THE PRAYER BEAD

(Prayer Bead, Flanders, 1500, Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto)

This is a prayer bead.

Prayer beads have traditionally been used to help religious worshippers meditate on spiritual matters.

Specifically, this is a Christian prayer bead.

It was created around the year 1520.

Which places it smack dab in the middle of the Renaissance.

Or toward the end of the Renaissance......

depending on which art historian one chooses to believe.

It is said to have been carved in Flanders - the Duchy of Brabant.

That means that its origin is Northern Dutch.

The sculptor created this miracle of art from boxwood.

The bead comes complete with the ability to open and close.

It possesses both a hinge and a latch to allow those movements to happen.

Now for the mind-blowing part:

The prayer bead is 6.4 cm in diameter.

For all of us metric-phobes out there (and that includes me) that means that this bead is two and one half inches in diameter.

If you study both halves of the bead closely you will find that this genius sculptor has carved two Biblical stories into his bead.

The upper half depicts "The Queen of Sheba Visiting King Solomon."

The lower portion contains his carving of "The Adoration of the Magi."

Now I'm going to ask you to do something.

Grab a magnifying glass.

Next, plant your magnifying glass directly over one half of the bead.

Finally, remember that this masterpiece was sculpted in a two and one half inch space.

Actually.....less than that.

If you count the space allotted to the outer rims.

And the circles next to the rims containing the Latin inscriptions.

Is your mouth open?

Is it in gaping form?

Pardon my arrogance but if it isn't it should be.

I stood in front of this minuscule beauty at the Art Gallery of Ontario just weeks ago.

It was lying on a rich velvet fabric.

The color of the fabric was burgundy.

Soft lighting streamed down gently upon it.

Very "Renaissancy," indeed.

The very minute my eyes landed on this piece, I automatically opened my mouth.

More correctly, I stood with my mouth gaping as I viewed its incredible artistry.

Soon my mind wandered to the Renaissance sculptor who possessed the artful knowledge, the refined skill and the long-suffering patience to create this magnificent bead.

Perhaps the sculptor created the prayer bead for his or her own personal devotions.

I'd like to think that anyway.

After studying the bead for several minutes, I decided to move along before any tale-tell tears fell from my adoring eyes.

And that, dear readers, is what art brings to my life.

What does it bring to yours?

ROAD WARRIORS: EPILOGUE

(Changing Horses, Sir Alfred J. Munnings, 1920, Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburg)

Four short weeks after our return from Canada, Bob and I hit the road again.

This time we head to Ohio to help Matt and Tara with their new house.

On the morning of our departure I wonder whether the Bobster has decided to invite Tess Tudhope to tag along.

That's like asking if the Eiffel tower is located in Paris, France.

Still, a girl can hope.

So when I walk out to the driveway to board the Malibu, I decide to see if Tess is clinging tightly to the windshield.

Hallelujah - she isn't there!

My heart races with joy as I open the passenger side door.

Suddenly, my eyes fall on Tess who is lying in the middle of the console waiting to be perched on the windshield.

I scream at Bob, "She's in there!"

"Of course, she's in there," Bob states emphatically, "She did a good job navigating us in Canada so she's going with us again."

I plop myself into the passenger seat and glare at Tess as Bob mounts the smarmy little vixen on the windshield.

"Here we go again," I say to myself dejectedly.

Then I decide to sulk.

I know perfectly well that sulking is an emotional artform best practiced by three year olds.

But at this particular moment, I don't care.

So I go ahead and start sulking.

Does Bob notice that I'm sulking?

No.

Does Bob care that I'm sulking?

Get serious.

But so what?

Sulking is making me feel justified, superior and proud.

In other words, it's been worth every second I've put into it.

We drive.

And then we drive a lot more.

Bob is pleased with Tess's piloting performance.

He says stuff like this:

"Tess is working hard today."

(Tess is a petite pile of plastic parts. Among other things. She doesn't "work.")

"Tess is reliable."

(So are death and taxes. What's your point?)

"Tess adapts quickly if we decide to suddenly re-route her."

(Hey, I'm adaptable. I've survived living with you for 40 years!)

The Bobster and I arrive at our destination in record time.

Which is a good thing because we've got a ton of work to do.

We paint rooms, hang curtains and anchor pictures to the walls.

On the first night, we eat yummy barbecue with all the scrumptious sides.

The next night we cram our gullets with delicious delivery pizza.

We eat until the food is seeping from our eyeballs.

We hug the kids.

And kiss the grand-babies.

Then we hightail it out of there.

Tess manages to interrupt me just under 60 million times on the drive home.

'What IS it about this woman?" I ask Bob imploringly.

"She ALWAYS knows the exact second I am going to start speaking and she NEVER misses an opportunity to one-up me!"

Bob looks at me and says:

"Tess is a smart girl."

I am furious.

"No, she's not! She's a babbling idiot and I hate her disgusting digital guts!" I rant at him.

Bob the Annoyer decides this is the perfect time to laugh at me.

I decide it's the perfect time to tie him to a medieval torture rack and crank up the setting to "excruciating pain."

Before either one of us knows it, we've reached the outskirts of our home town.

Just in time for rush hour traffic.

Tess Tudhope comes alive.

THERE IS AN EIGHT MINUTE DELAY ON THIS ROUTE. DO YOU WANT TO CHANGE ROUTES?

Bob plunges his index finger into the middle of Tess's "torso."

I'm guessing that is a "yes."

Tess is in her element.

She's spewing directions left and right.

Bob follows every one of them.

Eventually, Tess says:

MOVE INTO THE RIGHT LINE, TAKE EXIT 58, THEN TURN RIGHT AND PROCEED ON PATAGONIA PARKWAY.

Bob says: "Nope. Not gonna do it."

For once, I'm stunned into total silence.

I've never once heard this man use the word "nope."

It's just not part of his tightly wound vocabulary.

And "not GONNA do it"?

I've never heard him use the loosey-goosey term "gonna" either.

"What do you mean - you're not gonna do it?" I ask incredulously.

"Exactly that," Bob explains, "Tess wants me to travel through the heaviest part of rush hour traffic because it's the shortest route. There's no way I'm going to do that."

"Could the honeymoon between Bob and Tess finally be over?" I cautiously ask myself.

For the next five minutes, Bob ignores each one of Tess Tudhope's definitive directions.

Instead, he steers the Malibu onto streets not recognized by the indomitable Miss Tess.

I can't believe what I'm seeing - let alone - hearing.

Tess is being dissed by the Bobster!

He's finally seeing that one trick pony for who she really is.

And it's about time.

Bob and I are rock solid.

A whole lot of heavy duty stuff has gone down in our 40 years of marital "bliss."

We've seen most everything.

And we've done most everything.

Together.

He knows it.

I know it.

So it's time for you, Tess Tudhope, to wake up and smell the hot chocolate.

Unstick your boxy little behind from my windshield and slink away, sister!

Because you, my sweet, are soooooooo gone.

Besides, I've got a few tricks up my own sleeve.

Girl, don't even ask!

Just take your pony and run.

ROAD WARRIORS: PART FIVE

(Leon Joseph Voirin, La Terresa du Cafe du Glacier, Place Stanislas a Nancy, 1882, Artrenewal.com)

I'm gonna be honest.

There wasn't a whole lot of excitement in the air when the Bobster and I finally did reach Canada.

It was pretty much a yawn fest.

I don't know why, but I was expecting a big line-up of cars waiting to enter this massive country.

There were at least a million people waiting to get into Switzerland when we were there with Gretch and Seth a few moons ago.

Maybe it had something to do with that.

But it was just us and two other vehicles who pulled up to the toll-like booths at the Canadian border.

The officer said "Hello" as he quickly scanned our passport photos and then our faces.

"How long will you be visiting Canada?" he asked pleasantly.

"Seven or eight days," Bob replied.

"Will you be visiting family while you're here?" the officer continued.

"No," Bob answered, "we'll be visiting all of your art museums."

I shot Bob a nasty look that said: "Was that really necessary?"

The Bobster didn't flinch an inch.

Seconds later, the officer handed Bob our passports and said, "Have an enjoyable time while you're here."

He pushed a button in his booth and the guard rail began to rise as he waved us through..

Just like that - we became instant - if temporary - Canadians.

******

I've always heard that the heart of Quebec City is just like Paris.

It is!!!

As we drive into the oldest part of the city, Basse-Ville, I am thrilled with every sight I see.

The sunlit street cafes, busy with late lunch patrons, line the Grand Allee for blocks and blocks.

We pass the Assemblee Nationale, home to the city's provincial parliament, which conducts its debates almost entirely in French.

Quebec's governing body meets behind the ornate 19th century facade of the grandiose Hotel du Parliament.

This gorgeous building looks as if it's just been transplanted from somewhere in the middle of Paris.

I LOVE IT!!!

But there's one little glitch in my grand obsession with Quebec.

Tess Tudhope is along for the ride.

Need I say more?

Honestly, I've been so busy reminding myself that I'm NOT in Paris, I've managed to forget about Tess for at least a good 30 minutes.

But just like clock work, Tess pipes up from her windshield haunt.

TURN RIGHT ONTO THE AVENUE BOOOLLAMICCK.

"What did she say?" I ask Bob.

"She said to turn right onto the Avenue Bourlamaque," he tells me.

"Oh, no, she didn't!" I hastily add.

"She said to turn right onto the Avenue Booollamicck," I quickly retort.

"You know what?" I ask Bob.

"While we were sleeping like babies last night, Tess Tudhope must have been out bar hopping 'cause it sure sounds like she's tipsy to me!"

Bob can't help himself.

He's about as close to a laugh as he ever gets.

"Well, la-de-da," I crow to Bob, "I've finally found a chink in Miss Tess's suit of armour.

Happy with my discovery, I lean back against the passenger headrest and say, "Tipsy Tess isn't so perfect after all!"

Bob keeps his eyes glued to the Avenue George VI which is taking us to the National Museum of Fine Arts.

Tess manages to pronounce "Avenue George VI" correctly.

This does not make me happy.

I begin to study the Quebec City map with the persistence of a dog in heat.

Suddenly, Tess says:

TURN LEFT ONTO THE RUE SAINTE-WWAALLIIAAA.

"A-ha!!!" I shout at Bob, "this girl can NOT hold her liquor!"

"The street we're on is called "Rue Sainte-Vallier - not Rue Sainte-Wwaalliaaa."

Bob throws me a quick glance and says, "Maybe she just needs to brush up on her French."

"Maybe she needs to get sober and stop slurring every other word in the French language," I sweetly correct him.

"OK," he replies, "you may have a point."

"Oh, I definitely have a point," I say to myself.

As the day wears on, Tess manages to botch the French pronunciation of  nearly every city street in Quebec.

Not that I'm gloating, you understand.

That's just not my style.

ROAD WARRIORS: PART FOUR

(Landscape with Cattle & Sheep, Constant Troyon, 1858, Minneapolis Museum of Art)

The Bobster and I have been traveling for days and we still haven't seen an inch of the Canadian border.

That's what happens when you stop at every art museum in your path.

It's hard for me to admit this, but even I am growing a teensy bit tired of our drive-museum-sleep routine.

So I look at Bob and say, "Hey, maybe we can find some fun place to stop and visit today. Something that doesn't have anything to do with art!"

Bob is stretched out on the bed reading "USA Today."

He looks up long enough to reply, "Sure, if we can find something we both want to see."

I shoot a hasty glance at Tess Tudhope as I head for the desk.

She's sprawled all over the top of my suitcase acting like she owns it.

I roll my eyes and begin searching for the travel brochures I picked up yesterday.

But nothing in that stack of information lights my fire.

I decide to check the net.

"Oh, my stars!!!" I practically scream at Bob.

"There's a Ben & Jerry's Factory just a few miles up the road from here!"

I turn around and study Bob's reaction to this flash of news.

The corners of his mouth quiver as his eyes begin to light up.

Whammo - I've got him!

Of course, he can't let me know that I've got him.

He yawns slowly and says, "I suppose we could stop there for a few minutes - if you really want to."

Oh, pleeeeeeeeeeeease!!!

Give me a bloomin' break!

The truth is, most of us earthly mortals struggle with a bunch of desires and addictions on a daily basis.

The Bobster isn't one of them.

Unless you count his raging need to stuff himself with ice cream every five minutes.

Yup.

Ice cream is his one and only edible weakness.

I can't really relate.

I like the stuff well enough.

Especially during the hot, humid days of summer.

But I could easily live without it.

I'd rather cram a bag of Dove Dark Chocolate Promises down my throat any day of the week.

And I usually do.

But Bob can't survive without his creamy vanilla, his caramel-laden dulche le leche, and his absolute favorite - butter pecan - ice cream.

I know this about him.

I also know that he would rather have all of his fingernails pulled out in slow motion than pass up the free sample at the Ben & Jerry's Factory.

So I casually mention:

"Honey, we really should go to the factory. Think about all the things we'll learn about making ice cream. And it'll be fun to tell the kids we saw something on our vacation besides art. They are never going to believe it!"

Bob, thinking things over, says, "Well, since it's on our way, I guess it won't hurt to check it out."

Suddenly, the command "DEPART!" rings out loud and clear from the direction of my suitcase.

"Did you hear that?" I ask Bob.

"Tess just told us to leave!"

Why that nervy little minx!!!

"How dare she tell us what to do in our hotel room!" I huff and puff to Bob.

"Didn't you turn her off last night?" I quickly inquire.

"Yes, I did," Bob replies, "but I programmed her early this morning while you were in the shower. That explains her ability to speak in here."

"It's bad enough she yaks at us non-stop in the car. Do we have to listen to her nag when we're out of the car too?" I ask him indignantly.

Bob rises and walks over to Tess who has wisely decided to zip her busy little lips.

He picks Tess up, turns her over and flicks the "off" switch on her back.

Minutes later, we follow Tess's command to "depart."

That's NOT because she told us to leave, by the way.

It's because we're burning precious daylight in this hotel room.

Besides, Ben & Jerry are expecting us up at their place.

And it's not nice to keep your hosts waiting.

ROAD WARRIORS: PART THREE

(Woman & Child Driving, Mary Cassatt, 1881, Philadelphia Museum of Art)

"Here's the thing," I say to Bob, "I'm just not feelin' it with those names we've given the GPS lady."

"Both Tilly and Lilly sound prissy to me and neither one of them speaks to her true character. She is a take charge, no nonsense type of gal."

"WAIT!" I scream at him, "I think I've got it. How about Tess?"

Bob blinks as he focuses on the winding Vermont roads.

"I see your point," he says too quickly, "Tess seems appropriate. Let's go with it."

Now I'm not - at this moment in time - completely crazy.

So I totally understand that Bob is doing his best to appease me on this name thing with the GPS lady.

I also know that he doesn't give a rat's patoody what name, we - excuse me - I, choose for her.

He's simply playing along with me for the sake of his own sanity.

"Yes," I murmur to him excitedly, "Tess is it!"

Just then I glance to my right and see a "it's seen its better days" construction truck roll past us in the right lane.

The back of the truck says "Tudhope Construction Company" in big, bold, black letters.

"That's it!" I shout to Bob, "her last name is Tudhope. Tess Tudhope. WHEW! That's a load off! It took us awhile to get there but she's finally got the perfect name!"

Bob nods his head in agreement.

"Yes, dear," he says.

******

Hours later, Tess is getting on my very last nerve.

I'm tired.

Tired of sitting in the car.

Tired of looking at passing trees, green grass, fat cows and other natural stuff.

But Tess, as usual, is at it again.

AT THE NEXT INTERSECTION, TURN RIGHT.

How many times today has she said this?

I can't believe it but she's sending us onto another twisty, curvy country road!

Silly me, I keep hoping that she's trying to connect us with some sort of interstate.

But Tess has no such intentions.

Her greatest desire is to see me barf my cookies all over the inside of the Malibu.

Which is gonna happen within the next 3.7 seconds.

I turn to Bob and say, "It's now 8 p.m. We have been switchbacking ourselves all over Vermont for four ridiculous hours. IN WHICH CENTURY ARE WE ACTUALLY GOING TO ARRIVE IN BURLINGTON?"

Bob glances at Tess.

He thinks I didn't notice.

Oh...... I noticed.

"Tess says we are scheduled to arrive in Burlington in 33 minutes."

"Is that right?" I ask innocently.

"Is she using earth time to make her calculations because this route can NOT be the shortest way to Burlington."

Bob decides to enlighten me with this comment, "Tess is taking us on the shortest possible route. But it may not be the quickest way to get there."

"Do ya think?" I ask him sarcastically, "because I'm really, really old. And I'm not wasting another precious second of my life listening to that nasty little hussie's directions!"

Bob replies, "I have to admit it. I'm getting tired of the scenic route too."

Then he turns his face to me and says, "But that's what I get for letting a woman tell me what to do."

My mouth falls open as I suck in the biggest breath of my life.

"What did you just say to me?" I ask pointedly.

"You heard me," he says.

I know Bob is messing with my mind.

I know this because he has lived with me for 40 blissful years.

And he and I both know that if I thought for one nano-second that his statement was serious, he'd already be dead.

I turn and look at Bob who is grinning from ear to ear.

"I'm glad you think......

AFTER 150 FEET, TURN LEFT.

"Did you hear that? TESS INTERRUPTED ME!!! This girl has guts flowing out the ying yang! Here we are trying to have an important conversation and this willful, wicked wench decides that what she has to say is more important than what I have to say!"

Bob is laughing.

I'm not.

I'm fuming.

And Tess?

Tess is talking.

PROCEED TWO MILES. YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE RIGHT.

I want to rip her big fat mouth right off the windshield!

I want to crush her tiny little screen body into a gazillion pieces with my warrior woman's foot.

I want to scoop her pathetic remains into my hands and throw them like forgotten crumbs of crystal out my passenger side window.

I do none of those things.

Instead, I watch Bob tenderly carry Tess into our hotel room.

ROAD WARRIORS: PART TWO

(Julius Leblanc Stewart, The Goldsmith Ladies in the Bois de Boulogne in a Peugeot "Voiturette", 1897, Bordeaux Museum of Art, France)

Thursday morning arrives much too early for our sleepy head tastes.

But it doesn't matter.

Like zombies, we have to keep pushing ourselves down whatever interstates lie within our destination's pathway.

Bob's chomping at the bit and ready to go.

So I plop my tush on the passenger side of the Malibu, reach for the door and slam it shut.

He points the car in the direction of the interstate and we're off again.

The GPS lady obviously had a restful night.

She wastes no time with early morning niceties.

As usual she is belting out orders.

Always with her soft as velvet voice.

TURN RIGHT.

Blah......

PROCEED 250 FEET.

Blah, blah.....

ENTER THE RAMP ON THE RIGHT.

Blah, blah, blah......

"Yes, ma'am!" I reply, "thank you for telling us where to go!"

Tired of listening to her endless directions, my agitated mind thinks:

"Honey, if you don't button up your lips immediately, I'm going to tell you where to go."

I turn to Bob and say, "I think it's time to give the GPS lady a decent name. She definitely has a distinct personality and she's interacting with us all the time."

He stares at the road ahead and says nothing.

I think to myself, "Honestly, this man has no sense of fun whatsoever!"

Several minutes later Bob opens his mouth.

"How about Tilly Fay?" he asks.

"Hey, I like it!," I say excitedly.

Then I add, "I was thinking about Lilly Beth."

"That's good too," Bob replies.

"Which one do you like better?" I ask.

"Come on now, you know which one I'm voting for."

"And I've got to support my dear Lilly Beth!"

A lively discussion ensues for the next 10 minutes as we each volley for our chosen name.

******

WARNING:

This is what can happen to road warriors who are bored out of their freshly crazed minds.

******

Realizing it's time to wind this debate down, I say to Bob:

"Let's use both of our names interchangeably for the rest of the day. We'll go with the one that feels right after we hit the hotel tonight."

Bob turns to me and stares.

I know exactly what he's thinking......

"She's finally certifiable."

But wisely, he stays silent.

I wish I could say the same for Tilly Lilly.

She continues to badger us with her directive tongue all morning.

Sometime after lunch - at Subway, of course - I let Bob know that Ms. TL is getting to me.

"I'm tired of listening to that flophouse floozie tell us what to do every minute," I say to him.

"Can't you just turn her off for awhile?" I beg.

Bob keeps his eyes on the interstate.

"No, I can't, because we're getting into some tricky country roads here in just a few minutes," he explains.

"I may need her to help me out."

This - from a man who was born with a Rand McNally Road Atlas tied to his tiny right foot.

"Can't you use the road atlas?" I implore, "I"ll help you figure out where we need to go."

"The GPS is more accurate and definitely quicker," Bob counters.

I realize that I'm fighting a losing battle.

Tilly Lilly has seductively slid into Bob's life.

This bargain-basement Barbie has tickled his fancy.

Stolen his mind.

And stomped all over his heart.

But if she thinks she's gonna push me out the door like a bag of week old trash...... it ain't gonna happen.

I staked my claim a long time ago and no dimestore dolly is going to ride off into the sunset with my man!

Not now.

Not ever.

TL, it's time for you to get the heck out of Dodge.

So pack your bags, darlin'.

Your days are numbered..

ROAD WARRIORS: PART ONE

(Jasper Francis Cropsey, Starrucca Viaduct, Pennsylvania, 1865, Toledo Museum of Art)

It all began innocently enough.

These things usually do.

One week before the Bobster and I left for our Canadian adventure Heidi asked her father this question:

"Would you like to borrow my new GPS for your trip? I'd like you to check it out - to see if it's really worth all the hype."

Bob's brain shifted into high gear as he carefully examined the digital contraption in his hands.

I could see that he was highly interested in this thing.

In fact, he was actually getting - dare I say it - excited.

"Sure," Bob replied, "I'll test it out for you and give you a full report."

Heidi responded, "It'll be nice to have your insights."

The three of them - John had just walked into the room - talked techno-speak for the next 20 minutes as they took turns caressing the GPS in their sweaty little palms.

Me?

I sat on the sofa staring at the ticking clock on the mantel.

******

Fast forward one week.

The evening before our departure I notice that Bob is doing some mighty fast thumbing on the GPS screen.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Ten minutes later he finally responds to my question.

"I'm programming the GPS for tomorrow's drive," he answers.

"Good," I say cheerfully, "that thing should keep me from having to slap you silly when you refuse to stop and ask for directions."

Bob replies, "Very funny."

******

We drive a whopping 660 miles on the first day of our journey.

Arriving in Hazelton, Pennsylvania we pull into the hotel parking lot in the early evening.

Miraculously, Bob and I are still speaking to each other as we open the door to our room.

Seconds later, I collapse onto the bed.

I see Bob grab the GPS.

I watch him thumb the tiny screen for awhile.

Then I say to him, "You're really into this thing."

The manic thumbing continues as he mutters, "Not really."

******

We hit the road again bright and early the next morning.

I notice that Bob is looking kinda spiffy in his mauve-y hued shirt.

I turn to him and say, "Do you know that the color of your shirt perfectly matches the color of your lips?"

He glances at me and says, "Why are you surprised? I planned it that way."

I laugh until my guts hurt.

Bob and I speed down the interstate for another three and a half mind-numbing hours.

Suddenly, the GPS voice - which is a woman's, by the way - calmly says:

STAY IN THE RIGHT LANE.

Bob glides into the right lane at the speed of light.

BEAR RIGHT AND TAKE EXIT 36A.

Obediently, he does exactly what she tells him to do.

THEN TURN RIGHT.

Bob makes a sharp right turn.

STAY IN THE LEFT LANE AND PROCEED 1.2 MILES.

I think to myself, "Come on, GPS lady, are you sure it isn't 1.26758 miles?"

Bob, of course,  is busy proceeding exactly 1.2 miles.

In the left lane.

AFTER 250 FEET, YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION ON THE LEFT.

Bob flies down the road another 250 feet.

Then something truly amazing happens.

I hear choirs of angels singing as I gaze starry eyed at the Cracker Barrel sitting majestically before me.

I turn my head and say to Bob, "Hey, this thing works like magic!"

He smiles contentedly.

Let's be honest here.

It's not like we needed the GPS to find a Cracker Barrel.

They practically sit on top of every interstate in this country.

And you can find one every 7.539 miles.

But Bob is trying to impress me with the talents of his new friend.

It's working.

I look at him again.

I think I see a twinkle in his eye.

I double check to be sure.

Yup.

It's definitely there.

Bob's eyes don't twinkle that often.

In fact, the last time I saw it happen was back in 1995.

I'm no mathematician but I'm thinking that was around 16 years ago.

Bob had just fired up his first non-work-related PC.

Suddenly, the monitor glowed with an eerie light.

And that's the moment when I saw his first twinkle.

Now, I've just witnessed the second one.

I'm pretty sure I have the GPS lady to thank for that.

Hmmm.

I can see I'm going to have to keep a very close eye on this little chickie.