10. Noreen Ellen Chatfield

10. Noreen Ellen “Babe” Chatfield And then, there was Babe.

Fast-talking and quick-witted, Babe was swift to flirt, swift to laugh and swift to snap back. Thirteen-year-old Bob Day, Uncle George’s oldest son, rode by the Boucher Street house on his daily paper route, and the young black-haired Babe caught his eye. Lot’s of girls caught Bob’s eye, he was at that age, but Babe was something else. He remembers her well: “Snappy-eyed and snappy-mouthed—she was one snappy girl.”

The Chatfield girls were wild as teenagers, and a handful for their mother; a good Catholic boarding school would take care of that, and for the Catholics who devoted their lives to God and the Church as Grandma Chatfield did, the schooling was free. (Grandma Chatfield was a charter member of the Catholic Ladies Relief Society; her daughter Verda, president 34 years later. Providing help to the needy or to disaster stricken individuals, the Catholic women secured groceries, clothing, shoes, bedding, transportation and lodging for the less fortunate. When my grandmother arrived by train in 1913 with no husband, no money, and nine children, she could have used that kind of help.) Babe, my mother, was in the eighth grade when her mother sent her to Notre Dame Convent. It was 1928/29. Ina, her older sister, failing Chico High, joined her. Grandma sent Verda there a few years before, sometime around 1924. (So unhappy and under so much stress at Notre Dame, Verda had the hiccups for three months so Grandma finally brought her home.)  The convent was hard for Ina, (she attended in 1930/31) a small, cool, calm girl; she was sweet and sensitive and private, like her oldest sister, Nella May, and their voices were identical. Babe, of the opposite nature, didn’t worry much about breaking the rules, and if she were going to get in trouble, it may as well be for something worthwhile. She always said, “You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb”.

To the Chatfield girls, along with all the other students who boarded at Notre Dame, the Sisters provided food and shelter, love and affection, and a formal education. They also provided regulation and order, control and restraint, and strong discipline. Good behavior was awarded with holy cards; punishment meted out with sharp ruler raps on the knuckles and head. They were teaching the students Catholic faith, Christian virtue, and strict obedience. Even though it may have been painful at the time, those experiences would nudge them toward a greater maturity into adulthood. It was a good theory anyway. Grandma, being of the opinion the nuns would straighten them out, found that the opportunity to attend Notre Dame hadn’t done her three daughters much good; it’s hard to get into heaven when you’re busy raising hell.                                                

1931: Colusa Two years into the Great Depression, when there were no jobs and little money, Nellie Chatfield moved to Colusa to work. It was during Prohibition and the former Golden Eagle Bar and Hotel was now the Golden Eagle Hotel and Restaurant, serving tea and milkshakes rather than beer and whiskey. Her restaurant was at 137 5^th Street, right next door to the I.O.O.F (International Order of Odd Fellows) brick building, where she made daily home-cooked meals for her customers. She brought Ina and Babe, the rest of her children grown and out of the nest, and the three of them lived in the rooming house above.

There were already several of Grandpa Chatfield’s cousins living in the area at the time. Clark Samuel Chatfield Jr. was a livestock agent and had an office and sheep ranch in nearby Williams with his second wife Madge Rosa and where three of their five children were born. Clark’s brother, Arthur William Chatfield and his wife Ada, lived on Fourth Street directly across from Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church where they took in boarders and raised their out-of-wedlock granddaughter as their own. Arthur William’s son, Arthur Leslie “Les”, a rice farmer, lived in a house right behind them on Third Street with his wife Irene Wilson and their five children. Clark’s brother, Levi Tomlinson “Lee”, was married to Martha and owned a gas station in Princeton, a small town above Colusa. Their sister, Jacquelin Chatfield, was married to James Frederick Mallon; they lived and rice farmed in Princeton since 1905, then moved to Orland where they had a sheep ranch and continued rice farming. Their father, Clark Samuel Sr., Isaac Willard Chatfield’s brother, died in Princeton in 1906. Clark and his second wife, Mary Elizabeth Morrow, settled there some years before. They were lured to California to rice farm—the new get-rich crop—like many of the Chatfield’s, the families traveling in clans from Colorado to Wyoming and then onto California during a twenty-year span.

I don’t know if Nellie was in contact with any of them as she wasn’t much on her husband’s family, but it being a small town, I don’t know how she could have missed them.

1932: Colusa One crisp fall morning after mass, while Carl and Lawrence perched on two wood-back swivel stools at the end of the long narrow counter and made small talk with Mrs. Chatfield as she fixed their usual Sunday breakfast of bacon and eggs, Babe entered. Mrs. Chatfield’s sixteen-year-old daughter seldom wandered down before 10:00; she liked to sleep in. Nellie Chatfield enjoyed cooking for the locals and the men working construction on the weir and bridge, a reclamation project on the Sacramento River that flowed through the town of Colusa. She was known for her one-pot dishes of beef stew, hamburger chili, and chicken soup. She also made sandwiches, hot dogs, and hamburgers. Hamburgers were a dime, two packs of Camels—a quarter.

Babe usually waited for the men to be seated before making her entrance down the stairs. As she sat at a table while her mother cooked her a rare steak, Lawrence sat at the counter noticing this raven-haired beauty. Lawrence was the talker of the two. Carl said little if Babe was nearby; he may have been twenty-six and seven years older than Lawrence, but he still had the innocence of a farm boy.

Even though Lawrence thought this young woman spoiled, getting up late and being waited on hand and foot by her mother, he liked her. She was not like the Catholic girls back home, not like most girls her age he knew. She seemed older and was witty, quick, and funny. But Lawrence didn’t interest Babe. Carl did—Carl, who didn’t speak a word, who could hardly look her in the eye, who could only twiddle his thumbs. Babe was not used to someone not paying her notice. Maybe she didn’t understand that Carl was naïve, didn’t understand he had never been with a woman, didn’t understand he didn’t understand. She thought he wasn’t interested. Babe was hooked—she wasn’t used to being ignored. She set her sights on this good-looking, tall, broad, brawny Minnesota farmer, determined to have him.

Lawrence and Carl roomed in boarding houses, traveled from job to job, and were in Colusa working on the weir. They missed their family and missed home-cooked food. They liked coming to the sandwich shop. They liked Mrs. Chatfield—she reminded them of their mother. She too believed in God, hard work and common sense. They respected that in a woman, and Nellie Chatfield admired them, especially Carl. He was Catholic, dependable, upright. A worker. Quiet. Kind. A good prospect for her daughter, he would be a decent addition to the family. Carl Clemens was a grand choice in Nellie Chatfield’s book. She wished she were younger.

Comfortable around Mrs. Chatfield, Carl talked to her about the weather, discussed hay and rice farming, went on about Herefords, Longhorns, Leghorns, and Rhode Islands. It was Babe he was tongue-tied around. His sweaty palms wouldn’t come out of his pockets when she was near, his feet wrapped around each other, glued to the metal swivel chair post. Babe went after Carl like Annie Oakley roping a calf at a rodeo roundup. She wanted this man, not because he wanted her, but because he didn’t; and she got him.

Lawrence, upset about the impending marriage, tried to talk his brother out of it. He told Carl that Babe wasn’t going to be good for him, she wasn’t the kind of girl to marry, was a woman who would only cause him heartache and trouble. Lawrence wasn’t jealous. He was right.

And so, my father married my mother.

Feb 4, 1933 Colusa, California The local newspapers wrote of their wedding:

COLUSA—At an early hour this morning Miss Noreen Chatfield became the bride of Carl Clemens of Rochester, Minn., at a ceremony performed in Our Lady of Lourdes Church immediately following 8 o’clock mass services. The members of the immediate families of the contracting couple and close friends attended the ceremony. The groom is employed by the contracting firm that built the Colusa weir. His headquarters are in Stockton. At the close of the early morning service the bride and groom left for Stockton, where they will make their home. Their honeymoon has not been planned although they expect to visit the east sometime this summer. Clemens has many friends and relatives there.

 

Miss Chatfield is the daughter of Mrs. Nellie Chatfield of Colusa. They have resided here for the past year, coming from Chico. During that time two of Mrs. Chatfield’s daughters have become brides. Mrs. James Fouch, J., (Ina) was also married here recently.

 

At the impressive ceremony Margaret (Micki) Anderson of Chico, a close friend of the bride, was the bridesmaid. Lawrence Clemens of Stockton, brother of the groom, was the best man. The bride is a girl of many charms and has a large coterie of well wishing friends.

 

Babe wrote on the back of this picture: These are my uncle, my brother Roy (he’s just a little shaver, like all the rest) & his girl. They have been going together for fifteen years. Someday maybe… She is Jo Chambers

 

Shortly after marrying, his job finished in Colusa with the completion of the weir and opening of the Colusa Weir Bridge, Carl and Babe moved to Los Angeles where Carl landed a job with the highway crews building the Grapevine (Highway 99). A hard worker, Dad was always employed—even during the depression when many were without jobs.

Nellie’s mother, Emily, along with some of her kin, lived in Los Angeles at the same time.

It was in Los Angeles my brother was conceived; Babe and Carl went to Chico for the birth, so her mother would be there to help her youngest with her first child. A couple of weeks after Larry was born, the young couple and new son returned to their home in L.A.

 

1934: Watsonville, California Two years later they moved to Watsonville to be near Verda, Babe’s sister, and Carl got a job working for the Union Ice Company through George, Verda’s husband. George was Dad’s closest friend, and he worked for him for years at Union Ice, delivering ice. Before refrigerators, people had iceboxes in their kitchens or on their porches and Daddy delivered 50 or 100-pound blocks to homes on a regular basis. He also filled commercial ice vending machines, delivered to all the restaurants, and transported the frozen blocks to the huge army base near Watsonville, filled with hundreds of tents and soldiers. He also delivered to taverns, and where he discovered pinball. The machines were a nickel a game and paid out in beer or cash. One could win or lose up to $4 or $5 dollars in a night—and in 1934—the average weekly wage in manufacturing was $19.12. Pinball machines were a legalized form of gambling, and the companies making them were turning them out like lottery tickets, placing them in taverns, restaurants, sporting goods stores, tobacco shops, and bus depots. He started playing just a few games at the end of a hard day, but before long he was hooked. When there were a couple of months he and Mom couldn’t cover their bills. He realized how many games he‘d played, how much he’d lost, and how mad Mom was. It scared him, and he never touched a pinball machine again.

When younger he had done some gambling with his friends. In California he gambled some more—gambling he wanted no one in his family to ever know about. On his brother Louie’s 25^th birthday, a big party was held at the farmhouse back home in Minnesota, and candles for the cake were forgotten. Going into town for candles, Aloysius lost control of the car and was killed. His $2,000 life insurance policy paid double indemnity for accidental death. Covering the costs for his funeral, the balance was split between his nine brothers and sisters, bequeathed to them each $340. Carl, living in Seattle at the time of Louie’s death, bought City Bond with the money he inherited from the brother he had loved so much. He lost those bonds in a poker game, along with his father’s gold-plated pocket watch. His big-mouthed brother Lawrence spilled the beans when he returned home.

(He must have won or bought the watch back at some point, as it rests on my brother’s mantel, our father giving it to him when Larry was in college. It is an Elgin Commander top-winder with 17 jewels, manufactured in 1910. The front piece and back pieces are engraved with mountains, birds, and vegetation, and the fob has a small compass attached. The case is engraved with: Elgin Case Company, Illinois, USA; the watch: Guaranteed 25 years, and it still works today.)

Daddy, the manager and foreman of the ice delivery crew, was a top ice-refrigerator salesman. After WWII electric refrigerators were being built, and the Union Ice Company, making a desperate attempt to stay in business, advertised that ice was the perfect refrigeration for fresh products and that the electric’s produced a dry coolness that wilted produce. Within a very few years the local delivery of ice to individual households ended; the only delivery left was of ice cubes and crushed ice to bars and restaurants, until ice-making machines hit the market, spelling the doom of the Union Ice Company.

The Clemens’ and Day families lived near each other. They played bridge on Saturday nights and had Sunday picnics and summer parties. George Day, the boss in his house, was tightly wired. With the air of a 1920’s gangster, he was legendary for his language, his style, and his hats. Verda was prim and proper, but she had a sense of humor, which was how she made it so long with George. She didn’t swear like her husband did; horse-puckey the worst thing she would ever say. She also made her husband go to church. Every Sunday, he asked why there was no breakfast, and every Sunday, Verda reminded him they were going to communion. And every Sunday, George said the same thing about communion and the priest who served it: “That sonofabitch, he’s not only had breakfast, he’s had a couple of shots of wine before it.”

1939:  Watsonville The women in my family don’t mince words, which is unfortunate, as it would make them so much easier to eat later. Mom and Dad bought a home in Watsonville where Carleen was born in March of 1935, and Betty was born in December of 1939. Marceline, George and Verda’s eldest, was six years older than Carleen. On her way home from school she loved to come over and visit my mother, her kindred spirit and favorite aunt. One afternoon my mother confided to her niece she was to have a third child soon: Mom was pregnant with Betty. Marceline, crazy about babies, had all kinds of questions. Specifically: “How did you do it? How do babies get made? Where do they come from?” She wanted her parents to have one too. She loved helping take care of Carleen as a baby and she wanted more than anything to have a little sister of her own. She had asked her parents before and they said no, they couldn’t. She thought perhaps they didn’t know how. So she asked my mother, and my mother—being Mother—told her.

Ten-year old Marceline marched right home and explained it to her parents pretty well. Her father had a fit. “Cheesus.H.Christ! Goddamsonuvabitch! Jesuschristalmighty! Who in the goddamsonuvabitchinhell told you this?”

“Babe”, replied Marceline.

George grabbed Marceline and Verda by their arms and marched right over to Babe’s, pounded on the door, stormed in and bawled her out for taking it upon herself to tell their daughter something that was their job, something that she had no business talking to her about, asked her what in the hell was she thinking, and why for Chrissakes did she think she had a right to do such a goddamn foolish thing.

Babe simply looked at him. “Well, she asked me.”

Judy, Marceline’s sister, was born the next year.

Letter to my father from his boss at Union Ice:

September 11, 1940

Carl Clemens – Watsonville

It is indeed gratifying to know that we have in our employ men who are keenly interested in their work and take pride in their accomplishment of the goal set up each year.

For the third consecutive year you have been among the first to sell the yearly quota of refrigerators set up for each man, and it is a pleasure to send you the enclosed Quota Busters button as a small token of appreciation.

You may be sure that I shall be watching, with a great deal of interest, to see your name appear on the list of Quota Busters again next year.

Sincerely,

M.H. Robbins

mbc

Excerpts from “If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother”, an unpublished family memoir:

December 1952: Sonora, California  “For the umpteenth time, I don’t know why she left. No, I don’t know when we’ll see her again, no, I don’t know where she went and no, I don’t know if she’s coming back. Now don’t ask any more questions.” My sister never snapped at us like this. Mom was gone, and this time Carleen knew she wasn’t coming back. My sister was in charge now and there was no need to discuss it again. The first time our mother left was in April of 1950. I was not yet two. Claudia was seven years older than me, so that made her eight; Betty was ten, Carleen was fifteen, and Larry sixteen. Our lives continued. Spring faded. Summer passed. Fall blew into winter. She once returned for a week, wept the whole time she was home, then fled again. She came back a few times more, but knew she couldn’t live a life she didn’t want. She told Larry she didn’t know what to do, that she would go crazy if she didn’t get away, that she had to leave. Finally, in 1952, packing what she could carry in her two leather suitcases, she left for good. Mothers didn’t run away in those days—except ours did—and Betty never forgave her. A lot of things happened in our family during that time; things where Daddy could no longer hold his head up in town, where kids were told not to play with my sisters, where people whispered. A lot of it had to do with sex, the very thing my father couldn’t tolerate—especially when it had to do with any of the females in the family.

When the ice companies closed down my father got a job managing a Sprouse Reitz. Given the choice of running a store in Sonoma (a sleepy hamlet forty-some miles north of San Francisco) or the town of Sonora, he chose the latter, hoping there would be more business opportunity. When our family moved there in 1943, Sonora had no stoplights, one taxi, two theaters, a three-lane bowling alley, four newspapers, five cemeteries, a six-block-long main street, seven churches, eight taverns, and numerous cigar stores, barbershops, ice cream parlors and clothing shops staggered in between. The dry hot summers went on for years, a silver quarter was a lot of money, and people did what was expected. Sonora had passed its rough and tumble heyday, settling into a cocoon of open windows and unlocked doors.

Everyone in Sonora, a community of about 3,000 people, knew our family. Dad was active in the church, the Lions and Elks Clubs, Rotary, the Chamber of Commerce and local politics. My father was on the lean and lanky side, prematurely gray, wore wire-rimmed spectacles, and smelled like a mixture of Lipton, Listerine, and Vitalis with a slight splash of Old Spice. In one neatly pressed side-trouser pocket he kept his small black comb, his metal nail clippers, and his father’s Elgin gold-plated pocket watch; in the other—his worn leather wallet, two silver dollars, and his tiny gold halfpence.

1940’s & 50’s Chico: Every summer Mom took the kids to visit her mother who lived in the same house on Boucher Street where my mom had been raised. Chico was even hotter than Sonora during the summer—in the 100’s every day. To cool off they took daily picnics to Bidwell Park and swam in the icy Sycamore Pool where Betty dog-paddled in the shallow end in her favorite dark blue bathing suit with the pink palm tree. The pool was built in 1929, the Big Chico Creek flowing through the cement sides of the 700-foot long encasement. On the side lined with grassy slopes, everyone’s picnics were laid out under the towering white-barked sycamores and majestic valley oaks planted long before by General John Bidwell. As a girl, my mother daydreamed about swimming in the Olympics as she free-styled the length of Sycamore pool. Instead, she got married to a man who was afraid of water, a man who couldn’t swim a stroke.

Growing up in Chico, Mom and her brothers and sisters spent their summers fishing in Big Chico Creek, whiling away the long sweltering days on the rocks under the giant shade trees, their toes and lines dangling in the water. They used safety pins for hooks, no bait, just the opened pins. It didn’t matter if they didn’t catch anything—they simply liked fishing.

Mom loved to fish, hiking up to the fishing holes with the kids, her wicker creel strapped over one arm, her rod and reel in the other. Mom baited her small children’s hooks with worms for perch and blue gill. For trout she used pink salmon eggs, which Betty always tasted—wondering what people saw in the delicacy. Betty ate anything.

In the summer of 1939 or 1940 most of Mom’s brothers and sisters reunited in Chico and celebrated a big family gathering at Bidwell Park. Larry is the boy in suspenders kneeling in the front, Mom is squatting, two women to his right, and Daddy is directly behind Larry in the far back. It was unusual to see Uncle Howard (front and center next to Larry) in a family picture. He avoided the family as much as he could.

Mid 1946: Sonora Squatting on the front stoop in the low afternoon sun, Betty who was all of six and Claudia just four, sat wondering what kind of trouble they could get into when their musings were stopped short.  An eerie howling, like a trapped animal with its foot caught in a snare floated through the front screen door from the top of the staircase above them. Whispering and giggling, poking each other and imitating the sound as if they were wolves calling to one another in the woods, they wondered who in the world the crazy person was. Carleen, who was twelve, drew down the steps and told them to knock it off—it wasn’t funny—it was Mom. Something happened to Mom, something had snapped.

It was the first time my mother tried to kill herself. They took her away for a while till she could get better, but she never did, not really.

August 1948: Sonora I was welcomed into the family two years after Mom’s first breakdown, just not by her. She didn’t want another child—she wanted out. As far as she was concerned, I was a fifth burden who was now tacking on another eighteen years to her sentence—another eighteen years of not wanting to be a wife, of not wanting to be a mother, of not wanting to cook and clean and cry every day.

Mom gave birth to me by optional cesarean, which was in vogue if you were wealthy; we weren’t. She wanted to have her tubes tied so Daddy wouldn’t know, and Mom’s doctor was willing to do it for her (if she had her tubes tied while having a cesarean, no one would find out). It was illegal for him to perform this kind of surgery without a husband’s permission and it could have gotten them both in a lot of trouble, but he had been my mother’s doctor for years and knew it would be the end for her if she ever had another child. Mom was not concerned about it being against the law or a mortal sin—she was barely hanging on to her soul as it was.

Excerpts From Larry’s Diary, 1950 (age 16)

• Apr 24  Mom came to my room and told me that she and dad may get a divorce and which one would I stay with. I told her I would stay with dad.
• Apr 26   Dad told me about divorce
• Apr 27   Mom said goodby to me and left

That night she took an overdose.

Excerpts From Larry’s Diary, 1950 (age 16)

• Apr 28   Mom is in Columbia Way Hospital, everyone in town seems to know
• Apr 29   Saw mom in hospital, looks real sick. Went to Hasty Heart rehearsal.
• Apr 30 First performance of Hasty Heart. Ima came to house and told me about Mom’s overdose of sleeping pills.

This was not the first time our mother had gone away, nor would it be her last. It was also just one of the many times she would try to end her life. However, it was the first talk of divorce between our parents, which was unthinkable—considering Daddy’s German Catholic beliefs and my mother’s fear of her mother. Suicide was not unthinkable for my mother—mortal sin or not.

Our mother rolled in and out of our lives like a bad penny. She was there, she was gone, she was there, she was gone, her edges nicked a bit sharper each time she returned, her image more worn, her eyes more flat. My brother’s diary entries, my parent’s old tax returns, and my mother’s letters record her comings and goings. My siblings have no recollection of when Mom was gone or where she went.

I have little memory of our lives or what occurred before I was the age of five. If there were not pictures and stories of me, I would claim that I was not even a part of the anarchy, but it seems I was there. Larry was a boy and living in a world of school, band, work and too many sisters. Carleen stepped in and filled mother’s shoes, got pregnant, married, and moved out. Betty rolled herself up tight like a pill bug when life was painful; Claudia became a shadow—a forgotten child. I could disappear altogether. It is easy to disappear when one is so small.

My father never spoke about what happened during these years; no one in the family did. They wouldn’t—these events they considered private matters. What went on inside our four walls stayed inside our four walls—until those walls warped, bowed, and fractured from the heat and strain and the stress—the consequences when tightly closed doors and dark shuttered windows allow no pressure to escape.

Larry went off to college, Carleen, now married with a baby of her own had moved to Whittier, California, Claudia stayed with a schoolmate’s family in Sonora to finish out the school year, and the Guidici’s, store customers of  Daddy’s from Tuloumne, took Betty and me in for several months—her to get her out of Sonora and me to start kindergarten. Until I wrote this I hadn’t understood why my father didn’t keep us three younger girls with him. I understand now. But it hasn’t changed my mind: if it had been up to me—I’d have kept the family together.

My mother ended up in San Jose working as a cook and housekeeper for priests, then as a seamstress, keeping a step ahead of the bill collectors and the landlords. She married once again, that marriage lasting a year. At age five I was delivered to her doorstep, living with her until I was nine. In 1957, after her second divorce, we lived in Hawaii for a year before it was a state, but that is another story.

My father settled in San Francisco, ran the Sprouse Reitz on Haight Street, married twice more, the second wife dying, the third still living (note: Marie (Macdonald) McCartney Clemens, age 93, my stepmother of fifty years, passed on April 11, 2011 of a stroke in Seattle, Washington).

From the time I was nine until I graduated from high school I lived with Carleen and her growing family, spending my summers in the San Francisco fog working in Daddy’s dime store on Haight Street.

On Nov 9, 1968, at the age of  53, shortly after being mugged and robbed, my mother ended her life—with an overdose of prescription pills and a plastic bag over her head—in a motel on Whittier Blvd. in Whittier, Los Angeles County, California.

She was cremated and at my brother’s insistence her five children met to inter her ashes at the Memory Garden Memorial Park in Brea, Orange County, California. Two of us breathed a sigh of regret, two heaved a sigh of relief—and I—I was a mixture of both. Betty was disappointed Mom was ensconced so high up as it made it impossible to dance on her grave. I was grateful as I knew I was now out of her reach.

On Sep 16, 1986, at the age of 80, my father slipped away before the early morning light, his thin body in hospital bed we set up in his small dining room in his house on Fair Oaks in Santa Rosa, Sonoma County, California. His prostate cancer had spread through much of his body.

I accompanied he and my stepmother to the doctor’s when diagnosed. When Dr. Geiger held up the X-rays and explained what all the black was snaking through his skeleton and organs, I broke down sobbing Daddy and Marie had to hold me up to get me out of there.

At least my condition kept Daddy from fainting. Assisting me out he pointedly said, “I brought you here for moral support.”

“Wrong person,” I replied light-headed and weak-kneed, trying not to faint.

Daddy was cremated and on Sep 20, 1986, his family interred his ashes under a small magnolia tree on a knoll in Santa Rosa’s Calvary Catholic Cemetery. In the summer of 2011 Marie’s ashes will be interred next to him.