Monday, January 30, 2012


How many stitches?
            I like statistics. Which is to say, I like compiling statistics. I really enjoy counting things, writing down the results, and looking for patterns. The only education class I really got into at university (not including the practicum, which I loved) was Tests and Statistics. I’d have made a crackerjack actuary, except I only obsess over things that interest me.

One recent example: Tim innocently asked about how many stitches it takes to make a sweater-vest—such as the new one I’m knitting for him these days. I said I didn’t know, and immediately started counting. After an intense half-hour with the instructions, pencil and paper, I had an answer: 34,158. Specifically, that’s 17,079 knits and 17,079 purls.

4 November 2010-30 January 2012
            I mention all this by way of leading up to announcing that you are reading the 100th post of Gardening from the Ground Up since its inception. In honor of the occasion, I’ve compiled some blog-related statistics.

  • Total number of posts, including this one:  100
  • Average number of days between posts:  4.56
  • Shortest time between posts: 1 day
  • Longest time between posts: 16 days
  •  Total page views since debut (at time of publication):  13,124
  •  Average length of visit:  one minute and 15 seconds
  •  Average number of views per post:  131.24
            That last is a mathematical average, the result of dividing 13,124 by 100. The actual number of views per post varies widely, from two (one of whom was always Tim) to almost 400. Here’s a more refined breakdown:

  • Posts with 0 to 25 hits:  38
  •  Posts with 25 to 50 hits:  18
  •  Posts with 50 to 100 hits:  22
  •  Posts with 100 to 200 hits:  15
  •  Posts with 200 or more hits:  6
             The 12 most popular posts:

Ipheion uniflorum 'Jessie'
from Am I Blue Bonus
1.  Am I Blue Bonus (April 17, 2011)—392 hits. This is the one that is mostly pictures of plants with blue flowers. I’m very gratified it is such a favorite, because it took the longest amount of time to get in shape for publication of all posts so far. Pictures can be a bear to work with, especially when one is not entirely sure what one is doing.

2.  Winter Weeds (January 4, 2011)—298 hits. Y’all really responded to posts about weeds, because # 3 is…

3. Summer Weeds, Part 1 (July 11, 2011)—271 hits. Horticultural literature has let us all down in the weed identification department, as well as insects, because # 4 is…

4.     Bugs: The Good… (May 5, 2011)—245 hits. This brief profile of eight common beneficial insects also lists four ways to get help figuring out who’s who in the insect kingdom.

Clematis jackmanii x superba
from The Heartbreak of Clematis
5. The Heartbreak of Clematis (June 8, 2011)—218 hits. Your warm reception of the recounting of my lengthy and on-going struggle with getting members of the genus Clematis to grow in my yard helped alleviate some of the pain.

6. Food for Thought, Part 2 (February 24, 2011)—209 hits. In this post, we learn exactly the mechanism by which plants “eat,” and the paramount importance of improving your soil so that supplemental chemicals become unnecessary.

7.   Enter Field Notes (June 12, 2011)—174 hits. This was the first single plant profile, and it featured Lespedeza thunbergii.

8. Stuffing Stockings (December 10, 2010)—171 hits. The most looked-at post of 2010, it offers suggestions for gardening-related gifts small enough for Santa to slip in a stocking.

Grey garden slug

from Bugs: The Bad...
9.  Bugs: The Bad… (May 15, 2011)—171 hits. Pesky insects are in a dead heat with stocking stuffers for eighth place.

10. Regarding Rain and Rain Barrels (June 24, 2011)—160 hits. From saving rain to permeable paving to building bioretention areas for purifying runoff, thinking about how we use and abuse water comes under consideration.

11. Masters of Verticality (June 4, 2011)—160 hits. We look up at the idea of using vertical space in this post that tied with rain barrels.

12.  Bugs: the Boths and Neithers (May 19, 2011)—158 hits. The last of the bugs series ekes into the top 12.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, here are the 12 biggest bombs, in reverse order:
Boring pH table from The Dirt on Dirt

1.  November Wrap-Up (November 30, 2010)—10 hits. This one tied with…

2. Plants I’ve Loved and Lost (October 2, 2011)—also 10 hits. Nobody cared. The next three under-loved entries share identical amounts of lack of reader interest…

3.  The Dirt on Dirt (September 14, 2011)—9 hits. A surprise. I thought gardeners loved dirt.

4.  Staying Thankful (November 2, 2011)—9 hits. Must be a lot of ingrates out there.

5.  What’s in a Name? Part 2 (December 11, 2011)—9 hits. This I understand. Most folks, I’ve learned, fear botanical names. Huh. If they’d just read this, they wouldn’t.

6.  Curmudgeon’s Corner (October 6, 2011)—8 hits. Oh, come on. I’m kinda cute when I’m ranting. Ask Tim. Whining tied with...

7.   Bringing in the Plants 2 (October 31, 2011)—8 hits. …in driving away readers.

8.   Expectations (May 23, 2011)—7 hits. I expected better.

9.  What’s in a Name? Part 1 (December 6, 2011)—7 hits. This was expected.

10. Fresh Starts (January 14, 2012)—6 hits. I’d like to blame holiday burnout.

Kosteletzkya virginica
11. Hurricane Doggerel (August 29, 2011)—3 hits. Everyone’s a critic. And now for the worst of the worst…

12. Field Notes for the Weary (September 28, 2011)—2 hits. I must say, this one surprised me. What’s not to like about seashore mallow, Kosteletzkya virginica?

And what patterns have emerged from the wreckage? Three things. First, y’all seem to prefer hard facts above philosophy, as long as they're not too technical. I suppose that’s to be expected in our information-overloaded-but-science-and-math-skills-deficient society. (Ah, but "where is the wisdom in information?” T.S. Eliot famously queried in one of his “Four Quartets.”) Second, you like lots of pictures, another consequence, I imagine, of a world dominated by images—big-screen TVs, movies, YouTube, video games, advertising everywhere—to the detriment of the printed word. Third, I am not going to be drafted by popular acclaim into the Blog Hall of Fame any time soon.

But that’s okay. Although from a very young age I’ve rather fancied the idea of becoming a famous writer—you know, like Louisa May Alcott—the downsides of public adulation more and more outweigh any imagined benefit as I grow older and wiser (if not more informed). Harper Lee and J.D. Salinger, I salute you.

Harper Lee tells The Guardian to go to hell
The price of fame

            Thanks for dropping by. That is, if you did. And if you managed to get this far in that average one minute and 15 seconds.


Monday, January 23, 2012


            “Midwinter” doesn’t exactly conjure cheery mental images. Usual adjectival accompaniers run to “gloomy,” “bleak,” “bitter,” “dark,” “frozen,” “hopeless,” “dead.” This is the time of year when not getting an audition invitation after taking the “Jeopardy!” online test can precipitate a downward spiral. It’s a time of snow-smothered landscapes, short grey days, long black nights, seasonal affective disorder, hypothermia, hibernation.

New Bed arbor, stripped of vines
            Except not everywhere, and not all the time. Here in SENC, for instance, January presented its mild side. Sure, I don long-sleeved shirts and shoes to work outside, but my ancient, ratty work-jacket doesn’t usually last more than ten minutes. Humming tunelessly, I cut back brown and crunchy top-growth of plants that one of our three frosts finally got to. The beds tidied, I meander over to the south side of the house, looking for likely candidates to stick in the ground.

            For all my frozen-precipitation-blitzed friends in the Chicago and Seattle areas, here’s a horticultural report from chez Fitz.

            Bulbs: Great swaths of my small yard look quite warlike, with clumps of dagger-like daffodil, bearded iris and Leucojum aestivum (summer snowflake) foliage protruding from leafy mulch. Floppy tangles of Lycoris radiata (spider lily) and Ipheion uniflorum (starflower) soften the bellicose look, while strappy, bright green leaves of Scilla peruviana grab the eye. Scrabbling around on my hands and knees in the back garden last Saturday, I found evidence of Tulipa turkestanica to come under the Southern crabapple (Malus angustifolia). Yee-haw!

Scilla peruviana, daffodil and Leucojum
    foliage emerging (front to back)
Floppy Lycoris foliage

            Edibles: On the advice of Pender County Extension agent Charlotte Glen, the first batch of peas went in the ground last week, more than a month earlier than last year. Miss Charlotte suggested soaking the pea seeds for six to eight hours to aid germination, so I did. Fingers crossed! 
Packets of 'Wando' & 'Alaska' pea seeds
I heard back from Irish Eyes Garden Seeds farmer Greg Lutovsky, who patiently and in words of one syllable initiated me to the mysteries of growing potatoes. Did you know, for instance, that potato tubers grow up from the seed piece, not down (making the necessity of hilling crystal clear)? Or that crowding the seed eyes at planting may result in more tubers, but they’ll be small? Or that not all potato plants flower, because pollination isn’t necessary to tuber formation? (In response to this question, Mr. Greg somewhat tersely responded, “You don’t eat flowers.”) All this was news to me, despite all the books and articles on the subject I’d read. 

Puny collards 
& flourishing parsley
The strawberries—especially the ‘Fragola d’Bos’—look great. My lettuces and flat-leaved parsley are going strong. The front-garden blueberries show some signs of life, and the potting-bench trio never even lost their leaves.  The best I can say for collards, however, is they’re still alive. There’s probably an arcane secret to getting them to grow larger, too, that I have yet to run across in print.

Eleagnus berries, almost ripe
Ugly Agnes (Eleagnus x ebbingii), whose tiny flowers perfumed the whole yard October through December, has set fruit. The sandpaper-textured berries are tartly delightful when fully ripe and red, but will pucker your kisser if you pluck ’em too early or too orange. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

(Somebody oughta write a book, to put all this pertinent information together in one place, don’t you think? Oh, wait! Somebody has! If only some other somebody would publish it.)

            Other: The ornamental apricot (Prunus mume ‘Peggy Clarke’) continues to produce its button-shaped, intensely pink blooms, punctuating the pervasive green and brown. Under the clothesline-turned-wisteria-support, Edgeworthia chysantha’s tight white buds continue to avoid squirrel depredations. They don’t look like much, not even open (the buds, not the squirrels), but their fragrance puts them in the same class of winter sweeteners as Daphne odora, tea olive (Osmanthus fragrans) and winter honeysuckle (Lonicera fragratissima).

Edgeworthia chrysantha buds
Prunus mume 'Peggy Clarke'
 Hollyhock foliage,
January 21, 2012
            It’s the hollyhocks that surprised me most. Despite three frosts, they’re perky as young Goldie Hawn. These same hollyhocks were the leaffooted bugs’ nursery last spring, so I have mixed feelings about their survival. Still, that sturdy green anchoring the mostly brown-hued New Bed is optimistic… and now I know enough to spritz any wiener-bugs I spy with insecticidal soap. Early and often.

           As always, playing in the yard generates cheerfulness, something in rather short supply on my part inside the house these short, nippy—one might say “snippy”—days. Paying attention to the natural world invariably raises spirits, even for depressives like me, whose “Jeopardy!”-dependent retirement plans just got put off for another few years.


My-my-my-my my Orion (1-21-12)
            In celestial news, Globe at Night wrapped up its first citizen-scientist project of 2012 on the 23rd. Sorry I didn’t alert you sooner, but Sky-Guy kinda fell down on the job: he didn’t mention it until his post of the 18th, and I didn’t read it until the 19th. Fortunately, we had an achingly clear sky that night, and all of our neighbors’ outside lights were off, so my view of Orion and his companions was superb. For the first time ever, I could make out the arc of his bow, pointing directly at poor ol’ Taurus’ triangular head. I stood outside in the middle of the street in my pajamas and aforementioned ratty work-jacket until my neck insisted I look somewhere else, preferably down. It was glorious.

            Not to worry—Globe at Night has three more projects on tap for February 12-21 (Orion again), March 13-22 (Orion and Leo), and April 11-20 (Leo). This time I won’t wait for Sky-Guy to provide details, so if you’d like to exercise your scientist chops and chip in your two-cents worth about world-wide light pollution, watch this space. Or go to the website linked above.

            And thanks for dropping by.


Saturday, January 14, 2012


            Tim and I aren’t big on New Year’s resolutions. I’d like to say it’s because, when we notice a problem, we move to fix it right away instead of waiting for January 1 of the following year. I’d also like to say we don’t have lists of resolutions because we don’t need improving; unfortunately, that would be a lie. (Sorry, honey.) The root cause of our lack of interest in the short-lived post-Christmas spate of virtue? New Year’s is just another day chez Fitz, coming and going without deviations from usual bedtimes, dropping balls, bowl games, alcohol-fueled revelries, and hazy, headachy days-after.

            This year, however—not on the first, but around the fourth or fifth—I promised myself (okay, resolved) something. I vowed to play my piano at least 52 times during 2012.

The engagement piano
            “Playing the piano” is relative, of course. I’m not a good pianist, never was. No talent for it whatsoever. Ten years of lessons from the saintly (and/or tone-deaf) Mrs. May Flowers (no, really, that was her name) left me with the ability to read musical notation, a working knowledge of which key each note represents, and an abiding love of solo piano music. Except for the years 1972-1980, there’s been a piano within 30 feet of me when I’m home.

            My first material gift from Tim—he himself was the first first gift—was an ebony petit grand; the engagement piano, we call it.

The engagement piano, repaired and
with legs reattached, and oak bookcase
from Schenectady frame a selection
of Tim's paintings in our living room
            When we moved to Oak Island from Schenectady, the only possessions we brought were the mattresses, Great-Aunt Helen’s cedar chest, an 1859 boot-jack chest, two oak bookcases, our clothes, our books, Adolph the cat, and the piano. (The Mayflower guys dropped the piano going down the stairs from the Schenectady apartment, and lost half the bolts that attach the piano’s legs and pedals. One of the cedar chest’s four pillow feet disappeared, too. “Let’s look in the truck,” Tim suggested. “Oh, no,” the moving man replied. “They won’t be in there.” Tim suspects there’s a Flying Dutchman-like van chock-full of bizarre bits and pieces eternally traveling the Interstates of the U.S. and Canada.)

            Anyway. I haven’t played much the last several years, and not at all since I started blogging. Even though I suck—to call a spade a spade—I miss it. The resolution-ish inspiration struck me on a day Tim was out helping a friend set up his new computer. More computer repair and revival jobs mean more blocks of time when it’s just me and the cats to endure the mis-strikes. I played about 40 minutes that day, and again this past Friday afternoon. And it felt really, really good to reconnect with something I love. Which is the point.


            Another promise I made myself—this one before Christmas—is to limit my computer just-diddlin’ to mornings. I try not to turn the damn thing on more than once a day. (Yes, we unplug our machines when they’re not in active use. Saves energy. How vital is it for Microsoft or Mac to be at the ready at all times? I mean, if you’re not working for NORAD, or anything like that.)

Knitting projects multiply
            This frees up evenings for knitting, another fun and productive use of time. Projects are multiplying—preemie caps, baby blankets, more penguin sweaters, and mittens and hats to be donated; a made-to-order scarf and another vest for Tim. I’m having a ball (pun intended). The staff of Wilmington’s JoAnn’s Fabrics loves seeing us cruise into the parking lot.

             About those mittens and hats. I’m working on a set for a child in my friend Barb's remedial reading class at Southport Elementary. Her mom (the child’s, not Barb’s) just walked out at the beginning of the school year, and dad is overwhelmed with the demands of parenting three kids under the age of eight. So the school—which doesn't have enough to do what with No Child Left Behind busywork, providing two hot meals a day, instilling values, and, oh, yes, education—is trying to mother these kids. It breaks my heart, the stories Barb tells in such a matter-of-fact voice. When I asked her what books she'd like us to contribute this fall—a twice-yearly tradition between us— she looked at me and said, "It's gotten more basic than that. I need food. The kids are hungry." Then I think about the skillions of dollars being poured into political campaigns to make sure nothing meaningful changes—Obama hopes to raise 100 million toward his re-election this quarter; while profligate Republican buffoons spend wildly to vouchsafe themselves a place at the ultimate trough. Meanwhile, little kids, here in my own neighborhood, are so hungry they can't concentrate on learning how to read. One $2000 Saville Row or Brooks Brothers suit would translate to a lot of juice boxes, fruit snacks, and peanut-butter crackers.

           Appalled? Want to help, since it’s a sure bet government isn’t gonna? Do two things. 1) Contact a teacher-friend or the local Communities in Schools organization to find out what the undernourished, ill-clad, under-loved children in your bailiwick—and there will be many—need most: and 2) Never, ever, vote for an incumbent.


Seed catalog sampler for 2012
The seed catalogs are rolling in, enticing me with their promises of future delights. Why I allow myself to get roped in every January is a mystery, given my spotty success with growing from seed. Must be my masochistic streak. Or convenient memory.

            On the surface of it, seed-starting sounds easy. And apparently it is, for millions of gifted gardeners: less so for the rest of us. From what I’ve read, a basement, bothy, or greenhouse where temperatures hover between 55° and 65° is required; or, lacking one of those, a spacious, sunny room with huge, deep-silled windows. Or perhaps an under-used Hollywood bathroom. (As if.) Regular readers will recall my own jury-rigged light-table set-up from last winter (see “March Wrap-Up,” Mar. 28). Unfortunately, since I now plan on using the piano as Steinway intended, it’s back to the drawing board. Or maybe I’ll wuss out and buy transplants this spring.

            Regardless, the allure of glossy, four-color seed catalogs hasn’t diminished one iota. Good thing I’ve cut back on computer face-time.

Can Kathy really grow potatoes?
Last week, my first ever Irish Eyes Garden Seeds catalog appeared in the mailbox. The company hails from the center of Washington State, between the Cascades and the eastern high desert. Normally, that would raise all sorts of red flags, as neither “mountains,” “desert,” nor “West Coast” comes close to describing the climatic conditions of southeastern North Carolina. This catalog, however—which I perused cover-to-cover in one sitting—offered pertinent words of advice to Southern and Eastern gardeners, openly acknowledging our existence. Thus encouraged, I immediately fired off a lengthy email begging for help in my continuing quest for a decent potato harvest. Am waiting with bated breath for a reply. 

Yes, it’s still winter, but hope, and fresh starts, and spring, spring eternal. Thanks for dropping by.


Sunday, January 8, 2012


Snowdrops, Galanthus elwesii
              “At the National Arboretum, the white petals of snowdrops—normally an early spring flower—have unfurled. In Maine’s Acadia National Park, lakes still have patches of open water instead of being frozen solid. And in Donna Izlar’s back yard in downtown Atlanta, the apricot tree has started blooming.” 

            So starts Mild weather redefines winter landscape,” an article by Juliet Eilperin and Darryl Fears published in the December 30, 2011 issue of the Washington Post.  They quote Scott Aker, head horticulturist at the National Arboretum, as saying, “It’s a weird kind of fall blending right into spring.” Chief of NOAA’s Climate Monitoring Branch Deke Arndt (what is “Deke” short for?) points out that what started out as a mild autumn has “become ‘dramatically’ warmer” across the whole northern tier of the U.S. “Just 19.6 percent of the continental United States is covered with snow, according to the latest snow analysis by NOAA, compared with 50.3 percent this time last year,” Eilperin and Fears report.
My apricot is blooming, too
            Well, huh. So far this season, southeastern North Carolina’s weather has returned to blessed “normalcy”—which is to say daytime temps mostly in the 50s and 60s, nighttimes in the 40s and upper 30s—after a couple years of ferociously bitter winters. At the same time, the National Weather Service’s once-a-decade recalculation of 30-year “normal” (average! See “Wind and Weather,” Aug. 17) daily temperatures for December has cranked down a degree or two for Wilmington.  And I still recall my favorite meteorologist of all time, George Elliott, saying that although global temperatures may have eked up a degree or so in the last century, those along the southeast coast of the United States haven’t budged an iota.

             What does it all mean? No one really knows. Cutting through all the hyperbole, yes, the climate’s changing. But that’s nothing new.

            For gardeners, however, the current climate ruckus is an opportunity. As people engaged with nature, we watch the subtle changes our plants undergo through the seasons, making mental notes as to whether something came up earlier or later than last year, or bloomed for a longer or shorter time, or hung on to its leaves into January instead of dropping them in December. Some of us write these things down in grubby little notebooks we carry with us wherever we go. The formal name for this activity is phenological observation. Since we all do it, we might as well forward our findings to someone who cares. The Internet makes it easy for all us dirt-monkeys to reinvent ourselves as scientists.

            This is a Really Big Deal for liberal-arts types (like me) who thought science far beyond their (my) ken.                                        
            To reiterate (see “For the Birds,” Feb. 2), phenology is the study of phenophases, life-cycle events like emergence, first leaf, first flower, seed set, etc. (Animals have phenophases too—diet, foraging habits and ranges, timing and sizes of litters, migrations, denning and nesting habits, and such; but I’m more interested in plants. They stay put, which makes observing easier.)  Phenologic information helps in tracking global climate-change trends as well as the monitoring of drought and wildfire risks and the health of ecosystems, and identifying and mapping invasive species, infectious diseases and pests. The task is enormous, especially given recent budget-slashing at universities and labs, but all of us can help by kicking in our two cents.

            Have I piqued any interest in all you history, English, poli-sci, psychology, economics and philosophy majors who grew up to make gardens? You—yes, YOU—can add vital information to databases focused on understanding climatological and demographic changes in the natural world, all without ever leaving your yard. By taking part, you could become a bona fide scientist.

            Following are three scientific endeavors to which I add my bit.

(The house finch is on the left)
The Great Backyard Bird Count (GBBC). Being held this year from Friday, February 17 through Monday, February 20, GBBC seeks to provide a continent-wide snapshot of just which birds are where and in what numbers. Participation requirements are fluid: the minimum is a single 15-minute stint of feeder-watching over the four-day period. Conducted by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology and Bird Studies Canada, the family-friendly Count welcomes data from everyone: if you’ve got a bird-feeder in your yard, keep it filled that weekend and record who shows up. For more information about rules, data submission and bird-identification help, go to GBBC’s website at

My maypop (Passiflora incarnata) in September
                The USA National Phenology Network (NPN). A collaborative effort between federal agencies, environmental networks, universities and the public, NPN monitors the impact of climate change on plants and animals in the U.S. through compilation of geographically diverse phenophase observations from regular joes like us. Participants choose one or more plants or animals for which to record and submit phenologic data. NPN’s Nature’s Notebook datasheet makes recording and submitting observations easy. The official website at tells you all you need to know to get started.

Sneaky Passiflora fruits in November
                  2011 was the second year I’ve observed the native maypop, Passiflora incarnata, mainly because several call my back yard home. Trust me, convenience encourages regular participation. This year, I began recording data on April 13, noting the first leaves on my two specimens. Blooming started two months later and continued into October. The first fruit appeared around September 12th (I haven’t caught the sneaky beggars developing yet—they just appear, full-size). I submitted my penultimate observation—the 82nd—Saturday morning, reporting the dry and crunchy leaves left by last week’s two consecutive hard freezes.

                  If I can do it, you can do it.

The Fitzgerald sunflower patch in July
               The Great Sunflower Project. Here’s a chance to pay attention to who's flitting around your garden. Did you know every third bite of food you take owes its existence to a pollinator? The Project’s mission is to create a map of which bees live where. Given the current uncertain future of European honeybees in the U.S., native pollinators like bumblebees, carpenter bees and wasps are attracting more attention. To ensure standardized results, participants plant and monitor ‘Lemon Queen’ sunflowers. (“Bee” sure to use the annual species, please, not the perennial.) Two or three times a week, take your datasheet, pencil and camera out to the sunflower patch, and settle in to observe any apians who visit during a 10- to 15-minute span. The Project’s website at helps you identify some of the more common native pollinators, and offers a great deal of information about phenology in general.

Sweat bees (Halictus poeyi) on sunflower
(picture by Pam Phillips, from her blog
"Writing Every Day")
Hurricane Irene wrapped up my bee-counting activities this year when she flattened the sunflower patch. I was surprised that the most regular visitors to the Lemon Queens in my front yard were sweat bees, and a black wasp with attractive white rings around its abdomen that I haven’t yet identified. I must admit that I’m less assiduous about reporting pollinator encounters than passionflower phenophases: I need to adapt the data sheet to better reflect my methods, a to-do list item that’s still waiting to be ticked off. Maybe this winter...

Birds, bees and phenophases only hint at the variety of citizen science projects out there hungry for your input. Just google “citizen science projects”: there’s bound to be one that tickles your fancy. Then you can amaze all your liberal-arts friends by casually mentioning your new status as a scientist.


Fungus gnat update: male fungus gnats’ posterior sections are rounded, not pointy-for-ease-of-ovipositing like the female pictured in last week’s post (“Thanatos and Fungus Gnats,” Dec. 31, 2011). I noticed the difference while brushing my teeth in the company of a selection of the curious creatures, and thought perhaps you’d like to know. Once you become a scientist, you’ll find you just can’t stop.

Thanks for dropping by.