To Dance with the White Dog

To Dance with the White Dog

by Terry Kay

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780671726737
Publisher: Washington Square Press
Publication date: 11/01/1991
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 192
Sales rank: 158,748
Product dimensions: 5.42(w) x 8.06(h) x 0.56(d)

About the Author

Terry Kay's novels include Taking Lottie Home, The Runaway, Shadow Song, and the now-classic To Dance with the White Dog, twice nominated for the American Booksellers Book of the Year Award, and winner of the Southeastern Library Association Book of the Year Award. Terry Kay has been married for 44 years and has four children and seven grandchildren. He lives in Athens, Georgia.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

He understood what they were thinking and saying: Old man that he is, what's to become of him? Let's talk it out, they were saying cautiously.

Let's talk it out and come up with some solution while we're here, all of us, and it's on our minds. See if we can approach him about it, reason with him even if the timing's bad.

Makes sense. Can't put it off forever, no matter how painful it'll be to say aloud.

I don't know. Not now. Can't we wait? Just a few days, maybe.

But he'll not make it being alone, not likely, not half-crippled as he is.

Not used to being alone, they were saying. Not at all.

That's true. That's true. Always been somebody else around, even with all of us taking our leave, one by one.

She was here. When we were all gone, at least she was here.

Yes, that's true. Won't be the same now, not at all, not without her. Something'll have to take up the slack.

What are we going to do? We can't say anything, not now.

Soon. We've got to, soon.

He'll be stubborn about it, whatever we think.

He's got pride, all right. It's his mark. Thinks he's still bull-strong, and it's sad.

Still that way in his mind — bull-strong.

They were saying these things about him and did not know that he understood them, that he knew what they were saying. They were whispering among themselves that an old man's mind plays tricks, that it feeds on the swill of illusion, like carnival shell games that are faster than the eye. They were saying it would be a great pity to see him that way.

It was now past midnight. They had arrived — his sons and daughters — in the afternoon and during the hours of the dark May evening, and they had embraced him and wept before him and then they had huddled around the large kitchen table to drink strong coffee and talk quietly among themselves in sad, worried voices.

They would not know it, but he understood what they were thinking and saying: Old man that he is, what's to become of him?

He sat alone in his padded rocker in the middle room, near his rolltop desk, his good leg propped on the bottom brace of his aluminum walker, his head against the pillowed headrest of the chair, his eyes closed. He was not asleep, but he pretended sleep. It was better that way. He wanted his sons and daughters to get it said. Maybe by saying it, they'd get over it and wouldn't hover over him as though he was an invalid.

He knew about hovering. He had been called home from Madison, from school, to care for his grandfather when he was seventeen and he'd hovered, watching his grandfather wither into death. He had not wanted to stay with his grandfather, but it was expected and he'd done it. He'd hovered, watching, watching. He did not want his children to be watching, watching.

They mean well enough, he thought. And they need to talk of something. They need to feel needed. They would not bicker, though. It was not the time or the place or the mood for bickering. Not now. Perhaps later, when they had stopped their pitying. And perhaps they should. They had tempers for it, each of them — temper and his pride (and hers). It would not be enough for any of them to give up an argument without their say. God knows, he thought, I've listened to them for more than fifty years, and they've never backed off without having their say. But they mean well, sitting there in the kitchen, drinking their strong coffee at the crowded table, talking of what would become of him.

The window beside his roll-top desk was open and he could smell the greening of spring and hear the squalling of swamp bugs, and clearer than the swamp bugs and the low, serious voices of his children from the kitchen, he could hear the sharp, spirited whistle of a whippoorwill below the barns. He opened his lips slightly, moistened them, drew in a breath and soundlessly answered the whippoorwill. She had liked him answering birdcalls — the whippoorwill, the bobwhite. In spring and in summer, at dusk, they had often sat on the screened-in sideporch and listened to the birds, and he had answered them, cry for cry, and it had pleased her to hear him playful after a day of field work. Sometimes the bobwhites would walk into the grass of the lawn when he whistled for them and she would whisper, "Look!" She would not permit anyone to kill the bobwhites that lived in the grainfields of their land. The bobwhites were too trusting, too easy to call up for the gunsights of a hunter.

Because of her, he had learned to look for the birds — the darting flight of wild canaries (yellow sun on yellow wings), the chesty preening of redbirds and bluebirds, the blackbird with the red-tipped wings like startling epaulets. Often he had strewn grain over the ground outside the kitchen window so she could see the birds feeding as she worked.

The grass of the lawn had been cut earlier that day by one of the sons-in-law off work, and the smell of the cut grass, through the window beside the roll-top desk, was sweet as mint.

He reached for a letter on the desk. It was an invitation to a reunion for the classes of 1910–1915 at Madison Agricultural and Mechanical — Madison A&M. Sixty years, he thought. Sixty years. The invitation had arrived that day. She had said, "I want to go to this. It's been a long time since we went back." And he had taken the letter and put it away on his desk. He had said to her, "We'll see about it." He read the letter again in the dim light of the table lamp. It was signed by Martha Dunaway Kerr. He put the letter back on his desk and nestled his neck against the pillowed headrest and closed his eyes again.

He could hear the footsteps of someone — perhaps two people — entering the middle room from the kitchen, but he did not open his eyes. The footsteps stopped at the door. There was a pause of silence, and he knew he was being watched. Then he heard the soft, backward steps of retreat. He knew what was being said inside the kitchen: "He's sleeping." And he knew someone (one of the daughters, likely) answered: "Let him. He needs it."

Curious, he thought — knowing there was someone, perhaps two people, at the door leading into the room, knowing exactly where they were standing as they watched him, knowing they had walked back to the kitchen table. Or was it curious? No, he decided. No. It was his house. He knew it board by board, could hear the voices of its timbers and walk its walls in blind dark, reading its raised-lettered Braille with his fingertips.

He had walked the walls many times at night, going to her bed to see if she was sleeping, but he would not go to her bed this night. No, not this night.

He opened his eyes, felt them dampen. He moved his head on the headrest of the chair. He could feel the ache in his bad leg, in the thigh, in the hip that had been twice replaced with an artificial joint. One of his daughters (he could not remember which) had given him aspirin for the ache, but it had not helped. Tomorrow he would ask for something stronger from the druggist, something to numb the bruise deep in his hip, something pleasant to calm him, to keep him from reeling before the dizzying swarm of sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters and drawn-faced neighbors who would fill the house with their mumblings and their platters of food offerings. The druggist was wise enough to know what was needed. The druggist would know better than anyone.

The whippoorwill called again, but was farther away, deeper in the swamp.

He pulled his watch from his shirt pocket. The watch was tied by a cut-off shoestring that he had threaded through a buttonhole high on his shirt — a practice that annoyed his daughters because it made him appear unkempt. It was twelve-forty. It does not take long to die, he thought.

He stared at the face of the watch, at the dull lime green of the see-in-the-dark numbers and the long and the short hands, and he subtracted away the hours in his mind. Five? Almost six? He counted the hours again. Yes, almost six, he decided. It had happened quickly. He slipped the watch back into his shirt pocket and closed his eyes again. From the kitchen, he could hear the mewing of crying.

I, too, want to die as quickly, he thought.

* * *

She did not answer when he called (though he could no longer hear all voices well, he had trained his senses for her, knew her quietest words) and he pulled himself from the oversized armchair, up to the top brace of the aluminum walker, and dragged-walked from the living room to find her.

"What're you doing?" he said in a loud voice. "Thought you were coming back. Thought you wanted to see the show on the TV."

She did not answer, and he went from the middle room to the kitchen and then to the back bedroom. He saw her on the floor, near the bed, on her left side, and he knew immediately what had happened. He shoved his walker aside and tried to run to her, but could not and he hobbled, good leg, bad leg, leaning against the walls for support until he reached her. He touched her neck. He could feel a quivering pulse, a twitch of blood flow, but he could not feel her breathing, and he sank beside her on his good leg and turned her to him and slipped his arm beneath the cradle of her neck and pushed open her mouth with his fingers and closed his own mouth over hers and began to search for life with his tongue, but there was only the cooling taste of saliva. He kissed her gently.

"Don't," he said aloud. "Don't do this. Don't do this."

He knew he could not lift her and it angered him. Old damned body, he thought. Old damned body. He eased her head down and pulled his arm from beneath her neck and rolled awkwardly and caught the knob of the closet door near him and drew himself up from the floor. The telephone was in the hallway and he stumbled, good leg, bad leg, to it and dialed a number. Four hundred yards away, across the sidelawn and a road, a daughter answered.

"It's your mama," he said.

"Mama?" his daughter asked, frightened. "Mama?"

He could not answer. He put the receiver back onto its rest and moved painfully back into the bedroom and sat on the side of the bed and looked down at her.

"Don't do this," he said again. "Don't."

He did not hear them entering the house and the room. He saw his son-in-law, worker-strong, lifting her and placing her on the bed beside him, and he knew the daughters — there were two living close and the one he called had called the other — were talking frantically, saying words to him that he did not understand or did not care to hear. And then there were men with a stretcher, and he could feel the muscled arm of another son-in-law helping him to his walker, and he was in the hospital where the antiseptic smell of medicines flowed into his senses and he was aware of other daughters, hastily called, and one of his sons.

His son led him to a chair near the bed and he sat, holding his son's hand, and watched as his daughters approached her, leaned to her, whispered in small-child voices, "Mama? Mama?" And his son, the youngest of their children, a large, strong man, cried in a large, strong voice, like a prayer flung from his throat, "Old woman, I love you." He could feel his son's hand tighten in his hand. His son was sobbing.

He saw her push her head into the pillow and she opened her eyes and her lips parted, but she did not speak. Her eyes drifted across the faces of her children, then turned to him, held on him, closed. She swallowed once.

"Daddy?"

He opened his eyes and looked up. It was his oldest living son, who had driven the greatest distance in the dark May evening, across the mountains from Tennessee.

"It's late, Daddy. I think you'd better go to bed," his son said. The voice of his son was baritone and gentle, an orator's voice.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"A little after one," his son answered.

"That late?"

"Yes."

He had slept remembering her dying, and he did not know it. He thought again: It does not take long to die.

"The others are here," his son said.

He turned his head toward the kitchen door. His other children were cuddled, touching one another, staring at him. His children seemed very old to him.

"We're all about to get settled in for the night," his son told him. "Some of us will be here with you. We just wanted to say good night."

He nodded and pulled himself forward in the chair and caught his walker with his hands. His son helped lift him. He could feel a burning in his bad leg.

"Do you hurt?" his son asked.

"A little."

"You want something, Daddy?" asked one of the daughters.

"I gave him some aspirin," another daughter answered.

"I'll be all right when I get to bed," he said.

"We'll get the doctor to give you something stronger tomorrow," his oldest daughter said forcefully. "He'll do that."

He stood leaning against his walker. He could hear the static of the swamp bugs, but not the whippoorwill. There was a pause, an uncomfortable lapse of time, an off-beat hesitation. His oldest living son embraced him. "We love you," his son whispered. And they all came to him, bending across his walker, each embracing him, each mumbling to him, each stepping away, back into the cuddling of the group.

He looked at them. He could feel his head nodding. He said, almost numbly, "We'll miss her."

One of the daughters cried very suddenly, "Mama! Mama!"

CHAPTER 2

There were many flowers at her funeral and many people, and he believed she would have approved of the service, though, for him, the preaching in the eulogy was a message of panic rather than promise — "Everybody's going to die. Get ready for God now, while there's time. O sinner, nobody knows the time. Nobody knows but Jesus. Amen. Amen. Amen." — and he tired of the singing trio with its off-key whine conjuring up images of angels and an old rugged cross and a gathering at the river.

He had always missed her intensely when crossing rivers, going away to work in other places. The rivers had been a ground rip in the space that separated them. Yes, we shall gather at the river. Gather. But why? Gather to wait? Gather to stare across? Gather to hear the waters rushing?

He wanted to touch her face.

"Remember this day," the Preacher said to him and to his sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters. "Remember the passing of this loved one."

On the night of her death, he had taken from his desk the journal that he kept daily and he had written:

Today my wife died. We were married 57 good yearsj.

It was the simplest entry he had ever recorded.

He would not forget the day. The Preacher would. But he would not.

* * *

He was led from the sanctuary of the funeral home where the service had been performed (her desire) to the car of his oldest living son and was driven to the gravesite where his oldest son — not living, but dead — had long been buried, and there he listened to a final, toneless litany. The Preacher paused before him, bowed just so at his gravesite chair, offered a handgrip and supplicant mutterings, and then moved to his sons and daughters, repeating himself like a parrot.

"Let's go home, Daddy," one of his sons said.

"In a minute," he replied.

The coffin was before him, balanced on strong nylon straps like a prop in an aerial act. A blanket of roses covered the chest of the coffin. He looked at the dug grave and, beside it, the grave of his oldest son — smooth mound, brilliantly white, glittering with mica dust — and he wanted to be alone. He could feel a hand on his shoulder.

"All right," he said softly. "All right." He stood at his walker. He could sense eyes staring at him. "Goodbye," he said to the coffin. He turned on his walker and moved away.

It was a day of sun — warm, bright, a soft wind from the west. The earth was green. The sun felt good on his face and hands.

* * *

In the afternoon, he took the druggist's pill and went into his bedroom and slept and dreamed of Neelie, the Negro woman who had worked with his wife. In his dream, Neelie was sitting beside his wife's coffin, talking to it. "I'll put up the beans. Don't you worry none. And cook up the biscuits, just like you been doing. Don't you worry none about it, none at all. I'll be around, taking care." And from the coffin, in a voice from the roses, his wife answered, "Put his water glass on the table, Neelie. Put ice in it. He likes it that way. And salt and pepper. He'll be asking for his salt and pepper." And Neelie said, "Oh, yes, I will. All them things. Don't you go worrying none. You just go on over and don't be worrying none about it. Neelie's here."

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "To Dance with the White Dog"
by .
Copyright © 1990 Terry Kay.
Excerpted by permission of RosettaBooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are Saying About This

Desmond M. Tutu

A hauntingly beautiful story about love, family, and relationships

Anne Rivers Siddons

To Dance with the White Dog is what literature is — or should be — all about....Kay is simply a miraculous writer....This book...burns with life.

Reading Group Guide

Questions and Topics for Discussion

1) Why do you think the author chose to tell the story from a third person omniscient point of view instead of using a first person narrator? How might your reading experience have been affected had it been told only through the eyes of Sam?
2) How do outside forces, like weather, seem to play upon what the main character may be feeling? In what ways does the physical world relate to what is happening in Sam's emotional landscape? Why does the author choose to develop this parallel between Sam and the world that surrounds him? What do we learn about him that we might not otherwise learn?
3) Sam's journal is a substantive part of this novel and becomes more and more important as the story moves on. In chapter thirteen, his journal entries make up nearly the entire chapter. In what ways is this journal almost like a character in and of itself? How does it help shape plot, and what kind of insights does it give us into Sam's loneliness and his love for his family? If the journal entries had been left out, how would this novel be different?
4) Talk about setting as it is presented in this novel. How does the serene, natural beauty of the farm highlight larger themes that the author may be trying to explore?
5) Kate and Carrie's concern for their father, and their desire to treat him like a child or an invalid, reaches an almost comic level at many points in this novel. All children worry about elderly parents, especially ones with health problems, but why do you think these two women go so far in their attempts to take care of Sam? Is this strictly comic relief, or do you think the author might be making a more profound statement about growing old?
6) It is interesting that one of the most important characters, Cora, is not physically present, having died before the novel begins. In what ways do we get a sense of who this woman was, even though she is absent? Did you feel that you had a clear picture of her character? What kind of woman was she?
7) The white dog is somewhat of an illusive presence: no one is sure whether it is a real dog, a ghost dog, or a dog at all. Howard Cook observes, late in the novel: "Maybe the lesson the Lord had intended for him to learn was in the white dog.... Maybe the dog was like the whale in the Jonah story, or like the lions with Daniel, or the doves of Noah's ark. Maybe the dog was the message and Sam Peek only the messenger." Keeping this quote in mind, talk about what the white dog means for individual characters and what she ultimately might represent in the world of this story. Did you believe that she was, as Sam insists in the end, the ghost of Cora?
8) In the same scene, Howard Cook also thinks to himself, "The Lord had finally put Sam Peek and Howard Cook together, and there was a reason for it, a reason other than helping Sam Peek find his way to Madison." Do you think there is divine intervention throughout this novel? Can you think of any other instances that seem to imply that a greater power is at work, or any which call that idea into question?
9) Why do you think it is so important to Sam to make it to the reunion? What is the significance of the picture of Cora and Marshall that he takes with him? Why has he chosen not to share it with his children?
10) If you had to describe Sam to a friend, what kinds of adjectives would you use? Is he a happy man? A proud man? A smart man? In what ways, if any, does he change by the end of the novel? What people or events cause him to change?
11) At the end of the story, the author states that this novel is based on "the truth — as I realized it — of my parents." Did this revelation change your reading of the story? How might your experience with this novel have been different had this disclaimer been made at the beginning of the book?

Introduction

Questions and Topics for Discussion

1) Why do you think the author chose to tell the story from a third person omniscient point of view instead of using a first person narrator? How might your reading experience have been affected had it been told only through the eyes of Sam?

2) How do outside forces, like weather, seem to play upon what the main character may be feeling? In what ways does the physical world relate to what is happening in Sam's emotional landscape? Why does the author choose to develop this parallel between Sam and the world that surrounds him? What do we learn about him that we might not otherwise learn?

3) Sam's journal is a substantive part of this novel and becomes more and more important as the story moves on. In chapter thirteen, his journal entries make up nearly the entire chapter. In what ways is this journal almost like a character in and of itself? How does it help shape plot, and what kind of insights does it give us into Sam's loneliness and his love for his family? If the journal entries had been left out, how would this novel be different?

4) Talk about setting as it is presented in this novel. How does the serene, natural beauty of the farm highlight larger themes that the author may be trying to explore?

5) Kate and Carrie's concern for their father, and their desire to treat him like a child or an invalid, reaches an almost comic level at many points in this novel. All children worry about elderly parents, especially ones with health problems, but why do you think these two women go so far in their attempts to take care of Sam? Is this strictly comic relief, or do you think the author might be making a moreprofound statement about growing old?

6) It is interesting that one of the most important characters, Cora, is not physically present, having died before the novel begins. In what ways do we get a sense of who this woman was, even though she is absent? Did you feel that you had a clear picture of her character? What kind of woman was she?

7) The white dog is somewhat of an illusive presence: no one is sure whether it is a real dog, a ghost dog, or a dog at all. Howard Cook observes, late in the novel: "Maybe the lesson the Lord had intended for him to learn was in the white dog.... Maybe the dog was like the whale in the Jonah story, or like the lions with Daniel, or the doves of Noah's ark. Maybe the dog was the message and Sam Peek only the messenger." Keeping this quote in mind, talk about what the white dog means for individual characters and what she ultimately might represent in the world of this story. Did you believe that she was, as Sam insists in the end, the ghost of Cora?

8) In the same scene, Howard Cook also thinks to himself, "The Lord had finally put Sam Peek and Howard Cook together, and there was a reason for it, a reason other than helping Sam Peek find his way to Madison." Do you think there is divine intervention throughout this novel? Can you think of any other instances that seem to imply that a greater power is at work, or any which call that idea into question?

9) Why do you think it is so important to Sam to make it to the reunion? What is the significance of the picture of Cora and Marshall that he takes with him? Why has he chosen not to share it with his children?

10) If you had to describe Sam to a friend, what kinds of adjectives would you use? Is he a happy man? A proud man? A smart man? In what ways, if any, does he change by the end of the novel? What people or events cause him to change?

11) At the end of the story, the author states that this novel is based on "the truth — as I realized it — of my parents." Did this revelation change your reading of the story? How might your experience with this novel have been different had this disclaimer been made at the beginning of the book?

Terry Kay's novels include Taking Lottie Home, The Runaway, Shadow Song, and the now-classic To Dance with the White Dog, twice nominated for the American Booksellers Book of the Year Award, and winner of the Southeastern Library Association Book of the Year Award. Terry Kay has been married for 44 years and has four children and seven grandchildren. He lives in Athens, Georgia.

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To Dance with the White Dog 4.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 32 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This story is a testament to the meaning of true love and family. The characters are well-developed. This book has just enough detail to keep you reading, but it's quick and easy. Beautiful story about relationships. Loved the main character and the dog! Wonderful story! I highly recommend this book.
J-in-Florida More than 1 year ago
Very much a book about love. Love it from beginning to end.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A delightful presentation of the handling of a family with an aging member; in fact, in some incidents there are outright laugh-out-loud happenings, as well as very touching moments. I have read it twice!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a story about grief, aging, love and family through a mysterious White Dog that can only be seen by Sam Peek. It demonstrated a life-long love, natural process of aging and family relationship. You can taste bitterness and sweetness as you entered Sam¿s life. You can feel the tears in his eyes, loneliness in his heart and joys on his face throughout the entire book. The book is simple and easy to read. Once you start, you can¿t stop.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a fascinating story about the loss and love, and the hardships of growing older that we all must face someday. Where the straight seem insane and the sane might seem crazy, the comedy of this book is sweet while the sadness touches you and holds you long after you finish reading for the night. With this character driven novel, you come to know, to enjoy, and ultimately to miss the main character whether it be Sam Peeke or White dog. This beautiful story is a testament to family, and relationships, and ultimately to Terry Kay. A must read that touches you and leaves you with a true loss, but at the same time with true feeling and love.
emcnellis16 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I first read this book when I was in college. At the time, this beautiful, tear-jerking story became one of my favorites. Almost 18 years later, I feel the same way. This story of grief, loss, love, and healing holds even deeper meaning for me now. This is a book I will keep in my collection -- to read over and over.
tloeffler on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A touching story. It sounded silly when I started, but ended up being a great read. It just made me feel good all over (except for when I cried).
Luli81 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The story of an elderly woman who revises her past with the only company of her faithful dog... I cried so much !
ashley_schmidt on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A beautiful novel in all its simplicity. A timeless love story that will break your heart and comfort you at the same time. Often overlooked and underrated... this book is a gem.
auntmarge64 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A gentle short novel which follows the final years of an elderly widower in rural Georgia. Told almost entirely from the old man's point of view, he and his family grapple with his wish to remain independent, with the children constantly checking on (and annoying) him and worrying among themselves over each detail of his activities. Meanwhile, Sam adopts a stray dog which others think may be imaginary, putters around his arbor with his walker, and makes plans to sneak away for a 60-year class reunion. With humor and compassion, the author has fictionalized details from his own parents' lives, and anyone who has (or is) an elderly family member will recognize the truths so fondly laid out. Highly recommended.
MrsLee on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Well, this book is one of the best written books I've read. I was heartbroken and heartwarmed from beginning to end. The story is about a man dealing with the grief of losing his wife, his struggles of aging and the way he and his children cope. It doesn't sound that great, but I couldn't put it down. It hit close to home as I thought about my own grandfather, his grief over losing his wife and dealing with his age (99).
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read this for the first time in 7th grade to pass the time, yes im a little geeky, and fell iin love with it, have loved it every time ive read it since!!!!!!!!
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thoroughly enjoyed this book.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A must read for all generations of a family. There are lessons to be learned from the father, the children and those who love and treasure animals. If all families were to live their lives such as this family did, what a wonderful world it would be...
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sweet, touching story.
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michele young More than 1 year ago
Just watched the movie it was great
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A good read for someone who has recently lost a parent and to possibly get the feelings of the other parent left behind
Anonymous More than 1 year ago