Michael Manley

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=98 BGCOLOR="#006699" TEXT="#080000" background="0c3085a3.jpg"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFFFFF" FACE="Arial" ><B>Jamaica  ~ Noamie's Negril.Com </B></FONT><B>  </B><B>   |     </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Jamaica Noamies Negril.Com "><U><B>home</B></U></A></div> <div> back to  <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Jamaica Noamies Negril.Com "><U><B>Jamaica  ~ Noamie's Negril.Com </B></U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000" background="0c4d2e83.jpg"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Jamaica Noamies Negril.Com "><U><IMG SRC="0970e0e0.png" border=0 width="14" height="14" ALT="up" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></U></A>   <IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="14" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" WIDTH="14">     <A HREF="id23.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="My Son"><U><IMG SRC="0960e0e0.png" border=0 width="14" height="14" ALT="previous" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></U></A>  <A HREF="id93.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" Contact Us"><U><IMG SRC="0980e0e0.png" border=0 width="14" height="14" ALT="next" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></U></A></div> <div> <B>Michael Manley- The People Who Helps To Shape Our History</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>'The Final Incarnation'</B></div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="2b1e8be0.jpg" border=0 width="232" height="190" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>The Slipstream: A Daughter Remembers</B></div> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="1" CELLSPACING="1" WIDTH="256" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="VOID" RULES="NONE" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP BGCOLOR=#C0C0C0 HEIGHT= 27 WIDTH="252"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="27" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="252" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></tD> </tR> <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP BGCOLOR=#00FFFF HEIGHT= 16 WIDTH="252"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="16" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="252" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <div> <B>'Joshua' and the rod of correction</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>Manley's 'Rod of Correction'.</B></div> <div> <B><U>Noamie's Negril</U></B><FONT SIZE="3" COLOR="#00FFFF" FACE="Arial" > </FONT></div> <div> <B>--</B><FONT SIZE="6" COLOR="#FF0000" FACE="Elephant" ><B>--</B></FONT><B>--</B><FONT SIZE="6" COLOR="#FF00FF" FACE="Elephant" ><B>---</B></FONT><FONT SIZE="6" COLOR="#FFFF00" FACE="Elephant" ><B>---</B></FONT><B>--</B><FONT SIZE="6" COLOR="#FF0000" FACE="Elephant" ><B>--</B></FONT><B>--</B><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#FF99FF" FACE="Arial" > </FONT></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Jamaica Noamies Negril.Com "><U><I>Home</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id2.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Who is Noamie?"><U><I>Who is Noamie?</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id50.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Paracme"><U><I>Paracme's Memories</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id87.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Jamaica Cowboy"><U><I>Remembering:- Jamaica Cowboy</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id74.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Frog That Would Not Let Me Forget"><U><I>A Frog That Would Not Let me Forget</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id66.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="BarBBarn Negril Cooking it up with Norm"><U><I>Norm's Negril</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id19.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 1 A Star is Born ... The Road T"><U><I>+</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Noamies Chat Corner"><U><I>Noamie's Chat Corner</I></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id69.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Jamaicans Rituals:"><U><I>Jamaican Rituals</I></U></A></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=382 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <bR> <div> Michael Manley: The People Remembers</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="1b33ec00.jpg" border=0 width="318" height="192" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"><IMG SRC="1b43abf0.jpg" border=0 width="314" height="191" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> Jamaica:  <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FF6666" FACE="Eurostile" ><B>The People Who Helps To Shape Our History</B></FONT></div> <div> Michael Manley</div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="20d84490.jpg" border=0 width="132" height="73" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"> <IMG SRC="1f496620.jpg" border=0 width="150" height="98" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="43bf8650.jpg" border=0 width="248" height="101" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B>'Joshua' and the rod of correction</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B>Manley's 'Rod of Correction'.</B></div> <div> <B>WHEN MICHAEL </B><B><U>Manley</U></B><B> defeated Vivian Blake to become president of the People's National Party (PNP) in 1969, it signalled a changing of the guard.</B> </div> <bR> <bR> <div> Manley, younger son of founding president Norman Manley, was a trade unionist who said he represented the energy and hopes of the working class. </div> <div> His run for Prime Minister of Jamaica three years later was a departure from previous PNP campaigns. Manley was accompanied by a musical bandwagon featuring big-name performers and at some of the stops, he would unveil a cane that became one of the talking points of the 1972 general election. </div> <bR> <div> <B>Gift from Haile Selassie I</B> </div> <div> The cane, or rod, was given to him by Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie I during a visit to that country in 1970. When the PNP leader waved the ivory-tipped, ebony-bodied 'Rod of Correction' at meetings, it stirred the masses and added to his image of Joshua, the Old Testament figure who led the enslaved Jews out of Jericho. </div> <div> Today, the rod is displayed at the Michael Manley Foundation in Hope Pastures, St. Andrew. It lies in a glass case along with other Manley memorabilia. </div> <bR> <div> Louis Marriott, executive officer at the foundation, said the rod was donated by the Manley family in 2004 to mark the former Prime Minister's 80th birthday. </div> <div> Visitors to the foundation show no great interest in the artefact, Marriott said. </div> <div> "There is curiosity about it but they are more interested in the substance of Michael's message," he explained. </div> <bR> <div> <B><IMG SRC="43dc5fa0.jpg" border=0 width="197" height="250" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <div> <B>Message well received</B> </div> <bR> <div> <B>PNP leader Michael Manley (back to camera) addressing the jam-packed 33rd conference of his party at the National Arena in October 1971. </B></div> <bR> <div> Thirty-six years ago, Manley's message of empowerment went over well with Jamaican youth who were caught up in the Black Power movement. They were disenchanted with the conservative policies of Prime Minister Hugh Shearer's <U>Jamaica</U> Labour Party (JLP) government. </div> <bR> <div> The Shearer administration banned several books by black nationalists and barred black-conscious leaders, including Guyanese Walter Rodney and Muslim leader Elijah Muhammed, from entering the country. </div> <bR> <div> The rod inspired singer/producer Clancy <U>Eccles</U> to record the song, <B>Rod of Correction</B>, which was released at th of the PNP's push for power. Eccles was one of the organisers of the musical bandwagon that went around with the PNP's islandwide rally. </div> <bR> <div> The PNP won the elections in a landslide, taking 37 of the 53 parliamentary seats. It was their first victory in national polls since Jamaica gained Independence from Great Britain in 1962. </div> <bR> <div> Michael Manley died in March 1997 at the age of 73. </div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="43c73bf0.jpg" border=0 width="115" height="191" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <bR> <div> <B>Prime Minister Michael Manley emphasises a point during his 'Meet The People' programme in Falmouth, Trelawny, in May 1973. Manley spoke to an estimated audience of 10,000. </B></div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Michael Manley- The People Who Helps To Shape Our History</B></div> <bR> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="1" CELLSPACING="1" WIDTH="375" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="VOID" RULES="NONE" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP BGCOLOR=#C0C0C0 HEIGHT= 296 WIDTH="371"><div> <B>'The final incarnation'</B></div> <div> <IMG SRC="2b1e8be0.jpg" border=0 width="232" height="190" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> (<FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#6666CC" FACE="Eurostile" >Sunday | October 1, 2000 </FONT></div> <div> [ This picture may have been taken 2 years before his passing]</div> <bR> </tD> </tR> <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP BGCOLOR=#00FFFF HEIGHT= 209 WIDTH="371"><bR> <div> <I><B>Rachel Manley, daughter of the late Jamaican Prime Minister Michael Manley, has written a book discussing the lives of the Manley clan. She discusses the death of her father and her time with him in his final moments.</B></I></div> <bR> <div> <B> The Slipstream: A Daughter Remembers Author: Rachel Manley ....READ. Buy these books:</B><FONT SIZE="1" COLOR="#6666CC" FACE="Eurostile" ><B> </B></FONT><B><U>Jamaica: Struggle in the Periphery </U></B><B>~Michael Manley Paperback - June 1982 </B></div> </tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <div> <B>"MY FATHER</B> died on a Thursday. It's strange how casually we say the names of the days, or refer to a month and a date: Thursday, March the sixth. We say it with the ease of walking down a familiar sidewalk. A date is, after all, a public thing, and belongs to everyone. We make of it what we will. We do not shudder with the premonition that we may be walking over a grave, or trespassing on a future anniversary. </div> <bR> <div> At the moment of his death, shortly before midnight, my father was looking at a picture on the far wall, it was drawn by his mother. The simple line drawing, red chalk on an aqua page, showed a nude woman cupping her hand to her left breast as though indicating what was in her heart. It was a gentle gesture, coy for my grandmother's bold work, a gesture a woman might make when thinking of her child. It had been a gift to my father, and always hung in his bedroom. He died looking at that picture, and I was looking at him. I was holding his hand. There we were, my late grandmother, my father and me. It occurs to me now how profound yet intricate are the bonds that link the generations; how a family marks its own landscape like a mountain range, but the shape that others see was formed by some gradual, unrelenting continental drift.  Cancer colonises. It subdues. It imposes an entirely foreign culture. It wins by dividing, the body against itself, by disrupting the lines of communication within. We turn against the piece of us that hurts. A lifetime's natural harmony is ripped apart. We become a battlefield in which we are fighting ourselves. </div> <bR> <div> <B>Margins</B> </div> <div> My father's cancer had lived with him so long that, to a certain extent, each had learned to accommodate the other. Between attacks and countering line of defence, they had learned to compromise - for space, for food, for time awake or asleep, for margins between one thing and another. "You are nowhere without me," my father would remind his occupant. It was, after all, his cancer. It was learning from a master. </div> <bR> <div> For it seemed as if the cancer had taken on its host's characteristics. Like my father, it had audacity. It had a great and powerful foe, but it was an intelligent enemy. It knew exactly how far to push. It knew when to lie low and lull him into a false sense of security. Let him make his mistakes, wait too long for the next test. Let him work too hard, lower his resistance, develop pneumonia so that surgery was delayed. Let him feel well enough to go to his appointments, distracting the doctors with his charisma and bravado. In the meantime it quietly amassed its soldiers, spreading subversion to further cells. When it had weakened the walls, it challenged the foundations of the house it was intent on destroying; it occupied his very bones. </div> <bR> <div> In his final days, my father was like a night watchman fighting the defenceless oblivion of sleep. He feared that, if he relented, he might never wake up. He appeared to spend his time juggling the perimeters of his situation in his head, always watchful, assessing and balancing, as though he suspected that some crucial but invisible piece of information out there could make all the differences to the outcome. He was still fighting the system. </div> <div> Two mornings before his death, he may have sensed that the central spool from which his life had unwound for over 72 years was spinning faster and faster. He may have sensed an oncoming midnight by which his span must be complete. I was struck by something he said that was quite out of character. </div> <div> "Remorse, come." </div> <bR> <div> The dry, wind-wounded words rasped like pumice, yet I had the feeling they were spoken in challenge. </div> <div> Remorse, come? What did he mean? Regret? Repentance? </div> <div> Repent. I found this word repeating itself in my head as he hung his eyes on me, as I unwittingly returned his stare till it surprised me, embarrassed me, when I bounced back from my thoughts. We must all have seemed so self-righteous, choreographing his limited life, telling him how much to take of this or that, when to be moved, what he could and couldn't do. Even his sickroom must have seemed smug, with its interminable timetable and hospital rules, as if some disobedience had sent him in there for discipline and reform. </div> <bR> <div> <B>Remorse, come</B> </div> <div> Did he address remorse as though in combat, as though he were a boxer taunting an opponent in the ring? Or was the enormity of his tribulation a thought he could entertain only in a moment of dark humour? "What is it you regret, Dad?" I asked. I moved to the side of the bed, feeling self-conscious, the corners of my mouth tugged by the invisible needs of my conscience. I felt we had all let him down. I knew he was going to die. Yet he had come so close so many times before and surprised us. I felt a moment of hope, but it was only an outline, like tightening at the edge of deep cloud. </div> <div> "What, dear?" He looked as though I had woken him from an unremembered nightmare. I wondered if it was the effect of a newly prescribed tranquilliser, combined with his morphine. </div> <div> "Do you want to talk about anything, Dad?" </div> <div> He seemed puzzled, as though he was going to ask me something, then appeared to change his mind. "Never mind," he said irritably. </div> <bR> <div> I took his hand in mine and leaned over the bed, so close that it seemed the bone in his forehead ached as he lifted his eyes to me. His skin always felt cool and appropriate. I had the feeling that he wished he hadn't opened his mouth, that he felt he must keep me in sight lest I run away with his thoughts, and God only knew what I'd do with them. Did he dread my annoying habit of taking over his room, my tendency to lecture? How had I grown so old and set in my ways, like his late aunts, beige and determined, whose later years one remembered more for the certainty of their pronouncements than for the frailty of their steps? </div> <bR> <div> I returned his hand fondly to its twin on his stomach and, retreating, looked at it with characteristic sentimentality, my own hands still holding the shape of his. I wanted to remember each moment. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to talk to someone?" I asked him. It seemed unlikely, but maybe his use of the word remorse revealed a subconscious need for something spiritual. </div> <div> I had already heard about his preoccupation with remorse from Vita, the take-charge, possessive morning nurse. We owed her so much gratitude for all that she saved the rest of us from doing, and for much that she diagnosed before anyone else. Beautiful in an upright, precise way (she could have been chiselled and fixed perpendicular to the prow of a ship), she had phoned me with satisfaction to tell me it was time for a priest. </div> <div> "So what if he speaks of remorse?" my brother Joseph had said when I told him. "He's only babbling. It's all the medication. What's to regret? He's had a spectacular life. Maybe you just hope he's sorry!"</div> <div>  </div> <div> <B>Missing religion</B> </div> <div> We were not a religious family, despite the fact that Jamaica is a predominantly Christian country, and the fact that my grandmother's father was a Methodist minister once sent to Jamaica from England. I suppose my grandparents were of an age whose intellectuals questioned existing assumptions. </div> <div> Although my grandfather quoted the Bible, and my grandmother wrestled with its themes in her art, and was very superstitious about how to avoid the wrath of the Lord, their belief systems were not formally inspired by religion. During the last six months of his illness, when my father was confined to his bed, there had never been talk of a priest. While this omission caused the afternoon nurse to lift her eyebrows in disapproval as if her spiritual judgements were suspended from them, Vita worked from a calm assumption that God was not an issue one had to push; He was one of the inevitable, recognisable milestones of this and all terminal illness. And here it was: God had brought another wayward sheep to heel. But I didn't know who had arranged for a bishop to come at noon. </div> <bR> <div> "Talk to?" His eyes alone moved in my direction now, his neck already stretched as far as possible from the angle at which he had been placed. He had to be periodically turned in the bed. He hated lying on this side. These two hours on his left were usually interrupted by pain. The knees of his dead legs were bent away from him like the struts of a collapsed easel; his torso was a canvas thrown clear, twisted so far in the opposition direction that his shoulders and back lay flat on the bed, as if defiantly going on with their own life. </div> <div> His fingers began tracing the hemmed border of his sheet over and over, with minute indulgences, as though he were searching for an errant pin lost in the overfold of fabric. Vita, in her initial week as his nurse, had been the first to notice that he did this whenever he had pain. </div> <bR> <div> I said, "Maybe you'd like to discuss things with someone other than us." I could feel Vita's busy approval behind me as she organised the medicines on my father's desk. "It's been a terrible ordeal for you, Dad, and I thought you might want to talk to someone used to dealing with these situations." </div> <div> He was smiling at me. I felt like a fool. My father, Michael, the fixer of the universe. Michael the ultimate activist, solver of problems, creator of visions, dreamer of Sagittarian dreams, my Rock of Gibraltar, Michael, an archangel of Jewish and Christian tradition, the head of the heavenly host. Michael, my dangerous quagmire and quicksand, my umbilical rope. "Now you're making me feel stupid," I said. </div> <bR> <div> "No...I'm not, really...," he insisted, but softly, his smile outlasting the quick, small shake of his head, which was like a moment of punctuation in a long sentence. "I'm thinking how wonderful you've all been...the burden on you and Joseph...on Glynne. You know, if I could only move forward, stop this horrible pattern...each day some new symptom raising its awful spectre." </div> <bR> <div> He stared at the ceiling in frustration, as though his optimism had been forced to see limits there, and I regretted taking him so seriously, sometimes not taking him seriously enough. I had a familiar feeling of making my way back to the start of some perpetual race that never quite began; as if, in my relationship with my father, I had no sooner started to run than I was stopped by the sound of a second gun. I felt that, since my grandmother's death 10 years before, I had lost the rules of the game. </div> <bR> <div> <B>Last stand</B> </div> <div> This was my father's last room. Day after day it remained benign around us, in resolute contradiction to everything happening within. It even seemed uncommitted to the pictures that hung there. It was a long, narrow, neutral blue-grey room, an upstairs extension to the original plan he had conceived as a study over the patio when, shortly before he embarked on his last campaign for re-election as Jamaica's Prime Minister in 1989, he bought the unpretentious unit in a well-guarded suburban development. This was his final incarnation. </div> <bR> <div> At first I had thought he seemed too big for the town house, but during the slow course of his illness the narrow structure seemed slowly to engulf us all, even him. The new custom-made furniture, contemporary and overstuffed, seemed odd after his previously spartan, uncoordinated world. Everything felt so bland here, things matching things, things that fitted together perfectly - from the clear slab of glass on legs instead of the mahogany dining table that bore our scars, to the obesity of the upholstery, which efficiently muffled the years of our common past. It was a place accountable only to the limits of this present life... </div> <bR> <div> ...The room's neutrality made it easy to modify. The desk had become a nurse's station. It seemed to me that we were all taking shifts - people or objects - just passing through. </div> <div> "The doctor was asking me the other day if I thought you'd like to talk to a priest, and of course I said no, but I think someone may have arranged a visit today." </div> <div> "A priest?" He let go of the edge of the sheet and pulled his hands away, as though he thought the imaginary pin might stick him. "Or a bishop or something. Don't you want to talk to anyone?" </div> <bR> <div> "Talk about what? I mean, in what sense am I to speak?" His eyes swept the room as though envisioning throngs of supporters who would readily agree with him. "I must be honest, this is not a conversation I would be continuing; it's out of left field. You know I've never walked that road." He had a way of expanding lavishly on any idea he didn't like, as though spreading the folds of a concertina, and he would shade his remarks with enough mild sarcasm to illustrate the idea's inherent folly. The experience was usually humiliating, but I accepted it today. "Which bishop is this?" </div> <div> "I don't know. But if he's a bishop he's probably an Anglican." </div> <bR> <div> "But don't you see, dear? I couldn't see him and not then see an Episcopalian and a Catholic. And what about the Baptists and Rastafarians, and the Methodists? For God's sake, I think I am actually a Methodist myself. They will all want to come and see me." </div> <bR> <div> His words, as he delivered them, were still carefully arranged in thoughtful phrases, although they arrived on rasps of diminishing breath. "But this is not about politics, Dad." </div> <div> "Well, what is it about?" </div> <div> I thought about that. "Your eternal soul, I suppose." </div> <div> "Oh, is that it?" His brow relaxed from a clutch of concentration, and his head fell back on the pillows. "Cancel it," he said simply." </div> <div> ' </div> <div> <B>Published By: Alfred A. Knopf Canada</B> </div> <div> <I><B>Rachel Manley, daughter of the late Jamaican Prime Minister Michael Manley, has written a book discussing the lives of the Manley clan. Today The Sunday Gleaner begins its serialisation of the book, starting with Pages 1-8 of Chapter 1, where she discusses the death of her father and her time with him in his final moments.</B></I> </div> <bR> <div> <B>Title: The Slipstream: A Daughter Remembers</B> </div> <div> <B>Author: Rachel Manley</B> </div> <div> <B>Buy these books: </B></div> <div> <B><U>Jamaica: Struggle in the Periphery </U></B></div> <div> ~Michael Manley </div> <div> Writers' & Readers' Publishing Co-op. </div> <div> Paperback - June 1982 </div> <div> <IMG SRC="2b25a8c0.jpg" border=0 width="90" height="140" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>Politics of Change </U></B></div> <div> ~Michael Manley Hardcover - April 4, 1974 </div> <bR> <div> <IMG SRC="2b35a8c0.jpg" border=0 width="90" height="140" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <B><U>A Voice at the Workplace: </U></B></div> <div> <B><U>Reflections on Colonialism and the Jamaican Worker </U></B></div> <bR> <div> <I>Sourse & Link</I> </div> <div> ~Michael Manley </div> <div> Howard University Press </div> <div> Paperback - July 1, 1991</div> <div> . It signifies the birth of our nation. </div> <div> The Flag brings to mind memories of past achievements and gives inspiration towards further success. It is flown on many triumphant occasions, showing the pride that Jamaicans have in their country and in the flag itself.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Link:http://www.jamaicagleaner.com/gleaner/20070718/news/news4.html</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>