I Miss You, Mom!


Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I Miss You!
Evelyn Mae (Swinehart) Rose
c. 2003


Evelyn (Standing in back) L to R: Delores,
Jennie (DeGeest) holding baby Carol and
Orion Wyant Swinehart. c 1934


Delores and Evelyn Swinehart
Carol and Evelyn c 1996


Harmon Lee Rose and Evelyn Mae (Swinehart) Rose 1946


Gertrude Grace (Olmstead) Rose, Harmon Lee Rose, Evelyn (Swinehart) Rose, Jennie Grace (Degeest) and Orion Wyant Swinehart 1946


Harmon, Jim, Cathy “Rose”, and Evelyn Rose
The Four Roses, 1999


Cub Scout leader behind table 1953


Evelyn Rose Girl Scout Leader, Neighborhood Chair, and Trainer


Portland, Maine Lighthouse


Pioneer Quilt Shop Class c 1996


Evelyn (center) with Scott and Erik Anderson c 1973


Happy Eggs

My husband Rob said, “Look! I found us some ‘Happy Eggs.'”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the package. Then smiled. “How happy are they?”

“I caught them dancing in the ‘frig.”

I chuckled. “What kind of dance? Oh, let me guess. Was it the chicken dance?”

“Ya.” He tucked his hands under his armpits and flapped his ‘wings,’ squatted, wiggled his bottom, and tried to remember the iconic wedding reception fun dance.

My eyes widened as I stared and then joined him.

I hadn’t taken time to even clean my glasses yet. “I think we’ve been cooped up too long.”

I hugged him good morning with a little peck on the cheek.

Good Saturday morning to all you happy folks out there who are making due during this extended COVID-19 isolation. I hope our cracked humor gave you a little smile or maybe a groan at its ridiculousness.

Rose Klix (www.roseklix.com)

Virus Survival

Orion Swinehart in WWI Army uniform at Fort Riley, Kansas

I want to share a poem with you that concerns the historic virus known as the Spanish Flu. My grandfather, Orion Wyant Swinehart (b. 1896-d. 1983), was in the thick of that virus. My poem parallels his life during that time with the events of the H1N1 virus history. The indented stanzas of my poem involve his life. The left-margined stanzas contain snippets of the national events from a century ago as well as current statistics. I list my resources after the poem.

I’ve been encouraged with some news reports providing survival statistics. I’m especially happy when good news reaches me about my friends, acquaintances, and family. Unfortunately, the bad news of the infection and mortality rates seem to outweigh those upbeat stories. While reviewing this history in my personal life and writing the following poem I became more hopeful for the future. Maybe this poem will encourage others to reach for endurance. Please be safe, healthy, and find your happiness.

The Great War and 1918 Influenza
 By Rose Klix 
 April 6, 1917, hesitant President Wilson led U.S. into war.
 Fort Riley, Kansas, expanded into a staging location
 and combat training site for up to 50,000 men.
    May 1917, 21-year-old Orion, an only child,
    nicknamed Piggy, solely ranched 443 acres.
    His father Owen crippled his hand in a harvesting machine. 
    A steady flow of flirty girls signed Piggy’s dance card.
    The country band rhythms hushed broadcasts about 
    The Great War torturing nations across the ocean.
    June 5, 1917, his military registration card
    described Orion as "short, stout, blue eyes, brown hair,
    not bald" (yet). He proudly wrote, "Single, No dependents."
    His mother Minnie screeched, “Demand an exemption.”
    A registrar gritted his teeth. He scowled over his glasses
    and wrote, "Father’s hand -  flimsy excuse".
 January 1918, Dr. Loring Miner warned a deadly viral strain 
 struck down the most robust as if by a bullet.
 Public Health neglected to analyze his Kansas report.
 March 4, 1918, at Camp Funston, five miles from Fort Riley, 
 a company cook from Haskell County reported feverishly sick. 
 Fast as a haystack fire, 522 men also reported critically ill.
    August 26, 1918, the Army assigned Orion to induct 
    troops at Fort Riley before deployment to war zones. 
    Recruits arrived every 30 days to be "run through the mill".
 Second Wave, Fall 1918, a more virulent strain returned to the U.S.
 Safe-distance contact and closing of schools, public gatherings, 
 and churches helped diminish the outbreaks to hundreds more deaths.
    November 11, 1918, Armistice Day,
    Orion couldn’t journey home yet. His tasks
    changed to processing GI discharges.
    January 16, 1919, Piggy’s homecoming day arrived.
    He boarded trains to reach the Elk Creek ranch
    and surprise his folks. His old collie Fanny leapt into his arms.
 In January 1919, a Third Wave added hundreds 
 of thousands worldwide influenza deaths. H1N1 
 microscopic enemies inhabited the world until June 1919.
January 31, 2021, Our infections totaled 26.2M with 441K deaths.
Grandpa survived a century ago. Social-distancing, careful hygiene,  
and mask wearing may allow his descendants to endure more eras.

My Resources: In writing this poem I used a family story my mother repeated to me that my grandfather was sent home from the Army due to the Spanish Flu. I also learned more from reviewing his memoir My Life Story by O.W. Swinehart written in February 1973. It was included in my mother Evelyn Mae (Swinehart) Rose’s memoir In Retrospect A Family History printed in 2004. Her book is preserved by the Rapid City Genealogical Society and saved in the Genealogy section of the Rapid City Main Public Library, South Dakota. I located records of Grandpa’s WWI registration card and an index card from the U.S. Veterans Bureau confirming his service dates.

I also learned history about the H1N1 virus and certain events by researching the following online resources:

  • CDC Disease Control Prevention article 1918 Pandemic Influenza: Three Waves
  • Wikipedia articles titled: Haskell County, Kansas; Spanish Flu; Fort Riley (Kansas); and Funston, (Kansas)
  • Kansas Historical Society articles Flu Epidemic of 1918 and Influenza Sign
  • The New York Times Daily Change article as of Jan 31, 2021

Post and poem Copyright 2021 by Rose Klix



                                  Prayers to our maker;

                                    Allegiance to the nation;

                                    Trust in God;

                                    Religious freedom;

                                    Independent and free;

                                    Others envy;

                                    Treasures we have.

I wrote the above acrostic poem in 2002. The message still feels appropriate for 2020. What is an acrostic? If you read the first letter of each line vertically I spelled PATRIOT. I bolded to help you spot the letters. “Patriot” has been published in my religious-inspired chapbook God, My Greatest Love and also in my full collection Pastiche of Poetry, Volume II. Both are available at your favorite online outlets. God, My Greatest Love is currently on special with Amazon for $2.90 paperback and $4.99 for Kindle. The chapbook may make a nice gift to a Sunday school teacher, a favorite aunt, or a special friend.

Today more than ever I’m thinking about the patriotism in our nation. Is it stronger or weaker after the election? I don’t wish to get into the politics of who won or were the votes counted appropriately. You hear enough about that on the news channels.

Instead, I’m sharing what I pray each day. “Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Mother Mary, Angels and Spiritual Guides who are around us now and always, I pray that You will help our leaders make the best decisions for our wellbeing in accordance with Your will for the Highest Good of our nation, our inhabitants, and the world we share.”

Obviously, I’m a Christian. However, I recognize there are other religions that pray to a similarly benevolent entity with another name. If you want to change this prayer to fit your religion, I ask that you at least say something like:

“I pray that You will help our leaders make the best decisions for our wellbeing in accordance with Your will for the Highest Good of our nation, our inhabitants, and the world we share.”

Thank you for your caring spirit.

Best Wishes Always,

Rose Klix

Happy Thanksgiving!

One of my favorite Thanksgiving memories happened in 1974. My husband and our 2 sons – Scott and Erik – traveled to Rapid City, SD to my parent’s home.

The traditional meal was over for most all of us. Mom served our traditional fare – turkey with dressing, potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes with melted marshmallows, hot rolls with butter, salad, pickles, olives, some green beans, vegetables, pumpkin pie with whipped cream. You probably recognize this fare with your own traditional table.

While I helped clear the table I noticed my 2- 1/2-year-old Erik still sat at the table with a smudge of whipped cream on his nose and upper lip. He grinned from ear to ear as he stared at all the food still in front of him. Sigh after satisfied sigh escaped from his lips. He seemed to just be savoring every eyeful of such a feast.

I’m forever grateful for those 2-1/2-years when I experienced this happy-go-lucky daredevil little boy. I know he’s in heaven, but I always miss him especially this time of year. I’m also grateful that my son Scott stayed with me to watch out for me on earth while Erik is far away.

Here’s the poem I published in my Pastiche of Poetry book, Volume II

Thanksgiving 1974

Erik sat at the end

of the six-foot dining table addition.

Whipped cream was out of tongue reach

on his chubby cheek.

His two-year-old eyes

catalogued all the dishes:

roasted turkey, mashed potatoes,

cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie.

He sighed, took a deep breath,

sighed again and again.

His eyes wanted more.

His tummy was tightly packed.

Everyone else finished and left.

He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, move,

but smiled at the celebration spread,

and sighed and sighed.

I hope you will save all your favorite memories of being with family and friends this year whether you are able to be with them due to COVID-19 or if they have passed into another peaceful place.

Best Wishes!

Rose Klix


Here’s a pseudo-haiku. It’s not exactly the traditional format, but seemed to fit this poem. With all the jingle-belling and sales, sales, sales, try to remember the “reason for the season.” Of course, my books would make great gifts. Have a Happy Holiday, however you celebrate.


Christmas has become

just a four-letter word of


– by Rose Klix 1987

Published in Volume II of Pastiche of Poetry


Are We Almost There?

by Anonymous

“Are we almost there? Are we almost there?”

said a dying girl as she drew near home.

“Are those our poplar trees that rear

their forms so high ‘gainst the heavens blue dome?”


Then she talked of her flowers and she thought of the wall

where the cool waters dashed over the large white stone.

And she thought it would soothe like a fairy spell

could she drink of that fount after her fever was o’er.


And oft did she ask “Are we almost there?”

Still her voice grew faint and her flushed cheek pale.

And they strove to soothe her with useless care

as her sighs escaped on the evening gale.


While yet so young and her bloom grew less

they had borne her far away to a kindlier time.

For she would not tell it was only distress,

that had gathered life’s roses in its sweet young time.


And she had looked where they bade her look

at many a ruin and many a shrine,

at the sculptured niche and the shady nook,

and watched from high places the ruins’ decline.


And in secret she sighed for a quaint spot

where she oft had played in childhood’s hour.

Though shrub or floweret marked it not,

it was dearer to her than the gayest bower.


They swiftly more swiftly they hurried her on.

But these anxious hearts felt a child despair.

For when the light of that eye was gone,

And the quick beats stopped, she was almost there.


(After the poem, my handwritten copy states, “Copied by Philena D. Baily, Lisbon, Iowa 1856” and “Susannah Z. Bassett, Linn Grove, Linn County, Iowa:” The notation after the poem states “ This piece is written about: A young lady who had visited the south for her health but finding that she hourly grew worse her friends hurried her home. On the journey she was very much exhausted and continually inquired, “Are we almost there?” She died just before reaching home. A friend who accompanied her wrote the song.” The poet friend was unidentified in this note.

I found the poem in a collection of my Aunt Delores Hart’s research. I believe my aunt copied it during her research in Linn County, Iowa while looking for her great-grandmother Elmeda Bassett’s genealogy. Elmeda had a sister named Susanna Zerna Bassett. Perhaps Susanna was the unidentified friend who wrote the poem. My copy contained fold lines and water stains. After sitting in a binder for years while we moved and moved, the writing is now difficult to read. Unfortunately, I waited too long  to find it again. My dear aunt had died several years ago so I cannot ask her more about it.. Hopefully, I’ve appropriately preserved the anonymous friend’s sentiment in this typed copy.)



Most, if not all, my life I’ve believed in reincarnation.

Here is a poem I wrote when sixteen years old.


Past is present, and future came. First is second, the third’s a game.

Restoration to a new dawn, visions of what was are not gone.

Present, future, and past is done. Second is third and first is spun.

Who are you and what do you do? I’m nobody now that I’m through.

Future – now; renewal – begun. Third – infinity; past – rerun.

I am here and I didn’t fall. I’ve come back to seek my call.

– written in 1966 (reprinted from Pastiche of Poetry, Volume II and introduces Past Lives Before Now.)

Newly released prose New Age book Past Lives Before Now reports on twenty-three of my past lives recalled through dreams, déjà vu, visions, and regressions.





Jury Duty

by Rose Klix

I had recently moved from another state back to my parents’ house. They had sold my childhood home to Mom’s sister and her husband. My aunt brought mail addressed to me. The letter called me for jury duty.

I wasn’t working and needed spending money. “Mom, do I still qualify?” She served on several juries over the years and worked at the polling place during elections. I trusted her answer.

“Mainly, you need to be a citizen of the area. You are from here.”

We agreed I sort of qualified. I stifled my own guilt and decided I would be a good juror.

The letter instructed the jurors to call in each day of the month long term. We would be told whether or not to report to the courthouse. If told not to report, we didn’t get paid. If told to report the courthouse was crowded with potential jurors. We were divided into teams of twenty people, Even if I wasn’t selected as a juror, I could be selected as an alternate and still required to sit in on the trial.

First Trial

The accusation was murder. The court predicted the trial to last three weeks. A murder trial sounded really interesting. I enjoy court TV drama. I didn’t know the details of why the white female was accused. I hadn’t heard anything about the case on the news since I’d been out of state. I sat with several others on my team in the jury box during voir dire to determine if we had any prejudices.

“Have you ever been around crazy people?” The defense attorney asked the jurors.

I said, “Yes, I’ve worked at the Veterans Administration.” He didn’t ask for further clarification. What I meant was that we often knew exactly when the moon was full because of the behavior of the veterans who applied for benefits that day. I also occasionally needed to deliver records to a locked ward.

An attorney’s standard question asked, “Have you had any unsatisfactory run-ins with police?”

One middle aged white lady juror said, “Yes. I was jogging and a man flashed me. The police didn’t do anything, because I couldn’t identify his face.” Everyone in the courtroom laughed. The judge banged his gavel.

Another standard question asked “Is there any reason you cannot serve on the jury?” A white construction worker said, “This is our busy time. I’ve already asked to be excused from jury duty.” He wasn’t excused, but also wasn’t selected.

For the murder case the accused pled temporary insanity. I suspect I wasn’t selected, because of my answer about my experience around crazy people.

Second Trial

The next opportunity was for an illegal drug case. I again heard the female juror telling her flasher story. It was still a little bit funny. Everyone in the courtroom who hadn’t heard about the incident before laughed. The same construction worker again asked to be excused. Again neither of them was selected that day.

The defense attorney asked each of us, “Do you understand entrapment?” I thought I did.

The accused red-headed young man had been involved in drug sales some time before the incident in question. I’ll call him Red. A previous acquaintance of Red’s asked him for the product. I’ll call him Shifty. Red explained to Shifty that he currently had a wife and family and was no longer in the drug business. Shifty pressured until Red gave him a contact’s phone number. Shifty wasn’t satisfied. Then Red got him the product. The police arrested Red for selling illegal drugs. During the trial we learned Shifty had been arrested for “paper hanging” (check fraud). The police detective had made a deal with Shifty to find a drug dealer in exchange for dropping the check fraud charges.

When our jury deliberated, I didn’t really see that entrapment applied. To paraphrase an old detective show, “He did the crime; he should do the time.”

I voted guilty. This held up the decision several times. I listened to all the other jurors over and over again say it was entrapment.

I said, “But Red sold Shifty the drugs. Red is guilty.”

The other jurors demonized the “paper hanger.” One man said, “Shifty was guilty of check fraud. He had to pull down someone else in order to save himself.”

I wasn’t sympathetic to Shifty’s plight. In fact I hoped he would also serve his time.

The other jurors glorified Red and his new family. I wasn’t moved by Red’s wife and baby sitting in the gallery behind him. One lady said, “The kid got his act together before Shifty pulled him back into crime. Red wouldn’t have dealt again otherwise.”

I agreed Shifty was guilty of check fraud. I didn’t think it was right to let Shifty off and punish Red. Shifty also should be the one being punished. But Shifty wasn’t on trial.

Then, I repeated the prosecution’s final remarks, “Red still had the phone number of the contact. If he wasn’t going to be dealing again, why keep the number?”

The other jurors just shook their heads.

I know it didn’t matter that I didn’t like the defense attorney’s cocky attitude throughout the trial.

I told my fellow jurors, “Red chose to do the crime.”

Everyone else was convinced Red was entrapped to do a crime he otherwise would not have done. One man said, “That’s the definition of entrapment in case you weren’t listening, little lady.”

The head juror asked the bailiff for a dinner break. The bailiff gave us the judge’s instructions to not talk about the trial outside the jury room. The bailiff escorted us to a private section of the cafeteria and gave us vouchers for food. I sat with two ladies of the jury. We visited with small talk, but mostly sat quietly. I felt stabbing stares from the other jurors.

I contemplated about being in the minority. I doubted his innocence. I knew we weren’t to say he was innocent. The question was whether he was “guilty” or “not guilty by reason of entrapment.” The answer wasn’t black and white.

That week I learned about the seriousness of jury duty. We affected lives: his life and his family’s lives. Judging others’ actions is not easy. We walked back to the jury room.

I felt worn down. I voted “not guilty by reason of entrapment.” When the head juror read the verdict, I watched Red, his wife and baby smile and hug. The defense attorney had a gloating smile when he shook the prosecutor’s hand.

I’m still not sure we were right. Hopefully, the young man learned his lesson and knows not to allow anyone to influence him to break the law again.

Later I received a letter from the defense attorney thanking the jury for the verdict. He wanted to know specifics of the deliberations. I threw the letter away. That was privileged information. I just wanted to put it behind me. If other jurors told him I held up the vote, then so be it.

Third Trial

Next was a Sioux Indian woman accused of driving under the influence (DUI). Plus she didn’t have a driver’s license.

Again the same two jurors’ stories came up. I really wearied of them, especially the jogging woman and the flasher. I failed to see the humor and why that was pertinent to the question of having an unsatisfactory run-in with police. I felt sorry for the construction worker, but thought he should have given up asking to be excused. That request obviously wasn’t working, unless his plan was to not be seated. Not being chosen for a trial got him excused for the rest of the day.

The accused’s defense was that she was not driving even though she was in the driver’s seat. The trial got rather boring with the drawn out lab results showing her alcohol levels above the legal limit and the custody of the specimen. The witnesses saw her in the driver’s seat with keys in the ignition. Her defense attorney brought in witnesses who had been with her in the car. They testified she was not the driver. The original driver didn’t want another DUI, so he climbed over her and pushed her into the driver’s seat before the policeman stopped them The policeman stated he saw the car shimmying before he approached the window. She hadn’t brought her driver’s license or didn’t have one.

The prosecutor showed that she was in a position in the car to be driving, was intoxicated, and didn’t have a license. All of the car’s occupants were intoxicated. If the police hadn’t arrested her, she or one of them would have driven. The car was not impounded. No one addressed how the others exited the scene. The jury voted guilty immediately and she was scheduled for sentencing. Perhaps she will chose her friends more wisely in the future.

Fourth Trial

Another drunken driving incident was brought to court. I wanted to choke the lady juror who told her jogging story once again. I also was really tired of the construction man’s whining about not going to work.

I realized between this trial and the last one that the lab work testimony was really boring, but necessary. He demonstrated who handled the specimen, where it went, and all to show the blood definitely belonged to the accused.

It was such a slam dunk of a trial that I wondered why they even bothered to bring it to court. What a waste of everyone’s time – including the construction worker. I don’t even remember the details of the defense. The first vote pronounced him guilty.

During that time I witnessed a court system in action. These trials were not nearly as glamorous as court TV. I suspect they probably represent ninety-five percent of trials.

Thankfully, my jury duty month ended. Much later I met a circuit court judge who suffered from narcolepsy. I certainly understand how hard it could be to stay awake during many trials. Perhaps I should have told the court I technically was not a resident.

Junior Red Cross Volunteer, Rapid City, SD

By Rose Klix

In 1964, when fourteen, I joined this volunteer organization. I didn’t find any photograph of me in my uniform. Here’s a web link for the mannequin pictures of the pinafore and Gray Lady uniform.


We dressed with a white blouse under the blue-and-white pinstriped pinafore. Often people mistook us for “candy stripers,” because of their similar pinstriped red and white pinafores. However, their duties included icky stuff like cleaning out bed pans and making beds. Even though my service was much more pleasant, I learned definitely not to pursue nursing as my career. Our adult Gray Lady manager said the nurses termed their cap as their pride. I proudly wore my cap and pinafore.

Our manager assigned us to various locations for our volunteer time. For my first assignment, I reported to St. John’s McNamara Hospital, later converted to a nursing school and then to a nursing home.

I loved walking to St. John’s because the building sat only a couple of blocks from my house and I didn’t need a ride. As a Junior Red Cross volunteer, I reported to the front counter. Sometimes I’d be assigned to greet visitors at a small desk with a Gray Lady. I would answer questions as to a patient’s room number and whether or not they were allowed visitors.

One day a Gray Lady didn’t see me wave at a visitor who bypassed our desk. She did grin and tell me, “I went to school with him. We called him “Piggie.”

I said, “I know. He’s my grandpa, Orion Swinehart.” She stopped smiling, seemed embarrassed, and sent me on my break. My great-aunt Maude worked as a cook. I often visited with her.

One of the nuns showed me how to operate their switchboard. She insisted, “Remember which way to push the switch. You want to ring the room, not deafen the caller.” I got mixed up and turned it the opposite direction. The supervisory nun put a stop to any further instructions to me and perhaps other girls. I was not destined to be a telephone operator.

I loved to take mail or flowers to the patients’ rooms to cheer them up. Even though shy, I enjoyed these talks with patients. Unless the nurses posted a notice on the door to not give liquids, I filled up their water pitchers or helped them sip from straws.

St. John’s denied teenagers access to the maternity ward where mothers labored behind a door with limited access. Policies banned us from seeing or hearing any birth pain suffering. I visited the nursery’s viewing window to see the beautiful babies.

My brother’s best friend suffered a motorcycle accident. He was recovering from surgery for a pin and plate in his leg. I cried when I saw him. I brought him bachelor buttons from my garden, an appropriate flower. He always bragged about his latest girlfriends. That day I realized he would never reciprocate my crush. Instead we “adopted” each other as brother and sister.

Next assignment took me to Bennett-Clarkson Memorial Hospital which is now a mental health facility. The hospital sat about two miles west from where I lived. Mom or Dad drove me there. I again brought mail around to visit with patients. Dad’s co-worker had an accident. I often visited with this paraplegic’s wife. As a family we’d been invited to their home on occasions and both families kept in touch over the years. I personally felt their tragedy, because it seemed too close to my own family.

I sat with a paralyzed young man. He laid on a revolving bed with huge bars, trapeze and traction hooks. I left the room while they turned him over. With only a towel draped over his private parts, I wondered how it stayed on while they flipped his “bed” over. Another day the medical team moved his hospital bed outside. They gave me no clue how I could help this young man. He seemed to be very angry with the world and wouldn’t talk with me. He told me, “Light my cigarette.” The wind blew out the match. I’d never lit anyone’s cigarette before, not even my Dad’s. The boy firmly said, “Cup your hand over the flame.” That worked. I’ve often wondered if the Vietnam War caused his injuries.

Another day I spoon-fed a man with badly burned hands wrapped in white mittens. He said, ‘Mash the peas so they don’t roll all over.” He looked miserable and helpless.

I disliked taking the patients’ urine specimens to the laboratory. However, the assignment allowed me an excuse to go up and down on the elevator. I often pretended I was the elevator operator. I’d punch in the floor numbers for those entering the elevator.

I made the unfortunate mistake of wearing seamed nylons. I’d probably bought them on sale at Woolworth’s; more stylish seamless ones cost more. I overheard a couple of interns laughing and pointing at my crooked seams. The same young men also got on the elevator with me. One turned off the light and put his arm around me. The other one turned on the light in time to see me pull away. I didn’t like their mocking attitude.

I also served a short time at a nursing home converted from the old Donaldson’s Department Store building. One day the secretary told me to go around to the residents and write down their birthdays. It served as busy work, but gave me an excuse to talk to them. I asked one lady who looked at least 70. She gave me a confused look and then said, “I turned 40 last birthday.” Because I spoke softly, most of the residents could not hear me. When I’d raise my voice, I sounded angry. This frustrated all of us in that setting.

My manager assigned me to the Mother Butler Center, a charitable medical facility. The nun nurse didn’t know what to do with my volunteer skills other than to assign me to dust her closet filled with pill bottles.

Too bad I didn’t journal this, because now I don’t remember the names of any of the Gray Ladies or the nuns with whom I “worked.” My volunteer service taught me much about people and medical work from a novice standpoint. I hope I brightened a few patients in my rounds.