Front Porch Yarns
Welcome to "Front Porch Yarns." If you enjoy stories of mystery and intrigue sprinkled with plenty of down home humor, you'll love my tales. From the mysterious Hobart Higgins to the toughest man in Rusty Springs, GA, Hambone Ledbetter, to Fenton Farley's ghost, they will bring a smile to your face and a heart-warming feeling to your day. Now...come sit a spell and enjoy my yarns and tales.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Graveyard Shift
Hoyt “Hambone” Ledbetter was always quick
to cock his head back and proclaim that he was the toughest man in Cherokee
County. “I ain’t skeered uh nothin’ ner nobody.” And most of the folks in Rusty
Springs, Georgia believed him…until the night of January 18th, 1968.
Rusty Springs was an
off-the-beaten-path town of just over 600 people, mostly older folks who had
retired up north and moved south to escape the cold, harsh winters. Ancil Griggs’s Peace in the Valley Funeral
Parlor was the town’s largest employer with seven workers, which included the
“interment site attendants,” as the uppity Mr. Griggs liked to call them.
(Everybody else just called them grave diggers.) Rusty Springs was a quiet,
peaceful community until a rash of burglaries hit, of all places, the funeral
parlor. That’s when Hoyt Ledbetter’s life began to unravel.
In small, closely knit
towns, news, good or bad, spreads like a sagebrush fire…and Rusty Springs was
no exception. In the darkness of a cold November morning, the town ne’er-do-well,
Mickey Joe Clayton, was caught red-handed inside the funeral parlor. The word
around town was that he was stealing embalming fluid and selling it to deer
processor Carl Haskins, obviously for “preserving purposes.” But the town folks saw right through
that ridiculous rumor, fairly certain that it was the work of Harve Brantley,
the town’s other deer processor. Mickey Joe was actually helping himself to the
unclaimed personal property of accident victims…rings, watches, women’s
jewelry, even pocket change. But on Halloween night of ’67, the granddaddy of
all burglaries, or pranks, if you will, took place. A threesome of boys from the nearby junior
college got into the funeral home, made off with the training cadaver, rode it all
over town, its head stuck out the window,
and then sat it in the front seat of a friends pick-up while he and his date
were in the high school gym attending the annual “Halloween Booger Bash.” Mr.
Griggs had had enough.
After pondering the situation
for what seemed like months, he decided on the obvious…a night watchman. It
would have to be the only person who had the intestinal fortitude to work a
graveyard shift at a funeral parlor…Hoyt Ledbetter!
Hoyt had been fired from his
truck driving job with the county highway department after he threatened to
“whup” his supervisor, so when Mr. Griggs offered him the job, he didn’t even
blink. “I reckin ye gotcha self a man.” “Then be here tomorrow night at ten ready to
go to work. You’ll get off at six in the morning. And I don’t put up with any
foolishness,” Griggs replied, in his trademark gruff voice. “In addition to
making rounds through the building, your job will include some minor janitorial
work...sweeping, mopping, cleaning the toilets, and the like.”
The night of January 18 was
a typical mid-winter night…cloudy, cold, wind whistling through the trees,
which made for an especially eerie night at the small-town funeral parlor.
Having finished his cleaning, Hoyt stepped outside for a quick smoke when the
ringing phone ended his break. Concerned that it might be the county hospital
reporting a death, he hurried back in…maybe in too much of a hurry. When his
feet hit the newly mopped, still-wet floor he slipped and started falling
backwards, grabbing the nearest thing he could, which happened to be the arm of
the dearly departed Aunt Maudie Tullis, still lying on the prep table. Being a
big, strong man, he accidently pulled Aunt Maudie right off the table, her corpse landing face down on top of him, with her
cold, hollow eyes staring straight into his.
The next morning, a truck
driver reported to the sheriff’s office that around 4:15 AM, he had seen a man
running at top speed down Highway 49 toward Aldersville.
Hoyt Ledbetter was never
seen again in Rusty Springs, Georgia, and for the rest of his days, Ancil Griggs
wondered if hiring a night watchman to work a graveyard shift at a funeral parlor was such
a good idea.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Speedy Atkins: His Story
In May of 1928, as Charles “Speedy”
Atkins sat on an old wooden pier on the banks of the Ohio River fishing for
what probably would be his supper, he suddenly
tipped over, fell into the water, and drowned. Two nearby fishermen pulled him
to the bank and tried to revive him, but it was too late, testifying later that
Atkins “appeared to have dozed off, slumped over, and just fell into the river.”
Having no relatives to claim the body, undertaker A. Z. Hamock took custody and
kept the corpse at his funeral home until some decisions could be made. With no
apparent means to pay for a funeral, Atkins was given a pauper’s burial in
Maplelawn Park Cemetery……66 YEARS LATER!
Charles Henry Atkins had
rightfully earned the nickname “Speedy” for the fast and efficient way he could
strip, tie up, and hang tobacco leaves. He was seen almost daily headed, on
foot, to one of the drying barns in and around his hometown of Paducah,
Kentucky.
Hamock, out of curiosity,
had concocted a preservative he thought might mummify a body if properly
administered…and under the circumstances, Speedy might be the ideal prospect to
try it on. He never revealed the formula but told that the “fixins” could
all be bought in a grocery story.” And the townspeople let it go at that.
Unlike other processes where
the body is rubbed with salt then wrapped with strips of linen, Hamock’s
preservative was simply injected into the body’s bloodstream. And strangely
enough, the process worked well. With the exception of a reddish skin tone and
a wooden-like texture, the physical appearance of Speedy was almost true to
life.
After A. Z. Hamock’s death
in 1949, the funeral home was sold and his wife, Velma, assumed custody of the
body. After considering a limited number of options, she decided to keep Speedy,
standing in a closet, in her home where he remained for the next 45 years. With
the strange story of the “mummy in the closet” being featured in newspapers, magazines,
TV programs, and on Paul Harvey’s popular radio program, The Rest of the Story, Speedy became a circus-like attraction, with
people coming from near and far to “visit” him. And with her usual cordial
manner, Velma would always welcome them into her home.
Soon after Velma Hamock’s
death in 1994, the people of Paducah, agreeing that Speedy should have a proper
and respectful burial, raised the necessary funds for a short and simple
graveside service and interment. On the bronze marker at the head of his grave
is this simple inscription: ~ Charles
“Speedy” Atkins ~ Lived 53 years as a pauper…buried 66 years later as a
celebrity.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Preston Grunt's Pet Snake
Trying to convince the
Reverend Willard Reno that there’s no such thing as a hoop snake is a waste of good
time. “Oh yes they is! I seen one myself!
Seen it with my own two eyes! Come a’rollin into one of our Sunday mornin
preachins, right in the middle of ‘An Unclouded Day.’ Never heard the like of
shoutin’, foot stompin’, and amenin’ in all my borned days. So I know they’s
hoop snakes!” And he was right.
Well…..sort of.
Preston Ray Grunt was the fifth of five boys
born to Porter and Pauline Grant: Paul,
Pete, Percy, and Porter, Jr., so he had to learn to be thick-skinned early. So why
Preston Ray GRUNT?
Prissy Siler, the hospital’s
maternity ward clerk, was a good worker, never late, got along well with others,
and all the other things that make a good worker a good worker. But her
handwriting was, let’s just say, less than terrible! She would sometimes forget
to dot her i’s and cross her t’s which made them look like l’s. And, her a’s
looked like u’s and her u’s looked a’s. And so the story of Preston Ray Grunt
begins.
Preston came into the world
on a Friday the 13th mid-afternoon, definitely an omen. On that
particular Friday, Prissy was to meet her cousin, Fancy, at the VFW’s Friday
Frolics, so she started watching the clock about 3:30 PM. Somewhere around
4:15, she began working on baby Grant’s paperwork and the associated pile of red
tape. But that was not at the top of her priority list, not by a long shot. So,
as she usually does, she went through the process quicker than a lizard snags a
grasshopper, licked and stamped the envelope, pitched it in the outgoing mail
basket, and headed her Plymouth Valiant toward the local VFW Hall.
Three weeks or so later, an
envelope bearing the return address, “Bureau of Vital Statistics, State of
Mississippi, Jackson, MS,” arrived at the Grant’s RFD address. Porter,
realizing what it was and being a little nervous, sliced it open with his
pocket knife, and, wouldn’t you know it? There it was in big bold letters,
“Preston Ray GRUNT.”
Over the next week or so,
Porter and Pauline discussed their options and possible solutions to the
unheard-of tragedy. But after finding out that the state would charge $300 for
making the change and a $200-an-hour lawyer would have to file a written and
documented request, Porter and Pauline decided to leave it as it was. “Aaw, he’ll learn to deal with it,” Porter rationalized. Well, he
didn’t…or maybe he did.
As the months and years dragged
on like molasses in January, Preston heard the expected array of Grunt-related
jokes: pig stys, rootin’ for acorns, and, of course, mud holes. And although
Preston appeared to just let it slide off, people wondered if he really did.
But the home folks knew one thing for sure. If you got on his bad side, you
could count on one thing…being the butt of one his pranks. That was his way of
diverting attention away from his cartoonish name. And his strategy worked! So,
just as his daddy had prophesied, he learned to deal with it, and in the
process earned the much-deserved nickname, “Preston Prankster.”
One of his classics took
place on a cold December night on the occasion of the annual town Christmas
parade.
Abner Jennings, the high
school biology teacher, had failed Preston twice and then rubbed salt in the
wound by blurting out in the teacher’s lounge, “I don’t know if that Grunt kid took biology or if it took him.” So with the help of his cousin, who was the school
janitor, Preston got into the biology lab and “borrowed” the model human skeleton,
dressed it in a Santa Claus suit, pinned a label on the back that said, MR.
JENNINGS, and rode it, tied to his four wheeler, right down the middle of the Main
Street parade, and believe it or not, was awarded 3rd place for
“Most Creative Entry.” But the prank to end all pranks was yet to come.
The Millstone Creek Congregational
Church sat at the bottom of and across a typical rough county road from a long
sloping hill. A trail, as straight as an arrow and worn smooth by Sunday
afternoon four-wheeler riders, went straight up it, exactly in line with the
open front doors. (Reverend Reno wanted
the doors to be left open as a sort of invitation to “come on in.”) The Grants
were loyal members of the church and supported it in every way loyal members
should support their church. But something happened one Sunday morning that
really got under Preston’s thick skin. Elder Jarrold McFadden refused to let
him go in because he thought the not-so-flattering image on his sweatshirt looked
suspiciously like Dottsie Reno, the Reverend’s wife, although Preston insisted,
that it was a caricature of his lady friend, Jaleen Jaggins. So, with that
unfortunate incident, the prank to end all pranks was conceived.
Preston’s favorite pastime
was sitting on his front porch doing nothing…and he was good at it. On one
particular hot August day, something unusual happened. Like a bolt of lightning,
seemingly out of nowhere, Preston had a would-be award-winning prank idea. With
a little bit of back-woods engineering, he could create a hoop snake. With his
brain running in high gear, he reasoned that if a stamp could be steamed off of
an envelope, a snake skin could be steamed off of a belt…and his brother, Percy,
had one. So after a little old-fashioned arm twisting, Preston traded Percy a
Roy Acuff 8-track tape for it, steamed off the skin, and headed to the flea
market in search of a cheap hula hoop
and a bottle of Stik-Tite glue. A hoop snake was about to be born.
When the following Sunday
rolled around, Preston, with his hoop snake in hand, and hoping that some good
might come from his harmless church prank, made his way to the top of the
sloping hill, aimed his "snake" toward the church’s open front doors and let it
go. And as true as an arrow, the hoop snake rolled down the hill picking up
speed along the way, hit a pothole and jumped the front steps, rolled down the
aisle, bounced over the kneeling rail, and landed right in the middle of song
leader Margie Dinkins’ lap. Rejoicing, hand waving, and shouts of “It’s a sign, it’s a sign” rang out and
went on for at least fifteen minutes.
And so, it can truthfully be said that on that fateful Sunday morning, Audell Sullins, who had kept the Dirt Road Bar in business for years, literally got the Devil scared out of him. Not a drop of liquor has touched his lips since.
And so, it can truthfully be said that on that fateful Sunday morning, Audell Sullins, who had kept the Dirt Road Bar in business for years, literally got the Devil scared out of him. Not a drop of liquor has touched his lips since.
The Ghost of Fenton Farley
Fenton
Farley, as far back as the local folks could remember, always said he would die
on the day of Winter Solstice, the
shortest day of the year. And true to his prophecy, on December 21, 1953, he
was accidently shot and killed by his brother-in-law while hunting deer on
Backbone Ridge…or so they say.
Turner’s Gap is a peaceful little valley town cradled between Lodestone
Mountain and Candlewick Hill. Sister Bessie Barton likes to say that “God just
reached down with His mighty hands and patted out a pretty little valley like I
pat out a pie crust.” Turner’s Gap’s only claim to fame was…well, they really
didn’t have one, except that Arthel Wilburn played stand-up bass for a short
time with Hank Snow and his Rainbow Ranch Boys. He told that he had to quit and
stay home ‘cause his milk cow, Audrey, had stopped giving milk and he thought
it was because she missed him.
The
Country Corner Market was the gathering place for the local men folk, who would
come by on a daily basis to sort through the local gossip, chew their
Bloodhound tobacco, and play checkers. One of their favorite topics of conversation
was Fenton Farley and his mysterious ability to see into the future and to
converse with the departed. Fen, as he was known, could foretell the outcome of
ball games, elections, raffles, and even the Cedar Hill Methodist Church bingo
tournaments, and was right about 85% of the time. He liked to brag about
correctly picking the winners of the ’47, ‘48 and ’49 World Series, always braggin’ that he had
discussed it with “The Babe.” But he was always quick to tell you that he was
“agin gamblin,” so he was very selective about who he shared his predictions with.
His wife’s brother, Albert Earl Scroggins, was notorious for playing poker,
rolling dice, even pitching pennies, and
to see him dragging in, probably flat broke, at 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning,
was not uncommon. Needless to say, he was not on Fen’s prediction-sharing list,
not by any stretch of the imagination.
It was
common knowledge to all the folks in the Gap, and even some in the next county
over, that Albert Scroggins didn’t want his baby sister to marry Fen. He was
always quick to rare back and bellow out, “Ain’t no sister uh mine gonna marry
no Farley!” But when his brother, Billy Joe, told him in no uncertain terms, to
quit acting like a “Missouri jackass,” he decided to tone down and accept the
fact that his sister would soon be Mattie Belle Farley.
Delbert
Garvin, who had quit school and moved to Chicago to find work, was back in
Turner’s Gap for the annual Garvin family reunion. On a particular June morning, he had joined up with
the locals at the Country Corner for their daily roundtable session.
Delbert: “Guess who I seen at
church yesterday mornin’…Fenton Farley!” Just kinda slipped in, set on the back
row, then slipped out.”
“You didn’t see Fenton Farley. His
brother-in-law, Albert Scroggins, accidently shot ‘im up on Backbone Ridge.
Killed ‘im, stone dead! They’s huntin’ deer,” Abe Stoddard
replied.
Delbert: “I could’a swore ‘at was
him. Looked bad… thin, pale, that gray color ye look when ye’ve smoked ‘bout all
ye life. I hurried out after the service to speak to ‘im but he wuz gone. Didn’t
see him nowheres.”
“I thought I seen ‘im , too,” added Ed
Tittle, “foldin’ clothes down at the
Load-N-Wash with Mattie Belle.”
There
was a “hmm” or two and the men began to look at each other with raised
eyebrows. That morning session ended
sooner than usual.
Rumors of
Fen Farley sightings began to spread through the Gap like a Kansas grass fire. Shorty
Ledlow said he saw him at the church softball tournament, Sarah Baskins said
she saw him coming out of the Sandy Creek Bait Shop, and just when the local folks
thought the situation couldn’t get any more bizarre, it did.
Somewhere
around the end of November, Riley Southern and his nephew were taking care of
that annual, dreaded task, cleaning the leaves out of his gutters.
“Es go
son, ‘bout to get dark on us. Be careful goin’ down ‘at ladder.”
“What’s
that up on the ridge, Uncle Riley, that glowing?”
“At’s
jest the moon risin’.”
“Well
Uncle Riley, if the moon rises in the south, you must’a played hooky the day
your teacher talked about the earth rotating, cause ‘at sure ain’t what Coach
Watson told us.”
As the
days passed, more and more sightings of the mysterious glow on Backbone Ridge
were being whispered around town. And of course, more and
more speculating as to what it was began to surface…coon hunter’s lights, Boy
Scouts camping out, and even a huge formation of foxfire. Finally, James Neal
Pritchard, the Gap’s kind of unofficial mayor, suggested that two or three of
the men get together and go talk to Sister Rosie Ola Horton, who was a kind of modern
day soothsayer. She could count her Indian bear claw beads, and solve about any
mystery that came up, once even helping the county sheriff locate a still that
was puttin’ out poison moonshine. So they paid a friendly visit to Rosie Ola,
and after exchanging the normal and
accepted niceties, the by-the-way question was brought up.“I guess you seen ‘at
strange, glowing light that everybody’s talkin’ ‘bout, the one up on the ridge,”
queried James Neal.“Yeah and I done counted the claws and I knows exactly what
‘tis. An ole wive’s tale has it that where a ghost lays down to sleep, the
ground will glow until the next full moon. I seen it happen when I’s a little
girl.”
Having
no reason to disbelieve her, the men, not wanting to be rude, visited a bit longer,
wished her well, and went on their way.
As the
mystery’s apparent answer made its way through the Gap, it was naturally
received with skepticism. “Oh phooey! ‘At womern’s crazy, crazy as a Bessie bug, an
I ain’t tha only one that thanks ‘at!” That response seemed to be the consensus
and the Gap’s folks tried in vain to pass off the whole thing as “a figment of
the people’s imaginations.” But the glow didn’t go away. Then something
happened that put the strange glow talk out of mind for a while. Albert
Scroggins had come up missing.
Word
immediately went out that at daybreak on Monday, everybody that could, would
meet in front of the Country Corner to lay out plans and organize a search
party. Mayor Pritchard said he would contact Sheriff Dixon and the county rescue
squad, Shorty Ledlow volunteered to contact all the folks that owned horses and
ask them to help, and others were asked to round up needed equipment…lights,
ropes, hack blades, etc. The plan was that if and when Scroggins was found,
someone would ride back to town and ring the Methodist Church’s dinner bell 10
times, wait 30 seconds, then ring it 10 times again, different from a fire alert. At 2:20 PM on
Tuesday, the signal rang out. Albert Scroggins’ body had been found.
In the
bottom left corner of the front page of Friday’s Mountain Times-Ledger, was a small
article detailing the incident:
Body of Missing Man Found
After a day and a half of searching, the body
of Turner’s Gap resident Albert Earl Scroggins has been found and recovered from a
location atop Backbone Ridge about two miles from town. No sign of foul play
was detected. Sheriff Brady Dixon gave Ledger reporter Janice Motes a detailed
account of the event: “Scroggins’ body
was located about ten feet or so from some sort of marking on the ground,
something looking eerily like a cemetery plot. It was approximately 5 ft. by 10
ft. with rocks perfectly outlining a section of charred, slightly sunk-in
ground. At the top was a large flat rock, I guess weighing close to 500 pounds,
with a crudely etched date on it: December 21,
1953 – the day of Winter Solstice.”
The
cause of Albert Scroggins’ death was never determined.
Uncle Bush: Tennessee Mountain Legend
Felix Bushaloo Breazeale
was, without a doubt, Roane County, Tennessee’s most well-known and celebrated
citizen. Uncle Bush, as he was known far
and wide, was and may still be, the only man to ever attend his funeral…while
still living!
In 2009, Sony Pictures released Get Low, a somewhat factual film depicting the story of Uncle Bush and his living funeral. Robert Duvall was cast as Uncle Bush, Bill Murray as Frank Quinn, Bill Cobbs as Rev. Jackson, and Decatur, Alabama's Lucas Black as Buddy Robinson, Quinn’s employee.
Being a rough looking,
reclusive mountain man and for fear of the unknown, more than anything else,
rumors always ran rampant about Uncle Bush…he killed a man, he would shoot
prowlers on sight, he was crazy, and the like. Fed up with all the unfounded
gossip, he decided to approach funeral home owner Frank Quinn about having his
funeral “now, while I’m still living so I can hear what people have to say about me, what
they know about me.” After the initial shock and weighing in on all the ifs,
ands, and buts, Quinn agreed and the service was set for late spring of the
following year.
Describing Uncle Bush was
easy. He had a long thick beard, always wore bib overalls, dipped snuff, was a
master craftsman (he made his own coffin from black walnut wood), and was a
crack shot with a rifle. He could reputedly bring down a fox from a hundred
yards away, having gotten a lot of practice protecting his chickens. His best
friend and constant companion was his mule which he had raised from a young
colt and named, “Mule.” He never married, telling folks, “The ones I wanted I
couldn’t have and the ones I could have I didn’t want.”
He claimed he could
communicate with Mule and apparently, he could. Other than the normal work
chores…plowing, skidding logs, and pulling up stumps, he had taught Mule quite
a repertoire of tricks. As word spread about the near-famous twosome, folks
from around the area began to muster up the courage to come and request a showing
of Uncle Bush’s mule and his “trick show.” And he would always oblige. To say
that Uncle Bush enjoyed the limelight was an understatement.
As the day of the “living
funeral” as it had been tagged, began to draw closer, Frank Quinn realized that
this was going to be an event of big proportions, much bigger than he first
thought. And when East Tennessee’s largest newspaper, the Knoxville News-Sentinel ran the story, the Associated Press picked
up on it, and the tale of Felix Breazeale, his mule, and his living funeral,
spread like wildfire.
June of 1938 was
exceptionally hot for the mountains of East Tennessee as Sunday, the 26th,
the date set for Uncle Bush’s funeral, grew closer and closer. People began
arriving on Friday, camping out in the woods around Cave Creek Missionary
Baptist Church. By early Sunday morning, people were stirring like bees around
a honey tree. Travel along the narrow dirt road leading through the woods to
the little white church had slowed to a crawl. Estimates of the crowd ran as
high as 8,000 to 10,000.
June 26th was
anything but usual in the small Roane County community of Cave Creek. People
began to gather early…in cars, trucks, buses, wagons, on horseback, on foot,
some arriving before daybreak. An unofficial survey of license plates showed
vehicles from fourteen states as far away as Louisiana, Missouri, and Alabama. An
old and dear friend of Uncle Bush, the Rev. Charles Jackson had driven from
Paris, Illinois, a distance of over 500 miles, to preach the funeral. Frank
Quinn realized early on that the small church house would not hold a fraction
of the people so plans quickly changed and the service was moved outdoors.
The rumor that the funeral
procession would be led by Mule, pulling a wagon bearing Uncle Bush’s handmade
coffin, was just that…a rumor! Actually, Uncle Bush rode in with Frank Quinn in
the front seat of the funeral coach, forty minutes late because of the clogged
up narrow dirt road. Other than that, the well-planned service went off, pretty
much, without a hitch.
Uncle Bush, decked out in a
new suit donated by a Knoxville clothing store, sat directly in front of his
coffin. Others, including Quinn, Jackson, and a vocal group from Chattanooga,
the Friendly Eight Octet, shared the stage. Songs, as requested by Uncle Bush
included, “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks I Stand” and “In a Land Where We’ll Never
Grow Old.”
One man, looking for a quick buck, made
close to $300 charging people to park on his property and two other men had set
up a crude hot dog stand. Uncle Bush later told that he “didn’t mean for it to
cause such a big stir.” At the conclusion of the service, Uncle Bush stayed for
several hours to shake hands and sign autographs with his “X.”
During the ensuing months, the
name Bush Breazeale became almost a household name. Radio stations wanted
interviews, newspapers and magazines, including Life, ran articles and columns, and Uncle Bush, of all things, was
asked to throw out the first ball at the Loudon - Harriman baseball game. Robert Ripley even asked Uncle Bush to come
to New York to be interviewed for his “Believe It or Not” column. He later told
that, “They were the nicest people, but to be honest, their vittles weren’t
worth a dern.”
And so goes the story of
Uncle Bush. On February 9th, 1943, Felix Bushaloo Breazeale, age 79,
died peacefully at his home. As he had requested, a short simple graveside service
was held. He is now at rest in his walnut coffin in Cave Creek Cemetery.
~~~In 2009, Sony Pictures released Get Low, a somewhat factual film depicting the story of Uncle Bush and his living funeral. Robert Duvall was cast as Uncle Bush, Bill Murray as Frank Quinn, Bill Cobbs as Rev. Jackson, and Decatur, Alabama's Lucas Black as Buddy Robinson, Quinn’s employee.
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