[Menvi-discuss] Someone wrote a short memoir about me!

[Brandon Keith (Biggs)]

Wow, this is amazing and fascinating!
It should be put in literary magazines and a must-read for Mobility 
instructors and students!
Thank you for sharing!

Brandon Keith Biggs

Check out
MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/brandonkeithbiggs
Also add me on facebook!
brandonkeith
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=675097942
And for my resume go to:
http://www.sfcasting.com/brandonkeith

--------------------------------------------------
From: "Chela Robles" <cdrobles693 at gmail.com>
Sent: Friday, July 22, 2011 2:56 PM
To: "undisclosed-recipients:"
Subject: [Menvi-discuss] Someone wrote a short memoir about me!

> Here is something someone wrote about me it is awesome and we keep in 
> touch!
>
> November 18th-25th,  2010
> Bil Hawkins
>
>             THAT SONG BY BUNNY BERRIGAN
>
> It was early in September 1988 when I was working for Contra Costa
> County S.E.L.P.A. as an Itinerant Teacher of the Blind that I was sent
> to White Pony Preschool in Lafayette, California. I had a large
> caseload spread between 14 school districts which took me all over the
> county. My schools ranged from Orinda and Moraga to Richmond, and all
> the way up to Walnut Creek, Concord and out to Port Chicago. I spent
> more time driving than I did teaching.
>
> I waited for the school bus to arrive with the student. I was
> wondering how to fit her into my schedule and wondering at who had
> allotted her five hours a week of my time. I had no idea how I was
> going to squeeze her into the teaching and driving schedule.
>
> The bus pulled into the parking lot and I watched the driver, a
> stocky, cheerful, middle-aged Native American Lady, unbuckle a student
> and pick her up.
>
> The girl was tiny. I had heard she was a preemie, but I had no idea
> how small. She was wiggling, energetic, laughing…
>
> And happy.
> The driver was bouncing her and singing a song with a ‘cha cha cha’
> chorus and the little girl was giggling and bouncing in time to it.
>
> The driver put the little girl down on the ground and when I knelt in
> front of her and said ‘Hi,’ she reached her arms out for me to pick
> her up. I did. She was as light as she was small. She was wearing
> jeans shorts with a red t-shirt, and blue sneakers and white socks
> with frills. It was September and chill, so she was wearing a blue
> jacket.  Her hair was all ringlets and curls. Someone, her mother
> presumably, had taken exquisite care of her hair. She was as small and
> perfect as a doll.
>
> She smiled, then she laughed. Her entire face lit up with joy.  And at
> that moment I didn’t care about schedules, I was going to see her
> every day…for as long as she needed.  The rest of the kids and the
> other schools could wait.
>
> Her name was Chela. She was born early and very tiny, about a pound
> and a half with bleeding into her brain and a hole in her heart. And,
> against all odds, she survived. She was four, I think, but with a body
> the size of a small two year old.
>
> Although small, she wasn’t fragile. She was all energy and wiggle and
> curiosity. She wasn’t talking yet.
>
> I got a cane for her, a sturdy one made out of fiberglass and
> super-glued a nylon marshmallow tip on the end and we set out across
> the campus to explore. The White Pony Meher School had formerly
> belonged to the Lafayette School District and they were renting it to
> the Meher Baba Group. It was a sprawling elementary school with
> staircases, terraces, tunnels between the buildings, and inner courts
> with playgrounds built onto a hillside. It was bounded by a parking
> lot on one side, an enormous playing field on the opposite end, a
> plateaued playing area on the top of the hill and a residential street
> on the bottom. It was ideal for teaching a little girl how to use a
> cane.
>
> Chela’s hands and fingers were tiny and it would be a while before she
> could hold and move the cane entirely by herself. I bent over and
> helped her hold it and we started touching things…
>
> ‘Touching’ was probably too calm a word. We banged, crashed, bashed
> and poked, bopped, tapped and slammed every wall, door, garbage can,
> handrail, banister, and pole in the school with that cane.  Every
> fence post and anything that stood vertical had a musical tone. Every
> wall, vertical plane, door and bench had its own sound and touch.
> Bushes all had a different kind of ‘give’ and the leaves and foliage
> that she knocked off all had individual smells.
>
> Chela loved the to and fro movements of the swings on the playground
> and, with some support and guidance, her favorite thing in the world
> was to slide down banisters.
>
> The teachers at the school were amazingly supportive. The school was a
> Meher Baba School. It was named after the adept who taught, ‘Do your
> best; Don’t worry; Be happy.” We could do worse than living by those
> rules alone.  The teachers were loving, mellow, and gentle folks who
> dressed in white and soft shades of yellow. They tolerated a high
> level of exploration on the part of the kids and never raised their
> voices. I never saw one of the staff angry at a child. Had I known
> this school existed, I wouldn’t have spent a year of my life building
> my own preschool fifteen miles south.
>
> On the second day, as we walked through the tiled hallway up near the
> upper playing field I played my mouth trumpet. In the smooth tile
> tunnel it sounded exactly like a real musical instrument. Chela stood
> stock still and listened with rapt attention. She moved her head as
> she tried to follow the ricocheting echoes. A look of intense
> concentration swept across her face.  I played my favorite mouth
> trumpet song, Bunny Berrigan’s I Can’t Get Started
>
> I’ve flown around the world in a plane
> I’ve settled revolutions in Spain
> The North Pole I have charted
> But I can’t get started with you
>
> Around the golf course I’m under par
> Metro Goldwyn want me to star
> I’ve got a house, a show place,
> But still I get no place with you
>
> Suddenly Chela squeeled and exploded into laughter. She clapped her
> hands. Then, as her laughter trailed off into a bubbly giggle, she
> started to explore the tiles with her hands as if the music was coming
> out of the walls. She reached for her cane and touched the walls and
> floor--she was looking for the music.
>
> I knelt down, put her fingertips on my cheek and adam’s apple and she
> felt the vibrations as the trumpet sounds echoed across the tile
> walls. We moved away from the hallway and I gave her the cane.  She
> turned around, banged her cane on the wall as she moved toward the
> hallway, and found the opening. As she walked inside with the cane,
> searching for the music, I played more verses of the song:
>
> You’re so supreme, lyrics I write of you
> Scheme, just for a sight of you
> Dream, both day and night of you
> And what good does it do
>
> In 1929 I sold short
> In England I’m presented at court
> But you’ve got me downhearted
> Cause I can’t get started with you
>
> Chela opened her eyes wide, she leaned her head back as if she were in
> some sacred precinct. She listened to the music with that intense look
> of concentration all over her face. She held the cane still…then she
> reached it out and touched it to the wall…
>
> The little white cane had become a tool.
>
> Blind children have a more difficult time learning balance because
> they don’t have the advantage of using their vision to monitor their
> position in space by observing the vertical lines of objects and
> features in their immediate area. A lot of the things her teachers and
> I did were to teach Chela the kinesthetic and proprioceptive cues that
> would enable her to control her body position using her own internal
> cues.
>
> Chela also had to learn to use her hearing to find things and to sense
> objects in her immediate vicinity by using sound alone. I stood in
> front of her, calling her name, then moving. As Chela sensed my
> movement, she would turn to me. As soon as she touched me, I would
> pick her up, lift her above my head, swing her around and put her down
> again. She loved being lifted up high and spun around. She squealed
> with glee at the movement.
>
> I started moving further and faster. At first I called her name, then
> sang, then whispered, then I tip toed silently as I moved and,
> finally, said nothing at all. When we did this on the playground with
> noisy children behind us, Chela heard me as I blocked the childrens’
> sounds. I shifted and so did she. I turned and she followed me.  Chela
> had learned to hear ‘sound-shadows.’
>
> Sound does funny things. It ricochets, it bends, it sneaks around
> corners. It gets absorbed. It can’t get through some objects, but it
> moves around them like flowing water.   Blind people can learn to read
> these properties just like seeing people learn to deal with light. If
> they start early and have immediate feedback, blind children learn an
> amazingly complicated set of skills to navigate the world.
>
> If you stop to analyze it, reading sound shadows becomes so
> complicated that the only way you can teach—or learn—how to use them
> is through play.
>
> Taking up a lot of space at one end of the play yard between the
> buildings was a massive wooden play structure. Chela loved to climb
> it. There was a long slide on one side which she liked to slide
> down—on my lap. When you think of it, for a blind child to commit to a
> slide…that long dash downwards into a void…it takes experience, faith
> and supreme confidence.
>
> At the end of the hour I brought Chela back into the large main
> playroom where the head teacher, Bea Terry, was doing the morning
> lesson. Later in the Fall, I watched Chela weave her way among the
> children. They were laughing, taking part in the lesson. She edged
> between them on her way to Bea who was whispering her name.  You would
> swear Chela could see, but she was listening to the sounds coming from
> the floor; the childrens’ bodies were absorbing sounds and not
> reflecting them. She winded her way across the room through the
> scattered sound cues refracted from the floor and plopped right onto
> Bea’s lap.
>
> As well as being Chela’s mobility teacher, I was also her Teacher of
> the Visually Impaired. For a while every day, we did braille. We were
> using one of the standard Perkins Braillers, a huge, clunky, and heavy
> cast iron machine. Chela’s fingers were too small to push the keys.
> She pushed my fingers and my fingers pushed the keys.
>
> We did braille with M&M’s and Cheetos. We used a small paint tray with
> six holes to simulate the six possible dots of a Braille cell. We made
> an ‘a’ with one dot on the inner key on the left side of the brailler,
> then placed a Cheeto in the top left hole of the paint tin, she
> giggled and ate the Cheetoh.
>
> Chela loved Braille.
>
> When you push all six keys on a brailler, you make the word ‘for.’ So
> a series of the word ‘for’ makes for a line of bumps.  Chela made long
> strips of the word ‘for’ and we cut them out, then taped them to the
> poles all the way up to the upper level of the school and the ‘trumpet
> tunnel’ and pasted them to poles where she could reach them.
>
> Each day, as she got off the bus, she headed uphill and was soon able
> to find the tunnel on her own. As soon as she felt the “bumpity bumps”
> on the pole, she turned into the tiled hallway where I played Bunny
> Berrigan’s  song.
>
> I have never seen anyone in my life love a song as much as she loved
> “I Can’t Get Started.” It was almost as if, after Bunny Berrigan’s
> death, she was the one Fate had chosen to take it over as her own and
> carry its soul into the future.
>
> She never hummed or sang to it, or even moved to it, she just
> listened, absolutely still and rapt with amazement. It was like she
> was memorizing every note…internalizing it into her own bones.
>
> Chela was very small. Her tiny legs would move as quick as she could
> to keep up with me when I was trying to move fast. On the games when I
> would make noises and she was to find me I had stopped making any
> sound at all. She was using my sound shadows, where I either blocked
> sound from behind me, or when I pressed myself against a hard surface
> behind me, my body absorbed ambient sounds and didn’t reflect them
> back. As her hands became stronger, she bopped her own cane on the
> ground to generate the sounds that became the echoes and reflections
> that drew her world. I would tip toe back and forth across the face of
> a wall and she mirrored my slightest motion as she found me.
>
> As soon as she touched me, usually bopping my shoe as she found me,
> she got picked up and twirled through the air. She emitted a squeal of
> such glee as she ascended into the skies that I never was tired of
> hearing it.
>
> We had started walking through the neighborhoods near the school. This
> was a piggy-back ride down the stairs and through the halls as we
> contacted [bashed] each landmark of pipe, rail, banister, fencepost
> and sign on the way down to the sidewalk.
>
> We headed toward the sun, or toward a sound and, when we made a turn,
> it was a crisp 90 degrees. She learned to feel the warmth of the
> morning sun balanced on her face or ‘ride the sun line’ with the sun
> squarely and warm on one cheek.
>
> I walked with a pronounced bounce and each footstep was in time to the
> sound of some rhyme I made up. She seemed to like one rhyme more than
> the others:
>
> Rickety tickety tin
> Lord, a beautiful din
> Rickety tickety
> Rickety tickety tin
>
> Bomp
> Bompiddy bomb bomp
> Rickety tickety
> Rickety tickety tin
>
> Most kids cling on tight during piggy back rides. And considering that
> Chela was almost six feet off the ground, you’d think she would be
> hanging on for dear life. She gradually acquired the balance so that
> she held on just with her legs. Pointing with her cane, she learned to
> steer me like a rider does a horse. Now she could use the sounds of
> hallways, distant cars and the sounds of children in the classrooms by
> her sides to navigate.
>
> The braille bumpity-bumps were now taped higher and she stopped at
> each one to feel her progress. At each successive tunnel, hallway or
> stairway the rhyme changed.
>
> Rickety tickety man
> Rickety tickety ring on his hand
> Rickety tickety
> Rickety tickety tin
>
> Bomp
> Bompiddy bomb bomp
> Rickety tickety
> Rickety tickety tin
>
> On the sidewalk, holding her cane now, she was starting to move it
> back and forth to feel the edge of the curb or the fringe of grass at
> her other side. As she passed parked cars, she initially stopped,
> suspecting there was ‘something out there.’ She was listening to the
> traffic behind them. The parked cars blocked the traffic sound so she
> heard the outline of the car at the curb. A few months into traveling
> in the neighborhoods, she was using the ambient sounds to detect not
> only cars, but telephone poles, street signs and even the thin metal
> posts of signs in the parking lot.
>
> Professor Wurzburger, in charge of the Orientation & Mobility
> Credential Program at San Francisco State University, came over
> several times to videotape Chela and we actually have video footage of
> the first time she reached her cane out to touch a car.
>
> She would bop each sign or car with her cane to show me she knew where
> they were. Chela was literally ‘seeing with her ears.’
> The public sees a blind person with a cane and ascribes something like
> second sight to them, some magical confluence of powers that comes to
> them because they are blind. These auditory and tactile skills start
> early and are hard won. They are learned through play by repetition
> and immediate feedback. Each day as we swung by the playground
> structure she would climb the ladder and walk across the wooden bridge
> to the slide. There she would wait for me to scramble up the slide and
> take her down the slide on my lap. She loved the slide, but still
> wouldn’t do it herself.
>
> Math consisted of counting real objects and playing with Cuisenaire
> Rods. I had learned to use these in Australia where they are the
> standard way to teach math to students from kindergarten up through
> Algebra. Each rod, from one to ten, has a color and corresponding
> length. The system was the brainchild of Georges Cuisenaire, a Belgian
> educator in 1952. They have never been equaled for effectiveness in
> teaching mathematics. The rods are different colors, of proportional
> lengths so that three white cubes representing ‘one’ would fit on a
> green ‘three’ rod triple its length.
>
> Chela couldn’t see the colors, but she soon learned how many of one
> rod would fit against another. She did it all by feel, but she was
> ‘doing’ addition, subtraction, multiplication and division with her
> fingers and mind long before her peers were doing it on the blackboard
> and on paper. How Georges Cuisenaire knew that four American pennies
> would fit perfectly on one of the purple ‘four’ rods, I’ll never know,
> but we played with pennies, nickels and dimes and Chela fit the five
> and ten cent pieces on the upended tip of the yellow five and the
> orange ten rod.
>
> When babies are developing in their mother’s womb, the right brain
> develops first. If the baby is born pre-term, the left brain lags in
> development. The left brain is in charge of language, a great deal of
> the task of reading, phonics and the tasks of logic. The right brain
> deals with music, spatial recognition and the ‘music,’ of language,
> its stress, tone, pitch, inflection and rhythm.
>
> About 92% of a population group has their left brain deal with
> understanding language and speaking. When babies are born severely
> prematurely, as Chela was, language function and speech is more
> globally processed, and often there are severe learning disabilities
> as a consequence. These children often don’t choose a left or right
> hand as ‘dominant,’ they rarely learn to read or write well, and some
> never speak. To see a child choose a dominant side early is a clue
> that language is placed in the dominant left hemisphere of the brain
> and there is more of a chance that communication skills will develop.
>
> In preemies, these skills often develop…but always with severe delays.
>  One day with just one of my fingertips to support her, Chela slid
> down the bannister on the long stair case. She was holding her cane in
> her left hand and as she slid off onto the ground, she switched her
> cane over to her right hand. She was doing this consistently.
> I had great hope that language, speaking, reading and writing were on
> their way.
>
>
> I spent three years with Chela while I was finishing my doctorate at
> night and on the weekends. I got my degree in May of 1991 and a month
> later, Chela would be graduating from White Pony Preschool. Professor
> Pete came over to White Pony for one last session of filming and as
> she sat on the edge of the slide and I called her name before
> ascending the slide, she pushed off down the slope. As she reached the
> bottom, laughing all the way down, I swung her up into the air and
> twirled her around. It was just spontaneous on her part, but it was
> caught with the camera rolling. On the video I could hear myself
> laughing and saying over and over again, “You flew….you flew…”
>
> I met Chela’s mother and grandmother at the graduation ceremony. The
> likeness of grandmother to her daughter and from mother to Chela was
> astounding. Her mother was a stunningly attractive brunette woman with
> large, dark, intelligent eyes, with a ready smile and laugh.
>
> I gave Grandma an album of photos of Chela showing how I taught her
> and assured them she would be in good hands as she started in regular
> public school. She would have Collette Perry, whom I considered among
> the absolute best of the Teachers of the Blind. I had several other
> students in her classroom and had spent three years watching Collette
> teaching and empowering children to love braille and to succeed in
> mainstreaming classes at Valley Verde School.
> Her mobility teacher would be Petal Turner, a wonderful Teacher, who
> taught through play as I did. She too, was taught by my professor,
> Pete Wurzburger.
>
> I had resigned from my position as Itinerant Teacher of the Visually
> Impaired in Contra Costa County and had begun my job search, looking
> for a university position.
>
> The time had come to say goodbye…
>
> I knelt down and gave Chela a last hug, then started to leave. I
> turned back and looked through the window at the graduation party. I
> watched Chela awhile with the other children and could hear her
> laughter even above the sound of the other children and guests in the
> room. There was a wide, sweet smile on her face.
>
> Some blind children, brought up by overprotective and guilt-ridden
> parents, come to expect a terrifying and dangerous world. Life for
> these children can be scary and foreboding.
>
> Life held no fear for Chela…
>
> I went out to the car. I sat there for a little while and looked back
> at the school. Most people, looking at the White Pony School, would
> see a multi-level building with stairs and tunnels. I saw rails that
> sang, poles that spoke with their tones, fence posts that rattled and
> tunnels that magically played trumpet music. The whole school and
> neighborhood were musical instruments that Chela played with her cane.
> I hoped Chela would be happy and that she would find the world a
> forgiving place where she would be successful, find love, and where
> she would discover music everywhere…
>
> There were kids at the California School for the Blind whom I had
> taught since they were children and I looked on with a mix of pride
> and sadness as they each graduated. I had taught some every word they
> spoke and every letter they read.
>
> But Chela was the hardest to leave because I had only started my work
> with her. I was leaving when everything was right on the verge of
> happening.  Others would have to carry on. I would not be the one who
> taught her to talk, to read braille, to do braille math…to cross
> intersections at rush hour with total confidence and safety…I would
> have to trust other teachers to do what I knew I could do well…and
> loved doing…
>
> And even though I knew she would have excellent teachers, giving over
> that trust was very very hard…I backed out of the parking lot and
> headed home. The last thought I had, as I took one final glance at the
> school, was realizing that Chela would never know me, never even
> remember me…
>
> but I would never forget her…
>
>
>
> It was some time in 2008, seventeen years since I had left California
> for Arizona. Just on a whim one night I Googled:
>
> Chela [and her last name] the word ‘Blind’ [and the last town where I
> knew she lived]
>
> Two hits came up . One was a letter she had written to a computer
> company asking about a problem she was having with a program. It was a
> pleasant, but not unexpected, surprise. It was obvious not only that
> she knew how to talk, but that she had a far better handle on
> technology than I did myself.
>
> The other link —and I had no idea what it was—took a long time
> loading. It was a computer generated light show accompanying what
> seemed to be a jazz performance.
>
> I heard a trumpet…
>
> A beautiful trumpet…
>
> Sweet and strong, sassy and bold, smoothly gentle and
>
> confident …
>
> Giving a loving birth to each measure and phrase.
>
> The song was familiar…it took a moment to realize that the song was:
>
> I Can’t Get Started by Bunny Berrigan.
>
> The only phrase that could possibly describe what I felt when I
> realized Chela had grown and discovered music…
>
> That of all the instruments in the world, she had chosen a trumpet for
> her own and picked for her song the one she had heard as a small child
> even before she could talk…
>
> was a stunned, reverent silence…
>
> I saw again that tiled hallway…saw the look of concentration that
> swept over her …the slow smile simmering on her face. And as I
> listened to her sweet playing, I heard her draw out those notes,
> control them, shape them, stretch them without breaking them…
>
> I could feel the smile on my own face. And the thought I’d had long
> ago, that when Bunny Berrigan died…it was a long time coming…but
> someone had come along to make that song special again.
>
> To claim it as her own…
>
> The comprehension washed over me that memories can be so deep, so
> true…and so long lasting.
>
> And for Chela, this was pre-verbal memory. A song that she heard even
> before she had words to remember its name or who played it.
> I sent an e-mail to Chela, telling her how much I loved that
> performance. When she replied, I gradually enclosed more information
> that I had worked with her and about where that song had come from.
>
> I found that Chela was good in math. She was taking Algebra at Diablo
> Valley College and passing it. That was more than I had ever done.
> Algebra to me was a closed and locked door in an impenetrable wall.
> English composition was difficult for her, but all things considered,
> I have a doctorate, but still have as much trouble with math as she
> does with English composition. She sends me an e-mail occasionally to
> this day, sometimes forwarding things she had written to her friends.
> Her e-mail letters to friends on the web show a competent mastery of
> writing, leavened with an astounding awareness of the world, humor,
> irony--and just the slightest edge of funny sarcasm. One picture she
> sent of her, leaning her cheek against that of her boyfriend…
>
> I saw that smile again, one I saw on her face the first instant she
> stepped off that school bus at White Pony…
>
> As she shared her life with me, and I mine with hers, the realization
> came that Teachers have a sacred task:
>
> It is to give children the skills to understand the world and an
> expectation that the world is a trustworthy place; that it is full of
> light, and love, and music and that each student deserves--and will
> have--their own place in it and the chance to play their own song.
> And, as much of these expectations are transmitted non-verbally—and in
> Chela’s case--out of sight…it is the voice and touch of a Teacher that
> sheds light on what the world can be.
>
> Academics—and no one will ever change my mind on this—take a distant
> second place.
>
> Last year I was driving through San Francisco north on 19th Avenue,
> heading to the bridge through Golden Gate Park. I took a detour off
> 25th Avenue and pulled over to the side of the road and got out.
>
> Elk Glen Lake. Nothing much had changed. I saw the grassy hillside
> where I sat on a stump the day after I came home from Vietnam,
> wondering why I had returned alive and so many of my friends had not.
>
> I wandered over to the hillside. The stump was gone. It had not
> survived the forty years since I sat on it, wondering what I was going
> to do with the rest of my life.  I remember staring across the wind
> rippled waters of the lake that day and wondering what I was going to
> do with the gift of time I had been given…hoping that I would not
> waste it.
>
> I started walking around the edge of the lake and I was deep in
> thought, thinking of work, the kids…and that morning forty years ago
> in the stillness of this place remembering my friends who had been
> killed and wondering how I could honor them with my life.
>
> People have told me that when I’m lost in thought, I hum…
>
> I stopped suddenly, as I realized that I had been humming all along
> the edge of the lake…
>
> And I recognized the tune…
>
> It was that song by Bunny Berrigan…
>
> Note from Chela:
> Just to be clear that wasn't my boyfriend, I've never had one before
> must have been my sister because I remember leaning my face against
> her's. The only other person it could have possibly been would have
> been my pianist friend, Jim, but I doubt I'd press my face against
> his, intentionally. More like unintentionally. Anyway, glad you all
> like it.
> -- 
> --
> "To me, music that breaks your heart is the music that stays with you
> forever. It's one thing to be melancholy and one thing to be 
> sophisticated,
> but when you get the two of them together in a way people can relate to,
> then I think you're on to something. You want the sophistication to lie in
> the purity of the sound, the beauty of the arrangements, and the quality 
> of
> the performances."-Trumpeter Chris Botti
> --
> Chela Robles
> E-Mail/GoogleTalk/AIM/Twitter/MySpace/LinkedIn: cdrobles693 at gmail.com
> WindowsLive Messenger: cdrobles693 at hotmail.com
> E-Buddy ID: cdrobles693
> Skype Name: jazzytrumpet
> Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/chela.robles
> I volunteer for a non-profit organization called Bookshare, to learn more
> and to join us, visit: http://www.bookshare.org
> Visit my blog piece from Learning Ally and after reading and listening to
> the song selection, fill out the form which requires no CAPCHAS unless
> you're a robot at:
> http://www.learningally.org/Blog/Access-and-Achievement/144/vobId__2525/
> Cell: 19252505955
> --
>
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