How could I possibly have fallen for it — me, of all people, who’s been editing the Star’s police reports for more years than I care to remember?

All year long people keep getting taken in by the same scams, which, like ospreys and pumpkins, arrive with the season. Early spring brings the I.R.S. scam, aimed at stealing money or tax data as April 15 approaches (“I am calling from the Internal Revenue Service. A warrant for your arrest will be issued unless. . . .”). When leaves fall, along comes the home improvement scam (“Hi there, Ms. X, our records show your chimney’s due for cleaning. . . .”). As Memorial Day draws near, complaints about the Airbnb scam swell the police logs in East Hampton and other tourist destinations (renters, having been directed to a fraudulent website to finalize payment, arrive at their ideal summer cottage to find it doesn’t exist). And let us not forget the puppy-for-Christmas scam (you pay in advance for the puppy, which is in some far away kennel; then you’re asked to send money for shots before it can travel, then more for insurance, then more for shipping, and so on until you finally go to the cops).

More frequent than any other, though — a scam for all seasons, you might say — is the one I was targeted by a few weeks ago.

Phone rings. “Hello?”

“Hello, Gramma?” It’s our 17-year-old grandson. He almost never calls, but there’s no question. It’s his voice, his intonation. It’s him.

“Robby? Is something wrong? Why are you calling at 6 in the morning?” (It’s 9 a.m. here, but he lives in Oregon, three hours behind us.)

There’s static on the phone; then someone else comes on.

“Hello, this is. . . .” (Who? What did he say his name was? Before I can ask, he hurries on.)

“I’m a lawyer, and I’m here with Robert. He is being held on charges of reckless endangerment and criminal obstruction.”

My head spins, my heart turns over, I sink into the nearest chair. The morning’s errands are forgotten. This phone call is all there is.

Robby (speaking fast, sounding scared): “Gramma I was driving last night and the cellphone rang and I let it ring but it kept on ringing so I picked it up and this other car was turning and I hit it and the police came.”

A nightmare. I can hardly speak. “Was anyone hurt?”  

No, he says, but he is in jail, and they want $3,000 to let him out.

“Have you called Bernard?” (our son, his father). “Have you called Cathy?” (our ex-daughter-in-law, his mother).

“No, please don’t tell them!” Now he sounds panicky.  

The “lawyer” comes back on. “We can deal with this,” he says. “I happen to know the judge who will hear the case later today, and I will stay right here with Robert until he is released. I will stay here with him as long as it takes.”

He comes across as calm, confident, cool. I thank him, shaking. I ask his name again. “Gary Gould,” he says. He spells it. I ask for his phone number. It starts with 202. 

“But, but, the Oregon area code is 503,” I stammer. 

“I have offices in Washington,” he says smoothly. That makes sense. Washington State is Oregon’s neighbor to the north.

“I’m doing this for Robert because, in a way, I feel responsible for what happened,” he goes on. “It was my son who made that cellphone call he picked up. They’re good friends. My wife and I know Cathy and Bernard, too.”

Now it’s clear why he’s there with Rob in the jail and has promised to stay. A concerned father, and he knows our son.

Go to the bank, he says. Get the money in cash. A Brink’s truck will come to your house to pick it up.

My husband is Googling “Gary Gould.” He’s suspicious. Heedless, beside myself, I rush away.

A few minutes later I’m at the Chase Bank in East Hampton, telling them I urgently need a lot of cash. There’s no line, what luck. I make out a withdrawal slip, I take it to the teller. Her nametag says “Doris.”

Doris sees my agitation. Quietly, she asks a few questions. I blurt out my story while she’s counting out the money. She understands, she sympathizes, she inspires confidence. “I think you need to be very careful,” she says finally, handing me the envelope. “Don’t be in a hurry. This sounds to me like a scam. Brink’s would never send a truck to a private home.”

I am hardly out the bank door when it sinks in: Of course it’s a scam, it has to be, it has all the earmarks described in our police reports, and I am as much a dimwit for believing it as all the other marks. I have fallen, hard, for the ever-popular Grandparent Scam, which begins with your “grandson” (it’s always a male caller; if you say you have no grandsons they hang up) saying he needs money right away to post bail, pay for an ambulance, pay a kidnapper, whatever.

Maybe my scammers, with the “lawyer” who picked up fast on my mentioning the names of Robby’s parents, were quicker on the draw than most, but come on. A Brink’s truck? Preposterous, right? But it had gone right by me, blind with worry. Now that I thought of it, how would an envelope full of cash get to Portland, Ore., that same day?

Our son was out of town, so we called his ex, who said Robby’d been asleep in his bed all night and she’d just dropped him off at school. Soon after, he called himself.

  “Gramma,” he said, “that wasn’t me.” 

“I know it wasn’t you, Rob — but it was your voice!”

Long pause. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Grandpa said so too. That’s why I never thought to question it.”

“Then I’ve gotta change all my passwords. My cellphone’s been hacked.”

Hackers can steal your actual voice, he explained. There’s an app for it. It sounds like science fiction, but no. Turns out it’s a well-known scam called “Can You Hear Me.” According to Google, “it happens when you answer the phone and the person on the other line asks ‘Can you hear me?’ and you respond. Your voice is being recorded to obtain a voice signature for scammers.”

There was no lawyer named Gary Gould on Google, either in Washington State or Washington, D.C. When the phone rang again, Sidney answered. 

“I can’t find you on Google,” he began. The line went dead. 

Irene Silverman is The Star’s editor at large.

During a blackout in Fort Lauderdale one dark and stormy night last week, while we were having the best Italian food this side of Firenze at Noodles Panini on Las Olas Boulevard, I thought of New York City and the first blackout there, in 1965, a night in which a communal spirit famously reigned.

There was in the air that night 54 years ago a palpable feeling of good will. Everybody remarked on it and has continued to since. 

I lit a candle on returning leisurely by bus from The New York Times, where I worked as a copy boy, to Alphabet City — to my one-room apartment on East 12th Street whose cement courtyard gave out onto a funeral parlor vent. 

An apartment in which, I told a fellow Fort Lauderdale diner, I could warm my feet in the gas oven while sitting on the pot. 

The first column I ever wrote for this paper was about that $65-a-month apartment whose walls I painted in many colors, and about how the landlady, Mrs. Messina, told me to save my money when it came to buying a bed, glassware, and cutlery (there was no room for a couch) inasmuch as the lady downstairs was just about to check out.

I characterized myself as a “desperado” then, like everyone else in the East Village, though, since desperation was our daily portion, a commonplace, I don’t recall feeling all that desperate at the time. In fact, I felt a certain satisfaction, I think, in just being able to survive, typing being my foremost skill. The other, acquired painstakingly during a three-year stint in the Army, was bed making, a skill that Mary marvels at even unto this day.    

On a holiday visit back to the stolid Midwest, my mother said that I looked like a dope fiend. 

My prospects, of course, were to improve insignificantly as time went on, and now, self-satisfied and full of years, and buoyed by the camaraderie that comes with blackouts — whether in New York or Fort Lauderdale — I can say, “Those were the days, my fiend, those were the days. . . .”

A funeral service last weekend, and the reception afterward, seemed the embodiment of community. The memorial gathering was held at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church for the late Edwin Geus, with a gathering later around long tables, each decorated with spring daffodils, at the East Hampton Firehouse. Mr. Geus had served as a longstanding volunteer for both the East Hampton Fire Department and the East Hampton Village Ambulance Association, and members attended in uniform; a well-polished fire truck and ambulance stood like an honor guard outside the church, behind Town Pond.

I am always curious and interested when personal connections bring me into a church — being Jewish, myself, and having been raised in a moderately religious household (kosher, at least in my early childhood). East Hampton, founded by Congregationalists, used to be almost exclusively a Christian community. Today, the majority might still identify themselves as Christian — Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist — even if they don’t spend much time at services.

Anyway, I disavowed what others call faith long ago, in childhood, when my parents tried without success to send me to the Sunday school of a Reform synagogue. 

In my twenties, I was working at the Columbia University School of Journalism, as secretary of one of the deans, when I met the East Hampton native I was to marry. One of my colleagues at “J school,” as we called it, warned me to watch out: Anti-Semitism in such a town, she said, would be wicked. It turned out that the community I joined was welcoming instead.

Jeannette Edwards Rattray, my mother-in-law, made me comfortable right off. Her daughter had already broken any lurking religious taboo by marrying a man who was defined as an artist, rather than by the fact that he happened to be Jewish (although artists weren’t so revered here yet and it wasn’t obvious that East Hampton was going to become a 20th-century artists’ haven).

During my first summer in East Hampton, I heard an anecdote about how Mrs. Rattray gave a not-too-distant relative the business while table-hopping at Chez Labbat, the only sophisticated restaurant here at the time. He had stopped to complain that Jews were taking over Lily Pond Lane. She herself had married a worldly man “from away,” Arnold Rattray, and while conservative in some ways was progressive about religious freedoms and bigotry, and she read her rude relative the riot act. 

The East End, it turned out, had been a fairly worldly place for a hundred years or more. There was the broadening influence of artists and actors, since the late 19th century. Sag Harbor had a large Jewish population, based around its watch-case and silver factories’ need for skilled workers. (The journalist Karl Grossman is known for scholarship about the early Jewish community in the Harbor, as his frequent lectures attest.) 

Today, I no longer think of myself as a liberal New Yorker, but as a liberal-minded member of the East Hampton community, which never was as homogenous as some might think. We are not free of anti-Semitism here, that is certainly true. But, still, if only the rest of the world could mix and mingle as peaceably as we.

Readers this week will notice a fresh focus on travel in The Star. Two projects, a culinary tour of Greece with Florence Fabricant in September and a brand-new Travel quarterly are in this week’s issue. How and why we are taking this new tack here is worth explaining.

The Greece tour came about after our partner, Thalassa Journeys, asked Florence Fabricant of The New York Times to lead a small group on a winding food-and-wine arc from Kavála to Thessaloniki. Wine will lead the way, with near-daily visits to vineyards in the less-touristed northern corner of Greece. There will be an outing to the Vikos Gorge, which is thought of as the Grand Canyon of Europe, and visits to ancient cultural sites.

Ms. Fabricant began as a food writer here at The Star when my father was the editor. Her very first “In Season” column for us was about the joys of corn in August. Today, in addition to The Times, she writes cookbooks and in the summer hosts the hugely popular “Stirring the Pot” series of talks with leading chefs at Guild Hall. The pairing, if you will, between her and The Star seems natural. A brochure went in the mail to Star print subscribers this week; we have extra copies at the office, for those who did not get one.

As noted, our first Travel section is part of this week’s edition, which also has a two-part garden and landscape section. Travel sprang from an observation from Judy D’Mello, a contributing writer here and former reporter, who said Star staff tend to go on very interesting vacations. It immediately seemed a good idea, so we gave Judy the go-ahead.

While The New York Times Sunday Travel section is a must-read for many, part of the argument for a travel section in a local newspaper is that plenty of others do not see it. Planning ahead for some of the bigger adventures, such as Judy’s trip to Bhutan, requires lots of lead time for visas and visitors permits. Other choices, like the “Getaway” feature I wrote for a Greenport day trip, can occur whenever the fancy moves you.

It might seem odd to be thinking about travel on the eve of the summer season, but there is no time like right now to think about seeing the world — even if it’s just a couple of ferry fares away.

At this time of the year, my yard is awash in yellow flowers. I’ve never known exactly what they are — or if someone once did identify them for me, I’ve forgotten — but they look a bit like hardy buttercups. They create a bright, sunny carpet that covers the entire lawn, on all sides of our old house in East Hampton Village. 

A friend who is a landscape designer once remarked that my lawn is less like a lawn and more like a meadow, dotted as it is with not just these yellow mystery flowers but with tiny wild violets. That’s true, and I love it that way. 

Still, by the end of April, I have to buckle to the reality of just exactly how untidy the grounds have become — with the fallen branches of winter tossed everywhere, and clumps of spiky crabgrass among the yellow petals — and I call in Martin Soto, who, with his crew of yard men at a company called Sottessey, has been my outdoor fixer for decades now.

Another friend mentioned recently that deer don’t like the color yellow, and that this is why the forsythia bushes are often the only blasts of color to be seen in some people’s yards. We do have forsythia, and they do seem relatively undestroyed by the troupe of deer who live behind the tall old fir trees near the barn, but I don’t know if this deer-hate-yellow thing is just a suburban legend or if there is science behind it.

The flower that I really love now, in early spring, is the daffodil. The deer never do seem to touch them. Our Nikko blue and Annabelle white hydrangeas have been decimated, as have our old roses of pink and white, but the several varieties of sunshine-colored daffodils return each spring like the swallows. 

It is the variety, indeed, that I love the most, and we must have half a dozen different sorts of daffodils, from the ruffly many-cupped old-fashioned ones tinged with green to the classic canary-yellow trumpet-shaped cup to white ones with an orange center.

I’ve had neighbors complain about the little yellow flowers that carpet our yard. Apparently they can pose a danger of invading a more carefully groomed lawn. So far, that hasn’t really turned out to be a problem, at least on my side of the fence. Did I mention that these little flowers open with the sun and close as the sun goes down? Who wouldn’t love a flower that does that?

The other night, as we talked of Joe Biden’s predicament, it occurred to me that I, a diffident WASP not programmed to show much emotion, was at first bemused when men began hugging men in America — about 40 or so years ago, I think. 

“Did you say that you were ‘uncomfortable?’ ” asked Mary, who has wondered why the women now accusing Biden of unwanted attention in the past didn’t say so if they felt so at the time.

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “Anyway, perhaps because I’m a WASP, I’m uncomfortable using the word ‘uncomfortable.’ Nor was I reaching out in those days.”

“You reached out to me. . . .” 

“Indeed I did, and have been forever blessed for having done so.” 

The hugging custom must have made its way from abroad to the younger generation, for I don’t remember anybody with whom I grew up doing it. I don’t remember being hugged by my father, or by my stepfather. We shook hands — that was the manly thing, especially at an all-male boarding school where, I think it’s fair to say, we were not, most of us anyway, in touch with our feelings. 

I’ve since come around, and though I generally don’t initiate them, I’m touched when hugs come my way, whether from sons-in-law or grandchildren. They hug me, I hug them. I’ve become much more comfortable with the practice, much more at ease with openness, with intimacy. It’s a sign that, at least when it comes to human interaction, we’ve evolved. 

So, I think politicians, pressers of the flesh by profession, ought — especially nowadays when “personal space” has, and with reason, become such a touchy subject — to be given some benefit of the doubt when there is doubt, as is the case with Biden, who seems surprised (and chastened) that in some cases he, a layer-on of hands guy, has given offense. 

Karen Tumulty said the other night on the “PBS NewsHour” that she didn’t think what he’d been accused of doing was so grievous as to pre-empt redemption. Uncle Joe says he gets it, and for that he deserves a hug.

As constant readers, those of a certain age at any rate, undoubtedly noticed, when I wrote two weeks ago that I was paying $65 a week to rent a one-room apartment in Alphabet City in 1965, I was wrong. 

The monthly rent was indeed, as I had originally written, $65 a month. But then, wondering if there ever were a time when landlords, even in the East Village, charged tenants a mere $16.25 a week — substantially less than what you’d pay for a bottle of Mud House, Frenzy, or Cairnbrae now — I panicked and called in to stop the presses. 

Of course, the nice thing now is that a reporter or columnist can plead to being not entirely guilty inasmuch as an error in Thursday’s print edition can be set right by Friday in the website one. 

Yes, $65 a month. I know because I read it in the first “Point of View” I ever wrote, dated Oct. 26, 1967, which I found in a folder in my desk’s upper-left-hand drawer, a folder that I had intended to be opened only in the case of my death, but which I might as well dip into now, shamelessness apparently being in vogue nowadays. . . .

“. . . My one-room apartment, whose walls I painted yellow, red, green, and candy-striped, was a real joy. When the cockroaches shyly hid on the arrival of guests, I worried.” (N.B., Mary.)

“My landlady, Mrs. Messina [I got that right], a Hogarthian character, told me to ‘bar your door — people are crazy these days.’ But what was there to steal? I felt this way despite the fact I probably lived in the high-rent district, since I paid $65 a month for my apartment, slightly more than I could have received from a weekly welfare check.”

I was just about ready to go on unemployment when The Times hired me as a copy boy — at around $65 a week, I imagine, for I do remember having adhered rather closely to the tenet that no more than a quarter of one’s income should go to housing. That advice is a stretch now. Those were the days.

At any rate, until summoned several months later to apprentice in Riverhead with Larry Penny’s late older brother, Art, a Long Island Press reporter and Times stringer on weekends, I was rather content living on society’s margins as I recall — sufficiently desperate, I suppose, not to feel so.

Sufficiently trusting too in my invincible surmise that in time all would work out. 

And, lo, that’s what happened. All — well, just about all — are working out these days.

The word is out about a pair of eagles nesting near the water in Springs. Not much stays secret in this town, and thanks to social media, birdwatching sometimes seems like a game of one-upmanship in which the first person to get a photograph of a particularly charismatic species can claim bragging rights. Most times, getting close enough to wildlife to take a photograph with an ordinary camera or phone is too close.

Some friends told me of a person in a pickup truck who was parked in a saltmarsh the other day for about four hours, peering at eagles through binoculars. One friend, worried about the effect of visitors, has been putting up “no trespassing” signs, including one warning of dire consequences for setting foot on Gardiner’s Island, which he had found on the beach.

Bald eagles favor fish, which is probably why the East End of Long Island is attractive to them. Osprey, with whom eagles compete for food and nest platforms, have been extremely put out, screeching angrily as generally indifferent and far larger eagles go about their business.

Clamming at Three Mile Harbor on Sunday with a friend and my son, I noticed an eagle sitting on an oak limb 60 feet or more above the water on a bluff. Nearby, a fish hawk, as my father called osprey and I did in my youth, mobbed it the way blackbirds do a red-tailed hawk that enters their territory.

After bald eagles were all but wiped out by the early 1970s in New York due to the use of shell-weakening pesticides, state authorities began to release hand-reared nestlings, brought to the state mostly from Alaska. By 1989, there were 10 breeding pairs doing their thing upstate. Twenty years later, the number has grown to 173 pairs and continues to climb. 

New York’s bald eagles have now pushed south and east into our area. Pairs, which mate for life, also tend to return to the same nesting area each spring, meaning that their offspring have to move on in search of spaces of their own.

In Springs, friends have seen people in a kayak coming close to nesting eagles for a better look. Whether it was too close they were unable to say, but their story reminded my of those knuckleheads who get out of their vehicles in the national parks to taunt moose, bears, or bison, and then, if they are lucky, get away with just an antler up the patootie.

I suggested my friends put up a perimeter of floating line and found buoys. I’d even help, I said. They declined, but the offer still stands. 

We are in a funny place right now, having moved back home to East Hampton after a medical sojourn in Massachusetts, but not quite able to properly settle into our old ways, because while we were away much of the house was painted, and things are still at sixes and sevens, boxes piled on the sunroom table, furniture askew.

Everything in the kitchen and pantry — every spoon, every ancient juicer, every lidless Spode sugar bowl — was packed away in a Pod storage unit in the backyard during this long-overdue paint job, and we can’t put it all back in place until the cabinets are cleaned and their drawers relined (with pretty William Morris wallpaper, if all goes to plan).

Who knew the digital age would come to our rescue once again? I told you all about my adventures with Lyft ride-hailing in a previous column, and now I am going to tell you how gung-ho I am for apps that bring you a hot dinner with the press of a button.

The truth is, despite thinking of myself as an analog kind of person, I have come to rely on my cellphone for all sorts of things, including the accumulation of information. My memory for numbers in general, and for phone numbers in particular — FE-9-1230 was what one dialed to reach my childhood house —  is no longer worth boasting about. Having a smartphone at the ready makes me feel smarter.

Apps have entered my daily life only over the last month. My daughter, who tends to be even more curmudgeonly about screen time than me, is the one who told me about DoorDash. The proverbial cupboard was bare when I decided to try it; it was also pouring rain, and no one was in the mood to go fetch takeout sushi. But in no more than 10 minutes, I had ordered some fabulous dosas from Hampton Chutney in Amagansett, and within another few minutes an intrepid driver-deliverer was ringing the doorbell, cilantro relish and mango lassis in hand. 

DoorDash is an on-demand food delivery service founded in 2013 by four Stanford students. Will Andy Fang, Stanley Tang, Tony Xu, and Evan Moore become as famous, or as rich, as Mark Zuckerberg? That seems unlikely, but to an old-fashioned person like me, a simple meal-delivery app seems like a revelation.

If you watch some of the television programs that I do, you have seen ads for GrubHub, a nationwide company that is in hot competition with DoorDash. This morning, I read that DoorDash has surpassed GrubHub and is the fastest-growing food-delivery service in America. 

I’m often heard praising the pleasures of village life, where one has access to the library or the next screening of “The Favourite” just by strolling out the door. Still, I am beginning to see the light when it comes to apps, especially for people with mobility issues. 

I’m not an expert yet, of course. Maybe someone better versed in these things can tell me know if it was good etiquette to have entered his tip on the electronic order instead of providing one in cash. . . ?    

I am very happy that Evelyn Osborn celebrated her 3rd birthday on Sunday, March 10. 

Her birthday day began late for me because of the daylight-saving/daylight-giving clock changes. In short, I seriously overslept.

Though rushing to my photography assignment of the day, I did note the weather and donned boots. 

The Project Most Empty Bowls mega soup event was packed with soup-ies despite the nearly torrential rains. After slurping up some soup, I headed off to take some pictures of the puddles that the rains had produced. 

Meanwhile, Evelyn Osborn’s family was getting ready for her birthday. We had not yet crossed paths.

After visiting my usual photographic sure-shots — Main Beach, Hook Pond, the ducks on the flooded golf course, the over-washed Nature Trail — I headed toward Bridgehampton using Wainscott Main Street, another sure-shot, as my highway bypass. 

Passing the chapel, I noticed a bunch of cars. Had I considered them at all, I would have thought there was a meeting or a late church service. At the intersection by the Wainscott School, I decided to take that right turn onto Wainscott Hollow Road going north because, again, that is a photographically interesting route. I turned to head north, but behold, the street in front of the school was a pond, or maybe a lake. Side to side, as far as the eye could see, just water. 

This was a cool photo op, so I decided to pull over to get a better view.

This was a really bad idea, and it became a worse idea when, having pulled over a bit to observe the lake, I decided to back up to turn around. Wheels spun, mud went everywhere, and I was up to my tire rims in mud. 

Sunday afternoon. Rainy. Everyone cocooning at home, and there I was in the mud. I did not have my cellphone with me (I know, stop yelling!).

I contemplated my fate. Good that it wasn’t cold out. Good that I was near a church with cars. Good that the rain had stopped. Bad that I had no cellphone. But surely someone would drive by and see that I was obviously in trouble.

There was no traffic at all.

I took pictures of the lake and the 

reflections and my mud-splattered fender and totally embedded tire, and was grateful for the boots I was wearing, as the water kind of seemed to be rising.  

A vehicle took the turn behind me and drove right into the lake. I rolled down my window and waved. The truck stopped and backed up. Salvation!

The two most perfect guys for the moment got out of the truck, Elisha Osborn and Jason Petty. These lovely men got on the ground and assessed my mess. 

Elisha, the driver, announced that they could help me, but first they had to go get pizza for his daughter’s birthday party, and could I wait while he did that and that they would then come back and help.

I said of course I could wait. Where was I going to go?

He said I could go over to the Wainscott Chapel, where the birthday party was and wait. What a guy! I thought it was better not to abandon the potentially sinking ship of my car, so I stayed put and took more photographs.

I saw no other cars until they came back to me, along with another friend, Aubrey Peterson. 

While sitting alone, I had had visions of cardboard under the tires and blankets and mud spattered all over, but, amazingly, it turns out that not only did the guys have everything needed to get me out of the mush, but that Elisha is, in fact, the owner of a towing business, Hammer Towing, in Wainscott, right next to the Wainscott Chapel. 

What luck! Could it have worked out any better? They were not just good Samaritans, they were great Samaritans, with the perfect truck and skill sets. Professional Samaritans. Serendipity, kismet, syzygy? 

The guys knew exactly what to hook to what and Aubrey drove my car and made it do what it needed to do to get out of the deep rut I had created in my first attempts to get out of there. 

Once solidly on the road, I was invited back to the chapel for the birthday party, the chapel to which I would have walked looking for a phone to call a tow truck, which would have been parked 20 feet away. 

It turned out that while these lovely men were helping me, they had missed the birthday party entertainment which was a costumed shark and the 3-year-olds singing the ubiquitous “Baby Shark” song. I am sorry I missed that, too. 

I was welcomed, offered pizza, and, yes, I took some pictures. 

Happy 3rd birthday, Evelyn Osborn. You may forget this particular birthday, but I shan’t forget it or you, your dad, Elisha Osborn, or Jason Petty and Aubrey Peterson. 

You guys are a gift. Thanks for almost literally bailing me out. 

Timing is everything.