From: kate rickman <kate.rickman@mindspring.com>
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2000 20:32:20 -0400
Subject: Love for all Seasons 7
Source: direct

TITLE:  Love for all Seasons VII:  In August (1/1)
AUTHOR:  Kate Rickman
E-MAIL:  kate.rickman@mindspring.com
DISTRIBUTION:  anywhere, I'm easy
CLASSIFICATION:  MSR
RATING:  R
SPOILERS:  None except for the earlier parts of this series.
SUMMARY:  Scully and Mulder, behaving like a normal couple on a
weekend in August.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:  This is a (mostly) stand-alone in my LFAS universe.
Mulder and Scully are now involved romantically, trying to have a
normal relationship within the context of their anything-but-normal
lives.

Can anyone tear themselves away from SUZ- and Closure-fic long
enough to read this piece? <waving>  It has nothing to do with
aliens or Samantha or Santa Claus.

Other installments in this series and my other fiction can be
accessed at http://kate.rickman.home.mindspring.com/

Once again, thank you for reading!

***
Saturday, August 21, 1999
10:52 AM

"A rabbit."

"No, it's clearly a bear."

"Mulder, bears don't have little fuzzy tails."

"It *doesn't* have a little fuzzy tail, Scully."

"Well, not now it doesn't."

"Now it's a bear."

I squint and turn my head, considering the bear hypothesis carefully.
"OK, it's a bear.  But it could be an elephant."

Mulder reaches over and pulls the bill of my cap down over my face.

"Hey!"  I use the excuse to roll over him, pinning Mulder to the
warm, fragrant grass.  I fall into his lips, working my mouth against
his; he opens to me and our tongues slide together, hot and moist.
Unseen, the rabbit that became a bear and then was an elephant
collides with a unicorn and spins apart, wisps of white fluff
dissolving into pure blue sky.  Unseen, the sun pours over both of
us, splintering across the Potomac River as it runs south to the sea.

As I lose myself in him, Mulder's appreciation rises toward me
through the tense lycra of his bicycle shorts.  The image of his
nicely-muscled derriere and his tight thighs, pushing and flexing,
floods my mind.  I gasp and I push back, looking with wonder into his
laughing face.

"No way it's an elephant."  He tumbles over me, tipping me so that we
lie side by side on the grass again.

I giggle at his unintentional metaphor--you are sooo wrong, Fox
Mulder--and watch the sky spread blue and clear above the grassy
knoll next to the river.  It's a beautiful Saturday morning and we've
already cycled fifteen miles up the Chesapeake and Ohio towpath from
our home base in DC.  Two weeks ago, Mulder appeared at my door,
pushing two shiny mountain bikes.  He coaxed me out of my robe and
slippers, urging me into shorts and a T-shirt.  He laughed when I
rolled my eyes at the sleek blue helmet. Then he fastened it securely
beneath my chin, put me on the bike, and pushed me into the
street.

I love him for it.

Today, we follow an ambitious itinerary.  We will ride to White's
Ferry, cross the Potomac, then cycle to the town of Leesburg, where
Mulder has reserved a room in a historic inn for us to spend the
night.  A romantic inn, the waggle of his eyebrows told me.  A great
idea.  I plant my feet in the grass and prepare to stand up.  "Ow!"
Pain lances through my left leg, a memento of Kosovo.

Mulder immediately levers himself on one arm, reaching for me, his
eyes heavy with concern.  "We shouldn't have come this far.  It's
my..."

"It's not your fault, Mulder," I rebut what he was about to say and
sit carefully, rubbing the back of my aching thigh.  Mulder can find
a way to blame himself for everything.  Last Spring, the FBI sent me
to Kosovo as part of a forensic team.  The work went smoothly until
Neil Blacklund stepped where he shouldn't have stepped, and lost his
life for that one small mistake.  Several bits of the exploding mine
lanced into my thigh--I lost a little blood, a bit of muscle tissue,
and lot of sleep over it.  The FBI sent me home and Mulder freaked
out, trying not to hover protectively.

He failed miserably and I love him for it.

I roll away from the pain in my left leg and scramble to my feet,
tumbling downhill before I fully gain my footing.  Mulder pops to his
feet behind me and races after me down the hill to our bikes, stashed
in a clump of bushes.  Determined to beat him to the path--we're not
competitive or anything, oh no, not us--I yank my bike from the
tangled branches and vault onto it, standing as I pedal hard away
from him.  My legs hurts only a little.

"Hey!"  Mulder's bike clatters behind me, a little too loudly.  I
grin as I imagine him falling over himself to climb on and catch up.

"See you in White's Ferry!" I taunt him as I bump along the path,
dodging pot holes, hissing across grassy patches.  After a few
seconds, Mulder noses even then edges past me, a grin plastered
across his face.  The muscles in his legs stand out in glossy relief
as he leaves me in the dust.  Literally.

"Hey, guys!" A familiar voice.

I tear my eyes away from Mulder's fine ass and turn to see Agent
Lowell and his wife pedaling alongside me.

"Thom!"  Suddenly I'm awkward.  This is the first time we've tested
our new relationship with people we know, without the pretense of
work.  Why am I awkward?  If I were Mister Special Agent Dana Scully,
no one would blink to see me and Mulder cycling together on a
Saturday afternoon.  We'd be two buddies out for a ride and a few
beers.  Except we're not out for a ride and a few beers.  We're out
for a ride and a night of luscious sex in a romantic country inn.  My
face burns as blood floods beneath my skin.

"Hey, Dana," Thom Lowell coasts next to me, his blonde hair ruffling
in the wind.

"Hi Thom," I turn my face into the same wind, praying that it washes
away the guilt that radiates from my skin.  "Peggy," I greet Mrs.
Lowell from the corner of my eye.  Peggy is as dark as her husband is
fair, generations of Italian ancestors giving her a rich olive
complexion and glossy black hair.  Thankfully, the heat recedes into
my neck and my face feels normal again.

"Thom!" Mulder has pedaled back to join us.  Like a rambunctious
puppy, he cycles in fast circles around us as we head upriver.

"Whereya off to?" Thom asks.

"White's Ferry then across to Leesburg," Mulder offers our itinerary.
My guilty conscience and I struggle against each other.  I barely
manage to keep the blush below the collar of my tee-shirt.

"Ambitious for an August afternoon," Thom remarks not-so-dryly;
perspiration beads across his forehead and dampens his shirt.

"We're planning to stop for a long lunch at Drake's Point, wait out
the heat of the day, then go on in the late afternoon.  Join us?"
Mulder coasts at my side.

Thom checks with Peggy.  "I'm up for it," she says,"as far as White's
Ferry anyway."

"Did you bring your lunch?"

Thom patted the pack strapped around his waist.  "Sure did."

"Great, then.  Last one there is a rotten egg!"

Where did you find that old one, Mulder, I laugh silently as he and
Thom sprint ahead, disappearing into a green tunnel where trees grasp
at each other across the narrow path.  Peggy and I pedal along more
slowly, enjoying the day.  I like this, being a normal human being
with normal human beings, although I squint against the bright green
light, looking for Mulder, part of me longing to race alone with him
through the trees instead of following at a sedate distance.

Peggy and I chat comfortably about this and that, the guys pedal back
to meet us and race off again, then suddenly, somehow, we're at
Drake's Point with growling stomachs.  We pedal out of the trees to
find Mulder and Thom high on the bluff overlooking the river, leaning
against their bicycles, laughing about something.  The line of
Mulder's back is relaxed, his face--turned into the sun--happy,
alive.

As I push my bike up the slope, I'm nearly overwhelmed by my desire
to throw Mulder on the grass, peel off his lycra shorts, and impale
myself on him.  Does Mulder sense my thought?

He turns, smiles, and my knees go wobbly from the heat of his eyes
washing over me.

I carefully lay down my bike, force a distracting laugh between my
teeth.  It sounds real, casual, I think.  I don't meet his eyes, just
in case.  Instead I paw through one of the bags on Mulder's bike,
searching for my lunch.

Thom eyes the large panniers--overnight bag-sized panniers--then
turns his eyes away, refusing to be curious.  Bless you, Thom, I
thank him silently.

We settle in a row, human crows perched along a crumbling foundation
that has decayed gracefully into this bluff.  I sit between Mulder
and Thom, unpacking my lunch onto my lap.

"Whatcha got?" Mulder asks, peering at my sandwich.

"Tuna."

"Baloney."

"No, it's really tuna," I start to argue with him.

"And mine's really baloney...wanna trade?"

I mime grinding my sandwich into this face as he laughs at the
expression on mine.  "I can't believe you're actually eating that
mystery meat stuff."  I shudder at the thought of odd animal parts,
ground together and pressed into a tube for slicing.

"It's good," Mulder slurs through a mouthful of pressed meat and
white bread.

"Yeah sure."  My tuna--white meat packed in water, served with a
dollop of fresh mayonnaise and a touch of dill, spread on a bakery
roll--tastes much better than his bologna ever could.

A large cabin cruiser powers up the Potomac, American flag snapping
from the stern.  Small figures lounge around its deck, watching us as
we watch them.  Thom waves and a slim young thing in an invisible
bikini waves back.  Peggy reaches around Mulder's back to pound
Thom's shoulder with one fist.  We all laugh, including Thom, and
watch the boat disappear around a curve in the river.

Thom and I find ourselves talking shop, revisiting a case we worked
together earlier this year.  In between our words, I find myself
staining to hear Mulder's conversation.

"...sailing, each summer on the Vineyard..."

Thom blinks into the sunlight.  "..so I did a bit more background on
the Melliors case."

"...my sister, my mom, and I..."

"The Melliors case?"  I know I should remember, but my mind fills
with images of the Mulder family in happier times.

"...and I remember riding bicycles, out to Gay Head..."

"Sure, Dana.  Mrs. Melliors claimed to be channeling the spirits of
her missing family members..."

"...I guess that would have been 1972 or 1973, before..."

A year or so before Samantha went missing, sending Mulder into the
tailspin he's still fighting to control.  "Uh, right," I agree with
Thom.

"And it turned out that she finally collapsed and confessed to the
murders."  Thom continues to nudge my memory.

I shake myself.  "Right.  But the bodies were never found.  They dug
all over the farm."

"And Mrs. Melliors was never tried or convicted."

"Then?"

"We found the bodies!" Thom delivered the punch line with boyish
enthusiasm, slapping his thigh for emphasis.

"Really?  After all this time."  Mulder and Peggy, heads together,
prospect among the tumbled stones, turning gray slabs over with a
thick stick.

"Yes!  Just this year, Mrs. Melliors sold the family farm to a
developer.  When the woods near the old house were graded to
accommodate the new homes, the bones of Mr. Melliors and the two
children turned up."

"Near the house?  But we looked there already."  Several bricks
spiral from the ruin and plop on the grass near Thom and I.  I crane
my neck and see movement in the old cellar hole.

"The remains were nestled beneath the spreading roots of an old oak
tree.  She must have put them in a natural hollow, then filled the
hollow with rocks and dirt."  Thom continues.  "DNA testing sealed
the case.  Last week we arrested Mrs. Melliors, now Mrs. Taylor with
another small child at home."

"A close call for the new husband and their baby?"  Two more bricks
join the pile.

"Perhaps."

"Thom!"  Peggy Lowell grasps the foundation and levers herself up,
rolling across the top and landing on her feet at Thom's side.  She
holds out one hand.  "Look!"

Thom takes the small item from Peggy's hand and holds it to the
light--an amber crystal in the shape of a teardrop sparkles in the
afternoon sun.  "It looks like one of those bobble thingies from a
chandelier."

"I think it is," Peggy replies, then opens her other hand to reveal
three more jewels.

"How odd that it wasn't found before.  How old is this place anyway?"
As I watch the Lowells examine their booty, a large hand catches me
low in the back, slides up, and slips over my shoulder.  Mulder steps
in close and distracts me, displaying his own treasure between thumb
and forefinger.   "Hey!" I murmur in surprise...into his shoulder,
he's standing so close.

He drops the faceted crystal into my hand with a smile.  A gift.  The
droplet catches the slanting light and sends golden splinters
skittering across my palm. Mulder's heat burns against my side and
his breath teases my cheek.  I relax into him, letting his strength
hold my weight, and nestle my head into his shoulder.  Mulder's
scent--warm, spicy--floats around me.  Then, after a moment's bliss,
I come to my senses.  Two partners inspecting a specimen don't stand
close like this; two people about to have mind-blowing sex stand
close like this...for the last two seconds before having mind-blowing
sex.  From the corner of my eye I see Thom drop the crystals into
Peggy's pack and pull the zip.

I tense against Mulder, still applied closely to my right side, his
arm across my back, his fingers laced through the hair at the back of
my neck.

Thom straightens.

Mulder tenses against me, suddenly aware of our predicament.

Thom turns toward us, his eyes lingering on Peggy.  He's laughing at
something she has said.

Coward that I am, I move to peel myself away from Mulder; Mulder
holds me at his side with the slight tension in his fingertips.
"Look," he whispers against my face, poking at the bauble in my palm.

Thom's head swings up, slowly.

I flex my palm and the amber crystal drops to the ground, rolls
across the grass, and bounces to a stop against the white wall of
Thom's sneaker.  Thom bends to retrieve it and I exhale into Mulder's
shoulder.  Mulder kisses me on the forehead then releases me with a
squeeze that is also a promise.

Thom hands our booty to Mulder and glances at his wristwatch, pulling
a face at the hands.  "Six-thirty.  I guess time really does fly when
we're having fun."  Thom stretches high, twisting from the waist,
bending to touch his fingertips to the ground.  Bouncing lightly, he
pulls at one calf and then the other.

"We'd better head for home, Tommy boy," Peggy gathers the remains of
their lunch, tucking the bits into her pack and Thom's as Thom
loosens up for the ride home.

"Mulder, what were you doing?" I hiss.  "You were practically wrapped
around me."  Of course, I don't mention that I practically wrapped
myself around him or that a series of lascivious thoughts had wrapped
around my brain, nearly inducing paralysis at the critical moment.

Mulder leans into me.  "A sudden movement would have attracted more
attention."

He's right, of course, and I say nothing, collecting our debris,
carefully separating garbage from recyclables, packing it neatly into
the pannier that lays on the grass nearby.  Thom and Peggy untangle
their bikes from our stack.

"You loved it.  Admit it, Scully," Mulder whispers.

I did, but I'd rather die than let him score the point, so I snort
instead.

"You can't keep your hands off me, in fact."

"That's a case of the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard of
one," I finally retort, my palms itching to stroke his strong back,
to slide lower, to feel the warm strength of his....  I shake myself,
turning toward Thom and Peggy, launching my bicycle downhill with a
kick of one foot.

Mulder only smiles.  We join Thom and Peggy on the path, our bikes
pointed in opposite directions.

"Let's do this again some time," Thom suggests.  "Have you ever done
the Washington and Old Dominion rail trail?"

"No, but I'd like to."  I would.  This has been fun, pretending to be
normal people.

"Great!  Then what about next weekend..."

"Next weekend we're sailing with the Morrisons," Peggy interrupts
with a light hand on Thom's arm.

"So the weekend after that...uh, September 4th..." Thom does the
math.

"Labor Day Weekend," Peggy reminds him.

Mulder shrugs.  "Then we'll ride shoulder to shoulder with all the
people desperate to squeeze in as many outdoor days as possible
before winter."

"Are you up for it?"  Thom's ready to go.

"Fine with me."  I agree.  I'm already looking forward to the trip.

We make plans to make plans, then Thom and Peggy turn back toward
town while we ride farther upriver, eventually threading our way
through evening traffic in White's Ferry on our way to the river
crossing.

On the ferry, I stand at the rail, squinting through my sunglasses at
the sun.  It drifts low among treetops on the Virginia side, sowing
golden seeds across the river that slides beneath us.  Mulder holds
the railing to either side of me and I lean back against him, content
in his circling warmth and the heat of the sun, letting my thoughts
unravel as they will.

We are so ordinary and we are not ordinary at all.

Mulder and I nearly forgot how to live in a world without conspiracy,
aliens, and hybrid cloning--to name a few horrors.  It was a close
call.  But, over the past year, working together, we have pulled back
from the brink of that harsh reality to another one, a kinder world,
a world of laughter and happiness, a world where mundane pleasures
like watching television and cooking together are the norm rather
than an impossible dream.  It's true that this reality, Thom and
Peggy's world, faces the same threats to mankind as our world does.
The difference?  We help each other live every moment and seize the
happiness we find instead of deferring our lives--and our love--to a
time that might never come.

Carpe diem with a vengeance, and I love it.

We coast into Leesburg with the twilight, cycling through purple
streets.  Down a narrow lane, nested in a grove of old oaks, a white
house rises from the gloom.  Welcoming light spills from its windows
to lay in warm slats across the brick path.  We push our bikes
around the side of the house, then return to the front door, panniers
in hand.  Mulder levers the brass ring twice against the red door and
we wait.

After a moment, the door swings open; light and the aroma of roasted
meat spill onto the porch, making me blink and inspiring my stomach
to emit a long, low growl.  "Fox!"  A cloud of chartreuse chiffon
floats out to envelop Mulder so that only the top of his head and his
legs escape the embrace.

"Dana."  A hand sparkling with diamonds emerges from the tangle to
pull me into the house with them.  I stumble inside, pushing the door
behind me with my free hand.  It closes with a smooth click and a
heavy thump that echo richly around the large foyer.

A glittering chandelier floats in air above our heads, flooding the
room with light.  Through an archway, I see a melange of people,
young and old, sitting and standing around a well-appointed parlor,
drinks in hand.  Muted music and the sound of agreeable conversation
drift to my ears as I turn to watch Mulder slowly extract himself
from the chiffon cloud.  He gestures toward our hostess, still firmly
attached his other hand.  "Dana Scully, I'd like you to meet Mary
Braxton Randolph."

Mary Braxton Randolph towers over me, even topping Mulder by an inch
or two with mounds of abnormally dark hair piled high atop her head.
The voluminous caftan now drapes from her broad shoulders to pool
sedately on the marble floor around her feet.  If I had to guess, I'd
say that Mary Randolph must be at least seventy years old but, with
her energy and enthusiasm, she seems to be much younger, more
Mulder's age and mine.

"Dear Dana, it's delightful to meet you at last," she speaks in the
soft cadences of Virginia horse country, smiling at me through her
words while literally beaming at Mulder.

I return the greeting, then shake my head in wonder.  Mulder--so
introspective, so intense--collects people like a stray dog collects
fleas, and they all love him desperately.  It's something to do with
his passion and his compassion, his quiet honesty and the
vulnerability he is not afraid to reveal--the same things that caught
me when I wasn't looking.  I haven't quite figured out how he puts it
all together for strangers, but I'm working on the puzzle, enjoying
the pursuit immensely.

Mulder grabs my hand as Mrs. Randolph tows him toward the curving
staircase.  She addresses me over her shoulder as I, once again,
stumble in her wake.  "After my dear Thornton passed away, I was so
terribly bored.  I decided to turn our lovely townhouse into an inn."

On the steps, she pulls us past paintings of long-dead ancestors--
Great-Grandfather Lincoln Douglass Braxton, Grandmother Randolph,
Great-Aunt Lucinda Braxton Baylor--waving a jeweled hand at each
relative as we pass.  "I still have my beloved horses on the farm, of
course, but here I have people."  Our little train pads softly down
the hall behind our hostess.  "People give me energy, they keep me
young and alive."

We stop at a pair of mahogany doors, each bearing the Randolph family
crest.  Mrs. Randolph opens one door and tows us inside.  "There you
are, Fox," she sweeps a glittering hand around the room.  "Cold
supper, candles, privacy.  Everything you asked for.  Good?"

"Good, Mary.  Very good.  Thanks."  Mulder gallantly kisses the back
of her hand, sending--I swear--a deep red blush creeping across both
of Mary's wrinkled cheeks.  "Thanks," he says again, gently leading
her into the hall, then pushing the door closed behind her.

Now it's just me and Mulder and a roomful of candlelight.  Oh, boy.
A tickle starts deep in my tummy.  I look around.

A huge mahogany bed dominates the room, its crisp white comforter
embroidered to match the lacy canopy spreading overhead.  A crystal
vase bursts with red roses on a nightstand and, near the dark
fireplace, our supper lays across a small table.  I survey the
offering--chicken salad, a basket of strawberries and other fruit,
iced tea in a pitcher, an assortment of cheeses with crackers on a
silver platter--and my stomach growls all over again.

Laughing, I fall face-first onto the bed and sink through the
comforter into the soft down mattress.  Bliss.  This is sheer bliss.
Fatigue drains from my limbs and I float, boneless, in the soft
eiderdown sea.  Gentle waves roll under me as Mulder climbs onto the
bed; a shiver runs through my body as his lips tease my shoulder
through the thin knit of my tee-shirt.

"I'm all sweaty," I protest into the feathers.  I need a bath and
some food.

"You smell tasty," he nuzzles my neck.  "You taste tasty," he nibbles
his way up my throat.

I reconsider the bath.  This is good.  The food can wait, too.  I
attempt to recall my muscles to action, but I'm suddenly one big
cramp from my waist down to the soles of my feet.  "Ahhhhhhh!"

Mulder rolls away from me.  "That doesn't sound like a good ahhhh."

"Just a little stiff," I manage to squeeze the understatement between
clenched teeth, willing each muscle to relax into its former state of
bliss.

"Here, let me."  From the corner of my eye, I see Mulder rise to a
kneeling position.  His large hands span my waist and grip tightly,
moving downward, digging into each muscle in turn--psoas major,
gluteus maximus, hamstrings, gastrocnemius, soleus, flexor brevis
digitorum--constantly forcing the spasms downward.

"Ahhh!"

"Am I hurting you?" Mulder stops, cradling my right foot between
gentle hands.

Yes, but it's good.  "Don't stop."  Please don't stop.

A cloud of deep relaxation builds around me while Mulder kneads knots
from each of my toes and the tissue that joins them.  I surrender to
the pleasure, closing my eyes, drifting.  A few moments later, I open
my eyes.  Morning light filters through lacy curtains and fills the
room with a diffuse glow.  Relaxed, rested, and cramp-free, I stretch
languorously across the fine linens to find that I have the bed to
myself.  Where's Mulder?

Metal clinks softly against metal.

I turn my head at the muffled sound and see Mulder forage his
breakfast from the supper trays.  A slice of cheese disappears into
his mouth, then a strawberry, then a thin cracker.  He chews with his
eyes closed and I watch him greedily, feasting on the flex of his
arm, the blush of sunburn across his shoulders, the muscular curve of
his rear end, his long legs.  The familiar tickle rises in my tummy as
I follow another slice of cheese until it slips between his lips.

I must have made a small noise, because Mulder turns his head in my
direction.  The smile that creeps across his face stokes the fire
already smoldering inside me.  My face creaks into a sleepy smile as
he brings a juicy slice of pineapple to the bed.  He teases me,
holding the fruit just out of reach, allowing a few droplets of juice
to splatter onto my lips.  I literally rise to the challenge,
propping myself on both elbows, taking the fruit with my teeth.  I
take my time, sucking the juice from his fingers, licking each finger
clean, before I chew the pineapple and swallow it slowly.  Then I sit
up and kiss him thoroughly, tasting the cheese and strawberries in
his mouth as I slide my tongue between his lips.

I look down and see that Mulder enjoyed the kiss as much as I did.
I toss the comforter aside, opening my arms to him.  "Come here.  We
have some unfinished business that we need to finish."

"Just like that?" Without question, he settles between my thighs.

"Just like that," I agree, tipping my pelvis to him.

Just like that, he sinks into me and we move together.  Heat explodes
through me.  I lift myself from the mattress to meet Mulder's thrusts.
I grip his shoulder with my teeth, gently, as we push against each
other.

Then, in the distance, the door rattles with a polite knock.
"Coffee!" our hostess calls cheerfully through the thick mahogany
panel.

We freeze, guilty expressions on both our faces, then burst into
laughter.  I giggle nervously as Mulder struggles to assemble some
words in his mouth.  "Leave it outside, will you Mary?" he manages to
croak after several strangled attempts at speech.

"You kids have a good night?" Mary persists.

"Great night, Mary."  Mulder twitches within me.  "We'll see you at
breakfast."  His voice climbs into the next octave as I squeeze him
in response.

We wait, listening to the silence outside the door for several
heartbeats, then Mulder turns back to me.  "Now where were we?"

"Somewhere around here," I roll over, rising above him in the
morning sunlight.

"Right about there," Mulder agrees, spanning my waist with his gentle
hands, holding me.

***

END (1/1)

Author's Note:  It's been a while.  My excuse involves the holidays,
the gift of Tomb Raider III, a shake-up at work, my vacation, and the
novel-writing class I'm taking on-line.  I blew off an assignment to
finish this work, so I hope you liked it.  More, soon.

--
kate.rickman@mindspring.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
http://kate.rickman.home.mindspring.com