KOREAEBOOKDOCUMENT1.3.0 Breaking the Gaze Betts, David Meade Mushroom eBooks Mushroom eBooks l
Dpara.xml DBBTG_cover_kml.png normal.sty
9 para.xml smaller.sty small.sty normal.sty y large.sty d larger.sty O! - DBBTG_cover_kml.png
Breaking the Gaze
David Meade Betts
a Mushroom eBooks sampler
Copyright © 2000, David Meade Betts
David Meade Betts has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published by David Meade Betts in 2000.
This Edition published in 2002 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN of complete edition: 1843190753
This is a sampler of
Breaking the Gaze
by David Meade Betts. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at
www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
Contents
[
1 – Darkness At Dawn
]
[
2 – Troubling Times in Freedom Land
]
[
3 – The Summer Of ’64
]
[
4 – Signs of Hope
]
[
5 – The Police Have Arrived
]
[
6 – Winds of War
]
[
7 – Play It Cool, Stay In School
]
[
8 – Feeling a Draft
]
[
9 – Getting Out Of Dodge
]
[
10 – Mechanical Nightmare
]
[
11 – Johnny Law And The Judge
]
[
12 – A Deal I Can’t Refuse
]
[
13 – Thumbs Up, Thumbs Out
]
[
14 – Romance in the Air
]
[
15 – Bubba, Sonny, and Junior
]
[
16 – On The Road Again
]
[
17 – California!
]
[
18 – Dog Patch
]
[
19 – My New Life
]
[
20 – Paul’s Monkey
]
[
21 – The Beat Goes On
]
[
22 – Rolling Away From LA
]
[
23 – Albuquerque Revisited
]
[
24 – Thumbs Out, Thumbs Up
]
[
25 – Dennis, The Mystic Traveler
]
[
26 – Asbury Park
]
[
27 – Boston
]
[
28 – My New Career
]
[
29 – Cathy’s Clown
]
[
30 – Learning the Ropes
]
[
31 – On the Move
]
[
32 – Uncle Harold
]
[
33 – Metaphysics 101
]
[
34 – Summer of ‘68
]
[
35 – Nixon
]
[
36 – Maureen
]
[
37 – George Wallace
]
[
38 – The SDS
]
[
39 – Life’s a Thrill on Beacon Hill
]
[
40 – Dr. Locke
]
[
41 – Judgment Day
]
[
42 – The Best of Times, the Worst of Times
]
[
43 – California Dreaming
]
[
44 – Golden West
]
[
45 – The Summer Of ‘69
]
[
46 – Let The Revolution Begin!
]
[
47 – Altamont
]
[
48 – Breaking Away
]
Chapter 1
Darkness At Dawn
November 1963
Beep, beep, beep. “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an emergency news bulletin: Shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in downtown Dallas, at 12:30 Central Standard Time. It is reported that President Kennedy has been wounded. No further information on his condition is available at this time. Updated information will be announced as it comes in. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.”
“Oh God, that’s horrible. Hope he’s OK. They probably just winged him,” I imagined. Flipping my sophomore text over I laid it on my knees and reached down for a tissue. Lying there on the couch, missing school on a Friday afternoon, I was gripped by the fever, headache and congestion of a nasty cold.
I wiped my nose and looked over to the TV, wondering how he was doing. Closing my book, I dropped it to the floor and pulled the old wool blanket up to my shoulders. I stared at the ceiling. It was the only position I could find to keep my head from pounding. While awaiting further news I dozed. In and out of a fitful sleep another announcement roused me.
Beep, beep, beep. “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an emergency news bulletin: We have just received confirmation that President John F Kennedy has died from gunshot wounds he sustained in Dallas, Texas. The President was hit by a sniper’s bullet as his motorcade traveled through downtown Dallas. President Kennedy was rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital where he succumbed to his wounds. The President was pronounced dead at one o’clock, Central Standard Time.”
“NO,” my mind bellowed as it propelled me into a state of shock. Not being able to believe it, they repeated the message for me once more. Then a dirge began to play and a still picture of the flag appeared on the TV. Lying there I turned my head away and stared at the ceiling, trying to grasp the meaning of this terrible news.
He was a bright star of hope on what I saw as a bleak horizon. Kennedy was fresh, young and new, not like those old suckers or that guy Nixon who ran against him. He had represented a new vision, and now we were going to be stuck with that geezer Vice President Johnson.
In total shock I wondered how it could have happened. Who would have done this and why? “Maybe Johnson had it done. He’s from Texas.” My mind began to run wild. “Maybe the Russians did it.”
A segment we would see just about every night on television came to mind, it starred Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev. The short clip was a commercial for an anti-Communist organization’s fund raising effort, but the footage was real. It showed Khrushchev taking a shoe off as he addressed the United Nations Assembly. Directing his remarks to US supporters, he pounded the podium with it, as he yelled into his microphone “We will bury you.” Everyone in television land felt he meant it.
“Maybe they’re going to start dropping nuclear bombs on us right now. New York City is only forty miles away. It would be one of the first targets,” my worried mind calculated. I wondered if the Russians knew that Picatinny Arsenal was nearby and that Reaction Motors was here in Rockaway. If they did they’d probably drop one on us. “What if World War III starts right now, before my mother and father get home,” my brain gasped. A wave of fear and then a feeling of profound loneliness crept over me. It dawned on me that my life might be over in ten minutes. In my mind I told my family, my friends, and the world, that it had been nice knowing them, suspecting there might not be a chance to do so in a little while.
Maybe it’s time to go into the cellar. That’s where we were taught to go if someone dropped an atom bomb. The specter of sitting down in the cellar all alone waiting to die had no appeal at all. I’ll wait for the announcement that the war has begun or for a sign, like the TV instantly turning to static, then I’ll run downstairs, I decided.
“Damn, I wish my father had listened to me and built a bomb shelter,” I sputtered. That was the rage after the Cuban Missile Crisis, just a year ago. Lots of people built them or turned part of their basement into one.
My neighbors had one. It was in their cellar. There was a bunk bed for each family member, lots of food and water, a transistor radio that ran on batteries, and books and games to keep everyone from getting bored. The odd thing about it though was it only had a screen door. Old man Dudak, a busy MD, never got around to finishing the job. However, it was better than no shelter at all I figured.
At this time of day only Mrs. Dudak would be over there. Would she let me in? She’d probably be happy to have some company, but then I wasn’t sure. Her son and I had been getting into a lot of trouble lately. She was always quick to put the blame on me. She seemed to like me less and less as time went on. I could see it in her eyes.
My mind went round and round. Would the Dudaks let my whole family into their shelter? Unlikely, probably they’d want all the food and water for themselves. They’d just let us die. “Those cheap bastards,” my mind scowled.
Becoming a nervous wreck, my feelings were compounded as I remembered my father had gone into New York to pick up his dental supplies. “Oh God, he’ll never get out, he’ll be stuck in the panicked exodus when everyone tries to leave the city at once,” I surmised. “He could end up dead.” The thought of everyone in my family dying far away from each other, momentarily plunged me into a state of sadness and depression that was deeper than I’d ever known.
I had to get a grip, so I decided to call up my aunt. My mother was at her house and my uncle was a bigwig at Reaction Motors. They’d know what was going on.
My aunt and uncle had actually met John Kennedy and got to shake his hand. According to my mother, Aunt Kay got so excited when she shook hands with him that she leaned over and kissed him. During Kennedy’s campaign for the Presidency he came to Rockaway and toured Reaction Motors. They showed him a new engine that the company had developed for the X-15 Rocket Plane. It was a major breakthrough which would allow a jet to travel higher and faster than ever before.
I called my aunt and asked if she’d heard the news. She immediately began to sob, saying she had. She told me my mother was on her way home and, still crying, said she had to get off the phone.
I felt bad for Aunt Kay. She was a big Kennedy supporter. She had pictures of him and Jesus all over her house. Aunt Kay was Catholic and she’d been so proud of Kennedy; the first Catholic ever elected President.
Hearing my mother was on her way home gave me a sense of relief. I went over to the window and looked out to see if there was any unusual activity out there. Fall leaves swirled and scraped along the sidewalk, whipped by gusty winds under a dull gray sky. A squirrel, collecting food for the coming winter, was raiding the feeder. I could hear a bird chirping. Cars went by in the usual manner. Everything appeared normal.
Getting back on the couch, pulling my blanket up to my chest, I listened for any unusual noises outside. Looking over to the television, the flag was still there. Martial music played. It sounded familiar and had a calming effect on me. In my feverish condition I stared at the ceiling and then closed my eyes.
Soon I fell into a trance-like state and that music spun me back in time to simpler days. I found myself standing with the rest of my third grade class singing “America The Beautiful”. With remarkable clarity my mind resided in the safety of those carefree days.
The vision made me remember how we’d start our day singing such songs and really believing the lyrics. Then we’d do the Lord’s Prayer, and while we prayed Mrs. Hartley would look around the class. She was locating the lucky soul who’d said the “Pledge Of Allegiance” the best the day before. That student got to hold the flag the following day. We all looked upon it as a prestigious job. To be granted this great honor, you had to do two things. The first trick was to stare at the flag as if you were looking at God. Wearing an expression of awe, pride, and great thoughtfulness was important. It was best not to even blink. The second trick to master was to never break the gaze.
One day, as we said the pledge, I stared at the flag in as holy a manner as I could muster and didn’t blink once. My eyes started to water from holding them open for so long. A tear rolled down my cheek and Mrs. Hartley spotted it. The next day I was selected to hold the flag.
And that’s how it went. With hands over hearts we saluted the flag. Later in music class we’d sing patriotic songs, battle hymns, and a few religious ditties. In Social Studies we learned about the greatness of our country. We were taught that we should always stand for what was right.
We all ate it up. The sum of the messages said we were blessed. We had our whole lives ahead of us in this peace loving utopian land. Bounty, security, and justice for all, helped shape our freedom. We were proud, full of hope, secure, and believed everything we were told.
But as we got older the glorious facade began to crack, chip, and peel. The structure underneath seemed sound but not as picturesque as described.
We didn’t have to get much older for these illusions to begin to crumble away. Behind them loomed signs of a darker, more dangerous world than we could’ve ever imagined. First signals appeared the next year in grammar school when the civil defense man came to our class and taught us about air raid drills.
We were taken aback when it was explained that someone might want to drop a bomb on us. Why would anyone want to do that we wondered. This new development caused an occasional change in our routine. Some mornings after the pledge, the song and the prayer, the horn at the firehouse would blare. We’d hear the air raid warning and we’d all dive under our desks.
The first few times we heard it, we really thought we were being attacked. Over time we assumed the alarm was a drill. But when we first heard that sound, we momentarily wondered if it was heralding doomsday.
Months later the drill was changed. The new orders were for us not to get under the desks. The principal had decided that we might get sprayed with breaking glass in what he always referred to as a “nuclear moment”. So now on these days we went to the hall and hugged the wall.
The door opened in the next room, snapping me out of that era. My mother had arrived and was I ever glad. She was upset but didn’t act like she knew she was going to die. Her attitude was reassuring. She asked if my father had returned and then quizzed me on my condition. We talked about the shooting and as we did, she walked to the window and looked up and down the street.
One by one my brothers came home and parked themselves around me as I lay there on the couch. School let out early and they said on their way home they’d seen everything was closing down. The three of them transfixed, solemnly stared at the small black and white TV screen as Walter Cronkite rehashed events and brought us new information.
A gunman was captured. The Russians denied any involvement and offered their condolences. The military was on full alert and Johnson had been sworn in as President.
My father came home right before supper. He said he’d been stuck in traffic for two hours while trying to leave the city. Glad he was home, we all decided to eat in the living room and watch the unfolding events on the evening news. I was surprised and moved as we watched footage of people’s reaction to the assassination. Men and women all around the world were crying in the streets. These scenes magnified our loss.
My family was thankful to be together this evening, though we were quite dismayed at the day’s events. Even my father, who often referred to Kennedy as a “stupid son of a bitch,” was shocked at what had happened today.
Chapter 2
Troubling Times in Freedom Land
January 1964
Two days after Kennedy was shot his assassin was gunned down in the basement of the Dallas Police Department, leaving the suspect silenced forever. The implausibility of these events mystified many, and in others like myself aroused suspicion of a conspiracy. As the nation’s grief began to ebb, a tide of anger rose across the land.
I’d thought Kennedy, the youngest President ever elected, had been doing a good job. Considering the circumstances he’d inherited, he’d done well steering us through turbulent waters. And as he led, he kept us focused on what could be, even though these had been troubling times in freedom land. Kennedy’s bright vision of new hope, convincing as it was, died with him.
It had been one thing after another. In 1960 the Russians shot down one of our spy planes. In 1961 they proved they were winning the “space race” by launching the first man into orbit. “Oh great, they’ll be able to bomb us from outer space,” I cynically mused when I heard the news. That year in August the Russians put up the Berlin Wall and in September they broke the ban on nuclear testing. They appeared to be beating the drums of war.
The same year troubles blossomed inside the country too. The CIA concocted a plan to invade Cuba. In the middle of the invasion Kennedy refused to go along with their plan to involve the US military. The invaders were left stranded and doomed to failure on the island. News leaked that the CIA was furious with the President for his decision.
During these days the Civil Rights Movement began to heat up. The media started giving it more attention after the Freedom Riders, who were registering voters and challenging segregation in southern cities, were attacked by an angry mob in Anniston, Alabama. On the nightly news we’d watch police clubbing blacks, attacking them with dogs and assaulting them with fire hoses. It was a disgusting spectacle. All these people were asking for were the same rights that everyone else enjoyed.
These pictures changed my perception of the police. I began to see them as guard dogs of government, who in this case were being unleashed to deny people their constitutional rights. “Scary,” I thought. I imagined if the government ordered it, the cops would treat me the same way.
In 1962 Viet Nam entered our consciousness as US advisors were given permission to return fire when attacked. It looked as if we were getting in deeper over there.
Then the big news broke a week before Halloween, when it was discovered that the Russians were installing nuclear missiles in Cuba. Some of them were up and ready for launch, ready to blow us away.
Kennedy ordered a blockade around Cuba and issued an ultimatum: if the missiles weren’t immediately removed, it would be construed as an act of war. The crisis lasted only four days. But those four days were the scariest of my life.
We were on the brink of war. The whole country held it’s breath. It was apparent World War III could begin at any moment. Everyone realized that this time the war wasn’t going to be happening thousands of miles away. It would happen right here, with bombs much more powerful than the two we dropped on Japan. That we might get a taste of our own medicine was a sobering thought.
The Russians finally backed down and removed their arsenal. And a great sigh of relief was heard throughout the land.
All of these events, over time, caused my view of the government to change. How do we get into these situations? Who is leading? I often wondered. I found myself questioning their judgment, and rarely agreeing with their policies. My attitude towards life started changing too. By degrees I was becoming cynical. Sometimes I wondered if I’d even have the opportunity to reach adulthood. It often seemed doubtful.
Chapter 3
The Summer Of ’64
June – August 1964
Other than the constant threat of nuclear war, life was pretty good. Months had passed and disillusionment faded. Summer came, healing old wounds.
Happy to have completed my sophomore year, I was ready to start my job at the reservoir, pulling brush. Side by side with my twin brother Richard, we cut back the encroaching undergrowth along the maintenance road, half way around the lake.
Thankfully the job ended the last week of July, just as the really hot weather came to bake New Jersey. Having the rest of the summer off brought me great joy. Most mornings I’d roll out of bed late, then walk across town to the pond. Alternately sitting in the sun, then swimming, I lolled the time away.
When it got too hot for that, I’d go home. Our house, a big Victorian on Main Street, stayed totally cool in the summer. Three huge elms in the front yard blocked the searing sun.
The coolest room in the house was my father’s waiting room. It was at the front, facing Main Street, where his dental office was. There I’d lie on a big green couch upholstered in leather, when his office was closed. Contentedly I read for hours about interesting people and places I’d like to see in Reader’s Digest and National Geographic.
In August my parents broke the news that we were going to Beach Haven, on the Jersey shore. My two older brothers declined the invitation, but Richard and I looked forward to the trip.
We celebrated our sixteenth birthdays along with Johnny Dudak, who’d turned fifteen a few days earlier. Before John went home that day I talked my father into letting him go to Beach Haven with us. The next day my parents, John, Richard, and I piled into the family station wagon and headed for the shore.
While crossing the causeway onto Long Beach Island where Beach Haven is located, the car radio announced that the US had greatly escalated it’s involvement in Viet Nam. President Johnson had just ordered massive air strikes over that country. I thought it too bad, remembering how I felt at just the threat of being bombed. It was all so far away and beyond my control that I dismissed these thoughts. As the fresh ocean air blew through my open window, I looked forward to enjoying the beach.
After five days of fun and relaxation, my parents had to go home. We begged them to let us stay longer and promised that we’d take the bus home and not hitchhike back. They paid for two more days on our room and left us behind.
We relished our newfound freedom. The third day came and we pretended we didn’t know we were supposed to move out, hoping we’d be overlooked. The plan seemed to be working, and then at three in the afternoon the landlady appeared.
At three fifteen we were on the street with no place to stay. So we headed up to the beach lugging our suitcases, and when we got onto the sand Richard called out, “Conference time.” We dropped our bags, sat down and discussed what our next move would be.
After brief deliberation a consensus was reached that we’d sleep under one of the large lifeboats that sat overturned along the beach. We walked up the beach to a more isolated area and found one farther from the ocean’s edge than the rest.
“Here we are,” I declared. “Home sweet home.” The three of us laughed as we stood there with the large wooden dory before us. It was big, sixteen feet long; it had pointed bows on each end.
With our hands we dug through the soft white sand and created an opening to crawl in under the boat. We pushed our suitcases through and wiggled in after them. There was plenty of room for us to lie down and we could even sit up in there.
Crawling out we left our luggage inside. Richard pushed the sand back into the entranceway, filling our tunnel, making it look as if no one had been there.
The three of us walked back to the crowded part of the beach and spent the afternoon there. When evening approached we went back to our life boat and changed clothes. Walking the few blocks to Main St., we went out for supper. Afterwards we browsed in gift shops, played miniature golf, rode go-carts, and roamed.
Our last jaunt of the night was to the bay side of the island. Sitting there on that beach Richard mentioned to John that he and I had learned to swim there.
I’d forgotten, but when he said that, I suddenly remembered this was where I had almost died. I blurted out those words.
“Whadda ya mean?” John asked.
I pointed out at the water twenty feet from shore. “Right there, that’s where I almost died.”
I was four and my older brothers had me out there sitting on a raft. They began to horse around, and then someone jerked the raft. I tumbled off it and I guess their battle raged on. They hadn’t noticed I was gone. I didn’t know how to swim. I didn’t realize it then, but a pocket of air in my bathing suit kept me buoyant, and suspended upside down.
As I floated I could see the surface of the water and the sun reflecting through it. Then I realized I was exhaling the last of my air, as I watched and felt the bubbles roll up along my face, past my chin, on their way to the surface.
It was then, when I knew I was going to die. I wasn’t panicked. It was just a matter of fact in my young mind.
At that point the weirdest thing started happening. A glass box began to form around me, and I felt I was being packaged for transport. To where, I did not know.
With a muffled thud, perfectly square pieces of what appeared to be glass began to form a box around me. One by one each of the sides appeared and connected to the last. As each fell into position, I heard a muffled noise that sounded like “poom.” Somehow I saw the wall behind me form, even though I didn’t have eyes in the back of my head. There was one piece left to slide into place, and that was above my head, which was still upside down. Instinctively I realized when that one came, I was dead.
The next thing I knew, I was on the beach coughing up water and crying on my mother’s lap. Then I noticed the sun and sky as she turned me towards her. Blurry from salt water and tears, I saw her face looking into mine. Then I became aware of her voice frantically asking if I were all right.
John thought the story was very strange. Richard, who’d heard the tale before, was bored by it and suggested we move on.
We decided to go “home”, and on our way we stopped in a grocery store. Richard bought a bag of chips, John stole two cans of beer, and I lifted a candle.
We returned to the lifeboat, and once inside John pushed the sand around the edges to block the wind from coming in. I lit the candle and stuck it to one of the seats that spanned the over turned craft.
Sharing the beer, laughing about our day, we soon tired of carrying on and crashed for the night.
The next morning the three of us awoke at five. The town was still sleeping. Hungry and low on money, we walked to the neighborhood closest to our boat. Tiptoeing up to doorsteps we took milk, orange juice, and donuts the milkman had delivered.
After jogging back to the beach we ate breakfast while sitting on top of our lifeboat and watched the sun rise over the Atlantic. This was how we lived for a couple of days.
The evening before leaving town we were just about broke, and hungry too. Our hunger devoured our honesty and a decision was made to go out to eat and then leave without paying the bill.
We’d never done this before, but felt confident that we could pull off the scam. The ground rules were simple. It was understood that it was every man for himself at the end of the meal.
We went to a popular restaurant and were pleased to see it was packed. Sitting at our table we were on our best behavior while looking over the menu. A harried waitress came to take our order. “I’d like to order the sirloin platter,” I told her. Richard and John followed suit. As the waitress was about to leave us, I told the boys I was going to buy us all shrimp cocktails. They beamed gleefully, thanking me while the waitress wrote it down.
The shrimp were plump and delicious, and the steak was out of this world. As we neared the end of the meal I excused myself and went to the rest room hoping I might find an avenue of escape.
When I got in there, I saw a window and opened it. I’d found my door to freedom. I climbed through the window and dropped six feet to the ground into an alley. Casually I walked away. I crossed the street and could see Richard and John enjoying their meal through the restaurant’s window. I sat on a park bench and observed them. John got up and headed towards the rest room. A minute later he came out of the alley and I called to him. He sauntered over to me and we watched Richard sitting at his table. “Hey John, let’s walk by the window and wave to him,” I suggested. We both laughed.
We crossed the street and slowly walked past the big plate glass. Richard sat there nervously looking around. Spotting us, he looked really surprised. We laughed and waved and kept on walking. Within a minute he caught up with us.
The next morning, unable to keep our promise to my parents, we hitchhiked home. We’d gotten across the causeway, back on the mainland and were heading north when a State Trooper pulled over.
We all muttered “Shit” at the same time. I wondered if it was about the restaurant we’d walked out of the night before. He ordered us into his cruiser, where we were interrogated.
He’d pegged us as runaways, but we convinced him we were heading home. The lawman became friendlier and offered to let us ride with him to the end of his patrol route. “Hey this is great,” I thought, “a nice cop.”
Johnny was up front; Richard and I sat in the back. The officer started off talking in a very friendly manner. But soon that changed with the onset of inappropriate comments. Innocently he began by asking us if we had girlfriends. Then he started talking about sex.
Soon everything that came out of his mouth was rife with sexual innuendo. He asked John if he’d like to hold his gun. Then he peered into his rearview mirror and asked Richard if we ever played with each other. I was mortified as Richard meekly said, “No.” I leaned towards my door out of the cops view and shot Richard a concerned glance. He gave me a disgusted look as John chuckled up in the front. The three of us were nervous, but bantered the best we could, pretending everything was OK. We were shocked by his behavior. Finally he realized we were not interested in his advances and stopped his vehicle, letting us out far short of the promised ride. We didn’t care, we were glad to get away from him. After he pulled out, we cursed him and laughed in amazement, dubbing him the strangest we’d met so far.
Our luck held and two more rides got us close to home. We had to walk the last two miles, but by lunchtime we’d made it back to Rockaway.
Chapter 4
Signs of Hope
September 1964 – January 1965
Tired of summer’s idleness, I looked forward to my junior year. On the morning of the first day of classes I awoke early. Glancing towards the window I saw it was going to be another warm day. As Richard snored away in the top bunk I got up and went downstairs. I made myself a cup of coffee and decided to drink it on the roof. Passing my bedroom, heading to the third floor, I went through the attic and emerged on the roof. With coffee in hand, I sat surveying the world below. Not a car went by. Savoring the stillness of the day, I sipped and began thinking about life and where it might lead me.
The values of the post war era and Eisenhower days remained with us – fit in, work and study hard, obey authority, don’t ask questions, look towards the future – and the road to success would be ours. But my view of the future was blocked by the image of a mushroom cloud. I gave less credence to this code of conduct from a bygone era as time went on.
I sat on the roof and realized that the threatening events I’d witnessed so far had altered my perception of the world. My outlook towards life had changed. An urgency towards living had crept into my soul. I’d become hedonistic, living for today, not giving much thought to the future. And I knew why. I figured it would be life’s cruelest hoax to spend time preparing for the future, fixated in studious drudgery, while missing the joy of life itself, and then suddenly being blown away in a nuclear blast after having never really lived.
I could see the same changes in my brothers and friends. To varying degrees they started to cop a similar attitude. What worried us was that one wrong move by a foreign government, or a misstep by our own, could lead us where we did not want to go – to doomsday.
As the sun rose over the tree line, I reflected on the challenges I’d face in my junior year. I decided to work for grades that would allow me to enter college, just in case the world didn’t explode. But that would be it. I wouldn’t bother squandering time attempting to be at the head of the class. Who knew how much time actually was left? No one really knew.
Now the sun shined brighter; its rays warmed my face and lifted my spirits to a sunnier disposition. I speculated with some enthusiasm about friends and routines I’d be reunited with this morning. In a positive mood I left the roof and prepared for the day.
Quickly I became absorbed in my classes and the daily routine. I made the varsity football team, and later the varsity wrestling team. Contentedly, in a blur of activity, the semester went flying by.
As winter began the world was looking like a brighter place. Despite the loss of Kennedy, change was in the air. You could even hear it in the music. New rock and roll, which at first was resisted and shunned by the radio industry, was now finding its way to the airways. The hip sounds of Motown and folk music were joined by the energized rhythm of rock and roll. A year ago the Beatles burst upon the scene, and last fall the Rolling Stones made their debut.
Just last July the Civil Rights Act had been signed into law. And in October Khrushchev was suddenly stripped of his power. This was good news. In November Johnson was elected after serving out Kennedy’s term. He promised he’d find a solution to the growing conflict in Viet Nam. His opponent in that election, Goldwater, wanted to use nuclear weapons over there. In December Martin Luther King won the Nobel Peace Prize. Life was definitely looking up.
Chapter 5
The Police Have Arrived
January 1965
Second semester was in full swing. Routine had turned to monotony and the regimen was boringly similar to my freshman and sophomore years. I was longing for spring. The only noticeable change in our routine was the introduction of a new assembly program.
We were herded into the gym and were surprised to see two cops up on the stage. We had no idea what was going on, but we welcomed the break from class.
The older cop announced that they’d come to warn us about marijuana. He described it as an evil weed and said it was beginning to show up in the area.
The second cop took over and explained that people smoked it to escape reality. He went on to say it was smoked like tobacco and made people crazy and violent. Be wary of the friendly stranger, he admonished. He would come and offer us some. If we tried it, we’d become instantly addicted and spiral downward forever.
Geez, it sounded pretty bad. I didn’t think the cops should worry about it too much though. None of us had ever seen the stuff around, and to tell you the truth, a lot of us had never heard of it until that day.
Next they ran a scratchy government film which showed marijuana growing, what it looked like dried, and how to smoke it. Then we saw people who’d smoked the evil weed. Some tried to climb walls, others acted drunk. There was a special warning for the girls. They would feel compelled to rip off their clothes and would want to have sex if they smoked it. On the end of this dialogue a picture of a sad looking pregnant girl sitting in a rocker was shown.
A few people laughed out loud and received detention for their disrespectful display. Parts of the film were funny and others seemed far-fetched, but I kept my mouth shut throughout the presentation. Whatever the stuff was, I didn’t want any part of it. If they’d left it at that the warning might have been taken seriously. But no, they showed up a few more times to warn us. We didn’t care because it was a good way to get out of class.
Over time though, many of us were getting the impression the stuff must be pretty wild the way they were harping about it. A group of us agreed to keep on the lookout for a source of the evil weed. For a while nothing came of it.
But then word filtered down from somewhere that you could buy the stuff in Greenwich Village. We sent an emissary to the city. He came back with three little manila envelopes filled with what was suppose to be pot.
On a Friday night we secretly met and tried smoking it. It didn’t take long for us to realize the stuff was train board grass and mustard seeds. Our emissary had been had. Busy with life, we lost interest in the search and that was the end of our experimentation.
Chapter 6
Winds of War
February 1965 – October 1965
February came and the winds of war began to stir. It became clear that Johnson’s solution for Viet Nam was to bomb them into oblivion. He spoke of peace as he bombed away. It was apparent to all that our involvement in the war was escalating. The Selective Service began drafting thousands. By April, twenty-seven thousand soldiers had been shipped over there.
Evening news ran stories on the situation almost every night, bringing the conflict into our living room through the marvels of TV.
I was appalled at the carnage and brutality of it all.
From the news clips I’d seen, the population being bombed had nothing, lived in complete poverty, and could in no way pose a threat to the United States. It all seemed so un-American to me. The whole mess was starting to cause uproar in Congress. I figured by the time I turned eighteen and eligible for the draft, they would have it all wrapped up and the war would be over.
The meaning of war was brought home to us by fellow classmate Joe Belcher. Joe, a bit of a bigot and more racist than most, had always been fascinated by anything military. Even as a kid he had this obsession. During our childhood he’d dress up as a soldier every Halloween.
Another new assembly program was introduced at school. Everyone was required to attend. We didn’t mind; it was a good way to break up the day.
Recruiters from each branch of the military had arrived. They came to tell us about the communist threat and the merits of military service, as they tried talking us into enlisting. Directing their remarks to the guys, they told us if we joined up we wouldn’t have to serve as long as someone who’d been drafted. With no legal leverage on the girls, they asked them to consider a career in the military.
The Marines, last to speak, were the most persuasive. At the end of their presentation they asked if any of us would be interested in becoming a Marine. The crowd was silent, then Joe Belcher raised his hand. The recruiter asked him to stand and Joe told him he wanted to become a Marine. The recruiter, tickled pink, asked Joe his name, then ordered a round of applause for him. Joe stood proudly, savoring the recognition.
Joe had to wait until graduation before he could enlist. He was often heard talking about how he could hardly wait. He said he wanted to volunteer for Nam so he could kill some gooks. One day I heard him tell coach that he’d mail him an ear from his first kill. Coach, an old military man, seemed genuinely impressed.
In June the seniors graduated and Joe, true to his word, enlisted. Our local newspaper reported over the summer that Joe had graduated at the top of his squad. He’d volunteered for Viet Nam and would be shipped over in late August.
Summer passed, school reopened, and I began my senior year. We’d been in session barely three weeks when a special assembly was called. As we entered the gym that day we wondered what was going on. There upon the stage sat a Marine, a priest, and a high ranking officer. Next to them an easel stood holding a large color picture of Joe Belcher in his uniform. Set on either side of Joe was a US and Marine flag.
It wasn’t long before we found out why we’d been called to the gym. The principal came to the podium and announced that Joe Belcher had been killed in action in Viet Nam.
The whole gymnasium gasped. The shocked crowd was told how in his valiant effort to help suppress communism, Joe had been caught in an ambush, jumped behind the biggest rock available, and was immediately blown to kingdom come. He’d landed on an antipersonnel mine.
A somber mood cast its pall over the room; we all sat there stunned. Even if he hadn’t been a close friend, Joe was someone who we’d grown up with. He’d been home on leave just about a month earlier, proudly walking around town in his uniform. His death brought the war uncomfortably close to our door.
The priest said a prayer. The Marine, who I now recognized as Joe’s recruiter, said nothing. The officer explained how Joe’s patriotism helped stop the spread of communism. Then we all went back to class.
Joe’s death and funeral were covered by the press and sparked debate about the war. “Why are we over there?” was one of the most asked questions. Some claimed money spent on war would be more wisely spent on social programs or repairing roads. A few said that Joe died for nothing.
Those who supported war maintained that we should do whatever our government asked of us. They asserted it was not for us to question why. The spread of communism must be stopped. The issue began to breed divisiveness throughout our town.
I didn’t believe the “domino theory” that the warmongers touted: “If Viet Nam fell to the communists the whole world would follow.” From what I’d read, all the European countries, even France, were saying that we were meddling in a civil war which US foreign policy had helped cause.
Standing by the doctrine, the basic tenets of justice, which were ingrained in me since childhood, I didn’t think we should be over there. But to say that out loud could bring a lot of heat on me that I didn’t need. And besides, my opinion wasn’t going to stop a war.
What worked best for me and my friends was to show complete apathy for the subject. If you said anything against the war you were labeled as either unpatriotic, a coward, or a commie sympathizer.
But among friends, we talked. Jokingly we agreed that the government seemed bent on making sure we didn’t get to grow up or grow old. On more serious consideration, we noted that in the government’s eyes we were too young to drink, too young to vote, but old enough to kill. Something was wrong with this picture. We were told we must go and defend democracy but we weren’t allowed to participate in the democratic process. We had no voice in electing or rejecting these officials who would send us off to war. We were denied the right to vote just like the blacks had been down south.
Among ourselves we had only contempt for the old men, the bureaucrats, standing around at cocktail parties in Washington, sipping their martinis, while sending us off to do their dirty work. “Why don’t we send them?” we joked.
We thought it wrong to be sent half way around the world, to invade someone’s country and kill its citizens. We hoped the whole stupid mess would be ending soon.
That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
For more information about Mushroom Publishing, please visit us at www.mushroompublishing.com.
KOREAEBOOKSTYLEFILE_1.1.0 O ) e ? { ' A
c Verdana
default default Verdana
hr_file_0 para0 hr_file_0 para0 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para1 hr_file_0 para1 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para2 hr_file_0 para2 Verdana
hr_file_0 para3 hr_file_0 para3 Verdana
hr_file_0 para4 hr_file_0 para4 Verdana
hr_file_0 para5 hr_file_0 para5 ̙ Verdana
d hr_file_0 para6 hr_file_0 para6 Verdana
hr_file_0 para7 hr_file_0 para7 Verdana
d d hr_file_0 para8 hr_file_0 para8 Verdana
d hr_file_0 para9 hr_file_0 para9 Verdana
hr_file_0 para10 hr_file_0 para10 Verdana
br br Verdana
para para Verdana
figgr figgr Verdana
fig.cont fig.cont Verdana
tablepara tablepara Verdana
listpara listpara Verdana
font font KOREAEBOOKSTYLEFILE_1.1.0 O ) e ? { ' A
c Verdana
default default Verdana
hr_file_0 para0 hr_file_0 para0 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para1 hr_file_0 para1 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para2 hr_file_0 para2 Verdana
hr_file_0 para3 hr_file_0 para3 Verdana
hr_file_0 para4 hr_file_0 para4 Verdana
hr_file_0 para5 hr_file_0 para5 ̙ Verdana
d hr_file_0 para6 hr_file_0 para6 Verdana
hr_file_0 para7 hr_file_0 para7 Verdana
d d hr_file_0 para8 hr_file_0 para8 Verdana
d hr_file_0 para9 hr_file_0 para9 Verdana
hr_file_0 para10 hr_file_0 para10 Verdana
br br Verdana
para para Verdana
figgr figgr Verdana
fig.cont fig.cont Verdana
tablepara tablepara Verdana
listpara listpara Verdana
font font KOREAEBOOKSTYLEFILE_1.1.0 O ) e ? { ' A
c Verdana
default default Verdana
hr_file_0 para0 hr_file_0 para0 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para1 hr_file_0 para1 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para2 hr_file_0 para2 Verdana
hr_file_0 para3 hr_file_0 para3 Verdana
hr_file_0 para4 hr_file_0 para4 Verdana
hr_file_0 para5 hr_file_0 para5 ̙ Verdana
d hr_file_0 para6 hr_file_0 para6 Verdana
hr_file_0 para7 hr_file_0 para7 Verdana
d d hr_file_0 para8 hr_file_0 para8 Verdana
d hr_file_0 para9 hr_file_0 para9 Verdana
hr_file_0 para10 hr_file_0 para10 Verdana
br br Verdana
para para Verdana
figgr figgr Verdana
fig.cont fig.cont Verdana
tablepara tablepara Verdana
listpara listpara Verdana
font font KOREAEBOOKSTYLEFILE_1.1.0 O ) e ? { ' A
c Verdana
default default Verdana
hr_file_0 para0 hr_file_0 para0 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para1 hr_file_0 para1 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para2 hr_file_0 para2 Verdana
hr_file_0 para3 hr_file_0 para3 Verdana
hr_file_0 para4 hr_file_0 para4 Verdana
hr_file_0 para5 hr_file_0 para5 ̙ Verdana
d hr_file_0 para6 hr_file_0 para6 Verdana
hr_file_0 para7 hr_file_0 para7 Verdana
d d hr_file_0 para8 hr_file_0 para8 Verdana
d hr_file_0 para9 hr_file_0 para9 Verdana
hr_file_0 para10 hr_file_0 para10 Verdana
br br Verdana
para para Verdana
figgr figgr Verdana
fig.cont fig.cont Verdana
tablepara tablepara Verdana
listpara listpara Verdana
font font KOREAEBOOKSTYLEFILE_1.1.0 O ) e ? { ' A
c Verdana
default default Verdana
hr_file_0 para0 hr_file_0 para0 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para1 hr_file_0 para1 ̙ Verdana
hr_file_0 para2 hr_file_0 para2 Verdana
hr_file_0 para3 hr_file_0 para3 Verdana
hr_file_0 para4 hr_file_0 para4 Verdana
hr_file_0 para5 hr_file_0 para5 ̙ Verdana
d hr_file_0 para6 hr_file_0 para6 Verdana
hr_file_0 para7 hr_file_0 para7 Verdana
d d hr_file_0 para8 hr_file_0 para8 Verdana
d hr_file_0 para9 hr_file_0 para9 Verdana
hr_file_0 para10 hr_file_0 para10 Verdana
br br Verdana
para para Verdana
figgr figgr Verdana
fig.cont fig.cont Verdana
tablepara tablepara Verdana
listpara listpara Verdana
font font PNG
IHDR @ RDv sBITO PLTE Γt # Z9CN)ds\/:нf f LѺJ ArmhҌiv`F0 q* 5.
: ŵåkjL ] v稑=' U{qޭK2ǹ;+cǦO6 NA:u"4/TB$ Ŗ֬ +pP w1|q˪ýܱ:ΧBF䆎Ͻ V6dB $=Hr}:v p~ *~p$ =8L^y哛S6O/
9Of.,#̈́,K_ 2VKY=~ڣ3_q GL{ȹFT̯KZ4Fh GbAvz{#Zv L~ <:y\]X辻֕ =w
<Wģ?UK+n D r6"(7{+Wj#>hnsj9 7&X*P`c{RN
15T d7NYO+RQ
u 3fCY7
sG 07FkIVϖ3J CW jyNj@T& 2m Rfto
%@J
8S_mj 1 ^
O
Pצd\ F 0iσoHŘ0+%,KyF 7/y15,gK>@[~h?)!{)b x@V OPft/> Ӿϛ9s'y7g`E9r "鵢O 7/` +Wǜ1R\y>'ԇX7sQ0>L`@Dd$@>oٗ ЁL@gd~>~Y>Lm9 #c8 Q*w~O )~! *k͓swk [
A|w)x
`{s-A`kTq"Hx&y{p?k pJ̐϶ 'p j vc;bxs}]!lE\iFP@":}+3~ /]C|nMsнҵLM83 c>:)`m^)l>tqW̗89*R"XCm]]*%MxU0( +xR鵂N~P7_㗪/(֍#<]'rejM Gڊk yeK '^7cFJ Pb6ϔ`l@2bOJ _"kqLd|;Sc\*~3Ď
QfmT:b'`5KxKpP)*/_R`w ])ی )麟yZ)%QR e*uؕKmCLP rt) )E
Bd[1<;Ŭ ޜ?R 썓%D n8
"?tyS 7kGP
ΛWaFX2y],t
\|qbT gZK 0̼j`(N&,$-H~̛u(%>K'BEw #8q %yf%UV-t"6mL,[vFPѴ! >5_z1 O ]VCA'y<Y^) iFCG~ 1iGpq<̕odml΄AӺ(8kSVyy_! ~^(9R 5@ODv0@Ufc^ ɼv>yO/u`gn%~>Ps pa;7t, ׄ|j/̿]c:3$ f| 0 Hr ù*X ?n,aq>S0({5i
Ěr'߈JɩDypkw" ),Ղ t A q0 Gor2vh}\
}sRYh0e^K@L y "p?2
Ĭ=?ި3 ЖT9r $q}
#v$s: F\u?B#,P4ڍle2"*SW&`>8gy~$-e64PZ̖D/K,8\:,p
2p#jBL]x onmmDfv.:!9I|fAi6r]@G?k ԣэNu:;) .3 @y~&4)\04FwIonv -oS 5_{M~ i| (l퓅1Σp **ܲӧSΌQ+6,mf~U%ӽl͚5k>MZe W*"9ojf X>ysڿx-+
+$quu^-Zj#BBLh~噱DJ|#\@
"s~=:3jee2g>5s*j_6<e&lw83i.db15Ha6;!qNC֨=
Őh'D^ B
fh$_D05=5 MJ jhהӢQ$ $gM_ \W&2FPCL5PM O PMSӌͤUu%ҿUR`B8NX c@FH/,+O_RO7MWSZȪf"1`Ni-w eX*Y] ZU\סCÏ8qg2m¡1y%#k5ĘcHTxs ʾvufg&oլBh_4n[Ez
@5ժĶ!6Z=eO;+]Ө|CAiM r ;Ue3P[-gpb'8 O (yt5?bd27P9fcȶ cRBR@
խ)>JGשs:y 5 GkFvQk--||{5; vxπW9W dѬR.h jJ+UN}ב ,/7 P /GҦX ;#s5+"DʑܾmT&J Ww/o UCUv_ ?OR @wPeyxLJң@D0^P59HS#_?ՖAܡvt sg(jֽUIۿKyUa~~ Fo[ RLECr[瑌0'ׇ,
GcS͟3\WcUw &7_t ` X #=6f Vh I h
8qvC~^xh@Y wp7TQ4P$ɱQ;@v$
Y{foQ:\r>A(.. iЋ ̐^#֬>?an֥wx:)љpMQ *o.,P.uU8KSEz ;V{[t@r ,.^)c3v8*:C* \+ |
:՝Tc|^ @ u
;BrV&B[ {
,A6=HWZӴ~OpXK|5 nL"\MꮲXE5ԜY}j!/hvzvlUjJUe~V>0Z?|_\&M ß/,$ E0"i *.֓AM22z+~ PeΙkkן'O{eZ{ ä _ػ(~
2EoE)rfM15[Xe ㉘ӑChV,9#O- 1-/&Uk(VN(0x:"H)t0
P)藩O{xݱr P1[9%HZ РMu1r?{D Gv :ݼb\r r
^ @ m nz `Rn(͇G{QV@0Pc q01*mOxP&Rq5}z@ 5yOk:ַ]z2V@G$_0oJ(5`^0. uk`1mV@j[T
a(-,>x1`@>gb/ Ў/D%6oV(qeK~`SA ~^vM듦BMm=2?QC/d2)VC ", @:#X 6+9g $3a v1Xc Z J](5c6˶8dƕ,kQ9X
yZbC2a:< 8վ. Ŝ v[hS8CebHaSqNɄcY(2Qu]jV, Zt*BxDAI%,=ӫc d 1\9u;]
q 6Z2:
H&0nStWKB-{"6ZƈuW_ЂpKB/9F-#9H a?@f&054: P .֍Q+W-~P-ry/˻la]ǀW/w4~{0?k<ԇ HH,JJ"he&UY_l2I_'
ED ]Տ- U"VJ8 'z/tȨ
O:{ !FZUFUhR@R$6T3f7<.9uz >5=WH_DbI
A_k4KLAyYA~UY ;QVZ9Q ^s1n'Vb[KlXoC(ZS]Uv5+\Y8}29~ĒiXaX3 3TU Oq@2X@ vPP@**!u0 e8:7M'G B
5ы
b:]rF'qdQ@M |4$?[*kـ !D/zR2 3%yXx5֚1#Q`CBƐEl#v$ ih< iK1 5UHqm lSh"sZ4!U휄qb[4MŹ_wK@ VrIt v.^,L,# @<2̚#ibe<$4HA{e8
\/# тCOp} 2"d5ZD_M`P1dHOL+e~ Bju>ݯ@Zqqڟ nIHv[ }Ϯx P||TET
>XI,Z(dbU0z9ӵ!&tֽ`hGh=r>8|vr 2?jce7MML赀 dX gp#U3 \'~> . *EA ?1 b8پ|~i?308ncɬВ KpxC [pXegqq;Pt_2(RDc}@ӛl||WqI P/"ca&3[0PeV(To
(~n.Ff:mY]L8;M@s̤X$' % V$QαS+FfؾO )HVdCۮ:{IT 3RY23 f\^CrVUX`d~ ]~!<$G 8xPc4.w tzj9s Z1b
/ GU) )(aΙS\*қ*;I ąIh:6IoX&c@`8aGi '=@սSOx^m IE`yud
܉STPfBbg~iiGND( `J;"*sA bTUYvҩ +K+& K uҺZ3^ q-MetU)d@ i]nZ5n;̃KJB& wI%ZtOMr
} WnS9|7P_)T+5.G`\`qף < y[7X ~CIkb1$ݭ'Y֬#ii /
!iYnlkJOY*U" ԭnLn (T(v}pGU P.FBdy[څkCZ/$"u]omEeV2B;N$9| C :#`.[z`WZ~+͉]SaQC('y퀞y#HR7F5pD{Vq{g Q9vSؔP~}IK2z"Q{
0d :''rzgI eɯ'F츦@m< ?§}y[/h% $|R#%Ac}Kk 16 sZ괌aĦ a WX }@WW XXiKZetel=pm #˟_ڙ߁`!D:=ζpC+o Gk2Y ^E
&jJKqE Fi{ y.Jڽ2hM5uA@-_&ޛۏv @*HkKN֥t*=47O/!ApX":P>OR
\^4 uLBX]6P=ׁ2O fF
*{Yh E3; An+u~ *+3:sՐ i7>v6վ(%ʫW+Ingnny7 B%s>ClT+nǸ X0o/ IU0&[CTP>-DǑ,) Rep_B`'OD3 і.$U:-* bVr \HL@@&f3KëÎ
3ɘkh>V:1렕
_I5Y ttlm2%$o 5N1ބw nv .\06_
iڈ>XSE͎J/4]rUǡphTR2E 8qJT_;#vbz4vޭv R^1XD7[t#e
OzAD "]!wj5W\Q{e-L7m%Ĥci=Qf&S~k {JO $/ jʒvLPQBq#ACO2<=cU\ RUE}ao;g^)kGEƱ-QK1 >"1+~jk]Sر$Hg^ʂ땽赻c[TH[*! x֕1h]AҎ;zݼ^{M#4pC8A ! lIHO7
jt=AEcOk;66_5]6W pis kk3甖{ťYO|sz _@,3MMS{A~ s mB\#~-і3zP)e'Qp_旟VS|vsene&*qzƭvKKkkhk+ iUtmM)I
yr}.Ի
#[K 'K}*Jř3-鹅JwC)hM/rPP|FCQE<$"ܖ9iDgg2jk/4g ܛy 8W6dOnhF&MB T
E9$5@9R濵g֙>=kMo,j'hyBEʞAo/eaOssFQ[)n).j)Ug+u8)֗6=7fk xjxXm솢I9M= _9<"uzr[O{ڵʙ
i: nޖݰ@ M6P%dvW#
[<_7.7PwnMjpoS P-^[]T{ankEكe kKUx4:M njiܨ!ĕ #q\_ 3@#., 'e*( |t_iK/(H?SX Ǐ?1r"&'^8VAm~RxtQnͲwpRfe<(_ ( ߖ=8pcm΅{K3dΌϜEV
{*GA뗶~[ޮ/Pz E
Ǻ
*^ 7ƏM1Z +iW`UfaN:Vp c
qbcH 3
% n\pV5 ̀ "׀
TW%%%3: Lv4pݟMdܳ?A8{ho֥r6t3uue+ٷ]UoQ{0ڈ [SE#Th/,kx¯ы Ѕ'q B7t8 0k f67u=
+mw3hFhq
3v UIϭe] (6 _ `}e.m pďl ڟHi ^x 5 7@\Й.\5>;ebF N*Jzڙ" 0'pbz::r 8_;\P_Z / $=( R pFdn [}`- nm [(>3S 5 gkf
ēbx!.
%3. POF3R3]rLĉ!(jm)=nɾ^[]Dbڅl]/84f>VD)M^RՃlyBV%)J99z]B $3j CE{wnf9oUezQT
qw'(wEBb#*z9q?uM9 Pvaà% Nϼ0i]4_R?(Gp2BH$ESq]IBHC»+/OuWG[3+:(#d7ALoy[in]pͣZ tW. wyp cS{G%Ne"o+n"Q0 X ("rHG4V,5)1cGcnUm#=@@ּjV-j[Vռ&fv4j Ӫ=~ /<6*hޮ>=kW# +ǔYN Ic;ـK֊g=列*Dx||Mͭ(h\pC<5@<{(*Dh /̩F} B)" ÈAjX*x{`YDa* $0q"f*Kk%+qUWwwϟ_PHDCjCFaSeJ7a|ʈJ(fF }^ݹ@P^t$
`lNqJF zDBD_ RZS *ٛyjsΘ %Kd5kLAs0pWӓ| \ǃe \
zϨ Ommt?z
UQ?'3=U!j흀D4(G( r䢽|Bȫ%8 2&c WWi @ɷL(C)O#:S(
m֦4T#9
*?mz}6T "q('=VR0S*ث2 iC6*4 U iSn-[DܮqH0K|Ԧmv6
эR+`a ]$6/~]q" IDATmC@5oXl|^hLnGFH U(6͆* fBwPͼn$ww~
jJN ٤PG ^YU>+>lbD$dL5cq tA
P2 IQd
5sU" X_yyZQc8]R .|{LVtld |N J x xӪ@08ó '+-
Ԅc 1fn :uDXд){ jV M~ ~&Ս
t m!~PXrZ.hH
|'嘭98
5|zhp{iUR<~h5i
TOK$us" @l29R * h="TFgb v!- ~ *fo|KNٚ#֫ DE
@cN[4;rT R%\
GjÂmZ `1QD ) hSSq]jy-95He>1P1g@I3 cqA8
f+G
PD4PO @O `m?3F[Nr| /M- {B&s ([='S.@u$0Zi3; 6;s *?.8geLeo {x6l:CF =ݖhB13~ $('S]mף1pOTQ>pCnS@b7c) d 0.Z~ WU[hq_K-~NEX$nT0C剋]5'6) &Uc)S` [ YP Eg0ꡳ,P\H D s_P\ Ey6/+I
wE_'zٖ@:4UHR~!J5*nQXmTCq(/5*I>:a~ܝFӮv a7,q*Yp> @Pxbw\1
uj-x~nl X9n!Kզ(z!I7F m
X0nDoXj>Ą#L #s͒"%$uc9JW
Ո2"\ 9uaW)y!L n"cU~wL9.WWؕdJ
Ke=tJú Tm{ ݽی2w:lm[ P@f,┴P JFx' Cc9I MW(fײAH&$cS }qyi;xP% εg5khf*V :6t۽F=f e%ymU#nlv($tiա)zW\ Gu#L-*hHN;vu_ܟ,Y3f|GW)wjAjN 1a 8D(.Jr$+=J;s+ljJ AI~ Gf 7}Ee.?2r0+ LNA%7櫶P=g_PwoH_bφKfnސ7b~EBL[Bra̷
0* j1tb*-ܾq
0E {d`3iQ7a0 Pȁ$OX ٝ$Bjb,č^YU
(' zdkzd?ğWʝclz*_+oYC ;9|]`HxTޔF.\
p⿄cBHiB Z@;mw.l ?K0N$DW܉OJ%dNp-R {6qtK@lois2 A"7T`gr@LƎ_7[CƽȽdUН? E뙙ǝf@ hl [JsTʕlN7g>ӟwp\Cry B)FԾ݇y(S#džEB3 % ="h f @^s `Z{ԃy ~[ UEhX p{ܓm5P 9tۗ;cH9VoELD|:9 )Ñn xWEb/ #Ͳć|ܪgYI^Hr Կ(W1KP 3#yydXTyf9jUï:#\g RacE'Ucj
{It D)^&[@xw )OIKEWX]A>՚Hd)̓ _ Msݨ['8;0T!z=`ϯI衂!g./(YF$ RۭYFa(єDMLq8V]o
j{@Q}ct"6Q U'1/( I"gD c) S;(©ďXLkؘmۄ:!
@[P2} 2Cj0? xO4dBĔ̒uFv](HaaWP= 7 _ӓN9SV~# {wAjn~śӁB-gɨaCzDy/-88?]W }5m3?e֦ɓ ,F @U]8\ ۦ~o%>fmF `Ǵ"h̷|}Oi? >2kɓ`ϯtƫlWz$ߚCc|%ܽ{;w: F K0; 8x{ րSRYKvFP ̵iCPcoѭ+Üee7ˬ%K"yp!Q;B٩RSٺg#7ݖZ ci
.x&D.M˗; c) F>ɵXL4+ U$Qoa^mti$ٵGY Sш._o} |6@>1NZ4B,r"t2SUܛ ^YKeeMMQ1qWn
S/7mZvybHj^| O$Z\1g/U'1!k" A1KM[r4}n] M ņa{w4\f1lKP@t5@ނ(cG7lx(N$7
, O Z ;NYYYrCCzjH@80%>{hh, Wvܹ1juTxuWN 0$z!pyh~뚓'@z/^\q'Kh`0PC1 =dž~|x h髱 i(Q P & @AQl"pfg^ӵMlb6sߡ'ޔ)+ւwWѵ3-@rLFb5 Qvqt
=/\бi5W XD`: ' V_ݞ@s3mw qI|8OrƍzQ&Q{iW8DKu7m{
1RƁA7A {l7;ݻj7N&4 !vJc'w0{/ yJKcӏ /O"a PŅ#haS 7]|^wy6ij 3 RBf6 ~:y~!C[^r/C|Є'XQ|ܜ6 YkעQ{y&`TJuÜ5 ,_Ko6y\ 8@v~㎃́Spfj@c1ٸ s] o. ڈR1BwЌRm־lQ'o;ܮdS.0Om"rR -z !`O"i -\pwϼe {!: " _ZpG^>q&L.fAOKFu[T@վ7lqp}9z 7 6h q 4 4:~YͽJpW pC;s*߉ z7lS}gorԩSV8qbh
d".44J!F ݭB)]nAߜP$oq³)qc9)vӉ>[$g6A0lSlذa˔~|4 *'[Ν )~ޭJ 0n6ĵENk\|Ӧ!qoF~ǏN%hz8ш^ 3D c1?gnslk_rWL-o䭷۱v?aS \/peˆSg/|z?p#Cs(vF훵8>c 7GE|Ƿ+1nq-!lI䇕+ rIm4
ׯn^Ƭޫ'V\dAt os?socŖ< X
dG7l8tO| UKힵ|7 zk۴oZPÖo;qh pqr" Y
Mv" b3e4' W_=1 tk/NQ.п[@s]CR }<8C+tS. h #W%~`5tݦ<pd*v >qPQwf /YC ,& LiAK>I'Vh2ebri LBc~Sg/=A uCO
:1{]>5Xi8^d w8=uHT ٳ /#r"͢6hTnp
:kgheUpʥ?i![<)o
I&ԀaNS*IrǕ Kh?D 93,x[/+KѪ2jGZ#Ok}C#>gn0"0+ 7b 7x@}vNq,݅
7p,XP[
t҈5.cqJ; *L9qt۷n㤃p x ":4M-N '<* R;2O Ș!ہrwyoa͘4u ·k 1+ή8?y AUH[ߛPMC϶7Iʅ
F 7֊HQd'VVڝ:G =qյk>c,o@2S3,߶ L%t(]p~ ho'6 0fv^ W&D =6X8 nzs;h4>{6)gX&֞%d
2bN\\Aɔ'yw@PӚ h _ ~kK 6|vqd2l Z; @~o^}nINl`
P C?R9 Ɇ,ڳ8|zsT$c C TwʄZ B94x,OEQE70kνtyņ.w4
ק\:qy"8iAF rr
_"@Xl^q0isLj' z9~ N%Н##~@pH < Ţ\yS2*y=ep@=& $~Ww|܁waS|Ksr
mς]M 6up s Ep+[G:<6 |!v ྤXs& }+r
>'K/AX ' coA'_Ϣ_R Δexȑ¹s4p,"ڬBϑy -ZtPOr+G )*۾S*i c ~EC#_͙FUM& N8]p:Pֽ 1!hާ~ =>-o|Tzc#=̆
)P@s-8X`f{ Mcu[s@o'O* WQcG qo1 vCÇ"7<@GtS Uk^k[Sswx?jv^} #ߋ;u
qY6O\qh/X Ԏ7 - ;p<srɝ'b^I{t;HWdR $
6/=!
ӭ\R~C_}jA>0>0߷~W෮<t2:xS=;w/_c"phl`w.x8L>s W'4Z>/[c?j #%l( w3ǵR dv5w %dtfAUcL_}ȃ`"l2h%⨘/=/=Q-ʁիmɵS.zɃD>0 \tˏyd"HY |S9uݰ-:NG oDIMsI*A!|!cs"_0aUn !1to4 Z#A?'&PpAW7_;~nN>h7ɝ+YMI
"Mm(gQ}G50BfYyI)+p(7Z(lBo
]2@ ˽d? <1w' @*EA~~ pZ7ϟ T}6qNnj '
IKݩs~};Nׁ@۷ѥ/I퀊}g""1>оSaXu ^]DZ|6)@},g ^qyX736
杪
]MfӔ+b-SA!I" 8Ix{ yE zw/ޮC@7͕OX/bz!qs` 7{&E |j˳6\C`5T% r"]hp')pQXT :L|Lأz/ w!;wRFh qF^%yP ^KOε^f ~zǍ#M&i< =a$lBrҊg$bـ_`:[~YϘ
x.-W:n רg;\'b+ @Gk Fe]]LSkȻ>pqzdW` 勧xs._+1!|B?ZtR
T ,O!@ q_ƭ2քA+w46hQuWsuD} Ec4^
~^|oI
Er
[0a;\oW_opx -Z$
h2K2A, ?-p5pN."u ̎=-/> E.I_>tAV (tְܵ~Zq2.$O$t;iϤ ].j$ @"~a(&l -p`j
fk1{)) )Y7>h~ 65##J~= ! ]68IB;O /`Z`:`CR 'jo2ENP\(sXNriZ4Qw nLCaߤo%VVT YpM X&sUk}
$ ("a of S06.@-KHx
ڭpVr>LxQRUR i?4 URK %kk(iiS7 }*hLL ~!Z
r&gSKm 3PM(
zp2 ˕2gAE h } jBI%A6nZZ~y iBbf 82Αapzʹ%b݈8L^6"#`H[Bd q"43/R.d2"[ɸ]Qy-%d bI}? p0{%6x~;tT iE/Y/XP %
kʙ"6\
p w;UєHP8$^f tRr V@gû% -/? F. ޡ
[aPGj%TÃߚk{}j:C%xVh4P0 *\SF ^gZo7~J ^-@U"!Ky (q*@)ɡ $װ
kd2 NAѡROO!OXV F|>ӦLChBN#rNԉݾ1PNp!VuuɠDe$t/o|(p#4só?{nx\x#0 rzNSU/ YjN +b@78MwL1 r Dht 2&'ZT. HI, ?zmr^~nO($
M'nWrƍE87nA9d% ^@[,>5%$TV
6l *}| jWٛ_ '%
AQ 2|< `AD(h paMUVV{T $菦AL&'.\ }7 m:7 fFAP6آ8 #]SHJ^4N
k@ @ZMM@[_[ F)P*HT*p-;}be;^B*
7pl+^Ea_*K zpi"ߞ[n|ŏg?%
@8|soޛ%TNIԐS}w ?٧/4r- P5 Oa5ʈ!d6 ~r) ).m*uc7a7X
*$
?lwΞ=\Ҍ tΝ;ypO8RyR iyZA[(
)6 씳G~1$Y M=Qj
~BXG Grd ` %
&,))IVv3}w4XS N, wt _| Υ #xKSw/{3 \zb eӪ6Fb C|w``f 7|vD F-x2L< ɜM}:Kj V^% s9ji{7
qDroy K|IA7ow`fg_Oذhwvvϕ[ 9Xgs}ESS_;B`
rQm{
s碤Ap\r unP@הYKKC ƕ[[ P!JE}\)-
qA.lG ~`!b/#~@{R
1~ ]Y'벎5,!{{_3
!- $Qɳ~p0sG"9waO4m3! *݉k
cNg4( I#o#| q{=>7 s-pv0ĺTp 7Ummm6tY)e3lC6x\z0
o"5i|ા/AuS
8 e
kR^F z X"h #Pq*
Ý#zggC:*B6wOXp~GPAIc( f#n# 1 1?
\:yeKVnk6J@ G' 3@㶏0.\[3q6/X~$|}q| @%
m ~ J|]X> wmlP<^L*zP\*ht+GN/:+q\
Ci2XZ*քs CpzғZ}%nun/ G! r7GBb?,mexԞqDѱ(yupy:_T$tKu^ :\fc,H" HT
Q4 Xe ޞ"w
vmq(6e_@*._w oA : I7 =y^TRw X
Cv b_u
LNrFT ?7]PPܝ1i O`ys8+j
2"]!6$O4V5=6MNr /]B:_lixq. A!:D u60hWW{Fώ K^qy9th3ç((Ab [˩C#`(.?
H4";y(U
!'n5:s} `ڛN& /-̍+
pEܾgS?w:(|kk[3Ӭ>D!3AR.R D$)SDM Wnc6{y.C`<*{zvh5 b һpt;$2@qv_l.
P7O
|`({aҦg1P= ~4+ h9bJ" J1orT~<0 M~$D ʗS
C 0#G H?C=:ߎw$&p RmU,37OlcCn_ P- }5IK ZnN; ! hu6w-"FOB+tB ! ߂vm
q=$E@ S ^i U ˞v8>4d״nflH_Ou#+Z$ ٬7{DNk>); a;,Ib8u gu( APkԦ? ~q "(4;&~3˖Gw! a[bٺ 9VK$xXTK0Ke p~5Ea u(kvY JY7`$ ql=߇jES rRt)
d6 Y>س:~2\rqX#R~)[
3
'>7G5EɷXNw
owޒ4+ ;|4ܱpxt w^KPĴ GqvU' D!Gj?[Q$Nn$ L-r GDQ`$㌵: {=n2?H@Ql! |4.4WEcJuY*7aB LUBPՄ`Fؐ6 R: ĤH8/.LOb1g8
2 v ܙ^lM;㦚: EsZ#bMϜu{ >k%uc 'LMs~=r*P иYTӯ[:y1Ҁr2 ;cdэD s'N9? uL wtlx#Z"̮֮Vb14 `U ⱥ_FǬ?xѨUZz{JN)zv?]쁋12U=
t7p.Jr>pPz' A"G`Q_T xǐ- 1: < C7KNɚrLp:4n'` >qO+) a!G< ߋ' e6k?ev>( ;
A,V%L#)Blzhf IDATDRS{~/zru.Cs
~=!K?d[4Y8/A_ߐR/.,\zqK |t؆<{F 7@
/ȼcӂ: 7MF $CE}YREch`E@K
JJNmu j;J 䖥 `%"
2[RHQ!dR_!hP ǰ3V{d]4Q8b'J&<>[C0fuE4vh9I3
GtzAWԂ n:~v{%xk t̓Lj* ͊TEEʼ >l ؏P@
`^b'C 43Wv>/x"`p}1e{B("v~삤frL F&hF O<{+v]"#;,%72R M 4Y|LhdϱᨥәRԙ`@JH$K-)SHZFTI1@ɴVVV.bbYɾ{"m\~_ <@Ȫ
7PP V l8 YGLż "`gP! a9'p7뎊/ԫp40]7![ aKXgd R~Ϙͧ '~F`8z xؙ;iRET{eS}ܮ
%Rw^r, ܭEgt,L77ChJf:dI%w'h{@Pa?3>m(!FJXb3: &X> 8*M
N#Xsє$ 0O@e袉 3ˋإZТKbahݻ{oyo BťDTQZ5 U
g6}GG'(ؼW r# F@9Iʜ N)%)36'D +̰%)^\\Lz[;JU`b9B#v7 v4oa Å`Ds_jnXVFͨ'@ԕf)qʴ\"Ph ÜLqi1}ZpsA[&("0q C?_Fq/ #"ʂ#qg\V3?>nO\KGHAͰ
'N$ d}@
u~`C[c 61- $ ~8 V EtdU
:gnM.Lf50T9~]ڻ~WXwun1pgϪ%, YVvFUmEf D5Fu V4,"` ,S[KPqNt V1-"D0 غX4繸[2m@!~A4&;on.?l^zås9 [4҉eA՝D:md -} po=/[*z)Tѳ𐛇4/9e8g8>(YbqLOsncE @غdkf݂ e %#dh y8 67OJ|C`f3Ų1)
/YV 0VkIw\aIءFR*܋k鼉~v uS=q.gb@ , &Pp^-^ƨ ?ZY_( U0Xv4O'b-CL4"{;HAO
уӝn-R ?#߭NaQ=%FZAk.kQ<]ЎHlpfqr9o o/W232M6n W|AZBdu+ YԪ?Pϩ "Y &Npp2i[^NG `fz&Ku5xh^@ӢUץ("Dm+̡Z^
. 5$G @pxZ j Q6 iNJ?D֞ ( /!F|'?+=A8I'ISb~LO9&h32 Rp9F2dk :L% ==G`Fz`F
̠ /gG P_XN$p[:GՉ$?˺ܚUDQЉ|
8GlHxTFB\9#Xj &u ]#oaZ5٥:Zjoz TNqaJ |єy@I3)!5:'i >~YcYn71CNr)atzB$"> aܕXƭ v#(ܱ-PZtv55WE&ӵVB oXB6v V. }= p%0r7 x`6HM ;jB鏩2gx@!/gRE
z{g1a9q;]> a-L /qrFD~/z Fryp])UAmV 8)@D:;!kԴuT A)XQQ/qM8WUP%Y
*J `~"XZIu8K
|j5FF[yBT qP 1 AH< V٥2)M";;b i " N?tOr`ک[B69._r
i҄ #Z V m #7{>/*W%0 :?uҋ7;8 h6TO hbg 7E 찤UF95>Hyl*8潔\dž쁝d&H4Zl ꫦ4jA ёy3M
@,4<uOQAV96pcc
L^#̗"91 G AVdJ,ٗ krNH LMh8Uڔk]l\ uɰ.djᣞ*խB1p1"v3 |GƬ
K!}m$=s縥CIsFfm" !FǶ= ]lkDHh"h9ڈkvv1Lr۹|LϞDaυ >+z\[)P\AO x@ u5NLӰTTgt "Y'ܙ$p8(@.xi,"La[+[bF4-Q*&h3"7glܪ1t݅.4I WBuu[ .#
@? S 4ޡ"7pbXI$: XX'ј_ Lp;"!) ;6r~DbIL?chF`ƥ ~nǜr5Ѝ'A!mWBux<.[֓ ,o7c3oiA -G ˴./Y}1H23XētIVa?À`/0ݟ!x-"@{
}ݵvC;0xal ZZC&6 ~]&AN-ƒ揧f
ZϤ7˘BV%f(@.-%n< 2fF:(٠ "Q&Sb2OMU͕:RA; rhDr)6b&5>ތހzL A VNA9krQGXkl!hvVwDo;X NexƘSdǤM @XkX K })J 8Q\gN'S\j_*sB5v-~AP@e!vzt/ d c@;}
!vNӎ 絥bTD06 UB +p
`gj.FWTnɻ@L *65OFn8n}?&`gw'N_ r
j+J aG[2@kK <ڙ©)a_9S4T u`_$ ˎcʬ:*C%9y),G؊) 5)a2"1MƬM1 bn3Q"vq"}O`CI rL{ t}z및ı MR̉m$)QWԁN
VH$WZSV j"zStkkfC}-Y$[|p1z%Pf= 7]Ap7 4 -ɨOჃr !X#,ʧ)AXġL$,Y$j>PTQ # ,šK>n"< rVYf5% BIr @y*X I NJQ" 0 S$VYTdpa7Vj3.
2"8<ZkqPiD`cc/~iWD@+rRy,] O|S&xx| 8t)NxК&Gm%ZcI?Q`
rD+HM\/qo-8%2 SÎmc:_-vX
`CcZ *ԙ RH]j :lE$
|UTrb(C)PS2Q1.1 ۺ9iK Sr" a/ ?` ~[ J][
2Xo*!;Z?oaoY羄rv)Gq}xS'??m[ 7,J2xP&ӊzrMiTғ]{8&j+[c2 ~'Gx~sutoKD =0ñ)p9Ҳgķ| nZ Pc%δ!яO3SX]5w] mTrtDž '1Eͼ,z-q%x2rO?RK)dw0S?Pѷ-
M$?a^@Dd0W27C vKH({ W?ݱ6Ud; 5ہ_C4 C%ɡ"x~D g ۍ3dZ{
ߌ B3W)]΅ #IDAT Ϭ`K2|^͔j[:r:TQ"L](h4>3O*M9YVwk@#WVawQ Qo
S | '
?@<] Z,-il ZzM?]U
V[; US[0?1i ϬV r}bv=A$qR;>ɦz߱H|b !. EV?hp]G'kl .X 3_vw4
vwwAr
vqk/t+b &ƥz H _S eŸfs?],Ȇ n_K w◒Rrf>gpSJA(0E2H#[Oj[v XRj39([98Z~7W`f蓙A?T<)[S6s;WT^bf)n3
X?p8r7/_Ql>@Ǡ,
#
==\Ud虙+`F n=2 p4p_hG<8U0߁C .ؼ|i0'ZfRY]G3F. x^؏e205sgΟiLnXKY_8sZGgΝˏ-{vzӧZwOvjn.̿cmDY\g9Ёxdž677 =zq mFJ#6ލ ^YƍOFpʾ C3~pI;&kW8'x;Ady֞d *FvwU+To L COЕYvˠIN }ju:K,W3pT=M@\6 8 Rwl ƯǍ'pƁYw>'u0ptF]s5?I1D~9CF鴴 +:+l|p)qq[11 `4"fę8"= t2|ڵvxr̯evy{3I
V9~a 9`M~ ||%k~r3K|f3#1
{\^ ~M\L^ؕk O["]" z'
Vך Č)jF2}(o.sLʌv^mߔw$Sa[Y&f9纞X}p3~+[ v 3Xjλ05)n .q)1D`ފϬ_~ű6&ZZ +I+>wGV8 rik~#H8aT ,{`\38 Lr\fo[&FDZϺv*SG29[ywQ 'ߑ[v|aSFU/z)m]R DO^39p,#5܆(uu+݁X!@ſX#p_' ru&`.jgC Ȗ
SaÛ&ng샕+z7+l\l+ Nz#O|܊2 _}K-ԃ3 v~~uBpw=|pWr]D"?p Ap~2@!|Lӏt3do콕}# V~.mR
̟Xّhn=kxVFcMq-g y=~prV <.u(;-/>j ?chys! A y2F9+r=v&e4 mZn =؈7AX^̝x\:XiM__C0RN-3Ɛ ŝwI 6}Z*nf}18:!ύyDιg^%a\A/cϜwi|,`/W -vl Q
*?&tC {r"aCκ |fIh]h ?ƊC2OCK ;wvTďS|)ANL'3sL
♻ڱzyS:+lV0 ~'}VacX|`j܇ֱDCu c7UqCQ2jm =>(iA
2Љ>N_|g=i{F2 [(ꊻYoŪ<܋b5Q>oΨ|WtrdX_V]m(?ҨZV8Sʰ^5(* +F
^?S%űN(#AjzsO~իVj=wթlۼC @{[U`q-z(ԣ ^hM{Og߿݄֎UT?SsM: Ҩ܍ܧc߽;*)ן׃#3ƙ߾ _Xoj| =_>;"( !4%[MG ռs<;9m:<20%
j\_phZH79::d%T:f@ɤ8i4/CkɻC lpzfk8>8^ DzC119 +ڹ G[ eAzx #n& p[U_?+u< n5 9YM7`2##L Nj/͗_~ff~A/AA Ap@e6 w ?\ڊf`J&H(wЕoQ1ELAyȻeO@>SgYH5k"ݮ!Za).Y҈']EDHB2
BbOOp7h ܚ;V!:\ #9^)ׄc!!
0p8l'Gj\8t
§(Jr oE7Y&X-r;( I
Е~^_j( /+k4*u
)u8M+8
~j lƷ 1 .Wm:#6v+І f̡!ɫeG M/튐%.4$Ѡ Jvwƶ úC=wDCj';pG}p NZh P_ SK[S1 4g5Ena'UR&j]5$!'/!Qg1hʭW DFBy`T#rε8@1J[eBh, ۈXj h̀e^M ZK/zAA %Aƥ2Lou@E
ߗvc S NIqI ~իWH1 Vc& "5 *cс
6;^0 ]=ѓ3Ѽ|m DDPw53fYF_~ӟ t 8 _.W.@ "|ue{# jVB (DI.> DώM ȉ 43.rH1ȿ AG^?T6l6QϔTV-hݱڱ4Ą CX=vVZ_@DycAیٛc0 Aw%~q9RmCc@H/ˆ5
$vx33#\VuLĨ H$ʤAMyMjL=Ys618CowNk+ax
rE,-# H3;Pz*K%D7P(i+h^zm%`` 7e\X & H6Z !o3a&XwFVOEE4[@CtʭBn]UB
vǹ|c)GFtڢFټ. 4ٓpIp&> :E R CsL%=
oS./3c UȭíZ4)##++WXNʋF٥UWx0NU)W- ?&|pЍq׀V (LCƼ%"x 9D7H:5R Gґr&n QX-
e6F˻cpiP4Վۘ#+hk٦\]ʺ |#!t՚V`ZUE}??1t okYr=O(֫Ŧ/$iz3a
˞"VsQeIK ;rY^\tx8x 47v |g'j
+rN[r\Nht!~8ӄ0ArDpogD0Dp$"0"*dXfd
QX
Hx-:!,&cZ-Y?/
hK\jkIJ9 db -oV`ò$&,|
K2(CC
'.d? rQcpvAH4^&UHiv-{eD,c!zمWsB lXɬ!ҫqѫ3K|+^&QXE".[(/,,%O[:9 `ٕKD~HU5vAvJJN :!r-'&FXeWȘqXRgF-x=]1 [[A=V/Ĉ8xM uu݅E%I:D鑉 R8Y8ݼ;55@.D q/U @g_!rAo-N
j ш
%opK:?257X8Ptʪ-