One of the regular visitors to The Last Resort was John Allen Moore, Pud’s first cousin whose family had moved to Atlanta during the Depression when his dad was offered a new job with the railroad. Although John Allen was three years younger than Pud, the two were close. In 1933, when the boys were 11 and 8, Pud traveled with John Allen and his parents to the World’s Fair in Chicago to celebrate a Century of Progress. While there they stayed with another cousin, Will Maurer, who was a chiropractor in the city. It’s clear from Pud’s journal that he was always pleased to have John Allen’s company at the camp. On May 31, 1942, soon after John Allen arrived in Kentucky for a summer visit, Pud describes the two of them having a “sleepless and reminiscent spell, not going to sleep until 2:00 [a.m.].” About a week later, there’s another entry: “John Allen and I went swimming in the Camp Hole and had a swell time riding the current, which must have been running about eight miles an hour.” At Christmas time, John Allen was back in Kentucky with his family. On Dec. 24, 1942, Pud writes: “Scoured the countryside with John Allen in search of a Christmas tree. Saw only two rabbits, but lots of birds.” When I chatted with John Allen about this book project, he would frequently recall the terrifying lightning strike that hit the cabin in June 1942. Pud described the scene: “A bolt of lightning ripped through the partly opened door between John Allen and me and crashed like a giant cracker. John Allen tried to wrap his legs and arms around his head…” Both men survived service in the infantry during World War II and both married a few years after they returned. Pud was John Allen’s best man in 1951. Their friendship endured until my father’s life was cut short. John Allen once described meeting the train that carried my father’s remains when it arrived in Kentucky in April 1967. He had not shaken the shock of my father’s untimely death. When he described the scene to me in 2015, I felt fairly certain that he still hadn’t fully recovered. On April 25, 2018, John Allen passed away after a long and eventful life. I am so grateful for all the stories he shared. I have to imagine that throughout his life he was the kind and gentle man I came to know. His ability to recall names and dates and details of our family history going back generations, even into his 90s, never ceased to amaze me. To John Allen’s wife, Jane Chappell, to his sister, Jane McKinney, and his brother, Joe, to his children and his grandchildren, I offer my sincere condolences. I want to honor him as my father would have honored him. In my imagination, the two are now hip deep in a flowing river, fishing rods in their hands. Bobby Cole, Joe Goodlette, and George McWilliams are probably nearby. Rest in peace all.
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David Hoefer, of Louisville, Ky., is co-editor of The Last Resort and the author of the book's Introduction. If you would like to share your thoughts on Clearing the Fog, contact us here. Much of the pleasure of reading The Last Resort journal lies in John Goodlett’s casual recording of a day’s adventures in a style that reflects the camp's relaxed atmosphere. We shouldn’t forget, however, that Pud had a second reason for writing: to try on for size the classroom instruction he was receiving in biology as an undergraduate at the University of Kentucky. Many of his observations involve the identification of plants and animals that were part of the natural wealth of Anderson County. In other words, the power to name, deployed with rigor and care. Of course, the boys of The Last Resort already possessed a vocabulary in the hundreds for local flora and fauna. But Pud was learning a new precision in naming based on scientifically defined relationships of plants and animals. The criteria for choosing one name over another is built into these schemes, typically as the presence or absence of one or more physical attributes. This branch of science, called taxonomy or systematics, is a refined form of pattern recognition. The difficulty Sallie and I faced in assembling The Last Resort’s taxonomic list was trying to link the variably deployed common names—sometimes called folk taxonomy—to the scientific equivalents of greater precision. Linguists have long noted that folk taxonomy favors family or genus over species. We comment on sparrows picking up crumbs off the sidewalk rather than House Sparrows (Passer domesticus). The existence of slangy terms adds further complication because slang comes and goes and can vary in meaning by region. I was surprised to find out that the redbellies caught by Bobby Cole in Salt River were Pumpkinseeds, a kind of sunfish (Lepomis gibbosus). In other places, a redbelly is a Redbreast Sunfish (Lepomis auritus). Does this mean that folk terms—those common names we all use, including scientists—are in some sense faulty and to be avoided? Definitely not. Popular terms do what they’re supposed to do: provide a robust, if flexible, basis for everyday communication, at exactly the level of precision required. Scientific classification sometimes goes too far in the opposite direction, pushing distinctions based on trivial differences and filing away our easy observations of nature (and nature’s beauty) in dusty cabinets of the mind. That said, it’s heartening to see Pud’s dedication to correctly identifying the living things around him. One senses the importance he placed on proper naming and, behind that, the joy he experienced in honestly acquired knowledge. Sure, The Last Resort journal was meant as a record of the daily doings of Pud and his pals in their Salt River haven. But the journal had another purpose all along: to help young John Goodlett build a bridge to his future, which he had already glimpsed in excellent new words for identifying the marvels of his daily acquaintance. In the photos above, David Hoefer displays a Smallmouth Bass (left) and a Largemouth Bass (right) pulled from Lake Cumberland in south central Kentucky. For a comprehensive database of fish species, click here.
It’s still magical. That’s what we discovered when several of us “second generation” sanctuary-seekers visited the site of my dad’s old camp on Salt River last weekend. It was a spectacularly beautiful early spring day: temperatures in the mid-40s with deep blue skies and a light breeze. The torrential rains of the previous week had finally ceased and the ground was surprisingly solid as we hiked down a gravel road past pretty little ponds on either side, down the long hill to the immense corn bottom along the river itself. (Finally, I know exactly what Pud meant by “Cap’s Corn Bottom.”) Remnants of last season’s corn crop littered the flat land that extended as far as the eye could see to the east and west and down to the tree line adjacent to the river. We turned east along the southern edge of the field and headed toward the woods that brought an abrupt end to the corn rows. Once in the woods, I knew I was home. Everything felt familiar. I had only been there once before, but I immediately recalled the path up the hill to the right, the gurgling stream to the left. We crossed the small stream—somewhat carefully this time with the water running a bit more swiftly—and marched directly to the old chimney, still untouched by time. The cabin, of course, is gone, but I expect that chimney will last well into the next millennium. We all marveled at how two teenage boys constructed such a solid edifice 80 years ago. This was a special trip. Bobby Cole’s two children, Bob and Julie, and their spouses were there. They had been regular visitors to the site until their family sold the property in 1981. Two who had visited the camp with my dad as youngsters also joined us: Bob McWilliams (author of "Puzzle Pieces"), son of George McWilliams, my dad’s good friend and my mother’s first cousin, and Sandy Goodlett, oldest son of my uncle Billy, Pud’s brother. They pointed out favorite fishing holes, recognized giant sycamore trees along the river, shared stories about the slow deterioration of the cabin and the shelter it continued to provide even in its compromised state well into the 1960s. We wandered a few yards west of the camp to the waterfall our fathers had used as access to the river for their many fishing expeditions, the steep bluff in front of camp preventing an easier entry. The waterfall was more beautiful than I remembered it, and we tarried there quite some time taking in the scene, recalling the winter photo of my dad sliding down the frozen water on his rear, noting the animal bones littered on a nearby shelf, marveling at the remnants of an old dry stone fence. Yes, it was magical. It’s clear why the boys escaped to their woodland refuge whenever their other obligations permitted. None of us wanted to leave. I wished we had thought to ask permission to camp there that night to extend the dream. The current property owners were once again gracious, gladly allowing us to immerse ourselves in this piece of our family history. Time changes everything. But for a couple of hours in early March, we could imagine our dads walking among us, excitedly pointing out the burgeoning buds on the trees, bragging about their fishing exploits, making plans to improve the camp that summer. We shared sacred memories rarely spoken aloud and honored our dads’ love for that hallowed ground. It was indeed magical. *** In Memoriam This past week we lost one of our cousins who I suspect visited The Last Resort with his uncle Pud and his cousin Sandy when they were toddlers and possibly later, when Pud came back to Kentucky to see family. In his correspondence, Pud referred to Sandy as “Sweetpea” and to Davy as “Sluggo” or “Slug.” David Fallis was the oldest son of Pud’s sister, Virginia, and all of us will miss his gentleness and his sense of humor. Rest in peace, Dave.
Roi-Ann Bettez of Georgetown, Ky., recently read Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ The Yearling and found her descriptions of rural Florida evocative of Pud’s descriptions of rural Kentucky Both were keen observers of the natural world during a time when we still valued its beauty. If you would like to share your thoughts on Clearing the Fog, contact us here. In search of books set in Florida during a recent trip there, I discovered Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ novel The Yearling and her autobiographical stories, Cross Creek. Many people have probably read these, but I had missed them. The plots and characters delighted me, but what I loved most were the settings. Central Florida, still a wild and rural place in the 1930s when Rawlings wrote, comes alive in her hands. She writes—about the animals, the plants, the weather, the crops, the hunting, the freedom, and the toil—with such emotion and detailed description that the place itself becomes a character. For example: “March came in with a cool and sunny splendor. The yellow jessamine bloomed late and covered the fences and filled the clearing with its sweetness. The peach trees blossomed, and the wild plums. The red-birds sang all day, and when they had done with their song in the evening, the mocking-birds continued. The ground doves nested and cooed one to another and walked about the sand of the clearing like shadows bobbing.” As I imagined that place in Florida, I found myself thinking about The Last Resort. Pud Goodlett’s journal is full of lists and descriptions of the birds, the fish, and the plants around the cabin where he and his friends camped. He also says that he read there, and I had longed for him to include a list of what he read. In my imagination I saw him reading one of Rawlings’ books by firelight or kerosene lantern while the rain pattered on the roof above him. Then I thought: maybe he did. It’s possible. Rawlings’ The Yearling was published in 1938, when Pud was 16. A best seller, the book won a Pulitzer Prize in 1939. Kentucky’s Anderson County Public Library (built and furnished with a grant from Andrew Carnegie) had been dedicated in 1909 and was well established by that time, and would certainly have carried the book. Pud’s home on the outskirts of Lawrenceburg was within an easy walk of the downtown library, especially for a young man who readily hiked several miles out to his Salt River camp. It’s also possible he could have read her books later. If he ever did read her writing, I have no doubt he would have been fascinated with her detailed descriptions of rural, central Florida. But whether or not Pud Goodlett read Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, it’s evident that the two would have found a kinship in each other’s world view. They delighted in the places they loved. They were keen observers of the abundance and variety and beauty—and sometimes violence—of the plants and animals on their patch of this place we call Earth. I think Pud would have liked the ending to Cross Creek: “It seems to me that the earth may be borrowed but not bought. It may be used, but not owned. It gives itself in response to love and tending, offers its seasonal flowering and fruiting. But we are tenants and not possessors, lovers and not masters. Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time.” This thought pattern stayed with me. While there on Florida’s east coast, I decided to look at the world through the eyes of Goodlett and Rawlings. I got up early to see the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. I became so aware of the bounty of the world that the next time I went to the beach, I saw things I had not noticed before. When the ocean retreated, it left bits of foam on shore that glowed all the colors of the rainbow for just a few seconds before disappearing into the sand. A tiny crab peeked out from his clawed hole, then dipped quickly back inside. Pelicans decided to roost for their afternoon nap atop a nearby tiki hut. The world was awake and alive all around me. Try it. No matter what kind of day it is, go outside. Look around carefully. Take a deep breath. Think about how Pud or Marjorie would see your place. Look closely. See it through their eyes. I bet you’ll see something differently. I come from a very small family. After my father died in 1967, it was my mother, my older sister, and me. My mother died in 1991. My sister lives hundreds of miles away. I quickly realized that I didn’t much like the feeling of being “untethered” from the mooring of a family. My husband has a wonderful, rather large family, but I wanted ties to folks who knew something about the people who had populated my early years, folks who could help me remember my parents and others of their generation and who could perhaps help me understand a little more about myself. So over the last three decades I have made concerted efforts to reach out to my many cousins, to invite them to my home, and to get to know them better. They are all older than I am, so I felt a bit like the annoying kid sister trying to wheedle my way into their orbits. Much to my relief, they have been largely tolerant of my whims, and I am immensely grateful for their ongoing support. My cousins are all fascinating people. Every last one of them. They intrigue me. They surprise me. There’s so much more I want to know about each of them. One of the unexpected benefits of publishing The Last Resort has been the opportunities it has created for me to connect with my extended family. While preparing the manuscript, I relied on them for information and family history. I had no choice but to call and ask them questions. In the process, I hoped to drum up their interest in the project so they would look forward to reading the book. What I didn’t predict was how the published book would open up conversations about family. I have heard stories that no one had thought to share before. I have discovered how many of my cousins had spent time at my dad’s camp on Salt River. I have spent hours traveling by car with two of my more intrepid cousins. Although the trips were long, the conversations we had were worth every moment of sedentary discomfort. Last weekend, the three of us visited two cousins in the Atlanta area: John Allen Moore, one of the original band of boys who joined Pud and Bobby Cole at The Last Resort in the early 1940s, and his younger brother, Joe Moore. We had seen them both two years ago as I was beginning work on this project, looking to them for information. This time I thoroughly enjoyed learning what footnote or story or photo in the book had piqued their interest. I eagerly anticipate continuing the conversations about family and mid-century life in Lawrenceburg and World War II. When you start a project like this, you think you can see where it will take you. You imagine holding the finished product in your hands. What you can’t fully anticipate are the unexpected personal connections and the emotions of the journey. Their breadth and depth have astonished me. And I might have missed it all if I hadn’t had the courage to reveal a family story and a family who would embrace it. Bob McWilliams of Frankfort, Ky., offered the following as a comment to Joe Ford’s Unexpected Artifacts post. It generated such interest that I wanted to make it more widely available to Clearing the Fog readers. Pud Goodlett was a friend, fellow Boy Scout and classmate of my father, George McWilliams. As Sallie has mentioned, my dad camped with Pud and others at The Last Resort. Pud became part of my family when he married Mary Marrs, who was my Dad’s first cousin on his mother’s side. Mary Marrs and my dad were only children and they were the closest thing they had to a brother or sister. They may have even lived in the same house at one point in time. Growing up I heard stories about Pud and Dad camping and fishing at Salt River. Of course the fact that Pud and Bobby Cole built their own cabin by the river was for me about the neatest thing ever. In about 1964, my dad took my friends Bob Crossfield and Bill Stewart and me to The Last Resort for a camping trip. We were twelve years old. As was common, my dad let us explore and then left us for the night to fend for ourselves. The Last Resort was still standing then, though the roof had caved in as had most of the floor. The fireplace, chimney, walls, windows, kitchen, and front porch were intact. I made several return camping and fishing trips to The Last Resort over the next couple of years, camping under the stars and the trees. It was truly wonderful. On one of the visits I was sitting on the front porch when I noticed something partially concealed under the leaves and twigs on the ground. I picked it up and it was a piece of Masonite, painted chocolate brown. There was a ghost image of lettering on the board. I cleaned it up and could see that it said Last Resort. I knew then that there had been letters attached to it. I sifted through the leaves and found several pieces of straight wood, each cut from a sapling. Each one was approximately one-quarter inch in width and had been split in half lengthwise and varnished. The end of each piece was beveled. Some were longer than others and we took all the pieces and laid them on the porch floor on top of the Masonite board. To my shock, we were able to place every letter in its proper place, clearly spelling out Last Resort. We celebrated when the last piece of the puzzle was laid down. Alas, I left the sign there on the porch, not being able to project just how special this piece of family lore would have been to Mary Marrs, Ginny, and Sallie. I have tried to recreate the “twig lettering” in pen and ink to no avail. It seems I cannot recall how the curved letters were formed. I thought it would be a nice addition to Sallie’s book but I simply could not replicate it in decent fashion. When Pud passed away and Mary Marrs and the girls moved back to Kentucky, Mary Marrs gave me Pud’s L. L. Bean Maine Hunting Shoes, his backpack, snakebite kit, and snakebite boots. The latter had leather so thick and tough that a rattlesnake’s fangs could not penetrate the leather. It seems that I was the only one in the family who loved the outdoors to any degree and had feet small enough to wear the boots. Size 7 I think. Truth be known, I probably wore them for a long time after I had outgrown them. They were special gifts. She didn’t give me his machete, which was probably a good thing. After reading the blog post “Collecting Memories,” Joe Ford of Louisville, Ky., shared these memories of his father. If you would like to share your thoughts on Clearing the Fog, contact us here. I’ve been thinking about family “artifacts,” especially those that surprise rather than merely remind. My father was of the same generation as Pud Goodlett: he, too, interrupted his studies to go to war, returned to eventually get a Ph.D. (his in philosophy), taught college and engaged his students (in and out of the classroom), raised a family (eight of us), and like Pud had an impressive breadth of interests. He lived a long life, but even so there are these artifacts that surprise. I knew some of them existed, but never learned the story that would lessen the mystery of how they fit in with the fabric of his life. They are photos, physical items, even stories. I encountered them, new and old, known and unknown, after his recent death. A photograph of my father with Thomas Merton, John Howard Griffin, and Jacques Maritain. A pilot’s license. A hunting shotgun we kids would surreptitiously pull out of the attic and admire. A trumpet in a case lined in red velvet. A small box containing the relics of three saints. Every “Calvin and Hobbes” book ever published. And an oft-repeated story from his good friend Jim Henry describing the first time he met my father: he came down the steps of a Navy ship and there sat Jack Ford at the bottom, reading Aristotle. Yes, yes, I knew he rubbed shoulders with those Catholic thinkers, had a sense he flew before I came along, had a vague notion he hunted (there was that gun in the attic, after all). But a trumpet for a man who was seemingly tone deaf? No idea. The relics—with authentication records, no less? Total mystery. But what are the stories behind the artifacts? Why did they all come, those men, that day, to Merton's hermitage? How did someone of such modest means learn to fly and why did he give it up (other than those students in our basement throwing up after a flight)? Who taught that city boy to hunt? What did those relics hold for a rigorous, philosophical mind? And how does it all weave together for a man who lost his father at an early age and had a difficult childhood, yet found deep satisfaction in his life and family and students? We look to artifacts to bring meaning, to fill out memories, to explain. Some do. But some only give a sense of the richness and inherent mystery of a life. In The Last Resort, Sallie Goodlett Showalter took a rare opportunity to explore and understand at least a part of her father’s life. She could have pointed to the fly rod in the garage and remarked that he had a fishing spot with some buddies on Salt River. End of story. Just some stuff, some artifacts. Instead, she and David Hoefer have brought his journal to life, a journal that touches and reflects many lives, and I am sure the research and conversation and countless artifacts have enriched her far beyond what she expected. For all of us, in all of us, there is still mystery. Go, surprise. After reading The Last Resort, Bob Patrick of Georgetown, Ky., shared these memories of his youth spent roaming the fields near his home in Iowa City. If you would like to share your reflections about the book, contact us here. Reading the book reminded me of my own father who spent a lot of time outdoors in northwest Iowa up until high school. Born in 1913, he completed college and dental school before WWII, when he served in the Army Air Corps as a dentist, all of it stateside. He returned to Iowa City to establish a dental practice. He died in 1953. The Last Resort also brought to mind memories of hiking with my friends along Ralston Creek, which flows through Iowa City on its way to the Iowa River. There were about five of us, and this all took place when we were in middle school, possibly freshmen in high school. We did not have guns (the turtle population had nothing to fear) and there was no cabin. But on weekends we would hike along the creek to the north through farmland toward its source. We would fish for crawfish, catch the occasional frog. Once I found the upper jaw of a squirrel, which I kept for a number of years. Sometimes we would build small campfires using dried grass and twigs. We even hiked in the winter, wearing galoshes and parkas, being careful not to break through the ice and get a "shoe full" of cold water. During one Christmas school break on one of these hikes, my brother and I cut down a small scrub pine, perhaps 2 feet tall, and carried it back home, where we put it in some type of pot. My mother allowed us to place it in a front window and decorate it with Christmas ornaments. I remember the needles were quite sharp, making it difficult to decorate. [Pud Goodlett] had that Jeffersonian trait of not only noticing the environment around him, but writing down what he saw. His field notes for his publications were, no doubt, even more detailed than his journal observations in the book. And I would imagine he retained a sort of practical outlook often found in people who grew up in small towns and more rural settings. In September 1965, my father—then a professor at Johns Hopkins who worked for the U.S. Geological Survey in the summers—contacted a Lawrenceburg cousin about helping him find a vehicle suitable for his field work. Pud and Harold Hanks, a Plymouth/Dodge dealer in Pud’s hometown, exchanged several letters pinning down the vehicle specs, my father’s financial resources, and my father’s dreams. It’s an amazing correspondence between two cousins that reveals both their affection for each other and the business deal they are trying to close. (Thanks to my cousin Dudley Hanks for sharing these letters with me.) Ultimately, my father settled on a Dodge A100 Sportsman Wagon outfitted with a sink, stove, mini-fridge, table and bench seats, and an elevating camper top that allowed it to sleep four comfortably. He wrote to Harold: “We need a dual-purpose car at this point. I can use an A100 or camper for field work, and if we ever do a tour of the U.S. it will have to be in the next few years. The girls are growing up, and after the teen age nuttiness hits them they won’t care about being with us. Most of all I need a van for next summer’s travel to Plattsburgh. Our Valiant looked like Kaiser Bill on a colt this summer. An ordinary station wagon won’t hold much more and is impossible for field work.” We had already spent one summer as a family in a tiny summer house on the shore of Lake Champlain near Plattsburgh, N.Y., as my father did field work there with Charlie Denny and others. Pud would have his camper van in time for the second summer of field work in 1966. Unfortunately, the family trip out west, discussed as a possibility for the summer of 1967, never happened. Pud died April 1 of that year After he died, my mother had to decide what to do with the camper. We had enjoyed a few family outings and camping trips, and there were obvious emotional attachments that made the decision a tough one for her. Ultimately, however, she decided she wasn’t fully comfortable driving the truck-like vehicle and it was hard to justify keeping it. I don’t know the details of how the sale transpired, but she was able to transfer ownership to someone who took it to the Philippines to use as a mobile medical van. As much as we missed that van and the memories it represented, we could usually assuage ourselves with the thought that it was being used for a much higher purpose in another corner of the world. In some ways, that Dodge camper van served the same purpose for my dad as Thomas, the 1925 Ford Model T truck he relied on for trips to Salt River as a young man. The old truck could haul everything the boys needed to camp in the woods: fishing poles and tackle, rifles, flashlights, food, blankets. It served as both practical transportation and emotional anchor to a place. Those who knew my dad in the late ‘30s and early ‘40s remember that truck. Those who knew my dad in the mid ‘60s remember that van. In 1990, my husband and I bought a VW camper van that was nearly identical in amenities to the van my family had had in the mid-1960s. It was a sentimental purchase, to be sure, but we enjoyed numerous camping trips and biking adventures in Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, and North Carolina, trudging up the mountains at 40 mph. A few years ago we finally ceded it to a VW enthusiast who was better able to care for it. These types of vans have enjoyed a popular resurgence among counterculture individualists and minimalists escaping the crush of our material world. Recently, my husband happened to catch an episode of the Velocity network’s “Wheeler Dealers” about a 1965 Dodge A100 Van—the very same sickly green color with the same slant six 140 hp engine and 3-speed manual transmission as our Dodge camper van. Inspired by the possibilities the 50-year-old van offered, the host and his technical crew successfully converted it into a 21st-century California surfmobile. (Watch the full episode here.)
There it was, the van of my childhood, once again fueling someone else’s dreams. [Following is another guest blog by the author of the Introduction to The Last Resort, David Hoefer. I invite other readers to share their thoughts about The Last Resort for future blog posts. You can contact me here.] When I first began to fish a few years ago, I was surprised at how formulaic it was. I don’t mean that fishing isn’t challenging and fun—it can be plenty of both, though not always at the same time—but that the equipment and techniques involved seemed highly codified and very attuned to time and place. A good angler uses certain rods, reels, baits, and casts to catch particular fish in particular circumstances. That’s why I was surprised again when I read John Goodlett’s journal only to find that he and the boys of The Last Resort didn’t give two hoots and a holler about the sacred categories of fishing. For one thing, despite mostly targeting smallmouth bass, Pud’s tackle seems to change constantly, possibly based on what was available in local shops. For another, he mixes casting and fly-rodding setups, which, to hear some tell it, approaches the status of a cardinal sin. Apparently during the mid-1940s procedural integrity was less of a concern; one used what worked, as worked out by experiment. All of which leads to an interesting question: what changed? Has our collective knowledge of the sporting environment risen so dramatically that we can support a highly specialized economy of fishing products and brands? Or are all the exacting methods, tackle, and accessories merely a capitalist ploy to relieve our wallets and purses of excess weight? I suspect that a truthful explanation includes a little of both, and probably some other besides. |
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