September 17th, 1876. Helena, Montana Territory. Margaret Lindstöm stood in front of her brother-in-law’s cabin with two flour sacks, a splitting maul, and exactly $7 in coins, while the first snow of the season dusted the Elkhorn Mountains behind her. Her husband had been dead three weeks. His brother Eric had given her until sundown to clear out.

Six hours of daylight remained, and the almanac predicted the coldest winter in a decade. She was forty-one years old, spoke English with a thick Swedish accent, and owned precisely nothing except what she could carry. The temperatures would drop to twenty below zero within a month. No boarding house in Helena would take a widow without references. The nearest homestead where she might find work sat forty-three miles east, and she didn’t have a horse.

But Margaret had spent her first twelve years in Dalarna, Sweden, where her father had been a charcoal burner in forests that made Montana look tame. She knew something about staying alive when the world wanted you dead.

The problem wasn’t shelter. She could dig a dugout into the hillside above Prickly Pear Creek in two days if the ground cooperated. The problem was firewood. A Montana winter required four cords of split wood minimum for a single woman in a twelve-by-twelve space. That wood needed to stay dry, or it would smoke instead of burn. And smoke in a confined space meant waking up dead. She’d seen it happen to a Norwegian family in ’74.

The conventional solution was a separate woodshed: an eight-by-twelve structure, milled lumber, tin roof, raised floor. Cost ran between $30 and $40 in materials alone. Margaret had $7 and forty-seven days before the first killing freeze if the weather held.

She walked south along the creek until the canyon narrowed and the north-facing slope turned steep enough that snow would pile eight feet deep come January. Perfect. She found a spot where an old rock slide had created a natural alcove, semicircular, maybe eleven feet across, cut back into the hillside about six feet. The exposed rock face curved like the inside of a barrel.

If she could figure out how to close the front without spending money she didn’t have, the hillside itself would shed snow and rain. The rock would hold heat from any fire she built, and the elevation put it above the flood plain that turned Prickly Pear Creek into a torrent every spring.

Four men watched her from the Helena Lumber Company staging area two hundred yards downstream. She could feel their skepticism like a physical weight.

—

By noon, she’d cleared brush and begun the real work. The creek bottom grew thick with young cottonwood and willow, nothing over four inches in diameter, but green enough to bend without breaking. She cut twelve saplings, each about fourteen feet long and thick as her wrist, using a borrowed bucksaw she’d return before sunset.

The trick her father had taught her was this: greenwood bends, deadwood breaks, and the curve you force into living timber today becomes permanent tomorrow if you do it right.

She drove two stakes into the ground at the alcove’s opening, exactly eleven feet apart. Then she took the first sapling, buried one end eighteen inches deep on the left side, bent it overhead in a smooth arc, and anchored the other end on the right side. The sapling formed a perfect semicircle, like a wagon cover’s rib cage. She did this eleven more times, spacing each arch sixteen inches apart, until she had a framework that looked like a tunnel entrance cut into the hillside.

Thomas Brennan walked up around two o’clock. He’d been the foreman on the Northern Pacific survey crew before taking a mining claim near Marysville. He didn’t suffer fools.

“Mrs. Lindström,” he said, pulling off his hat. “That’s an interesting notion you’re building.”

“It’s a woodshed, Mr. Brennan.”

“A woodshed?” He studied the sapling arches, which were already starting to set in their curved positions. No walls. No roof. No floor.

“Not yet,” Margaret said.

“Ma’am, I don’t mean to overstep, but you’ve got maybe six weeks before snow that’ll bury this canyon. You planning to live through winter in a hole with a fence made of sticks?”

“I’m planning to keep four cords of firewood dry,” she said. “The living part happens elsewhere.”

Brennan looked at the seven remaining saplings she’d cut, then at the rock alcove, then back at her. “Cottonwood and willow won’t hold snow load. First storm will flatten whatever you’re building here.”

“Snow is going to hit the hillside twenty feet above this spot and slide right over. I’m not building tall enough to catch it.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue. Just put his hat back on and walked away shaking his head.

—

The sun was starting to drop when Margaret began the weaving. She’d saved the longest, most flexible willow shoots, hundreds of them, each six to eight feet long and slender as a pencil. Starting at ground level, she wove them horizontally through the vertical saplings—over, under, over, under—pulling each strand tight before moving to the next.

It was basketmaking on an architectural scale.

By dusk, she’d completed three feet of lattice wall that curved smoothly from the rock face on both sides, gradually closing the opening. The weave was tight enough to block wind but open enough to let moisture escape. She returned the bucksaw to its owner and spent her first night under a tarp stretched between two trees, listening to coyotes argue in the distance.

September 18th brought frost that killed the last of the summer wildflowers. Margaret worked through it, weaving willow shoots until her fingers bled and the wall reached five feet high. The structure was starting to look like something half-buried in the hillside, half-woven from living wood, curved like an upside-down boat.

A few miners stopped to watch. Most walked away confused, but Samuel Chen didn’t walk away. He’d come from Guangdong Province in ’69 to work the transcontinental railroad, stayed when the job ended, and now ran a small freight business hauling supplies to mining camps. He’d seen things built a hundred different ways across two continents.

“This design,” he said in careful English, “reminds me of structures in northern China. Earth and wood together.”

“I’m Swedish,” Margaret said. “But the principle is probably the same. Work with what you’ve got.”

“The curve is smart,” Samuel said. “Distributes weight. But those willow shoots—they’ll dry out and shrink. Gaps will open.”

Margaret had thought of that. “Not if I seal them right.”

“With what? Tar paper costs money. Canvas costs money.”

“Clay’s free,” she said. “And there’s a deposit two hundred yards upstream that’s got enough structure to hold.”

Samuel tilted his head, reassessing. “You’re going to do it like a wattle and daub wall.”

“Something like that.”

He smiled for the first time. “That might actually work.”

“If the clay doesn’t crack when it freezes.”

“Mix it with enough grass and manure. It won’t crack.”

“Mongols have been doing it for a thousand years,” Margaret said. “Swedes figured it out about five hundred years ago. I’m just late to the party.”

—

Over the next four days, Margaret completed the woven wall and began the daubing. She mixed creek clay with dried grass, horse manure from a nearby stable—free for the hauling—and a little water to create a thick paste. She packed this mixture into every gap in the willow lattice, inside and out, building up layers until the wall was three inches thick.

The work was slow and filthy and made her shoulders scream, but the structure became something solid, waterproof, windproof—the kind of wall that would laugh at a blizzard.

The roof was trickier. She couldn’t afford milled lumber, couldn’t afford tin, couldn’t afford cedar shakes. But she could harvest bark. The ponderosa pines on the ridge above her site had thick, plate-like bark that peeled off in sections two feet long and fourteen inches wide. She collected seventy-three pieces over two days, climbing trees until her hands were sticky with pitch.

Then she overlapped them like roof tiles over the arched framework, securing each piece with bent willow pins. The bark shingles followed the curve of the structure perfectly. Rain would hit them and run off. Snow would slide right over the dome.

Now people were paying attention.

Here’s what you need to understand about frontier communities in 1876: information traveled slower than weather, but judgment traveled faster than both. When somebody tried something new—especially a woman alone, especially a foreigner, especially someone with no land and no money—the community divided into three groups: those who hoped you’d succeed, those who hoped you’d fail so they could feel superior, and those who genuinely wanted to help but couldn’t figure out how.

Margaret had representatives from all three camps watching her work.

Father Heinrich Mueller represented the skeptical religious faction. He was a Lutheran minister who’d immigrated from Bavaria in ’68 and believed strongly in traditional social structures. On September 24th, he approached while Margaret was waterproofing the bark roof with a mixture of pine pitch and rendered fat.

“Mrs. Lindström, the congregation has discussed your situation. We can offer you domestic work in exchange for a room in the church basement through winter.”

Margaret didn’t stop working. “That’s kind of you, Father. What sort of domestic work?”

“Cleaning, laundering, meal preparation for church functions. Standard arrangements.”

“How many hours weekly?”

“Perhaps thirty. Possibly thirty-five, depending on need. And the room—eight by ten, shared facilities, adequate heat.”

Margaret climbed down from the ladder she’d improvised from pine branches. She wiped pitch from her hands and looked at the minister directly. “Father Mueller, I appreciate the offer, but I’m forty-one years old. I’ve buried a husband and two children, and I’ve worked every day of my life since I was seven. I’m not interested in becoming a servant in a church basement.”

“Pride is a sin, Mrs. Lindström.”

“So is wasting what God gave you,” she said. “He gave me two hands and a brain. I’m using both.”

Mueller’s face darkened. “This structure you’re building—it’s inappropriate. Unseemly, for a Christian woman to be living in a hole in the ground like an animal.”

“I’m not planning to live in it,” Margaret said. “I’m building a woodshed. My dugout’s twenty feet east.” She hadn’t started the dugout yet, but the minister didn’t need to know that.

“This will fail,” Mueller said. “When it does, the church’s offer may not stand.”

“Then I guess I’d better not fail,” Margaret said.

—

By September 28th, Margaret had spent $5 of her seven. A box of ninety-penny nails had cost sixty cents. A pound of rendered tallow for waterproofing had cost forty cents. Two yards of burlap for a door covering had cost thirty cents. She’d bartered her late husband’s pocket watch for a small sheet metal stove that was missing one leg, which she propped up with rocks.

The remaining $2 would buy enough cornmeal and beans to get through October if she ate light and supplemented with whatever she could forage or trap.

The woodshed was functionally complete. The structure measured eleven feet wide, six feet deep where it met the rock face, and seven feet high at the center of the arch. Total interior space: approximately sixty-six square feet. The curved walls and roof created a self-supporting dome that required no internal posts or beams. Air could circulate through small vent gaps she’d left near the top of the walls, which would prevent condensation and mold while still blocking rain and snow.

Now came the test.

She spent three days cutting and splitting firewood—lodgepole pine mostly. It grew thick in the draws above the creek and burned clean if you seasoned it properly. She worked from dawn until dark, splitting rounds with the maul until her palms blistered and then bled and then calloused over.

Each piece got stacked inside the arched shelter in a careful pattern: larger logs on the bottom for stability, smaller splits on top for airflow, everything tilted slightly so moisture would drain. By October 1st, she had three and a half cords stacked to the ceiling, with just enough room to squeeze inside and grab what she needed.

The first real storm hit on October 3rd. Not snow yet—just cold rain that fell for thirty-six hours straight and turned the creek into a churning brown torrent. The temperature dropped to thirty-four degrees. Winds gusted to forty miles per hour.

Margaret sat in her half-finished dugout, still just a hole in the ground with a tarp over it, and watched water pour off the hillside above her woodshed. Every drop ran right over the bark roof. The curved shape channeled everything to the sides.

Not a single leak.

Not one drop penetrated the clay-daubed walls.

When the storm cleared, she opened the burlap door and checked the firewood. Bone dry. She pulled out a split log from the middle of the stack and examined it closely. The wood’s moisture content felt exactly the same as before the rain—maybe fourteen percent, perfect for burning. No mold. No dampness. No water stains.

Thomas Brennan showed up that afternoon with an odd expression on his face.

“Mrs. Lindström, I owe you an apology.”

Margaret was digging out her dugout, throwing shovel after shovel of dirt onto a pile that would become her earthen roof.

“For what, Mr. Brennan?”

“For assuming you didn’t know what you were doing.” He gestured at the woodshed. “I inspected it after the storm. That’s solid work. Better than solid. That’s smart work.”

“Thank you.”

“How much did the whole thing cost you?”

Margaret leaned on her shovel. “Let’s see. Nails, tallow, burlap, and the food I’ve eaten while building it. About $6.20, last I calculated.”

Brennan stared at her. “I spent $38 on my woodshed last year. Milled lumber, tin roof, raised floor. Yours is better.”

“Yours is probably prettier.”

“Pretty doesn’t matter when you’re trying not to freeze,” Brennan said. “Do you mind if I bring some people by? I know three miners who need wood storage before snow flies, and they’re all short on cash.”

“Bring them,” Margaret said.

—

Word spread the way it does in small communities. By mid-October, Margaret had shown seven different people how to build a bent-sapling woodshed. She didn’t charge for the information—just asked that if anyone had extra food or supplies, she’d appreciate the help. She ended up with more dried beans, smoked venison, and cornmeal than she could eat in three months. One mining engineer gave her a wool blanket that had belonged to his late mother. Samuel Chen brought her a bundle of Chinese newspapers to use as insulation, along with a jar of preserved vegetables his wife had put up.

The community had shifted around her. She’d proven something that mattered more than social propriety or religious approval: she could solve problems with intelligence and work. In a place where survival was never guaranteed, that counted for everything.

The real winter arrived on November 12th. The temperature dropped to eight below zero overnight. Six inches of snow fell, then another eight, then another twelve. The wind screamed down from the Continental Divide at sixty miles per hour, creating drifts that buried fence lines and made the Helena Road impassable for three days.

This was the weather that killed people who weren’t prepared. The cold that found every gap in every wall. The wind that sucked heat from any structure that wasn’t built right.

Margaret’s dugout held steady at forty-eight degrees inside without any fire burning, just from the earth’s thermal mass. When she needed heat for cooking or warmth, she fed the little three-legged stove with splits from her woodshed. Every piece burned clean and hot because it had stayed absolutely dry.

But there was a crisis coming that had nothing to do with her own survival.

On November 19th, a family of Swedish immigrants—the Johanssons—arrived in Helena after a disastrous journey from Minnesota. They’d been promised homestead land by a speculator who’d turned out to be selling parcels he didn’t own. They had no money, three children under the age of eight, and winter already locked down hard. The father, Lars, had developed a cough that sounded like it was tearing him apart from the inside. The mother, Karin, was six months pregnant and exhausted to the point of collapse.

Father Mueller put them in the church basement temporarily, but he made it clear they couldn’t stay past Christmas. The basement was needed for church functions, and besides, able-bodied people needed to provide for themselves.

The subtext was obvious: Lars was too sick to work. Karin was too pregnant to work. And the children were too young to be useful.

Margaret heard about this from Samuel Chen, who’d been hired to haul the family’s meager belongings from the train station. She walked to the church that evening and found Karin trying to comfort her children in a dim, cold room that smelled like mildew and defeat.

“How much firewood do you have?” Margaret asked.

Karin looked up, startled. “Maybe two weeks’ worth, if we’re careful. Lars can’t cut more in his condition.”

“You’ll need four cords minimum to make it to spring.”

“I know,” Karin said quietly. “But we don’t have money for wood, and I don’t know who’d sell it to us anyway with Lars like this.”

Margaret did the math in her head. Her own woodshed held enough to get her through winter with some to spare. She could cut more if she needed to. There was plenty of lodgepole in the hills, and she still had her strength. But the Johanssons were facing a death sentence if they didn’t get fuel, and Lars’s cough suggested he might not live to see spring regardless.

The question wasn’t whether to help. The question was how to help without making them feel like charity cases—because dignity mattered to people even when they were dying.

“I need workers,” Margaret said, which was a lie. “I’m planning to build two more storage structures before spring. One for root vegetables and one for tools. The pay is firewood instead of cash. One day’s work from the children equals a week’s worth of splits. They stack. I cut. Does that sound fair?”

Karin’s eyes filled with tears. She knew exactly what Margaret was doing, but the fiction allowed her to accept. “That’s more than fair.”

—

Over the next six weeks, the Johansson children—ages four, six, and seven—came to Margaret’s site every afternoon after morning lessons with Father Mueller. She taught them how to stack wood properly, how to read the weather in cloud formations, how to identify which trees would burn clean and which would smoke. She cut splits, and they stacked them in the Johanssons’ corner of the church basement.

By Christmas, the family had enough fuel to last until April.

Lars died on January 8th, 1877. The cough had been tuberculosis, which nobody could have prevented and nobody could have cured. But he died warm in a room heated by wood his children had helped stack, surrounded by people who’d shown up because Margaret had shown them that helping each other was the only way any of them survived.

Karin gave birth to a healthy girl in February. She named the child Margaret.

—

Here’s what the historical record shows, for those of you who like primary sources.

The *Helena Weekly Herald* published a short article on March 3rd, 1877, describing “ingenious frontier architecture developed by certain industrious residents to combat wood storage challenges.” The article specifically mentioned barrel-vaulted structures of woven willow and daubed clay, built at minimal expense and proving remarkably effective in severe weather conditions. No names were given—newspapers rarely credited women’s work in that era—but the timing and description match perfectly.

More significantly, the 1880 Montana Territory census lists Margaret Lindström as a property owner with an assessed land value of $180, which was substantial for a single woman. The census taker noted her occupation as “teacher of practical building techniques.” By that point, she’d helped forty-three families build various structures using salvaged and foraged materials. She charged based on what people could afford—sometimes cash, sometimes labor, sometimes just a promise to help someone else down the line.

The arched woodshed design spread throughout Montana Territory and into Wyoming and Dakota. Variations appeared. Some built with pine bark instead of willow. Some incorporated scavenged lumber. Some added stone foundations. But the core principle remained: work with natural curves. Use materials at hand. Build for the climate you’ve got instead of the climate you wish you had.

The technical advantages were real and measurable. Traditional milled-lumber woodsheds in Montana Territory cost between $30 and $45 in 1876. Margaret’s design cost under $7. Traditional sheds required purchased materials—dimensional lumber, cut nails, hinges, roofing material. Her design required only nails and burlap. Everything else was harvested or foraged. Traditional sheds stood exposed to wind and required regular maintenance as boards warped and gaps opened. Her design was partially earth-sheltered, self-supporting, and required almost no maintenance because the materials moved together as a unit when temperatures changed.

But here’s the part that matters most. Traditional sheds kept wood dry by elevating it off the ground and covering it with a roof. Margaret’s design kept wood dry by integrating with the landscape and using thermal mass to regulate humidity. Traditional sheds fought the environment. Her design worked with it.

The comparison isn’t even close. $7 versus $40. Seven days of work versus three weeks. One person versus needing help. And the performance was identical—in both cases, the firewood stayed dry enough to burn clean.

—

Why don’t we build like this anymore?

Because we don’t have to. We’ve got hardware stores and lumber yards and Home Depot and building codes and inspectors and professionals who will do the work if you’ve got the cash—which is fine. Modern construction techniques are generally better, safer, more durable. Nobody’s arguing that we should abandon engineered lumber and return to woven willow.

But something gets lost when we forget that intelligence can substitute for money. That observation matters more than credentials. That the person everyone dismissed might know something that could save your life.

Margaret Lindström died in 1903 at the age of sixty-eight. Wealthy by frontier standards—she owned 320 acres of land, a substantial house in Helena, and shares in two mining operations. Her obituary in the *Helena Independent* mentioned her contributions to practical architecture and noted that she’d taught a generation of settlers the value of adapting traditional techniques to frontier challenges.

What the obituary didn’t mention: she’d started with $7 and a deadline, and she’d turned that into a fortune by watching how trees grew and remembering what her father had taught her in a Swedish forest forty years earlier.

The original arched woodshed stood until 1912, when a forest fire burned through Prickly Pear Canyon and destroyed everything in its path. But by then the design had spread across the mountain west. You can still find remnants if you know where to look—collapsed frameworks in abandoned mining camps, overgrown stone foundations, the occasional photograph in historical society archives showing a curved structure that looks almost like it grew naturally from the hillside.

—

There’s a broader principle here that applies to any time period, any situation where resources are limited and the stakes are high. The principle is this: the best solutions often come from people who can’t afford to fail and who pay attention to how the world actually works instead of how they wish it worked.

Margaret couldn’t afford milled lumber, so she studied how trees bent. She couldn’t afford tin roofing, so she watched how bark shed water. She couldn’t afford to build tall, so she observed how snow moved across terrain. Every limitation forced her to look closer, think harder, and find answers that people with more money would have missed entirely.

That’s not romantic poverty. That’s not noble suffering. That’s just the reality that necessity sharpens observation in ways that comfort never will.

And here’s the thing that ties this all together. Margaret didn’t just save herself. She saved the Johansson family. She taught forty-three other families how to build better. She created a body of knowledge that spread across three territories and kept people alive for decades. All because she refused to accept that having no money meant having no options.

That $7 woodshed was never just about storing firewood. It was proof that the system wasn’t fixed. That resourcefulness mattered. That one person with enough determination could change the equation for everyone around them.

So when you’re facing your own winter—whatever form that takes, whatever deadline is approaching, whatever resources you don’t have—remember this. Margaret Lindström had $7, six weeks, and a brother-in-law who wanted her gone. She turned that into a shelter that worked better than structures costing six times as much. She turned that into a teaching career. She turned that into a legacy that outlived her by generations.

The question isn’t whether you have enough resources. The question is whether you’re watching closely enough to see what’s actually there.

—

Here’s what the historical record doesn’t show, because no newspaper printed it and no census taker recorded it. In the spring of 1877, after the snow melted and the creeks ran clear, a group of Helena women gathered at Margaret’s dugout. They brought coffee and bread and questions. Not about wood storage—about everything else. How do you know which way a hillside faces? How do you test clay before you mix it? How do you read a storm in the clouds three days out?

Margaret answered every question. She showed them the woodshed, now empty of firewood but still standing solid, the bark roof curling slightly at the edges but the daubed walls uncracked. She showed them her vegetable garden, already planted and sprouting, protected from late frost by a simple frame of bent willow covered with old flour sacks.

One of the women asked the question nobody else had dared to ask: “Aren’t you lonely out here?”

Margaret considered this. She thought about her husband, dead six months now. She thought about her children, buried back in Minnesota. She thought about the long winter nights when the wind screamed and the temperature dropped to forty below and the only sound was her own breathing and the crack of the stove.

“No,” she said. “I’m not lonely. I’m busy.”

The women laughed at that. They understood.

—

Thomas Brennan came back one more time, in the summer of 1878. He brought his wife and three daughters. The girls stared at Margaret’s property—the dugout now fronted with a proper door, the garden fenced against deer, a second arched structure for root vegetables, a third for tools. And the original woodshed, still standing, still curved like an upside-down boat, still bone-dry inside even after a week of rain.

“I keep thinking about what you said,” Brennan told her. “About working with what you’ve got.”

“It’s not complicated, Mr. Brennan.”

“Maybe not. But most people don’t do it. They see what they don’t have and stop right there.”

Margaret leaned against her fence and looked out at the Elkhorn Mountains, still white at the peaks even in July. “My father used to say that the forest doesn’t ask what you want. It shows you what’s possible. You just have to pay attention.”

“Was he a smart man?”

“He was a charcoal burner. He couldn’t read or write. But he could look at a stand of trees and tell you which ones would bend, which ones would burn, and which ones would split clean. That’s a kind of smart nobody ever put in a book.”

Brennan’s oldest daughter, thirteen years old and sharp as a tack, spoke up. “Can you teach me how to build one of those?”

Margaret looked at the girl—at her direct eyes, her practical shoes, her hands already calloused from chores. “Yes,” she said. “I can teach you.”

And she did. Over the next five years, Margaret taught that girl and dozens of others. She taught miners and homesteaders and former slaves who’d come west looking for land. She taught a Chinese railroad worker who’d been left for dead after an explosion and built a new life hauling freight. She taught a pregnant widow who’d arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back and left with a woodshed, a dugout, and the confidence to survive the winter.

None of them ever forgot what she taught them. Not because the techniques were complicated—they weren’t. Not because the materials were hard to find—they were everywhere. They remembered because Margaret had shown them something that couldn’t be bought: the knowledge that scarcity isn’t the end of the road. It’s just the beginning of paying attention.

—

The $7 woodshed became something like a legend in Helena. People told the story differently depending on who was telling it. Some said she’d built it in a single day. Some said she’d used no nails at all, just willow and clay and sheer stubbornness. Some said the structure was still standing, still dry, still perfect, long after the forest fire took everything else.

None of that is quite accurate. But the truth is remarkable enough without exaggeration.

A forty-one-year-old widow with $7 and a deadline built a structure that kept firewood dry through the worst winter in a decade. She did it by paying attention to how the world actually works—how trees bend, how clay holds, how snow moves, how heat transfers. She did it because she had no other choice. And then she taught everyone else how to do it too.

That’s not a legend. That’s just a woman who refused to lose.

If you’re still here—if you’ve made it this far into a story about a widow building a woodshed in 1876—then you understand something important. This isn’t just history. This is documentation of human problem-solving under pressure. This is evidence that intelligence and determination matter more than money or status when survival is on the line.

Margaret Lindström’s arched woodshed kept firewood dry for six winters before she built a proper house and didn’t need it anymore. But the principle lived on. The idea that you can work with what you’ve got. That nature provides templates if you’re smart enough to read them. That poverty and isolation don’t have to be death sentences.

Those ideas mattered in 1876. And they matter now.

The world has changed. The tools have changed. But the fundamental truth remains: intelligence and determination can overcome almost anything. And the person everyone underestimates might be the one who figures out how to survive what’s coming.

Margaret knew that.

And now you do too.