President Trump and the Economics of Wind Power

[Listen to this post read by its author.]

Call it synchronicity. Sometimes, in the chance meeting of two unrelated events, new understanding emerges. Such was the case with me recently.

Like many Americans, I traveled over the Christmas holidays. These travels found me with a long layover at the Dallas-Fort Worth (DFW) airport. Wandering the terminal to pass time, I came upon a wall plaque announcing that DFW had become a carbon neutral airport, indeed, the largest one in the world. Making it possible was its reliance on renewable energy sources, particularly electricity generated by Texas wind farms.

The other event was a 21 December 2019 speech delivered by President Trump to a conservative political organization in Florida. The President lashed out against "windmills" [1] and the "fumes" they release into the environment. He said [2] --

We’ll have an economy based on wind. I never understood wind. You know, I know windmills very much. I’ve studied it better than anybody. I know it’s very expensive. They’re made in China and Germany mostly — very few made here, almost none. But they’re manufactured tremendous — if you’re into this — tremendous fumes. Gases are spewing into the atmosphere. You know we have a world, right? So the world is tiny compared to the universe. So tremendous, tremendous amount of fumes and everything. You talk about the carbon footprint — fumes are spewing into the air. Right? Spewing. Whether it’s in China, Germany, it’s going into the air. It’s our air, their air, everything — right? So they make these things and then they put them up.

Uniting these two disparate events is the state of Texas. The Lone Star state is a politically conservative "red" state. It has been home of Republican Presidents George H.W. and George W. Bush, and it has deep roots in the oil and gas industry. And yet ... Texas leads all American states in installed wind power capacity. At 27,000 megawatts of capacity, Texas has power to keep the lights on at DFW, and much more. In a distant second place is Iowa at 9000 megawatts. Texas's involvement with wind power began in the early 2000s under then-Governor (now Secretary of Energy) Rick Perry. The state invested heavily in wind power, including some seven billion dollars spent on transmission lines to deliver the electric power.

How can this be? If wind power is "very expensive" as the President claims, then why would anyone -- most of all, Texas -- invest in it? Perhaps Texas is a fluke. But in third place among the states is Oklahoma, at 8000 megawatts capacity. And it too has an economy tied to oil and gas. It too is politically conservative. Of course, strong winds sweep North Texas and Western Oklahoma. But, I think, there is more to it than that. In reporting on DFW's carbon neutral status, The Dallas Morning News notes

Altogether, the airport says it has reduced its carbon emissions by 31,000 metric tons since 2010, with more than half of the savings coming from the switch to purchasing only renewable wind energy. At the same time, the airport's annual energy bill has fallen from $32 million in 2006 to just under $18 million in the most recent fiscal year.

The example of Texas proves the President wrong.  In wind power is money to be saved, and money to be made. Texans know it. And so do I. I found DFW to be comfortably heated, brightly lit, and as pleasant as an airport during the holidays can be. Kudos to Texas!

https://windexchange.energy.gov/maps-data/321

Postscript

In a future post I hope to consider the "fumes" and "gases" the President spoke of. Presumably he meant greenhouse gases such as carbon dioxide (CO₂), methane (CH₄), and water vapor (H₂0). These gases are natural products and essential components of Earth's atmosphere. Without them, earth's average surface temperature would be -18 C (0 F), rather than the current 15 C (59 F). Some greenhouse effect is evidently desirable, even necessary, for life to flourish. However, excess quantities of these gases is believed to be the primary cause of global warming. Crucial here is "excess" and how human activity contributes. The primary gas of concern is carbon dioxide, a byproduct of fossil fuel burning, like that I personally caused by my recent flights to and from DFW. Carbon dioxide concentration in our atmosphere has been steadily rising since the inception of the Industrial Revolution in the early 19th Century. So too have average global temperatures. Wind power -- like solar, hydro, and nuclear power -- emits negligible amounts of greenhouse gases. Surely the President must understand this. That he does not also articulate that is both a shame and a mystery.

Footnotes

1. I assume that by "windmills", the President actually means electricity-generating wind turbines, which, incidentally, was the subject of a recent post to this blog.

2. Because this transcript seems nonsensical, it is helpful also to watch the video of the speech. Whatever he meant to say, the President, through his gestures and tone of voice, communicates unmistakable enmity toward wind power.

Posted: 2019-12-26. Updated: 2019-12-26.

Land Beneath My Feet

Hiking the Quebradas Back Country east of Socorro, NM on 14 December 2019

[Listen to this post read by its author.] 

Land beneath my feet demands attention. Step upwards watching for the prickly cacti populating this arid country. Step downwards, gingerly, not putting too much weight on that potential stepping stone. Probe it first with your hiking pole. It crumbles at the slightest poke. Gypsum, I finally concluded. It's the stuff of dry wall, and it's all over this place. Cloaked by dark, mossy overgrowth, it is white and crusty, like a snow that's neither cold nor wet. Chunks of it crumble with little effort between my fingers. Pretty sure now of its identity -- plain old calcium sulfate -- I taste it. Not salty, not a trace of halite detected. How strange, I think, to find it here.

One of the advantages to being a beginner, as I am in geology, is the ease at which one is amazed. In my mind, "gypsum" immediately conjures images of White Sands National Monument. It is found in the Tularosa Basin 120 miles to the southeast. Its white sands are not the usual quartz sand but rather finely-powdered gypsum, blown by a steady westerly wind, from playa into the Monument's vast field of ever-shifting dunes.

Playa are flat lake beds thirsty dry much of the year. Lacking a natural outlet, playa water escapes by evaporation, abandoning its load of dissolved mineral solute as a crust of opaque, white gypsum and translucent crystals of selenite. Elsewhere in the American Southwest, other evaporite minerals, such as borax and trona, are found on vast, flat, desiccated lake beds. Searles Lake in California comes to mind. I remember my time there, the afternoon April sun becoming blinding in its reflecting off the crunchy white surface under foot.

Once this New Mexican land too must have been flat. Once. Long ago. Long, long enough ago for time's slow subsequent actions to accumulate, eventually altering the land and forming the rugged terrain over which I climb over now. By folding and faulting, lifting up and eroding down, moving by wind blowing, depositing by water flowing, and wasting by gravity falling, the landscape inevitably changes. "Once" might be 160 million years ago, in the middle Jurassic Period, that is, during the heydey of the dinosaurs, for, as geologists say, New Mexico was then submerged beneath a huge Lake Todilto [1]. Something -- but what? -- must changed the climate, making it drier and hotter, leaving Lake Todilto to shrink, shrivel, and disappear. Perhaps the gypsum here precipitated then.

By four miles in, of seven miles total, and my knees are feeling it, all of the stepping and zigzagging up, down, and around. We are hiking in the Quebradas back country roughly seven miles due east of Socorro, New Mexico. "Quebradas" is apt, for the word denotes a ravine, especially one formed by an arroyo. I wash down a couple of ibuprofen tablets with what water I have left. Of the dozen of us on this hike, I am one of the quiet ones. I want to read the landscape and understand its deep time history. Anyway, lacking both grandchildren soon to be born or even adult children recently married, I have little to contribute to conversations heard around me. My family history goes longer. My children are all adopted. They are elements of the Periodic Table born in the exploding death throes of ancient stars predating the birth, by hydrogen fusion ignition, of our own sun 4.6 billion years ago. From all of that sound and fury comes the calcium, the sulfur, and the oxygen composing this soft gypsum and the land beneath my feet.

Footnotes
1. Ancient Lake Todilto may have only covered what today is southern Colorado and northern New Mexico. If so, it would not explain gypsum deposition near Socorro. An alternative source of evaporative gypsum deposition is the disappearance of a vast sea covering southern New Mexico in the Permian Period, 286 to 245 million years ago. See Halka Chronic, Roadside Geology of New Mexico, 1987, pp. xiii, 28, 201,

posted: 2019-12-16, last edited: 2019-12-16

Red Mesa in the Distance

[Listen to this post read by its author.]

"Energy is eternal delight." -- William Blake (1793)

I call it my engineering aesthetic. But because of it, others call me an apostate. After all, what's natural is always better than what's artificial. So I have been told. I must respond, and I do. In rebuttal I insist that we humans are naturally makers, inventors, and builders. Just look at children supplied with finger paints, construction paper, and paste. In short, human nature is nature. But there's no use arguing any further. Suffice it to say there are particular products of human artifice delighting me. In such joy, I rest my case.

Prowling the western horizon with binoculars first suggested them, but these summer sightings were not yet definitive. That would wait for a clear winter's day, a western wind steadily blowing, and a willingness to shiver a bit watching from my third floor balcony.

Earlier this week, that day arrived.

Unintentionally, I caught sight of them. Out on my balcony I had merely sought to assess the weather and determine how I warmly I might dress. To my unaided eyes, they appeared to be white whiskers of winter frost. These whiskers seemed to sprout from land, desiccated and scrubby, stretching far, far beyond human habitation. I sought my Celestron 8 x 56 binoculars and looked again.

Holding the binoculars steady, I must have seen 15, or so, wind mills, winding the western wind, somersaulting slowly and steadily, twisting counterclockwise. Like pinwheels of childhood, spinning spryly in the spring breeze, they delight. Remembering, I smile still.

Actually, "wind turbines" is more correct. As later research revealed, these monumental three-bladed beasts can crank out 1.6 megawatts each! Megawatts! I would have guessed a few hundred kilowatts at most. They are not what they seem. Originally, I estimated them to be much smaller, and far closer. Yet my web searches using keywords "Albuquerque wind farms" turned up nothing. How could that be? Because their home, I discovered, the Red Mesa Wind Farm, is 48 miles due west. How then am I seeing them from that distance? Because each of them is 270 feet in diameter with a central hub 262 feet above the ground. Giants, graceful giants, 64 in total, turning in the breeze atop a mesa at an 8000 foot elevation. I lack the telephoto lens and tripod needed to photograph them. In lieu of that, I offer a satellite view of three of them.

Satellite view (via Google Earth) of Red Mesa Wind Farm, 

Cibola County, New Mexico, 35.261 N, 107.376 W. 

"But they kill birds." (So, too, do your cats.) "Not in my backyard! I might see them from my hot tub." (Heated how? By electricity? Generated how?)

We both agree, don't we, that the earth's climate is changing, and not in a good way? We need energy, as always, and new sources that do not put carbon into the air. Here then, in the distance, is a part of the answer. Were I a better writer I might more fully express what I see and what I feel: hope, elegance too, and a new spring, a rebirth of possibility. Percy Shelley expresses it well, in the closing words of his "Ode to the West Wind"  --

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of prophecy! O Wind
If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

posted: 2019-12-09, last edited: 2019-12-09

Field Notes: On watching the International Space Station pass overhead

[Listen to this post read by its author.]

"Where is it?" I looked again at my wristwatch with exasperation. I read 5:25 pm. "It should be well above the southwestern horizon by now." With sunset only 30 minutes earlier, dusk had not yet yielded to night. Could it be that the International Space Station (ISS) was washed out by residual daylight? "No. That cannot not be!" I was arguing with myself again.

In the clear sky, Venus and Jupiter were already visible, two points bright against a darkening indigo sky. This pair of planets hovered over the silhouettes of countless roofs and buildings marking the horizon. ISS ought be bright as well. With a predicted magnitude [1] of -3.5, it should rival Venus. Again, where was it?

That morning's Albuquerque Journal had briefly mentioned the ISS visit beneath the weather forecast. 5:26 pm -- another minute had passed on a watch I assiduously keep accurate. "Am I the only one in this city looking for it, and not seeing it?" Linus in the pumpkin patch on Halloween came to mind. He was waiting to witness the Great Pumpkin. It never appeared. Strange, isn't it, how childhood comic strip characters like Linus endure?

How close Venus and Jupiter were! Mating perhaps. Jupiter did have many women, goddesses and mortals alike. Extended at arm's length, my fist alone could cover both planets offering the Olympian pair some modesty. Here then was my consolation prize: seeing Venus and Jupiter nearly conjoined.

And, suddenly, there it was: a pinpoint of pure white light slowly, steadily ascending over the parental pair of planets.

Emerging from between
conjugal Venus and Jupiter
into nightfall.

Or, could it be something else, a false alarm, a plane for instance? But no vapor trail did I spot, no dull distant roar of a jet engine did I hear, nor any trace of a high flying aircraft's lights, flashing once or twice per second. This had to be it, the space station. In its predicted path, it would traverse the dome of the sky, passing directly overhead at its halfway point. Would it?

Saturday, 23 November 2019, promised a pass of the space station directly over my home of Albuquerque. Moving at 7.7 km / sec (17,200 mph) at an altitude of 410 km (255 miles), the ISS would rise in the southwest and set in the northeast. In its five minutes of visibility, ISS would travel from northern Mexico to southern Kansas. Though a mere speck seen in the sky, ISS is actually quite impressive, 51 by 109 meters in size and 420,000 kilograms in mass. Add to that the reflectivity of its solar panels and Venus, usually the brightest object in a moonless sky, now has serious competition.

Three or four minutes after I spotted it, the ISS bid me farewell and finally faded into invisibility above the Sandia Mountains.

Rising, soon receding,
rounding the world in just
ninety-three minutes.

I thought of the French author Jules Verne. Late in the 19th Century, he wrote a science fiction novel Around the World in 80 Days. Yes, eighty days. ISS does it in 93 minutes, again, and again, and again, freely moving without need for propulsion [2], kept aloft by balancing gravitational and centripetal forces.

This Linus -- me -- had, at long last, glimpsed his Great Pumpkin.

Footnotes

1. Magnitude is a measure of relative brightness as perceived by the human eye. A value of negative 3.5 for the ISS is very bright for night time, though not bright enough to be seen during the day. Location-specific predictions of the ISS's magnitude and flight path can be generated at the Heavens Above website.

2. Some propulsion is occasionally needed to correct for orbital decay (of about 2 km per month).

posted: 2019-12-01, last edited: 2019-12-01

Time and Change at Chaco Canyon

[Listen to this post read by its author.]

"A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun goes down ... There is no remembrance of former things, nor will there be any remembrance of later things yet to happen among those who come after." (Ecclesiastes, 1:4-5, 11, RSV)

Chaco Culture National Historical Park, October 2019, photos by PB Laub

Trees and their shade are mostly absent here. In their place are stark cliffs of sandstone, slowly eroding in the ceaseless, arid wind. What draws people out here, nearly an hour of slow and bumpy road from the nearest sizable town, are the remains. Stone and masonry, as well as still abundant pot shards, stand in silent testament to what once was. Eight or nine hundred years ago, Chaco Canyon was a settlement or destination for the Ancestral Puebloan people, a site perhaps of trade or of worship. Then, abruptly, people disappeared; the site was abandoned.

What happened and why has been the subject of continuing speculation and debate. Some, like Jared Diamond, in his 2005 book Collapse, look for ecological or social causes of decline. Might the clear cutting the timber nearby been a factor, or over-reliance on food imported from great distances? Others, like Anna Sofaer, find, amidst the apparent disaster, evidence of advanced astronomical knowledge employed by the Puebloan people. So, might Chaco be a warning that feats of science and engineering offer little protection from societal collapse? The Roman Empire is long gone too, though their marvels of engineering, the aqueducts and the Coliseum, still stand.

I visited Chaco Culture National Historical Park last month, coming up from Albuquerque with others for a long day of hiking. I could write about a long climb up a narrow slot canyon beside Kin Kletso, about how glad I was not to know in advance about the steep ascent and, worse, the steep descent awaiting me. But no. More memorable was the enigmatic feel of the place, first experienced as an absence and, later, as a presence.

Fossils found in sandstone at Chaco Canyon, October 2019, photos by PB Laub

Fossils abound in the hard sandstone underfoot. You need not seek them out. Fossil impressions of shells and ripples suggest an ancient sea, one dated to the Cretaceous Period 85 to 75 million years ago. Then, a vast interior sea -- called the Western Interior Seaway  -- bisected the still-forming North American continent into distinct land masses. Once water washed this parched land. Walk further and notice what looks to be rusting rebar poking up through the rocks. "What the hell?", I wondered, baffled. What they are, a park ranger later told me, are three-dimensions casts of burrows made by crustaceans. Ophiomorpha Nodosa these casts are called. Iron in the cement filling the casts rusts, just as rebar rusts. And, being harder and more erosion-resistant than surrounding rock, these rebar-like casts are revealed as the softer surrounding rock disintegrates back into sand.
Even the hardest of rocks weather and erode. Sandstone crumbles back into the sand from which it was made, at some later time to be melted, compressed, or cemented into new rock. In geology, this is taught as the Rock Cycle. The cycle shows how rocks are forever being recycled and remade, the past they reveal erased and consumed.

Chaco is a somber place, a mute monument to the relentlessness of time. Seeing similar remains near Los Alamos several years ago, I wondered aloud, "and what happened to the people who lived here?" Someone overheard and surprised me, saying, "Oh, they're all around you. Their descendants are the people of New Mexico's pueblos." Evidently, continuity remains even as the connecting strands vanish.

Since that small epiphany, I've wondered how the world would feel if we let go and stopped resisting the passage of time. Ecclesiastes, the book of the Jewish canon quoted above, urges a return to God as answer to the ravages of time. Maybe, or maybe not. Rather than lamenting the brevity of life and the fragility of memory -- "there is no remembrance of former things", Ecclesiastes insists -- we might instead ride the wave of time as long as we live, celebrating the dynamic earth and its cycles, looking to the sky not for Heaven but for the heavens of stars and planets moving in a mathematical precision that we and our Native American brethren have figured out.

posted: 2019-11-23, last edited: 2019-11-24

My Radioactive Life, part I

[Listen to this post read by its author.]

When I was a kid, one thing I had to have was something radioactive. My friends had things I coveted but could never possess: parents with even a passing interest in science, for instance, or a Johnny Unitas football card. So it seemed just that I should have something they'd never have: radioactive atoms decaying and disintegrating in a glowing spew of alpha or beta particles.

Configure the right radioactivity in the right way, and you have a nuclear bomb. Screw it up -- simply spill the stuff all over yourself -- and you die a horrible death of radiation sickness, your corpse interred in a lead-lined coffin. Not that that scared me. After all, wasn't Peter Parker bitten by a radioactive spider? And look what happened to him: he became Spider Man! This was the late 1960s. I was nine. When the TV set was free, I'd watch The Man from Uncle and Mission: Impossible, Cold War dramas frequently featuring spies from Red China and Communist Russia. Like me, those bad guys were scheming to get the radioactive stuff; their adversaries in contrast were trying to poison them with it. Radioactivity radiated cachet. 

I knew precisely what I wanted, and it wasn't illegal, just unsafe. It was a few micrograms of radium suspended in a solution of zinc sulfide. I knew I'd find it painted on the hands of old wristwatches. Decaying radium's radioactive rain of alpha particles made those watch hands glow in the dark. Quite likely, it also caused the cancer deaths of the women employed in painting those watch hands [1].   

Radium alone was not enough. Other things safely glowed in the dark. Who would believe me when I claimed that radioactivity was the reason? Consequently, I needed a Geiger counter to prove my claim. I'd remove the glass cover of the watch, exposing the watch face. "Go ahead, slowly move the wand toward the watch", I'd tell my skeptical friend Todd, the one with the Unitas card, handing him the cylindrical probe of the Geiger counter. Slowly, steadily the rate of the counter's clicking would accelerate, from a few lackadaisical clicks per minute at a foot away to a frenetic clatter and chatter at less than an inch away. Or so I imagined. "This is the real stuff", I'd say, grinning. "Bombs are made of it. Spies want it. And I've got it!" 

I never got it. At age nine, getting radium meant asking the parents. To them nothing, I suspect, could be more preposterous than a request for something radioactive. Whatever they thought radioactivity was, it surely wasn't something for their child. My asking, I reasoned, would be interpreted in either of two possible ways. Either I was a wise guy, purposely asking for something I could never possess. Punishment was the due response. Or, worse, I was yet again a "scatterbrains" and a "retard", my brain warped by too much television, deserving not just punishment but also medication by some elementary school Nurse Ratched [2] as well as demotion to the Special Ed program. Knowing better, I kept my head down and my goddamned mouth shut. "Children are not to speak unless spoken to".  

I never needed to get it. I already had it, had it all along without knowing. Well, not radium, but something else radioactive: potassium-40. You might say it was under my nose the whole time, except that it was my nose, and all the rest of my body. Our bodies are radioactive with naturally-occurring potassium-40, some 4000 atoms decaying each second, showering the cells of my body with high-energy beta particles and gamma rays. And yet we have evolved an ability to live and thrive in the face of such abuse. How?

I remain the skeptical kid I was half a century ago. Then I needed a Geiger counter to convince myself and my friends of radium's radioactivity. Now I need mathematical proof that the value of 4000 is real. I'll believe the number when I can derive it myself. And so I have. It is here: Rate of Potassium-40 Decay in the Human Body 

Footnotes

1. As lurid as my childhood imagination was, reality, sadly, has not been far behind. For horrible deaths of radiation sickness, one need only review the cancer deaths of those employed painting the watches I so desired, as well as accidents suffered by Los Alamos weapons scientists Harry Daghlian and Louis Slotin. Worse was the 2006 murder of Russian dissident and Putin critic Alexander Litvinenko in London. He was poisoned with a lethal dose of Polonium-210.

2. My eternal nemesis, embodiment of childhood's threats and evil, Nurse Ratched.

posted: 2019-11-22, last edited: 2019-11-30

Books behind this blog

This week's post is be found on a separate page of this blog. On that "Bookshelf" page, I discuss the books (mostly) most important to me over the years. They offer a taste of how this blog may evolve.

posted: 2019-11-15, last edited: 2019-11-27

About this blog (first post)

[Listen to this post read by its author.]

Opening my apartment's Venetian blinds reveals volcanoes, five small cinder cones lurking, like acne upon my adolescent face, 12 miles to the west. This is Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the American Southwest.

Picturesque Mount Fuji or Mount Etna they are not, but volcanic these five unimpressive mounds most definitely are. A first visitor to my new digs, Billy, pointed them out to me. Intrigued, I responded "... and extinct". After all, I had read about about local volcanoes in this area, ones last erupting 150 to 200 thousand years ago. "Dormant", he responded, politely correcting me. On a geological time scale, what is a few hundred thousand years? Just yesterday, perhaps. Or tomorrow. Here then was a first lesson for this Easterner who had recently moved to New Mexico: the earth beneath our feet is ceaselessly active, if only on time scales humanly imperceptible.

None of this I expected moving here from the Gulf Coast of Florida last July. Rather, I came for the cooler, arid climate of countless sunny days, the lower cost of living, and a fresh start. Standing at the corner of Wyoming and Lomas Boulevards last May, waiting for the traffic light to change, I looked east to looming scarp of the Sandia Mountains. "How sheer and how close by", I thought. "I ought to be able walk to its foothills in under 90 minutes." Indeed, I can, and I do. At that instant, I decided here would be my new home.

Having never owned,  or even driven,  a vehicle, I use my feet and public transit. Traveling at four miles per hour alters one's sense of time and distance. My trip last Monday to the five volcanoes consumed the entire day: walking some 19 or 20 miles, riding over an hour on the number 157 city bus, drinking three liters of water, and downing four ibuprofen tablets to soothe the aches and pains those miles put on my 58-year-old body.

Part of that walking took me up and through a road cut on Unser Boulevard. Cars zipped by, few I suspect, noticing the roadside rubble, from pebbles to boulders in size, of hard, black basalt. Call it lava or hardened magma, basalt is extrusive igneous silicate rock darkly colored from its abundant magnesium and iron. Albuquerque's West Mesa is built upon a blanket of the stuff, in places one hundred feet thick, the viscous ooze issuing forth from the last eruption of those dormant -- but not extinct -- volcanoes.

Geologists have a good explanation why our volcanoes run north-south parallel to the Sandia Mountains with the city of Albuquerque nested in between. We live in the Rio Grande Rift. For the last 20 million years, the crust of the earth has been pulling apart here and faulting. More about that will come in subsequent posts.

For me, basalt is more than a type of rock. It is also a metaphor for the desires and drives seething deep within each of us. Think, for example, not only of our various fears but also of our erotic drive to create art, or procreate children. Then too there is our anxiety over the finiteness of our lives, as well as our yearning to transcend all that is human. These too are "deep dark basalt".

This blog's header photograph (visible in the blog's desktop version) shows Vulcan Volcano, one of the five, now just two and a half miles to the south. I photographed it on Monday's long walk. The last miles of my approach followed an unmarked, rock-strewn dirt path. Overhead, high voltage power lines stretch, arching in catenary grace, testament to our human presence and imprint upon the land. "Rattlesnakes", I thought with dread. "Pay attention, watch and listen for them." Nonetheless, the volcanoes beckon. I must visit.

posted: 2019-11-09, last edited: 2019-11-30