First Monday of the new year

Which is kind of irrelevant, but my husband and I chatted about it yesterday, how the holidays were officially over, although tomorrow is Epiphany. After tomorrow, I'll put away the nativity sets and few random Christmas baubles. Christmas placemats, coasters, etc, have been landing in the laundry, then are tucked away. For all the December hub-bub, the trinkets seem irrelevant once New Year's is passed.

Yet.... A deeper flame burns in my heart, a renewed pulse of my faith, of Christ, of a life lived not for self. Of a wisdom that makes no sense in what the world views as success, what I read about last night in 1 Corinthians 1:1-25. And in reading aloud a chapter from Nothing More Complicated: The Hawk Book Four, I am reminded how the horrors of this world are recycled time and again because we as a human race can't seem to grasp that love matters most. Not power or money or whatever seems to churn the engines of governments.

This time last year I was swamped by last-minute edits on Splitting the Sky. I had initially hoped to release Nothing More Complicated in December, but what I need to embrace, in addition to God's peace and love, is that I am, ahem, truly semi-retired from writing. Not in a I'm never publishing another novel sort of way. More in a I have chickens to look after, as well as my soul kind of manner. I threw fabric squares on the wall after dinner last night because I was weary of staring at a blank design wall while I do my stretches. The top row had to be placed by my husband because I started arranging the quilt in the center of the wall and didn't leave enough room for how, um, large it turned out, LOL! While he was standing on the bolster, I had him take down the top row, because if he didn't, I'd just need him to return to do it later. It was a few minutes after six p.m., and I laughed, telling him maybe five years previously I would sit at my machine and sew that row together. Instead he carried the bolster from the room while I placed the stack of squares near the sewing machine, then joined him in the living room. My life is changed from years ago, from this time last year, when I felt extremely fearful of the incoming administration.

The space at the top of the quilt is where the missing row goes. Those are six-inch squares, well, six and a half, lol. It's going to be a BIG quilt top! (UPDATE: They are five inch squares, lol. I found that as soon as I laid a sewn row on my seventy-two inch long work table and space remained at the edges, WHEW!)

Now I am, relatively, fearless. Not in my own power, but in the love of the Father, Son, and Spirit. That's a lotta change.

It's also a lot to denote on the first Monday of a new year, but I feel emboldened, hah! I feel at peace despite all that is occurring. I feel brave, confident, what God told Joshua after Moses died, when explaining to Joshua how he was to lead the Israelites into the Promised Land. One of my readings today was from Joshua 1:1-9. In those verses, God is pretty explicit, that Joshua is to be confident, strong, courageous. That God would not abandon Joshua in this massive endeavor. I underlined verses five through nine, hearing those admonishments being related to me. To be brave, fearless, undaunted, whoa! How different I am now, compared to this time last year. Not that I regret releasing Splitting the Sky, it's a good story, and it has no sequel, lol. But this year my life is altered. I am changed, not by a sudden religious conversion, merely by allowing Love to renew me. By permitting Joy and Peace to reign. By accepting that a victory was achieved over two thousand years ago that ultimately bests all the grand and minor goings-on in this world, yet still asking us to consider our neighbor ahead of ourselves. To LOVE that neighbor as we would ourselves. And to trust in what is unseen, but true.

In my heart, I hold fast to Christ, giving away what he asks of me. Today that's a chapter of a novel which hopefully will be available by the end of the month. If nothing else, I am working steadily on Nothing More Complicated, from a series based on faith, hope, and love. And what might happen if a person turned into a hawk, then changed back into a human being. Stranger things have occurred, if you believe that for love a man hung on a cross, died, then was resurrected. I do, insert a red heart here.

 

 

Chapter 87

 

Stepping from the taxi, Laurie avoided slushy puddles while approaching his aunt’s front door. He didn’t need to knock; the Gordon home was as familiar as where he’d grown up. And both his aunt and Seth were expecting him.

“Aunt Wilma, anyone here?” Laurie’s tone was light, no need to start this visit on a dismal note, though several issues troubled Laurie’s heart. Stan’s funk continued, Renee and Sam’s disappointment lingered, then there was that poet, whose first book The Colossus Laurie had been reading when he found more than a few minutes to himself. Sylvia Plath had an intriguing voice, but in thinking about it like that Laurie had to catch himself; she’d had an interesting way of writing. He didn’t know much more about her than what his client had first mentioned, but for some reason she intruded upon Laurie’s thoughts. Then he wished to slap himself as his cousin poked his head through the kitchen doorway. “Just me,” Seth said. “Mom had to run to the store.”

Why did some succumb to their demons while others remained, Laurie wondered. Laurie’s client had known Plath during their university days; Plath had been at Smith, while Clifton Moor was at Boston College. According to Clifton, Sylvia had suffered a breakdown between their junior and senior years. He’d recalled seeing her over that summer as a platinum blonde, but she had returned to school a subtle brunette, her outwardly healed demeanor belying an inner turmoil that years later had resulted in her death. Seth appeared composed, standing in the kitchen doorway, his lengthy dark blonde mane pushed to the side. Seth had always kept his hair short, especially after coming home from Korea, but since his time in Vermont he had let it grow. Stan had remarked that Seth needed to visit a barber, but that had been spoken in a jovial tone, before Thanksgiving. Before Thanksgiving and the opening of Eric’s show, Laurie sighed inwardly. Prior to those dates Laurie had only one man over whom to fret. Now he had two, though Seth seemed particularly chipper, leaning against the doorframe, a wide smile on his face.

“Anything to eat around here?” Laurie grinned back, unsure of his cousin’s true mood. Seth’s smile was bright, but not altogether honest. Or maybe Laurie wasn’t a competent judge anymore. Perhaps Seth was okay; he was there, in that house, and while he looked a bit unkempt, he seemed happy. He would never be the man Laurie had known from childhood, a man so beloved yet…. Ethereal popped into Laurie’s head; had Sylvia Plath’s family felt that way about her after her college breakdown? Maybe there was no way to gauge that sort of mental health. No guarantees existed, Laurie accepted. All the cousins had was this moment, in that house, just the two of them.

“Anything to eat you say? Mom was working on a chocolate cake when she left, told me not to touch it. Wanna come see if I was listening?”

For a second Laurie froze; that voice was of a man from years before, a little aged, but Seth wasn’t seventeen. If Laurie didn’t know better, Seth was trying to fool him, or maybe he was aching for a brief reprieve from wherever he now dwelled. Laurie blinked, then stared at his cousin. They could be twins, well, Seth’s long hair needed a good trimming. They took after their maternal grandfather, Isaac Goldsmith, the only male descendants of that man from their generation. Their sisters had brought forth sons, but those boys all looked like their fathers. Laurie would never have a child, might one day Seth meet someone, fall in love, produce an heir? Then Laurie smiled. An heir to what, this house in Brooklyn, alongside Wilma’s well-guarded chocolate cake recipe that not even Laurie’s mother possessed. It was a bone of contention between the sisters; their mother’s recipe had been given to Wilma, the eldest. Laurie’s mother Rose had the coconut cake recipe, which she had generously shared with Wilma in hopes to receive the information about that chocolate cake. But Wilma had never reciprocated, and while the sisters were close, Laurie’s mother still harbored minor animosity about that slight. Laurie had even taken a piece to Agatha, hoping she could deduce the proper increments of butter, sugar, flour, and of course chocolate. But not even Agatha Morris had been able to replicate the correct ratios. All Agatha wanted to know was if perhaps Mrs. Gordon would share the recipe with her.

Laurie sat at the aged kitchen table, where he’d been eating chocolate cake since he could remember. Seth cut two slices, then brought those plates and cups of coffee to the table, sitting across from Laurie. Laurie took a bite, savoring the intense chocolate icing alongside the light crumbling cake. It wasn’t a sponge, Agatha had said, but it was airy, and the frosting was certainly cream-based. But how much chocolate had Mrs. Gordon added, how much butter? It was definitely butter, Agatha had remarked. Cream, chocolate, and butter, but the amounts were known to only one woman who wouldn’t even share them with her own sister.

Yet, Wilma made the cake often; Laurie’s visit was why it had been baked, probably that morning, he thought, for how fresh it tasted and how soft was the ganache icing. Aunt Wilma might refrigerate it in another day or two, if it lasted that long. Laurie wasn’t sure it would, for he would take one piece home, for Agatha. Stan wouldn’t want any and Laurie wouldn’t need another anytime soon. He’d only take one and if Stan complained, Laurie would be pleased for the ruckus. Maybe Stan needed that sort of reality, which had little to do with painters. Reality to Laurie was a healthy mix of their Manhattan home and this Brooklyn neighborhood, which meant cake, family gossip, and lasting memories. Laurie expected he’d been eating cake at this table long before Seth came home from the hospital as a newborn. But that moment was etched in Laurie’s head as where his conscious life began. Had Grandma Ruth made the cake, he then smiled inwardly. Laurie’s mother certainly hadn’t baked it while Wilma was in the hospital.

“What?” Seth asked, his mouth full. He swallowed, sipped his coffee, then smiled. “What in the world are you thinking about?”

Again Laurie was caught off guard by Seth’s lively tone, as though the last twelve years had been lived by other people. Laurie studied his cousin, who didn’t look anything like a Korean War vet. He didn’t look like a man in his early twenties either, he looked…. Laurie bit the inside of his cheek; Seth looked like an artist with his long hair, that ancient sweater, his thoughtful bearing. He resembled who he would have been had he not enlisted, hadn’t been sent to mental institutions, hadn’t nearly killed himself several times over. Was Seth all right, had his declarations at Thanksgiving freed him? Was he, as Aunt Wilma and Laurie’s mother cautiously said, cured?

The older women in Laurie’s family took Seth’s return at face value; he was fairly happy, didn’t talk about suicide, and he was sculpting. What more did anyone want, they would say, when Laurie, his sisters, or Seth’s sisters happened to question Seth’s bearing. Laurie had talked with his sisters and Seth’s, and while none of those women were as concerned as Laurie, they all basically agreed with him, which had bolstered Laurie’s assumptions, though he hadn’t necessarily wished for their support. Laurie hadn’t seen Seth since the end of January. What had happened in the last month, Laurie wanted to ask.

In Manhattan, the last month had been fraught with Stan’s worsening mood and Constance’s declining health. Letters from Lynne had been the saving grace, even if the Aherns were still disheartened by their loss. Laurie thought what had happened to them, on Christmas Eve no less, was as awful as what Sam’s sister had endured last summer. Or maybe Laurie’s childless state permitted such a comparison. The Canfields still had children, many of them, while Sam and Renee’s dream had been snatched from their grasp at a time of year which centered on the fantastical visions of youngsters. That was how Laurie had always considered Christmas; eight days of Hanukkah were no match for one night of waiting on Santa Claus, mostly because the gifts Laurie had received were practical presents. Who cared about new pajamas and slippers when other youngsters were getting bikes and roller skates and books and….

This neighborhood was primarily Jewish, but Laurie had gone to public school with enough Gentiles, who always came back from Christmas vacation with tales that made Laurie slightly jealous. As he grew older, the envy decreased; he understood the differences between Jews and Christians, or Jews and everybody else, as his father used to say. But it wasn’t meant in an overly religious fashion, only that Jews were different, according to Aaron Abrams. And after World War II, being Jewish, pious or not, carried a distinct pleasure. Hitler had wiped out six million European Jews, but those in America were doing just fine.

Since Thanksgiving, Laurie had considered The Holocaust more deeply than ever in his life. It was due to what Seth had told him, Laurie would admit, which at first had bothered him. The Abrams and Gordons weren’t recent Jewish immigrants, and while like everyone else they considered concentration camps an absolute atrocity, other than religion, little had bound them to Jews killed on European soil. Laurie felt more of a tie to homosexuals sent to the gas chambers than he did to those who shared his faith, which he had mentioned to Stan, when Stan felt like talking about what Seth had seen in the blue barn. But those discussions hadn’t lasted much past the middle of December. By then, Stan didn’t want to hear any more about what Seth saw in the barn or concerning The Holocaust. There was no one else Laurie could have discussed it with, well, perhaps Eric Snyder, but Laurie wasn’t going to call Eric to hash out all that. It wouldn’t have been appropriate and besides, if Laurie needed to talk about it, Eric and Lynne, and Jane of course, were coming in April. Laurie hoped Jane would lift Stan’s mood. If he wasn’t better after that, Laurie would threaten him with a psychiatrist. And Laurie wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Laurie’s thoughts were interrupted by a spirited chuckle, which turned into hearty laughter, reminding Laurie of their Grandpa Goldsmith. Laurie gazed across the table, finding Seth leaning back in his chair, his plate empty except for a few crumbs. Then Laurie smiled. “You asked me what I was thinking about. Good God, how long ago was that, an hour or two?”

“Several weeks actually. It’s nearly May.” Seth sat forward, pushing his plate to the side. “You looked a million miles away. But then,” Seth paused, brushing a few chocolate crumbs to the floor. “I know what that feels like pretty well.”

Laurie nodded, hearing something so familiar in Seth’s tone, as though that man wasn’t a ghost or lost soul, but right within Laurie’s reach. Yet Laurie stayed in his chair, not wishing to break the spell. For, as he stared at Seth, that notion was fleeting. Seth fidgeted with his hair, then cracked his knuckles. Who was this man, Laurie wondered, some hodge-podge of all Seth had seen on the battlefield and in various institutions blended with the soul Laurie had bonded with as soon as Aunt Wilma showed off her new baby son.

No one in the Abrams or Gordon families believed that Laurie recalled the day his cousin came home from the hospital. Laurie had only been three, and three-year-olds didn’t remember such things. But Laurie did, even on that day, thirty-three years later. Laurie had been seated at this very table, perched on his father’s lap, eating Wilma’s chocolate cake when Aaron thought Rose wasn’t looking. Rose felt Laurie was too young for such rich cake, but Aaron had disagreed. Now Laurie grew teary, hearing his father’s constant admonishment that life was short, why not enjoy the good things while they were available? Aaron Abrams loved his sister-in-law’s chocolate cake and often teased Wilma to give him the recipe. He promised to never share it with his wife.

On that summer’s day in 1929, Aaron fed his youngest bites of cake while the rest of the Gordon clan awaited Wilma and Seth’s homecoming. All of Laurie and Seth’s older sisters were either cleaning or hovering, depending on their ages. Laurie’s mom was cooking, so was the sisters’ mother Ruth, while their father Isaac sat in the living room with the men. The house was packed, for great was the excitement that Wilma had given birth to a son. The bris was planned for the following day, though Laurie carried no memory of that event. It was part of the story, one his father had told him, which was why no one accepted that Laurie remembered as much as he claimed. Aaron loved talking about the day Seth came home, because it was as if the actual Second Coming had occurred. Monroe and Wilma finally had a son, after how many girls, Aaron scoffed, to which his wife rolled her eyes. Only four girls, one less than the Abrams themselves had before Laurie arrived. The other issue making Aaron smirk was that Wilma hadn’t given birth at home as she did with those four girls. Seth had been born in the hospital, but Rose had reminded her husband that Wilma was nearly forty-three. Better for a doctor to deliver what everyone well knew would be the last child for the Gordons. They had their boy and enough was enough.

All those details had been handed down over the years through various relatives. Yet, what a three-year-old knew, and still recalled decades later, were the scents of cake mixed with tobacco and his father’s aftershave while happy voices mingled. Then a hush descended as Seth’s oldest sister announced her parents’ arrival. A roar was stirred as Aaron fed the last bite of cake to Laurie, then toted that boy into the living room. Aaron was taller than most of the Gordons, so Laurie had a good view of his aunt entering the house with something in her arms. Laurie didn’t understand all this talk about a new baby, so he didn’t pay attention until after everyone else had been introduced to Seth. Finally Aaron and his son stepped to where Rose now cradled her nephew. Laurie peered at the bundle in his mother’s grasp, a tiny little person with bright blue eyes. Laurie smiled at the baby, what everybody had been fussing about. That’s what a baby looked like, a soft face, no hair, but the bluest eyes in the world.

Now Laurie peered into those eyes; they weren’t the color of Sam and Jane’s eyes. Seth’s were paler, but Laurie didn’t wonder what that signified. Yet from that initial introduction, those eyes had meant the world to Laurie, as his mother told him he had a little boy cousin with whom he could play when the baby was older. Laurie had waited a long time for that baby to grow up enough to appreciate the games Laurie loved, but while Laurie had adored sports, Seth preferred quieter pastimes, though he did enjoy playing in the mud, which annoyed both boys’ mothers. Laurie would make an utter mess of his clothes and while Seth didn’t stay clean, he concentrated on constructing things with the mud. By the time Laurie was ten and Seth was seven, Laurie understood his cousin’s gift. Ten years later, Seth was making the figurines that graced Laurie and Stan’s library.

Had Sylvia Plath always been a writer, Laurie then wondered. He wanted to interrogate Clifton Moor, then compare Plath’s early life with Seth’s. Did artists, regardless of their gifts, all start at an early age, and could depression be tracked similarly? When Seth made those figures, he was already showing signs of instability, but they were minor compared to when he came back from Korea. Seth’s father was dead by then, which was a godsend according to Laurie’s mother. If Monroe Gordon had lived to see the wreckage of his only son…. But like Laurie’s dad, Seth’s had died before those boys were fully men. Laurie could think of it that way, for now he knew twenty-year-olds weren’t actually adults. Neither were twenty-two-year-olds, the age Seth was when he’d enlisted. But everyone had been proud of Seth, if not somewhat concerned. Only his mother had openly argued with him, but the rest saw his action as a virile exploit, countering his obsession with sculpting. By then Laurie and Stanford had been together for five years. If Seth wanted to join the army, at least that meant he wasn’t a homosexual.

Yet he came back so altered, as wounded emotionally as Sam Ahern was physically. And his gift had been crushed overseas, which had been as much of a loss to Laurie as Seth’s fragile bearing. Only as the years passed did Laurie realize the true horror, for not only did Seth give up sculpting, but he never recovered, no therapist on Earth able to untangle that knotted mass of pain. Not even shock therapy had healed Seth, for as Laurie kept staring at his cousin’s eyes, he saw through the jovial mask Seth had donned for that visit. A vast horizon of confusion and dread lingered in Seth’s mind, yet how could Laurie realize it? He didn’t know, but perhaps it was akin to remembering Seth from the first time they’d met. Those eyes had been so blue, wide, and free. In the icy blue of Seth’s eyes now, little liberty existed.

Seth tried to look away from Laurie, but something maintained their shared gaze. Laurie wanted to speak to it, but he’d said little since arriving. What was there to say, that in recalling their pasts, all Laurie could conjure was what had been lost. Seth was irretrievable, or the man Seth had been. The witty, gifted sculptor, the introspective but kind cousin, more like a brother. Now in front of Laurie sat a long-haired stranger who happened to know all of Laurie’s life, but seemed unable to share in the pleasures. Then Laurie shivered; Stan was turning into such a man. Laurie wanted to slam his fists onto the table. Seth was beyond Laurie’s reach, but not Stanford.

“Shall I cut a piece for you to take home?” Seth asked as though Laurie’s impending departure had been stated.

Now Seth’s tone was like it had been for the last few years; guarded and fearful. He no longer met Laurie’s eyes, and he seemed to tremble. But for the first time Laurie didn’t rue this alteration. This was what remained of Seth, a fleeting image who could sit across from Laurie, only asking a few questions, not demanding Laurie give him a decent answer. Years ago they would talk about any and everything; now their communication had been reduced to reliving the past. Maybe Laurie needed to forget his earliest memories. They only caused pain.

“Yeah, cut a couple. Agatha always appreciates one and Stan might like some too.”

Seth nodded, but didn’t look at Laurie. Laurie wasn’t bothered, for this was the truth of the situation. For how long had he been hoping Seth would somehow find the inner strength to overcome his depression, yet, merely a shell remained, appearing much like the man Laurie had known and adored nearly all his life. Only Stanford possessed a greater hold on Laurie’s heart, but no longer was this the Seth Laurie had loved. Laurie smiled, but it was hedged in sorrow. Maybe Seth would live to a ripe old age, but perhaps it would have been easier on all of them if he’d been killed in Korea, or if he’d taken his life. That American poet was lost to her family, but her children would never grow up with a figment of who their mother had been. Was that better, Laurie wondered, as Seth placed two slices on an old plate, then covered it with a piece of wax paper. “Mom’s got covers around here somewhere,” Seth said quietly, searching through drawers. He pulled out what looked like a shower cap, though Laurie recognized it immediately. His mom had the same covers, the elastic overstretched but serviceable. This one had been used to protect potato and macaroni salads and whatever leftovers went in the icebox. Laurie smiled; his father had always called it an icebox, but modern appliances were replacing outdated furnishings. Laurie glanced at his cousin; no one could take Seth’s place, but Seth’s place hadn’t been the same in over ten years. A ghost now stood in the Gordon’s kitchen, appearing somewhat like the person Laurie remembered, but it wasn’t truly him.

Laurie glanced at the clock; it was nearly three, but Aunt Wilma hadn’t returned. She was probably at the Abrams’, for this visit wasn’t meant for more than Laurie and Seth. That evening Laurie’s mother would call, asking how he was, how Stanford was, and how were Stanford’s parents. They would discuss Constance’s ailing condition and how Michael was coping, then at what would seem like nearly the end of the conversation, Rose would clear her throat, inquiring to Laurie’s visit with Seth. Everything Laurie said would then be repeated nearly verbatim to Wilma as soon as Rose and her son were off the phone. But what could Laurie tell his mother, for he and Seth had barely exchanged two sentences. Laurie certainly couldn’t relate all he’d considered, from a dead American poet to Seth’s arrival home from the hospital to the painful but honest realization that all to remain of Seth were those memories. The smiling blonde who had met Laurie when he arrived that afternoon was a visage, maybe as false as the blonde Sylvia Plath who had returned from her own breakdown, then dyeing her hair back to brown to finish her time at Smith College. Or perhaps it was the brunette who was false; maybe that woman had been lost amid whatever had caused her depression, for less than a decade later she was dead.

“Tell Aunt Wilma thanks for the cake and I’m sorry I missed her.” Laurie didn’t wish to pretend; he wanted to go home, then have a serious talk with Stanford. It might be brief, but Laurie hoped it would last a good while, for Stanford needed to get much off his chest. It might take several chats, but Laurie wasn’t going to lose Stan the way he’d lost…. “It was good to see you today,” Laurie then said, for it was the truth. He had to accept this loss, for that’s what it was, no different than what the Canfields had suffered, or the Aherns. Death was death, whether literal or figurative.

“Was it good?” Seth spoke softly, then he coughed.

Laurie stared at him, wondering which part of Seth might say such a thing. “It was for me.” Laurie wanted to add that he loved Seth, but perhaps that would be rubbing salt in the wound.

Seth nodded, then sighed. “Laurie, I meant what I told you at Thanksgiving. That’s all I can see, all I know. I don’t know anything else anymore.”

Laurie nodded, his heart throbbing. He walked to where his cousin stood, then grasped Seth’s hands. They were cold, but Laurie wasn’t surprised. Encased in ice was Seth’s heart, so far within his chest nothing could penetrate it. And his lovely creative soul was buried beside it, no way for Seth to live without that organ and that, that….

A man’s soul was just as important as his heart, lungs, or any other vital organ. Then Laurie smiled, he couldn’t help it. He hugged his cousin, surprising Seth, who tried to reciprocate. But Laurie was too excited, flush with a strange hope. He immediately thought about Lynne’s letter, which had been all about hope, then Laurie released his cousin, going to the phone in the corner of the kitchen. He called for a taxi, then checked his watch. Then he thought about what he would do that night, or maybe tomorrow, depending on how long he and Stanford talked, and how long his mother kept him on the telephone. Laurie wanted to write to Lynne, and not in his usual style. He would be honest with her about Seth and about hope. Finally Laurie had hope, though it wasn’t connected to the man in that room.

Stanford’s soul was still well within Laurie’s reach. As for Seth’s…. Laurie approached him, wishing to place some of this warm balm into the center of Seth’s chest. But no longer was that Laurie’s responsibility. Someone else, he mused, would have to manage that enormous task. Laurie had enough of a job in Manhattan, what he told Seth, as they waited for the cab. Seth didn’t inquire, but he walked Laurie to the living room, watching for the taxi through the open front curtains. When the cab arrived, honking once, Laurie squeezed Seth’s shoulder. Then Laurie spoke. “I love you, you know.”

“I, I love you too.” Seth paused, took a deep breath, then stared into Laurie’s eyes.

Seth had more to tell Laurie, but the cabbie honked again and Seth gazed at the floor. Gripping the plate of cake, Laurie breathed deeply. “Give Aunt Wilma my love. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Seth didn’t answer, but Laurie didn’t mind. He strode toward the taxi, missing the icy piles of slush. Yet the chill didn’t permeate Laurie; he could smell the delicious chocolate cake, which reminded him of his father’s aftershave. Those memories were permitted. The rest had to be left behind.