Lumberton
by L.Lee Parmeter
Chapter
One
Doodle Bugs
A cold wintry December wind blew across the Lumber River. Sand and little dust devils swirled
around the old barn. The wind made unnatural sounds as it blew around the uneven edges of the barn roof. There were eerie
sounds with or without the wind blowing. The chilled wind seems to make it worse.
Timmy Horn and I were a little scared as we walked toward the old barn but neither would
admit it to each other. Goose bumps gave me a chill as they covered my whole body. The closer we got to the barn the worse
they got. I shivered but they didn’t go away and it made my mouth so dry I couldn’t spit.
The crisp North wind carried a rank hint of the Bogs on the big bend of the Lumber River. The odors were a combination of mud, stagnant water, and
decaying vegetation. Legend has it that people had disappeared in the quicksand of the Bogs. We did not intend to go there
to find out if it was true or not.
The old barn sat on the
back corner of several acres leased from Dr. King, a local dentist. Lyle and Marie parked the latest version of their Tear
Drop trailer near the center and front of the acreage. Lyle built a shop to make hand made plaster articles that they sold
to passersby and the soldiers stationed at the nearby Army base.
They had an elaborate display arrangement of shelves and benches they called “the
set up” to show their homemade wares. They displayed numerous homemade plaster articles and some Hull Art Pottery from
Zanesville, Ohio. It was nicely arranged so you could see them all.
Gasoline was in short supply and rationed because of the war effort. Lyle needed a war ration
book and the letter “A” pasted on the old Buick’s windshield to buy gas. I didn’t have any idea what
it was for but I got a cuff on the head when I asked Lyle.
“Don’t ask
so many fool questions. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
He was busy all right,
drinking his coffee and eating some soda crackers soaked with coffee in the saucer. He put sugar on the coffee-soaked crackers,
picked up the saucer and drank the coffee, then ate the crackers. It was more Pet canned milk than coffee. He tried to make
me eat some of the soggy crackers. When I told him I didn’t like coffee it brought on a “get out of here and do
some work for a change.”
“Boy, if you don’t change your lazy way of doing things you are going to grow
up to be nothing but a dirty pup, just a dirty pup.”
I had no idea what a dirty pup was or what it did. It was probably some kind of dog Lyle
had or saw. The only dog I knew was Tippy, Timmy’s dog. He was a nice black and white dog who liked chasing rabbits
in the field. Sometimes he was dirty from running but no one called him a pup or dirty pup. I wasn’t lazy; I liked to
work and do my chores. Lyle just liked to make me feel bad, at least that’s what Marie said.
The leased acreage bordered the edge of Timmy Horn’s family property, as well as Aunt
Sally’s land. If you looked carefully at the front pinnacle of the barn roof you could read the faint red lettering
long ago weathered by time. King’s Turpentine Distillery was forever etched into the slabs of graying southern pine.
Built after the great war of the rebellion in the early 1870s, it gracefully stood the ravages
of time. The sturdy front dock was about 4’ off the ground, 6’ wide and covered the dock for the length of the
barn. The covered platform was used to unload barrels of pine resin brought in by wagons to be distilled into turpentine.
A slanted rusty tin roof protruded from the front side of the structure covering the dock area.
It was called a barn but it was really an old gray building made from heart southern pine
that looked like a barn. Years of exposure turned the pine a pale ashen gray. The cracks between the old lumber walls let
in sunlight that cast an eerie glow on the barn floor and inner walls. The floor was almost even with the dock but slanted
toward the rear of the building. For want of a better word, it was still “the old barn” to the locals.
The roughly 80’
X 60’ building stood firmly on square brick pillars overlapped with sheets of rusting tin. The underside of the barn
floor was visible under the building. It was made of very heavy timber supports, with a rough-hewn pine floor. The high-pitched
roof, with two large chimneys, gave it the look of a house.
There were two windows, one on each end, near the peak of the roof. A large sliding door
opened from the dock to the main floor. Adjacent to the left side of the door was a rickety set of steep stairs. They looked
suspended, as if they were held up by nothing. They followed the wall to a half-loft, stacked with decaying small wooden barrels
and old bales of hay.
At the end of the dock, there was a house door with small glass panes. Behind the door,
there was a small room that looked like an office. The door had a rusty hasp and pad lock that looked like it hadn’t
been opened in years. The remnants of an old blind and tattered curtain were visible through a rusty brown window next to
the door. A small breeze moved the yellowed curtain like someone had walked by.
Timmy and I liked to look in the window and imagine all sorts of scary things that would
happen if some unexplained force ever opened the door. A dust-covered desk and chair sat in the middle of the room with shelves
on the back wall filled with old papers and files of some sort. It had been a long time since anyone had been in the room,
because there were yellowed papers on the floor and desk. A rusted tin cup sat on the desk, waiting for someone to use it.
Timmy was a big boy for his age, almost head and shoulders taller than I and a lot heavier.
It looked like he would be in the 3rd grade another year. He had many problems connecting his thoughts and words
together, which made reading very difficult. He would turn his numbers and letters around when he read them. The teachers
all said he was a dummy.
He was no dummy. On the days that I couldn’t go to the picture show in Lumberton, he would go. When he got back he would
tell me word for word everything that happened, even the previews and cartoons. I liked to hear Timmy talk about the picture
shows. He sat on an old roll of chicken wire fencing behind Lyle’s shop with his back against the wall. He painted pretty
pictures in my head and I liked the way he spoke, with a gentle voice that described everything. I gave him the dime that
I would have used to see the picture show. Actually, it was 9¢ but I gave him the extra penny. Listening to Timmy was almost
like going to a picture show.
He was wearing some “hand-me-down” pocketed overalls that were about 6”
short over his black second-hand work boots. He seldom combed his dark brown wavy hair. He had a sad, far-away look in his
dark deep-set eyes.
Timmy and I got along without a spoken word. He was a bit timid and he looked to me to be
the “one in front” on most of our adventures. I would help him with the dreaded “mess work,” he called
homework.
Broken pieces of clay pots were scattered around the bottom floor. Some good pots were stacked
in straw near the outside corner of the loft. Some of the pine resin from the tapped pine trees had dried on the clay pots.
The stairs leading to the loft was so rickety that we were afraid to climb them. We wanted to see what was under the pile
of straw in the corner of the loft. It had the shape of a large box but we never found out.
Field workers would place several tin taps staggered on a tree, each draining into the clay
pot. They were well spaced to avoid killing the tree. It took about a week to fill up the pots. The resin was poured into
tin buckets and brought to the building to be turned into turpentine.
A few of these old buckets lay rusting on the floor. In the far corner were the remains
of the equipment used to process pine resin into turpentine. It was a tarnished testament to 19th century engineering.
On a quiet day, with no wind blowing, there were strange, barely audible sounds coming from
the old barn. The floor seemed to complain with popping and cracking sounds as we walked through the empty bottom floor. A
low groan told us that the barn knew we were there. The noise of the squeaky sliding front door ricocheted inside when we
slid the door open on its old rusty tracks. The echoes seemed to bounce from one wall to the next until they gradually died
out but we knew the barn didn’t want us there.
The combination of sounds and strange movements in and around the barn kept most people
away. Superstitious tales about the old barn were passed on from one generation to the next.
One tale was about a colored man that was found hanging dead from a rope. There was an old
knotted rope still hanging just under the loft in the middle of the barn. Just looking at the rope, swinging gently with no
wind, frightened us. It seemed to swing from side to side for no apparent reason. When we went inside it seemed like someone
or something was watching us. Just as I turned to look up at the rope, I could see a wisp of something that disappeared as
soon as it appeared. I didn’t tell Timmy because I knew he would run out of the old barn. It didn’t help my goose-
bumps as a cold shiver ran up and down my back.
The sliding door made a worn-out groaning noise as we pushed it shut. The noise was different,
as if to say, “I’m glad I am closed.” We knew the sound was echoing inside the barn but we hurried so we
wouldn’t hear it. This time Timmy was in front; ready to run, as we stood looking at the two-path trail. We both felt
a shiver on our way out and we were scared. He would look back over his shoulder but wouldn’t say a word. His eyes told
the story. I wondered why the hair stood up on the back of my neck and my hands felt cold. I guess I would never know and
in my heart, I didn’t want to know.
Timmy and I stood outside of the barn, wondering about the stories of people dying in the
barn, and if their ghosts still lived there. We were both a little scared, with our eyes wide open, as we tiptoed off the
porch with Timmy close behind this time. We were quiet, as if not to awaken or disturb anything.
All at once, we heard a loud raucous sound from inside and the hair stood up on my neck
again. I was cold all over and goose bumps ran down the length of my back. It was only a big black bird flying out of the
broken upstairs window. It made a loud, frightened, screeching sound as it flew away toward the Lumber River and the Bogs. It seemed like the bird was as frightened as we were
and couldn’t wait to leave the barn. We watched several black feathers float in the wind as it blew around the corner
of the porch. My goose bumps didn’t get any better. The brisk wind and the thought of the big blackbird made us both
chilled. I thought Timmy was going to run when he saw the feathers dance in a dust devil but he stood his ground and looked
at me with his sad eyes.
The local area had once been heavily wooded with tall stately pine trees that had given
way to the more profitable crops of tobacco and cotton. At times, it seemed like I could see the old forest when I squinted
through the cracks of the barn. I hope it was just an illusion caused by the blowing sand and sunlight. It was a quick glimpse
into the past, but the wind quickly brought me back to the barn.
No grass or trees grew near the barn. Sand and bits of wind born debris collected around
the corners of the old brick pillars and under the barn. They were about 3 feet off the ground and topped with sheets of rusting
tin to keep out unwanted creatures before they supported the great walls of the barn. Both Timmy and I knew that any creature
could come and go, as they wanted. It was not a comforting thought to either of us.
Dr. King refused to tear it down because of strong family ties to the old business. After
the 1st World War, the family divided the 680 plus acres into 100-acre farms that were rented to several families.
They share cropped cotton and tobacco as best they could. The Horns and Britts each had one of the 100-acre parcels. The several
acres that Lyle and Marie leased were part of fallow ground and the odd amount left over after the property was divided. The
rest was used for the old campground, an isolated tourist cabin, and Anderson’s General Store.
The soft sweet fragrance of pinesap and turpentine lingered in every corner of the old barn.
The residual fragrance kept out most all living creatures with the exception of a hardy breed of ants, doodle bugs and an
occasional blackbird. We still were not sure if anything else got in the barn and we didn’t want to know. The bird was
enough for one day.
A nice thing about the barn was it lay in the direct path of a large gum tree, which grew
near the center of Lyle’s property. That made it easier for me to go to the barn without being seen. Marie didn’t
like me playing around the old structure. The barn was just out of sight of Lyle’s workshop.
A black and silver homemade Tear Drop shaped trailer was my home. The trailer sat next to
the shop with the front facing the road so it could easily be moved. The King family had an old well with a pitcher pump left
over from an old homestead. The shop was part of an old tobacco barn. Lyle added a closed front with windows that pushed open
from the bottom with a long hinge on the top. They were propped open with tobacco sticks. The 8’ long sticks were used
to string the tobacco to dry in tobacco barns. Some of the sticks were stained black and still had a slight hint of tobacco.
The old family two-hole outhouse was behind the barn and out of sight of the main road.
Lyle ran an electric line from the old light pole and meter to the shop. He allowed one light to be used in the trailer and
the rest of the lights in his shop.
Lyle and Marie had settled in Lumberton after 10 long years on the road so I could attend school.
I was in the 3rd grade and had attended six schools. Because of traveling, I didn’t start school until I
was 8 years old. Timmy and I were both cold. It always seemed to get colder when we got near the old barn, especially if we
were a little scared. We felt better, as we got farther away and the barn grew smaller behind us. We loved to go there but
each time we were happy to leave. We didn’t understand the mysterious attraction except to be scared and not run away.
The old barn shimmered in the afternoon sun and felt like it was calling me back.
I pulled the collar up on my red and black-stripped Mackinaw coat. that Grandpa Leone gave
me a few years before. The years had not been kind to the old mackinaw. It was too small for me now and was peppered with
small moth holes on the left sleeve and back. It was my only coat and I loved the warm feeling as I struggled with the last
remaining button. Grandpa Leon would tell me tales of the lumbermen in the north woods of Michigan wearing the same kind of coat. I was
very short but I felt much bigger and taller when I wore the coat.
My 3rd grade teacher didn’t like it. Mrs. Bunch didn’t like things
that were old and worn. Mine was very worn and not very clean. I asked Marie to wash it because Mrs. Bunch said it was dirty.
Marie said, “It would fall apart if it was washed but I’ll use some
white gas and clean the spots and brush it with my palmetto brush and some warm water. I’ll sew up some of the tatters,
replace the buttons and it will be as good as new.”
A dog-eared copy of Tom Sawyer fit comfortably
in the large breast pocket of my mackinaw. I loved to read in a quiet place and feel like a part of Tom Sawyer’s life.
The stories and adventures of Mark Twain were so exciting and I knew them all. The jumping frog of Calaveras County had me confused but someday I would understand it.
Both Timmy and I tried to think of a catchy name like Mark Twain for our nickname. When
a river sailor is testing the water under the keel of a riverboat, he would shout “Mark Twain,” which means 2
fathoms of water or “safe” water.
“Blonde, Leone or Boy,” were the only names I knew. Sometimes I was a “Dirty
Pup.” Timmy liked to call me Lee, which he did when he was out of earshot of Lyle and Marie. I didn’t like Blonde,
as Marie would call me. It sounded more sissy than Leone and it was sissy enough.
I reached in my jacket pocket and felt the warmth of the book and I sensed a safe secure
feeling. When no one was looking, I liked to run my fingers over the name Mark Twain on the Tom Sawyer book and dream about how it would have been living in those days. I wanted so much to be able to paint
the pictures in my mind, and write them so people like me could read them, and see the same pictures. Maybe someday I will
be able to do that but most of all I wanted a nickname.
Most of my life I had been traveling and out of necessity, I became a loner. It was fun
to talk to myself as long as Lyle didn’t see me. With the exception of Timmy, I had no friends. I quickly learned that
books were my real friends. They were there day and night and never let me down. I had a few playmates but most were make
believe. We were “on the road” most of the time and sometimes I made up my own friends. Lyle didn’t want
me to have any friends and he didn’t like Timmy. I would daydream about the riverboats and the things Tom did. I didn’t
like the parts about kissing girls and such things.
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
Tom Sawyer did things I didn’t like. I respected all living creatures and the thought
of a dead cat made my stomach feel funny. I wouldn’t do anything to fool people, as Tom did; well, at least not to strangers.
I did like to pull jokes on Lyle and see him get mad. Pulling a joke on Marie was a different story. She had eyes in the back
of her head and knew every time I did something wrong but I still tried.
Working at almost anything was fun and helped the time pass. I did the very best at all
the things I had to do. I never painted a white picket fence but maybe it would be fun. I enjoyed most of my chores except
washday. I liked the few pennies Marie would give me. I learned not to be afraid of anything but I wasn’t sure if I
had learned well enough when it came to the old barn.
“Careful planning was the key to a safe and fun adventure.”
I read that in a book by Martin and Osa Johnson who explored wildest Africa. I liked the book because it was black and white stripped
like a zebra’s skin. Careful planning seemed like a good way to approach the old barn because it was a scary place.
Every time we went to the old barn, we didn’t have any plan except to have a good time playing and exploring.
Every time we went to the barn it was a little different. There were different noises here
or a squeak there. I don’t like to be hurt by anything but I was not afraid of anything, just careful. Timmy felt the
same way, although his feelings were easily hurt. Timmy would usually follow behind me because he was a very sensitive boy.
Today was no exception, as most times we got close to the barn, a strange eerie feeling came over us both. Timmy wanted to
run back to his house but I insisted that we keep going.
Since we moved here, Timmy and I spent most of our Saturdays, as well as some other days
together. We would either go to a picture show in town or find things to do in the Bogs away from the deep places or in the
old barn.
All of this depended on how many chores we had to do and how much money we had. We would
both “puddle” our money so we could both go to the picture show. More times than not I was not allowed to go because
I had done something that Lyle and Marie didn’t like.
Most important if we had 25¢, we could ride the bus two ways and pay for the 9¢ movie. This left 1¢ to save after we had each bought a 5¢ bag of popcorn. We could have a lot of fun with 24¢.
I looked forward to my adventures with Timmy Horn. School was boring to me because I could
read and write and knew more history than they offered in the 3rd grade.
The dreaded times tables were another story. I knew I had to study them after the holidays
and neither Timmy nor I were looking forward to them. I knew Mrs. Bunch would be very hard on me because she didn’t
like my attitude about math. I liked to use the abacus and she insisted I do math the paper way or else. I didn’t know
what “or else” meant but it didn’t sound good.
She was a good teacher but we both had strong wills. Marie taught me how to multiply and
divide on her old abacus. I was constantly in trouble with Mrs. Bunch for bringing the abacus to school or for having a red
bandana instead of a white handkerchief. Timmy and I talked about what happened before the Christmas off time began. The outcome
made us kind of laugh under our breaths.
Every morning Mrs. Bunch would check hair, teeth, and fingernails of every student. We would
stand in line like a bunch of soldiers, with our teeth showing in a fake smile and a handkerchief in all the boys’ right
hands. The girls didn’t need a handkerchief, another reason I don’t like girls. I thought of Shirley Suggs, with
her gleaming white teeth and I wondered if Tom Sawyer would kiss her. How awful! I would rather kiss Spot the goat than Shirley
Suggs.
It was difficult brushing my teeth with Marie’s homemade toothbrush. It was made from
a palmetto root and was rough, with uneven bristles. I used soda and salt, which didn’t keep my teeth gleaming white
like Shirley or Bill McLean. He would take off his glasses and carefully unfold his pressed handkerchief and clean his glasses,
refold it and put it back in his pocket. I tried to fold my red bandanna but it didn’t fold neat and pretty like his
white handkerchief.
I don’t really know why but I am always in trouble with Mrs. Bunch for one reason
or the other. The kids called her “Honey Bunch” behind her back. I almost called her that during the last handkerchief
check but I bit his lip instead because I respected her way of doing things, even though we didn’t agree.
Timmy said I had been lucky that day and he was unlucky. She picked on Timmy Horn instead
of me. She made him sit in the corner on a three-legged stool for a whole hour. The high stool was too small for Timmy but
he sat and smiled at the others kids and that really made Mrs. Bunch angry.
She had the skill to crack you on the knuckles from across the room without moving a muscle.
No one knew how she could do it but Timmy’s knuckles were red from the ruler smacks. He worked with his parents on the
farm and his hands were callused from the heavy work. A crack on the knuckles wouldn’t hurt but he had to cry out to
make her happy. This morning was a 3-knuckle crack.
The thought about the dreaded ruler on the knuckles made me shudder. I couldn’t
help wondering what mystical powers she had.
Even Tom Sawyer couldn’t do that, I thought to myself.
I don’t need those old times tables as long as I have my abacus but Mrs. Bunch didn’t
see it that way. I decided how I was going to tell “ Honey Bunch” that I could use my abacus faster than the rest
of the kids could use their times tables. I would also tell her I would rather use the abacus. I finally got up enough courage
to tell her that. She laughed and told me to bring in the abacus and I could sit on the stool while she proved just how wrong
I was.
She didn’t know it but I could do most of the figures in my head by imagining the
abacus and working the tiny rows of beads in my head. I was told to sit on the stool and let a smart boy like Timmy go to
his seat. She told me to bring it in the after the holidays and she would invite the principal to see how wrong I was.
I told Marie what had happened when I got home from school. She called the abacus “Shoty,” the Russian name for an abacus.
“You can take the abacus to school but
I’ll go with you and talk to the teacher,” she said.
When parents came to the room, it was always
hard on the students. I asked Marie to let me do it on my own.
Timmy and I talked about it a lot so I decided to face the task of times tables and put
the abacus down. I had to learn the way Mrs. Bunch wanted and in my heart, I knew it was the best way.
Because Marie had offered to come to the school, I was going to ask Mrs. Bunch after the
holidays if Marie could come in on Parents’ Day and tell the class the same stories she had told me about Russia. Maybe that would work. I told Timmy
I would learn the dreaded tables. Mrs. Bunch wanted us to learn them over the Christmas Holidays but I hadn’t looked
at the piece of blue printed-paper she gave us. It was all the tables from the 1s to the 12s.
A sudden gust of wind shook the barn porch just as we started up the rickety stairs and
brought me back to the present. The barn made unusual noises as Timmy and I ducked under the porch. We both sat there, listening
to our hearts race and trying to catch our breath. The sun filtered through the cracks as we looked at the soft dry sand under
the porch. Straight little debris lines had formed over the years from bits of trash. They looked like lines in a battlefield.
Between the lines were clusters of doodlebug holes.
Timmy reached in his treasure trove pockets and came out with a piece of tobacco string.
The string was used to tie the hands of tobacco to the tobacco stick for drying.
He carried some wonderful things in his pockets. He had a Barlow knife and a tobacco pouch
with marbles, chalk, and some lead B-B gun pellets. He held the white string over a large Doodle Bug hole and chanted the
mysterious chant.
Doodle, doodle, come out, and get some bread and butter;
Doodle, doodle, come, and get a barrel of sugar.
Doodlebug, doodlebug come out and get a grain of corn.
Your house is burning!!
These words usually brought the little ant lions from the bottom of the hole to the surface.
They would bite the tobacco string and dangle on the end, refusing to let go. They would eat any bug, regardless of their
size, that fell into the conical holes. The bug can’t climb the sandy sides so he falls to the bottom. Timmy looked
and didn’t see anything except a stray ant that fell into the next hole and quickly became lunch for the doodlebug as
it struggled to climb the angled sand walls of the doodlebug hole.
“Lee, it’s your time to say the rest of the mystery chant so we can see if they’ll
come out and bite the string.”
I had forgotten some of the words but with Timmy’s help, I tried to say the rest.
Doodlebug, doodlebug, Come out of your hole;
Your house is on fire and your children will burn!
Doodlebug, doodlebug, come out of your house;
It’s burning up with your wife and all your children,
Except Mary, she’s under the dishpan.
“Timmy, I can’t make it work. Here, let me have the string and you say the rest
of the chant. Maybe I can get him to bite. Catching fish is easier than catching doodlebugs.”
Doodlebug, doodlebug, come out of your hole;
If you don’t, I’ll beat you black as a mole.
Doodle, doodle, doodle, your mother and granddaddy
are dead!
“That did it, Timmy! Look! He has the end of the string and he thinks it is a big
white bug! He is a big one! Look at his pinchers! Let’s put him in the next hole, pretend there are Japs in the hole,
and see if the Americans win. I know he’ll win because he is a Marine! We picked holes for the enemy and some for the
Marines.”
We moved around the doodlebug holes and played war with the enemy. It was a long hard battle
but the Americans won, with General McArthur beating them back in the play hills of New Guinea. Timmy and I didn’t know
where New Guinea was but Lyle said there was a big battle there last week. We lost countless boys before we won. We won the
battle on the doodlebug battlefield. We made little graves for the soldiers lost in battle and made tiny flags out of paper
trash.
Timmy looked at the sun and said, “I got to run. I’m late for my afternoon chores.”
We stood there, very still, and saluted. It felt good to be a winner.
He scooted out from the porch, leaving the “battlefields” behind, and ran toward
his barn, where his father was putting out hay for the cows.
I sat down and leaned against the old gum tree. I dreamed of a great battle, with me as
a general leading the attack against the enemy. Real life is not much different, just a game people play to make a place for
themselves in the world. Why couldn’t it be simple like the way doodlebugs lived? No one got hurt except ants and everyone
went back to their homes at night.
“Where are you, boy?” Lyle shouted. “I need some help in the shop and
Marie needs some help with her work. You better get here soon or you are going to catch it again,” Said Lyle in an angry
voice
Lyle was a master of breaking up a good daydream with the high pitch of his screaming voice.
I turned my collar up and slowly walked back toward the workshop, taking the long way around.
“I’m going to get it again!” I said aloud.
As I slowly walked back to the trailer, I wondered what Marie had fixed for supper because
I was a little hungry. For some reason, I was always hungry, as I never got enough to keep me full. I would probably get sop,
which was ho-cake and syrup. Lyle got his fresh-cut cube steak and gravy. If I were very quiet, I would get a little gravy
on my ho-cake.
I stopped by the old number 10 washtub by the well and washed my hands before I helped Marie
clean the trailer steps. We sat down to eat and I got my ho-cake and syrup, with Marie slipping me a little white gravy while
Lyle was looking at a day-old newspaper.
It was nice to get in bed and dream of adventures. My favorite was finding a fortune in
hidden Indian silver like the one the Lone Ranger uses to make his silver bullets. I wish Lyle would let me use his radio
so I could listen to the Lone Ranger. I heard it a few times at Anderson’s Store and I liked to listen to it. Times
tables went around in my head as I slowly drifted off to sleep.
