Ohio plates. He returned with such a piercing glare that I was becoming more uncomfortable. He then went into what seemed like a planned rant. Apparently, he had followed me all the way from Clifton Forge. He’d seen me stop suspiciously two times and place something he couldn’t see in the woods. Finally, he asked me point blank if I was doing a drug-related activity. Was I leaving packages for accomplices along the road?
I assured him I was innocent and told him about the turtles. He didn’t buy it for one second, saying no one would stop two times on hills to carry turtles across the road.
So there I was, with headphones still on, and a county sheriff (or a sheriff wannabe) who wanted to escort me back to Clifton Forge so he could search my van for drugs. He did not understand that I was just doing my Guardian's job.
I am a fast talker by nature, so I began to tell him about the Guardians of the Road. He stood there with his hands on his hips, but slowly, it all seemed clear. Then, finally, I could see it on his face. He suddenly realized I would not be some big drug bust after all.
Then he glanced at my headphones. He returned to his car, reached in, pulled out his clipboard, then returned to my side. After sighing deeply, he began to write out a traffic violation. I was shocked. What had I done now, I wondered but kept my big mouth shut.
Apparently, it was/is against the law in Virginia to drive a car while you have headphones on. Go figure. I guess he wanted something concrete to show for his time trying to arrest me for nothing.
I pleaded with him....nicely. So here I’d saved five Virginia box turtles from death, and he was giving me a frivolous ticket? He looked at me, shuffled his feet, and thought about it.
Then just like that, he told me to be on my way. With a bit of a smirk, he said the West Virginia border was twelve miles ahead, and they had no law against wearing headphones in a car. I got in quickly and started the van. Looking over at this gruff man, I saw he had a slight grimace on his face. As I drove away, he hollered:
“Hey...thanks for saving our turtles. They saved you from a ticket.’
See, it pays to be a Guardian of the Road! It also pays to be from West Virginia!
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MY SON AND THE PURPLE FINCHES
As I’ve said before, my husband and I have only one child, a male HOSP. I am sure he was born a HOSP, but he developed this inclination quickly with my personal tutoring. Marc is one of the charter members of the Guardians of the Road, and after years in college, he became an attorney. He is now the unofficial legal counsel on the Board of Directors of the Guardians of the Road Foundation. My sweet sister, Angel, in Virginia, is Vice President, leaving me as President.
As a young HOSP, Marc immediately showed all traits of this sect that I outlined in the first few blogs. I could relay many GOTR experiences I’ve had with my son, but I want to tell you about one GOTR adventure that happened to the two of us together.
Marc was a seventh-grader in junior high school when we moved back to Athens, Ohio, for a promotion my husband received. I began my new career as a professional artist. I did not know if this new business would bring income to the household, so we bought the cheapest house we could find that was old, as old houses are one of my passions. The old house we bought was on Home Street, near the residential area of Athens and, at the time, across from a large open field.
I have been a birder forever; they are some of my favorite creatures on earth. In the last ten years, as an artist, I’ve specialized in painting animals, fish, and birds with watercolors using a photorealistic technique. Since my twenties, I’ve carefully studied bird behaviors and their social interactions with other birds. So naturally, my son also has the same affinity toward birds. In Athens, we began to study bird behavior as a hobby. Together, we set up a large bird feeder outside my studio window, which just happened to look out onto the field across the street. It was thrilling to observe many different birds and their particular habits closely. At the feeder, our favorites were the chickadee, the nuthatch, the cardinal, the goldfinch, the titmouse, and many species of woodpeckers. We were excited that they came every day to our feeder. Marc dove into this hobby with a passion and is still quite a bird behavior enthusiast today.
We enjoyed goldfinches and were happy they flew across the road to our feeder from their field habitat. The males are beautiful canary yellow but nervous birds that usually fly off… if others come to feed. We had so many visitors to our feeders that 50 pounds of bird food didn’t last long. Marc wondered if our birds had somehow communicated with other birds, spreading the word that a huge feeder was next to a house on Home Street. Perhaps not, but I was pleased he’d become excited about birds and was no longer unhappy about the move.
Overnight, it seemed, Marc noticed we were only getting purple finches at the feeder. They were so dominant that other birds were no longer visiting, including their close relatives, the goldfinch. Hundreds of purple finches ate noisily at the feeder daily, driving me nuts while I painted. We had to be the purple finch feeder capital of the world. We loved these purple birds but missed those we were intent on observing. What did my son do to correct this problem? He suggested that we make a purple finch trap. Marc rigged up a feeder on the ground using a large cardboard box with an attached lid only connected to the box on one side. He propped the box open with a stick, lid side down, then tossed in a good amount of seed. Finally, Marc tied a string to the stick holding up the box, ran that string through a crack in the window frame, then inside the house. He patiently sat still until there were dozens and dozens of purple finches in his trap.
At the crucial moment, he pulled the string, and the box crashed down over scores of shrieking birds. We now had a box full of noisy finches. It quickly dawned on us that we had a problem. We had not planned what to do with such a large number of captured birds. A brilliant kid, Marc came up with a solution. We’d take the birds a good distance away from town. He thought they’d not find their way back once freed far away. I agreed to be the driver since he was only thirteen then. I drove my son and at least fifty purple finches to a cemetery he’d chosen about five miles from town. It was like freedom day for finches, and we both smiled as he opened the prison and released all those terrified birds.
Unfortunately, this tactic did not diminish Home Street's purple finch population one bit. On the contrary, we had as many of them at the feeder as before our capture and release. Guess those noisy birds were smarter than we were. We gave up and soon began our forced study of purple finches until they left for their vacations in Bermuda.
One day, we noticed a farmer mowing tall weeds and grasses in the field across the road. It was late spring after field birds had hatched new fledglings in their ground-level nests. We both watched in horror as baby birds wobbled out of the field right in front of the mower, then toward our house. Their mothers were shrieking protectively around them. We hurried over to the busy man on the tractor and begged him to stop. It seemed logical that he should wait a week or so to continue mowing until the babies were old enough to fly.
He thought we were batshit crazy and pushed us along. Finally, we gave up without any other bright ideas but did try to save some of the baby birds.
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THE BLACK AND WHITE COW
We were still living in Athens when my grandmother died. She was my father’s mother, and we’d gotten to be friends over the years. Hoy, as I called her, came from a wealthy German family who immigrated to New York. She was only sixteen when she met and married a man in his twenties. They had two children, my father being one of them. The Great Depression wiped out her family’s wealth and cost her husband his job and their only income. The stress was just too much. They divorced, and she was left to raise her children alone. Hoy started a business and went on to be successful but then suddenly lost it all. Even when she was down, Hoy found various jobs to keep food on the table and worked until she was in her late 70s. She was one tough lady and one of the best bakers I’ve ever known. Her Christmas Brocks were amazing.
The funeral was to be held in St. Albans, West Virginia, where she’d lived for years and was about three hours from our house in Ohio. I needed to leave well before sunrise to get to the funeral in time. I drove from Athens to Pt. Pleasant, West Virginia, in the dark, crossed the Ohio River and began my last leg, about 37 miles to St. Albans on U.S. 35. A two-lane highway, U.S. 35, is rolling and treacherous. There are many accidents on this road, and probably many of those have fatalities. U.S. 35 follows the Kanawha River from Point Pleasant to the Charleston area. I had driven it so many times I knew the landmarks by heart.
The land along this highway is picturesque. One side of the road has lovely old houses and farms, and the other has the Kanawha River hugging close to the road in many stretches. An enormous number of eighteen-wheel trucks use this road, intent upon getting in or out of West Virginia as fast as possible. Even though the speed limit is 55 miles per hour, almost everyone goes 75.
Still tired and in my old rattletrap of a van, I had to be one of the first vehicles on this section of road that early in the morning. I admit that I was dreading the emotional event that morning since a HOSP is never dry-eyed at a funeral, especially when it’s someone in the family.
I came over a rise in the road and saw the most amazing thing. An enormous black and white cow was lying on her back. Yes, upside down on the road with her legs stiff as bowling pins pointing straight up in the air. Obviously, the cow was dead, for she was not moving an inch. I stopped the van in front of her and put my flashers on. Once out of the van, I walked closer and stared at the poor thing.
Bessie, as I called her affectionately, must not have been dead long since the heat was still rising from her body. As I looked at her, a terrible vision came to mind. I could almost imagine what had happened. In the early morning, the black and white cow must have been crossing the road for some reason, maybe to chew on the green grass across the road. Being a big old cow, I also figured she probably wasn’t fast on her feet. Just like a deer caught in the headlights, the blinding lights of an oncoming truck must have startled Bessie. Frozen in place from the shock of such an unfamiliar sight, Bessie did not get out of the way in time. I thought how awful it must have been when she looked into the monster eyes of an eighteen-wheel truck going 75 miles an hour.
However, after some thought, I realized something wasn’t right about my theory. There was no blood. Bessie looked just fine, except she was dead. So finally, I decided that maybe she’d died from fright when she saw the truck barreling toward her. Guess I will never know how she died, but I was sorry anyway.
I said a prayer for her spirit to go home, as Guardians should do. Since the prayer might help the soul of this poor cow get to heaven, I felt a bit better. Then I started to worry about my predicament. Unfortunately, she was obstructing almost the entire two-lane highway. There was no way to get my stretch van around Bessie since the river was a few feet from the road on one side and a five-foot ditch dropped steeply on the other. I was also worried about another vehicle coming along and crashing into my van.
Being a Guardian, I knew I had to tell someone about Bessie. I couldn’t just leave her on the highway without trying to find her owner. I first had to pull my van to the right as far as possible. Then I quickly walked up a gravel driveway to the nearest farmhouse, where I could see cows grazing in an open pasture. But, of course, I was dressed in funeral clothes and wearing my only heels. I timidly knocked on the rustic door of the house, and an older man opened it with a skeptical look on his face. I told him about Bessie’s sad demise and that her body blocked the highway.
He shook his head, sighed, looked past me to the road, and then said she was indeed his cow. I immediately wondered if this same thing had happened to some of his other cows, but I kept that thought to myself. Then, he told me it would take a tractor to pull Bessie off the road, but his tractor was in the shop! Yikes! Not my worry. I’d done the right thing and returned to the van.
I had already concluded that I would be late for my grandmother’s funeral. Still, at least the pressure was on me to make an appearance. My parents had come in from out of state, and most of my siblings and their families were probably all at the funeral home, waiting for me to arrive. I wondered what I should do. Somehow, I turned the van around, made my way to the other side of the river, and drove the last 25 miles to a bridge that would take me to St. Albans.
In a way, I attended two funerals that morning, the most important of my grandmother's. I know in my heart that if she’d been sitting next to me in the van, she would have laughed hysterically seeing a dead cow upside down in the road. Hoy was not a HOSP or GOTR.
Lest you think I am making fun of a poor dead cow, I shed a tear for Bessie. However, I admit that a slight grin crossed my face at what I’d seen that morning. Arriving with red eyes (from loss of sleep), few questioned my sorrow, for I cared about my grandmother.
My sister, Jill, still doesn’t believe I was late to our grandmother’s funeral because a dead cow was in the middle of the road, and I couldn't go around her. I can't imagine why.
Look for the next Guardian of the Road blog post in about two weeks!
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