Interviewed by Logan Wilson
April 25, 2013
WILSON: My name is Logan Wilson. Today is the twenty-fifth of April, 2013. I’m interviewing Mr. Edmund Schuster at his home close to Mexia. This interview is sponsored by the Limestone County Historical Commission and is part of the Footprints of Times Past project. I want to thank you, sir, for contributing to this project. The next voice you hear will be that of Mr. Schuster. (moves microphone)
SCHUSTER: This is Edmund. The early community I was born into—my father immigrated from Czechoslovakia in ’28. Mother was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and followed her father down to Mexia. She worked in the glove factory, had gone overseas and met my dad, and they got married in ’28 and moved to Mexia, Texas.
The earliest memory that I have of growing up was the farmhand. We had a family that lived on the farm that took care of the farm and did all the planting with horses and mules. My dad worked in a shop in town, the American Supply Company, which was an oil field company. He went to work there as a toolsmith without being able to speak any English simply because he could read a blueprint. He worked for them until ’47, when they moved to Kilgore. I grew up with horses and mules, plowing behind them in the garden. Didn’t do a whole lot of plowing. I wasn’t old enough to do too much in the field, but I did walk behind one or two—we called it laying by the corn, when the corn was too tall. We had one horse and one middle buster, and I did a few of that. We raised corn, we raised cotton, and besides having about an acre of garden, which kept us youngsters busy.
I remember going to school. My earliest memory of school is my sister invited me to go to school with her, and I thought that was great. It was about a mile and a half walk to school, which I didn’t mind because I walked everywhere I went anyway. We went to school and about the middle of the afternoon there was a lot of crying and carrying on in the room, and I found out that they were giving shots to prevent measles or whatever the case might have been. I don’t know what disease they were giving the shots for. My sister caught me about seven or eight hundred yards down the road because I was going back home. (both laugh) That was my earliest memory of the school. It was at Point Enterprise. We had eight grades. We went from there to Mexia High School. That was quite a shock, going to a school of four hundred students, where we only had about twenty at Point Enterprise.
We did play softball, and I was a pretty good second baseman. The funny part about that softball, we had a strawberry patch right across the fence from the ballpark, and we would cheat a little and knock the ball over into the strawberry patch in the springtime so we could go over and steal a strawberry while we were hunting for the ball. Mr. Franks would sit on the porch and laugh at us while we were doing that.
The community was close-knit. There was a lot going on. Being Catholic, we did not go to church in Point Enterprise—we went to Mexia to church—but we did take part in community activities. Mother joined the Goodwill Club, and anything else that was going on, we went to. We took part in the community.
Dad worked for American Supply until ’47, as I mentioned while ago, and in 1945—or maybe it was ’45—’44 or ’45, we planted the first peach orchard, which was 500 Elberta trees and 250 Frank(??) trees. I remember carrying the trees—helped carrying the small trees for Daddy to plant them. And then when they moved to Kilgore, well, he stayed home and had his blacksmith—he had a blacksmith shop on Main Street in Mexia for two or three years until the peach trees became bearing fruit, and then he sold out of that, moved his blacksmith shop actually to the farm, where we lived out east of town. Then he took care of his peach trees and peach orchards. We had a fruit stand on the highway different places for several years.
I managed to get through eighth grades of school at Point Enterprise and went to high school, played football. I couldn’t play any other sports. Daddy offered me a hundred dollars a year not to play football, (Wilson laughs) but I had to play football. It paid off because I was good enough at it, I guess, I played college ball. Then I graduated from Sam Houston [State University] and married a young lady that I had met on a blind date from Teague. We married in ’59.
There’s a lot of stories can go on with peach picking. Dad would hire boys out of town, and one of them was Tommy Flatt, and one of them was Philpot Karner, and Joe Cannon. They would come out and Mother—they would come out on Monday morning, and they would live with us until Friday afternoon. The boys all slept in the hayloft in the barn.
We didn’t even stay—we didn’t stay in the room. That’s another story. When Dad moved out to the farm and he built a new house, the second thing he built was a blacksmith shop, a washhouse, a storm cellar under the washhouse, and the boys’ room. Everybody said—and it was like fifty yards from the main house—Why did you build a boys’ room? And he said, “I didn’t want them tearing up my house.” (Wilson laughs) We replaced several windows in that room before the years were over with.
The school—I’m kind of regressing where I’m going from here—but the school was a three-room school, and when I graduated we were down to a two-room school. The community had dwindled and the classes had gotten smaller. Early teachers—my early— one of the—the first grade—first three grades, I believe it was, was Irma/Erma(??) McGee and then A. B. McBay and his wife Udean came out. He was principal and she taught fourth and fifth grades. Then he left and Carl Cochran came, and I believe it was my seventh- and eighth-grade year.
[As] far as major—we did have a small store next to the school, a community store, and I got in trouble with that one because I would charge candies and I wasn’t supposed to. But Mrs. McGee let me do that. Then she finally got a note home to Mother that I had owed about ninety-five cents, and I got in trouble with that because I wasn’t supposed to be charging anything.
I grew up with kerosene lanterns, kerosene lamps, and woodstove fireplace. We didn’t have electricity until I was in the ninth grade, which was in 1949, the same year we got a telephone. There were times when it came a flood, and I knew that the creek was going to be up where I couldn’t cross it—I thought it might be up where I couldn’t cross it. I couldn’t call home to tell them that I wouldn’t be home, that I would go home with the Kerzee boys and spend the night at Alton Kerzee’s house. He was just like Daddy. He told you something, you better believe what he said or you’d get in trouble with him. So there were times that I didn’t go home, and [my] brothers and sisters didn’t get home either because the creek would get up and we would be afraid to cross it. We would go stay with the Kerzees.
I guess there were—churches—there was the Baptist church in Point Enterprise, but, as I said, we were Catholic and went to town. The Wrights were a prominent family here in Point Enterprise. A long list of Wrights. In fact, there are some of the—those kinfolks are still living here. The people came and went.
Farming was the prominent thing at the time, and the tractors came in about in the late forties. In fact, that’s when we got a F-12 Farmall to farm with. We did away with— didn’t do away with the horses. We still plowed the garden with those, and we rode them on Saturdays and Sundays when we wanted to go visit somebody. Transportation, early transportation that we had was Dad had a [Ford] Model T, which he managed to run off in a ditch on an icy road and turn it over, but he was unhurt.
We had an outdoor toilet until I was probably a senior in high school, when Mother got sick enough that she couldn’t make the journey to the outhouse. I had to dig the septic tank by hand. I learned a lot about digging in clay [from the] elderly gentleman that helped me dig it.
As I mentioned awhile ago, Mother belonged to the home demonstration club. It’s got a different name now, but the women would meet once a month and have a program and visit and whatever else they might’ve done. I don’t remember. Now that group is changed over, and they do quilting out at the clubhouse, which was built probably in 1951 as a community center. We had a lot of games there; we called them ring games. People who were old enough might remember them, but it was—we had a lot of fun. We didn’t have any music, but we would do a lot of singing and we sang terribly.
The roads around were terrible. When it rained—they were not rock roads. I can remember Daddy had mud grip—(coughs) excuse me—mud grip tires on the back of the car, and then put chains on the mud grips to get in and out to the highway. We had one good snowfall, and that was in ’49. The biggest one we had, we were out of school for a week.
We hunted. We killed a lot of game, but we always brought home and ate what we killed, whether it be birds—a fellow asked me one time—I was going out hunting—and he said, “What’s in season?” I kind of hesitated and he said, “Anything you can shoot.” I said, “That’s kind of the way we live(??).” (Wilson laughs) There were times growing up when I was seventh and eighth grade—or in that neighborhood—Mother made me a little satchel, called it a rucksack. I had a Dutch oven pan in it and a little pinch of salt. I would go to church, and when I got home from church, I would get my shotgun or a .22, whichever the case may be, and I would go hunting and I would kill my lunch. Build a fire and cook it with a spit over the open fire and get home about dark. Again, there was a—Mother didn’t know when I was going to get home, but I always managed to make it home.
And I remember Mother’s Day of every year that I could barely walk, that everyone got a bucket, nothing but a gallon bucket, and we had to go out and pick blackberries so Mother could make jelly and juices. She made wine and she made beer, which was—I don’t remember Daddy ever buying a beer. It was always home brew that he had. You see, Mother made ten gallons of wine every year which was made from wild mustang grapes.
Then in the fifties, the cotton moved out. I don’t know how it worked. He said he sold his cotton acreage to somebody in West Texas and he couldn’t plant cotton. So we planted castor beans. I wish he’d have planted cotton. It was a whole lot easier to gather cotton than it was castor beans. They were hauled over in East Texas to Elkhart to be sold. I’m kind of rambling.
I remember sports here in Point Enterprise. The boys would get together on Sunday afternoon[s] and play softball. The Phillipses—Milton Phillips, I think, is the only one left out here now, but they had nine boys, so they had their own baseball—softball team. It was kind of hard to work your way into that team. That was played nearly every Sunday when it was even warm enough to play.
My dad and Joe Stubenrauch were very good friends, and he was one of the pioneer peach growers in Limestone County. They developed a peach and they called it Anna after my mother. Mother’s name was Anna, and they called the peach Anna. It never materialized to a whole lot, but Daddy did have a tree in the peach—little orchard that we had named Anna. But they were very good friends.
WILSON: This gentleman that was friends with your father, he was pretty much an expert in early peach orchard developing, wasn’t he?
SCHUSTER: Yes, he was. He was very instrumental in getting the peach industry started in Limestone County.
WILSON: That’s what I’ve heard.
SCHUSTER: He did a lot of grafting and budding and developing his own varieties. As I said, he developed a variety called Anna. He worked a lot on peach trees. I don’t know why he did this. Out on Tehuacana highway [State Highway 171] is a plaque that honors Joe Stubenrauch.
WILSON: (speaking at same time) Yeah, that’s right. Can you still buy that peach?
SCHUSTER: No. That’s what I said; it didn’t last long. (laughs)
WILSON: That’s a shame.
SCHUSTER: It was—I don’t remember it. They just—they told me about it. I don’t remember it, but Daddy said he had one. For years growing up, we had maybe an orchard of about twenty trees—pear trees, plum trees, apricot trees, fig trees. We grew practically everything that we ate for years. See, we didn’t have electricity till I was in the ninth grade. That was 1949. So from 1930 to 1949, they had no electricity.
And finally went over to—and then I married in ’59 and moved back here in ’61 after teaching school in Dickinson with my wife. We moved back here and started teaching in Mexia. And as Dad was getting older, in 1965, my wife and I leased the peach orchard from him. At one time, we had two thousand peach trees and I was teaching school. Dad never bought a piece of property on the highway; he always leased a little place to have a fruit stand. I bought three acres on the highway and built a nice fruit stand. He always had trouble (coughs)—excuse me—with the quantity of peaches, of having someone to haul them off and try to sell them or take them to the Dallas market or whatever the case might’ve been. Within two years, with the fruit stand that I built, we built our business up that we did not have to haul any peaches. We sold all our peaches right through that fruit stand. Well, that was in ’65. Our first year was—(clears throat) excuse me, ’66—and we kept it going until 1988. The freeze of—hard winter of ’83, where the temperature stayed below fifteen degrees for about ten days—or ten or twelve days damaged a lot of peach trees. Then the floods of ’86 drowned a lot of peach trees. And in the fall of ’88, we pulled all of ours up. (coughs) My youngest had graduated from high school, and my help had left. It was hard to hire people when you didn’t have a large orchard. I used high school boys as much as I could. I had some very good people that worked for me. I think the people were a rather close-knit family—bunch here in Point Enterprise.
WILSON: I’ve heard that before. Mrs. Gunn [Flodell Kerzee Gunn] and Rollin Kerzee were telling me about how Point Enterprise was close-knit. The people helped each other. They kept the community clean, physically clean—ditches and everything. Wasn’t any trash or anything on it. The people looked after each other, and they kind of lament that that’s not the case today.
SCHUSTER: Doesn’t seem to be. It doesn’t seem to be. I don’t remember now the year—Helen might have remembered the year—that we were awarded the outstanding community in the state of Texas.
WILSON: She did. She did mention that.
SCHUSTER: But I can’t remember what year it was.
WILSON: Yeah, she did mention that.
SCHUSTER: But they had—the community really pulled together and worked hard and got it all pulled together and had up signs all over naming the different farms and people that lived in different farms. That was somewhere in the fifties, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what year it was.
WILSON: If the Schusters weren’t the first people to have peach orchards here, they had to be among the first.
SCHUSTER: Pretty well, yes. Ellice Lightsey’s dad—I can’t think of what his name was—his first name was, but he had probably the first peach orchard, Lightseys. Now, across the county line there was I. L. Capers. [He] and Daddy put in their orchards about the same time. And probably at one time in the peak of production, (clears throat) there were probably close to—I would estimate—a hundred thousand trees in Limestone and Freestone County at one time. The Avery McKinneys had a peach orchard. Gary McKinney had a peach orchard. Bill Miller had a small peach orchard. We had a peach orchard. The Lightseys—of course, they’re still large. And W. N. Stone put in a peach orchard. Benny Lucas had a peach orchard.
WILSON: He did.
SCHUSTER: So besides raising tomatoes, he had a peach orchard. (clears throat)
But one of my experiences—and it probably shouldn’t be told—but I was—had just—it was in 1951 because we had a 1951 Dodge pickup—just bought a new pickup—and we sold eggs in town to the grocery store, Cooper’s Grocery, down on East Commerce Street. Mother would send the eggs to town on Saturday, and she’d go or Daddy’d go, but I was going by myself. And as I turned out of the driveway, one egg rolled—they were in a bucket, they weren’t in crates. One egg rolled and I reached to stop that egg from rolling, and I drove off in a ditch and broke six dozen eggs. (both laugh)
WILSON: Did you save the one?
SCHUSTER: (both laugh) No. I think I crushed it when I went off in the ditch.
But earlier remembrances. We would go to town on Saturday night to—there were three movie theaters in Mexia: the National and the Palace and the Juarez, out on—the Juarez was—Mother and Daddy—we would go to town to Cooper’s Grocery and deliver eggs or any other produce that we had. She [Mrs. Cooper] would buy it all. We would buy groceries and then sack them up and put them over in a corner. And then we would go to the Juarez Theater—didn’t make a difference what was on—for fifteen cents each. (Wilson laughs) Then the Juarez was down by where Flatt Stationers is now, the warehouse.
Then we went into town every year from Point Enterprise—the eight years I was out there, we would have a spring fling at Fort Parker. They would make peanut butter-and- jelly and peanut butter-and-grape sandwiches. We’d go to Fort Parker and spend the whole day visiting. And they would carry us in to movies, when the good movies were in town. The show would put on a special show for us. One of them I remember. We went to several. One of them I remember was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. That was a good movie. I still remember that.
But the peaches are gone. The primary reason for that is the soils in most of this area here—to have a good foundation for peach orchards, you need red clay subsoil—not yellow and not gray. Yellow and gray clays won’t percolate water. That’s what happened to us in ’86, where I live here. Sand is thirty inches deep, and it holds water. It can’t go down through the yellow clay, which I have here. So it just held the water, and it drowned the trees.
WILSON: Literally drowns the trees.
SCHUSTER: They literally drowned, um-hm. And that’s the problem here, where I live now. This farm, this sixty-six acres that I bought in 1968, has a tremendous history. It traded one year—and I was looking at the abstract before you came in—it traded one year—for sixty-six acres, they traded for 720 bushels of corn, payable in two years.
SCHUSTER: These abstract things are interesting. But this was known as the Old Pump Wright Place. These abstracts have a lot of names in there that go back a long way. It’s interesting reading, the abstracts are. That’s what I was doing, trying to find some information about this place here. We bought it in ’68, and the lady we bought it from, her husband was killed in the Texas City blast in ’44. They had bought this place in the late thirties, and they would come up—and they tore down the old dog-run house. I still remember it—a big, huge house. They built a new house out of the old lumber. We lived up there for thirty years, whatever it was, and if we wanted to hang a picture on the wall, you’d drive the nail in and hang the picture because all—it was a double-walled house with full-cut, one-by-twelve boards and hard as bricks. You drove the nail in, hung the picture, and you didn’t pull the nail out—you just drove it on into the wall. (both laugh)
WILSON: So anywhere you wanted to put a nail, it would hold.
SCHUSTER: Anywhere. Anywhere you want to put a nail, yes. We did a lot of improvements, and then we sold it to my daughter in the year 2000 and built the little house we have here. It’s a retirement center. Has one client and one administrator. I’m afraid that’s what I am—the one client(??). (laughs) But this sixty-six acres has a tremendous amount of property—history in it.
WILSON: You also had a career as a teacher.
SCHUSTER: I did. I taught thirty years, with a little break in between. I taught chemistry and physics and all the math classes that you could teach in high school, at one time or another. And then in ’84, I [had] a brother-in-law deal to get into the business in reclamation of the coal mine in Fairfield. Then in ’88, we lost our contract. Had to do something for a while, so I bought a Class 10 truck and drove for refrigerated transport for six months. I was in—I believe I was in St. Louis, picking up some meat at Swift [&] Company, and I called my wife—this was in July—and said, “Do you reckon there’s any school-teaching openings in Limestone County?” When I got home, she had leased out the peach orchard and got in that big truck with me, and we drove six weeks. I got a job teaching in Wortham and retired from there in ’93.
WILSON: How does—you were in the teaching profession long enough, you saw not only the teaching profession itself but the schools and the relationship with the parents and the schools and the children change? How did that change? How could you describe that change?
SCHUSTER: Oh gosh. When I started in ’59, and probably up through going into the— close to the eighties—late seventies—the students had a lot of respect for teachers. And then somehow or another, they started losing that respect, and then the people took away the discipline part of it, that you could take care of the discipline, take them out in the hall and paddle them, to be frank with you. When they couldn’t do that anymore, well, kids would do whatever they wanted to. It was respect.
WILSON: Hadn’t improved.
SCHUSTER: [When] I went to school, I sure didn’t sass any teachers. I didn’t talk back to any of them. (laughs) I’d get in trouble at home quicker than that(??). But it has changed.
I think the primary reason that I got out of teaching when I did—I loved teaching. I never wanted to be an administrator. I felt like I was closer to the students if I stayed in the teaching profession. But the paperwork: the government came down with so much paperwork, both the state of Texas and the federal government, that I couldn’t teach for the paperwork. That’s the problem the teachers have now, is they can’t teach for the paperwork. They have to try to keep records.
WILSON: There’s some new programs that are really unpopular, too, like this CSCOPE.
SCHUSTER: Yes. I don’t know that I could’ve put up with it because (laughs) Roxanne and I both were, I think, tremendous, good teachers. You can ask most anybody that we were fair. We demanded respect and we got respect because we respected the students.
WILSON: That’s it, that’s it. That’s the way you get respect. Well, speaking of the children, let me ask you something, and I ask this of everyone. Mr. Schuster, if you had one thing that you wanted to tell the young people of today—one piece of advice—what would that be?
SCHUSTER: To respect each other: old to young, young to old, young to young, old to old. That’s one of the biggest things now that I have a problem with, is respect, whether it be walking down the street or whatever. But I’ve talked to my grandkids all the time; I said, “Respect, respect, respect.”
WILSON: And respect is something you have to earn; can’t be bestowed.
SCHUSTER: That’s right.
WILSON: Your sister said about the same thing.
SCHUSTER: Did she.
WILSON: That probably comes from the training that y’all shared at home and the parents that you had.
SCHUSTER: Could have. But I’ve always tried to be respectful to anybody, didn’t make any difference who it was. I used a board on several. I didn’t do it maliciously, and I had one gentleman come back probably five or six years after I had him in high school—he had earned a PhD in physics at Nacogdoches, whatever college is over there [Stephen F. Austin State University]. But anyway, he had earned his PhD in physics, and he’d been working overseas. Now, in high school, I had him four times a day. I had him in homeroom, I had him in chemistry, had him in physics, and had him in advanced math. And I whipped him three times; I gave him six swats in one day. He came back and he thanked me. He said, “That one day turned my life around.” He said, “If it hadn’t been for you, there’s no telling where I’d have gone to from here.”
WILSON: That makes it worthwhile, doesn’t it?
SCHUSTER: It does, for a fact.
WILSON: Makes it worthwhile. Well, sir, I sure do appreciate your time and your contribution to this project here.
SCHUSTER: Well, I could probably talk another two or three hours. (both laugh) I looked down here and I see World War II, during the rationing period and sugar rationing.
WILSON: What do you remember about that?
SCHUSTER: We used honey for sweetener because Mother made beer out of the sugar. (laughs) I do remember the rationing part of it, the rations. But I do remember Mother— we would use honey for sweetener because Daddy had several beehives. He would use the sugar to make his beer. (both laugh) Other than that, I don’t remember much. I do.
I collected scrap iron along—we had an oil pipe—distribution pipeline that was dug up, and they cut the collars off the pipe, the steel collars. I collected them for a mile on either side of our house and sold the scrap iron.
WILSON: Because scrap was bringing a good price then, wasn’t it?
SCHUSTER: It did, um-hm. They needed the iron, and it was a way—I always—well, it was something to make money. But I also did—I still remembered—when Dad built the new house, I was like four. He gave me a huge horseshoe magnet. They tore down the old house. Well, they pulled the nails out, so I drug that magnet around and around the house in the yard picking up nails. They were all square nails. (laughs)
SCHUSTER: Yeah, square nails. Oh gosh, I had a good time growing up and worked like the dickens too: chopping cotton; pulling corn; peas, picking peas.
One thing I never could do was milk a cow because the cow would quit giving milk when I walked in the lot. (Wilson laughs) So that was one job I never had to do. But Mother tells the story, too, I was about four—and then I’ll let you go—I was about four, and Daddy hadn’t come home from work. I don’t know where the older kids—older brothers and sisters—were, but I wanted some milk. So I went and got the pail off the—bucket— the pail off of the post that Mother had the—kept her crocks and her buckets on. I remember going and getting some water—had to draw it with a pump, hand pump— getting a little water. I went and got in and I got me some cow feed and I put it in that trough, and that cow sidled up there and started eating. I got my stool and I set it down. The minute I touched that cow, she kicked me plumb out of the barn. (both laugh) Mother was standing there watching because she wanted to see what was going on. But she said—I don’t remember it—she said I got kicked completely out of the barn. (both laugh) I didn’t get any milk that time.
WILSON: You think it was your technique, or the cow was in a bad mood, or—
SCHUSTER: I don’t know what it was. I couldn’t—I did. I could never milk—if I went to milk, I would never get more than a pint of milk. If Daddy was milking, I could walk into the lot with the cows, and they’d quit giving milk. (Wilson laughs) And I never did anything to them, but I’ve heard of other people doing that.
[I have] another story and I’ll quit. I was milking—I had that odd job one day because Mother and Daddy had gone somewhere for two or three days. Mrs. Walkup from town, who was the lady that was married to the husband that owned American Supply—they remained friends for forever. She brought her granddaughter out and her grandson out. [They] wanted to see me milk the cow so the granddaughter would know where the milk come[s] from. So I’m—Mrs. Walkup and the two kids are standing here, and I’m milking what I [can] get out of it. And Mrs. Walkup said, “Now, Marian, you see where the milk comes from?” She said, “It comes from Dallas.”
WILSON: Comes from what?
SCHUSTER: Dallas. (both laugh)
WILSON: Everybody knows that.
SCHUSTER: I don’t doubt. Well, this has been fun, and I could probably go on forever.
WILSON: Well, I appreciate it.
SCHUSTER: It would just, you know, come back to you in bits and spurts. Rollin Kerzee and I sit and talk, and we get to telling tales about the time that they did things to us that shouldn’t have been done. Once I got—my next-to-older brother got tied—they tied our hands up with wet rawhide and put us in the storm cellar and then closed the door where we couldn’t get out. (Wilson laughs) The rawhide would shrink on our hands. And only reason we got out of that deal without too much damage was Mother called us for supper, and when we didn’t show up she made Mike tell [her] where we were. (both laugh)
WILSON: Well, who was it that tied y’all up?
SCHUSTER: My oldest brother and somebody else. I don’t remember who the other one was, but I remember being tied up.
WILSON: Tied you and Rollin up?
SCHUSTER: No, it wasn’t Rollin. It was my older—my other brother. I had two brothers. My oldest brother tied—and his buddy—and I don’t know who the buddy was. I don’t remember that. But, no, the Kerzees, we were together every week, every weekend. A lot of fun with those.
WILSON: Yeah, Rollin’s a fine fellow.
SCHUSTER: A lot of fun with those. Rollin and I get to talking and my wife says it’s a wonder that either one of us are still alive, (both laugh) things that we’ve done.
WILSON: Well, I do appreciate your time, and I appreciate your contribution too.
SCHUSTER: I enjoyed it. I get to reminiscing.
WILSON: That’s okay. That’s what this is all about, sir.
SCHUSTER: Goes from one to the other.
WILSON: Thank you much.
end of interview