Roisin
Pronounced "roe-sheen"
“Hey, Big Man!” Keith beamed as he opened his front door to greet me, his brother-in-law.
“Bout ye,” he said.
"Bout ye," I replied.
I had grown extremely fond of Keith over the years. Even though our worlds and our beliefs are quite different, this did not matter to either of us. We enjoyed each other’s company and, more importantly, we laughed at each other's lame jokes. We ribbed each other silly, with our dry, laconic quips.
Shaking hands enthusiastically I said, “Well, would you look at dat. It's himself, so it is,” trying desperately to pull-off a Northern Irish accent but failing miserably, as usual. This was all part of the banter between us. Keith would, in return, often try and fail to imitate my faux-Cockney accent.
He said, “You all set, then? I’ll just get me bag and I’ll be right widja.”
I returned to the car to wait with my wife, and in a short while Keith came bounding down his front steps, opened the rear car door, and sat with his bag on his lap.
“Mornin’, Sis,“ he said to Anne who was sitting in the front passenger seat, and he patted her on her shoulder.
I gave it one more shot at the old Irish brogue before we set off, “Well, is we all strapped in and ready for dah big joiney, me wee little ones?”
“OK, enough,” countered Anne, being a very assertive Belfast lady. She knew that this silliness could last all the way down to Dublin if she didn’t put her foot down. We had a couple of hours of driving in front of us.
“Yes, miss!” I saluted and turned on the ignition. And so, the “joiney” began.
For the siblings, Keith and Anne, the path between Belfast and Dublin was well trodden, but this was my first visit to Ireland's capital. For me, this journey had a special meaning; it was a kind of pilgrimage, which was quite incongruous, since I am a resolute atheist. What would an atheist be doing visiting a Catholic graveyard? And what would an atheist be doing going on a “pilgrimage”?
But, let me tell you something, me-deario; this was just as much a pilgrimage as any person-of-faith was ever likely to take. My life had changed significantly since we had retired, and I felt that it was time to pay some kind of “homage” to the folks who had found a permanent home in my consciousness. (This visit actually turned out to be a pre-cursor to a longer "all-Ireland" tour the very next year. But, that's another story.)
Several years prior to this trip I had retired to an “Historic Victorian Seaport Town,” a kind of Mecca for artists and musicians in the Pacific Northwest. I quickly decided to reintroduce myself to my L'Arrivée guitar, and started relearning folk songs that I had not sung for maybe thirty years. (That's the shame of it.) I ventured out into the world of ‘open mics’, made many new music-oriented friends, and low, it came to pass that I was involved in three bands, up to my eyeballs in "gear", and making shed-loads of "not-a-lot-of-money". No surprise there, right?
My initial focus was on English music and I developed a repertoire of songs written and collected by the likes of Ewan MacColl and Bert Lloyd. But, to my surprise, I found my passion leaning heavily towards Irish music, and I soon switched my focus to songs performed by two famous bands of the sixties, “The Dubliners” and “The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem”. Eventually, the pure genius and lyrical tones of Luke Kelly, Ronnie Drew, Liam Clancy and Tommy Makem dominated my life. They became my beacon. Of course, there was no way that I could have ever recreated the deep, rasping timbre of Ronnie Drew, but I could aspire to sound a little like the other three.
Enjoyable as Irish songs are, one cannot ignore the fact that most of them were written about a turbulent Irish history and the struggle for independence from British tyranny. And so, my knowledge and appreciation for this history deepened, until I became captivated by the quest for home rule, and eventually the men and women of the 1916 Easter Rising.
My wife’s family were all from the Belfast area, thus I had learned much of Northern Ireland history long before retirement, and I wondered whether this new interest in the fate of the “Irish Nation”, rather than the “British North", would cause ranker. But it did not. Anne was not the kind of person to stand in the way of my musical interests. And she showed no aversion to the idea of journeying to Glasnevin to visit the graves of those who had become my “musical heroes.”
The journey down from Belfast was uneventful. The sun shone the whole way, and we stopped for a cuppa and a scone at a roadside café. We hardly noticed the border because it was marked by just a single signpost. There were no border checkpoints between these two nations, both members of the European Union, and this was seen as a true blessing after long years of The Troubles, which still haunted our collective memories. The differences in the south were subtle. Green pillar boxes instead of red, for example, or the occasional fluttering of an Irish tricolour, rather than a Union flag or an Ulster flag of the North.
It was not long before we found ourselves cruising through Dublin town, and parking without to-do beside the famous Glasnevin Cemetery. I chose to park in a spot that enabled us to first find Luke Kelly’s grave, which was situated a little off the main section of the grounds. We trundled through the suburban streets searching for this “annex” lot, and then worked our way through the gravestones in search of Luke’s last resting place. He died in 1984 of a brain tumour, shaking his band members to the core. He was much loved, and his voice was very distinctive. I rated him as the greatest folk singer I had ever heard.
One of my annoying habits is to rush ahead of my party of walkers, as if in hot pursuit – a kind of “scout”. I am not able to linger or dawdle. So, I soon found myself way ahead of the family, darting in and out of the rows of graves, interested only in finding Luke. It was then that I first noticed her. I thought for one second that I had imagined her, for when I turned my head, she was not there. I stared intently but could see no figure at all. But burnt into my retina was the image of a slender woman wearing a green raincoat, and red shoes, and with bright red hair. I must have imagined it. No one could disappear that fast. But a few yards later it happened again. This time I caught a glimpse of her before she walked behind a clump of trees. I HAD seen her after all.
After a moment’s daze, I decided to think nothing more of it. I walked on to find Luke’s grave and stood over it in remembrance of him and his voice. I wished that I had met the man while he was still alive, but Luke and I were a generation apart. I closed my eyes, and brought to my mind’s eye, as if a video were playing in front of me, Luke’s last moving performance with the Dubliners; a song called ‘The Night Visiting Song.’ I had learned the song by heart for a show back home, and here I was, eyes closed, singing it again to myself in remembrance of Luke.
When I had finished the song, I opened my eyes and saw, at the far end of the cemetery lot, the woman with the red hair. She was looking directly at me, and smiling, her lips heavily painted with red lipstick. We stared at each other for maybe half a minute, and then she walked away into the distance.
The others finally caught up with me and paid their own homage to Luke. Then we all walked back the way we had come to find the main site, and to “spot names”. As we entered the main cemetery plaza we picked up a map from the visitor center, and I circled the graves that I wanted to see, before we meandered along the multiple paths snaking off in all directions. But first we stood and admired the huge monument to the martyrs of the 1916 Easter Rising, a very impressive sight, towering high above us and sweeping across the whole length of the building. A pillar was dedicated to each of the executed leaders.
Although we pretty much stayed together, I eventually moved ahead of the others again, rooting out graves, like a pig sniffing for truffles in the undergrowth. There was one in particular that I was interested in seeing; that of Brendan Behan. I had no idea why this character had stuck in my head. It may have been his flamboyant and irreverent style, or his great writing skills, but it was more likely that it was because he wrote the song that I enjoyed singing more than any other; ‘The Auld Triangle,’ a song that Luke Kelly made his own.
At last I found the grave and stood over it for a few minutes admiring the headstone’s strange curves and the doughnut-shaped hole containing a small green figurine of an author at his work. I bent down to peer at the name on the monument. Although the spot agreed with that on the map, and the name looked vaguely correct, it was not at all clear. I stared hard, trying to make out the letters of the name B-R-E-N-D-A-N B-E-H-A-N.
“Were you looking for Brendan’s grave, by any chance?” This sudden vocalization startled me, couched as it was in a velvety Irish accent and right beside my ear. I turned my head sideways without straightening up, and there next to me, also peering down at the name, was the woman with the red hair.
“Sure, that’s his name, so it is. The inscription’s in Irish, you see.” I felt a little dazed. “I noticed you over at Luke’s grave. You must be on a mission.”
“Oh, yes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I don’t expect to be back,“ I said.
“Well, I am sure that Brendan and Luke would be honored if they were here now, so they would. Tell me, what were you doing with your eyes closed over there at Luke’s place?”
“Oh, I was just singing a song. The one he sang with the Dubliners at his last performance.”
“Oh, grand. ‘The Night Visiting Song.’ I remember it well - I was in the audience at the time." That puzzled me; she couldn't possibly be old enough. "Tell me, are you up to singing a song here for Brendan?”
“Absolutely. I was going to sing ‘The Auld Triangle,’ but I’ll wait until you are gone.”
“You will not!“ That came across as an order.
“We’ll sing it together, sure we will.”
I needed no further encouragement. Paying little heed to passers-by, or my family who were peering down at a grave less than fifty feet from me, I brought out my pitchpipe, sounded a “C” note and launched into the song. And the woman with the red hair joined in on the chorus, with perfect pitch, harmonizing to my melody. Nothing could get better than this. Her voice was as clear as a bell, almost operatic.
I opened my eyes and thanked her. She gave me a peck on the cheek with her red lips, and a broad smile, before walking off along the cemetery path into the distance. She was gone.
I startle very easily. I get so engrossed in my thoughts that the slightest sound will give me a tremendous fright. So I jumped when I heard, “Hello. Who's this then?” It was Anne, looking down at the grave.
“Brendan Behan,” I explained. “The guy who wrote ‘The Auld Triangle’.”
“Oh, yes, one of my favorites,” said Keith.
“Did you hear me singing it just then?”
“No, we didn’t hear a thing. Are you going to sing it for us now?”
“I just sang it. You must have heard me. You were just over there. Didn’t you hear me with the woman that was here. We were singing it together. The woman with the red hair.”
“We really heard nothing and saw no woman with red hair. We looked over several times and just saw you staring down at the gravestone.” They both looked incredulous.
“Are you serious?” I said, confused.
We continued the tour, and I stayed much closer from then on. There were no more sightings of the woman with the red hair.
Before we left the cemetery we went back into the visitor center for a pit-stop and to get some more tea and coffee. As I was waiting for the others, I walked over to the main information desk and asked the curator whether they had a woman working there with rather striking red hair.
“No, sir, we have no one like that working here. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I saw her twice. Once by Luke Kelly’s grave and then again at Brendan Behan’s grave. The second time we sang a song together.”
“Let me guess. ‘The Auld Triangle’, am I right?”
“Of course. What else would one sing at Brendan Behan’s grave?” I was a little rattled, and maybe unduly offhand with him.
He smiled. “Tell me, was she slender, young, maybe 30 years old, wearing a green raincoat and red shoes?”
“Yes, that’s right. You know her?”
“Well, sir – not exactly, sir. What I can tell you, with some certainty, is that you have experienced the presence of our Roisin (pronounced Rosheen). At least that's what we call her. Very privileged you are, sir.”
“Rosheen? Who’s that? What does that mean?”
“Roisin," he spelled-out the name for me, "R - O - I - S - I - N is an Irish word meaning 'little rose'. So, I think you might call her 'Rosie'. She's what you might call an unofficial guide here, sir. We get a sighting reported to us about once a year. She seems to know about everyone buried here, so."
He continued, “No one knows who she is exactly, but…” (he came closer, his voice lowered a few decibels, and he looked over his left and right shoulders before proceeding) “…the first sighting of her was made in eighteen forty-five, and recorded by Sir James Cranberry. He described her as…” (and here he picked up a well-thumbed notebook, placed reading glasses on his nose, and read aloud) “…about 30 years old, wearing a green Mackintosh and red shoes, and sporting a shock of red hair. And she sang 'The Star of the County Down' to me with the purest voice; like a diva.”
He felt obliged to finish off with, “Them's are ‘is very words, sir - in his very own autobiography. James Cranberry, and himself from Bangor in the very same County of Down. Eighteen forty-five he wrote them words, sir.”
It was then that I realized the tinnitus, the ringing in my ears, that I had lived with all my life...had vanished. All was quiet inside my head; it was as if someone had oiled the proverbial wheels that were turning up there in the old cranium.
He placed the book down in a slow, deliberate manner, and looked up at me again. We stared at each other for a few seconds, with a stillness of air between us that could have been cut with a knife.
Another jolt - “You ready, then?” Anne came up behind me, urging me to abandon the conversation. “Let’s get going.”
I turned round when we reached the door, looked again at the curator, and held up my right hand to say goodbye, mouthing a “thank you.” He stared back at me with a sympathetic grin.
We walked slowly back to our vehicle, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine.
As we clambered into the car, Anne grabbed a tissue from her handbag and passed it to me. “You have a red mark on your cheek. Here, wipe it off with this.”
As we approached Belfast city on our return journey I realized that my tinnitus had returned.
“Bout ye,” he said.
"Bout ye," I replied.
I had grown extremely fond of Keith over the years. Even though our worlds and our beliefs are quite different, this did not matter to either of us. We enjoyed each other’s company and, more importantly, we laughed at each other's lame jokes. We ribbed each other silly, with our dry, laconic quips.
Shaking hands enthusiastically I said, “Well, would you look at dat. It's himself, so it is,” trying desperately to pull-off a Northern Irish accent but failing miserably, as usual. This was all part of the banter between us. Keith would, in return, often try and fail to imitate my faux-Cockney accent.
He said, “You all set, then? I’ll just get me bag and I’ll be right widja.”
I returned to the car to wait with my wife, and in a short while Keith came bounding down his front steps, opened the rear car door, and sat with his bag on his lap.
“Mornin’, Sis,“ he said to Anne who was sitting in the front passenger seat, and he patted her on her shoulder.
I gave it one more shot at the old Irish brogue before we set off, “Well, is we all strapped in and ready for dah big joiney, me wee little ones?”
“OK, enough,” countered Anne, being a very assertive Belfast lady. She knew that this silliness could last all the way down to Dublin if she didn’t put her foot down. We had a couple of hours of driving in front of us.
“Yes, miss!” I saluted and turned on the ignition. And so, the “joiney” began.
For the siblings, Keith and Anne, the path between Belfast and Dublin was well trodden, but this was my first visit to Ireland's capital. For me, this journey had a special meaning; it was a kind of pilgrimage, which was quite incongruous, since I am a resolute atheist. What would an atheist be doing visiting a Catholic graveyard? And what would an atheist be doing going on a “pilgrimage”?
But, let me tell you something, me-deario; this was just as much a pilgrimage as any person-of-faith was ever likely to take. My life had changed significantly since we had retired, and I felt that it was time to pay some kind of “homage” to the folks who had found a permanent home in my consciousness. (This visit actually turned out to be a pre-cursor to a longer "all-Ireland" tour the very next year. But, that's another story.)
Several years prior to this trip I had retired to an “Historic Victorian Seaport Town,” a kind of Mecca for artists and musicians in the Pacific Northwest. I quickly decided to reintroduce myself to my L'Arrivée guitar, and started relearning folk songs that I had not sung for maybe thirty years. (That's the shame of it.) I ventured out into the world of ‘open mics’, made many new music-oriented friends, and low, it came to pass that I was involved in three bands, up to my eyeballs in "gear", and making shed-loads of "not-a-lot-of-money". No surprise there, right?
My initial focus was on English music and I developed a repertoire of songs written and collected by the likes of Ewan MacColl and Bert Lloyd. But, to my surprise, I found my passion leaning heavily towards Irish music, and I soon switched my focus to songs performed by two famous bands of the sixties, “The Dubliners” and “The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem”. Eventually, the pure genius and lyrical tones of Luke Kelly, Ronnie Drew, Liam Clancy and Tommy Makem dominated my life. They became my beacon. Of course, there was no way that I could have ever recreated the deep, rasping timbre of Ronnie Drew, but I could aspire to sound a little like the other three.
Enjoyable as Irish songs are, one cannot ignore the fact that most of them were written about a turbulent Irish history and the struggle for independence from British tyranny. And so, my knowledge and appreciation for this history deepened, until I became captivated by the quest for home rule, and eventually the men and women of the 1916 Easter Rising.
My wife’s family were all from the Belfast area, thus I had learned much of Northern Ireland history long before retirement, and I wondered whether this new interest in the fate of the “Irish Nation”, rather than the “British North", would cause ranker. But it did not. Anne was not the kind of person to stand in the way of my musical interests. And she showed no aversion to the idea of journeying to Glasnevin to visit the graves of those who had become my “musical heroes.”
The journey down from Belfast was uneventful. The sun shone the whole way, and we stopped for a cuppa and a scone at a roadside café. We hardly noticed the border because it was marked by just a single signpost. There were no border checkpoints between these two nations, both members of the European Union, and this was seen as a true blessing after long years of The Troubles, which still haunted our collective memories. The differences in the south were subtle. Green pillar boxes instead of red, for example, or the occasional fluttering of an Irish tricolour, rather than a Union flag or an Ulster flag of the North.
It was not long before we found ourselves cruising through Dublin town, and parking without to-do beside the famous Glasnevin Cemetery. I chose to park in a spot that enabled us to first find Luke Kelly’s grave, which was situated a little off the main section of the grounds. We trundled through the suburban streets searching for this “annex” lot, and then worked our way through the gravestones in search of Luke’s last resting place. He died in 1984 of a brain tumour, shaking his band members to the core. He was much loved, and his voice was very distinctive. I rated him as the greatest folk singer I had ever heard.
One of my annoying habits is to rush ahead of my party of walkers, as if in hot pursuit – a kind of “scout”. I am not able to linger or dawdle. So, I soon found myself way ahead of the family, darting in and out of the rows of graves, interested only in finding Luke. It was then that I first noticed her. I thought for one second that I had imagined her, for when I turned my head, she was not there. I stared intently but could see no figure at all. But burnt into my retina was the image of a slender woman wearing a green raincoat, and red shoes, and with bright red hair. I must have imagined it. No one could disappear that fast. But a few yards later it happened again. This time I caught a glimpse of her before she walked behind a clump of trees. I HAD seen her after all.
After a moment’s daze, I decided to think nothing more of it. I walked on to find Luke’s grave and stood over it in remembrance of him and his voice. I wished that I had met the man while he was still alive, but Luke and I were a generation apart. I closed my eyes, and brought to my mind’s eye, as if a video were playing in front of me, Luke’s last moving performance with the Dubliners; a song called ‘The Night Visiting Song.’ I had learned the song by heart for a show back home, and here I was, eyes closed, singing it again to myself in remembrance of Luke.
When I had finished the song, I opened my eyes and saw, at the far end of the cemetery lot, the woman with the red hair. She was looking directly at me, and smiling, her lips heavily painted with red lipstick. We stared at each other for maybe half a minute, and then she walked away into the distance.
The others finally caught up with me and paid their own homage to Luke. Then we all walked back the way we had come to find the main site, and to “spot names”. As we entered the main cemetery plaza we picked up a map from the visitor center, and I circled the graves that I wanted to see, before we meandered along the multiple paths snaking off in all directions. But first we stood and admired the huge monument to the martyrs of the 1916 Easter Rising, a very impressive sight, towering high above us and sweeping across the whole length of the building. A pillar was dedicated to each of the executed leaders.
Although we pretty much stayed together, I eventually moved ahead of the others again, rooting out graves, like a pig sniffing for truffles in the undergrowth. There was one in particular that I was interested in seeing; that of Brendan Behan. I had no idea why this character had stuck in my head. It may have been his flamboyant and irreverent style, or his great writing skills, but it was more likely that it was because he wrote the song that I enjoyed singing more than any other; ‘The Auld Triangle,’ a song that Luke Kelly made his own.
At last I found the grave and stood over it for a few minutes admiring the headstone’s strange curves and the doughnut-shaped hole containing a small green figurine of an author at his work. I bent down to peer at the name on the monument. Although the spot agreed with that on the map, and the name looked vaguely correct, it was not at all clear. I stared hard, trying to make out the letters of the name B-R-E-N-D-A-N B-E-H-A-N.
“Were you looking for Brendan’s grave, by any chance?” This sudden vocalization startled me, couched as it was in a velvety Irish accent and right beside my ear. I turned my head sideways without straightening up, and there next to me, also peering down at the name, was the woman with the red hair.
“Sure, that’s his name, so it is. The inscription’s in Irish, you see.” I felt a little dazed. “I noticed you over at Luke’s grave. You must be on a mission.”
“Oh, yes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I don’t expect to be back,“ I said.
“Well, I am sure that Brendan and Luke would be honored if they were here now, so they would. Tell me, what were you doing with your eyes closed over there at Luke’s place?”
“Oh, I was just singing a song. The one he sang with the Dubliners at his last performance.”
“Oh, grand. ‘The Night Visiting Song.’ I remember it well - I was in the audience at the time." That puzzled me; she couldn't possibly be old enough. "Tell me, are you up to singing a song here for Brendan?”
“Absolutely. I was going to sing ‘The Auld Triangle,’ but I’ll wait until you are gone.”
“You will not!“ That came across as an order.
“We’ll sing it together, sure we will.”
I needed no further encouragement. Paying little heed to passers-by, or my family who were peering down at a grave less than fifty feet from me, I brought out my pitchpipe, sounded a “C” note and launched into the song. And the woman with the red hair joined in on the chorus, with perfect pitch, harmonizing to my melody. Nothing could get better than this. Her voice was as clear as a bell, almost operatic.
I opened my eyes and thanked her. She gave me a peck on the cheek with her red lips, and a broad smile, before walking off along the cemetery path into the distance. She was gone.
I startle very easily. I get so engrossed in my thoughts that the slightest sound will give me a tremendous fright. So I jumped when I heard, “Hello. Who's this then?” It was Anne, looking down at the grave.
“Brendan Behan,” I explained. “The guy who wrote ‘The Auld Triangle’.”
“Oh, yes, one of my favorites,” said Keith.
“Did you hear me singing it just then?”
“No, we didn’t hear a thing. Are you going to sing it for us now?”
“I just sang it. You must have heard me. You were just over there. Didn’t you hear me with the woman that was here. We were singing it together. The woman with the red hair.”
“We really heard nothing and saw no woman with red hair. We looked over several times and just saw you staring down at the gravestone.” They both looked incredulous.
“Are you serious?” I said, confused.
We continued the tour, and I stayed much closer from then on. There were no more sightings of the woman with the red hair.
Before we left the cemetery we went back into the visitor center for a pit-stop and to get some more tea and coffee. As I was waiting for the others, I walked over to the main information desk and asked the curator whether they had a woman working there with rather striking red hair.
“No, sir, we have no one like that working here. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I saw her twice. Once by Luke Kelly’s grave and then again at Brendan Behan’s grave. The second time we sang a song together.”
“Let me guess. ‘The Auld Triangle’, am I right?”
“Of course. What else would one sing at Brendan Behan’s grave?” I was a little rattled, and maybe unduly offhand with him.
He smiled. “Tell me, was she slender, young, maybe 30 years old, wearing a green raincoat and red shoes?”
“Yes, that’s right. You know her?”
“Well, sir – not exactly, sir. What I can tell you, with some certainty, is that you have experienced the presence of our Roisin (pronounced Rosheen). At least that's what we call her. Very privileged you are, sir.”
“Rosheen? Who’s that? What does that mean?”
“Roisin," he spelled-out the name for me, "R - O - I - S - I - N is an Irish word meaning 'little rose'. So, I think you might call her 'Rosie'. She's what you might call an unofficial guide here, sir. We get a sighting reported to us about once a year. She seems to know about everyone buried here, so."
He continued, “No one knows who she is exactly, but…” (he came closer, his voice lowered a few decibels, and he looked over his left and right shoulders before proceeding) “…the first sighting of her was made in eighteen forty-five, and recorded by Sir James Cranberry. He described her as…” (and here he picked up a well-thumbed notebook, placed reading glasses on his nose, and read aloud) “…about 30 years old, wearing a green Mackintosh and red shoes, and sporting a shock of red hair. And she sang 'The Star of the County Down' to me with the purest voice; like a diva.”
He felt obliged to finish off with, “Them's are ‘is very words, sir - in his very own autobiography. James Cranberry, and himself from Bangor in the very same County of Down. Eighteen forty-five he wrote them words, sir.”
It was then that I realized the tinnitus, the ringing in my ears, that I had lived with all my life...had vanished. All was quiet inside my head; it was as if someone had oiled the proverbial wheels that were turning up there in the old cranium.
He placed the book down in a slow, deliberate manner, and looked up at me again. We stared at each other for a few seconds, with a stillness of air between us that could have been cut with a knife.
Another jolt - “You ready, then?” Anne came up behind me, urging me to abandon the conversation. “Let’s get going.”
I turned round when we reached the door, looked again at the curator, and held up my right hand to say goodbye, mouthing a “thank you.” He stared back at me with a sympathetic grin.
We walked slowly back to our vehicle, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine.
As we clambered into the car, Anne grabbed a tissue from her handbag and passed it to me. “You have a red mark on your cheek. Here, wipe it off with this.”
As we approached Belfast city on our return journey I realized that my tinnitus had returned.
Unless otherwise stated