Woodcraft 11: Dinner

22 08 2014

My mother was a good cook, better than her mother and almost as good as her husband’s.  Never vain about her ability or lack thereof, like her husband, she always aspired to be better.  Always willing to learn, my mother persistently attended to Grandmother Halfrida’s culinary practices. 

She didn’t mind being called Grandma, by the way.  In the presence of her husband August, however, it was to be Grandmother.  Grandfather August was a man of honor, meaning he was both capable and reliable.  To be both required discipline.  Possessing all four traits, he commanded respect.  He also demanded respect.  He was, therefore, not shy about disciplining the rest of us in the family whenever he thought it necessary and proper.

Grandmother Halfrida went along with her husband.  As a person of discipline herself, she wasn’t shy about passing that on.  However, while Grandfather August conducted himself like a military officer, she performed like a pastor.  Both of them could exhort and encourage, but August seemed to rely more on the former while Halfrida relied more on the latter.

My father exhorted my mother to learn how to cook some of the dishes he had learned to like growing up.  His parents had been staunch about maintaining authentic ethnic cooking, and Halfrida expressed willingness to share her expertise.

Here are some words to chew on representing what my mother — as alternatives to normal American fare — fed my father, my sister, and me.

Hasenpfeffer.  Marinated, seasoned, and braised rabbit.

Koenigsberger Klopse.  German meat balls made with a combination of beef, veal, and pork.

Gugelhupf.  A cake-like bread made from batter rather than dough.

Lebkuchen.  German honey cakes.

Marzipan.   Almond paste candy.

Muerbeteig.  A rich egg pastry.

Nockerln.  Another version of dumplings.

Pfeffernuessse.  Hard cookies made with pepper.

Schnecken.  Snail-shaped buns.

Springerle.  Cookies flavored with anise.

Jaegertorte.  German hunter’s cake flavored with lots of almond and a little lemon and frosted with chocolate.

My mother prepared cabbage Bavarian style, which meant it was flavored with onions, bacon, and vinegar.  Despite the last ingredient, I could swallow it more easily than German potato salad because it also had brown sugar. 

More easy to swallow was Sauerbraten, a pot roast of beef that has been soaked for days in spiced vinegar, then cooked.  What helped was the gravy made with gingersnaps.

Less easy to swallow was Sauerkraut.  That’s German for fermented cabbage.  And that’s all it is: cabbage allowed to ferment in a salt-water brine. 

Bread of some kind was served with every meal.

We ate a lot of sausage: bratwurst, mettwurst, liverwurst, knockwurst, and others. That included kinds both Polish and American.

Spaetzel was a favorite of my father.  I liked them, too.  The name refers to tiny egg dumplings.  As an alternative, we ate mashed potato dumplings called Kartoffel Kloesse.

I remember an occasion one autumn when Grandmother had encouraged my mother to demonstrate some of her newly acquired culinary skills to the entire family.  Entire meant not only Mother and Father, my sister, and myself, but also Grandfather August and Grandmother Halfrida, Uncle Manfred and his wife Margaret with their three children, and Aunt Karla and her husband Joseph with their three children.  That was quite a group for whom to prepare a schnitzel dinner with all the appetizers, sides, drinks, and dessert. 

It was also quite a group for whom to make table.  My father had anticipated such an event early in his marriage, though.  The rooms of the lower level of the house flowed into one another, so more than one could be used for dining. He also made sure to make a table that could be expanded as the family expanded. 

At that dinner, Uncle Manfred decided to go by what may be termed corporate initials.  He was an executive climbing the corporate ladder at a big paper products company in Green Bay.  With memories of World War 2 still strong when he started working there, he didn’t want his name to cause him or anyone else trouble. So, at first he chose to go by Fred. 

That was fine until he earned a significant promotion.  A situation comedy starring cartoon cave people had just become a hit television program, and Uncle Manfred became uncomfortable with his nickname.  As an executive, he said he could no longer tolerate a name that had become so well associated with a buffoon.  Needing something more respectable, he pondered, “I wonder if I can get away with Manfred.”

Indignant, Grandfather August asked, “And why not?  That is your name, after all.  It is the good name your mother and I gave you.”  Manfred means man of peace; it refers to one who is heroic in being the champion of peace.

Uncle Manfred had no peace with himself, however.  He said, “But what do people think when they hear the name?  Manfred von Richtofen, the Red Baron, a World War 1 German fighter pilot who shot down eighty Allied flyers.”

“You don’t want to be thought of as an ace in business?” Aunt Margaret asked.

“I don’t want to be thought of as an enemy.”

“I think of Mighty Manfred,” I said.

The other kids at the table started to snicker.

“Who?” Uncle Manfred asked.

“Manfred the Wonder Dog,” I repeated.  He was the sidekick of another cartoon character who appeared on a popular network children’s TV show weekday mornings. The dog caused wonder mainly in his ability to sleep through anything.

“Oh, that helps,” said Uncle Manfred.  “Actually, I was thinking of going by Charles.”  That was his middle name.  “You know.  As in Charles Martel.  Charles Dickens.  Charles Lindbergh.  Charles Goodyear.  Charles Pfizer.”

“Charles Ives,” my aunt Karla added.

My sister Kristel added the star of a popular comic-strip having the same first name as his creator (who happened to be a good Methodist).

The kids at the table laughed again.

Then my father couldn’t resist adding, “Since you’re in charge of obtaining pulpwood for the mill, you can go by Wood Chuck.”

That did it.  Uncle Manfred announced he would go by M.C. thereafter.  And it stuck.

woodcraft 1


August Moon

20 08 2014

In the smooth grey heaven is poised the pale half moon
And sheds on the wide grey river a broken reflection.
Out from the low church-tower the boats are moored
After the heat of the day, and await the dark.

And here, where the side of the road shelves into the river
At the gap where barges load and horses drink,
There are no horses.    And the river is full
And the water stands by the shore and does not lap.

And a barge lies up for the night this side of the island,
The bargeman sits in the bows and smokes his pipe
And his wife by the cabin stirs.    Behind me voices pass.

Calm sky, calm river: and a few calm things reflected.
And all as yet keep their colours; the island osiers,
The ash-white spots of umbelliferous flowers,
And the yellow clay of its bank, the barge’s brown sails
That are furled up the mast and then make a lean triangle
To the end of the hoisted boom, and the high dark slips
Where they used to build vessels, and now build them no more.

All in the river reflected in quiet colours.
Beyond the river sweeps round in a bend, and is vast,
A wide grey level under the motionless sky
And the waxing moon, clean cut in the mole-grey sky.
Silence.    Time is suspended; that the light fails
One would not know were it not for the moon in the sky,
And the broken moon in the water, whose fractures tell
Of slow broad ripples that otherwise do not show,
Maturing imperceptibly from a pale to a deeper gold,
A golden half moon in the sky, and broken gold in the water.

In the water, tranquilly severing, joining, gold:
Three or four little plates of gold on the river:
A little motion of gold between the dark images
Of two tall posts that stand in the grey water.

There are voices passing, a murmur of quiet voices,
A woman’s laugh, and children going home.
A whispering couple, leaning over the railings,
And, somewhere, a little splash as a dog goes in.

I have always known all this, it has always been,
There is no change anywhere, nothing will ever change.

I heard a story, a crazy and tiresome myth.

Listen! behind the twilight a deep low sound
Like the constant shutting of very distant doors,

Doors that are letting people over there
Out to some other place beyond the end of the sky.

John Collings Squire

 And he was going throughout towns and villages, teaching and making his journey toward Jerusalem.  And someone said to him, “Lord, are there only a few who are saved?”

And he said to them, “Make every effort to enter through the narrow door, because many, I tell you, will seek to enter and will not be able to,  when once the master of the house has gotten up and shut the door, and you begin to stand outside and knock on the door, saying, ‘Lord, open the door for us!’

And he will answer and say to you, ‘I do not know where you are from!’

 Then you will begin to say, ‘We ate and drank in your presence, and you taught in our streets!’

And he will reply, saying to you, ‘I do not know where you are from! Go away from me, all you evildoers!’ 

In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, when you see Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God, but yourselves thrown outside! And they will come from east and west, and from north and south, and will recline at the table in the kingdom of God.  And behold, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.”

Luke 13:22-30 (Lexham English Bible)

Woodscraft 10: Shop Rules

16 08 2014

Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness

That precept is not in the Bible.  People may think it is, but it isn’t.  The man who made a point to preach it — John Wesley, the founder of the Methodist churches — seemed to think that it ought to be. My parents and both pairs of my grandparents lived as if it were. 

Slovenliness, to use Wesley’s term, had no place in our family.  Could I follow the fashion of the day and dress the way the other boys did?  In warm weather, fad dictated  wearing one’s shirt outside one’s pants and with all the buttons undone, revealing the white T-shirt underneath.  Not I, however … at least, not within sight of my mother or father.

If the T-shirt for some reason had to be visible, it had better be white.  Snow white.  And don’t even think about rolling up its short sleeves.

If pants or trousers had belt loops, then a belt was to be worn passing underneath every loop. 

The legs of dress pants were long enough to touch the tops of the feet.  The creases along the pant legs were to be sharp and crisp with exactly one kink.

The sleeves of dress shirts reached to the back of the hands.  The cuffs of suit coats and sports jackets went to the wrist.  Between one-quarter and one-half inch of shirt cuff was to be visible below.

And by the way, one did not put his hands in his pockets unless he was getting something out: a pen, some money, a handkerchief, a stick of gum, something. Otherwise, “Keep your hands out of your pockets.”  Why?  It looked slovenly.  Worse, it looked indolent: lazy, habitually lazy.  Hands were made to do something worthwhile, something productive, something enterprising.  Hands should not be so idle that they had nothing to do other than loaf in pockets.

And so it went.  Not just with regard to dress, either.

Litter was disgraceful.  One ought not throw it anywhere.  One ought not allow it anywhere on one’s property, not for one day, if possible, and certainly not by the coming Sunday.

Fencerows were to be clean of weeds.  So, too, gardens, crop fields, and pastures.  Fields in the spring and fall had better be tilled clean of all residue (regardless of the potential for exposed soil being eroded by wind and rain).  Furrows plowed through fields must be straight as a beam of light.

When it came to housework, my mother strove mightily every day except Sunday.  Her home would always ready to serve as a guest location for any of the popular family situational comedies seen on television.

My father kept his trucks in fine condition, but they tended to look as though a working man worked them.  My mother, however, kept her cars in showroom condition.  One dared not throw or kick or shoot anything if her car gleamed anywhere within range.

As for my father’s shop, there was a place for everything, and everything was to be in its place.  That meant tools, every one of which everyone treated as if it were made of sterling.  That also meant, at the end of every work day, all wood scraps went into bins, all wood shavings went into barrels, and all wood dust went into vacuum cleaners.

No Smoking

That made sense, of course, what with wood and wood residue all over the place.  But the shop rule went further than that.  Neither of my parents smoked, and neither approved of smoking.  (That didn’t keep my father’s father from smoking his imported German pipes on occasion.)

Now, back in those days, tobacco products existed everywhere.  About the only place one could go to get away from tobacco smoke and spittle was inside a church sanctuary. 

Advertisements for tobacco products presented themselves everywhere: in newspapers and magazines, on billboards, on the radio, and on television.

And candy versions of tobacco products for kids were everywhere.  They included cigarettes, cigars, and even chewing tobacco.  The ‘chaw’ was bubble gum.  So, too, were the cigars; they came in pink, green, and yellow.  Candy cigarettes came as paper-wrapped chocolate.  The candy looked a lot like the real thing in their suave plastic cases, but the look had to be spoiled to get at the candy.  Candy cigarettes also came in hard mint form packaged in boxes that mimicked real brands available.  Each piece was white with some red food coloring added at one end to give it that lit-up look.  It tasted terrible.  One may as well have eaten the real tobacco product flavored with menthol.

Cowboys smoked.  My mother, who let me use fake guns, would not let me use fake cigarettes.  A pal of mine gave me a pack once.  Only once.  The first time my mother saw me riding around the yard sucking — or trying not to suck — on one of those candies, she quickly had something to say.  “Get that filthy thing out of your mouth.  You look and smell like a demon.”


“You heard me.”

“What do you mean, smell?  This is mint.  Sort of.”

“Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit.  Act like it.  Spit that thing out.”

But not on the ground.  No littering.  The whole package of candy went into the garbage can, and I had to rely on toothpicks thereafter.

No Drinking

My father had every intention of making it to retirement with all his fingers intact.  He would say, “When working, one must be alert, under control, and in command.”  He meant working anywhere,  but his precept applied especially in his shop, what with all that electricity and all those power tools with all those sharp edges.

My mother would recite, “Who hath woe?  Who hath sorrow?  Who hath contentions?  Who hath babbling?  Who hath wounds without cause?  Who hath redness of eyes?  They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.  Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright.  At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.”

Her father had a souvenir of the Prohibition Era of the 1920s, a sheet of paper posted in his workshop at the farm.  “Don’t succumb to the evil pleasures of Mr. Booze!” implored the headline near a cartoon of a bottle.  Why?  “It’s illegal.  It’s expensive.  It tastes terrible.  It burns when it goes down.  It gives you bad breath.  It makes you sick.  It makes you stupid.  In short, it’s foolish!”

No Cussing

My mother would have preferred “No Cursing” to the slang spelling.  My father explained that “cussing” referred to all expletives whether profane or obscene.  That pleased her well enough, though she herself didn’t stop there.

She would not tolerate the use of any of the four-letter words that, at the time, were banned from radio and television.  Neither would she tolerate any of the allegedly sanitized versions of those words.  That meant I was not allowed to say such words as “heck” and “darn”. 

“They refer to profane words,” she would say.  “They are derived from profane words.  They have the same profane meanings.” 

“And it is not right to make light of hellfire and damnation,” my father would say.  “You have no authority over either.  You should not wish either on any one or any thing of God’s creation.  Only He has the right and the might to do such cursing.”

“What about the Devil and his doings?” I asked.  “Can’t even he be cursed?”

My mother said, “Do as the Scripture records and say, ‘The Lord rebuke thee’.”

The same prohibition applied to such expressions as “gosh” and “golly” and even “by gar” as well as to “gee” and “gee whiz” and “jeepers”.

The mother of a friend of mine did not have the habit of cursing.  I did hear her often say instead, “God bless America!”  I asked my mother whether she thought that was all right.

“I don’t think so,” she answered.  “Not unless she’s praying.”  Then she asked me, “Kurt, what is the Second Commandment?”

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” I recited.

“And what does vain mean?”

I thought about it.  “Stuck up.”

“Well, yes.  It does mean being possessed of a selfish and haughty pride.  The word means more than that, though, at least in old English.  Taking something in vain means to treat it as though it were empty, worthless, or futile.  Today’s meaning of vain comes from that older meaning.  A person who is vain is taking pride in someone who, apart from God, is worth less than dead grass cast into an oven, as the Scripture says. 

“But God is not worthless.  He is Creator and King of all Creation.  He is Light and Love and Life.  He is our Refuge, the fortress Rock of our salvation.  He is our Father; hallowed be His name. 

“One does not mention the name of God without all due consideration, without reverence and respect.  He is Light; one does not treat His name lightly.

“Words are important, son.  By saying the Word, God created all the heavens and the earth.  By sending the Word, God sent life and light.  We behold the Word’s glory, full of grace and truth.  We have been given the ability to speak and to hear words, to write and to read words.  The Word of God communicates essential grace and truth to us, and we can communicate via the Word to Him.  By the Word we communicate, we commune with God.  By the word we communicate, we commune with one another. 

“Words, therefore, should not be vain.  They should be full of grace and truth.  As Jesus said, ‘Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.  A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things.  An evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil things.  I say unto you that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment’.”

My mother made sure I got that message by holding me to account for my idle words.  If something from my mouth made her expression turn sour, something sour would go into my mouth: vinegar.  Too this day, I cannot eat German potato salad without thinking of my mother and what she said to me.

My father said to me, “Well done, Kurt,” when I presented my new walnut rifle stock and foregrip.  He held both pieces in his hands as if he were inspecting them for the first time.  That wasn’t true, of course.  He had worked with me as I worked with them through every part of the process. 

One piece in each hand, he alternated hefting them.  He studied each piece from front to back and from side to side.  He nodded.  He tucked one piece under an arm so that he could run his hand along the other.  He nodded again.  “Yup,” he said.  “I reckon these’ll do just fine.  You can take ‘em over to Hank, and he’ll get ‘em together on the gun.”

“Oh,” I said.  “But Hank is gone fishing.  When I was over there this morning, he said he’d be gone all afternoon.  Don’t you think you can do it?”

He did.  And he did. 

 woodcraft 1


12 08 2014

A day of torpor in the sullen heat
Of Summer’s passion: In the sluggish stream
The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,
With drowsy eyes, and dream.

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky
There lives no cloud to hint of Nature’s grief;
The sun glares ever like an evil eye,
And withers flower and leaf.

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote
The thresher lies deserted, like some old
Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat
Upon a sea of gold.

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird
Above an empty nest, and truant boys
Along the river’s shady margin heard -
A harmony of noise -

A melody of wrangling voices blent
With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls
Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent
To mimic waterfalls.

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere
Has draped about the gleaming face of Day,
The sifted glances of the sun appear
In splinterings of spray.

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn,
Trails o’er the hillside, and the passer-by,
A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on
His journey to the sky.

And down across the valley’s drooping sweep,
Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade,
The forest stands in silence, drinking deep
Its purple wine of shade.

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing;
The sailor-vision voyages the skies
And carries into chaos everything
That freights the weary eyes:

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat
Increases – reaches – passes fever’s height,
And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet,
Within the arms of Night.


James Whitcomb Riley

summer haze

In Glad Accord

10 08 2014

My song forever shall record
The tender mercies of the Lord;
Thy faithfulness will I proclaim,
And every age shall know Thy Name.

I sing of mercies that endure,
Forever builded firm and sure,
Of faithfulness that never dies,
Established changeless in the skies.

Behold God’s truth and grace displayed,
For He has faithful covenant made,
And He has sworn that David’s son
Shall ever sit upon his throne.

The heavens shall join in glad accord
To praise Thy wondrous works, O Lord;
Thy faithfulness shall praise command
Where holy ones assembled stand.

Who in the heavenly dwellings fair
Can with the Lord Himself compare?
Or who among the mighty shares
The likeness that Jehovah bears.

With fear and reverence at His feet
God’s holy ones in council meet;
Yea, more than all about His throne
Must He be feared, and He alone.

O Thou Jehovah, God of Hosts,
What mighty one Thy likeness boasts?
In all Thy works and vast designs
Thy faithfulness forever shines.

The swelling sea obeys Thy will,
Its angry waves Thy voice can still;
Thy mighty enemies are slain,
Thy foes resist Thy power in vain.

The heavens and earth, by right divine,
The world and all therein are Thine;
The whole creation’s wondrous frame
Proclaims its Maker’s glorious Name.

Psalm 89:1-12 (as rendered in the 1912 Psalter of the Presbyterian and Reformed Churches of America)

sea and sky

Prayer Advocacy

10 08 2014
In the last few weeks, thousands of Christians have been forced by militant rule to flee their homes in northern Iraq. The United States has authorized air strikes and humanitarian aid airdrops in Iraq. The United Nations has condemned militant actions and is urging a coordinated response. Stories of the persecution of Christians and other minorities in Iraq, Egypt, Syria and other areas in the Middle East continue to fill the media. Please join me and other Christians around the world in praying for peaceful resolution and relief for those caught in the violence and persecution.
Prayer Events
  • The World Evangelical Alliance is organizing a prayer gathering for the Middle East at the International Salvation Army Headquarters in New York City at 5:30 pm on August 14.
  • Encourage your church to set aside time in this Sunday’s service to pray as a congregation for Iraq.
Prayer Points
  • Pray for President Obama and his advisors as they consider where and how to provide humanitarian assistance and military intervention in Iraq.
  • Pray for safety for Christians and other minorities in Iraq who are fleeing violence and persecution. Pray that they would find safe harbor.
  • Pray for comfort for those across the Middle East who have lost loved ones and have suffered traumatic violence.
  • Pray for missionaries and humanitarian aid workers who serve in difficult and violent corners of the world, that they will be kept safe, and that their efforts will contribute to a fuller realization of the peace and prosperity that God intends for all.
For a few more resources, visit www.nae.net/prayforiraq.
Thank you,
Leith Anderson
National Association of Evangelicals




Woodcraft 9: Shop Rules

8 08 2014

No Blood on or in the Machinery. 

No Blood on the Tools or on the Woodwork. 

No Blood on the Tables, the Benches, or the Floor.


That was my father’s way of saying, “Be careful.  Observe all the safety protocols.”

He asked me, “What does the Bible say about blood?”

“Without the shedding of blood, there is no remission of sins,” I answered, as though I were reciting the catechism at school.

“And why is blood so important?”

“The life is in the blood,” I recited.

“And what does that mean?”

I thought about it.  That one, I couldn’t answer.

“You probably haven’t gotten that far in school yet,” my father said.  “Listen.  You know that you breathe, right?”

“Right.”  I didn’t think much about it since breathing is automatic, but of course I knew I did it.

“Air goes into your lungs.  Your heart pumps blood to your lungs to pick up air.  Oxygen, to be more specific.  Your heart then pumps the air-loaded blood to all the other parts of your body.  All those parts, down to the smallest cells, need air.  That’s why you need air.  Right?”


“What does the Bible say about the creation of man?”

“It says that God made Adam from the dust of the ground, and then He breathed life into him.”

“Right.  Man’s body is made from the elements of the earth.  Man’s spirit is made from the Breath of Heaven.  From the Divine Wind, as the Japanese might say.  The old English said the Holy Ghost.  The writers of the Bible, whether using Hebrew or Greek, used words made like plywood for the Spirit.  The words had many meanings glued together to try to make the concept work well in human language: air, wind, breath, even ghost.”

I wondered whether they might have thought of fog.  I was getting confused.

My father asked, “What did Jesus say about God?  How did He describe Him in short?”

“Jesus said God is Spirit.”

“And has anyone seen God?”

“No one has seen God at any time.  No one can see God and live,” I recited.

“Right.  No one except…”

I had to think for a moment.  “Oh.  Well, no one except Jesus Christ, the Son of Man and the Son of God.”

“Right.  As He said; as it is written.  And Jesus also said, ‘He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father’.”  My father looked me in the eye.  “Have you seen Jesus?”

Again, I paused.  I didn’t quite know how to answer that, so I decided to be strictly honest.  “No.”

“Neither have I,” my father said.  “That’s why Jesus said, ‘If ye love Me, keep My commandments.  And I will pray the Father, and He shall give you another Comforter, that He may abide with you forever, even the Spirit of truth whom the world cannot receive because it seeth Him not, neither knoweth Him.  But ye know Him, for He dwelleth with you and shall be in you.  I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you.’ 

“There is that within us,” my father said, “that makes us living souls.  It comes not from within ourselves.  It comes from without.  It comes not from within the earth.  It comes from heaven.  As Elihu told Job, if God were to ‘gather unto Himself His spirit and His breath, all flesh shall perish together, and man shall turn again unto dust.’  That spirit, that breath is, as the French might say, élan vitale: a vital, enthusing vigor.  Quickening is the old English word you’ve seen in the Scripture: an enlivening.  It’s something God breathes into us to make us alive.  It’s Something we breath in from God in order to live.”

“That’s the life that’s in the blood?” I asked.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. The air carried in the blood is a symbol of the spirit given us.  It is that spirit that makes us among all creatures special: the image of God.  It is that Holy Spirit of God, spilling in the blood from the Son of God onto the woodwork of the cross, that kills sin and re-creates us to be what we were meant to be.  ‘But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord’.”

woodcraft 8


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