Month: June 2016

June 30, 1917

Dear Winnie,

I could not make the reservation at Billie Bear Lodge. We must meet in South River instead. I’ve sent some of my gear to the Wattie family and we can leave from there. I am planning to be at the New Queen’s Hotel on Saturday, July 14th. I plan to leave from Mowat Lodge on Sunday the 8th by canoe and make my way to South River. You can take the train early Saturday and meet me there. On Sunday, we can take the train to North Bay or to the Soo to catch a lake steamer.

Affectionately,

Tom

Algonquin Park June 29, 1917

Dear Arthur,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I have done no sketching since the flies started. I have been doing some guiding but not as much as I would like. I had some Americans a couple of weeks ago and I have had some political men from Ottawa. There’s word that the Province might allow deer hunting to feed the troops at the front. There’s lots of deer, some are calling it an infestation, like the wolves, better to be eliminated for good of mankind, they say. I’m not sure of that. I get along with the wildlife quite well.

I am getting along with folks here at Canoe Lake. Shannon Fraser is up to his shenanigans, but Annie keeps him in line. With the Temperance Act it is hard to get liquor unless a doctor prescribes, but Shannon seems to know where to get a good supply. I am sure Mark Robinson knows, but he has been away since mid June and turns a blind eye if there’s no trouble. It’s Martin Blecher not Shannon that’s the trouble. Always fighting with his sister, and is always looking to throw a punch at you if you say something untoward.

I am considering going out West later this summer. I received word that John McRuer is terribly sick and might not last out the year. Terrible shame. Later July, early August I am planning a trip to Temagami with Tom Wattie. I’ve sent him some equipment.  I may not return to Canoe Lake but instead go to Ottawa for a few days. I may go visit my folks in Owen Sound. I didn’t see them this Spring.

The War is going on and I don’t like the talk of conscription. Maybe it’s time to move on.

Give my regards to your family.

Yours Truly,

Tom Thomson

June 28, 1917

I spent the day on the lake with Charlie Scrim. Like my friend John McRuer, Charlie has the consumption. Things aren’t looking good for him either. I just assumed he had gone away for a few days excursion but he said that he went back to Ottawa to get checked by the doctor. The prognosis wasn’t good. The doctor told him to go back to Mowat Lodge and enjoy the time that he had left. There was nothing more that the doctor could do – it was now in the hands of God and Nature.

Yesterday, when I came by Mowat Lodge, Charlie was alone on the verandah. He was in a sorry state. He was coughing but more worrying was the expression in his eyes. He seems to have given up hope. To lift his spirits, I said I would take him out fishing today, which I did.

We went out in the morning. I canoed over from my campsite, left my canoe at the Mowat dock (close to the Trainors and the Blechers) and fetched Charlie. He was finishing breakfast, so I had a cup of tea while he was getting ready. We were out for a good two hours before he got tired out. We were trawling in the middle of the lake with the copper line and lures, but we didn’t catch anything.

“Looks like the fish aren’t cooperating today,” Charlie looked at me with a wry smile. It was his smile that made the whole effort worth it. I didn’t really care about the fish in this circumstance.

“Well, Charlie. Sometime fishing’s not about catching the fish,” I said.

“I don’t think I have too much time left, Tom.”

“That makes two of us, Charlie,” I replied, “I don’t think time is on either of our sides.”

“What do you mean, Tom?” Charlie looked puzzled.

“Conscription. I heard it’s going to be law by the end of the summer.”

Charlie nodded and we continued to fish in silence. Neither of us needed to say anything more on the topic. I brought Charlie back to the Lodge by noon. Annie invited me for lunch. I obliged. Shannon was there too. He didn’t have much to say. I knew that Annie’s invitation for lunch would end up being a charge on my account.

I went back to my campsite in the afternoon. Although the sun had been out a few times, the days had been mostly rainy and damp. The tent canvas never dried properly and started to smell. If the sun wasn’t out tomorrow, I’d have to build a fire to dry the canvas out. If I waited any longer, the canvas would be ruined. Another situation where time was not on my side.

I had to finalize my plan with Winnie. I needed to write her a letter and get Lowrie to deliver it. I was too tired tonight, maybe tomorrow I’d write it. I noticed that there were no voices coming from Little Wap Island tonight. There were no lights either. The Stattens must be gone. I’m sure the Howlands would be arriving tomorrow.  I’m sure the Robinsons would be arriving tomorrow too.

June 26, 1917

I woke up at daybreak. I was awakened by the howling of wolves in the hills not too far from my camp. It started with a few short yelps, followed by a lengthy and dismal howl. Usually, it’s only at night that the wolves can be heard. My only thought was that the pups are starting to get more adventurous and one of them might have gotten lost and the mother was looking for it. When the pups get older, they are taken out of the den and put into a ‘playpen’ a low lying open area where they stay while the older ones hunt. It’s not unusual for one of them to wander off. I’ve come across a few pups around this time of year. It’s better to leave them alone because sooner or later the mother will catch up to them. The yelps and howls went for another few minutes and then they stopped.

I decided to make a venture up through Joe Lake, again today. I went into Little Joe when I heard a loud whack on the water. I knew exactly what that was, a beaver warning everyone within a quarter mile that danger was present. The beavers never dive without a warning, making a noise for everyone to hear.

There is timber everywhere. The rapids are choked with timber and one cannot canoe without the constant danger of encountering a deadhead or a sharp broken trunk ready to puncture anything that comes in its way. There are several spots between the lakes and on the rivers where the knots of driftwood and timber are so thick that you need to portage around them.

I find myself paying attention to all this detail in nature. Minutiae as most would say, but it keeps my mind off other affairs. The present industry of the beaver on the lakes has much significance to me than the battles overseas. A dam that makes the water levels rise has more meaning than a trench dug into some foreign soil.

I make my way back to Joe Lake Dam. Despite the success of catching all of the trout on Canoe Lake for the Colsons. I am determined to catch the big trout that inhabit the deep waters below the dam at Joe Lake It’s a battle of wits, patience and cunning.

June 25, 1917

I was talking to Ed and Molly Colson this morning. They had a large number of guests coming in from Buffalo tomorrow and they wanted to serve the fresh caught trout. Unfortunately, they had little luck catching anything and Ed asked me if could try tonight. I said it would be my pleasure and they would have a dozen fresh trout by tomorrow.

Trout in Canoe Lake are difficult to catch this time of year, either by angling or trawling. Catching by fly is a non-starter too. The only way to catch trout is by means of a night-line.

The first thing  I had to do was to catch a couple of dozen of minnows. This was easy enough to do with bread crumbs and a few tiny pieces of pork. Within the course of a quarter-hour I had a pail full of minnows and I was ready for the next stage of the venture.

I used my long trawling line – the copper wire. I unwound the wire and every five or six feet I put a line of three feet with a hook on the end. I put a fourteen lines in total. I knew of a good spot where the trout were I took with me a half dozen short cedar logs, about eight-inches each. These would act as floats. I attached a line of about thirty feet to the end of the trawling line and secured this one with a stone. I unwound the line and with each hook-line I baited with a minnow. Every five or six feet I attached a cedar log to act as a float. When I was finished unwinding the trawling line, I attached another 30 foot line with a stone. And there it was in the lake, the entire contraption – the night line.

I went back about 6 o’clock this morning, and sure enough the cedar logs were twirling and dancing like water striders. I pulled up the the trawling line and I had trout on twelve of the fourteen hooks. Two were lucky to have gotten away but the caught ones were a nice size. The largest almost two and half feet long. I put the dozen trout on a line and delivered to them Molly. She was most gracious and said she would arrange a credit for me at Annie Colsons outfitting store.

June 24, 1917

It rained today.  I was at my campsite and I could tell it was the type of rain that was going to last all day. The rain started lightly in the early morning but by the later morning it was steady and harder. The rain made bubbles on the surface of the lake water. When you see bubbles on the water you know it’s going to rain steady for a long time. I’d have no choice but to be holed up in my tent so I packed up my gear and set out for Mowat Lodge in my canoe. Most likely I’d be staying there for the next couple of days, judging by the weather. I could stay here, but to be truthful, no matter the resolve of an outdoorsman, if there’s a prospect of a roof and a reasonably soft bed nearby in weather like this, it is the better option taken.

I set out onto the water.  The surface on Canoe Lake was as smooth as could be, save for the millions of bubbles made by the millions of raindrops coming down. Everything was quiet, save for incessant tapping noise of the raindrops that permeated everything. My bailing tin (an empty Chum Tobacco tin ), joined in on the chorus of tapping but its performance was short-lived because I needed it to bail out the rainwater.

My destination was Mowat Lodge, but then I decided to go to Lowrie Dickson’s place first. Not sure what prompted the change in  plans but I sensed that I had some unfinished business to attend to. Or I needed some whisky.

The rain came down harder and harder. The rain clouds descend from the sky and hung low over the water. It was hard to see through the rain and clouds and it felt like the distinction between heaven and earth had disappeared leaving only an amorphous expanse of gray. My only connection to this world was the sound of my paddle dipping and slicing through the water. I imagined to myself that this was like the first day of Creation, before the Light.  It could haven been the afterlife too. Perhaps the essence of life is about colours and anything before and after was just a mass expanse of gray – just like the trenches in Europe. I didn’t like the line of thinking I was falling into. ‘Live the colours as long as you can,” I thought to myself.

When I arrived at Lowrie’s shack, I shook myself out of my thoughts. The rain was dripping furiously of the brim of my felt hat and my mackinaw trousers were soaked through. I had on my canvas shoes with the rubber bottoms, the once-white uppers were now a dingy gray. Another sign of gray. But I was I was thankful I wasn’t wearing my shoepacks because they’d stink to high heaven.

There was a light on inside and Lowrie Dickson came out to greet me.

“G’day, Tom”

“G’morning, Lowrie,” I replied.

“C’mon in. What brings you here?”

I explained that I was headed to Mowat Lodge because of the rain, but decided to drop by for a social call first. We went inside. Without missing a beat, Lowrie produced two tin cups on the table with a lick of whisky in each.

“Here’s to a rainy afternoon!” I obliged to Lowrie’s toast and another two licks of whisky were in the cups.

Lowrie said that after we had our Ouija board session a couple of weeks ago, he decided to look into the rules. A guest at Hotel Algonquin knew the rules and wrote them down for Lowrie. The guest warned him that the spirits got downright ornery if the rules weren’t followed.

Lowrie showed me the piece of paper and we went through the rules. There were five of them.

Rule 1: Never play the Ouija board alone. As I recall there were at least three of us, Lowrie, George Rowe. We had a lot of whisky to drink I remember.

Check.

Rule 2: Do not allow the planchette to count down through the numbers or backwards through the alphabet. I don’t remember anything of the sort. I remember some numbers being counted out: 7 and 8. That’s counting forward by my numbering system.

Check.

Rule 3: Always place a silver object upon the Ouija board. I knew you were supposed to do this, but I did not know it was a cardinal rule. I had a lure in my pocket which I set out. I made it from one of Annie’s discarded spoons (I found it in the pile of potato peelings dumped out back). Originally came from the Highland Inn, it was silver to be sure..

Check.

Rule 4: Never ever mention ‘God’.  We were good on that one too. Lowrie and George make practice of only mentioning the lower-cased ‘god’ in conjunction with ‘damned’ or ‘forsaken’. I don’t recall any religious rites or swearing on that evening.

Check

Rule 5: When you’re done playing, say ‘goodbye.’ I think we did, but I wasn’t sure.

Lowrie looked at me. He had fear in his eyes. I looked back at him.

“Lowrie, it’s a parlour game. You think the spirits are going to after us?”

At that very moment, a blinding flash of light came through the window. Less than a second later, a hideous crack of thunder shook the cabin. . Another flash – out the window, lightning struck the lake, where I was with my canoe, not more than an hour ago. This time crack of thunder piercing and deafening. It was simultaneous with the lightning. The thunderstorm was on top of of us. What I wouldn’t give to have my paints now. I’d be outside painting in the storm. If the storm took me, so be it.

After a few minutes, the storm had passed, but the fear was still in Lowrie’s eyes.

“A storm like that is going to take me to my grave.”

“Lowrie, don’t worry the damn spirits of the Ouija board. I’m sure the both of us will be around for a long time. Let’s have another whisky.”

Author’s note: In 1918 Lowrie Dickson was gravely injured during a storm while canoeing on Canoe Lake with George Rowe. Because of the gravity of his injuries he was sent to Toronto Hospital for treatment. He died shortly after.

June 23, 1917

It was a muggy day today. The sun was out but not too much. There were big thunderclouds in the sky but enough sun that it became quite warm and things dried up.

I decided to canoe over to Little Wap Island. That’s where Taylor Statten has his cabin and he’s there with his wife and son. I got there around noon. I don’t like visiting too early. I asked him about the strange voices I heard last night.

“It’s part of the YMCA internment education program. I had heard about the education programs they were doing in the POW camps in Europe and I asked to do the same here.”

“Internment camps!” I was surprised that he was blunt with the fact that was otherwise intrigue and speculation.

“Yeah, Sims Pit. There’s a few kids working there. They can’t speak English.”

“I thought there was some secret weapons program going on there.”

“Indeed, no!” Taylor laughed. “I had heard about Sam Hughes secret program. They’re doing nothing more than cutting up firewood to ship to the City. There’s a coal shortage, you know. The kids are free labour because they are enemy aliens.”

Taylor’s story sounded right. He was always concerned about helping youth. The kids at Sims Pit were a victim of circumstance beyond their control. I’m sure some government bureaucrat thought that hard labour in the North would turn these young boys’ loyalty towards the Dominion and Empire.

Taylor invited me for lunch and I obliged. He was getting reading to go to the US. He was getting his cabin ready for Dr. Howland and his family. They’d be arriving in July.

After lunch I canoed back to my camp site. The weather began to worsen and by 6 o’clock it became a downpour. It rained for a solid hour and the water began streamed around my tent. Almost every day this summer so far, it’s rained. In ordinary weather, the tent stays high and dry but with all of the rain the ground is saturated. The water has nowhere to go but straight into the lake and right by my tent.

The sun came out later in the evening, just around sunset. I could see the mist rising in the distant hills. I no longer heard the peepers, but instead the deep-throated warbles of the bullfrogs. I saw more than my share of snappers today. They’re looking for places to lay their eggs.The geese were out with their goslings. They were growing at an astounding rate.

I was planning to go to to Mowat Lodge to see if there was any mail for me, but I decided to continue the solitude from the greater world for another day. I didn’t really want to know what was happening, because I knew it as much. The march towards conscription was inevitable. All I knew was that I had to go and soon. I needed to get a message to Winnie, but I am not sure by mail that it would even get to her. Mail now had become a risky proposition and I needed to find another way to send a message. Going to Huntsville myself was certainly not in the cards. I needed to find a trusted messenger. I could ask Charlie Scrim. He was feeling better and was making excursions out of the Park. I could ask him to go to Huntsville for me.

June 22, 1917

Once again the weather turned for the worse. I woke up to rain in the morning. Yesterday, there was no sign of a change of weather. I stayed most of the day in my tent.

The tent that I set up at Hayhurst is an old surveyors tent that I used. I purchased another tent for camping trips. That’s the one I’ll be sending up to South River to the Watties. This tent is a large canvas and the the poles and pegs I cut from the trees nearby. The bedding is made from balsam trees. The limbs are cut off and laid in a pattern in the tent to yield a soft sleeping surface. It’s actually quite fine to lounge the day on this balsam bed as I did today listening to rain patter on the canvas. When the rain let up, I went out side, sat against a tree, had my pipe and read.

It’s a wonder how these gray days can pass by so quickly. The coals were still hot from the night before and it was easy to make a good fire again. I made pail of tea, and set beans in the bake-kettle. It rained on and off, but started to clear during the later part of the evening. Tea and baked beans were the menu tonight. Once it became darker, I went back into tent, laid out my blankets, rolled up my boots in my coat to make a pillow for the night. There was a slight breeze, making the flaps ripple open. Through the ripples, I could see the lake and its reflection of the night sky. The sky was clearing up and the stars were coming through. I could hear voices across the lake. I don’t think they were coming from Mowat Lodge. It sounded like it was coming from Little Wap Island, or Taylor Statten’s place.. I didn’t recognize the voices, so I started to wonder if Taylor had already left for the United States for his YMCA course. He had planned to rent out his cottage to a Dr. from Toronto, Dr. Howland, I think his name is. Maybe I’ll canoe over tomorrow and introduce myself.

June 21, 1917

It’s the summer solstice today. For the first time ever, the sun sets after 9 o’clock. It’s been setting a few minutes after 9 for the past few days now but since Daylight Savings Time went on for the very first time this year, it’s made the evenings longer. The extra hour is supposed to save coal and electricity in the cities. It doesn’t make any difference here, save for the changes it made to the train schedules. Shannon said the extra hour of daylight is good for the crops. I believe he was joking on that point, but  you’re never sure. Astronomy is not his strong point. He’s hard-pressed to find the Big Dipper. He doesn’t understand the fuss about the Northern Lights, which the city folk like to call, “Aurora Borealis”. Shannon thinks that term is a shameful waste of syllables.

Once, in jest, I said Shannon was as “constant as the northern star”, hoping that he would catch the allusion. Then I realized it quickly lost on him on both counts. First – the reference to Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar – Shannon’s literary depth went as far as compiling a grocery list. And second – that the North Star stayed in one spot in the sky – Shannon was still struggling with the concept of an extra hour of daylight. I could understand him not understanding the first allusion, but the second one, I found inconceivable that he didn’t know that one. It’s fortunate that  Shannon does not have to rely on the stars to navigate Canoe Lake at night-time. He just has to follow the smell of Annie’s cooking.

The weather had turned for the better. The evening was serene. It was warm and the slight breeze  kept the bugs away. Knowing the weather would be nice, I decided to camp for the evening at Hayhurst Point. My campsite there was semi-permanent. It was my home away from home – just few minutes escape by canoe and easy to get back into operation.

I managed to catch a good trout for dinner. I wasn’t sure if I was going to catch anything, so I brought a few slices of bacon with me as well. I decided to prepare them both. I would have more than enough food, so I’d keep my eye on the lake and if there happened to be a passerby, I’d invite them for supper.

The evening was beautiful, and nothing could be better than preparing a meal in such pleasant weather. I got the fire going, cleaned the trout, packed it with some flour and butter and put it in the reflector oven beside the fire. Then I started on the bacon and tea. There is a special trick to making tea. Most people think you add the leaves after you boil the water, but that’s not the case. You start with lake water and cold as you can get it, throw in the leaves, and remove the pot just before it comes to a boil. The real trick is to bring the water as close to a boil, but without the boil.

The bacon preparation has its secrets too. You can’t just fry it. You have to parboil it first. The bacon has lots of salt for preservation, so you have to get that salt out first. You put an inch of water in the frying pan with the bacon and bring it a boil for a couple of minutes. You remove the water then fry it.

During meal preparation time, you have to keep your eye on the tea. It’s the making of good tea that makes the best tips for guides. Tea, when properly steeped makes everything taste good. It has to be the right temperature, served at the right time, just before the meal. As soon as the lid shows a hit of steam coming from it, you take it from the fire. Once removed, you throw in a handful of cold water and that makes the leaves go to the bottom. That’s the secret technique – the other secret, as I said, is to make sure it is timed with the other food preparations.

After about a half-hour my dinner was ready, tea as well. Nobody came by in a canoe, so I had no dining partner. That was okay. I had dinner by the shore by myself. I watched the sun go down. The evening star was out – Venus, or Hesperus as it is known in Greek mythology. For all the wisdom of the Greeks, they never knew that Phosphorous (the morning star) was the very same Venus of the evening before. Hesperus and Phosphorous were the very same being, but the Greeks never figured this out. It was only when man learned that the heavens didn’t circle about the Earth that the someone figured out they were the same. It was the myth that kept man away from the true fact of the matter.

This train of thought reminded me of the ‘Wreck of the Hesperus”, the poem I knew by heart, and sang to Fanny Case and her girls. In some ways I felt the inevitability of the ‘Wreck of the Hesperus’. Was this my fate too? Maybe I needed to write a new poem called, ‘Rise of Phosphorous’, about the evening star, Hesperus, disappearing into the night, only to reappear the next day as Phosphorous, a new and different being to everyone. That was the secret that Venus held for millennia – that Hesperus and Phosphorous, were the same – but nobody knew. A  poem is a myth that creates a new reality.  Or maybe, it was the other way around. In either case, I needed a new reality, not just a new poem or myth. Poems and myths were for others. I wasn’t sure where these thoughts was taking me. Then I heard the whistle of a distant train. Just a single long whistle. That meant it was about to cross a trestle bridge , warning everyone well in advance.

The whistle had jolted me out of my thoughts and I looked back out towards the shore. The sun was going down. The wind stooped and the lake turned into golden glass. It was about as peaceful as it could ever be. As for the heavenly bodies, I could only see Hesperus, but the other stars were coming out. I couldn’t yet see the Northern Star. But since it was constant, I knew exactly where to look. It would appear in due time. And tomorrow I would see Phosphorous.

June 20, 1917

There’s a reason why everyone wears long sleeves in the Park. Even in the middle of summer. Bugs, sun, and poison plants.

Lowrie came back with a report that he saw some Giant Hogweed on Gilmour Road near the dump. Shannon and I decided to investigate. We were in for a surprise. There weren’t just a few – there were hundreds. It must have been from the patch that we cleared a couple years behind the Lodge. We cut it down, hauled it near the dump and burned it. It looks like that didn’t do the trick because now hundreds of plants are back. They must have grown during the recent warm weather. They were all waist-high now and by the end of the summer, they’ll be taller than two men.

Lowrie doesn’t want to touch the stuff. Last time he got the sap on his arms and he couldn’t show his skin for the whole summer. Each time he exposed him arms to sunlight, he got burns ten times the worse than what you’d ever get from the sun. Shannon brought his scythe along, and he decided the best way to deal with it was to cut it down and keep an eye on it.

Giant Hogweed is an alien species in the Park. Someone brought it from overseas to decorate their garden and it got out in the wild. It looks like a wild carrot – a wild carrot from hell actually. It’s also surprising to know that many of the flowers in the meadows are not native either. Like Hogweed,  many of the garden flowers brought over from England have established themselves in the Park and are pushing out the native species. Once the pine trees were cut and cleared away, it gave these alien species opportunity to establish themselves. It’s ironic – we’ve sent our men to England to fight, and in return they give us flowers that grow in the land that should be worked by these very men who’ll never come back. It’s also ironic when people come for the ‘untouched nature’ of the Park, what they are really seeing is alien second-growth.

Aside from plants, there are other aliens in the Park. Enemy aliens as they’re called. The camp at Sims Pit has enemy aliens, and by rights, Martin Blecher Jr. is an enemy alien too.

Earlier in the morning I canoed by the Blecher boathouse. The doors were open, and I could see inside. Martin’s putt-putt boat was parked inside. Inside there was a workbench and repair tools. Martin was pretty handy with tools and he had all the expensive ones. I guess he has it pretty good when your his father is a retired furniture magnate. I’m sure his father is the the one paying the bills.

I figured that Martin was sleeping once again in the boathouse. I heard the fights over at the Blecher cottage. He and his sister get into some pretty nasty fights and you can hear the yelling all the way up to the Lodge. The day before yesterday, I saw that  furniture had been thrown into the lake out. I could only speculate that the nature of that fight resulted in some sort of eviction and Martin moving into the boathouse.

Martin saw me out front, “Just remember I got a gun for trespassers,” Martin gestured towards his workbench and to the gun mounted on the wall.

“Yeah, Martin. I was only passing by to say hi.” I drew my paddle back into the water and glided out of his sight line. There was no need for him to be unfriendly. I think it’s more out of habit that he is so gruff. I’m pretty sure he learned it from his battle-axe of a mother, Louisa. Once she chased me of their property with a broom.

I try to think of other things, but Winnie is on my mind almost all the time. It’s been a few days since I sent the letter to Billie Bear Lodge. I haven’t heard anything back yet, so I’m getting worried. I am starting to think of another plan that Winnie and I will rendezvous up in South River and then go out West from there – to North Bay,and then to the Soo. My friend, Tom Wattie and his family live in South River. If I don’t hear from Billie Bear soon I may have to change plans. In that case, I’ll to ship some gear to South River. That way, when I do leave from here, it won’t look like I’m leaving for good. I’ll wait a few more days before I decide what to do.

I went up to Joe Lake to fish this afternoon. A girl guest from the Algonquin Hotel came down to watch me. I ignored her, then she said, “You are a disciple of Izaak Walton!” I smiled and kept on fishing. I knew the game. Annie Colson gave the girl that quote. I’m sure the girl was quite smitten with me and wanted something smart to say to me. It’s happened before. The girls always seem to go to Annie for advice on what to say to me and this is the quote she gives them. It’s a game between Annie and me. The girls don’t know they’re part of a game. It’s harmless game, and I don’t do anything with it. I’d never want in that type of situation if the game ever got serious.