please call me by your name

Ankis was waiting for me at the station, and I recognized him immediately.The train slowed down as it swerved along the long bay, almost brushing tall cypress trees.I love these cypresses so much, and through them I always foresee the always delightful dazzling sea at three or four in the afternoon.I pull down the window, let the wind beat against my face, and catch a glimpse of our family's hulking car far ahead.Arriving in B City always makes me happy.Reminds me of how it feels to arrive here at the end of each school year at the beginning of June.The wind, the heat, the shiny gray platform with the old stationmaster's makeshift dormitory closed since World War I, the dead silence, it all comes together to make my favorite part of this desolate, cherished time of day. season.Summer is about to start, as if things haven't happened yet, the stuff I memorized in the last minute before the exam is still buzzing in my head.This is the first time I have seen the sea this year.Who is Oliver you speak of?

The train stopped for a few seconds to let five passengers off.Then there was a rumble, and then there was the loud rattle of the hydraulic engine.Then, as simple as stopping, the train creaked away from the station again, taxiing away section by section.There was no sound.

I stood for a while under dry wooden outriggers.The whole place, including the log cabin, smelled strongly of gasoline, asphalt, peeling paint, and urine.

There are also crows, pine trees, and cicadas that never change.

summer.

I rarely think about the upcoming school year.But at this point I'm thankful for the intense summer vibes of the hot weather, which makes me feel like the next school year is still months away.

A few minutes after I arrived, the Rome-bound express slipped onto the opposite track—that train was always on time.We took the same bus three days ago.I remember looking out the window and thinking: You'll be back in a few days and you'll be alone and you'll hate it so don't let anything get in your way.Be alert.I rehearsed the loss of him, not just to accept it bit by bit beforehand, to ward off the pain, but also, like a superstitious person, to see if fate would soften the blow if I was willing to accept the worst.Like a soldier trained for night warfare, I live in the dark, lest the darkness should suddenly fall and I cannot see.Rehearse the pain to suppress it.According to the principles of homeopathy.

Well, one more time.Views of the Bay: Confirm.

Pine Smell: Confirmed.

Station Master's Temporary Dormitory: Confirmed.

The scenery of the hills in the distance brings back memories, reminiscent of the morning scenery of cycling back to City B, speeding down the hill, and almost hitting the jeep girl: confirmation.

The smell of urine, petrol, tar, varnish: check, check, check, check and check.

Anchise grabbed my backpack and said he would carry it for me, but I begged him not to do that; backpacks are designed to be carried by their owners.He still couldn't figure out why, so he handed the backpack back to me.

He asked me if Mr. "Olegis" had left.

Yes, this morning.

"It's so sad," he commented.

"Yeah, a little bit."

"I feel sad too."

I avoid his gaze.I didn't want to encourage him to say anything, or even bring up the subject.

As soon as I got home, my mother wanted to know the details of the trip.I told her that she hadn't done anything special, but had visited the Capitol, the Villa Pogoze, and the Church of San Clemente.Other than that it's just walking around.Saw many fountains.Went to many strange places at night.Had two dinners. "Dinner?" Mom asked in an understated, "I'm right" smug tone. "With whom?" "Some people." "Who?" "Writers, publishers, Oliver's friends. We stay up all night every night." Da said sourly.Mother also agrees.

① Capitol (theCapitol): Locally known as Campidoglio, it is the smallest of the seven hills in Rome.It used to be the political and religious center of ancient Rome, with many important attractions, including the Capitol Square designed by Michelangelo, the Roman City Hall, and the Temple of Jupiter.The Temple of Jupiter was once the center of the Roman world. This hill and temple symbolize Rome as the "head of the world". Even the word "capital" (capital) comes from this place name.

② Villa Borghese (Villa Borghese): A villa and park designed in 1605 for Pope Paul V's nephew, Cardinal Boghese (cardinalscipione Borghese, 1576-1633).

③ sweet life (ladolcevita): refers to the luxurious self-indulgent lifestyle.It is widely known for the film of the same name by Federico Fellini (1920-1993).

"We helped you restore your room. You should want to go back to your room too."

I immediately felt a mixture of grief and anger.Who gave them the power to do this?Whether they did it together or separately, they were clearly doing it for prying eyes.

I know I'll have to go back to my old room eventually, but I wish there was a longer transition period.I used to imagine lying in bed, struggling to muster up the courage to go to his room, not realizing that Mafalda had already changed his sheets—our sheets.Good thing that morning.After confirming that he had been wearing the wide shirt during our stay in Rome, I again asked him to give it to me.I put my shirts in a plastic laundry bag in my hotel room and probably spend the rest of my life hidden from prying eyes.Some nights, I take the shirt out of the bag, make sure it doesn't smell of plastic or my clothes, hold it, wrap the long sleeves around me, and whisper his name in the dark.Olegis, Olegis, Olegis—that was the voice of Oliver calling me by his name, imitating Mafalda's and Anchise's odd accents; The voice that calls me by my name, I am willing to call my name to me instead of him, and then respond to him: Elio, Elio, Elio.

In order to avoid entering my bedroom from the balcony, I took the interior stairs upstairs.I opened the door to my room, dropped my backpack on the ground, and threw myself onto a warm bed in the sun.Thank goodness they didn't wash the bedspread.I'm suddenly glad I'm back.I might fall asleep in no time and forget about the billowy shirt and the smell and everything about Oliver.Who can resist a nap in the mid-afternoon in the Mediterranean sun?

Exhausted, I decided to take out Haydn's score later in the afternoon and continue the arrangement from the interrupted bar.Otherwise, I'll go to the tennis court, sit on a warm bench in the sun (doing so will surely make me shiver with happiness), and see who is free to play against me.There are always people.

Never in my life have I welcomed sleepiness so peacefully.There is plenty of time to mourn.It will come quietly, as it always has, and there is no possibility of it being taken lightly.Anticipate grief, soothe it—knowing that I am the number one practitioner of the art, I tell myself that it is worthless and cowardly.What if it comes menacingly?What if it comes and won't let go?A lingering grief, like the effect those nights had on his longing, as if something fundamental had been lost from my life, from my body, so that losing him now was like losing my own. hand.That's the hand you have in every photo in the room, but you can't be you without it.You lose it like you always knew you were going to lose it, and were even prepared; but you can't bring yourself to bear the loss.Hope not to think about it, pray not to dream about it, but the pain remains.

Then a strange thought seized me: what if my body (only my body, my heart) was crying out for his body?What should we do then?

What if I can't bear myself at night unless I have Him by my side, in me?So what?

Think about the meaning of suffering before suffering.

I know what I'm doing.Even in my sleep, I know what I'm doing.I vaccinated myself over and over again.You end up ruining everything like this.Sneaky and cunning, that's you.Sneaky, fickle, cunning.I smile at the voice.The sun shines on me, and my love for the sun has an almost pagan love for all things on earth.Pagan, that's you.I never understood how much I love the land, the sun, and the sea—people, things, and even art seem to be secondary.Or am I kidding myself?

At three or four in the afternoon, I realize that I am enjoying sleep and not just seeking refuge in my sleep.Sleeping within a sleep is like a dream within a dream, and what could be better?An emotion that has come close to being as delicate as pure happiness holds me.It must be Wednesday, thought.This day is indeed Wednesday, because the knife sharpener was officially opened and began to sharpen every knife in the house. Mafalda always chatted with him and held a glass of lemon juice for him when he sharpened his knife with a whetstone .In the heat of three or four o'clock in the afternoon, the machine made a piercing sound of crackling and hissing, sending the sound waves of happiness into my bedroom.I've never been able to admit to myself how happy Oliver made me the day he swallowed my peach.Of course I was moved, but I also felt flattered, as if his actions had said: Every cell in me believes that every cell in you should never, never deserve to die.If you must die, please let it die inside me.The door to the balcony was ajar, and he pulled it open to walk in from the outside (we didn't feel like talking that day); he didn't ask if he could come in.what do I do?Could it be that he is not allowed to come in?That's when I greeted him with my arms up, told him I was gone, and never again, never again, and let him lift the covers and climb into my bed.At this moment, as soon as I heard the cicadas chirping with the sound of the whetstone, I knew I could either wake up, or go back to sleep, whichever was better.Dreaming or sleeping, it doesn't matter, I'll choose one or both.

It was nearly five o'clock when I woke up.I don't want to play tennis, and I have absolutely no desire to adapt Haydn.Time to go swimming, I thought.I put on my swimming trunks and went downstairs.Vimini sat on the low wall next to her parents' house.

"Why are you going swimming?"

"I don't know. I just want to. Do you want to come together?"

"Not today. They make me wear this stupid hat if I want to stay out. I look like a Mexican gangster."

"Vimini, what are you going to do if I go swimming?"

"Watch you swim. Unless you can help me up onto one of the rocks, then I'll just sit there with my feet wet and my hat on."

"Then let's go."

You never have to ask Vimini to hold out her hand.She always reaches out automatically, like a blind man automatically holding your elbow. "Just don't go too fast," she said.

We go down the stairs.Going to the reef, I found her favorite rock and sat beside her.This is her and Oliver's favorite place.The stone is warm and I love how the afternoon sun feels on my skin. "Glad I'm back," I said.

"Did you have a good time in Rome?"

I nodded.

"We miss you."

"Who are we referring to?"

"Me. Marcia. She came to see you a few days ago."

"Ah" I said.

"I told her where you've been."

"Ah." I repeated.

I felt the child study my face carefully. "I think she knows you don't like her very much."

There's no point arguing about it.

"So?" I asked.

"Nothing. I'm just sorry for her. I said you left in a hurry."

Vimini was clearly quite pleased with her ingenuity.

"Does she trust you?"

"I think she believes it. That's not a lie."

"What do you mean?"

"That's right, you two left without saying goodbye."

"You're right, we left without saying goodbye. We didn't mean anything in particular."

"Oh, I don't care about you. But I care about him. A lot."

"why?"

"Why, Elio? You'll have to forgive me for saying that, but you've never been very bright."

It took me a while to understand what she meant.It dawned on me.

"I might never see him again, too," I said.

"No, you still might. I'm not sure."

I felt a tightness in my throat, so I left her on the rock and jumped sideways into the water.As I expected.I would stare at the water that night and forget for a split second that he was no longer here, that there was no reason to look back to the balcony even though his image hadn't quite faded.However, less than a few hours ago, his body and mine... and now he may have had his second meal on the plane, ready to land at JFK.I know he was full of sadness when he kissed me for the last time in the Fiumicino airport bathroom.Although drinks and movies distracted him on the plane, when he was alone in his room in New York, he felt sad again.I hated thinking of him being sad, and I knew he hated seeing me sad in our bedroom, which turned back too quickly into my room.

Someone is coming to the rock.I tried to think of something to drive away my sadness, but an irony came to my mind: the gap between me and Vimini was exactly the same as that between me and Oliver.seven years.With a gap of seven years, I thought and thought, and felt something in my throat almost burst.I dive into the water.

The phone rang after dinner.Oliver arrived safely.Yes, in New York.Yes, same apartment, same people, same noise - unfortunately, the same music wafting in through the window that you hear now.He sticks the receiver out the window and lets us get a taste of New York's Spanish rhythms. 110 Fourth Street, he said.Going to have a late lunch with friends.My parents both spoke to him on separate phones in the living room.I use the kitchen phone.here?Well, you know that too.Dinner guests as usual.just go.Yes, it's very, very hot in here too.Dad hopes this will help with productivity.

"This" refers to?Live with us.Father explained.Best thing in my life.If possible, I'd like to kit the shirt, add a pair of swimming trunks and a toothbrush, and hop on the same flight back.Everyone laughed.We welcome you with open arms, dear ones.The jokes come and go.You know our family tradition, Mother explained, and you must come back often, even if only for a few days. "Even just for a few days" meant just a few days—but she meant it, and Oliver knew it. "Goodbye then, Oliver, hope to see you again soon," she said.My father repeated roughly the same words, then added, "Well, I'll let Elio talk to you." I heard the click of two extension phones, which meant there was no one else on the line.How mellow is my father.But crossing what seemed to be a barrier of time, the freedom to be alone all too suddenly, kept me there.Did he have a good trip?smoothly.Does he hate the meal?Hate.Does he miss me?I have no more questions to ask, and should have figured out a better way than bombarding him with more questions. "What do you think?" was his vague answer.Was he afraid that someone would accidentally pick up the microphone?Vimini sends you hello.Very frustrated.I will go out to buy something for her tomorrow and send it to her by courier.As long as I live, I will never forget Rome.Me too.do you like your roomI still like it.The window faces the noisy courtyard, never a ray of sunlight, can hardly put anything, didn't know I have so many books before, now the bed is too small.Hopefully we can start over in that room, I said.Leaning out the window together in the evening, rubbing shoulders like we did in Rome—every day for life, I said.Me too.With a shirt, a toothbrush, and sheet music, I can fly there, so don't tempt me either.I'm taking something from your room, he said.what is itYou will never guess.what is itFind out for yourself.Then I said—that wasn't what I wanted to say to him, but the silence weighed heavily on us, the easiest thing to sneak through in a pause.At least I said it: I don't want to lose you.We will correspond.I'll call you from the post office - that's more private.We talked about Christmas, we even talked about Thanksgiving.OK, Christmas.Before this, the distance between his world and mine seemed not to be as thick as the piece of skin that Chiara once tore from his shoulders, but at this time his world has drifted to several light-years So far away, it might be okay before Christmas.One last time, let me hear the noise outside your window.I hear crackling.Let me hear the sound you made then...a muffled, timid sound—because someone else was in the room, he said.We laughed about it.Friends are waiting for me to go out together.I hope he didn't make this call.I wanted to hear him call my name again.Since we were so far apart, I was going to ask what was going on between him and Chiara.I also forgot to ask where he kept the red swimming trunks.Maybe he forgot to give it to me and took it away.

After the phone call, I went back to my room to see what he might have taken that reminded him of me.I see an unyellowed blank on the wall.May God bless him.He took away an antique framed postcard from Monet's Cliff Pass, printed around 1905.One of our earlier American summer residents found it at a Paris flea market two years ago and sent it to me as a souvenir.The faded postcard was originally sent in 1914—the back has hastily handwritten dark brown scrawled German, addressed to a doctor in England, next to a greeting written to me in black ink by the American student himself: Someday please miss me.That photo reminds Oliver of the morning I first boldly spoke the truth; or the day we rode past the cliff trail and pretended not to notice; or the day we decided to have a picnic there and vowed not to touch each other so we could enjoy the day more The day we lay in bed together in the afternoon.I hope he keeps that postcard in front of his eyes forever, on his desk, in front of his bed, everywhere.Pinned everywhere you go.

The puzzle was solved that night in sleep, as before.I never noticed it before, but this thing has apparently been around for two full years.The man who sent me the postcard was named Maynard.One or two o'clock one afternoon, he must have known everyone had gone to rest, and he knocked on my window and asked if I had any black ink, said he had run out and he only used black ink, and he knew I did too.He walked in, and I, in just my swimming trunks, went to the desk and handed him the ink bottle.He stared at me, stood awkwardly for a moment, then took the bottle.That evening, he placed the ink bottle directly in front of my balcony door.Anyone else would have knocked on the door again and returned the bottle to me.I was 15 years old at the time.But I can't say no.In one of our conversations, I once told him about my favorite place on the hill.

I never thought of him until Oliver took the postcard he had sent.

A little while after dinner, I saw my father sitting in his old place at the breakfast table.He sat with his chair turned out, facing the sea, with the proofs of his new book on his lap.He drank his usual chamomile tea and enjoyed the evening.Beside him were three large citronella candles.Mosquitoes are threatening tonight.I went downstairs and sat with him.We always sit together at this time, but I've snubbed him this past month.

"Tell me about Rome," he said, seeing that I was going to sit next to him.It was also the moment when he allowed himself to smoke his last cigarette of the day.He tossed the manuscript aside with a bit of boredom, with a sense of "now we're getting to the highlights" eagerness, and went on to light a cigarette with one of the citronella candles in a ready-to-bad pose.

"How about it?"

have nothing to say.I repeat what I told my mother: Hotel 'Capitol' Villa Pogoze, Church of San Clemente, restaurant.

"Did you eat well?"

I nodded.

"Did you drink well?"

Nod again.

"Doing something your grandfather approved of?" I laughed.No, this time is different.I told him what happened near the Pasquino statue. "Great idea, spit in front of the talking statue!"

"Did you see the movie? Did you go to the concert?"

My hairs stood on end, afraid that he might steer the topic somewhere, perhaps unconsciously.I realized this because I felt like I was avoiding his questions long before he kept asking insincere questions long before the thing waiting for us in the corner came into view.I mentioned that the forums in Rome are always so dirty and dilapidated.Hot weather, chaotic traffic, nuns everywhere, church so-and-so closed.Debris is everywhere.Hasty repairs.I also complain about the people, about the passengers, about the little buses that get on and off countless crowds with cameras and baseball caps.

"Did you visit the private inner courtyard I mentioned to you?"

We didn't get to visit the private inner courtyard he mentioned.

"Honor Bruno's statue for me?" he asked.

④ Giordano Bruno (GiordanoBruno, 1548-1600): Italian philosopher, astronomer, mathematician, mystic.Its most eye-catching is the theory of infinite universe and multiple worlds, which is the pioneer of modern science.Finally, he was executed by the Pope for promoting heresy.

Of course there is.Nearly threw up there that night too.

We laughed.

A short pause.He took another drag on his cigarette.

coming.

"You two have a wonderful friendship."

That's a lot bolder than anything I expected.

"Yes," I replied, trying to keep my "pair" hanging in the air, as if inspired by the momentarily outstretched but eventually subdued winner of the opposing heats.I just hope he hasn't picked up the slight hostility, evasion and seemingly tired "Yeah, so?" in my voice.

But I also hope that he can hear the unspoken "yes, so" in my answer, and take this opportunity to scold me, just like he often does for people who have absolutely every reason to consider themselves my friends. Behaving harshly, indifferently, or being overly critical while reprimanding me does the same.Then he might add a cliché about how rare friendships are, and how most people who prove difficult to get along with over time remain well-meaning and that everyone has something to share.No one is an island and cannot be isolated from others. People need people, wow wow wow.

But I guessed wrong.

"You're too smart not to understand how rare and special the friendship you have is."

"Oliver is Oliver," I said as if concluding.

"Because it's him, because it's me. (Parcequec'étaitlui, parcequec'étaitmoi.)" The father quoted is the assertion made by Montaigne ⑤ regarding the friendship between him and Boeti ⑥.

⑤ Montaigne {MichelEyquemdeMontaigne, 1533-1592}: French Renaissance writer, famous for his essays.

⑥Etienne de Boétie: French judge, political philosopher, writer, and friend of Montaigne.

But I'm thinking of the words of Emily Bronte⑦: because "he's more like me than I am"

⑦Emily Bronte (EmilyHront, 1818-1848): British novelist and poet.

"Oliver's probably very smart..." My dishonestly raised voice once again signaled that there was a damn question hanging invisibly between us.Everything is fine now, I just beg my father not to lead me down this road again.

"Smart? He's not just smart. Everything you have between the two of you has to do with being smart and nothing to do with it. He's kind and you're both lucky to have found each other because you're kind too."

Father never described kindness like that.I am therefore disarmed.

"I think other people are kinder than I am, Papa.

"I think he says the same about you, and it makes the two of you a perfect match."

He leaned over to the ashtray, lit his cigarette, and reached out to touch my hand.

"It's going to be a tough time," he began, changing his voice.His tone told me: We don't have to say it, but let's not pretend we don't understand what I'm saying.

Speaking in the abstract was the only way to tell him the truth.

"Don't be afraid. Things will come. At least I hope so. And it has a devious way of finding out where we are most vulnerable when you least expect it. Just remember: I am here. Now you Maybe you don't want to feel anything. Maybe you never want to feel anything. Maybe I'm not someone you want to talk about. But please feel what you feel." I looked at him.At this point I should have lied and told him he was totally wrong.I'm planning to do just that.

He interrupted me: "Listen, you have a wonderful friendship. Maybe beyond friendship. I envy you. From where I stand, a lot of parents would hope this whole thing just goes away, or pray that their sons will get back on their feet soon. But I'm not that kind of parent. From your standpoint, if there's pain, tend to it; if there's a fire, don't snuff it out, don't rough it up. It can be bad to keep us awake at night, but seeing It's not much better if others forget us before we're willing to be forgotten. We deprive ourselves of so much in order to heal unreasonably quickly that we're bankrupt before we're 30. Every time we re When you start a relationship, you have less to give. Not feeling it in order not to feel it, what a waste!"

I was tongue-tied and having a hard time taking it all in.

"Am I presumptuous?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Then let me say one more thing. It clears up the bad blood between us. I may have been close, but I never had what you have. There is always something holding me back or holding me back. How do you live is Your business. But remember, our hearts, spirits and bodies are unique. Many people live as if they have two lives to live, one is a model, the other is a finished product, and there are even various in-between. version. But you only have one life, and your heart is tired before you finally understand it. As for your body, there will come a day when no one will look at it, let alone get close to it. Now I feel very Sorry. I don't envy the pain itself. But I envy you the pain."

He gasped.

"We may never talk about it again, but I hope you don't judge me because of tonight. If one day, you want to talk to me, but you feel that the door is closed, or not open enough, then I will be A lousy father."

I want to ask how he knows.But how could he not know?How could anyone not know? "Does mother know?" I asked.I would have used the word "suspicious". "I don't think she knows." His voice seemed to say: Even if she knew, I believe her attitude should be the same as mine.

We say goodnight to each other.When I went upstairs I vowed to ask him about his life one day.We've all heard about a few of the women he dated in his youth and know nothing about anything else.

Is my father someone else?If he is another person, who am I?

Oliver kept his word.He came back just before Christmas and stayed until New Years.At first he was exhausted from the jet lag.He needs time, I think.But so am I.

He spent a lot of time with my parents, and then Vimini—she was overjoyed that their relationship hadn't changed at all.I'm afraid we're slipping back into the early days, where avoidance and indifference are the norm, save for a few courteous remarks in the yard.How did his call not prepare me for this?Am I the one responsible for the turn our friendship took?Did my parents say something?Did he come back because of me?Or is it for them?For this house?To leave?He came back for his book.His books have been published in England, France, Germany and now finally in Italy.It was a concise book, and we were all happy for him, including the bookstore owner in City B, who promised to hold a presentation for Oliver next summer. "Maybe, let's see." Oliver said to the boss as we stopped by on bicycles.This season, the ice cream vendors are closed.The same goes for the florist and pharmacy where we stopped the first time we left Cliff Drive (the time he showed me how badly he had scraped).Those are things that belonged to a lifetime ago.The city feels hollow, the space is gray.One night he had a long talk with his father.They were probably talking about me, or my college prospects, or this past summer, or his new book.As they opened the door, I heard laughter in the hall downstairs and my mother kissed him.After a while, someone knocked on my bedroom door instead of the French window—that entrance, then, would be sealed forever. "Want to talk?" I was already on the bed.He was wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt, as if he was going for a walk.He sat on the edge of my bed, looking as tense as I had been the first time, when the room was his. "I might get married this spring," he said.I was too surprised to speak. "But you never mentioned it." "Well, it's been on and off for more than two years." "I think this is great news." I said.It's always great news that someone is getting married and I'm so happy for them, the marriage is good and the smile on my face is real enough, even if it doesn't take long for me to realize that this news never bodes well for us.do i mindhe asks. "Don't be stupid," I said.There was a long silence. "Are you going to bed now?" I asked.He looked at me warily. "For a while. But I don't want to do anything." That sounded like an embellished, more polite "Let's talk later, maybe." So we're back to where we were?I had an urge to imitate him, but I resisted it.He was wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt and lay on the blanket beside me.Nothing but loafers. "How long do you think this will last?" he asked wryly. "Soon, I hope." He kissed me on the mouth, but not like the one he'd pressed me against the wayside wall of the Church of Our Lady of the Soul behind Pasquino's.I recognized the smell immediately.I never realized how much I liked or how long I missed this taste.Just one more entry on my list of things to remember before I lose him forever.I was about to get out of the blanket when he suddenly said, "I can't do that," and bounced away. "I can." I replied. "Yes, but I can't." My eyes must have been as cold as a knife, because he suddenly understood how angry I was. "The thing I want most is to take your clothes off and at least hug you. But I can't." I put my arms around his head. "Then you probably shouldn't have stayed. They know about us." "I guessed it," he said. "How did you guess that?" "From the way your father speaks. You're lucky. My dad would have sent me to a correctional facility." I looked at him: I wanted a kiss.

I should have, probably could, have caught him.

Things officially turned cold the next morning.

But a little thing did happen that week.We were sitting in the living room drinking coffee after lunch when my father produced a large brown paper folder stuffed with six applications, along with a mug shot of each applicant.Candidates for next summer.Dad wanted to hear what Oliver had to say, and he passed the folder on to Mom, me, and a wife