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When Peighton pulled up to where her son stood, red faced with clenched fists, she all but leapt from the car on her way to him. She gathered him in her arms, her heart immediately calming. “Are you okay?” she asked, rubbing his shoulders and looking him over.
“I’m fine, Mom, god,” he insisted, pushing her off of him as he looked over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being seen. He rushed to the car, opening the passenger’s side door, and climbing in, his head down.
She walked around to the driver’s side, staring at him as she buckled her seat belt. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” she said, the worried feeling still not completely eased.
“Whatever,” he said, kicking his feet up on the dashboard and placing a hand on his forehead, his mind already lost in his phone. They drove in silence for a few moments before he finally spoke again. “So, am I grounded or what?”
“What?” she asked, looking his way.
“For being at Jessica’s. We weren’t doing anything, Mom. Just hanging out. Toby, Bryant, Jason, Kedrian, and two other girls from school.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to collect her thoughts. Her son’s lie was the last thing on her mind. “If you weren’t doing anything wrong, why would you need to lie about it?”
He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me, Kyle.”
“It’s just…I know you don’t like her.”
“I never said I don’t like her,” she said, her body tensing at his words.
“So, you do like her?”
She paused. The very few times she’d seen Jessica DeLong, she’d been dressed in what could hardly be called clothing with enough eyeliner to last Taylor Momsen a year surrounding her eyes. She wasn’t exactly a mother’s dream. “Kyle, I don’t know her. What happened to Charlotte? I thought you liked her.”
“Mom,” he sighed. “Just forget it.”
Before she could say anything else, they pulled into the long drive that led to their subdivision and both gasped. Kyle threw his legs to the ground, leaning forward into the seat to try to get a better look. “What is that?”
She couldn’t answer, her entire body shaking as she pulled as close to their house as she could. They both stared at the swarm of ambulance and police cars that lined their driveway, spilling out into the yard.
“Kyle, stay here,” she instructed him, though she knew it was useless. He leapt out of the car, leaving the door wide open, and barreled through the yellow tape surrounding their house. Peighton was close behind. From the outside, the house looked completely normal. She looked for signs of a fire or other emergency that would warrant this type of attention. Suddenly, there was a police officer in front of them, his hand up.
“You can’t go through here, son,” he told Kyle.
“It’s okay. We live here,” Peighton said. “Can you tell us what’s happening?”
“Oh,” the man said, his face immediately falling. Peighton knew what was coming before he spoke again. He grabbed hold of her arm. “Ma’am, would you like to talk in private?”
“Is it my dad?” Kyle asked, his voice small and reserved.
The man sighed, crossing his arms, and looking at Peighton for guidance. Peighton put her arms around her son, her eyes remaining on the officer.
“Is he all right?” she begged him to answer, tears welling in her eyes.
“There is a man inside the house who has been confirmed dead, ma’am. We don’t know for certain who it is yet. I’m very sorry.”
Peighton’s knees gave way under her. “I’m sorry—what?” she asked, though she had been expecting it. “I can’t…I can’t…” She clutched her chest, sinking slowly to the ground. Her son stood beside her, a solid wall of silence. She kept hold of his leg with her free hand, squeezing him tight. The world around her seemed to go still, though she could still hear the officer speaking, see him reaching down toward her. She took a deep breath, wiping the tears away.
“What happened?” she asked from the ground where she was crouched.
“We don’t know yet,” he answered softly.
“What do you know?” she asked, standing up slowly, yet still unable to look the officer in the eye. Her voice felt as though it were coming from someone else entirely, steady and sure, though she felt anything but.
“I’m afraid we don’t know much, ma’am. We responded to a 911 call around an hour ago. A neighbor heard a scream from inside the house and grew worried—” he stopped talking just as the front door of the house was swept open. “Stand back,” he told them, holding his arm out to push them back, though they were still in the yard several feet from the front porch.
Peighton’s hand flew to her mouth, her body shaking, as Kyle shoved past the cop. “Dad! That’s my dad!” he screamed, rushing toward the stretcher cloaked in a white sheet. Peighton could see the blood that had begun seeping through the white cloth; her stomach churned. She watched helplessly as her son approached the police officers and coroner, begging to see his father. She watched their solemn faces as they tried to hold him back, their eyes darting to her for help. She was supposed to help them. She was supposed to stop her son from trying to break their barricade, stop him from trying to see the very thing that would destroy him. She knew that and yet she could not move, could not stop her body from shaking, her skin from growing cold. She was back on the ground, her sobs swallowing her up as she watched her world crashing all around her.
As the back of the coroner’s van was closed and the officers began loading up into their vehicles, the man standing next to her grabbed her arm, gently helping her to her feet. “Ma’am, when you’re ready, I’m going to have to have you and your son come with me.”
“Come with you? Come with you where? I need to go inside…I need to talk to my son.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible right now. We have to ask you some questions, get an official I.D. on the vic. I’m so sorry.” His eyes grew soft as he said the word, vic—victim. “You won’t be able to go into your home for a few days. Not until the investigation is over.”
“What are you…what does that…my son…I can’t…our home…this is—” her thoughts tumbled out of her mouth, not making any sense to either of them, yet the officer seemed to understand.
He touched her shoulder. “Do you have somewhere you can stay?”
“Yes,” she said, though she had no idea if that were true. “We’ll…it’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” the officer spoke softly. “Okay, that’s good.”
Peighton nodded, trying to collect her thoughts. She glanced around, looking for Kyle. He stood at the edge of the porch, staring off in the direction they had taken the body. “Kyle, honey, come back here,” she called. He turned, staring blankly, and began walking back toward her, tears streaming down his porcelain face. She spoke to the officer again. “Can you, um, tell us what…what happened?” she asked, choking out her words.
The officer shook his head, but before he could answer, Kyle’s voice cut them off. “What did you do, Mom?”
“What?” she asked, staring at her son. Their eyes met for what felt like the first time in weeks, months maybe.
He looked to the officer then, his expression empty and broken, and fell to his knees in tears. He covered his eyes with his fists, sobbing loudly. “She knew this was going to happen.” | English | NL | e131a4e21bd961834f8b0f844211a261c9a3c6b6d5086d7833e53df6d8cc1e8f |
Born Delegate NSW 16 August 1909. Died 6 October 1950, Melbourne, Victoria.
Married Jorgen (known as George) Campbell Christiansen, 5 March 1932 in Geelong, Victoria.
Their children are:
Brian Jorgen Christiansen, 18 September 1932, Bairnsdale, Victoria
Alfred John Christiansen, 16 August 1935, Omeo, Victoria
Diana Judith Christiansen, 7 October 1937, Bairnsdale, Victoria
Jennifer Sonia June Christiansen, 13 June 1941, Bairnsdale, Victoria.
Their daughter Diana writes:
“Mm was called “Tiny” by Thomas Miles, as they were great friends as well as cousins.
Mum was the sewing mistress for the Bendoc Primary School where she met Dad who was the Head Teacher at the school. She won many prizes in the Agricultural Shows for her fine hand sewing. She told me that she and the other children used to pole vault over the fences across the paddocks, through the snow to go to school during the winter.
Mum shot and skinned many rabbits to obtain enough money to purchase a piano, which after her marriage to Dad, and the circumstances surrounding it, her father would not let her take it from his home. Whenever we visited my grandparents, it was so obvious how Mum missed her piano, as she spent as much time as possible playing it. Also from the rabbit skins she mad a rug for the bed which was lined with a warm red woollen blanket. As a child I loved the comfort of this rug, as did John who ended up with it.
When we lived at Mossiface, sometimes we would go into Bruthen to the pictures. Dad would put up the back seat of the car and we would snuggle down under the rabbit skin rug once we were too tired to stay awake.
A story Aunt Helena tells about Dad, is that when one day, their Aunt Eve and her daughter Freda were coming to visit, she, Vera and Rupe were to leave school early to enable them to be home when their Aunt arrived. Dad, (as the teacher) forgot all about releasing them early, so on realising his mistake at the end of the school day, put all three children on his motor bike. How they all fitted, Helena is still not sure, but off they went, with them all clinging for dear life. The road was long and windy round and over Delegate Hill, through the dust, over the rain washed out gutters across the road bumping and swaying dangerously, but arriving safely on time.
Dad had a little fox terrier, which accompanied him everywhere, however once when Dad visited Orbost, he ‘lost’ his dog (or Dad forgot about him) but the wonderful little beast made his own way home to Bendoc taking two days to achieve this feat.” | English | NL | d38953f1aecc1db67e33137c86c67a7b3abab90965ed2a464b7b4b8dd38b1700 |
Once upon a time, in a land that is farther away than we imagine, yet closer than some of us might wish, there lived a boy named Necio. He was an agreeable child, as ideal a son as parents could ever hope for. Sadly, he possessed none. His parents had been killed in an unusual accident involving a stationary bus and a moving brick wall when the boy was barely old enough recite his parents’ full names. In other words, he knew from whom he had come, but not from where. As the child appeared to have no other family members, the task of raising him was left to the neighbor with whom he had been left for the night, a childless widow who was known in those parts as Doña Lágrima.
The widow was more than happy to take over the rearing of the little boy, as Necio promised to fill a gap in her life. That promise was kept, for the child embodied everything she had lost. And because she did not want to risk losing even more, she took the child to a place where, if by chance a curious aunt should happen to remember a long-lost nephew, he would never be found.
Necio grew into a comely lad, tall and straight as a palm tree, with hair the color of night. He was respectful of his elders, obedient to the point of docility, and so even-tempered that most of the villagers considered him simple. Necio was the light of Doña Lágrima’s eyes, so even if he had been given to testing his limits, she would simply have forgiven him. There was only one boundary that Necio was not, under any circumstances, allowed to cross, and that was a line snaking across the southern end of the village, defining both its beginning and its end. This narrow dry line served to separate the land of the living from the territory of ghosts, and it was off-limits to every villager in Dondequiera. None had ever ventured beyond it.
One bright summer morning, Necio was walking along the straggling outskirts of Dondequiera, which, in contrast to the grandeur of its name, was an insignificant, dusty little place. The settlement, though sparse in population, spread with chaotic abandon over a landscape that might charitably have been called uninviting. The trackless, nameless desert that surrounded the settlement existed only as a blank spot on the map. It was so trackless that none of the village’s inhabitants could remember how they had gotten there, much less contemplate how they might leave. In fact, not one of them had left, though a number had enigmatically arrived. This was one of the noteworthy characteristics of the region: sudden unexplained appearances.
On this particular morning, Necio was up to nothing more complicated than finding a flat, clear area in which to practice dribbling his soccer ball. It was the first day of August, so the monthly community meeting to be held that afternoon had ousted the village boys from their usual playing field. Necio, because he never refused a task, had been appointed to find an alternate location, while the rest of the team went home for a second breakfast.
Dondequiera, with its steep slopes and rocky ravines, lent itself more to heroic rescue missions via helicopter than to team sports. There simply was no open flat land. Yet, despite the odds, Necio did not resent the impossibility of his assignment. Impossibilities are the stock in trade of youth, and as far as fifteen-year-olds are concerned, the more impossible the goal, the more intensely it should be pursued. Necio’s pursuit of the moment was the dream of becoming an internationally renowned soccer star, reaping the adoration of the crowds and bestowing fame and glory on his village.
As he meandered along the village perimeter, his mind strayed, as it frequently did, into fantastic realms, occupying him with pleasant thoughts of spectacular games in which he would single-handedly defeat the giants of sports history. He could see himself, dancing past his opponents with the speed and accuracy of a jaguar, delivering the final driving kick, and being lifted high above the field of victory by his wildly cheering team-mates, while the crowd roared Goooooooaaaaal! It was an enticing daydream, and one that served to separate Necio’s head so thoroughly from his feet that he had no idea where he was going. And so it was that Necio, pure of heart and absent of mind, crossed the forbidden boundary and stumbled upon the ideal location for a soccer game.
It was an absolutely flat stretch of ground, free from the mounds of sharp cholla and claw-tipped maguey that could effectively ruin any sport. There were a number of large rocks, but these were conveniently located around the edges of the flat area, leaving the rest of the field completely open. Necio was intrigued. How had such a place remained unknown to him? Except for the boulders strewn along the far side of the field, it was perfect. And at second glance, even those proved not to present a problem: their smooth surfaces would make excellent seats for spectators. He was examining one of these rocks with interest, envisioning how it might accommodate the rumps of the village girls, when it moved—or rather, something beside it moved.
Necio stood frozen, staring at the rock until he made out the shape of a small hunched creature with dark fur. The glare of the desert sun blurred his vision slightly, but it seemed that as he gazed upon the creature it transformed itself into a person. A young girl was folding up clothing, which she had spread upon the hot rocks to dry. She had a wealth of mahogany hair that streamed in rivulets over her gleaming round shoulders and flowed in a smooth shining cascade down to the small of her back. She was obviously a mermaid.
As she rose to put the clothing away in a basket that had materialized at her side, she glanced in his direction, straight into his eyes. She was beautiful beyond belief. Necio stood petrified, afraid to move, not daring to utter a sound or even breathe, for fear of disturbing the enchanting vision that stood before him.
The girl did not see him at first, but when she was finished folding her laundry, she glanced up. She spoke not a word, merely gazed at him with huge, liquid eyes, and Necio realized that this marvelous apparition was the answer to a question he had not yet had the inclination, much less the opportunity, to ask.
As he started forward to close the distance between them, perhaps to speak or perhaps merely to assure himself that she was indeed real, a call came echoing and bouncing among the stones. The girl hurriedly gathered up her basket and ran, lightly and gracefully, toward it. She flashed a smile over her shoulder as she retreated, a dazzling smile full of promise. Necio’s heart swelled with hope. Then she dashed up a shallow incline and disappeared into emptiness.
Necio was struck with loss. Where had she gone? As he traced her path with his eyes, shading them with his hand, he saw, much to his amazement, a wall. It seemed to spring directly up from the earth even as he stared. At first Necio was perplexed, for here was a sign of human habitation in a place where there should be none. Then his confusion turned to gratification. All was not lost. He knew where to find his mermaid now, and he knew her name.
From the Field Notes of Dr. J. Johnson, courtesy of the BSA Foundation
Entry 1.1, July 1, 1:30 PM, 98 degrees F
Colonia #314 is an Unofficial Settlement located in the far southeast portion of US Geoservices Map, Indian Hot Springs Quadrant, approx 30.5 degrees N and 105.3 degrees W, in south central Hudspeth County. Area is bounded on the west by the Quitman Mountains, to the north by the Sierra Blanca and the Sierra Diablo, and to the east by Eagle Mountain (altitude 7,516 feet). Approximate elevation in basin 3,300 feet. Population roughly 500. Will conduct genealogical research in this settlement over the next six weeks.
John Johnson was making his way to the Semiotics of Postmodern Dissertational Angst Seminar—subtitled “Committee as (B)Other?”—when he was halted by the departmental secretary, a squat, frazzled woman whose name nobody could remember. She handed him a note requesting his “immediate presence” in Professor Ryder’s office. The Semiotics seminar, for which he was already tardy, was offered only once every ten years. It was a requirement for all post-quals, post-proposal, but pre-diss doctoral candidates, and it was uniformly dreaded, as much for Professor Sans-Piti’s incomprehensible lecture style (which naturally had nothing to do with the fact that he had never bothered to learn English) as for his arbitrary grading policies, which could delay the completion of a Ph.D. for a decade or more. Being late would result in a reprimand, but missing a class might result in failure, and so John became understandably anxious.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked.
The secretary—her name might have begun with T: Tina? Tricia? Troglodyte?—scuttled away without answering. The summons did say “immediate,” and John, no stranger to departmental politics, realized that in the long run he would be better off offending Professor Sans-Piti than Professor Ryder.
Ezekiel Ryder, Professor Emeritus and holder of the prestigious Windsor Chair, was the spearhead of the department. Despite his humble origins in the back hills of Arkansas, his intellectual brilliance and daring ideas had won him an unassailable position in academe. His feats of prowess included several works regarding the Theory of Relativity, a theory which, fifteen years ago, had redefined modern Anthropology, a discipline then suffering from numerous irreparable schisms.
John had been a mere infant in those dark times, during which the battle between pro- and anti-materialists had threatened to tear the field apart. Was culture to be explained by the material assets and economic realities of any given group, or was it better defined through its beliefs and mythology? Each camp bolstered its defenses, claiming the support of Anthropology’s great voices—Geertz, Levi-Strauss, Harris, Darwin—in an unprecedented marshaling of intellectual partisanship.
Feelings ran high. Name-calling broke out at the national meetings during several brown-bag lunches, leading to an escalating series of reprisals and counter-reprisals. Peer-reviewed journals, normally unreceptive to the free expression of ideas, were wracked by arguments, counterarguments, and counter-counterarguments. In departments dominated by one of the two camps, those who held the minority position found their staff parking permits revoked, forcing already embittered junior faculty members to make long treks from undergraduate parking lots. Academic violence broke out. Departmental meetings were boycotted, espresso machines were sabotaged, and, in an unprecedented act of barbarism, a professor was denied tenure based on the “outmoded tone” of his publications. Most disturbing was the fact that, while undergraduate enrollments were up, grad-school applications were rapidly falling, undercutting the system of debt-servitude that forms the economic bedrock of the budget-poor humanities. Students seeking less dangerous fields deserted en masse, attracted to more secure disciplines such as Medieval German Lit and Museology.
At this critical juncture in academic history, “Easy” Ryder appeared—a deus ex machina in tweeds. In a radical re-evaluation of the entire field, Ryder proposed that the time had arrived to take another look at the whole idea of culture. In his view, culture was a joint project, a product of the relative distance between the Observed and the Observer, rather than of the specific traits inherent to any particular culture. The concept revolutionized the discipline. Within months, heated discussions of adaptation, cultural materialism, and cosmology were replaced by a sensitive acknowledgement of shared intimacy, summed up tidily by the phrase Symbiotic Co-Dependency.
Luckily for John, who had come to Anthropology during the enlightened, post-Ryder era, most of the tedious, time-consuming prep courses for field work had been eliminated. Now that culture studies had been redefined as a relationship, the important thing was to satisfy one’s own needs, and therefore all one really had to do was to observe oneself. Detailed, place-specific observations had become passé. What was truly important was not what existed but how you felt about it. This was a task that grad students embraced with total enthusiasm. Time spent in the field was cut back, first to a semester and then to summers, which freed grad students to return to their regularly scheduled duties as TAs. Administrators were happy, professors were happy, grad students were happy, and the privacy-challenged peasants in third-world countries were ecstatic.
As John loped across the U.T. campus, he called his girlfriend.
“Beth,” he said, “You’ll never guess.”
Chewing noises. “You sound winded. Are you running?”
“I’ve got a meeting with Ryder.”
Silence. Sometimes Beth’s lack of interest in his career bothered him.
He filled in. “I think it’s about my proposal.” Stopping to catch his breath, he added, “Pack your bikini.”
He held his phone at a distance while Beth squealed, “Cancuuuun!”
In spite of his projected confidence, John was experiencing no little amount of trepidation. He prayed that his proposal had not been rejected. He had entitled it “(W)Rites of Passage: Borders as Liminal Spaces.” He thought it a snappy title, though his advisor had cautioned him that the inclusion of the concepts of borders and spaces might be considered outdated, unless, of course, he was referring to personal space and relational boundaries. John had rewritten the proposal, carefully removing any reference to actual physical spaces and redefining borders as “juncture points in the continuum of jointly determined relational culture.” Though the proposal never actually mentioned where the research was to take place, John was envisinoing a sunny stint in the Yucatan peninsula.
He reviewed the proposal in his mind. Perhaps his advisor had been right. He should have replaced “borders” with a more upbeat term. “Interstices” would have been better. He took a deep breath and patted his pony-tail, then checked to see if his ribs still protruded. Rumor had it that the professor preferred thin, long-legged students of the pale-haired variety. Several of Ryder’s students who had been fortunate enough to possess those qualities had been rewarded with publication.
The professor’s door hung slightly ajar. John knocked tentatively and, thinking he heard a muffled “Come in,” pushed the door open, entering the hallowed realm.
The office was immense, bigger by far than any other in the department. Smack in the center resided a large mahogany desk, its surface shiny and almost completely bare. John immediately noticed that it was missing the mainstay of any other professor’s office—a computer. The walls on either side of the door were covered by bookshelves that completely occupied the space between floor and ceiling. These were stacked alternately with expensive-looking leather-bound volumes and pieces of Southwestern pottery. In stark contrast, the wall facing him was completely devoted to masks, whose highly exaggerated features stood out grotesquely from their flat white faces.
On a low pedestal in front of the masks stood a mannequin dressed in some sort of ritual garb that John could not identify, though it looked vaguely familiar. It reminded him of something he’d seen in a mini-series about Napoleon—calf-length buttoned breeches, a flashy red jacket with a hip flare. The fuzzy, cone-shaped hat and sunglasses looked a little out of place, though the sunglasses could be French. He wasn’t sure about the hat.
“Well, come in, come in!” a voice exclaimed. “And shut the door behind you!”
To John’s astonishment, the voice seemed to be coming from the mannequin’s fur hat. It waved an arm at him.
“Have a seat!” it cried. “Make yourself at home.”
John advanced to the nearest chair and sat facing the mannequin. It took several steps forward and collapsed into an enormous armchair. Once settled, it removed the tall fur-covered cone that had covered its head and face. The mannequin was indeed Professor Ryder. John recognized the goatee made famous by book covers and academic news articles. The goatee was no longer black, but its wearer was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the great man himself. John stifled the urge to make obeisance.
“What can I offer you? Gin and tonic, scotch, whiskey?”
“Oh, uh, water will be fine, unless you’ve got a…coke.” What John really wanted was a bottle of Cabron, but he was hoping to project an image of competent sobriety.
“Don’t drink the real stuff, eh!” The professor seemed to find John’s request hilarious. Nevertheless, he reached back to open the door of a small dorm-sized fridge and drew out a can of coke. “A little stint in the field will soon remedy that! As for me, it’s time for my medicina.” He withdrew a bottle from the fridge and poured some clear liquid into a glass. “Got hooked on this stuff when I was down there,” he remarked. “Well, now, what can I do you for?”
“Um, well, I received a message from the secretary that you wanted to see me immediately. I’m Johnson.”
The mannequin leaned forward. John could just make out a moist flash of teeth. “Jane, is it?”
The professor paused and removed his sunglasses. His teeth were no longer in view. “Lástima. Well…anyhoo…I have excellent news for you. You’ve won this year’s BS Award from the BSA! Congratulations!” He rose and came forward to shake John’s hand, who offered it confusedly.
“BSA?” John stammered.
“Yes! Yes! Wouldn’t mind getting one of those myself. But I’m too old.” Ryder laughed at his own joke. Then he turned and fished a piece of paper from the desk drawer. He handed it to John with a flourish.
The letterhead was embossed with the words “Borderline Scholars Association.” John had never heard of them, but it was indeed an award. The letter stated that his proposal had been evaluated and that he was to receive full support for six weeks of field work on the border.
Ryder was smiling enthusiastically in John’s general direction. “Speak Spanish?”
“Um,” said John. “Sí?”
“Good. Didn’t have much luck with the lingo myself. Can’t carry a tune either. My mother always said I had a tin ear. Heh, heh. Never prevented me from having a good time down there, though…”
John was no longer paying much attention to the professor, so transported was he by the sudden realization of his dreams. Visions of palm trees, white beaches, and piña coladas danced in his head. He could picture himself in Cancun, Beth beside him in that little pink bikini, oiling his back slowly and sensuously, with the beating of the waves in his ears. Then abruptly he returned to the present, called back by a word that had made its way into his roiling mind.
“Oh, yes,” said Ryder, pouring himself another drink. “It gets cold in the mountains. Most people don’t realize that about southern Mexico. You’ll have to be prepared. Oh, yes, and you’ll have to learn Tzotzil. Never learned it myself, of course, but all my students did. It’s a cussed language. But the natives don’t speak Spanish. They’re kind of stubborn that way.”
John must have looked nonplussed, for the professor gave him a sympathetic smile. “Stunned, eh? Well, there’s not much in the way of funding for this type of proposal lately. What impressed them was the way you handled the concept of ‘borders.’ Now that I think of it, your proposal was the only one that actually mentioned them.” He leaned forward, as if to make a confession. “I think it’s a stipulation of their charter—border scholars, you know, have to support border studies. Heh, heh! Anyway, good luck to you! You’ll have a grand time down there—I know I did! And say hola to Don Fracasio for me.” He nudged John in the side. “Runs the best little bordello south of Texas. Just a joke, son. Heh, heh!”
John spent the remainder of the semester in a state of quiet shock. His fellow grad students didn’t believe what he told them, and neither did Beth.
“What the hell is Tzotzil?” she said. “And there’s no such thing as ‘Border Studies.’” She was getting her Master’s in Narrative Deconstruction, so she was in a position to know.
“Well,” said John, struggling valiantly with the inconvenient truth. “It’s a little Jurassic, but these people—who are giving me money, by the way—apparently believe in physical borders. And a proficiency exam in Tzotzil is required.”
Beth picked up the monstrous blue dictionary that now occupied most of his desk and opened it. “Huh. This thing won the Golden Fleece Award from Congress. Says right here, ‘Biggest waste of taxpayers’ money.’ I can believe it. Imagine making a dictionary this size for some obscure dialect!”
For reasons John could not articulate, he felt compelled to contradict her. “Tzotzil is a Mayan language,” he said. “They don’t have a word for ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ And their greeting rituals are highly complex.”
“So how do they say hello?”
The look on Beth’s face was clearly a dare. John had no choice but to rise to the challenge. “‘Are you there?’ followed by ‘Are you okay?’ followed by ‘Is your heart happy?’” Just saying the translation out loud made John feel foolish. He didn’t dare try it in Tzotzil. Beth could be snarky about glottal stops.
“Is that all? Couldn’t they just say hola?”
“They don’t speak much Spanish,” he mumbled.
Beth gave a little snort. “Neither do you.”
John drew himself up. “Hey, I got an A in Spanish in high school!” The fact was the “True People,” as these Tzotzils liked to style themselves, not only didn’t speak Spanish, they hated anybody who did. Oh, yes, and they absolutely detested anthropologists.
But luck steps in where wise men fear to tread, and John received a reprieve—of sorts. The check for his summer grant arrived along with a detailed letter specifying three possible areas for his research. All three were on the U.S. boundary with Mexico. The border that the BSA wanted him to study was not to the south of Mexico but to the north.
It was a short-lived reprieve, however.
“This is important. It’s for my career,” John explained, slipping his hand around Beth’s waist. “And field work is hard. I’ll need backrubs.”
Beth swatted him away. “Hell-o! It was supposed to be Cancun. Nothing is going to convince me to spend my summer in some god-forsaken, mosquito-infested border slum.”
John foresaw a long dismal summer ahead of him.
When I was living in El Paso, I noticed a peculiarity. None of the windows of any of the houses faced Juarez. In fact, nobody even talked about Juarez, although it was right across the river, in plain view. It was as if Juarez were invisible. That oddity formed the basis of my novel, Tales from the Land of Sal Si Puedes, which is both an allegory and a shameless satire.
In the land of Sal Si Puedes, there are two towns: Dondequiera (“Wherever”), a colonia on the American side of the border, and Comoquiera (“However”), located in Mexico. Though they are situated side by side, the towns are invisible to one another. What’s more, each town lacks an important element of time: Dondequierans cannot remember the past, and Comoquierans have lost the future.
When a young boy named Necio wanders across the forbidden division that separates the two towns, he encounters a beautiful, and thoroughly wet, young girl, whom he mistakes for a mermaid, even though Dondequiera is located in the driest desert on earth. Determined to find her again, he enlists the aid of a visiting Anthropology grad student, John Johnson, who has received a BS grant to do research on the border. What follows is a series of misunderstandings that eventually lead to the uniting of the two time-challenged towns, restoring them to mutual visibility and trust.
Tales from the Land of Sal Si Puedes is structured in a non-traditional format. The chapters alternate between the Mexican side and the American side, and each storyline is told in the style appropriate to the location. The Mexican side is narrated in the Latin American magical-realist style, complete with a beautiful ghost who walks the town at night in a wedding gown, looking for her lost groom—who, sadly, has been turned into a ghost as well but is stuck on the American side. In Comoquiera there are miracles, immortality, transvestite murderous nuns, and a conquistador with no sense of direction.
On the American side, the hapless American student finds himself at a complete loss and becomes the butt of jokes by Dondequiera’s residents, who are amused and puzzled by John’s presence. It is only when he encounters Necio, and Necio mistakes him for an angel, that the two narrative lines coalesce into one. Assisted by the unwitting John, all of the disparate inhabitants of the two towns eventually come together in an epic soccer match, followed by a flood of biblical proportions. After their rescue by a band of Antiguas, the two towns—including their ghosts, their long-lost heirs, and their two young lovers—are finally united. And, instead of building a wall, they build a bridge that they call the Puente de Sal Si Puedes, and that we call the Point of No Return.
Erica Verrillo lives in Whately, Massachusetts. She is the author of three MG fantasies: Elissa’s Quest, Elissa’s Odyssey, and World’s End (Random House). Her short work has appeared in over a dozen publications. She is the author of the definitive medical reference guide for treating myalgic encephalomyelitis, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome: A Treatment Guide, now in its 2nd edition (1st edition, St. Martin’s). She holds degrees from Tufts University (BA, History) and Syracuse University (MA, Linguistics), and has been enrolled in Ph.D. programs in Anthropology and Speech Communication. Ms. Verrillo’s professional life includes working as a classical musician (Oxford Symphony Orchestra), Spanish-language editor for Mesoamerica, linguistics teacher (Dartmouth), director of a non-profit NGO for Mayan refugees, translator for the Archbishop of Chiapas, Mexico, and Mayan linguist (SUNY Albany). She spent several years living and working in Latin America and Texas, and has played an active role in the Sanctuary movement. Her blog, Publishing … and Other Forms of Insanity, provides a wealth of resources for aspiring authors.
Embark, Issue 2, October 2017 | English | NL | 6d9207b7be2e60c0be46ea96c8234b8b62b30fc17a8b92067ed1ff37ad2df9c3 |
Baby Lulu - Caring
One of the games that every little girl loves to play is that where she is taking good care of her dolls. She will pretend to clean the doll, dress it up, feed it, and give it some kisses, before sending it to bed. This is why most free online baby care games are based on this theme. Baby Lulu – Caring is one such game where you get to take care of Lulu and give her some tender love. You play the role of Lulu’s elder sister and you mother has gone out on an errand and you were given the responsibility of taking care of the baby for the afternoon. The first thing that you need to do is to ensure that Lulu is clean. You take her for her afternoon bath and clean her, washing her hair and body. Then you will place her on a table, and dry her off with a towel. After that you will apply lotion to her body so she can be very happy. You will the blow dry her hair before finally tying her up in a diaper and dressing her. After that, you will put her in the pram and take her to the living room where you will feed her. There are various foods that have been left for her and you simply have to follow the prompts. Ensure that Lulu does not cry since this will close the game. After you have fed her, it will be time for her to take her afternoon nap. Take her to bed and tuck her in so that she may sleep. This is a great interactive game for girls of all ages. It gives tips on how an elder child can take care of younger siblings when the occasion requires them to do so. | English | NL | c1b5c4526bc8b9faa8720ebd5ec8f8000f83555bac417e5c6d23f0ec365faa05 |
Game: Heart of the Dead God
In an asylum in Victorian London, Wilhelm is trapped. He wonders why everyone's emotions around him are so chaotic, when it is him that is causing this turmoil due to his own emotions, his own heart. When he was young he suffered from an unknown heart disease, his mother made a pact with The Dead God, where he gave his own heart to her son, Wilhelm. Now the The Dead God wants it back, sending his agents, his demons after Wilhelm. Help Wilhelm escape the asylum, without his heartbeat rising high enough so that the demons can hear its call. | English | NL | c0ae2261f6c306461cd8506a4b00200213701085c0be93e1af4b26cdc13c8bb7 |
Navy Bean Farming in Huron County, Michigan (Part II)
Brian Wayne Wells
As published in the March/April issue of
Belt Pulley Magazine
As noted earlier, the lower peninsula of Michigan is shaped in the form of a winter mitton. Huron County, Michigan lies at the tip of what is called “the Thumb” of the State of Michigan. (See the article on called “Navy Bean Harvesting in Huron County Michigan [Part I]” in the January/February 2005 issue of Belt Pulley.) Although navy beans had been raised in in Huron County and the Thumb since 1900, the production of navy beans in really became a major crop in Michigan only in 1915. Spurring that growth in production was the high prices that all edible beans were fetching in the market starting in 1914 due to the war in Europe. Additionally, in 1915 the Michigan State University released its newly researched and developed “Robust” variety of navy bean. The Robust variety had been bred to have genetic features which made this variety of navy bean adapted for commercial growing in Michigan. By the 1920s, production of navy beans on the Thumb and in the neighboring Saginaw River Valley, located at the base of the Thumb, was sufficient to push Michigan into first place among all states in the United States in the production of field beans. (Willis F. Dunbar, Michigan:A History of the Wolverine State [Eerdmans Pub. Co.: Grand Rapids, Mich., 1980] p. 578.). Within the State of Michigan, Huron County became the leading county in the state for the production of field beans. Indeed Bad Axe, Michigan, the county seat of Huron County, began to identify itself as the “Navy Bean Capital of the World.”
Following the First World War, the map of Europe changed following the disintegration of four empires—the Ottoman Empire, the Russian Empire, the German Empire and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A series of newly independent nations sprang up Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Romania, Hungary, Czechslovakia and Poland. The economic dislocations caused by this new order set off another wave immigration to the United States. In 1920, George Prich immigrated from the newly formed nation of Czechslovkia to Detroit. His parents, George and Marie (Sliacky) Prich remained in Czechslovakia. However, the family did have relatives living in Detroit. However, George did not remain long in Detroit. He moved out of the city and up to the Thumb. Settling in the western part of Huron County on the Thumb, he rented a farm and commenced farming winter wheat, corn, hay, sugar beets and navy beans and raising some hogs and beef cows. In August of 1924, he married a local German girl by the name of Martha Haag. They began were blessed by the birth of a son—George Jr. (really the third George) born in June of 1925. On March 1, 1926, they purchased an 80-acre farm in a low-lying area of Brookfield Township in western Huron County. However, the farm was on the county line road between Huron County and Tuscola County. Consequently, the Prich family still had strong contacts with western Huron County. The Prich family farm was located in a low liying area called the “Columbia swamp.” On their new farm they had three more children—John born in 1926, Florence born in 1929 and Albert born in 1933. The main crops raised on the farm were hay, oats and corn. However, each year about 10 acres were planted to sugar beets and about 10 to 15 acres were planted to navy beans.
During the same time another family was living on a farm in southwestern Seigel Township located east of Bad Axe and north west of the settlement of Parisville. Even before the sun rose, one morning in October of 1935, activity was brewing on this 160 acre farm. Our Siegel Township farmer was taking a team of horses to the field towing a one-row “Albion Bean Harvester.” The bean harvester or “puller” that he was towing behind the team of Percheron horses—Pete and Moll—was really a horse-drawn a cultivator with the shovels removed and horizontal long knives bolted onto the cultivator frame. The Albion line of bean harvesters were made by the Gale Manufacturing Company of Albion, Michigan.
Our Siegel Township farmer arrived in the field were the navy beans were stood. Although planted in rows, the 18” yellow/brown vines had grown out along the ground and blurred the 30” pathways between the rows. Our Siegel Township farmer “drew up” the horses to a halt with the reins at the start of the first row in the field of navy beans that he and his father had grown during the summer.
He and his father raised navy beans as part of a diversified farming operation that included oats and wheat on their farm. However, the summer of 1935 had been a difficult growing season. Indeed the past couple of years had seen drought conditions all across the United States. Nationwide the dry condition, which was coming to called the “dust bowl” on radio, had begun in 1932. (William E. Leuchtenburg, Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal [Harper and Rowe Pub.: New York, 1963] p. 172.) In Huron County the dry conditions had started in June 1933, when only 1.91 inches of rain fell during the whole month. (From the monthly average historic rainfall for Saginaw Michigan on the web page for Saginaw, at the NOAA weather web site on the Internet.) A normal June would have seen 2.9 inches of rainfall. (From the Bad Axe average rainfall page of the Worldclimate.com web site.) July and August of 1933 had followed with only 1.13 inches of rain in each month. 2.9 and 3.3 inches of rain was normal for those months.
Last year’s growing season had continued to be extremely dry. May of 1934 had yielded only 0.76 inches of rain for the whole month, whereas 3.3 inches would have been normal. June, July and August of 1934 all continued to be dry with rainfall amounts of 1.7 inches, 1.29 inches and 1.43 inches of rain falling in those months, respectively. Although normal rains had returned in September of 1934, this was too late to help the crops and the rains only succeeded in making harvesting of the crops difficult. As a result of the drought conditions in 1934, only 1,461,000 acres or only 75% of all the acreage planted to edible beans nationally were actually harvested. Generally, 90% of all acres planted were harvested in a normal year.
The drought conditions returned last April with only 0.86 inches of rainfall for the entire month of April 1935. However, suddenly in May, the weather reversed itself. Last May (1935) had been the coolest month of May on record since 1925. This was largely due to the 4.5 inches of snow had fallen in May. (Ibid. on the historic monthly snowfall page.) Snow in May! It was not a good beginning to the growing season. Spring planting had been delayed because of the cold spring in 1935. Once June did arrive, the rains would not abate. The radio reported that the Thumb had had 5.09 inches of rain in month of June whereas only 2.9 was average for June. (From the Bad Axe average rainfall page of the Worldclimate.com web site.)
As a result, spring planting development of all the crops were delayed. Only the winter wheat which had been planted in September of the prior year (1934) was growing according to schedule. Following the heavy rains of June, the drought conditions returned throughout July and August with only half the usual amount of rainfall for those months. (Ibid.) Usually, our Siegel Township farmer began pulling the navy beans in mid-September. However, the beans were still growing and maturing in September. Now here he was in October just getting started with the task of pulling the beans.
Across Huron County to the west and indeed, just across the county line in Elmwood Township of Tuscola County township the George Prich family was also struggling to get the navy bean crop harvested. George had planted the navy beans in rows with his 7½ foot Van Brunt grain drill. This grain drill had 13 planting units. However, by closing off the proper amount of holes in the bottom of the seeder box of his Van Brunt grain drill he could use the old grain drill to plant navy beans on his farm also in 30 inch rows.
The 30-inch rows meant that there was room for a horse to walk down the pathway between the rows without stepping on the rows of growing beans. This would allow the navy beans to be cultivated. However as the navy bean plants grew, they began to “vine” along the ground and to tended to cover over pathway between the rows. Thus, the navy beans could only be cultivated a couple of times before the bean plants became too viney and covered too much of the 30 inch pathway. By harvest time in the fall, the beans had become a tangled mass of plants in the field.
Now in October of 1935, our Siegel Township farmer lowered the cultivator on the first row of navy beans the newly sharpened knives lay horizontally on top of the ground over the hilled up row of beans. As he urged the Pete and Moll forward with a shake on the reins and uttering a “giddap” the knives slid under the ground and moved along through the hill of beans, cutting off the beans from their roots just below the surface of the hilled up row of beans.
Our young Siegel Township farmer regreted loss of navy beans that he knew was occurring during this harvesting process. All he needed to do is to look down on the ground and see the naked white beans laying on the ground to know that some loss was occurring because of the cracking of bean pods under Pete and Moll’s feet. Although Pete and Moll walked down pathways between the rows, they could not help treading on the vines.which tended to cover over the 30 inch pathways. This caused a loss of some of the navy beans on the ground as the horses’ feet cracked open the pods of the beans. Indeed the mere manipulation of the bean plants by the cultivator tended to crack open the dry pods on the vines spilling the pearly white navy beans onto the ground. To avoid this type of cracking of dry pods, our young Siegel Township farmer had begun pulling beans with the team early in the morning while the dew was still heavy on the plants. In this way it was hoped that they would complete a great deal of the bean pulling while the dew lasted. The dew tended to moisten the dry pods and to prevent cracking. Once the dew had lifted under the sun of the mid-morning, our young Siegel Township farmer would cease his work in the navy bean field. This meant that work in the navy bean field was limited to early morning work.
Looking down at the little white beans that lay on the ground, our young Siegel Township farmer was struck by a feeling of digust. He had always felt that way. Ever since he was a child he had felt a repugnance against waste that had caused him remorse over the loss of even a single good bean. As a child, his father had attempted to assure him that the losses were usually of “cull beans” which were too discolored or too immature to pass inspection at the grain elevator anyway. However, out in the field he could see that these beans, lying on the ground, were pearly white and were certainly good beans. While reading some articles in the Michigan Farmer, he was gratified to find that his feelings about waste were reflective of the modern trend in scientific farming.
In addition to noting the waste on the ground, our Siegel Township farmer was beginning to doubt the value of having navy beans in the crop rotation on his farm. Despite the passing of the worst part of the depression, prices of all edible beans last year (1934) had averaged only $3.52 per 100 pounds. (From the National Agricultural Statistics Service page of the United Sates Department of Agriculture website.) This was only 52% of the average price of 1929, the year before the depression. (Ibid.) Continue reading Navy Bean Farming in Michigan (Part II): The All-Crop Harvester | English | NL | 9b2a4fdcf7f512ec91ff471c278663fe14bf48d6c9ff152634d186e9ed63738b |
Genres: Historical Romance
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca
Released on February 1, 2012
This was the third book in the trilogy about the three Harcourt brothers and the one I most wanted to read after gathering hints from the other two that brother Bastien was a pirate. I was so impatient and eager. Finally, I got the chance to read it and I was not disappointed.
Rogue Pirate’s Bride can be read without having read the first two books though at the end there are some series spoilers. Unlike the other two, this one takes place almost entirely at sea and amongst all new characters.
Bastien is the infamous privateer, Captain Cutlass, who sailed during the Napoleonic Wars and now the uneasy peace. He has forsaken his roots and embraced the life at sea with only one purpose- revenge. Oddly, he is accosted by a fiery woman, Raeven Russell, seeking vengeance on him. She swears she will kill him for the murder of her fiance’ a captain in the Royal Navy. This first meeting and a few others show they are both attracted though in Raeven’s case she keeps struggling with ‘kill him or kiss him’.
Unfortunately, Raeven needs to step in line for that privilege because the captain and crew that Bastien seeks to find and destroy are equally set to get him. And then there is the British navy who have a score to settle with him for sinking a few of their ships.
Raeven is so determined to get at Bastien that she recklessly throws herself into his ventures. They experience passion and a high seas adventure before Bastien’s past catches up to him in more ways than one. He must deal with the past to even succeed at a bright future.
I must say the plot was wonderful when it came to the excitement and adventure. It really delivered on my expectation that Sebastien’s story would be the most exciting. They got into so many tight spots and it was exciting to see them wiggle out. The passionate bed scenes, teasing flirtation and then the build of their love was really great too. As a historical romance, it had a great balance between historical authenticity without bogging down the plot in the details. There is one bit of reality that I just had to let go before I could enjoy the book- Raeven’s background. There is not a chance a girl of those times would have had the life she did unless she had been reared by a pirate.
There was only one thing that bothered me and that was the personality of Raeven. I liked some things about her. To be a good match for Bastien, she definitely had to be strong and sassy, but many times she just came across as a willful brat. She’s always sorry afterward when her impetuosity gets others hurt or in trouble as a consequence, but it doesn’t stop her from doing it again. I just could not see how a girl reared under a man who commanded a ship and having the care of all who serve under him for an example not getting that. Bastien even recognized it when he told her she acted like she was twelve instead of nineteen.
Fortunately, she gradually matured through the story so that she understood the cost of actions and how to put someone else first. She never lost the fire and determination which was great.
This story had my heart pounding many times and a toward the end a few romantic moments made me sigh. I recommend to any fans who like light historical high seas romance and adventure. | English | NL | 5dee1a33bdcccf24706247f375e46c4ba5a236d8d713384a0a6660dcda6f8d01 |
A Preaching Tour in Galilee
“In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. And Simon and his companions hunted for him. When they found him, they said to him, “Everyone is searching for you.” He answered, “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” And he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons.”
In the church of my childhood, there was a statue of the Pieta. You may recognize the Pieta as a famous statue by Michelangelo that is on display at St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican in Rome. The Pieta actually predates Michelangelo’s version and is a common theme of Christian art. The sculpture is of a grief-stricken Mary, holding the deceased body of her son. The image depicts the tragic results of the Cross.
Perhaps it was just the context of my broken childhood, or maybe it was a lack of exposure to art, but I was transfixed by this statue. I felt so badly for Mary. I felt so responsible for Jesus’ death. I was a pretty miserable kid, who was regularly told that my behavior was subpar (which it was). The church’s message to everyone, which I easily assimilated, was that it was our sin that put Jesus on the Cross. Seeing him lying there, in the arms of his grieving mother, was heartbreaking for me.
Noted author on compassion, Joyce Rupp, makes the point that all compassion comes from an ability to understand the suffering of another. While one could argue that the church’s role in promoting guilt has been problematic, I feel blessed that God’s Word, through art, grew me in my ability to know compassion.
I believe that compassion is contagious. This Lent we will come to a more complete understanding of this season – it is less about guilt and more about God’s compassion for each of us through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.
God has compassion for you. How can you experience it? How can you share compassion with the world?
Written by Pastor Greg Bouvier
Pastor Greg heard God’s call to Sheridan in 1999 and that began a journey which has become his life’s work. Having played a variety of roles as pastor of Sheridan, Pastor Greg was called as the Senior Pastor in 2011. He now leads the staff and his primary focus is on the creation of culture, the overall direction of worship and partnering with our amazing team.
Pastor Greg has been married to Rose for more than 30 years and together they have two servant-hearted grown children. | English | NL | 55178be80b80a5c3af69944f69fa494774cde1a421701f9d23bf28bcd11287da |
Ellen Castillo is the Executive Director of Word of Hope Ministries, Inc. and a Certified Biblical Counselor. Ellen has been gifted to teach practical theology, equipping the next generation of Christians in the application of biblical counseling and mentoring. This gift has been developed in part by her prior experience as an Occupational Therapist in psychiatric settings working with a variety of ages and diagnosis. She then spent many years raising children (biological and adopted foster children) and was the Homeschool Support Group Leader for the county she lived in at the time. In that context, her blend of counseling and leadership experience plus a heart to mentor younger women was enhanced. She was later trained as a Certified Biblical Counselor by the International Association of Biblical Counselors. She has worked as a Women’s Counselor in the context of her local church ministry, and most recently as the Founder and Executive Director of Word Of Hope Ministries. Word Of Hope Ministries provides Biblical Counseling and Training both locally and online.
Ellen is also a Council Member of the Biblical Counseling Coalition.
Ellen has written and published a Biblical Mentor training course for women called “Life On Life, Applying the One-Anothers of Scripture”. She teaches this course at various church sites locally, and offers an online format as well.
Testimonials from former counselees:
"When I was a teenager, my mother signed me up to see a Biblical Counselor to help me deal with anxiety and what was later considered OCD. Although at first I was very nervous about going to counseling, I ended up being greatly blessed by Ellen and her friendship. She helped me learn to apply Biblical Truth to every situation in life, and through her mentoring, God allowed me to experience freedom from many of the things that I struggled with."
"Your approach to counseling is through the Holy Spirit and the Word. Praise God for you.
Having struggled with depression on and off for most of my life, you (through scripture) helped me see how the enemy was using me to ruin my testimony. I was able to see how "self" centered depression is. Once I started putting my eyes on Jesus, the author and finisher of my faith, the depression lifted. You guided me to the truth, and gave me scriptures to study, but never told me what to do. At first we were meeting every week, then every other week, then once a month and then after you felt I was ready, you released me. I can honestly say that God used you to help me. Thank you for being so available to Him and, in turn, being available to me. God bless you."
"It became immediately obvious to me that Ellen comes with such solid Biblical understanding. She was able hit right to the heart of the matter and greatly helped me re-focus on the LORD’s healing, comfort, and direction. It’s so easy to get distracted by overwhelming circumstances and advice the world is giving to compensate. But the LORD has not only given Ellen a heart of compassion to love the person she is counseling, but great discernment to first see the spiritual battle needing to be addressed. Everything else seems to fall into place once that is accomplished."
"I was struggling with some very hard emotions when my parents were headed towards a divorce. I felt betrayed, confused, hurt and even a bit alone. I was referred to Ellen, and sadly was only able to meet with her twice before I moved out of town. In our short time together, Ellen offered a sympathetic and listening ear, but more importantly I believe she helped plant a seed of forgiveness in my heart. Ellen gave me some great biblical truths and tools to carry with me as I continue on my journey of forgiveness. Thank you Ellen, for taking my hand and showing me a light when I only saw darkness."
When I first sought advice and counseling from Ellen I was unsure of what I was really struggling with. Ellen helped me re-focus on God's plan and His promises in my life. Over the years she has stopped being my counselor, and has become a mentor and even better friend! Ellen has led me to continually focus on the gospel and has taught me how to lead others to the gospel in friendships, mentorships and casual relationships. I have no doubt in my mind that my growth in biblical knowledge, biblical application and mentorship is greatly due to her influence in my daily life. She doesn't just say to do life with people...she DOES LIFE with you! She has helped me realize my passion for young girls and women and the great joy doing LIFE with them gives me. | English | NL | 1951550991d4fc96c29c4b339b04b4658cf1439921e0bc6a59bcb1e288bb9375 |
The mother of an overseas Filipino worker (OFW) did not condone his actions when he found a mistress just 2 months after he went abroad; she went to Raffy Tulfo Action Center with her son’s common-law-wife to seek help so he would come home to make his family complete.
Netizens are praising Nanay Engelina Lim for not condoning her son’s bad behavior; instead, she took the side of her daughter-in-law and begged for her son to stop his foolishness and come home.
Nanay Engelina told Raffy that her son found a mistress but she knows that it is not too late for him to come back and complete his family again. But the OFW, Argee Lim, paid her no heed. He chose his mistress who is also in Dubai with him.
Argee’s common-law wife Nenia Decena told Raffy that it’s been months since she suspected that he has a mistress; he later admitted this to his mother. The mistress would message her, telling her that as long as Argee chooses her, she would never leave his side. According to Nenia, the mistress is now the one holding Argee’s salary.
Angered by this revelation, Raffy admonished Argee who admitted that he does have a mistress; however, Argee did not want to go home because he wants to best provide for his family by being an OFW. If he goes home, he will have nothing to do and they will have no money.
Raffy reminded him, though, that he surely went abroad for his family but now that he has a mistress who holds his money, he defeated the primary purpose why he became an OFW. Sadly, this is the reality faced by many OFWs.
When Argee continued to argue and insisted on staying in Dubai, Raffy warned him that he could interfere and report him to relevant authorities because taking another wife is against the law in Dubai; however, he might actually still win this argument because he is not married to Nenia though they already have two kids. Sigh.
Here’s the heartbreaking video:
Source: OFW Tambayan | English | NL | 3592c7ca29b8d5594906f35d1b67423c57da1107f60077e2b853583b4078ca1a |
Establishing time of death is often more complicated than they make it seem on television. The following information is based on California laws regarding death certificate criteria.
Determining TOD in an unwitnessed death is almost impossible to do. There are times when someone dies alone or “unwitnessed” and there is something that can help us narrow down the approximate time the person died, such as a gunshot being heard, or the dying person being on the phone with someone when they stop breathing, or an event that caused an immediately fatal injury such as a traffic accident, explosion, a lightning strike and other similar events. For example, there was a case handled by my office in which someone was attempting to steal copper wiring from a metal control box. When they attempted to cut the wire, they were electrocuted and actually caught fire. Although the event was not witnessed, there was a loss of power to a small area and the time of the power loss was recorded by the company as well as the people who lost power. In that instance we can have a pretty good idea what time death occurred because it would have been instantaneous due to the amount of electricity. There have also been many time a traffic accident is heard, and when first responders arrive one or more of the victims are already deceased and their injury is one that would be immediately fatal such as extreme crushing injuries to the head and chest. One issue with time of death is the person has to be officially pronounced dead by someone qualified to do so. This is usually a first responder such as a paramedic, or law enforcement official. In hospital deaths, it is usually a physician, or a nurse at the direction of a physician. In many cases, the time of death (TOD) is the pronouncement time as recorded by the physician or first responder.
However, in unwitnessed cases, we often use the term FOUND TIME instead of TIME OF DEATH. The reason for this is we do not know the actual time of death. We take the time the first responder arrived and confirmed the person was deceased. We then determine when the decedent was last known to be alive. If it was not on the same day they were found, we will list a FOUND DATE, then list the pronouncement time listed in the TOD space. This basically certifies we cannot establish the exact time of death but only when the person was found. In our investigative report we will elaborate more about the last time known alive, and how long the physical findings indicate the person was probably deceased. This is where temperatures, exposure, stages of rigor mortis and decomposition come into play. I will discuss those topics in a later post….
A second area on the death certificate which is important in NON-NATURAL deaths, is the INJURY section. In some cases, the injury date and time is the same or very near the time of death, and in others it can be years apart. In an unwitnessed death this entry is often marked UNKNOWN. If a gunshot, traffic accident or other factor can provide the injury time we will use it. | English | NL | c1239cb78dd42d950a2d3962a25866092676fcb296623eb1cf9209f5f5665e48 |
This is an excerpt from the family history book I’m working on. The first part was posted on Friday.
The kitchen table – these were the hubs to the wheel of life. Breakfast together around the table, then out for chores or school or work, then back to the table for lunch, then out again, then back to the table for supper: tired eating at the end of a long day. The kitchen lantern hissed late into the night over those tables.
And there Samuel lay. He would have been feverish by then, perhaps clutching his gut in pain. He may have required help to walk to the table, assistance to rise up on it and then lie down. The doctor fumbled nervously through his bag as Samuel was given something to drink, something to numb the pain, and something to bite down on.
The eyes of the children peeking through the windows would have widened as Samuel Lapp’s shirt was pulled back.
“Come away!” their parents yelled from across the yard. “Get away from there!”
And they scattered, relieved to be torn from that sight.
The doctor that no longer has a name pulled the small scalpel from his bag, hands shaking. Perhaps Samuel felt the cold steel slide into his skin, or perhaps the pain he had been in for days was already clouding his mind.
His blood ran out on the sheets covering the family table as the drunk doctor pulled him apart. But he would not survive. Removed, along with the offending organ, was his life, and it fluttered around the room for a moment, then vanished into the cold December air.
My great-great grandmother, in her early 20s, sat in the back room with her three children: Anna, Benjamin and John. A widow. Her family gathered around her, hugging her, wiping her tears. The children sat there, probably wondering what kind of a doctor brought this into the house.
I wonder how that doctor felt on the train back to Philadelphia. Relieved perhaps, that it was over? Stone drunk? Would he remember the surgery in the morning? Would his life be racked with guilt because of the Amish man with appendicitis that he killed on that December day?
If I were a ghost, I would hover over him in that train and shout. I would tell him not to feel bad – his slight of hand, his willingness to try, may have killed Samuel Lapp. But on that day, December 10, 1898, that doctor saved my life. And the life of my mother’s family. The life of my son.
Because Catharine went on to marry my great-great grandfather, Amos King. And they gave birth to my great-grandmother. And so on.
One death leads to so many lives. | English | NL | 4f28ce42b552d20b5a31533c07cc336b40f126e567f8892ace0e91f2d60965ad |
Explorer’s Log: I have arrived at a moon orbiting a gas giant at the star system designated “Queen’s Forbidden Secret” by Royal Astronomers. The moon was once heavily populated as evidenced by the cities but once again I am detecting no life signs. There isn’t even a single germ alive on the planet.
Obviously this is due to the extra-dimensional being I call Voice. The sick entity likes to kill things as I have witnessed many times before. I almost flattered that it wants me to become a vessel for it to spread its hobby of mass murder to other worlds.
Oddly though, Voice has been quiet lately. It might be due to having moved away from the being’s influence but I doubt it. If it has the power to kill all life on this moon, talking to me shouldn’t be that hard. We’ll see if Voice gets chatty when I land on the moon and look around. End Explorer’s Log.
Explorer’s Personal Log: I rather not land on the dead moon at all. The sooner I get away from Voice the better. Unfortunately, the Royal Navy protocols insist I touch down and take a survey just in case Queen Erishella decides that whatever is there outweighs the danger the lives of Royal Navy crewmen.
Vaquel Di stood in the middle of the largest city on the moon. The glow of the blue gas giant above her turned her skintight yellow spacesuit into a deep shade of green. Short pink hair floated inside her glassteel helmet. Her dark brown skin looked sickly in the blue light.
Dead bodies surrounded the explorer. Naked blue corpses filled the streets. Shreds of clothes bounced in the low gravity.
“What killed you?” Vaquel said out loud. A light device was strapped to her wrist and she swept an illuminating beam back and forth. No answers came to light.
The bodies hadn’t decayed. Decomposition was tricky without carrion eaters or microbes. They looked like they had died yesterday. Their necks were bruised. If Vaquel had to guess, it looked like they all died from strangulation.
It was too much. Vaquel turned her light beam towards the buildings. Murals covered the walls and every mural depicted males and females stroking one another and themselves. Judging by the murals, this race was bisexual and therefore fully civilized.
They also really loved hand jobs. There were no murals of oral or copulation.
She had a theory about that. Looking at the murals, the males had cocks that turned five revolutions like a screw. Scans of the female corpses revealed that their vaginas were similarly shaped. The hip motions necessary to complete that connection must have been a science to itself. Hand jobs really probably a hell of a lot easier.
Vaquel smiled. A hand job would be nice right about now. When was the last time someone brought her to orgasm not with tongue or cock but by fingers?
She reached between her legs. Her fingers pressed against her flimsy spacesuit. Wet moist heat was one thin fabric away.
Vaquel let out a sigh and moved her hand away. She had a survey to complete.
The space explorer jumped and the light gravity let her hop nearly a block away. Scanners had detected an abundance of raymonite. The rare element was extremely useful in anti-gravity engines as well as constructing environment resistant clothing. The amount detected was astonishing and Vaquel was duty bound to at least verify its existence.
She slowly jumped through the city. The steady hops gave her plenty of time to observe the blue lit scenes of death. Patterns emerged although she wasn’t sure what to make of them.
Vehicles had been brought together to face huddled groups of the dead.
Candles had been left in the windows of every building she passed.
Some of the strangled corpses had some clothes on but all of them had their crotches exposed.
Every street light had been shattered.
“What game did you play here?” Vaquel asked the Voice. “What manipulation of the laws of reality killed these people? How did they entertain you?”
The Voice was silent.
Vaquel reached the location of the raymonite. It was a massive building with a large entrance. The signs were in an unknown language although Vaquel thought a more appropriate term would be to call it a dead language.
There were pictures though. Painted around the entrance were depictions of corridors, turns and twists. There were scenes of blue aliens walking and smiling.
Vaquel entered the building. There were more corpses. She hopped over them to go further in.
Yellow walls surrounded her. There was a metallic sheen to the wall that was familiar. She touched a wall and felt warmth through her spacesuit gloves. It was raymonite. They had coated the walls in it.
She floated towards a junction and turned right. It curved to the left. Another corpse lay on the ground. The walls were smooth except for a smashed electric light. The path continued and another way branched to the right.
Vaquel smiled. It was a maze. If the maze took up the entire space of the building she had seen outside, then this maze might be the largest she had ever seen. It was astonishing. When you factor in the amount of raymonite involved, it was downright exhilarating.
Who knows? Some poor royal Navy Captain might be charged with coming here after all.
She kept going. Slow controlled jumps let her fall into a lazy rhythm. For the last few months, Vaquel had been buried within the presence of Voice. It was nice to be immersed in something simple like a maze. If she got lost she could always use her scanner to find the way out.
It was completely dark except for her wrist beam. The yellow walls sparkled like the sun when her beam swept over it. Deeper and deeper she went.
As Vaquel stood at a five way intersection, something touched her ass. She spun around and drew her plasma pistol. There was nothing there.
Had she imagined it? No, the memory was fresh. Something had dragged its fingers across the curve of her buttock down to between her crack and back over the other buttock. She wouldn’t have imagined that.
Perhaps it was time to leave. Vaquel turned around and went back the way she came.
A turn, a curve and a straight walk later, something touched her armpit. Vaquel giggled at the tickling touch before swinging her elbow around. She connected with empty air.
Vaquel spun around with her wrist beam. Except for a single prone corpse, there was nothing but shadows and yellow walls.
Some mysteries were better left unsolved. Vaquel continued on her way back. She walked briskly down a curving path and took the second turn.
Something moved up ahead. She only got a brief glance at a dark figure before it ducked down an intersection. Her thumb activated the warming sequence for her plasma pistol.
Vaquel thought about chasing the figure but decided against it. Chasing things in a maze was easily a bad idea. It was better to just leave, return to her ship, take off and file her report.
A flicking touch at the base of her spine made her giggle. She spun around and fired her pistol. A bright ball of plasma emerged and illuminated the corridor before obliterating a wall.
For one brief moment she saw the dark figure again. Despite the red glow of the plasma, she only saw a dark outline as the thing jumped to the side. It had too many arms.
Darkness returned and Vaquel aimed her wrist beam. Back and forth she swept her surroundings as her pistol recharged.
“Come out!” she yelled.
All she heard was the melting of the wall.
Vaquel made a quick decision and took off running. There was no Royal Navy bonus for space explorers killing enemies. She kicked off a wall and the low gravity sent her flying down the corridor. When she reached her next intersection and grabbed the corner and flung herself in a new direction.
Something tackled her in mid jump. She slammed against a wall and gasped. Her pistol hand was grabbed with a strength she couldn’t fight. The vice grip forced her hand to open in pain and her pistol floated away.
Vaquel’s other wrist thrown against the wall. The sound of her wrist beam breaking echoed down the maze.
Darkness surrounded her. A snarl came to Vaquel’s lips. She lashed out with a kick and punch. There was nothing but air.
Something fluttered against her stomach. A giggle was forced from her lips. There was more fluttering under both armpits. Something light danced behind her knee.
Vaquel started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. The thing was tickling her and the spacesuit was thin enough to feel every glancing touch.
She laughed as the tickling intensified. Years of combat training were forgotten as she flailed and rolled. No matter how much she struggled, the shifting touches kept tickling her.
It was impossible to think. All she could focus on was avoiding those fluttering touches. She writhed on the ground and tried to grab the tickling hands. They were always gone before she could reach them; tickling some other vulnerable part of her body.
Among the tickles were also sharp nicks. Tickle, tickle, snip, tickle, tickle. A brief graze of claw tore through her spacesuit before nimble fingers tickled helpless areas. As Vaquel rolled around, she felt more and more of her body exposed to the shadowy tickler.
Her glassteel helmet fell off. Vaquel barely noticed it as relentless fingers danced over her ribs. She breathed in the stale dead air that had a taste of raymonite.
Breathing became a problem. The damn hands wouldn’t stop. How many were there? Four? A dozen? More? They tickled and they tickled and Vaquel couldn’t stop laughing.
Suddenly the tickles stopped. Vaquel gasped for air. She was naked on the ground. Her body felt sensitive from head to toe. The tickling had stopped but she felt phantom flutters from fingers that weren’t there.
A hand reached between her thighs. It was a welcome change to feel something solid and steady after so many glancing touches. It pressed down hard on the soaked bush of her pussy. Vaquel was stunned by how wet she was.
Another hand grabbed her throat. The strong grip tightened around her throat. Vaquel grabbed the arm but it was like pushing a mountain.
The hand on her pussy moved. It stroked the outside of her sex. Vaquel’s hips lifted towards the hand instinctively.
One hand tightened and Vaquel gasped. Another hand stroked and Vaquel moaned.
Both hands released her. Vaquel barely had time to suck in air before the tickling returned. She lashed out with her arms and legs but the tickling touches were all over her.
She felt the tickles on her heavy breasts. Every inch was of her curves were sensitive to the touch. Her nipples were harder than diamonds.
She felt the tickles on her long legs. Up and down the tickling fingers toyed with her flesh. When the undersides of her feet were touched, she screamed with hysterical laughs.
She felt the tickles on her sweating back. Down her spine the marauding fingers tickled her at will. No matter how much she rolled on the ground, the fingers kept tickling.
The hands tickled her at that spot inside her hip. The fingers tickled her neck right under her hair. The tips of shadows tickled her between her toes. The unknown creature tickled her without mercy.
Vaquel screamed with laughter. She writhed in indignant rage. She howled for the thing to stop.
Once again the tickling stopped. Vaquel was shaking with exhaustion from being tickled so cruelly. She was almost grateful for the fingers back around her neck. She spread her legs for the hand upon her sex.
This time the fingers entered. Thick strong digits parted her sex lips and slipped inside. She cried out as she was fingerfucked on the floor.
Her cries turned into a choking gasp. The hand around her neck was too tight. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs, already burning with laughter, was now aching for air.
“Come,” the Voice said.
Vaquel couldn’t speak her answer. Even if she wasn’t being choked there was no way she could talk while being this vigorously fucked.
“This is going to kill me,” Vaquel thought.
“Come and die,” the Voice answered.
The fingers fucked her harder. Vaquel’s sensitive body arched as orgasm was moments away.
“You wanted me to take you other worlds,” Vaquel thought. “I can’t do that if I am dead.”
The fingers around her throat clamped down. Stars burst in front of her eyes.
“The Tickle Game would be worth it,” Voice thought.
She was going to come. She was going to die. Both were about to happen.
The hands released her. Vaquel gasped for air and moaned her frustration.
The tickling returned. It was more intense this time or perhaps Vaquel was too sensitive. The quivering touches forced her to laugh and to squirm but now it also evoked pain wherever she was touched.
Vaquel’s laughs turned to screams. She was exhausted but her body kept twisting under the tickling touches. She could barely breathe but her sex was wetter than it had been in months. She wanted to escape but she also didn’t want to leave before the strong hands returned to her sex.
Something bumped against her spastic hands. Her fingers closed around it and recognized her plasma pistol. She almost fired it but remembered how little good it did last time.
The tickling intensified. Vaquel clutched the plasma pistol to her sensitive breasts as the tickling fingers ravished her body. She couldn’t think of a plan but she knew she had to hold onto the pistol.
The tickling was too much. Her lungs were about to burst. Aches formed in her legs from kicking too much. Maybe it wasn’t strangulation that killed this race but simple exhaustion. Perhaps the only escape would be to fire the pistol on herself?
The tickling stopped. Vaquel sobbed with relief even as the hand returned to her throat. Other fingers entered her sex and Vaquel quivered with joy.
It fucked her hard. It was too rough and the fingers were too big but Vaquel’s body responded anyway. She fucked the fingers back with exhausted hips.
The fingers around her throat tightened. This was it. It would never let her go until she had died.
A plan came to mind. The simplicity of it shamed her.
The thing finger fucked her to orgasm. A wave of bliss swept through her. Her toes curled as the thing’s hand tightened around her throat for the last time.
Vaquel’s thumb hit a switch on the plasma pistol. Light erupted from all over the pistol. For one brief moment she saw the horrible multiple armed winged thing that held her down and then it was gone.
She gasped and rolled over onto her side. Her body began to float in the low gravity. A choking spasm came over her and she let it happen. It was good to breathe once more.
The plasma pistol lit up the area around her. It contained super heated gases at all times so emitting some of the light it contained was a little used emergency function. In her panic and arousal, Vaquel had completely forgotten about it.
“I lived, asshole,” Vaquel said.
Voice was quiet. Perhaps he was sulking because he didn’t get to enjoy the Tickle Game. Maybe he was indifferent because he knew she could now be his vessel.
Vaquel floated in the hallway and stretched out her limbs. Her neck was tender. Beads of her sexual desire were forming spheres in the low gravity. Bruises from her struggles were already forming.
She held the glowing plasma pistol in front of her as she kicked off the wall. The darkness retreated in front of her as she floated down the hall.
Some of the shadows had arms.
Vaquel thought about the future Royal Navy soldiers who would come to loot the raymonite. They would carry over lapping light projectors. Their suits could be rigged with lights. The roof could be removed to allow the light from the nearby gas giant.
She thought about the shattered lights on the labyrinth walls. She remembered the extinguished candles and the dead vehicle lights outside. She wondered how safe the aliens who loved here felt until the darkness came for them.
Nothing tried to stop her as she exited the maze. Nothing waited for her outside. The blue light of the gas giant turned her dark brown skin a sickly shade of purple.
Vaquel’s nude body hopped towards her space ship. A piece of paper debris glanced the back of her leg. She spun around and fired her plasma pistol instinctively. The paper vanished into ashes.
The area of light around Vaquel was temporarily disrupted. A shadow under an archway stepped towards her. A shadow on the ground rose and reached for her leg. A shadow next to a corpse stood.
The light returned to full force. Vaquel held the pistol up in the air. The shadows sunk back into the darkness.
Vaquel touched her sex. She was still damp. Her lungs were sore as well as the rest of her body but she thought fondly on the strong strokes of the unseen fingers. Was there a way she could stay just a little longer?
She touched her neck. The bruises on her neck made her wince.
Vaquel kept touching her neck for the rest of her journey back to her ship. | English | NL | 56855c6ca71541466b402de2393e5dec44be97eae8ac6e9842fc15f0aa22320b |
It is early in the morning and the boys have come tumbling out of their room. Potty activities completed, Zachary wants to get into bed with me, so both boys hop up and I am able to steal a few more horizontal minutes. Benjamin cuddles, his still-baby pudginess fitting perfectly into the crook of my arm.
On my other side, Zachary is playing with the flashlight I keep by the side of the bed (for emergencies – dirty-minded people). He is flashing circles on the ceiling and wall, conducting the classic childhood experiment of seeing what happens when the flashlight moves closer or further away from a surface.
He has always been a stringbean, my eldest child. So, there really was never any chubbiness to lose. Yet, watching him, it is clear he has lost his metaphorical baby fat. There is no more baby about him. He thinks and moves and feels like a boy. He has crossed through some imperceptible liminal space, leaving behind his babyhood forever when I wasn’t paying attention.
I did not know when Benjamin was a newborn that they would ever stop being babies. His older brother was a toddler, and they both qualified as babies. But, now, as my second child is already more than halfway through to full-blown childhood, I look at his brother and realize that they only spend a moment in that round, affectionate stage.
I am fortunate. This accidental baby, the one growing in my womb, will come to me when I already know that she will grow up too soon. In her infancy, I will know what we can only learn through experience: they don’t let us keep our babies.
I wonder if it will make a difference.
To L and J, DZ, EC, and all the rest of the first-time parents out there. | English | NL | ade834b2f544d35992a40d6bcf3e1b6348decb62f0316ebbcf16b510a51b194e |
The music group Sierra has had 15 Top 5 hits on Christian radio; seven of these have hit the number one spot. They have sold more than a quarter of a million albums and have performed for sellout crowds at Christian women's conferences.
Sierra was founded in 1991 in Houston, Texas, by singer/songwriter Wendi Foy Green. Green graduated from Baylor University in Waco, Texas, and moved to Austin, Texas to work at a Christian radio station. While working there she met a record company executive who offered her a solo recording contract. This led to her solo release of an album titled Finders Keepers in 1988. For Green, however, the most important aspect of this project was that she met producer Brian Green. They decided that if they could work together to make a record, they could successfully do anything together, and they were married in February of 1989.
Meanwhile, Green had become interested in finding other women to form a vocal trio. She had been singing in groups since childhood, when she joined her father, a music minister, and her two sisters to sing religious songs in churches. She told the CMO.com website, "I've always loved the sound of three-part harmony, and I wanted to do it again." Through her husband's work in the Christian music business, Green met two women who, coincidentally, had the same first names as her sisters: Deborah Schnelle and Jennifer Hendrix. Like her sisters, they had grown up in families that combined a love of music and religious faith; all had parents or grandparents who were full-time ministers.
Schnelle, born in Austin, Texas, had sung background vocals on Green's solo album, and they had been friends for several years. Schnelle was delighted when Green asked her to help form a trio. She did not want to have a solo career, so the group was perfect for her. Green met Hendrix through her husband, a producer, who was working on a project with her. Hendrix told CMO.com that when Green called to ask her to join, "I prayed about it and said yes."
The three had a remarkably close blend of voices, similar to that of real sisters. In 1992 they moved to Nashville to pursue their dream. They sang during their lunch breaks at the Baptist Sunday School Board, where they were working, and eventually signed a contract with Star Song. They spent the next ten years touring and performing hundreds of times each year at religious venues and on Christian television shows, including Life Today With James Robison, The 700 Club, The Crystal Cathedral, and Trinity Broadcasting Network, as well as on many Christian radio programs.
In October of 1994 the group released their debut album, Sierra. It was a huge success in the Christian music market, selling over 100,000 copies in only nine months. Their second album, Devotion, had similar success. They released Story of Life in 1991.
The group's goal was to combine their soaring harmonies with their love of God, in order to inspire listeners to be closer to God. They drew from their own life experience to write their songs. For example, in the song "Tearing Down the Temple," Schnelle wrote about her struggles with anorexia nervosa, an eating disorder. She told CMO.com that the song resonated with audiences: "It never fails, when I sing that song, someone will come up later and say, 'That's me.' And I can pray with them from the heart, because I've been there."
Schnelle left the group, and a new member, Marianne Tutalo, joined for the group's next album, Change. After releasing Change, the group's members went through their own personal changes. Hendrix had her second child, and group member Marianne Adams got married. Their next album, The Journey, reflected these changes. It was lighter, with less emphasis on struggle and tribulation. Hendrix commented on the group's website, "It is almost as if we are looking in the rearview mirror at the past and saying, 'Thank you God', for carrying us through."
Following their release of The Journey, Sierra decided to limit their concert appearances to six per month so they could spend more time with their families. Although they continued to appear at Women of Faith conferences and Women of Virtue conferences, and hosted a show on the TBN network called The Sierra Hour, they made their families a priority. They also decided to spend more time studying the Bible and praying, because they felt all the emphasis on performing had distracted them from their spiritual lives. Hendrix wrote on the group's website that doing this "makes me spend time with the Lord, and it is wonderful. I want it. I need it. That is why I am forcing that time to happen."
In 2002 the group decided to disband. Green went on to pursue a solo career, and Tutalo and Hendrix formed a new worship band, called Abide. "I think change is for the better," Green said on the group's website. "There is constant change. Hopefully it is change for the better—to be more Christ-like, to be more Christ-centered, to be less self-centered." She added, "Ten years ago my writing was lighter, fluffier. I wrote good songs with good messages, but as I mature … I want to paint an aural picture with more colors." She noted, "If you are going to present something, present it from the depths of your soul."
Sierra. (2006). Retrieved August 15, 2014, from Answers.com website: http://www.answers.com/topic/sierra-group | English | NL | ba71a8348df057b91c74f8ea698129dfb3154290704ab99a80bebb208ebb6b9c |
Reed Farrel Coleman writes elegantly about damaged people who live in a sharp-edged world.
Author of more than 20 novels, Coleman is a former executive vice president of the Mystery Writers of America and the winner of the Macavity and Shamus Awards. His accomplishments have earned him a strong fan base that is likely to grow with his new book of crime fiction, "Where It Hurts," which depicts an appealingly dark and atmospheric world.
Q: You published your first novel in your mid-to-late 30s. What did you do before then?
A: I grew up in the Coney Island/Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. I started writing poetry at 13 or 14, and I was pretty good at it. I went to Brooklyn College but, as most poets do, I had a day job. My job out of college was working as a freight forwarder at the JFK Airport in Queens, someone who arranges inanimate objects to get from place A to place B. If you've ever seen the movie "Goodfellas," you know the people I worked with.
Q: Brooklyn, or Brooklyn College, also prompted your interest in crime fiction.
A: Yeah, I went back to Brooklyn College, and the only class that fit my schedule was a class in American Detective Fiction. I considered myself more of a literary and poetry kind of a guy, but after a few weeks in the class and reading "Farewell, My Lovely," "The Continental Op" and "The Maltese Falcon," I told my wife: "This is what all the poetry training was for. This is what I was meant to do."
'Where It Hurts'
By Reed Farrel Coleman.
Penguin, 368 pp., $27.
Reed Farrel Coleman will discuss and sign "Where It Hurts," 6:30 p.m. Friday, Murder By The Book, 2342 Bissonnet; 713-524-8597, or toll free 888-424-2842 or murderbooks.com.
Q: You wrote nine books about Moe Prager, an ex-cop private investigator. Why did you end the series?
A: I don't do in-depth story outlines, but from the beginning, I planted the poison pill for Moe. I always knew there would be an end to the series. I want my characters to change, and that means growing older, and I didn't want Moe to turn into a detective who goes around finding people's missing hearing aids. It's not easy to be a hard-boiled detective as a 65-year-old cancer survivor.
Q: But as you phased out Prager, you created Gus Murphy, who is featured in your new novel, "Where It Hurts." Tell me about the story.
A: It's a book of resurrection, actually.
Q: Speaking to that, Prager is Jewish, but Murphy is a lapsed Catholic of sorts.
A: I was raised Jewish, but I didn't marry a Lutheran for nothing. Our kids are Jew-therans, but when I was growing up, the only people I knew were either Jewish or Catholic. Both religions are so soaked in symbolism, I absorbed it, and I can write characters associated with either religion. Moe, who is Jewish, has always had a skeptical outlook on life; it's part of our culture, our tradition. Catholics don't have that cynical attitude. They believe in the spirit of Jesus and forgiveness, and they don't have that cynical attitude. Gus, after his experiences that he has been through, is awakened to cynicism, but it was a natural condition for Moe. For Gus, it's not natural and therefore, it's uncomfortable, and I think that makes for interesting possibilities in the future.
Q: Your books feature damaged characters and, as is clear from the title, "Where It Hurts" is no exception.
A: We're all damaged. No one goes through life unscathed. We don't control our lives fully, and we can't stop ourselves from being hurt. We carry this stuff around with us. It's what we bear. If people like my books, I think one reason is that they can see themselves in the characters.
Q: In "Where It Hurts," you describe the work of a magician as a master distracter, whose job it is to distract viewers from the real action that is taking place. Isn't that true of a writer of detective fiction?
A: Absolutely. Our job is to convince you not to pay attention to the man behind the curtain. Reading is artificial, when you think about it. You are reading a world invented by another human's mind, and the reader knows it's an invented world! Yet they are transported. I'm amazed by that, and I think it's partially due to the magician's trick. It's one of my favorite analogies, and I've used it before in my work.
Mike Yawn directs the Center for Law, Engagement and Politics at Sam Houston State University. | English | NL | 4cac685af3b4b258115ab724a0bf8b4d2c20e472bdaf58e3be18befffab66157 |
Authors: Nadia Nichols
Mac was as sure of this as he'd ever been sure of anything. She was in terrible trouble somewhere up ahead.
Sled dog racing!
Whoever thought up such a ridiculous sport?
“All right,” he bellowed to his team. “Get up.” His voice had an edge to it that he'd never used with his dogs before. They struggled valiantly against the ferocious wind and swirling snow.
Where the hell was the summit? They must be getting close. Mac looked ahead into the stormy darkness. Was that a sled in front of him? He reached out, and his hand connected with the solid wood of the driving bow. “Hey,” he shouted. “Rebecca?”
The top line of the sled bag ripped open in the fierce wind, and a man sat up. “Rebecca's somewhere down below. She and her whole team got blown over. I don't know how far they fell.”
Mac stared at the bottomless void. She could be anywhere along this slope or she could have tumbled clear to the bottom. How in God's name would he ever find her in this whiteout?
He turned and plunged through the snow to the front of his team. He unhooked his lead dog from the gang line.
“Merlin, come!” he shouted over the howl of the wind. Then he turned his back on the dog and began a careful, step-by-step descent of the slope, panning his headlamp back and forth as he went.
He had to find Rebecca!
The Yukon Quest Sled Dog Race is without a doubt one of the toughest in the worldâan epic journey covering one thousand miles of rugged wilderness terrain in temperatures that often reach minus sixty degrees Fahrenheit. It is the ultimate proving ground for mushers and their teams, and the cumulative effort of race volunteers, veterinarians, sponsors, handlers, families and friends. All of the characters in this story are fictional. I have taken a few liberties with both the race route and the rules, but have tried for the most part to give you, the reader, a sense of what it's like to travel down a long trail behind a team of incredible canine athletes. And a hint of the camaraderie that can develop between the mushers themselves.
The history of the north country is written in the paw prints of the intrepid sled dogs who hauled freight, food, medicine and mail over thousands of miles of winter trails in some of the worst conditions imaginable, for the benefit of mankind. We owe them our esteem.
Command for dogs to get up and go. HIKE! may also be used.
The main part of the sled that sits over the runners. Used to carry gear, injured dogs, etc. Also called the BED.
Socks worn by dogs to protect paws against ice. Made from polar fleece and other high-tech material. Secured with Belcor strips.
Pivoting metal bar with two prongs that is attached between the stanchions at the rear of the BED. Musher stands on bar, which drives points into the snow and stops the sled.
Acts like a bumper or deflector. Curved piece protrudes from front of sled and prevents damage to sled.
The military version of PACK BOOTS. White rubber tops and bottoms.
Used to transport dogs. Most common is a wooden structure built onto the bed of the truck with individual sections for each dog or pair of dogs.
Sled handle with which the MUSHER steers the sled. Also called the HANDLE BOW or DRIVER'S BOW.
Any dog that cannot continue may be dropped at an official checkpoint or at an assigned dog-drop location.
Food and equipment, bagged in burlap or poly bags and shipped ahead to checkpoints. Bags cannot exceed sixty pounds. Straw (for dog bedding) must also be shipped ahead.
The main line. Dogs and sled are attached to this. May also be referred to as TOWLINE.
Command for leaders to turn right.
Webbed material, fits dogs snugly. TUGLINE and NECKLINE are attached to this.
Command for leaders to turn left.
Leader of the team. Intelligence and drive are important qualities. Teams can have one or two LEAD DOGS.
A person who drives a sled dog team.
Short lineâno more than twelve inchesâ attached to HARNESS and GANGLINE. Keeps dogs in place.
Command to go by a potential distraction such as another team.
Felt-lined insulated boots. Usually rubber soled with leather or Cordura uppers.
Standing with one foot on the sled runner while pushing against the snow with the other.
These dogs run behind the LEAD DOGS. Sometimes called SWING DOGS.
The two skilike “feet” that slide along the snow. Usually made of wood and covered in plastic.
Extra line from sled to GANGLINE
Double-pronged metal hook. Can be pushed into the snow and used as an anchor to halt the dogs for short periods of time without tethering them.
Attached to the end of the GANGLINE. Can be tied to an object (tree) to hold the dogs when the snow is too soft to use SNOW HOOK.
The upright pieces that form the framework of the sled. They hold the runners to the rest of the sled.
Either the same as POINT DOGS or may refer to the two dogs running between the POINT DOGS and the WHEEL DOGS.
Refers to all dogs other than LEAD DOGS, POINT DOGS, SWING DOGS and WHEEL DOGS.
Connects the dog's harness to GANGLINE. WHEEL DOGS The two dogs running directly in front of the sled.
Command to stop the team.
To my beloved sled dogs, past and present, my heroes and my best friends, who have taken me on some of the greatest adventures of my life and who have always brought me safely home.
Now promise made as a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern codeâ¦
The Cremation of Sam McGee
HE MAN WHO DROVE
his truck up Rebecca Reed's rutted dirt drive was a stranger, and her dogs let her know it long before she stepped out of the arctic entry to her small cabin and onto the front porch. She shrugged into her parka which had been hanging in the small pre-entry room as she watched his approach. The afternoon was chilly in spite of the sunlight, and the limbs of the aspen and willow were silvery and bare. Ravens were calling along the river and the wind played a lonesome song through the spruce behind the cabin. It was late autumn and the taste of snow was in the air.
He was tall. She could see that quite clearly as he climbed out of his truck. Even if his truckâwith the dog box bolted to its rusting bedâhadn't given him away, his clothing would have. “Uh-oh. Another crazy dog driver,” she commented to Tuffy, the small black-and-tan Alaskan husky who had followed her onto the porch. In her prime, Tuffy had been Bruce's favorite lead dog, but she was old now, her muzzle graying, her movements stiff, and her eyes a bit cloudy. “I'll lay odds he's after a load of dog food and he'll want it real cheap,”
Rebecca said. “But how on earth did he get past my truck?” Tuffy looked at her quizzically and flagged her tail.
The stranger was dressed like a typical musher, and as he walked up the path toward the cabin, he paused for a moment to brush the worst of the mud off his drab-colored parka. His clothes were dog-eared, dog-chewed and dog-dirty. His insulated boots were patched with rubberized tool dip, his tawny shock of hair needed trimming, he was at least two days unshaven, and heaven only knew when he'd last had a decent bath. A bush dweller and a musher. A dangerous combination. He walked to the foot of the porch steps and paused there, looking up at her. “Hello,” he said with a nod and the faintest of grins. “Your truck was blocking the road and I moved it. Hope you don't mind, but the hood was left up as if something was wrong so I took a quick look.”
“I went out to get the mail yesterday and it stalled on me,” Rebecca explained. “The battery went dead, but it shouldn't have. It's fairly new.”
“Well, your battery was fine, but the ground-wire connection was loose. I tightened that up, and she started like a champ, so I moved her down the drive a ways into that little pullover near the blowdown. I'll drive her in for you if you like.”
Rebecca was taken aback. “No, thank you. I'll walk out and drive back. Thank you very much for fixing it. My wallet's inside. Hold on a moment, I'll get it.”
He grinned and shook his head. “No, you won't. I was glad to help and that was a real easy fix. The reason I'm here is that Fred Turner told me you sold dog food. He said you had the best prices in the Territory, so I thought I'd swing by your kennel on my way into Dawson.”
“I do sell dog food,” Rebecca said warily. “But it's
dog food. I don't sell the cheap stuff.”
“Good dog food's what I'm looking for,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around her yard. “You've got quite a few dogs yourself,” he said.
“Forty,” she said.
“Forty!” He glanced up at her, and she noticed that his eyes were exceptionally clear and bright, a shade of gray that hinted at blue or green, she couldn't tell which. “My name's Bill MacKenzie. Most folks call me Mac.”
“Rebecca Reed,” she said, with a curt nod. “How much food were you looking to buy?”
“Well, I only keep fourteen dogs myself, and I have plenty of chum salmon to carry them through the winter. I was thinking along the lines of forty bags, if you had that much to spare. That should see me through till spring.”
“I could sell you that much food,” Rebecca said, “but that truck of yours is only a half-ton, and it isn't even four-wheel drive. I doubt it could haul that heavy a load.”
“Well, I know it doesn't look like much,” Mac admitted. “But it's a tough truck, sure enough. She'll carry a ton of food, easy, four-wheel drive or no.”
“How far do you have to take it?”
“Thirty miles or so. Not far. Hell, if it would just hurry up and snow, I could ferry the food back with my dog team. It'd be good training for them.”
Rebecca smiled faintly. “It'll snow soon enough. You said you were on your way to Dawson, so I guess you'll be wanting to pick the food up on your way back to wherever it is you live?”
Mac nodded. “That'd be great. I'm bringing a dog to the veterinarian for a checkup. She's a good dog but
she's been off her feed for nearly a week. My appointment isn't until four, so I thought I'd spend the night in town and get an early start tomorrow. I could be here by eight-thirty, if that's all right with you.”
Rebecca shrugged. “Fine by me. I suppose if Fred Turner told you I sold dog food, he probably also told you that I don't extend credit. My husband started this business five years ago and he gave credit to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that came up the trail. Couldn't say no to anyone. When he died he left me in an awful mess. I'll sell you however much dog food you need, but you'll pay cash at pickup, same as everybody else. Twenty-five dollars a bag.” Rebecca narrowed her eyes as she spoke, aware that her words were hard and businesslike, and aware, too, that MacKenzie probably didn't have two dimes to rub together. Probably didn't even carry a checkbook or a credit card.
“I understand,” Mac said, nodding. “That's good business.” He patted the flat, frayed pocket of his parka and grinned again. “Not to worry about my finances,” he assured her. “I've got me a good little jag of cash, what with all the furs I've sold. I could pay you right now if you like.”
“You can pay at pickup,” Rebecca said. “You're a trapper?”
“I run a trapline up along Flat Creek.”
“Really.” Rebecca frowned. “How long have you been living out there?”
Mac paused, his eyes suddenly intent on searching the ground at his feet. The color in his windburned cheeks deepened. “Well, not that long,” he admitted. “Since early August. Actually my brother's the trapper and they were his furs, but he's gone to Fairbanks to finish his degree at the University of Alaska. He asked me if I'd
like to spend a winter in the Yukon, taking care of his dogs and running his trapline. The timing was perfect, so here I am.” Mac grinned again, raising his eyes to hers. “They're real good dogs. He ran the Yukon Quest with them last year and finished third. He told me to sell the furs and buy dog food for them.”
“Ah,” Rebecca said. “You're Brian MacKenzie's brother.”
“Yes. You know him?”
“He and my husband were friends.”
Mac nodded. “Well, he wants me to run his dogs this winter, so I expect I will. There's not much to it, really. He gave me a some lessons before he left, and I've been working with the dogs for a few months now. We should be able to do really well at some of these races. I'd kind of like to win the Percy DeWolf. It's only 210 miles and those dogs of my brother's will eat that up like it was nothing.”
“Had you ever driven a dog team before you came out here?” Rebecca asked.
“Nope. But I'm a quick study and my brother's a good teacher. What about you? Are you planning to run any races this season?”
Rebecca shrugged again. “Depends on the training, I guess, and my work schedule.” She straightened up and zipped her parka. “You'd better get headed for Dawson. It'll be pitch-dark soon, and I've still got chores to do.”
“Need any help? I could give you a ride out to your truck,” he offered.
“No, thanks. I can manage and I like the walk.” She started to turn away and then paused. “Be careful of that soft spot in the drive just before you get to the main road. Keep to the left of the deep ruts and you should be okay.”
Rebecca watched him turn and walk back toward his truck. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “Early thirties,” she said to Tuffy, who had remained at her side. “See the way he walks? Definitely military. I should have guessed he was Brian's big brother when he told me his name.” She laughed softly, the first time she'd laughed in forever. “Win the Percy DeWolf? He's awfully arrogant, wouldn't you say, Tuffy, for a cheechako who probably doesn't know a dog harness from a doghouse!” Tuffy, as always, cheerfully agreed.
MacKenzie's truck started hard, with much grinding and groaning. It took several tries for him to turn around in Rebecca's yard, backing up into the irregular gaps between the spruce trees and the dog barn, and the dog yard fence and the cabin porch. At length, with a burst of black exhaust, he was gone, and the sound of the old truck's engine faded into silence.
Rebecca gazed beyond her late husband's dog yard, at the wall of rugged mountains that made up the Dawson Range.
I miss you like crazy and I hate you for leaving me here with a pack of forty sled dogs to look after and a business that's still in the redâ¦.
Her eyes stung with tears, and a sudden chill made her wrap her arms around herself as she stood on the cabin porch. Tuffy leaned her small but solid weight against Rebecca's leg. Rebecca sniffed and let one hand drop to stroke the dog's head. “I don't hate him, Tuffy,” she said softly. “I'm just mad at him, that's all. I want him back and he won't come, but that's not really his fault, is it?”
She might have stood there feeling sorry for herself indefinitely, but there were chores to do. There were dogs to feed, a wood box to fill, water to haul and, fi
nally, her own supper to cook. Tomorrow she had sled dogs to train, more chores to do, more wood and water to haul, and the guest cabin needed a good cleaning in preparation for the steady stream of clients that would inhabit it once the snow came, some flying in from as faraway as Japan to spend a week in the Yukon behind a team of dogs. Bruce's outfitting business, now in its fifth year, had gotten off to a slow start, but if Rebecca's figures were correct, this year it would actually turn a profit. Nearly all of the available dates were filled with clients seeking a northern adventure. More than half of them were repeats. Between the food sales, the guided trips, and the small sums she earned writing a weekly column for a Whitehorse newspaper, Rebecca, without her husband, was managing to scrape by.
As she mixed the dog food in the big galvanized washtubs, three of them set side to shoulder inside the cabin door, she caught herself thinking about Bill MacKenzie. “He'll never make it,” she said to Tuffy as she mixed the ground meat into the kibble and added copious quantities of warm water from the huge kettles steaming atop the woodstove. “He'll never last out the winter in Brian's shack up on the Flat. He may think he's Jeremiah Johnson, but he doesn't have a clue. This country will eat him up.” She shook her head and laughed for the second time that day. “Ex-military. He probably has a hard time tying his bootlaces without a drill sergeant instructing him.” She scooped the warm, soupy mix of meat, kibble, fat, vitamins and water into five-gallon buckets, hoisted two of them with hands that were callused and arms that were necessarily strong. She pushed the door open with a practiced kick of her booted toe, did likewise to the door from the arctic entry and
emerged from the cabin to the wolflike chorus of forty huskies howling for their dinner.
Halfway through her chores she paused for a moment, pushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist and shook her head. “Boy, I feel kind of sorry for his dogs.”
E'LL NEED TO TAKE
X rays to see what's going on,” the veterinarian said, removing his stethoscope and laying it on the side table. “From what you're telling me and from what I'm hearing inside her, it sounds like some sort of intestinal obstruction. Does she eat rocks?”
“Rocks?” Mac stared down at the small sled dog that he steadied in his arms. “Why would she do that?”
The veterinarian laughed. “You'd be amazed at the things we find in a sled dog's intestines. Rocks are the most common. They start out playing with them and then for some unfathomable reason they swallow them.”
“Rocks,” Mac said. He shook his head. “I guess there's a lot I need to learn about these dogs. Okay, so what happens now?”
“We'll knock her out, take some pictures and if there's an obstruction, we'll go ahead and surgically remove it. She'll have to stay overnight for observation, and I'd like to get some IV hydration into her.”
“And if you don't find anything?”
“I'll do some blood work and we'll take it from there. The other option is to keep dosing her with mineral oil the way you've been doing and hope the obstruction works its way through. But she's pretty dehydrated right now and she's lost a lot of condition. There's also the possibility of a rupture of the intestine, which would cause massive infection. It's up to you. If you want to wait a little longer⦔
Mac shook his head. “Go ahead and do whatever needs to be done. I don't want to take any chances with her. Can I call here tonight and find out how she's doing?”
“We should know how we're going to proceed as soon as we see what the problem is. If you leave a number where you can be reached, I'll give you a call.”
“I'm staying at the Eldorado,” Mac said. He stroked the dog's head one final time before leaving her to the vet. “You're a good girl, Callie,” he said. “You'll feel better soon.” Sick as she was, Callie wagged her tail at his words and tried to follow him out of the examination room, which made him feel worse than ever. If someone had told him three months ago that he would be so attached to a pack of sled dogs, he would have laughed in disbelief, but abandoning Callie at the veterinarian's launched him into a state of high anxiety.
He paced the lobby at the Eldorado for nearly an hour before the phone call came. The X rays showed a large obstruction, probably a rock. They were commencing surgery and would phone again to let him know how things went. Another ninety anxious minutes later, he got word that the operation had been successful and that Callie was fine. “That rock was as big as a hen's egg,” the vet said. “I saved it for you.” | English | NL | 3c9d24f8fe3fab4140a866581cb82655595fcd399644c2d576b1404cade5be87 |
The July 2015 Computer and Internet Use Supplement was conducted as a supplement to that month’s CPS. The CPS is a monthly labor force survey conducted in approximately 56,000 interviewed households across the country. The ASEC is unique among the CPS files – it includes all March Basic Monthly Survey respondents as well as oversamples from other months.
The difference in N that you have between the two does not seem unusual. According to the documentation, the July 2015 Computer and Internet Use Supplement collected household information from all eligible CPS households, as well as person information from household members 3 years old and over. From this page, you can see that the number of persons you have is slightly less than the total sample size for the CPS in July 2015. Additionally, you can see the natural variability from month-to-month as well as the increased sample size for March, when the ASEC takes place. | English | NL | e0eedd764b638b52650edf20df341d9d902339dc1af7a4723319567a2a20bd21 |
Saying kaddish and serving as the chazzan during weekday services is all about glorifying the Almighty and thereby providing comfort and solace to the departed’s soul. However, as one codifier of the halachos (laws) of aveiuls has commented, even though the saying of kaddish and leading the service as the chazzen is very important for the soul of the departed, these practices in and of themselves are not the essence. Rather, what is most important is that the children of the deceased lead lives that bring honor to their deceased parent.
In this regard, much has been written on the importance of avoiding disputes regarding who has the right to be the chazzan on any given day. Ever ince I began my aveilus at the end of May, I have encountered many a time when someone who halachically is subsidiary to me in priority among mourners has insisted on serving as the chazzan. In these instances I have uniformly deferred rather than assert that my superior halachic status as a mourner for a parent.
Yesterday I learned before coming to shul that an older gentleman had yartzieght for his wife. Halachically, such a status did not grant this gentleman priority over me. When the gabbai approached me and indicated that I was to be the chazzan I asked him about this gentlemen. He responded that a yartzieght for a wife was subsidiary to me. I then told the gabbai that I would be willing to defer and he should ask this gentleman if he would like to daven by the amud. The man walked over to me on his way up to the amud to thank me for stepping aside. I responded of course I was stepping aside – my mother would be very disappointed if I did not allow a surviving husband to memorialize his deceased wife on her yartzieght. To my great surprise he confided in me that over the many years since his wife had passed away that he has often not been able to serve as the chazzan because an aveil with priority asserted his halachic status to deny him the amud. He proceeded to lead the service until yishtabach and then turned the amud over to me.
And we wonder why Moishiach does not come. | English | NL | 8fbf7f103eb8e71941d24bb20a4ea260949eee1b0edc89f99814ed7759dd84ce |
Franklin Lewis Sterling Obituary
Franklin Lewis Sterling, son of William and Mary Sterling was born in 1950 at Binghamton General in Binghamton, New York.
Frank enlisted into the army at the age of 17 and served our great nation in Vietnam. He was a truck driver most of his life.
He married Corrine D. Crawford May 21, 1983.
A devoted husband, father, grampi, and uncle who was truly loved by those who knew him.
He will be greatly missed by all of his family and friends.
Frank was preceded in death by his wife, Corrine Sterling, and his father William Sterling.
He is survived by his mother, Mary Hinds Sterling, three siblings, Rick Sterling, Maria Champion, and Jack Sterling. He is also survived by his two children, Camille Lane and Aaron Sterling, his three grand children, Sophia, Selah, and Matthias Lane. | English | NL | e05af110168d8708c41fe1485a603808b5583f0c41c251c01eaa2dba5bf413f4 |
By EM Malachi
The path to the lazar house was long and overgrown, and the day was hot. Despite her pale skin, the traveller wore no coverings. It had been decades since the healer had felt the Sun, and she enjoyed the warmth. The ramshackled house was marked with symbols to warn of the pestilence inside. They had laughed at her dire words in the city, but if she could help these unfortunate souls, maybe they would start to believe her.
The old woman knocked at the door, and when there was no answer, she pushed it open. When the crumbling manor had been repurposed as a sanitorium, no repairs had been made. Dirt and debris filled the halls, and there was a constant buzzing from one room in the back.
She searched the rooms, looking for those who were still alive. Despite the heat, each was huddled in a tattered blanket, to cover the disease that ravaged their bodies. The healer approached the closest figure and pulled back the blanket.
The young woman pulled herself into a shadow, her pretty face scarred by pox. Her voice was only a rasping whisper, “Get back. You don’t want to catch the sickness.”
The pale stranger held up a silver talisman, a small shimmer of mana glowing across the surface. “I am here to heal you.”
The wretched woman gave a dismissive wave of a skeletal hand. “Magic won’t help us. The greatest mages in Britain turned us away in fear.”
“Their spell circles are children’s toys. I practice a magic far older and purer.” The healer moved the spell focus across the woman’s face, melting away sores and healing the skin. The ash pale face came alive with a rosy bloom.
The healer continued around the room, curing the rest of the outcasts. When she was finished, one who had been near death asked the question on everyone’s mind, “What happens now?”
The stranger removed a small glowing obelisk from her robe. “I have healed you, but there is a price. I need you to help me save this world.” | English | NL | 00ab7cf5eff5c09632d05ce2b3a7797d46dff54674465932484022c4bd452c41 |
On this Second Sunday of Lent which the Church highlights in the liturgy The Transfiguration of the Lord, Msgr. Esseff chose to reflect on the scene presented by the Gospel of Luke.
From Luke Chapter 9
28 Now about eight days after these sayings he took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. 29 And as he was praying, the appearance of his countenance was altered, and his raiment became dazzling white. 30 And behold, two men talked with him, Moses and Eli′jah, 31 who appeared in glory and spoke of his departure, which he was to accomplish at Jerusalem. 32 Now Peter and those who were with him were heavy with sleep, and when they wakened they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. 33 And as the men were parting from him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is well that we are here; let us make three booths, one for you and one for Moses and one for Eli′jah”—not knowing what he said. 34 As he said this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were afraid as they entered the cloud. 35 And a voice came out of the cloud, saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen;[a] listen to him!” 36 And when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silence and told no one in those days anything of what they had seen.
Jesus Heals a Boy with a Demon
37 On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, a great crowd met him. 38 And behold, a man from the crowd cried, “Teacher, I beg you to look upon my son, for he is my only child; 39 and behold, a spirit seizes him, and he suddenly cries out; it convulses him till he foams, and shatters him, and will hardly leave him. 40 And I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not.” 41 Jesus answered, “O faithless and perverse generation, how long am I to be with you and bear with you? Bring your son here.” 42 While he was coming, the demon tore him and convulsed him. But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit, and healed the boy, and gave him back to his father. 43 And all were astonished at the majesty of God.
Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1946, 1952, and 1971 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Msgr. John A. Esseff is a Roman Catholic priest in the Diocese of Scranton. He was ordained on May 30, 1953, by the late Bishop William J. Hafey, D.D. at St. Peter’s Cathedral in Scranton, PA. Msgr. Esseff served a retreat director and confessor to St. Teresa of Calcutta. He continues to offer direction and retreats for the sisters of the Missionaries of Charity around the world. Msgr. Esseff encountered St. Padre Pio, who would become a spiritual father to him. He has lived in areas around the world, serving in the Pontifical Missions, a Catholic organization established by St. Pope John Paul II to bring the Good News to the world especially to the poor. Msgr. Esseff assisted the founders of the Institute for Priestly Formation and continues to serve as a spiritual director for the Institute. He continues to serve as a retreat leader and director to bishops, priests and sisters and seminarians and other religious leaders around the world.
To obtain a copy of Msgr. Esseff’s book by visiting here | English | NL | 53919257a25f8113032b3c2e9c0a0eeb0ca57bf7064b4ba3e0c2a96a94865897 |
It's the 2nd of November in Italy, 'All souls day', when an old woman finds the corpse of young, Father Salvatore inside the church. He was young, but very sick, and the coroner says he died due to heart failure. But the young, Inspector Santi, having just arrived in the small village, from Naples, has a lot of questions he can't answer about the death of the priest. There is a legend in the village: when a man has to die, his dead relatives awake from the cemetery and go to collect his soul... Everyone in the village is sure Father Salvatore was killed by this 'procession of dead', because the evening before, Armando, the cemetery guard, had seen the procession outside the cemetery. Ada, Father Salvatore's sister, instead believes, that her brother was killed in envy, by the other priests, and the village people. They didn't understand his work for the village. Moreover, Father Salvatore had some problem with the mayor of the village. And the niece of the mayor, Martina, can see dead people, like her mother and grandmother, before her. Inspector Santi has a lot to investigate in that small village, but the mayor doesn't like this investigation, and he is not the only one. Another death, Armando's! Let begin, the ultimate investigation, to solve Father Salvatore's, and Armando's deaths. | English | NL | a3eb0563ad0551d9d89adab276c3f93a0e356601e5cf6bf406c0e4412e367d7d |
“I have one very firm, very strict rule in my house ” Sunny Longyear’s Grandmother told her on the night she stayed at Grandma’s house for the first time. Sunny stood straight and looked up, seemingly up for miles to her Grandmother’s stern face. Sunny did not blink, she did not grin or fidget. “I will not tolerate you sneaking off to the kitchen in the middle of the night for snacks. Your mother did that and she left crumbs and greasy smudges all over the bed linens and the door frames and everywhere else sticky messy fingers could leave a mark. I hate messes always as much as I hate disobedient children.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Sunny said.
Her grandmother looked down at her. “Yes?”
“You hate disobedient children.”
“Do you know what I hate?” Sunny asked.
“I do not care.”
“I hate not having midnight snacks.”
Grandmother’s mouth twitched. “Go and put your things in your room.”
Sunny picked up her bags and she bounced – her long black pony tail swinging from side to side – down the hall and up the stairs to her very own bedroom that was on the top floor of her grandmother’s three story house which sat alone on a cobblestone road called Hideaway Hills.
Grandmother’s house was old. Very old. It was older then Grandmother, and it had been brought stone by stone, with all of it’s woodwork and doors and mantelpieces, from the place where the old woman had been born.
“Where was that?” her family had asked once, when she was in the kitchen making dinner
“None of your business ” she had answered. She’d had a knife in her hand at the time. She had been standing with her back towards them, and she had lifted it up to her face and used it to see their reflections over her shoulder. Her dark eyes had flared in the wide band of silver.
The question had never been brought up again.
Sunny and her grandmother had spent the afternoon in her grandmother’s garden where they tended her herbs and weeded her vegetable patch and took care of her bee hives.
“Can I have a snack?” Sunny asked, when they were done and they were headed back into the house through the kitchen door.
“Yes. There’s some things in the pantry you can choose from. Don’t forget to cover the food back up with the cheesecloth, and if you open any containers shut them.” Her grandmother lifted a key from the inside of the door and handed it to Sunny. “Lock it back up when you are done, and young lady, I mean it: do not take any food up to your room. That’s why we have a kitchen and dining room table.”
Sunny took the key and she trotted merrily off to get her snack.
* * *
Sunny, her Grandmother safely assumed that evening, was in bed and either reading a book or listening to music- either Mozart or Ravel. Those were the choices she had given the child, and she had no reason to think that wasn’t what was happening in the bedroom she had specially decorated for her first and only grandchild. At least, she had no reason to think otherwise until she heard the thunder of footsteps racing up the stairs at the end of the hall.
Her breath slowed – dangerously slowed – in her chest. She smoothed her covers carefully, and pushed them to her left. Then she swung her long legs over the side of her bed and stood up.
Grandmother heard the symphony coming from above her head – and it was most certainly not a symphony by Mozart. It was a symphony of feet.
There was a little thud and then she heard Sunny say, “Uh-Oh. That’s going to leave a stain.”
Grandmother reached for her robe.
Before she had become Grandmother, before she had even become Mother, she had been Saturnina Guillermo, the woman who had once ridden alone through a mountain pass with a murderous band of men and women on her tail, and nothing to protect her but her wits. And now? Now she was being played for a fool by her eight-year-old granddaughter, who was every inch the ill-mannered pup her mother had once been.
Saturnina opened her door and threw it to the side. She didn’t run down the hall or up the stairs. She hit each step hard with her heel. Then, standing before her granddaughter’s bedroom, she took a moment to collect herself before pushing the child’s door wide open.
Sunny was standing beside her bed, her nightdress covered with Saturnina’s special marinade – the one that smelled like cinnamon and a touch of basil. There were was more of it on her handmade quilt.
“I dropped it.” Sunny confessed.
“I can see that.”
Sunny pointed under her bed and hung her head.
Saturnina walked slowly towards her granddaughter. She hovered over her for a moment, and then she reached out and grabbed the girl by the front of her nightdress and threw her up and onto her bed. She leaned down, reached beneath the bed, and and then Saturnina leaned over and reached under the bed to retrieve the child’s snack.
Still leaning over she looked up at Sunny, who giggled mischievously, and said, “My, Grandma, what big teeth you have.”
Saturnina’s teeth had grown more prominent, and her eyes were huge in her weathered face. She pulled her arm from under the bed, to reveal a hiker – a woman named Gilly Anne – being held in her huge, clawed hand.
“Get yourself cleaned up, and if you ever sneak a snack into this room again I will ground you until you’re as old as I am. Do you understand me?”
The old woman stood up, and with a skilled flick of her wrist snapped the hiker’s neck.
“I mean it young lady ” she said to Sunny, whose soft, black and white fur was beginning to sprout in downy poofs all over her face and arms and whose eyes had also grown bigger – big enough to see easily in the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. “March.”
About the Author: A.M. Moscoso
Anita Marie Moscoso was nine years old when she decided to become a Writer/Pirate/Astronaut. She is now so far away from the age of nine that it’s comical, but it turns out that she did become a writer, and she’s told stories about Pirates and Astronauts. Anita has also worked in a funeral home, explored the cemeteries of New Orleans alone, and has a great dog named Hamish and had a cat named Wolfgang.
More about Anita (in parts) can be found at her blog: Enduring Bones. | English | NL | 8fbe1edfbd452f1e168dcfac604d33c7e3877df53c2ed696d9ad5e54ede42c9a |
In 1994, FBI Special Agent Dana Scully was kidnapped by Duane Barry, taken by him to Skyland Mountain and abducted from there before being returned later that year. (TXF: "Duane Barry" — "One Breath", et al.)
After the X-files were closed in 1994, Scully and her FBI partner, Fox Mulder, were reassigned to other sections and Mulder was partnered with Agent Alex Krycek. (TXF: "The Erlenmeyer Flask", "Sleepless") However, Krycek was secretly working for the Cigarette Smoking Man, and in a Syndicate meeting primarily involving Krycek and his superior shortly after he had investigated his first case with Mulder, Krycek reported that Scully was a much larger problem than the CSM had described. The CSM mysteriously replied that "every problem has a solution" and sinisterly stubbed out a cigarette he had been smoking. (TXF: "Sleepless")
Soon thereafter, Mulder became involved in a hostage situation in which he was taken captive by Duane Barry, a crazed self-professed alien abductee who was insistent on not being taken again and hoped that – by taking someone else to the site from where he had first been abducted – he might save himself from such an outcome, as he believed that his companion would be abducted instead of him. Barry had difficulty with remembering where that site was, but believed that a group would tell him the location's whereabouts. The person who Barry originally intended to take with him was his original hostage, Doctor Del Hakkie, but due to Mulder intentionally giving Barry some misleading advice, Barry was shot, freeing Mulder and Dr. Hakkie from his captivity. However, Barry subsequently managed to escape from a hospital where he had been taken. (TXF: "Duane Barry")
At one point prior to Scully's kidnapping, her mother, Margaret, had a dream about her being taken away. Mrs. Scully intended to call Dana with news of the dream but feared that, by doing so, she might only scare her daughter. (TXF: "Ascension")
Kidnapping by Duane Barry
Shortly after his escape, Duane Barry kidnapped Scully from her home, bursting through her window while she was recording a phone message for Mulder about a metallic implant that had been recently removed from Duane Barry's body. (TXF: "Duane Barry", "Ascension")
- A scene of "Ascension" implies that Krycek provided Duane Barry with Scully's address.
Scully's message to Mulder alerted him to her situation (when he listened to the recording later that night) and he rushed to the crime scene, where he met with Margaret Scully, who was shocked to find that her daughter was missing and told Mulder about the dream she had experienced.
Scully had been gagged, bound and forced into the trunk of Barry's car by 11:23 the next morning, at which time Barry was driving along Route 229 in Rixeyville, Virginia with her in the vehicle's boot. Moments later, the vehicle was pulled over by a Patrolman who grew suspicious of Barry. The Patrolman heard Scully cause a commotion inside the boot and this distraction allowed Barry an opportunity to shoot the other man. Barry took the opportunity and opened the boot to look at Scully, unaware that a camera inside the Patrolman's car – parked just behind Barry's vehicle – was meanwhile recording the scene.
At 3:11 p.m., Mulder – who had not slept and had been ordered to go home – nevertheless analyzed footage from the Patrolman's camera at the Video Production Unit of FBI Headquarters; the footage established for the FBI that Scully was still alive. Mulder then determined, while in the company of Agent Krycek, that Barry intended to take Scully to Skyland Mountain and Mulder decided to head after her. Krycek secretly called the CSM with this news, vowing to hold Mulder off until Scully was located by a group that Krycek did not name. Mulder did not inform his FBI superior, Assistant Director Walter Skinner, that he knew where Barry was going, as Mulder feared that – if Skinner sent an FBI task force after Barry – the crazed, alleged abductee might do something even more manic.
Meanwhile, Barry and Scully arrived near the base of Skyland Mountain where Barry spoke to a Tram Operator who did not notice Scully but instructed Barry to take a side road to the mountain's summit, a journey that would take a little more than an hour. A little more than forty-five minutes after this encounter, Mulder dangerously raced toward the top of the mountain in the tram while its operator and Krycek remained at the bottom of the incline but, when Mulder was almost at the summit, his progress was delayed by Krycek, who killed the tram operator and stopped the tram before calling his superior to report that he was stalling Mulder until advised to do otherwise. Barry reached the summit just as Mulder began to realize that he might have to climb the rest of the way. As he clambered onto the tram's roof, however, Krycek restarted the tram.
By the time Mulder finally arrived at the summit, Barry had abandoned his car, with its radio left on, and had taken Scully out of the trunk, leaving her necklace inside it. Mulder found this deserted scene, upon his arrival, and was witness to an immensely bright light beaming from an airborne craft that sped away. Apparently, Scully had been abducted from the mountain top. (TXF: "Ascension")
Investigation of Abduction
Moments after the bright light in the sky rushed away, an ecstatic Duane Barry exclaimed to Mulder that Scully had been taken by a group that Barry did not name but implied that they were the same group whom he had referred to, upon warning Mulder that they would take someone else. When he saw another bright light in the sky, Barry fearfully thought that the group had returned for him, but the light was merely from a Search and Rescue helicopter and the two men were transported to safety by 8:46 p.m.. Five teams were dispatched to search the mountain for the missing FBI agent.
Undergoing questioning by Mulder, Barry repeated his claim that Scully – rather than him – had been taken by a group, swearing that he had not killed her. He also alleged that he had obtained injuries from the craft that had sped away, which he referred to as a "ship" even though Mulder maintained that the first bright light he had seen in the sky had been a helicopter. Barry insisted that the military knew where Scully was. Mulder was initially highly suspicious that Barry himself had hurt Scully, despite Barry denying such a possibility. An apologetic Duane Barry told Mulder that the group had to take her and that he hoped they were not hurting her too much with their tests.
Krycek thereafter encountered considerable trouble with learning what had happened to Scully. After noticing that he had been talking with Barry, Mulder privately queried Krycek on whether he had asked Barry about Scully; Krycek confirmed that he had, adding that Barry had responded by whistling "Stairway to Heaven", but Barry died soon thereafter. When asked by Krycek about Scully, the CSM revealed that his group had taken care of that issue but refused to divulge any further information to Krycek.
In a hearing with AD Skinner and members of the FBI's Office of Professional Responsibility, Mulder recounted that he had questioned Barry about Scully. He also claimed that the military knew where Scully was but were, because of this, covering up the actual cause of Barry's death, but this line of thinking was thought to be "paranoid" by one of the FBI members at the meeting.
When Mulder went to see Senator Richard Matheson to find out if he could help, Mulder was confronted by his informer, X, who told Mulder that Senator Matheson could not lend his assistance. Mulder suspected X of knowing what had happened to Scully, demanding that X confirm or deny whether he did, but X was typically unforthcoming with any clear answers.
Nonetheless, Mulder then discovered Krycek's involvement with the CSM and began to suspect his involvement in Scully's abduction. While meeting alone with Skinner to report his own suspicions regarding Krycek, Mulder testified that, when he had reached the top of Skyland Mountain, he had seen an unmarked helicopter working in the area and that he now believed Krycek had given away the whereabouts of Scully and Barry to an agency that Krycek was working with and the CSM was working for. Mulder argued that the reason Scully had been abducted was either because she had gotten too close to whatever it was the agency was trying to deny, had obtained hard and damning evidence – the metallic implant in her possession – or because her termination would prevent further involvement with Mulder and his work. Influenced by Mulder making such a statement, Skinner wondered if he thought Scully was dead, but Mulder admitted to being unsure as to whether she was.
When Mulder subsequently met with Mrs. Scully, she was immediately curious to know if he had any news that her daughter was all right. Despite Mulder admitting that the FBI had no further information about Agent Scully, Mrs. Scully remarked that she knew Mulder was doing all he could. Mrs. Scully confessed that she had experienced the same dream about Dana being taken away and commented that she was extremely scared by the dream but Mulder thought it would be scarier for someone in Mrs. Scully's position if they stopped having the recurring dream. He showed her the necklace he had found and they both commented on the item; even though Mulder intended to deliver it to Mrs. Scully, she told Mulder to give it to Agent Scully when he found her. Mulder agreed and returned to Skyland Mountain in lonesome remembrance of his missing FBI partner. (TXF: "Ascension")
Shortly after Skinner reopened the X-files, Mulder carried a folder containing Scully's belongings upon his return to his X-files office. (TXF: "Ascension", "3") From the folder, he put a relatively new X-file pertaining to Scully (labeled 73317) into storage, inside a file cabinet in the room, as well as her badge and glasses, removing Scully's cross from inside her badge before placing her other belongings into the cabinet.
Mulder then started to investigate a trio of vampires known as the Trinity Killers but, soon after he began investigating them, a Commander Carver remarked with surprise that Mulder was an FBI agent without a partner and seemed to want to work that way.
When Kristen Kilar (an associate of the Trinity Killers) first met Mulder – in Club Tepes – she realized that Mulder had lost someone and that the person had been a friend, not a lover. She later noticed that he was wearing Scully's cross and, though Kristen Kilar half-jokingly guessed that he was doing so because he was trying to ward her off, he explained that the cross was from someone he had lost. She hoped he found the person, correctly assuming both that the person could be found and that the person was a female. Kirsten Kilar killed herself soon thereafter and, moments after learning of her death, Mulder withdrew Scully's necklace from under his shirt to momentarily look at it. (TXF: "3")
Not long thereafter, Mrs. Scully told Mulder a story of how, one day when Dana Scully had been a young girl, she had made an effort to join in with her brothers by shooting at a snake but had later realized what she had done and unsuccessfully tried to keep the snake alive. By this time, Mrs. Scully had had a headstone for her daughter, Dana, crafted, despite Mulder believing that it was too soon to give up. He had brought paperwork about Scully's abduction home with him, including an image of a gagged Dana Scully and the X-file on her that he had opened. (TXF: "One Breath")
While she was gone, Scully was experimented on, in a white-lit place. (TXF: "Ascension", "One Breath", et al.) The individuals who performed the tests were men, one of whom was Dr. Shiro Zama. (TXF: "Nisei", "731") A group of female members from the Mutual UFO Network saw Scully during her abduction. Although most of these other women were repeaters, the men never revealed themselves to the women, instead removing the females' memories of their abductions even though those memories somehow repeatedly started to seep back. (TXF: "Nisei")
A tiny computer chip was implanted subcutaneous to the back of Scully's neck, during her own abduction, which Scully was told had the capability to read her thoughts. (TXF: "The Blessing Way", "Nisei", et al.) This chip was manufactured by a Japanese company and had been mailed to Dr. Zama in Perkey, West Virginia. (TXF: "731")
At one point during her abduction, a dazed Scully opened her eyes to see three doctors standing over her, wearing white surgical gowns and masks with goggles. An unmasked Dr. Ishimaru leaned down near her and she tilted her head to look up at him blankly as he began to tie a small mask over his face. (TXF: "Nisei")
- This scene, shown in flashback, was presumably when the doctors were about to implant the chip into Scully's neck.
One another occasion, Scully lay on an operating table in a white-lit room where crosses of light shone over her arms and two figures watched from nearby. A spinning drill approached her from above and Scully's eyes suddenly opened. A suction-like tube, seemingly attached to her belly button, began to inflate her stomach, which grew very large as the procedure continued to be observed by the nearby figures. (TXF: "Ascension")
Branched DNA was added to Scully's blood during her abduction. This highly sophisticated form of DNA had the possible applications of being a tracking system, the developmental stages of a biological marker or part of an effort to graft a human to something inhuman. (TXF: "One Breath")
Return and Medical Complications
Shortly after her mother had told Mulder the story of her early encounter with a garter snake, Scully was returned and taken to the Intensive Care Unit of Northeast Georgetown Medical Center. She was comatose and hooked up to various machines when Nurse Wilkins arrived for the evening shift. Scully was in critical condition with complete unawareness of self or environment, exhibiting no evidence of language comprehension or of voluntary responses to external stimuli. Her immune system had been decimated and her blood contained abnormal protein chains, with a highly unusual amino acid sequence. The protein chains were by-products of the branched DNA that was now an inactive waste product and constituted a biological poison.
On the same night when Nurse Wilkins found Scully in this condition upon arriving for the evening shift, Mulder received a call that informed him of Scully's return. He hurried to see her (bursting into her ward, even though it was off-limits to anyone but authorized personnel) but Mrs. Scully had made her way there before him and was visiting her daughter upon his arrival. Doubting that Agent Scully had simply just arrived, an angry Mulder considered the possibility that she had been brought to the hospital by paramedics, FBI or military and that, whoever they had been, a Dr. Daly might be working with them. Daly later apologetically notified both Mulder and Mrs. Scully, however, that no-one at the hospital could determine how Agent Scully had arrived there, been administered, or how she had been attended to in such a critical condition.
Because Scully had been away for so long, there was an absence of her recent medical history, so Daly was unsure how long she had been in such a state and was therefore at a loss for a prognosis. By the time the doctor delivered this news to Mulder and Mrs. Scully, the facility's staff had conducted every possible test on Agent Scully, determining that there were no indications of acute injuries – traumatic or non-traumatic – and finding no signs of degenerative or metabolic disorders; the medical staff consequently did not know why Scully was in such a condition. Despite Mulder requesting that she be examined for trace evidence, Scully had been bathed and cleaned since her admittance. As Daly had been informed by the FBI, Scully had a living will that Mulder had signed as a witness and the will indicated that Scully did not wish to live in such a critical condition.
Her sister, Melissa, believed she could sense Dana's soul, including her thoughts, and tried to show Mulder her own method of doing so. In fact, Dana Scully saw both her sister and Mulder in a reality she was conscious of, wherein her visitors stood on a dock as she watched them from a small boat, tied to the dock but far from it. Mulder found the method to be unsuccessful, concluding it was nothing more than waving his hands in the air, but Melissa claimed that was because his fear and anger were blocking any positive emotions Dana needed to feel.
The comatose Agent Scully was thereafter visited by Melvin Frohike, who noticed an anomaly in her medical charts and smuggled them out of the hospital. After Mulder and Frohike took the charts to the other The Lone Gunmen, they learned of the branched DNA, with the remote help of a hacker known as "the Thinker". This evidence established, for Mulder and the Gunmen, that whoever had been experimenting on Scully had no intention of continuing to do so. When asked by Mulder if Scully would survive, Byers – aware of the decimation of Scully's immune system – doubted that even a healthy human body had the ability to combat the biological poison that was now in her blood.
Blood was subsequently taken from Scully's ravaged body by Nurse Wilkins but was stolen by a man who Mulder chased until once again being confronted by X, who insisted that he accept Scully's death and stop searching for whoever had experimented on her. The man who had taken Scully's blood would not reveal who wanted it, when Mulder finally captured him, and was killed by X, moments later.
Dr. Daly, Mrs. Scully, Mulder and Melissa Scully then gathered to discuss the fate of Agent Scully, who was now below the criteria established in her will. Dr. Daly believed that Dana Scully was in such a critical condition that she could not survive if she was disconnected from her respirator, as he suspected that she had been in her current state ever since her disappearance and that she would not improve. Mulder was insistent that his former partner be experimented on with designer antibiotics, which he claimed was a possible treatment for branched DNA, but this suggestion was opposed by both Dr. Daly – who considered Mulder's diagnosis of Scully's condition as being too unconventional – and Melissa Scully – who wanted her sister to be treated in as natural a way as possible. Mrs. Scully, the deciding vote of the collective, acknowledged that her daughter had already made the decision and regretfully explained that she herself was choosing to respect that decision. Even though Mrs. Scully invited Mulder to join the Scully family in ceasing Dana's mechanical ventilation, Mulder declined the offer.
In the pier-like comatose realm that Agent Scully was aware of, she watched in silence as the rope that tied her boat to the distant dock broke, causing her small vessel to drift from the shore.
During a follow-up meeting with Skinner regarding the robbery of Scully's blood, Mulder implied accusations that the Cigarette Smoking Man had been responsible for not only what had happened to Scully but also the stealing of her blood. Implying that he didn't believe Scully would survive, Skinner told Mulder, "Agent Scully was a fine officer. More than that, I liked her. I respected her." Mulder wondered about the implications if he himself had known the potential consequences of working for the FBI but had never told her, to which Skinner replied that he was therefore as much to blame for Scully's condition as the CSM was.
Scully meanwhile experienced a reality in which she was lying on a table, wearing a white gown with her eyes closed, in a void-like area as her deceased father, dressed in military attire, apparently visited her. He poetically mused over his life and told her of his distress at learning that he would never see her again, ultimately telling her that – although they would be together again – that time had not yet come.
Meanwhile, Melissa Scully assured a depressed Mulder that, even if he spent the rest of his life finding everyone who was responsible for Scully's condition, it still wouldn't bring her back but that those people had a horror equal to Scully's condition coming to them. Much to Melissa's confusion, Mulder suggested that the people responsible for Scully's condition included himself.
Mulder thereafter gained access to the CSM's home and threateningly demanded to know the answers to several questions, starting with why Scully had been taken rather than himself, but the CSM hesitated before answering. Although he evaded Mulder's question, the CSM implied that the reason Scully had been returned was because he liked both her and Mulder.
Soon after, Agent Mulder again encountered X who, this time, admitted that he was unwilling to reveal why Scully had been taken because the issue was too close to himself. X nevertheless told Mulder that a group of armed men – who X implicated as being the same men who had taken Scully – would be coming to his apartment that night, to search for information they believed Mulder had about her.
That night, Mulder was consequently waiting in his apartment for their arrival when Melissa Scully arrived, delivering news to him that Agent Scully was – according to Dr. Daly – weakening and that her death could therefore be at any time. Even though Melissa Scully expected Mulder to want to visit Agent Scully, he explained that he couldn't, at that time. Melissa Scully criticized Mulder's depression, telling him it would not help Agent Scully. Even though Mulder – following Melissa's departure – initially returned to waiting for the armed men to arrive, he visited Agent Scully shortly after and told her that, although he felt that she strongly believed she was not ready to pass away and he was unsure whether his presence would help bring her back, he would nevertheless stay with her. Mulder remained at Scully's bedside, as per his word, but returned to his apartment on the following morning, finding that his home had been wrecked while he had been with Scully.
She, seeing herself surrounded by an autumn woodland scene, eventually became more aware of her actual surroundings, regaining consciousness. Nurse Wilkins was the first to see that she was coming to, her eyes fluttering slowly open, so the nurse requested that Dr. Daly be called immediately. Shortly after, Mulder was pleased to receive news of Scully's revival, via telephone. By the time he returned to the hospital to visit her, Scully had been moved into a room of her own, where her mother and sister were also present during Mulder's visit. Despite his first concern being how she was now feeling, she let him know that she could not remember anything after an unspecified event involving Duane Barry, but he assured her that her lack of memory didn't matter. Upon him handing her a gift he had brought with him – a video of Superstars of the Super Bowl – Scully joked that she had known there had been a reason to live. She also let him know that she had had the strength of his beliefs and he returned her necklace to her. Scully was later in her new room when she learned, from Nurse Wilkins, that Nurse Owens – who Scully was convinced had watched over her in the Intensive Care Unit – had actually never worked at the hospital. (TXF: "One Breath")
On their first case together since before Scully's abduction, Mulder twice intermittently became concerned about her involvement, at least initially thinking she should possibly take some time off. However, Scully was very eager to work, insisted that she had already lost enough time and perceived a need for both of them to get past the issue regarding her participation, as she was back to stay. (TXF: "Firewalker")
In 1995, after a computer chip was removed from the base of Scully's neck but she realized that she had no memory of it being put there, her sister referred her to Dr. Mark Pomerantz, who induced a form of hypnosis in which Scully apparently recalled several details about her abduction experience. She stated that the incident had involved time loss and that, just before she had been taken away, she had feared she would die. Scully spoke of men, saying that one of them had taken her. She also seemingly recalled that there had been a light, loud sounds that caused her ears to pound and an alarm. According to her, the others present during her abduction had wanted to know if she was alright and she had felt a need to trust someone, as she had been powerless and could not resist them. Scully abruptly came to her senses upon Dr. Pomerantz lightly touching her hands, after which she concluded that the hypnosis didn't seem to be working and hurried away. (TXF: "The Blessing Way")
Shortly thereafter, she and Mulder found a massive mountain vault that included many medical files, one of which pertained to Scully herself and contained a tissue sample that was - unlike in the other files - recent. The next morning, Mulder told Skinner that one of the things he wanted to find out - by keeping a digital tape copy of the MJ documents, rather than handing it over to the conspirators in return for the agents' protection - was the exact nature of whatever it was that the conspirators had done to Scully. Not long after this, Mulder insisted to Scully that the files inside the mountain vault had been cataloging abductees. (TXF: "Paper Clip")
Later that year, an investigation into the murder of MUFON member Steven Zinnzser brought Scully to find the group of female MUFON members, including Lottie Holloway and Penny Northern, who had seen her in the white-lit place. While she talked to them at length, she privately recalled brief flashes from her abduction. The women seemed to recognize Scully almost immediately and explained where they knew her from but she could not remember ever having seen them before and admitted to being unready to discuss their shared experience, a fear to remember which all the other women could relate to. The women expected that Scully's memories of her disappearance may have started to come back to her but without making sense and knew that the first memories to return were the light and then, occasionally, the faces of the male experimenters. Like Scully, each woman had had an implanted computer chip removed from the back of their own neck. Collectively, they told Scully they were all dying from a cancerous ailment due to their abduction experiences. Scully privately found their information to be "freaky." (TXF: "Nisei")
However, she continued to make more discoveries related to her abduction; the case involved Dr. Zama, whom she recognized, and she also had her implant analyzed, learning of the extraordinary computing power of such technology. (TXF: "Nisei", "731") She soon after came to the belief that the place where her abductors had taken her and put the implant in her neck was one of several train cars operating on an elaborate secret railroad. (TXF: "731")
While Scully was suffering from a paranoid psychosis on the night of 1 May 1995, she made several accusations to Mulder directly, claiming that he was one of the people who had abducted her and that he had put the implant in her neck. However, Scully began to recover soon thereafter and had been hospitalized by the afternoon of the next day. (TXF: "Wetwired")
After Scully became romantically involved with the psychotic Ed Jerse – who was under the influence of an unusual tattoo – but managed to escape from him, Mulder congratulated her on becoming the first person ever to make personal appearances in the X-files on two separate occasions, indirectly referring to her earlier presence in the X-file concerning her abduction. (TXF: "Never Again")
- The X-Files:
- "3" (Season 2)
- "One Breath"
- "The Blessing Way" (Season 3)
- "Paper Clip"
- "Never Again" (Season 4; implied)
- "Zero Sum"
- "Redux" (Season 5)
- "Redux II"
- "Two Fathers" (Season 6)
- "One Son"
- "Field Trip"
- "Requiem" (Season 7)
- "Per Manum" (Season 8)
- "William" (Season 9)
- The storyline of Scully's abduction was created to cover the forthcoming absence of actress Gillian Anderson, who had unexpectedly discovered – halfway through the first season of The X-Files – that she was pregnant with her first child. Frank Spotnitz later stated, "The mythology of the series didn't really blossom until [then] [....] [The pregnancy] forced The X-Files to be serialized in a way I don't think it was ever intended to be serialized. Suddenly, there had to be an arc of stories that dealt with the fact that Scully was going to be gone for who-knew-how-many episodes." ("Threads of the Mythology: Abduction", The X-Files Mythology, Volume 1 - Abduction special features) According to Spotnitz, "The 'mythology', quote-unquote, was very undefined at that point. There had been some mythology episodes the first year of the series, but I don't think anybody really looked at it as mythology, if you will, at that point." Spotnitz also characterized Anderson's pregnancy as the catalyst that "really began the mythology in earnest, or kicked it into a higher gear anyway." ("The Truth About Season 2", The X-Files (season 2) DVD special features) Noted writer Howard Gordon, "Fortunately, this is a show about abduction, so we abducted her." ("Threads of the Mythology: Abduction", The X-Files Mythology, Volume 1 - Abduction special features) Regarding the lingering effects Anderson's pregnancy had, Gordon elaborated, "Ultimately it sort of was a blessing in disguise because it forced us to contrive something that has been grist for the mill and will continue to be, in terms of her abduction or disappearance. As it turned out, her pregnancy not only gave birth to [Anderson's daughter] Piper, but to a whole new avenue of possibilities on the show." (X-Files Confidential, p. 87) Spotnitz confirmed the show's writers tried to account for the actress' absence by devising the idea Scully would be abducted specifically "by aliens." ("The Truth About Season 2", The X-Files (season 2) DVD special features) As David Duchovny pointed out, Scully's abduction had similarities to the abduction of Mulder's sister, Samantha, which helped provide the relationship between the two FBI agents with even more emotional resonance. (The Truth Is Out There: The Official Guide to The X-Files, p. 25)
- Originally, there was some discussion over whether to have Scully give birth to an extraterrestrial infant. "[That] would have been a terrible idea," remarked Chris Carter. ("Threads of the Mythology: Abduction", The X-Files Mythology, Volume 1 - Abduction special features)
- The decision to have Scully be seen bound and gagged in the boot of Duane Barry's car, in the episode "Ascension", proved controversial. Chris Carter reflected, "I remember that the censors were very nervous about us putting Scully in a trunk and also we were very nervous about putting a pregnant Scully in a trunk, but she was just a champ, she got in that car and you walk this fine line on television trying not to be too graphic and that was one of those images that we fought for and it made the show very scary because you believe that Agent Scully was really in danger in the hands of a psycho and that she was riding around in that back of car as it was climbing that mountain." ("Chris Carter Talks About Season 2 Episodes: Ascension", The X-Files (season 2) DVD special features)
- A shot of Scully with an enlarged stomach, in "Ascension", actually features Gillian Anderson's pregnant torso; the producers realized they could take advantage of the pregnancy by making Anderson's enlarged belly seem the result of peculiar experiments. (The Complete X-Files: Behind the Series, the Myths and the Movies, p. 57) The actress left routinely working on the series about a week before her child – Piper Maru Anderson, a daughter – was born and the actress belatedly gave birth a few weeks after she had appeared in the aforementioned scene of "Ascension", on 25 September 1994. Her daughter was delivered via cesarean section, which was unanticipated and required that Gillian Anderson spend the next six days in hospital. Meanwhile, her absence from the set of The X-Files facilitated the filming of "3", the first ever episode in the series in which Scully does not appear. Four days after Gillian Anderson's period of hospitalization, she was back working on The X-Files, filming scenes for the episode "One Breath".
- Frank Spotnitz summed up the effect Gillian Anderson's pregnancy ultimately had on the series, "It was sort of a happy accident and there is a beautiful irony in all that because, ultimately, Gillian Anderson's real-life pregnancy leads to the storyline about Scully not being able to have a baby and then miraculously, by the end of the series, having a child and all of that is a piece, and it's a wonderful sort of blur of real life and fiction, because it was all, you know, one would not have happened without the other. If Gillian Anderson had not had Piper in Season 1 of The X-Files, the show never would have evolved the way it did." ("Threads of the Mythology: Abduction", The X-Files Mythology, Volume 1 - Abduction special features)
- Although "Ascension" and "Memento Mori" use original footage to show the white-lit location where Scully is tested upon, archive footage from "Ascension" is used in both "Nisei" (together with original footage of the setting) and "The Truth" (using footage exclusively from "Ascension"). "Nisei" first features an original shot of Scully's face, with her eyes closed, before later showing a shot from "Ascension" of a drill descending toward Scully. Another shot in a subsequent scene of "Nisei" is the same shot from "Ascension" that features Gillian Anderson's pregnant torso. A later scene of "Nisei" features the original shot of Scully from earlier, amid footage of surgically masked scientists peering down at Scully as she druggily opens her eyes to them. A segment of archive footage that accompanies Scully's testimony in "The Truth" includes a shot of the bright light in the sky speeding away, a sped-up shot that pans down from Scully's captors to her herself, a shot of Scully opening her eyes and the start of a close-up shot of Scully's torso being enlarged. | English | NL | 806e40e8bb4b861398676723e0ff9585b5b7b6632def14fce25a73b187d6e8ed |
An important gift we writers can give another person is renewed confidence in their ability to tell their stories. Once I collaborated with a South African painter friend to teach the arts in a mental health program. Clari van Niekerk was showing adult students how to paint scenes and objects from their lives and I was to help them write poetry about their work.
I tried to chat them up while admiring their paintings, but soon realized my task would be difficult. The students could visualize with a paint brush, but “seeing” in language and getting it on paper was a whole “nother” thing.
I sat down with one lady, and to buy time, made small talk. Then I had a flash. “Lucy, (not her name), talk to me about your painting, I’ll write down what you say, and we’ll get a poem.” Each painter told me the story of their work and I shaped their words into a poem, keeping the freshness of our conversation while adding line breaks to emphasize certain ideas. The poems were mounted beside the paintings in a gallery and read to an appreciative audience.
Jesus calls us to a life of giving. Maybe sometimes our call as artists and writers is to give someone the gift of trust in their own artistic abilities and make a way for their expression. Clari helped each student visualize their life story through painting. Then a writer helped them articulate their internal musings for a new audience in a new way. I got jazzed creating life stories with these artists and finding internal resources (both theirs and mine) that had been buried or forgotten. What have you discovered about giving through writing and the arts? | English | NL | 9fbb5f5b453b35a031f7ddad5a8bd6c190451b434f4f81be7c57190610153230 |
What would it have been like for the disciples when they saw their Lord betrayed, arrested, tried and crucified? I don’t know everything that would have been going through their minds, but one thing is for sure, they experienced great sorrow.
Just before the betrayal takes place, Jesus said to His disciples, “A little while, and you will see me no longer; and again a little while, and you will see me” (16:16). What did Jesus mean by these words? Where was He going and when is He coming back? Commentators provide three main views when it comes to understanding these words. One view says that the first “little while” refers to His death and the second “little while” refers to His resurrection. The second view agrees concerning the first “little while”, but says the second “little while” refers to the coming of the Holy Spirit. A third view says the first “little while” refers to the ascension of Christ and the second “little while” to the Second Coming of Christ. I think all three of these are a part of what Jesus is saying. The resurrection of Christ is the initial fulfillment, the Holy Spirit is a partial fulfillment, and the Second Coming is the ultimate fulfillment.
It is interesting that we find it hard to understand this text because that is exactly what the disciples experienced. John records,
So some of his disciples said to one another, “What is this that he says to us, ‘A little while, and you will not see me, and again a little while, and you will see me’; and, ‘because I am going to the Father’?” So they were saying, “What does he mean by ‘a little while’? We do not know what he is talking about” (16:17-18).
Sometimes it is nice to know that we are not alone in our inability to understand some things. Knowing that they were struggling with this, Jesus asked, “Is this what you are asking yourselves, what I meant by saying, ‘A little while and you will not see me, and again a little while and you will see me’? (16:19). Jesus doesn’t answer their question by telling them specifically what the “little while” refers to too. Rather, He tells them what they need to know. This is often the way in which Jesus deals with His disciples and us today.
As we walk our way through this passage, I would like to consider three truths and lessons to remember as we live out our lives in this world as Christians. We will see the reality of sorrow, the reward of joy, and the resource of prayer.
1. THE REALITY OF SORROW
Jesus warned His disciples of the reality of sorrow. For them it will be a unique kind of sorrow in which they will see their Lord and Saviour crucified. Jesus told them “Truly, truly, I say to you, you will weep and lament, but the world will rejoice” (16:20a). The events surrounding the crucifixion of the Lord Jesus Christ would have been horrific. Their Master was being treated harshly and the enemies of Christ were celebrating. The minions of the Devil were out in full force and for the disciples this was a dark hour.
It is important to note that trouble and sorrow does come into the lives of God’s people (Job 14:1). Jesus has already made it clear that the disciples are to expect hardship and hostility. What was the cause of their sorrow?
They Experienced Uncertainty
Though Jesus told them what was going to happen, they didn’t understand and grasp what was happening. As Jesus was tried, crucified and then died, they were unsure of what was going on. When it comes to the many hardships that we experience in this life we often are confused and uncertain why it is happening. Such uncertainty often leads to sorrow.
They Experienced Loss
Jesus was their Master, and then suddenly He was gone. I can only imagine how rapid the events of His betrayal, arrest, trial, crucifixion and His death were in their eyes. One moment they were walking and talking with Him, next moment He was gone. The experience of loss flawed them and drained them of energy and made them sorrowful.
They Experienced Fear
With their Master gone and with the enemies of Christ celebrating and revelling in His death, the disciples experienced fear. This fear was demonstrated by the fact that they hid themselves behind locked doors for fear of the religious leaders (John 20:19).
As persecution toward the people of God increases, so will the battle against fear. This is why our Lord said to the church in Smyrna “Do not fear what you are about to suffer…but be faithful until death” (Rev. 2:10).
2. THE REWARD OF JOY
Now let us consider the second important truth in this passage. Jesus promised His disciples the reward of joy. He said, “You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy (16:20b). The darkness of their sorrow changed as the light of joy shined brightly. What happened? Three days after His death, one the first day of the week, in the midst of evil revelling from the enemies of Christ, Jesus Christ arose from the grave. He appeared to His disciples and they saw the resurrected Christ. John records their response to the sight of the resurrected Christ,
“Jesus came and stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples were glad when they saw the Lord” (20:19b-20).
The word “glad” in verse 20 is the same word Jesus used in 16:20. Here is the initial fulfilment of what Jesus promised them. Notice that their sorrow is not replaced with joy, but rather their sorrow is turned into joy. This is illustrated by the example of a woman in labour. Jesus said,
“When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world. So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you” (16:21-22).
The point of this illustration is to show how the very occasion, which is viewed as painful, becomes the very thing that is viewed as joyful. The apostles got to see the resurrected Christ with their own eyes. However, we don’t share the same experience as they did. What then does this mean for us? Using very similar words Peter wrote to suffering Christians,
“6 In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, 7 so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. 8 Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, 9 obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.” (1 Pet. 1:6-9)
The day will come when we will experience perfect praise, glory and honour when the Lord Jesus Christ is revealed at His Second Coming. In the meantime, though we do not see Him we believe in Him and experience a foretaste of this joy now as we behold Him with the eyes of faith.
3. THE RESOURCE OF PRAYER
The third important truth in this passage that I would like to consider is the resource of prayer. Sometimes we may wonder why God would have us pray and ask for things when we know that He is sovereign. Knowing that He is sovereign, why should we pray? Among many reasons, we pray because prayer is a privilege God has given us. It is a gracious means in which God has chosen to accomplish His purposes.
Jesus said to His disciples,
“In that day you will ask nothing of me. Truly, truly, I say to you, whatever you ask of the Father in my name, he will give it to you. Until now you have asked nothing in my name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full” (16:23-24)
Here Jesus calls His people to make much of personal prayer. We are to seek the glory and honour of Jesus Christ in what we ask for. Prayer then becomes a means in which we experience joy. Prayer is a precious companion at all times, it carries a particular precious value in times of sorrow and sadness.
In this passage of Scripture Jesus has provided for His disciples precious truths we must know and hold onto. As the people of God, we are not to lose focus of what the Lord has told us and how we should respond. Let us look to Him for the grace and strength to walk the pathways before us in a way that honours and exalts Him. | English | NL | 9512867fa8113ebde68c3e10c64319b2e4cba22265dcd9ae1461d51017efeb58 |
Sal Mineo Biography, Life, Interesting Facts
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Sal Mineo was an actor who focused on film and theatre, later ventured into television.
Childhood And Early Life
Salvatore “Sal” Mineo Jr. was born on 10th of January 1939, in Harlem New York, to Sal Sr. and Josephine. His father was a casket maker who moved to America from Sicily, while his mother was born in the United States.
Sal Mineo had two older brothers (Michael and Victor) and youngest sister Sarina. His mother Josephine had enrolled him in dancing and acting at the Professional Children’s School around 1948.
When Sal Mineo was nine, he and his brothers became newspaper boys to help pay for the dancing and music lessons.
Sal Mineo later moved to Marie Moser Dance Academy and had his first taste of showbiz dancing in the Ted Steele Show. Following a fight at school with the gang president, Sal followed the street gang to cause more troubles which eventually landed him in court.
Sal Mineo was presented with the option of juvenile confinement or Quintano's School For Young Professionals in Manhattan, which he chose the latter.
In 1950, Sal Mineo was a casting agent and landed the part in Tennessee Williams' play The Rose Tattoo.
Alec Alexander was recommended to represent him at that time, and with that first contract to act in Broadway, eleven-year-old Sal would be earning seventy-five dollars a week. Sal Mineo acting career spelled the end of his formal education, forcing his mother to hire a private tutor.
After a disappointing play called Dinosaur Wharf, Sal landed the role of the young prince in the King and me musical, opposite Yul Brynner. Sal gained a lot of acting help from Yul Brynner.
Sal Mineo transitioned to a movie career when he was sixteen, debuting in Six Bridges to Cross during 1955. During the same year, Sal acting in Rebel Without A Cause, playing John “Plato” Crawford. The role won him an Academy Award nomination.
Rise To Stardom
After Rebel Without A Cause, Sal Mineo landed more movie roles. He was nicknamed the Switchblade Kid, for his role in 1956’s Crime in the Streets.
Sal Mineo is venturing into singing in 1957, recording a few singles and an album Start Moving (In My Direction), which was a gold record.
By 1960, Sal Mineo was too old to play troubled teen characters, and the movie offers slowed down. In 1965, his role as a stalker in “Who Killed Teddy Bear?”, typecast him as a criminal, which he failed to escape from.
Sal Mineo returned to the theatre to direct and feature in “Fortune and Men’s Eyes” in 1969. He modeled for Harold Stevenson in 1963, the painting The New Adam is part of Guggenheim Museum's permanent collection.
Sal Mineo also directed The Medium in 1972; he played the mute Toby while directing the opera.
Sal Mineo admitted his bisexuality in an interview with Boze Hadleigh during 1972. After the admission, Sal continued to appear in television and movie as supporting roles.
Sal Mineo appeared as Dr. Milo in 1971’s Escape from the Planet of the Apes. Sal played Rachman Habib in Case of Immunity, and guest starred in Hawaii Five-O before landing a role play “P.S. Your Cat Is Dead”.
Sal Mineo had twenty-two films in his name and numerous television guest roles.
Exodus won him the Golden Globe for best supporting actor in 1960; he was nominated for Academy Awards for Rebel Without A Cause and Exodus.
Sal Mineo was stabbed in the alley behind his home, in a failed robbery attempt on February 12, 1976.
His killer, Lionel Ray Williams was convicted after bragging about the kill, he was found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. Sal was buried near his father at Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Hawthorne, California
Sal Mineo was engaged to Jill Hayworth, whom he met at the set of the film Exodus. She canceled the engagement when she found out that he was having an affair with another man. Sal was dating Ben Sherman.
In the 1960s, Sal Mineo was in a cohabitating relationship with male actor Courtney Burr III, at his death, they were already together for six years.
In 2000, Sal Mineo: His Life, Murder, and Mystery were published by H. Paul Jeffers, and another biography by Michael Gregg Michaud, both giving an insight of Sal’s life. In 2013, James Franco directed his final moments in movie Sal, played by Val Lauren. | English | NL | 62e40e7cf426bf5b4eed262a1da940ef679a69481bc6e0cec3b25e105cdc5ea8 |
"At Ravensbourne I had the time, support and freedom to get out of my comfort zone and explore new fields of design."
Course: BA (Hons) Product Design
Year of Graduation: 2010
What appealed to you about Ravensbourne and your chosen degree course?
All the tutors were known within the industry and had a progressive approach to design.The approach of the course was progressive: It combined interaction, service and product design aspects into one course.It was a small group with lots of hands-on tutor time.
There wasn't a strict curriculum with a requirement to learn specific (and potentially out-dated) skills.It was more approached as "thinking" course and tools and skills were picked up as and when needed. I felt this was a much better approach to the challenges set by designers today.
How has your degree from Ravensbourne helped you achieve your professional goals?
The small course and hands-on tutoring meant I could focus more time on exploring design directions I hadn't been able to explore before. (I had already worked within industrial design before coming to Ravensbourne). During my time at Ravensbourne I was able to explore service design and critical design.I was hired into two different jobs as a direct result of tutor involvement.
Please list the benefits that you experienced from studying with us.
Direct contact with tutors who were respected industry professionals I knew already for their work.They now form part of my network and I am still in close contact with them today. The freedom to explore the areas I knew least about and a flexibility in the teaching that meant I could be challenged and tutored in those fields. A cross-disciplinary course that tackled product, service and interaction design was beneficial.
Please describe any highlights from your time at Ravensbourne.
Whilst studying at Ravensbourne I won an RSA design award for one of the projects. I also did a summer internship at Samsung Design Europe which was facilitated through Ravensbourne. As the course was quite small it was a close-knit group that was fun to hang out with and we had a fun trip to Madrid working on a cross-disciplinary project involving product, interaction and architecture. I was also involved in planning, designing and building an exhibition for new designers while the old Ravensbourne campus was being demolished which was fun.
How is Ravensbourne (and your chosen course) different from other universities/colleges?
In my view it's unique for two reasons: It doesn't teach a set list of hard skills, but relies on teaching approaches and students that can figure out the skills they need to deliver a project themselves. It's focused on the thinking rather than specific tools. It has a progressive design understanding fit for the digital world, where product design, interaction design, service design are all combined and students work holistically across all of these areas.
Are you in employment and, if so as what?
Having worked at Frog Design, Random International and Fjord, I have been self-employed for the last 2 years doing a variety of things. I co-authored a book called 'Designing Connected Products' and am exploring connected hardware devices through a project called Raincloud.eu. Working as a freelance/independent consultant I help startup businesses design and develop the right product, understand their customers and with prototyping new ideas. I also do freelance work as part of larger consultancy projects with companies like Method.
What advice would you give to prospective students?
My advice to to prospective students would be to always get to know the tutors and look at the recent projects from the course before you apply, to see if this is right for you. | English | NL | 07abe5c72a700d7e7a6abce95599e7a539f359c4b9fbf51603d0bfcb994c5ec3 |
AT the remote period of his birth he had been named César François Xavier, but no one ever thought of calling him anything but Chicot, or Nég, or Maringouin. Down at the French market, where he worked among the fishmongers, they called him Chicot, when they were not calling him names that are written less freely than they are spoken. But one felt privileged to call him almost anything, he was so black, lean, lame, and shriveled. He wore a head-kerchief, and whatever other rags the fishermen and their wives chose to bestow upon him. Throughout one whole winter he wore a woman's discarded jacket with puffed sleeves.
Among some startling beliefs entertained by Chicot was one that "Michié St. Pierre et Michié St. Paul" had created him. Of "Michié bon Dieu" he held his own private opinion, and not a too flattering one at that. This fantastic notion concerning the origin of his being he owed to the early teaching of his young master, a lax believer, and a great farceur in his day. Chicot had once been thrashed by a robust young Irish priest for expressing his religious views, and at another time knifed by a Sicilian. So he had come to hold his peace upon that subject.
Upon another theme he talked freely and harped continuously. For years he had tried to convince his associates that his master had left a progeny, rich, cultured, powerful, and numerous beyond belief. This prosperous race of beings inhabited the most imposing mansions in the city of New Orleans. Men of note and position, whose names were familiar to the public, he swore were grandchildren, great-grandchildren, or, less frequently, distant relatives of his master, long deceased, Ladies who came to the market in carriages, or whose elegance of attire attracted the attention and admiration of the fishwomen, were all des 'tites cousines to his former master, Jean Boisduré. He never looked for recognition from any of these superior beings, but delighted to discourse by the hour upon their dignity and pride of birth and wealth.
Chicot always carried an old gunny-sack, and into this went his earnings. He cleaned stalls at the market, scaled fish, and did many odd offices for the itinerant merchants, who usually paid in trade for his service. Occasionally he saw the color of silver and got his clutch upon a coin, but he accepted anything, and seldom made terms. He was glad to get a handkerchief from the Hebrew, and grateful if the Choctaws would trade him a bottle of filé for it. The butcher flung him a soup bone, and the fishmonger a few crabs or a paper bag of shrimps. It was the big mulatresse , vendeuse de café , who cared for his inner man.
Once Chicot was accused by a shoe-vender of attempting to steal a pair of ladies' shoes. He declared he was only examining them. The clamor raised in the market was terrific. Young Dagoes assembled and squealed like rats; a couple of Gascon butchers bellowed like bulls. Matteo's wife shook her fist in the accuser's face and called him incomprehensible names. The Choctaw women, where they squatted, turned their slow eyes in the direction of the fray, taking no further notice; while a policeman jerked Chicot around by the puffed sleeve and brandished a club. It was a narrow escape.
Nobody knew where Chicot lived. A man - even a nég créol - who lives among the reeds and willows of Bayou St. John, in a deserted chicken-coop constructed chiefly of tarred paper, is not going to boast of his habitation or to invite attention to his domestic appointments. When, after market hours, he vanished in the direction of St. Philip street, limping, seemingly bent under the weight of his gunny-bag, it was like the disappearance from the stage of some petty actor whom the audience does not follow in imagination beyond the wings, or think of till his return in another scene.
There was one to whom Chicot's coming or going meant more than this. In la maison grise they called her La Chouette, for no earthly reason unless that she perched high under the roof of the old rookery and scolded in shrill sudden outbursts. Forty or fifty years before, when for a little while she acted minor parts with a company of French players (an escapade that had brought her grandmother to the grave), she was known as Mademoiselle de Montallaine. Seventy-five years before she had been christened Aglaé Boisduré.
No matter at what hour the old negro appeared at her threshold, Mamzelle Aglaé always kept him waiting till she finished her prayers. She opened the door for him and silently motioned him to a seat, returning to prostrate herself upon her knees before a crucifix, and a shell filled with holy water that stood on a small table; it represented in her imagination an altar. Chicot knew that she did it to aggravate him; he was convinced that she timed her devotions to begin when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. He would sit with sullen eyes contemplating her long, spare, poorly clad figure as she knelt and read from her book or finished her prayers. Bitter was the religious warfare that had raged for years between them, and Mamzelle Aglaé had grown, on her side, as intolerant as Chicot. She had come to hold St. Peter and St. Paul in such utter detestation that she had cut their pictures out of her prayer-book.
Then Mamzelle Aglaé pretended not to care what Chicot had in his bag. He drew forth a small hunk of beef and laid it in her basket that stood on the bare floor. She looked from the corner of her eye, and went on dusting the table. He brought out a handful of potatoes, some pieces of sliced fish, a few herbs, a yard of calico, and a small pat of butter wrapped in lettuce leaves. He was proud of the butter, and wanted her to notice it. He held it out and asked her for something to put it on. She handed him a saucer, and looked indifferent and resigned, with lifted eyebrows.
"Pas d' sucre, Nég?"
Chicot shook his head and scratched it, and looked like a black picture of distress and mortification. No sugar! But tomorrow he would get a pinch here and a pinch there, and would bring as much as a cupful.
Mamzelle Aglaé then sat down, and talked to Chicot uninterruptedly and confidentially. She complained bitterly, and it was all about a pain that lodged in her leg; that crept and acted like a live, stinging serpent, twining about her waist and up her spine, and coiling round the shoulder-blade. And then les rheumatismes in her fingers! He could see for himself how they were knotted. She could not bend them; she could hold nothing in her hands, and had let a saucer fall that morning and broken it in pieces. And if she were to tell him that she had slept a wink through the night, she would be a liar, deserving of perdition. She had sat at the window la nuit blanche , hearing the hours strike and the market- wagons rumble. Chicot nodded, and kept up a running fire of sympathetic comment and suggestive remedies for rheumatism and insomnia: herbs, or tisanes , or grigris , or all three. As if he knew! There was Purgatory Mary, a perambulating soul whose office in life was to pray for the shades in purgatory, - she had brought Mamzelle Aglaé a bottle of eau de Lourdes , but so little of it! She might have kept her water of Lourdes, for all the good it did, - a drop! Not so much as would cure a fly or a mosquito! Mamzelle Aglaé was going to show Purgatory Mary the door when she came again, not only because of her avarice with the Lourdes water, but, beside that, she brought in on her feet dirt that could only be removed with a shovel after she left.
And Mamzelle Aglaé wanted to inform Chicot that there would be slaughter and bloodshed in la maison grise if the people below stairs did not mend their ways. She was convinced that they lived for no other purpose than to torture and molest her. The woman kept a bucket of dirty water constantly on the landing with the hope of Mamzelle Aglaé falling over it or into it. And she knew that the children were instructed to gather in the hall and on the stairway, and scream and make a noise and jump up and down like galloping horses, with the intention of driving her to suicide. Chicot should notify the policeman on the beat, and have them arrested, if possible, and thrust into the parish prison, where they belonged.
Chicot would have been extremely alarmed if he had ever chanced to find Mamzelle Aglaé in an uncomplaining mood. It never occurred to him that she might be otherwise. He felt that she had a right to quarrel with fate, if ever mortal had. Her poverty was a disgrace, and he hung his head before it and felt ashamed.
One day he found Mamzelle Aglaé stretched on the bed, with her head tied up in a handkerchief. Her sole complaint that day was, "Aïe - aïe - aïe! Aïe - aïe - aïe!" uttered with every breath. He had seen her so before, especially when the weather was damp.
"Vous pas bézouin tisane, Mamzelle Aglaé? Vous pas veux mo cri gagni docteur?"
She desired nothing. "Aïe - aïe - aïe!"
He emptied his bag very quietly, so as not to disturb her; and he wanted to stay there with her and lie down on the floor in case she needed him, but the woman from below had come up. She was an Irishwoman with rolled sleeves.
"It's a shtout shtick I'm afther giving her, Nég, and she do but knock on the flure it's me or Janie or wan of us that'll be hearing her."
"You too good, Brigitte. Aïe - aïe - aïe! Une goutte d'eau sucré, Nég! That Purg'tory Marie, - you see hair, ma bonne Brigitte, you tell hair go say li'le prayer là-bas au Cathédral. Aïe - aïe - aïe!"
Nég could hear her lamentation as he descended the stairs. It followed him as he limped his way through the city streets, and seemed part of the city's noise; he could hear it in the rumble of wheels and jangle of carbells, and in the voices of those passing by.
He stopped at Mimotte the Voudou's shanty and bought a grigri - a cheap one for fifteen cents. Mimotte held her charms at all prices. This he intended to introduce next day into Mamzelle Anglaé's room, - somewhere about the altar, - to the confusion and discomfort of "Michié bon Dieu," who persistently declined to concern himself with the welfare of a Boisduré.
At night, among the reeds on the bayou, Chicot could still hear the woman's wail, mingled now with the croaking of the frogs. If he could have been convinced that giving up his life down there in the water would in any way have bettered her condition, he would not have hesitated to sacrifice the remnant of his existence that was wholly devoted to her. He lived but to serve her. He did not know it himself; but Chicot knew so little, and that little in such a distorted way! He could scarcely have been expected, even in his most lucid moments, to give himself over to self- analysis.
Chicot gathered an uncommon amount of dainties at market the following day. He had to work hard, and scheme and whine a little; but he got hold of an orange and a lump of ice and a chou-fleur . He did not drink his cup of café au lait , but asked Mimi Lambeau to put it in the little new tin pail that the Hebrew notion-vender had just given him in exchange for a mess of shrimps. This time, however, Chicot had his trouble for nothing. When he reached the upper room of la maison grise , it was to find that Mamzelle Aglaé had died during the night. He set his bag down in the middle of the floor, and stood shaking, and whined low like a dog in pain.
Everything had been done. The Irish-woman had gone for the doctor, and Purgatory Mary had summoned a priest. Furthermore, the woman had arranged Mamzelle Aglaé decently. She had covered the table with a white cloth, and had placed it at the head of the bed, with the crucifix and two lighted candles in silver candlesticks upon it; the little bit of ornamentation brightened and embellished the poor room. Purgatory Mary, dressed in shabby black, fat and breathing hard, sat reading half audibly from a prayer- book. She was watching the dead and the silver candlesticks, which she had borrowed from a benevolent society, and for which she held herself responsible. A young man was just leaving, - a reporter snuffing the air for items, who had scented one up there in the top room of la maison grise .
All the morning Janie had been escorting a procession of street Arabs up and down the stairs to view the remains. One of them - a little girl, who had had her face washed and had made a species of toilet for the occasion - refused to be dragged away. She stayed seated as if at an entertainment, fascinated alternately by the long, still figure of Mamzelle Aglaé, the mumbling lips of Purgatory Mary, and the silver candlesticks.
"Will ye get down on yer knees, man, and say a prayer for the dead!" commanded the woman.
But Chicot only shook his head, and refused to obey. He approached the bed, and laid a little black paw for a moment on the stiffened body of Mamzelle Aglaé. There was nothing for him to do here. He picked up his old ragged hat and his bag and went away.
"The black h'athen!" the woman muttered. "Shut the dure, child."
The little girl slid down from her chair, and went on tiptoe to shut the door which Chicot had left open. Having resumed her seat, she fastened her eyes upon Purgatory Mary's heaving chest.
"You, Chicot!" cried Matteo's wife the next morning. "My man, he read in paper 'bout woman name' Boisduré, use' b'long to big-a famny. She die roun' on St. Philip - po', same-a like church rat. It's any them Boisdurés you alla talk 'bout?"
Chicot shook his head in slow but emphatic denial. No, indeed, the woman was not of kin to his Boisdurés. He surely had told Matteo's wife often enough - how many times did he have to repeat it! - of their wealth, their social standing. It was doubtless some Boisduré of les Attakapas ; it was none of his.
The next day there was a small funeral procession passing a little distance away, - a hearse and a carriage or two. There was the priest who had attended Mamzelle Aglaé, and a benevolent Creole gentleman whose father had known the Boisdurés in his youth. There was a couple of player-folk, who, having got wind of the story, had thrust their hands into their pockets.
"Look, Chicot!" cried Matteo's wife. "Yonda go the fune'al. Mus-a be that-a Boisduré woman we talken 'bout yesaday."
But Chicot paid no heed. What was to him the funeral of a woman who had died in St. Philip street? He did not even turn his head in the direction of the moving procession. He went on scaling his red-snapper. | English | NL | 527bbb55bcaf9860b37ec556dc4fbf3863d37e92939f0e82e63914236b169c1f |
A few weeks ago I was visiting a child care center, observing a classroom full of active 2-year-olds. During my observation I witnessed more empathy from an innocent 2-year-old than I had from any adult in a very long time.
The observation began with the teacher gathering the children for a large group session which included singing and book reading. The children, however, were not interested in these activities. One tiny girl, Mary, was convinced that her father was picking her up for a special lunch. She was certain they were going to have ice cream. Then, Tommy wanted to share a story about ice cream with the class. As large group time continued each child needed to tell his story about ice cream.
As chaos began to reign in the classroom, the director slowly opened the door and with her was a beautiful little girl named LaShawn and her mother. LaShawn was clinging to her mother while she stared nervously at her new teacher. The director introduced LaShawn to the teacher, mentioned the child’s schedule, and soon after, the director and the mother simply left the room. LaShawn never had the opportunity to tell her mother goodbye, and her mother never told LaShawn she would be back to get her. LaShawn was heartbroken. The teacher tried to console her but she was also trying to stop a fight, sing a song and regain some order in the classroom.
Tension began mounting. After a while, I observed a quiet little boy stand up, walk to his cubby and retrieve his blanket. He sat next to LaShawn, looked at her and held out his blanket. What I saw next touched my heart and I found myself swallowing a lump in my throat. LaShawn accepted the blanket and began sobbing into it while the quiet little boy patted her back. The teacher was busy trying to stop some biting and glanced over to pair. Seeing that LaShawn had someone with her, the teacher moved her attention to the more rowdy ones in the class. After a while, LaShawn calmed down and began glancing around her new environment with some curiosity. The quiet little boy never left her side.
For many years, researchers believed young children were not able to go beyond their own feelings to help another. But new research is showing that children as young as two begin to develop concern for others and will try to comfort them. A hug, a pat or simply standing next to a peer who is in distress is a way to show care and concern. When the teacher was unable to provide comfort, the quiet little boy was able to say, “I care” by offering his own piece of reassurance and encouragement. I felt blessed to witness such a powerful show of empathy and love. The simple acknowledgement of hurt and fear was all LaShawn needed to be able to move forward with her day. Without using spoken language, the boy was able to communicate comfort with an offering of his most prized possession. | English | NL | f1f9396b753c46881260c53451d15a412df2a08d6312f155148fc39dee60ea7f |
Verlan Dwayne Urban, 79, of Rockland, WI, passed away peacefully on Nov. 3, 2015 at Mayo Clinic Health System in La Crosse.
He was born on May 8, 1936 to Ed and Tillie Urban. He married Joyce Moe on July 1, 1961 in Holmen, WI.
Verlan grew up on the family farm in Hillsboro, WI. and attended La Crosse State. He later joined the National Guard and served for nine years. Verlan worked for Trane Company for 42 years. He worked his way from machinist, to foreman, to engineer and worked 10 years as a production manager, with Trane Service First in Charlotte, NC. He greatly enjoyed working with all of his co-workers. He was a man who loved the natural earth. His farm and garden were his special place to talk to God. Verlan enjoyed fishing, wood working, gardening and family camping with his sons, family, and friends. After he retired, Verlan loved to enjoy the beauty of the earth through his camping trips with his wife, Joyce. He was a father who inspired his sons to do well, and they have. He loved to host Halloween campouts at the farm and took great joy in the laughter and good times.
Verlan is survived by his wife, Joyce; sons, Darrell (Lisa) of La Crosse, Doug (Jackie) of Rockland, Brendon of Mount Holly, NC; grandchildren, Jordan, Hayden; sister, Marvalene Sosinsky of Tomahawk, WI; and many nieces, nephews, relatives, and friends.
He was preceded in death by his parents, Ed and Tillie; brother, Harlan of Hillsboro; sister in law, Donna, and brother in law, Herbert Sosinsky.
Joyce would like to thank all of the family and friends who have been supportive during this difficult time, as well as the staff at Mayo Clinic Health System in La Crosse, for their care of Verlan.
Coulee Region Cremation Group and Funeral Home is assisting the family. | English | NL | 00422a4b37857f61cddf9086976d27cb2c7f511b78a485725bc805e39789e8a3 |
Painter Morris Graves, who lived the last 30 years of his life near Loleta, CA, attributed much of his success as a visionary painter to the women who helped him along the way. These include his mother, Helen Malson, his dealer Marion Williard, Dorothy Miller, the MoMA curator who discovered him, the women patrons who bought his work, and the woman he called his muse, friend and painter Jan Thompson. Last November actor/director Joan Schirle brought readings of Graves' WW2 letters to local venues, and is now working on a chamber opera about Graves. For 02Fierce she gives voice to the women who supported his journey, as well as voicing two of his contemporaries, Margaret Tompkins and Helmi Juvonen, women painters of the Northwest School.
These fabulous events can be purchased from the link on this page, at Wildberries Marketplace, by calling the Arcata Playhouse at 707-822-1575 OR at the door for $5-$10 sliding scale, no one turned away for lack of funds.
This is part of our Lunchbox series, $10 price includes a light lunch. | English | NL | 5781f22f1f5b7f0821e6439a24bb24c110c5369aa66222bac8c71065bddfc01d |
METHAMPHETAMINE AND A SHOTGUN
by Alec Cizak
With respect to Chester Himes.
Debbie had been over earlier. She laid out a couple of rails. They topped off the crank with a joint she rolled with papers decorated like the American flag. After burning down Old Glory, they got busy on Ethan's bed. He only came once. It took him half an hour to get there, thanks to the dope. Debbie seemed happy enough. She put her clothes on and left without telling him where she was going.
Ethan sat up, his back propped by a cracked wall in his one room apartment. There was no kitchen. There were no windows that weren't holding broken glass together with tape and cardboard. Aside from the bed, there was only a folding table with two metal chairs by the door. That was where they had gotten high. Normally, Ethan would provide the drugs. His source had been buckled by the pigs. The only possession he had at that point was a Remington 12-guage. A cop had traded it to him for some crank.
"We use these to take down fuckers on PCP," the johnny had said. "You shoot somebody nice and close, their head'll bust open like a hamster in a microwave."
Ethan was aware of everything relevant, which was nothing. Meth and heroin brought him to the same place, but in different ways. Smack allowed him to quietly accept mortality. It was like an angel, gently rubbing his shoulders, whispering, "Someday you're going to die, and that's ok." Crank, on the other hand, made him feel as though possession of this knowledge hoisted him above common people who couldn't face the reality that their lives, at the end of the day, would mean nothing.
While he was riding a wave of superiority, he felt the undertow of worry, rising up from the depths of his mind, forming a hand, then a claw, and wrapping its tough, leathery fingers around his skull. "I think I'm thirsty," he said. What he thought, however, was:
Why did Debbie leave so goddamn soon?
The claw grew larger and scooped him off the bed. The effort to move muscles and bones in his body was easier than slicing through a lightly melted stick of butter. Walking across the room, he understood that his feet were heavier than the Earth and that they bounced off of the floor as though it were made up of a million titties, waiting to cradle him if he chose to fall. He stopped at the table and looked at the shotgun. There were three shells next to it.
They met him on the elevator. Luckily, Ethan was alone. They started on his shins and elbows. He could feel their little feet scampering up and down and in circles. They were too cowardly to show themselves in the physical world. He was certain they were millipedes. When he started using meth he scratched them, opening up his skin and marking himself as an addict. Now he was wiser. They wanted him to tear himself apart. They were sent by the enemy. He tolerated the itching the way he put up with roaches and mice in his apartment.
In the lobby, the mailman was stuffing clouds into thin metal boxes. Ethan bit down on his lower lip to keep from asking the guy just who the hell he thought he was, doing God's work without God's permission. Before he could get to the street, he broke out in hysterical laughter. "I'm God," he reminded himself.
The postman backed against the wall, his hands raised. "Anything you say, man."
Ethan pushed the glass doors leading outside open. He was still chuckling over his own mistaken identity. The palm trees lining both sides of the street waved to him.
It was Saturday afternoon in Koreatown. Children played on thin strips of grass between the apartment buildings and sidewalks. Their parents sat on steps talking. Plotting, Ethan thought. "Your kids are smarter than you," he said. He pointed at the adults and every one of them jumped up and backwards. They ran to their sons and daughters.
"Don't even think about it!"
The adults stopped. They put their hands up. "Please," they said. They whimpered, cried, sobbed into the grass that danced to the same rhythm as the palm trees. They got on their knees and worshipped Ethan.
"That's more like it," he said. He headed up Ardmore, towards Third Street. There was a consumer temple on the corner of Kingsley and Third, just one block over. The way the sidewalk moved under Ethan's feet, he began to suspect the whole thing had been planned-- His thirst, his paranoia about Debbie. Why was she in such a hurry to leave? he wondered again. When he turned onto Third, he saw the Kipling Hotel. A relic from the time before the world had been blessed by his presence. He crossed the street. Cars stopped for him. The people inside them pointed at him. Some grabbed their cell phones. Some made phone calls. Some even took pictures.
"They know I'm God," said Ethan.
The front door to the Kipling swung open and a man in a suit and tie stepped out and put his hand in his pocket. Ethan wondered why anybody would be dressed like that on a Saturday. He watched the man pull out a set of keys and drop them on the ground. Then he saw her, sitting inside the SUV the man eventually unlocked and climbed into.
Debbie was in the passenger seat. She was in the back, as well. And sitting right next to her was Debbie. Even in the rear, where normal people put groceries and bowling balls, two more Debbies sat, facing the opposite direction. In the driver's side, the man was desperately trying to get the key into the ignition.
"You sonofabitch," Ethan said. He drew back and pointed a giant, angry finger at the windshield. The glass exploded into a star-shower of crystals. The interior of the car filled like a bath tub with red, boiling lava.
Somewhere, someone screamed, "Oh my God!"
Ethan nodded. Proud to be so easily recognized. He saw the harsh orange and green announcing the 7-11 across the street from the Kipling. There would be liquids in the money temple that would wash away the snakes of worry burrowing permanent homes just under his skin. He remembered root beer, a substance that worked on his temporary shell like gasoline in an engine.
"Debbie's there, too," he said to himself. "I'm sure she is."
Cars screeched in the parking lot, peeling up pavement like a banana-skin, to get out of his way. Ethan put his free hand out and motioned for everyone to calm down. "Relax," he said, "you have my permission to be here." Two homeless guys standing outside and opening the door for customers in hopes of getting spare change ran away as fast as they could.
Ethan laughed. "I hope you folks realize that kissing my ass won't help you. Not ultimately." He entered the convenience store.
The first thing he noticed was that Singh, the attendant on duty, was talking on the phone. He looked nervous. Ethan realized the short man, usually his friend, was hiding something. "Who's on the other end?" He pointed at Singh.
Singh dropped the phone and put his hands up.
Ethan could hear the voice coming from the receiver:
It was Debbie.
"You tagging my girl behind my back?"
"What?" Singh looked desperately at the only other customer in the store.
It was a kid with a skateboard and Super-Gulp overflowing with neon green bubbles. He held his arms out, pretending to be Jesus. "Mister, you're in big trouble," he said.
Ethan looked at the skater. "You fucking her too?"
"No man. I ain't doing nobody named Debbie."
Ethan nodded. He stepped back. The kid dropped the cup and ran out the door.
Singh moved slowly to the other side of the counter.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Singh's white hair snaked around like it had been hooked up to electricity. The flourescent lights bounced off his otherwise bald head with a basketball rhythm.
"Shame on you," said Ethan. His voice sounded like a vicious thunderclap. His judgment was so severe the blood of the devil spilled all over the cigarette wrack behind the counter. "I said I'd get to the bottom of this." He walked to the coolers and opened one of the doors. "I haven't been wrong so far." The rush of cold air made him think he had been reborn in an arctic region. He closed his eyes and saw himself on an iceberg, drifting over the ocean. The night sky in front of him bled blue into purple into black and stars pierced the curtain like the gaze of a million dead people, curious to see if he would put the last piece of the puzzle together.
Ethan opened his eyes, found a bottle of Barq's root beer and walked back to the counter. He looked around for the cashier. "I'm a fair man," he said. He dropped two wrinkled dollar bills on the counter. They smelled like a farm he had visited with his mother when he was eight. Manure and pigs and horses and chickens, all rolled up together to manufacture a super-stench that never quite left his senses. Then he heard the sirens.
"I'm no fool," he said. The song shrieking through the air was anything but beautiful. Besides, he thought, I'm only interested in Debbie.
The front door opened and a skinny man in a uniform stepped inside. His hands were shaking. "S-s-sir," he said.
Ethan realized the new customer was holding a pistol. A .40 caliber semi-automatic. The tiny finger was pointed right at him. His face scrunched up. Ethan wondered if his eyes would collapse into his mouth. The gall, he thought. "You don't judge me," he said. Then he pointed right back at the johnny.
The officer jumped through the glass windows protecting the store from the laughing wind. As shards spun in magic circles, Ethan briefly saw a hole in the universe open up. A huge eye, all pupil and no color, stared back. Even gods have fathers, he thought.
He stepped over the cop, who was now wrapped up in a sticky red blanket, and walked back towards Ardmore. Crowds of people had gathered across Third Street, all of them looking as if they might run away, on command. Ethan smiled. There were more sirens scraping the summer blue off the atmosphere. They would have to come for him, he decided. He was going home to enjoy his root beer and the rest of his buzz. With all the competition out of the way, Debbie would no doubt return. If she was smart, she would apologize.
As he approached his apartment building on the corner of Fourth and Ardmore, he realized the sirens belonged to the police. Lots of them. The air was filled from pocket to pocket with the annoying scream of emergency vehicles providing the illusion that something could be done to prevent the final tragedy. Ethan shook his head. He pitied everyone around him. "I'll help you," he said, "all of you." Then he remembered:
He was out of shells.
Alec Cizak is a writer from Indianapolis. His crime fiction has appeared in Beat to a Pulp, A Twist of Noir, and Thuglit. His work will also be featured in an upcoming edition of Powder Burn Flash. He maintains a blog called No Moral Center. | English | NL | cce129c46cc4e4cb19a3f753ccfd71b5d9db65415081def2911916ed8391eb4c |
In many ways, Keynes was more interested in philosophy than economics. Philosophy informed his views on economics. ‘Keynes's philosophy of practice’ looks at his philosophical views. He was the product of an atheistic generation. Fundamental to his philosophy was his intuitionist epistemology. He regarded intuition, rather than sense experience, as the foundation of knowledge. Keynes asked what are the principles of rational choice and action when the future is unknown or uncertain? The point, above all, that Keynes wanted to establish was that our knowledge of probabilities is more extensive than our knowledge of frequencies. | English | NL | 449ae30d1364c7d1734dca2c5f6d6e59ceace7b32b52944bb39ea084f21013f9 |
Our week of travel started in the Andean city of Cusco, a UNESCO world heritage site considered to be Latin America’s archeological capital. By the 15th century Cusco was at the height of its importance as capital of the vast Inca Empire, but the local history is much more than Inca history: We were able to explore pre-Inca ruins (the nearby city of Pikillaqta was built by the Wari people between 500 and 900 A.D.) as well as the Spanish influence that first appeared in the 16th century after Francisco Pizzaro’s arrival (including, among many other things, the Plaza de Armas and the church of Santo Domingo, which was built on the site of Qorikancha, the Incas’ most significant temple).
Our tour guide Salvador oriented us to the city and shared some of its fascinating history and cultural heritage. We took our time adjusting to the elevation (at 11,200 feet above sea level, it’s more than twice that of Denver!) and were happy to have the opportunity to stay with local host families for several days. | English | NL | 9bcfd6703d2b0fbbcfd5d9537078d31d4b00c91bb7d03eebe5c32b84927c8d8d |
Hugh Nibley: A Consecrated Life
Somehow I skirted the edges of awareness of Hugh Nibley for a long time, though many members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have read his articles and books, or at least knew something about him.
When I was in high school, my mom had a copy of Nibley on the Timely and the Timeless that she read and really enjoyed, and she encouraged me to read it. I only read a little of it, and I don't remember it making much of an impression on me. As a student at BYU I heard his name mentioned from time to time, and around 1994 a friend took a Pearl of Great Price class from him. This friend was not impressed. He felt Dr. Nibley rambled on about seemingly arbitrary topics, and made no sense to the students. (It may have been this very class that caused Hugh to quit teaching in disgust with the students, an event described in the biography!)
Shortly after that time, Erin and I noticed our friends Mike Haire and Theron & Valerie Harmon were reading a bit of Nibley. Mike had read Approaching Zion, while Theron & Valerie were reading individual Nibley article reprints from FARMS. In the late 1990s I finally read Approaching Zion and then Brother Brigham Challenges the Saints, and they gave me a lot to think about and ultimately influenced my views significantly. They enhanced the way I viewed wealth (not inherently good or bad, but just a tool; however, a very dangerous one to the steward of that wealth), and gave me a much greater appreciation of Brigham Young and the complexities of our stewardship of the earth.
Still, I wasn't interested in Nibley's studies of ancient culture, religion, or documents. When I saw Nibley speak in 1999 or 2000 at the new Joseph Smith Building at BYU, it was a good experience for me to hear the man's voice and manner, but didn't draw me into his other writings.
Then this summer while staying at Jon & Amy Krause's house (my brother- and sister-in-law), I needed something to read and found Jon's copy of Since Cumorah in their guest bedroom we were staying in. I read the first 4 chapters and was completely engrossed, and bought a copy for myself. The further I read, the more silly I felt at not having read the book earlier. It is, after all, about 40 years old. Nibley had raised many useful questions and made interesting observations about the Book of Mormon text and its ancient setting, and his style was aggressive and cheeky, though forever tentative, and enjoyable to read.
All this is an introduction (and likely an exasperatingly long one to you, dear reader) to my background as reader of this biography of Hugh Nibley. I'll summarize my review first: It is an excellent biography. It's well researched, with an enjoyable pace, tone, and point of view (which the author says is not objective, which isn't really possible, but fair and candid). It is not a hagiography, but the biographer (Nibley's son-in-law) does not hide his admiration for Hugh when the final assessment is in.
It was fascinating to learn about Hugh's grandfather, Charles W. Nibley, presiding bishop of the Church and later, second counselor to Heber J. Grant in the First Presidency and a successful businessman in the timber industry. Hugh grew up surrounded by wealth, but his grandfather had serious doubts about even the possibility of being an ethical businessman, and his own standing before the Lord. Hugh saw his own parents' marriage weakened by wealth and subsequent failure of risky investments as the Great Depression wore on. Yet his grandfather and parents were very generous people. His grandfather was a supporter of limited work weeks and holidays for his workers, and due to this was always running into opposition from chambers of commerce. His mother never turned away transients who wanted a meal, following her parents' policy on helping those in need. This all was part of Hugh's ambivalence and later hostility towards money. Even people trying to do the right thing with their wealth could be seriously harmed by it.
I enjoyed learning a bit about Hugh's childhood, his self-confident yet self-effacing personality, his 6-week solo wilderness adventure in Oregon, his studies, and his time in the military (he drove one of the first Jeeps onto Utah Beach during the Allied invasion of France). His amazing aptitude for languages did take time to develop into the almost absurd capability he later had. (It was reassuring to learn that even with his talent, his enthusiasm outstripped his ability early on, as I believe it does for most people who learn languages very well. You have to care more about trying than about making mistakes.) His dislike of war, any war, was no distant, detached complaint, but a first-hand observation. (One of the things Hugh would never discuss was what he saw at the Dachau concentration camp in Germany after it was liberated.)
The list of interesting points goes on and on: Hugh's courting a German emigrée and later an Armenian woman, both of whom rejected him. The discussion of urban legends about Hugh (some true, some perhaps, some definitely not). His good friends made during his studies of Arabic, Coptic, Egyptian, and more. Quotations from his letters and interviews of friends and acquaintances. His publications in the Improvement Era (the Church's official magazine, equivalent of today's Ensign) and his involvement with the Church's general authorities (for example, Spencer W. Kimball as an Apostle), which was closer than I had known. His political opposition to Republicans and to the John Birch Society and its support by Ezra Taft Benson and Cleon Skousen, combined with common cause in so many areas with those same people. His visits with the Hopi Indians. His wilderness adventures. His family life. His teaching. And so much more.
Especially enlightening for me (and heartening) was the clear impression that Hugh Nibley was in no way perfect, nor even a model for me in many areas. He was his own person, filling important roles in certain places and times. As Elder Boyd K. Packer said of him, "He is one of a kind -- it is a very good kind." We can learn so much from Hugh Nibley, and find so many useful and inspirational ideas, yet need not worry about becoming fanatical followers -- he really didn't leave much room for that, constantly focusing on the Gospel instead of himself or any other individual.
Probably the biggest disappointment of the book was not particularly big: The typesetting was not all that well done. The writing itself was very good, and the editing of the text was good, with just a few mistakes. But the typesetting seems to have been done by someone with little experience and no eye for detail. Not only were there two annoying spaces between sentences, but indeed two spaces after every period, including in names. Ending quotation marks appeared at the beginning of quotations in some places. "Jeredites" appeared instead of "Jaredites" frequently in footnotes, though not in the body of the text. And so on. I hate to belabor such points, but as a former typesetter they drive me a bit crazy, and they don't do justice to the excellent writing.
The main annoyance I found in the writing was the occasional mild repetition due to the topical rather than chronological organization of the book. The author explained this organization up front, but it still was a little distracting. I think it grew out of the fact that the chapters were originally individual articles presented at conferences (Sunstone symposia and a few other places), rather than any inherent superiority of such a topical organization. But it's probably too much to ask that this be changed.
This is such a valuable and enjoyable book, that my main suggestion to the author is to someday publish a second edition that covers Hugh's last years (the book was finished in 2002, and Hugh died in 2005) and is re-typeset more competently. I enjoyed the couple of source texts included in the appendix, and wouldn't mind seeing more of those, though that isn't essential.
I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in Hugh Nibley himself; in Church history; in gospel approaches to wealth, war, priesthood leadership, or the environment; or in studies of the Book of Mormon or Pearl of Great Price. | English | NL | b2b5527d5b7ea610e3bf0864ffe5ce811c9f6c24c0e708d4f20875bd142107c8 |
The exhibition Private View at the James Hockey and Foyer Galleries at UCA Farnham was opened by UCA Vice Chancellor Professor Simon Ofield-Kerr on October 29. The exhibition looks terrific and reception was very well attended. We were delighted that the Director General of The Japan Foundation, seven of the artists, the Coordinator from Japan and the Senior Exhibitions Officer from Rugby Art Gallery and Museum (next venue) were also present.
The next day (October 30) we all met again for a seminar hosted by The Japan Foundation at Kensington Conference Centre in London. I had been invited to give an introduction to the exhibition followed by presentations by Kawaii artists Minako Nishiyama, Mitsuo Toyazaki and the Gendai-bijutsu Nitouhei partnership. We then had a very lively discussion with the 80 or so attendees, chaired by Professor Simon Olding, Director of the Crafts Study Centre.
On Saturday October 31, I led the first of the free curator's tours of the exhibition. There were 20 who had booked and several who joined as we went round. On both these public occasions I have been very interested in the range of ages, which has both surprised me and validated my thinking that the exhibition will appeal to a wide audience - from the young kawaii enthusiasts to the older craft aficionado and all who are interested in Japanese culture.
On November 13 we will hold a public seminar at which we will discuss the issues raised by the exhibition. | English | NL | 16ede3415850338a247fbb8b48b7b9904d0082509855bed013401de5085ab101 |
Thanks to Leicester book festival we got to hear Meike Ziervogel talk about Peirene Press and her own writing on Thursday night, she was absolutely inspiring and I came away with a lot to consider both in terms of how I think about translated fiction and my own family history. Basically it was a great night and if you get the chance to hear this woman speak don't pass it up.
I read the press release for 'The Blue Room' which argues that it comes from the same place in the female psyche as 'Fifty Shades of Grey' so decided some homework was in order. I've not read Fifty Shades beyond a few pages which made me feel like I'd really rather not but I know it was born out of fan fiction, so I went looking for fan fiction. It's a weird world out there but at least it's free, you can find short stuff, and you can cover a fairly wide range if fantasies quite quickly. Nothing I found was well written which is interesting in terms of the whole self publishing market, but that's a debate for another time. I'm guessing a lot of what I read was written by girls in their late teens or early twenties and a desire to be submissive certainly seems to be popular.
Hanne Orstavik's book is a world away from what I found online though - for a start it's extremely well written and crucially it isn't playing out a fantasy. The bare bones of the plot are this; Johanne, a student in her early twenties wakes up on the day she's planned to leave for America with her boyfriend to find herself trapped in her room. We spend the day in Johanne's mind whilst she reflects on the events which have lead up to this day. Johanne lives with her mother in a tiny Oslo flat, she has a room, the blue room if the title, but her mother sleeps behind a curtain in the sitting room. Their domestic life seems to have no boundaries - as evidenced by several conversations whilst one or other of them uses the toilet. That lack of physical boundaries carries through into every aspect of their relationship - or so it would seem from Johanne's narration.
Strictly speaking she's not a reliable narrator, but as we spend the duration of the novel in her head she's not precisely unreliable either; if she's telling lies she's telling them to herself. Initially the suspicion has to be that this mother daughter relationship is abusive, the devoutly Christian Johanne is given to breaking into disturbingly graphic fantasies of rape and violence which the reader feels have to come from somewhere. We're also left to wonder what has happened to her father and brother, the brother is apparently studying in America but there is no mention of what happened to the father at all. Towards the end of the book though early certainties fall apart.
Johanne says she's chosen to stay with her mother to save money, she has a future all mapped out, university followed by practice as a psychiatrist in an office to be built on her grandmothers land in space she still intends to share with her mother. It's easy to assume that the mother won't let go of the daughter but how much does the daughter want independence, and for that matter does her mother unambiguously want her there? Johanne's carefully laid plans experience a convulsion when she meets Ivar and starts a sexual relationship with him (or at least I assume she does and that this isn't more fantasy). Almost immediately he suggests they go to America together for 6 weeks, the day she's locked into her room is only two weeks into the relationship and later it seems that Johanne hadn't told Ivar that she intended to meet him on the way to the airport.
It's a slippery book, Johanne isn't the easiest character to warm to, and in the end you have to question her view point. Her mother is portrayed as steadily more sinister, her clothing becomes more provocative and we're encouraged to think she's having an affair with a married man, but maybe this too is one of Johanne's fantasies. Arguably it's quite responsible of a mother to try and prevent her daughter leaving the country mid term with a man she's only known for two weeks, but it's equally likely that Johanne had no intention of leaving - that what she's actually doing is manipulating her mother into keeping her close.
At heart popular rape and submission fantasies are a repudiation of responsibility; a desire to have your cake and eat it. When E. M. Hull wrote 'The Sheik' in 1919 rape meant her heroine could have exotic sex outside of marriage without being judged for it, I'm inclined to wonder if the continued popularity of rape fantasies, or fantasies about submissive sexual roles give tacit permission not to enjoy sex. Either way there seems to be a reluctance to take responsibility either for pleasure or the lack of it when all you're doing is what you're told. Orstavik takes that to another level, Johanne's submission forces someone else to make her decisions for her, in this case it's her mother whose prepared to do that in a cycle that traps them both.
This is quite a dark book but it's undoubtedly one of my favourite Peirene titles, it genuinely does hold up a mirror to a part of the female psyche it's not always pleasant to explore honestly. I'm not sure I agree with Meike when she says it analyses the struggle if women to seperate from their mothers though, I read it more as the struggle some daughters make not to be separated. | English | NL | db2c9a5975f983928cf919c1268327b3bbbd65c7037c31ba391ababcad2936fd |
An air-cooled chiller is a device that generates cold water to act as the means of cooling for large buildings. The chilled water is distributed through pipes in a building and passes through coils in air handlers, fan-coil units, or other systems. Air passes across these coils where it is cooled and distributed to the building. Large axial fans on the air-cooled chiller serve as the means to reject the heat outside of the building. EC fan technology allows for highly efficient operation of these fans as well as the ability to run at reduced speeds when the chiller is not running at 100%. This part-load operation of the fans is more efficient and is much quieter than 100% load. | English | NL | b1126d1e5c543c8fd357077680d47ca09ba5660479c041572cdd1215bd84a57d |
Jenny Chrisp trained at Dance City, Newcastle, on their BTEC programme and then went onto study a BA in Theatre Dance at London Studio Centre, she then returned to Dance City to finish her degree. During her study, Jenny had the chance to work with choreographers such as Jo Meridith, Renaud Wiser and Gary Clarke and companies such as BalletLORENT. She also had the great opportunity to work closely with Company of Others and their Walker Youth Dance Project for her teaching placement.
Jenny currently teaches classes for older adults in South Tyneside alongside creating her own work with artistic collaborator Megan Brown.
Jenny is very pleased to be continuing work with Company of Others on their new collaborative project with Company of Others Ensemble and West Walker Primary School to help her grow as an artist and gain further experience within community settings. | English | NL | d7c0f80b0b889ca6cb16460e7fae9b3397aa446412d5743e25d20b724f9e4851 |
With a break between the fifth (2015) and sixth (2016) seasons of Mad As Hell, Shaun saw an opportunity to produce a sitcom idea he had been working on for sometime: what does a Prime Minister do with their spare time when the intense spotlight and workload suddenly stops?
Andrew Dugdale is Australia’s 3rd longest running Prime Minister, suddenly thrust into retirement after losing an election. Dugdale (Shaun) was a important man who met with world leaders and changed the lives of his fellow Australians. But now he has too much time on his hands, and finds he has no-one to spend that time on.
His wife Catherine (Nicki Wendt), is more interested in other men – specifically Dugdale’s chief of staff, Sonny (Nicholas Bell), who as adviser to a number of PM’s, knows all of the skeletons in the closets. Dugdale’s daughter (Kate Jenkinson) and her son have moved back in with her parents, but has no interest in rekindling a relationship with a father that was absent for most of her childhood. Dugdale’s accountant (John Clarke) is under house-arrest from a tax “mix-up” and his driver (Francis Greenslade), once an ASIO operative, spends most of his time scraping egg off the car.
To top it off, Dugdale has already spend the advance for his autobiography, so has to employ ghostwriter Ellen (Lucy Honigman), who has an unhelpfully insatiable appetite for the truth.
Shaun was inspired by an anecdote of real ex-PM, John Howard and his wife Janette – after he’d been out of office for about six months, they had been doing the shopping together and walking back to the car having a chat. They both got into the back seat of their own car and waited, having forgotten they no longer had a driver.
The series starts Wednesday 14th October at 9pm on ABC TV, running for 6 episodes.
The whole series is shot on location, with Banyule Homestead in Heidelberg serving as the Dugdale home. | English | NL | 3f80cc1c1d7c84c374ce20aff32134010e76b50b21dc650a4e5d5a341a3e89ad |
OK! So yesterday afternoon, after a good month of visiting the girls daily to build trust, Rich and I blew it in 15 minutes of a bungled attempt to corral Leeza and put a harness on her. We have both read books, articles and multiple websites that advise the novice about how to cut a single alpaca out of the herd in order to put a harness on her and begin to leash train the animal. We decided that Sunday was THE day. We carefully discussed and planned what our strategy would be when we entered the pasture and found what we thought would be the exact thing to use for a herding "tape." In the materials that we read, alpaca owners used everything from a special webbing tape to a sturdy brightly colored rope to gently surround their animals and gradually herd them in to a catch pen. We were even advised by a fascinating woman who was probably in her seventies or so, that she could herd her animals alone using a simple webbing strap. How difficult can it be, we thought.
The cold, damp wind was blowing my hair around my face as I entered the pasture alone, strap in one pocket and halter in the other. Keeping my hands at my side I slowly approached the girls, talking softly to them the whole time just like I usually do on my nightly visits. So far, so good. Rich entered the pasture behind me and greeted our alpaca girls in the same friendly manner he always uses with them. They stood staring and humming at us totally unsuspecting that they were in for some unwelcome excitement. I pulled the "herding tape" out of my pocket and handed one end to Rich and I took the other and began to circle around to the other side of the girls. At this point they got nervous and realized that we were advancing toward them and slowly penning them into the corner of the pasture with the tape. We shortened the tape until all three animals were in the corner and then I put myself between Took and Leeza and gently put my arms low around Leeza's neck. Took and Mango took off and Leeza realized in an instant that she was stronger than I am. She backed out of the corner and joined her buddies in flight. Rich looked at me a little disgusted that I could not hold on to an animal that is shorter than I.
Undaunted, Rich and I decided to try the same move again in another corner of the pasture. No luck. We made a third attempt but this time Rich put a hug on Leeza. Guess what? She is stronger and faster than him, too! But this is where the trauma begins. Leeza escaped cleanly but in the process somehow the lightweight plastic "strap" got hooked around baby Mango's chest and she took off at a gallop across the pasture trailing 50 feet of yellow caution tape complete with flags dangling at regular intervals behind her! Mama Took ran along side her baby, clearly distressed about the ethereal yellow "monster" chasing her baby. Rich and I stood rooted to the spot staring helplessly for the few minutes it took for the caution tape to finally break loose and drop to the ground.
Mango and Leeza ran to the far side of the pasture and huddled behind Took who was screeching and spitting in our direction warning us to stay clear of the young ones. Richard and I retreated out of the pasture with our tails between our legs, figuratively speaking, feeling awful that we had traumatized our girls.
In our nightly visit this evening all three girls turned their backs on me at first. I apologized profusely for about 15 minutes in the cold wind before they finally turned around and looked at me. Before I came inside Took, with her ears drawn back, finally approached within two feet. I was afraid that I was going to get a face full of spit but I stood my ground ready to take my punishment. She perked up her ears, stared at me calmly, hummed and then returned to her baby. I think that I am conditionally forgiven. | English | NL | b652af8348569dd4bdf79109aa4ec3697bc0c955e33b4a73c30b9ac821371f3c |
I'm not from this age: Future origin
The origin of Dagon starts 10 years into the future. In this timeline the villain known as Lord Chaos reignes the world with tyranny. Dagon is one member of the team known as the "Team Titans". This titans were created to defeat Lord Chaos and restore the peace and freedom of the world. This timeline was proven false.
David was born in London, he was raised there and lived in harmony there for 10 years, until one Christmas Eve. That day was a dark one for Davis. The first reason was that he had been strucked by a truck, the other one was that just after that he had been taken in by Lord Chaos. Lord Chaos made his scientists experiment and inverstigate with Davis's body. However Davis was able to escape after those experiments. After that he started to aid the resistance on certain occasions.
The years passed, and when he was fourteen years old, he was taken to the country of Transylvania to have a new and unused experiment. Apparently the scientist known as Commander Stalg (One of Lord Chaos's scientists) had been able to get the bones of the most important vampire of them all, the Count Dracula. The master plan of Stalg was to extract Dracula's DNA from his bones and infuse it into David. Along Lord Chaos's soldiers was one named Charlie Watkins. He had always been a loyal sevant to Lord Chaos's, however when he saw the experiments that Stalg conducted on Davis he started to consider if Lord Chaos's way was right for doing this to a human that was just a child.
Stalg's experiments succeeded and he was able to infuse David with the DNA of Count Dracula. However something unexpected happened. A demon was angered because of this experiment, so he entered David's body during his tranformation, changing the result of things. That night David became a vampire, however he also had an afinity to the demon. After that David started an attack against the scientists, he called himself "blood-hungering dagon". After the fight ended he would call himself Dagon. He also realized that David was now dead and that he was now only the vampire known as "Dagon". Dagon killed almost all of the soldiers of Lord Chaos that were in that place, with the exception of Charlie Watkins. Soon after that he joined the resistance and later the teen team known as the Team Titans.
One day the leader of the Team Titans decided to make one risky and dangerous mission. The team titans would travel 10 years into the past to kill Donna Troy in an attempt to stop Lord Chaos from being born. Of course this had to be made before Donna Troy was able to give birth to her son (The future Lord Chaos).
The first part of the mission was succcesfull and the team of the future (Team Titans) were able to go back to the past before Donna Troy gave birth to Robert Long.
When the Team Titans tried to kill Donna Troy they encountered the team of Titans from the present (the new Teen Titans) and fought them.
However before the Team Titans could kill Donna Troy she gave birth to her son. Altough the mission looked to have failed the Teen Titans and the Team Titans were able to both stop the future of Lord Chaos and prevent the death of Donna Troy.
We did it...now what?
After the mission was acomplished the Team Titans were trapped into the past, with no way to return home. Without any options they decided that they would stay on that era until they could find a way to go back. In an ironic twist they accepted the offer of Donna Troy to live in her farmhouse in the city of New Jersey. After that they decided to investigate this timeline and find where they belonged in it.
Erased from history
Zero Hour started, changing the Team Titans in a way that no one could have forseen.
In this time crisis was revealed that the real leader of the Team Titans was the being known as Monarch (Previously known as Hawk). The Team Titans were actually beings that were from a false future created by Monarch, who wanted to have sleeper agents that would serve him as assassins in order to help him to rule the entire timeline. That future also had another purpose; it would help Monach to train young metahumans and have a bigger and more powerful army against the heroes of all generations.
Monarch (Now as Extant) absorbed the power of Waverider and used it to take adventage of the incoming time crisis. Using the army that he created, along with the Team Titans he attacked the world's heroes who wanted to stop the time crisis.
However Extant's plan was unsuccessful and the Team Titans were defeated by the Earth's heroes. At the same moment, time started to collapse. This made all the parallel and false timelines to be erased from existence. As another result the Team Titans were erased from history and dissapeared. The only three team titans members that weren't eased were Terra II, Mirage and Deathwing because it was revealed that they were from the present timeline and that Extant had taken them from there, erasing their memories to make them part of his army. Dagon didn't have the same luck, and suffered the same fate as the other members; erased from history, no one would remember him because he never truly existed.
It hasn't been stated if a Dagon from the present will appear in the DCU, and only time will tell | English | NL | 9d754aa88bf0dfb3db5049276c94eb88d1ad48fb3b33a5c80088f90e7ac7e56b |
“Traffic on Martin Park Avenue is at a standstill due to a flipped over auto in the centre lane,” the radio reported.
Walter rolled his eyes. Luckily, he had no appointments scheduled.
The authoritative radio voice was replaced by Eddie Van Halen strumming the opening notes on “Right Now”.
Walter tapped his hands on the steering wheel in appreciation of the beat. He drove a white four door Chevy Optra that was almost ten years old. It was a decent vehicle, though Walter was always paranoid about finding it harder to get parts being the model was no longer manufactured.
Sammy Hagar began crooning along with Eddie’s guitar.
Walter sat his large frame on a bucket seat covered in gray fabric. He glanced in the back seat at the two booster seats and smiled.
There was a small blonde, blue eyed plastic doll sitting beside one of the boosters that smiled back at him.
His attention returned to the near motionless cars around him. Between rubber necking and one lane being lost, this was going to take awhile. Walter thumbed at his gps to see if there was an alternate route. Due to the road running along the side of a river, there were no other options that would get him across.
Chad Kroeger began singing about feeling way too damned good.
“At least it isn’t sunny.” Walter looked up at the overcast skies. The first drops of rain appeared on the windshield. Working on a sunny day from his car always felt like he was an ant under a magnifying glass. He always preferred the cooler, rainy summer days as the rain also helped kill the humidity.
A car horn complained up ahead.
Glancing to his right, Walter noticed a brunette glancing at him. She was in a gray Toyota Matrix.
Her eyes quickly shot away after the brief connection.
Walter felt his face flush. He was almost 50 and had heart concerns due to his weight. His near seven foot height hid the weight well, but he was not able to climb stairs quickly without needing to catch his breath. His hair was brown with gray streaks and a matching goatee. His own eyes were the same blue as the doll in the back seat.
The brunette kept her eyes away for a few moments. Glancing back, she caught his eyes again and grinned before quickly evading. Her eyes were big and brown.
Walter guessed she was half his age. Due to being in the car, he was uncertain but she looked rather slim. Her hair disappeared behind her shoulders against the seat.
Her hand covered her grin and she glanced away again.
Walter waited with one eye on the car in front of him, and one eye on the brunette. He checked his ring finger and found the wedding ring mark was long gone. “After two years, it should be,” he mumbled. He leaned back and his right arm stretched to a rest on the top of the passenger seat.
The brunette’s brown eyes found his again.
He waved and said, “Hi.” Knowing she could not hear, he felt a bit foolish. His face flushed even further, seeing her reaction.
She smiled, waved back and then rolled down the driver window on the Matrix. She waved her hand downwards, encouraging Walter to lower his passenger window.
He used the console on his door to follow her instructions.
Without the glare of the windows he got a much better look at her. She had an Asian look to her eyes and smooth skin. Her smile was beautiful.
Walter had an image of a collar around her neck and her on her knees in front of him wearing nothing but a leather bra and underwear.
She called from her window, “Hi!”
The rain picked up just slightly and tapped heavier on the open window frame.
She glanced ahead before continuing, “Could I buy you a coffee?” She pointed ahead at the donut and coffee shop just ahead on the right.
This was not the question Walter had been expecting. He took a moment to compute a proper answer, “Sure.”
She nodded, “Cool.”
She was young, he thought. He was not sure why she would want to talk to him, but he had nothing to lose.
It took twenty minutes as they inched forward, but Walter was able to move his Optra into the lane behind her and followed her into the packed parking lot. With no parking spots, he followed her around the lot until she found a back entrance that led onto a tiny residential street. A quick glance at his gps showed this would take him backwards.
She pulled her Matrix over and got out. Her body was gorgeous. Slim with some serious curves. She wore a pink blouse over a black skirt and
The skies above got a bit darker.
Walter pulled up behind her, leaving enough room for a driveway cut out. He un-latched his seat belt and stepped out. His gray slacks swayed beneath a light blue shirt and navy tie.
Her eyes widened further seeing Walter’s height. Her car was under a tree, protecting her from the rain. She smiled at him and offered her hand to the giant. “I’m Alexa.”
He shook her tiny hand. “Walter. Did you want to walk back for coffee?”
Thunder boomed overhead and darker clouds dropped the light level.
“No,” she shook her head. “It looks to busy.”
Walter glanced back at the parking lot entrance and nodded. He pointed back from the direction they had been coming and said, “There is another coffee…”
“I don’t want coffee.”
She grinned. “I want to fuck you blind.”
“Excuse me?” Walter, again, had not expected to hear these words.
Walter thought for a moment, completely unsure of what to say.
Alexa’s face turned to concern. “I’m sorry. I just…”
Walter interrupted, “No need to be sorry. I’m willing. I just was not expecting such a goddess, as yourself, to proposition me.”
She smiled. “I saw you in the car. I like men a bit older than I am, what can I say? And now that I have seen how big you are…”
Walter was no longer blushing. His mind had adjusted and was now on home turf again. “How far away do you live?”
She grinned. “I’m just visiting a friend. My place is a four hour flight.”
Walter nodded and worked on an idea. “With this traffic, we’re an hour from my place. However…” His eyes wandered up and down her body. “How adventurous are you?”
Her smile answered without words.
“Follow me,” he said. He walked to her car door and opened it for her. “We won’t be going far.”
She slipped back into her car and waited for Walter’s Optra to pass.
He checked his gps and found the park just down the road. Earlier he had caught a hint of green on the tiny screen, so he knew it was a large area.
There were washrooms up the path, and trees everywhere. Lightning flashed above and showed a few covered picnic areas back amongst the trees.
Walter parked and got out. Again opening her door, he helped her out.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“No more words, just enjoy and obey.”
Her face smiled even more brightly at the word ‘obey’.
He offered his arm and led her down the path towards the covered picnic areas. The rain started pelting causing the couple to move more hurriedly.
They were both soaked by the time they arrived at the shelter. The shelter covered four picnic tables and two open grills.
The sky darkened further until more lightning flashed.
Alexa obeyed with no words.
Walter commanded with a deep baritone voice, “Sit.”
Alexa sat on the benches of one of the picnic tables.
Walter looked around to check for any potential voyeurs. Seeing none, he stood in front of her and pulled down his zipper.
Thunder announced itself again.
Alexa gasped realizing that his member was relative to his height. Even with both her hands on him, she could not cover his complete length. She licked her lips and stroked, awaiting further instructions. “Please, sir?” she asked in a whisper.
Walter was annoyed she had spoken, at first. He quickly decided not to explore that anger as such opportunities were too rare to give up for such a faux pas. Instead, he nodded.
Lightning lit the now near night darkness.
She smiled and kissed the very tip of his now erect penis. She then lifted the erection and suckled his balls.
Walter gasped and steadied himself.
More lightning flashed and the rain picked up intensity.
Alexa then sucked just the tip into her mouth. Slowly pulling his length in, more and more.
Walter lace his right hand through the hair on the back of her head and pulled her gently further. He was very impressed that she did not gag and took him whole. He was also fascinated with the big brown eyes that locked with his as she did it. The biggest surprise came when he felt her wet tongue slip out and, once again, play with his balls.
Thunder rumbled its approval of the show.
For ten minutes, Alexa worked at milking him. She alternated licking around his cock as she stroked and taking his length fully in again. As she took him deep again, he orgasmed and felt her suction on his cock as she swallowed the entire load.
Walter gasped and regrouped for a moment.
Thunder now followed almost directly after the lightning flashes.
Walter picked up the tiny Asian goddess and sat her on top of the picnic table. Lifting her skirt, he found black panties in the way which he ripped with little effort.
Alexa giggled at his action.
Lightning and thunder applauded as well.
Walter then bent down and his tongue explored between her legs. Her clit was sweet and plump as he sucked it into his mouth. His hands first untucked her blouse and reached up under it to massage her breasts.
Lightning and thunder continued to watch as Alexa started squirming.
Releasing her breasts, Walter clamped his hands on her hips to stop the squirming.
Alexa began screaming her pleasure, barely audible over the intense rain and continual thunder.
Walter stood and lifted her with his hands still on her hips.
She wrapped her legs around him and hung on with her head only reaching to near his armpits.
Walter seated himself back on the picnic table with her on top. His hands then reached down and squeezed her ass, lifting her.
Alexa reached down and guided his massive cock, hard again, inside her. She slowly lowered herself on him, afraid he would simply be too big. Before much longer, she was smashing herself down onto him to the beat of the near constant lightning and thunder.
Walter felt his cock nearing climax. He stopped and pushed her off of him. He then bent her over the table and hammered into her from behind with his right hand a vice on her hip and his left pulling her head back with her hair. His cum filled her as she screamed with her pleasure.
She fell forward on the table as Walter released her. Her screams started anew as his mouth returned to her pussy and sucked out their mixed juices.
An hour later, after the rain had finally let up, Walter opened her car door for her. “M’lady.”
Alexa got on her tip toes, for the good it did her.
Walter bent down to accept the kiss which was sweet, wet and passionate.
“Thank you, m’lord,” she said with a slight mock. “May I see you again?”
Walter crinkled his brow. “You said you weren’t from here.”
“I’m here looking for work, so hopefully will be back soon. Even so, might I take your phone number?”
He agreed with a smile and recited his number as she entered it into her phone.
She kissed him once more before slipping into her Matrix, and pulling off into the darkness.
Walter smiled and felt alive. He hoped she would get that job as now he really wanted to see her with that collar on. | English | NL | 988ae8cb139ffd5524568cf8680ab05a54a9505eac29da0a5a7597fd0dac68e5 |
JILLIAN TOMLINSON FRAKER ‘10
Conor Patric Gregory, genuine, honest, compassionate and curious scholar of life, died tragically from heart complications on Friday, November 29, at his family’s home in Hood Canal, WA. He was 25.
He will be remembered by everyone as a man of strong character. Conor lived each and every day to its fullest. He inspired those around him with his passion, and in doing so he made the world a better place for everyone and everything.
He will be remembered having his book in hand, his constant smile, his positive energy and his contagious enthusiasm.
Conor was born on Feb. 15, 1988, at Swedish Hospital in Seattle, WA. His first love was for movies and books. He spent his childhood looking up to his older brother, hiking, reading and developing a sincere appreciation for nature that carried him through life.
He attended Bellevue High School and was a proud member of the drama club. When he wasn’t perfecting his acting skills in case he got the call to star in a future James Bond movie, he was playing high school sports and diving deeper into literature.
After high school Conor earned a B.A. with high honors in English from Trinity College in Hartford, CT. While attending college, he volunteered at the Hartford Boys and Girls Club, where he developed a passion for public service. He wrote a brilliant senior thesis, “The Rescue of Herman Melville: How Early 20th-century Writers Made Moby-Dick Relevant.” To Conor, Moby-Dick was the greatest piece of American literature ever written, and he made sure to tell this to anyone who would listen.
Upon receiving his degree, he backpacked through Europe with his girlfriend. He called this “the grand adventure,” a motto he lived his life by. Traveling gave Conor perspective, and a greater appreciation of classic literature and poetry.
After returning from his travels, he settled on Nantucket. There, he immersed himself in literature and the island’s rich whaling history while preparing for law school. Conor could often be found in his kayak exploring Nantucket’s waters with a six-pack of Red Hook ESB and a copy of Moby-Dick or a poetry collection by one of the many writers he admired.
In August of 2012, Conor moved back to Seattle to attend Seattle University School of Law. He served as a staff member of the Seattle Journal of Social Justice. He also worked as a summer intern at the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. During this time, Conor exhibited the same passion for law that he displayed in everything he did.
Conor mentioned daily how happy he was to be back home in Seattle, where he could spend more time with his loved ones and embrace his love for the outdoors.
He is survived by his father, Gene Gregory; mother, Wendy Gregory; brother, E.J. Gregory; the love of his life, Jillian Fraker; and his dog, Hana.
Condolences may be sent to Conor’s parents, Eugene and Wendy Gregory at 631 Market Street, Kirkland, WA 98033.
In lieu of flowers, contributons can be made to a foundation to be set up in Conor’s name. The foundation will benefit the Boys and Girls Club of Hartford, Conn. Details of The Conor Gregory Foundation has already raised over $30,000, and is currently in the works of attaing its designationaas a non-profit organiztion, details of which will be made available soon. | English | NL | 924588cceae58f801eb147a7c184b160953245a0a87c4e51dc106fcfe0cfc4e1 |
This unique New York Loft was designed by RAAD Studio, an award-winning Manhattan-based design firm with a portfolio of over 100 completed projects. This loft is located in one of the most beautiful buildings in New York City, the Beaux-Arts style former police headquarters located at 240 Centre Street.
A unique room inside an iconic New York building was carefully treated to emphasize the muscular beauty of the ancient building skeleton itself. In a project that was almost more about taking away than adding, the interventions were meant to create a clean backdrop for the roughness of the building shell. Building systems, storage, and lighting were all added in delicate balance to bring out the character of the space. Photos by RAAD Studio | English | NL | 778487d1e09dc39edcd2638bfa06d67cc6263e25cb78904221083aabc92b4ede |
(460?–404? bc). As long as the subject of history is studied, the fame of the Athenian Thucydides will be secure. His stature as a historian has never been surpassed and rarely equaled. In his History of the Peloponnesian War, he accomplished what few others have: He wrote an eyewitness account of the events of the war as they unfolded. | English | NL | 57c112df2170207865d44f67a2e1bbe43971cb4bfa92a0bbbeafc4e5e64a9817 |
Virginia Criminal Defense Attorney
When a person is faced with a traffic stop, it is important to contact a Fairfax reckless driving attorney to ensure that they receive the best defense possible for their case. Additionally, if they contact an attorney before they experience a traffic stop, the attorney can explain what to expect at a Fairfax traffic stop and can give advice on what to do.
Generally speaking, a person should expect that a police officer will go ahead and activate his or her lights and pull them over. Once they pull over on the road, the officer will expect them to turn off their vehicle. If they don’t, the officer will ask them to do so when they first approach the vehicle.
The officer will then walk up to the driver’s side, unless it’s an unsafe area, in which case they would go ahead and approach the car on the passenger side. The officer will ask the person to roll down their window a little bit and will ask for the person’s driver’s license, for their registration of the vehicle, and for proof of insurance, which is required in Fairfax in order to drive on the road. At that point, the officer would probably go back and process it or tell the person how fast they were going if they were being pulled over for speeding.
The officer might ask some questions about where they were going or what they were doing. Once a person provides the standard information to the officer, however, they don’t have to answer any other questions. In a standard stop, a person can expect the officer to ask them general questions, and then from there, either proceed by giving the person a ticket or by asking them questions in relation to another crime that they suspect the person of.
If there is no shoulder, they should pull off as soon as they can in a safe location. It is very important that a person ensures that they are pulling over in a place that is safe for them and that they are not just stopping in the middle of the road. Also, they should make sure that they do it as quickly as they can so that the officer does not think that they are trying to elude or escape them.
For a person to show the officer that they are trying to pull over safely, they can put on their turn signal. Additionally, a person can call 112 or 911 and say that they are trying to find a safe space to pull over and that they are not trying to elude the police.
If a person is pulled over during a daytime stop, they can turn off their vehicle or leave it on, although the officer may ask for them to turn it off. The person should have their license, registration, and proof of insurance ready. If it is in their glove box and the officer has already approached their window, they should not lean over until the officer tells them to do so.
They should also make sure that their hands are in a clear and visible position, such as on the steering wheel. By doing so, the officer can easily see the person’s hands as they approach the window and it shows the officer that the person is not in a position to grab a weapon or threaten the officer. Additionally, they should make sure they specify that they are getting their information from their glove box and that they are going to reach over and retrieve it. It is important to give the officer an indication of what they are doing so the officer doesn’t think that there’s a sticky situation at hand.
After a person gives the officer their insurance, license, and registration, the officer may go back to their vehicle and run the information with their system to make sure that there aren’t any warrants out for the person’s arrest or to make sure that there is nothing that they need to be worried about. At that point, the officer could come back and attempt to ask more questions and ask to search the vehicle. Usually, though, if it’s just a typical stop, the officer will take the information, run it, write a ticket, and the person should be on their way.
A person should definitely make sure that they are not providing more information to the officer than they need to. They should provide the officer with their name, ID, proof of insurance, and registration when the officer asks for it, but they certainly do not need to speak with the officer about where they were going, what they were doing, or the like.
The officer will likely ask questions, such as if a person knows that they were speeding. In this case, it is not helpful for a person to admit that they were speeding and they certainly should not have to answer the question if it makes them feel uncomfortable. A person can then say do not feel comfortable answering any questions and that they would like to speak with an attorney.
A person has the option to ask the officer questions, as well. If they are pulled over, they can ask the officer why they were pulled over. They can also ask the officer if they calculated the speed based on radar or Lidar, what speed they were going, and to see the radar/Lidar reading. The officer should allow the person to view it, but it’s not something that would preclude the officer from introducing that in court if they don’t allow the person to see it. A person can also ask if they are under arrest or if they are free to go after the ticket is written.
During a daytime stop, a person should not get out of the vehicle unless the officer specifically asks them to do so. When a person voluntarily exits their vehicle, it can make an officer uncomfortable or unsafe. Therefore, a person should sit in their vehicle and make sure that their hands are in a place where the officer can see them.
Also, during a daytime stop, a person should not voluntarily allow an officer to search their vehicle. A person should avoid answering questions or making statements to an officer unless it is about their identity, insurance, or registration. If the officer is trying to ask the person any other questions, especially if it seems like the officer is questioning and investigating to see if there is a different crime or any crime going on, the person should say that they do not feel comfortable answering questions before speaking with an attorney, and that they are exercising their right to stay silent.
Once a person is pulled over during a nighttime stop, they should be careful to make sure that the officer knows what the person is doing at all times. It is important to ensure that the officer doesn’t think that they are going to try to cause any kind of disruption. Therefore, a person should make that the officer can see their hands.
Additionally, a person should definitely be aware of their surroundings and aware of what the officer is attempting to do or attempting to ask, especially if it’s late at night and the officer is saying the person looks tired and asking if they have been drinking. A person should not answer any questions that the officer is attempting to ask them, and instead tell the office that they do not want to answer any questions and would like to speak with their attorney.
A person can turn on their in-car light if it makes them feel more comfortable, but it is not something that they have to do. If the in-car light is on, however, the officer will have a clear view inside the car, including any contrabands that could potentially be in the car. | English | NL | 774fe4df7fb95630ab0330d15fcbb48d322afd4cf5ce2f1003b531f138fb846f |
Harlond Clift was the major leagues’ first modern third baseman, an outstanding defensive player who also possessed power, production, and patience at the plate. Until Clift came to the majors in 1934, third basemen – with the notable exceptions of Home Run Baker and Pie Traynor – were primarily thought of as being similar to second basemen and shortstops. Most teams were satisfied to have the hot corner manned by a good glove man, even if he wasn’t much of a hitter. At 5-feet-11 and 180 pounds, the right-handed-hitting and -throwing Clift changed that way of thinking, and future third basemen including Eddie Mathews, Al Rosen, Ron Santo, and Ken Boyer carried on what Clift started in the 1930s and early ’40s.
For all of his accomplishments and pioneering efforts at third base and as a hitter, Clift had the misfortune to have played his entire 12-year major-league career with the St. Louis Browns and Washington Senators, two of the least successful franchises. The teams Clift played on had a won-lost percentage of just .423 and they finished in the first division only three times in a dozen seasons. As a result, Clift’s solid and sometimes excellent career went virtually unnoticed. He was selected for only one All-Star Game, and The Sporting News (based in St. Louis, where Clift played most of his career) never chose him for its postseason major-league all-star team.
Harlond Benton Clift was born on August 12, 1912, in El Reno, Oklahoma, to ranch-owning parents. When he was 3 years old, his parents, Mr. and Mrs. A.B. Clift, sold their ranch and purchased land in the Pacific Northwest near Yakima, Washington. A city of 18,000 situated in the Yakima Valley and southeast of Mount Rainier National Park, Yakima is known for being one of the best apple-producing areas in the world.
Reflecting on his childhood in later years, Clift remarked, “When I was just a little shaver, my grandfather decided there was more money in apples than farming and he traded his property for an orchard. … No one ever has struck oil on that farm and retired a multimillionaire. But say, have I had a share of picking and throwing apples? Ever since I was able to climb a ladder I have picked those big juicy apples the folks back east rave about. And I guess it was throwing apples that caused me to break into baseball for it enabled me to develop a good throwing arm.”1
While in high school in Yakima, Clift played on the baseball team. At the age of 17, after he left school, he joined the town semipro team. While playing for the team he attended a tryout camp run by the Browns and impressed Willis Butler, a Browns scout. During the tryout, the anxious but determined 18-year-old broke his collarbone fielding a ball. Despite the injury, Butler recognized Clift’s ability, signed him to a contract with the Browns’ organization, and Clift broke into professional baseball in 1932 with the Wichita Falls Spudders of the Texas League. The team, which moved to Longview, Texas, in May, was managed by former Browns catcher Hank Severeid. Clift began the season playing shortstop before being moved to his permanent position at third base. In 127 games he batted .282 with nine home runs.
The next season the Browns hooked up with the San Antonio Missions in the Texas League, and Clift again played for Hank Severeid. At third base the entire season, he batted .273 with seven home runs.
In 1934 the Browns invited Clift to spring training in West Palm Beach, Florida. Manager Rogers Hornsby recognized Clift’s talent and potential. In an exhibition game against the New York Giants on March 22, he hit a grand slam off future Hall of Fame pitcher Carl Hubbell. Clift also exhibited a “good pair of hands” at third base. The Browns, who had finished the 1933 season in last place with a record of 55-96, placed the 22-year-old Clift on their Opening Day roster.
According to Bill James in his Historical Baseball Abstract, Clift was given the nickname Darkie by teammate Alan Strange, also a rookie, who thought Clift’s first name was Harlem. The moniker, with its racial overtones, stuck. Also, the rookie was so reluctant to talk that he did not correct anyone who thought his name was Harland rather than Harlond.
Clift made his major-league debut on Opening Day, April 17, when he pinch-hit for Bobo Newsom in the seventh inning against the Cleveland Indians and singled. He started at third base the next day and was the Browns’ leadoff hitter for the rest of the season. He hit his first major-league home run on May 9 off the New York Yankees’ Russ Van Atta, helping the Browns defeat the Yankees 9-8 at Yankee Stadium. On the 11th he went 4-for-6 and scored three runs as the Browns beat the Senators 4-3 in Washington. Clift hit the first of his six career grand slams on May 31 as the Browns defeated the Detroit Tigers 11-3. Clift was batting .291 on June 8 but went into a slump that saw his average drop to .257 by the end of the month.
On July 31 Clift had a double in four at-bats as the Browns lost to the visiting Chicago White Sox, 5-2. That day the soon-to-be-22-year-old player also found time to marry Cora Douglas, 21, at the Fifth Street Methodist Church in St. Louis. The couple eventually became parents of two children.
Clift ended his rookie season with a .260 batting average, 14 home runs and 56 RBIs. He also proved to be a very effective leadoff hitter for the Browns, scoring 104 runs and walking 84 times for an on-base percentage of .357. The Browns, given a boost by their rookie third baseman, and led in hitting by Sammy West (.326) and Rollie Hemsley (.309), improved to a sixth-place place finish with a record of 67-85.
In 1935, again managed by Rogers Hornsby, the Browns slipped to seventh place with a 65-87 record. Clift started slowly, batting only .227 by the end of June. On July 10 he had a breakout game with four hits against the Philadelphia Athletics. Clift hit his first home run of the season the following day off the Athletics’ Roy Mahaffey. He went on to bat .295 with 11 home runs, 69 RBIs, 101 runs scored, 83 walks, and an on-base percentage of .406. Although he committed 27 errors, Clift was becoming a steady-fielding third basemen for the Browns.
The Hornsby-led Browns finished in seventh place again in 1936. However, their 23-year-old third baseman was coming into his prime as an outstanding but overlooked performer. Clift raised his batting average to .302, slugged 20 homers, drove in 73 runs, and scored 145 runs (second best in the American League). He drew 115 walks, contributing to an on-base percentage of .424. His slugging average was .514 and his fielding percentage improved to .951, third best in the league. On June 2 Clift went 5-for-6 with a double and a triple in a game against the Senators. He homered twice against the Red Sox on June 20. Despite his breakout season, Clift was left off the American League team for the All-Star Game, and The Sporting News chose Pinky Higgins (.289/12/80) of the last-place Athletics as the third baseman on their postseason all-star team.
The Browns finished dead last in 1937. Rogers Hornsby was fired after the team got off to a 25-52 start. His replacement Jim Bottomley, another future Hall of Famer, was no better, with the Browns going 21-56 under him. At a final mark of 46-108, the Browns finished 56 games behind the pennant-winning Yankees. In the midst of this dreadful season, Clift was one of the Browns’ few shining lights. He went 5-for-5 on Opening Day against the White Sox with a double and a homer. He hit two homers on May 31 against the White Sox and had another two-homer game on June 13 against the Yankees. Clift had a career-high 20-game hitting streak from August 11 to August 29, going 32-for-81 for a .395 batting average. He finished the season with a .306 batting average, 29 home runs (a new major-league record for third basemen), and 118 RBIs. He made 34 errors but his 405 assists and 50 double plays were both records for third basemen that lasted until 1971. This time he was selected for the American League team in the All-Star Game, along with teammates Beau Bell and Sammy West. Unfortunately for Clift, and a number of other American League All-Stars, Joe McCarthy, the manager of the American League squad, started five of his Yankees: Lou Gehrig, Red Rolfe, Joe DiMaggio, Bill Dickey, and Lefty Gomez. All but Gomez played the entire game, which the American League won, 8-3. Clift spent the day on the bench, a nonparticipant in his lone All-Star contest. (Rolfe, DiMaggio, Gehrig, and Dickey played the entire game, as did Clift’s teammate Sammy West, Charlie Gehringer, Earl Averill, and Joe Cronin.) Though Clift made the All-Star Team, he was passed over again by The Sporting News when it picked Red Rolfe for its all-star team after the season.
The 1938 Browns escaped the basement, finishing seventh with a record of 55-97 under managers Gabby Street (53-90) and Oscar Melillo (2-7). Clift had perhaps his finest season, both at bat and in the field. He was batting .264 at the All-Star break, but caught fire in the second half of the season, homering twice in five separate games. Clift enjoyed the best month of his career in August, batting .333 with 15 homers and 34 RBIs. On September 18 at Sportsman’s Park, in the second game of a double-header, Clift pounded the pennant-bound Yankees with two home runs, a triple, and six RBIs. One of his homers was a grand slam off ace reliever Johnny Murphy, who was starting this day.
Clift finished the season with a .290 batting average and broke his third basemen’s home-run record of the previous year, with 34. Again, he drove in 118 runs. He led American League third basemen in putouts and fielding average. Once again, Red Rolfe (.311/10/80) was the major leagues’ best third baseman, according to The Sporting News.
From 1939 to 1941, playing under manager Fred Haney (replaced by Luke Sewell during the 1941 season), the Browns remained deep in the second division. Clift put up consistent offensive numbers each year, averaging 17 home runs, 85 RBIs, and a .266 batting average. While his slugging decreased, he maintained an impressive on-base percentage. After eight seasons with the Browns, Clift had hit 160 home runs and had a .281 batting average. He was only 29 years old, and his future appeared bright.
But starting in 1942, Clift’s power dried up. While still a reliable defensive third baseman, he managed only seven homers, 55 RBI, and a .274 batting average. The Browns, under Sewell, finished in third place with an 82-69 record, their best season since Clift joined the club in 1934.
As many ballplayers went off to fight in World War II, the Browns returned to the second division, finishing in sixth place in 1943. As the father of two, Clift was not drafted and remained in baseball. However, he was not around at the end of the Browns’ season. After playing 105 games and hitting .232 with just three home runs and 25 RBIs, he was traded to the Washington Senators on August 18 along with pitcher Johnny Niggeling in exchange for pitcher Ox Miller, infielder Ellis Clary, and cash. The Senators were in the pennant race, eventually finishing in second place. Clift got into just eight games for the Senators with no home runs, four RBIs, and a .300 batting average.
For the only time in their 52-year history in St. Louis, the Browns won the American League pennant in 1944. Having been traded to the Senators the previous season, Clift missed the opportunity to finally play on a pennant-winning team. To make matters worse, he developed testicular mumps from apparently being around his children and did not play a game for Washington until July 16. After just 12 games, he was injured when thrown by a horse, and his season came to an abrupt end.
The 32-year-old Clift was the Senators’ regular third baseman for most of the 1945 season, but his skills had eroded. Washington finished in second place, but Clift contributed only eight homers, 53 RBIs, and a .211 batting average in 119 games. A big chunk of his offense came in a July Fourth doubleheader in Chicago. Clift homered in the first game, then hit two more home runs, including a grand slam, and drove in seven runs in the second game. The three Independence Day homers were the last of his major-league career. On September 20 Clift played what turned out to be his final game in the majors, going 0-for-4. The next day during batting practice, he was hit on the head by a pitch and suffered a concussion. The Senators released him on February 9, 1946. He returned to Yakima, where he caught on with his hometown team, the Yakima Stars of the Class B Western International League, an affiliate of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Against the less-skilled competition, Clift regained his batting eye and his home-run stroke, batting .312 (19 home runs) in 1946 and .337 (seven home runs) in 1947. Clift also managed the 1947 Stars, who finished the season in last place.
In his 12-year major-league career, Clift had 1,558 base hits, 178 home runs, 829 runs batted in, a batting average of .272, an on-base percentage of .390, and a slugging percentage of .441. He scored 100 or more runs in seven seasons, drew 100 or more walks six times, and hit 20 or more home runs in four seasons. Perhaps not a Hall of Fame career, but certainly a respectable, even memorable one.
Except few did remember. Clift coached in the Pacific Coast League and scouted for the Detroit Tigers before returning to the Yakima area for good in the early 1950s. His son, Harlond Jr., played minor-league baseball from 1957 to 1960. After the 1953 season, the St. Louis Browns moved to Baltimore to become the Orioles. The Washington Senators became the Minnesota Twins in 1961. Clift reportedly was heartbroken that the only two Major League franchises he had played for both ceased to exist. He said, “I have no ballclub anymore.” 2
Clift tended to the family farm of 50,000 acres. Eventually, however, he lost it all. He admitted that he had made many mistakes dealing with cattle ranching, “where you never know how it’s gonna go.” By the 1980s, Clift was widowed and living alone in a mobile home in Yakima, getting by on his Social Security checks and a small pension from the Association of Professional Ball Players of America.
Clift was remembered twice for his career as a ballplayer. He reportedly broke down and cried when he received an invitation to an old-timer’s game at New York’s Shea Stadium, so surprised was he to be remembered at all.3 Then in 1977, Clift was inducted into the Washington Sports Hall of Fame.
Clift died at the age of 79 on April 27, 1992, at St. Elizabeth Medical Center in Yakima. He was buried in Yakima’s Terrace Heights Memorial Park.
Bill James, The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2001), 563.
Mike Robbins, Ninety Feet from Fame: Close Calls With Baseball Immortality (New York: Carroll & Graf Publishers, 2004) 102-104.
The Official 1981 Baseball Dope Book (St. Louis: The Sporting News, 1981).
Harlond Clift’s statistics from Baseball-Reference.com.
Special thanks to Bill Francis of the National Baseball Hall of Fame for providing a copy of Clift’s clip file.
1 Comment distributed by American League Service Bureau, February 3, 1935.
2 Mike Robbins, Ninety Feet From Fame: Close Calls with Baseball Immortality, 103.
3 Robbins, Ninety Feet From Fame, 103-104. | English | NL | 8c9c59ec89bcbbf9db1f7ff9d8083094bd003ed281ef4ff5a2b96e0cdeb94d55 |
William Blake not only wrote poetry; he was also a painter and printmaker, and his poetry is often accompanied by fantastic imagery. He was a pretty unconventional guy for his time: His poetry, as we might imagine, is pretty rebellious—not surprising for a Romantic.. Part poetry, part illustration and painting, part aphorisms, it's hard to sum up what, exactly, this book is.
Adorable was william blake a romantic poet sexy video
Although Blake struggled to make a living from his work during his lifetime his influence and ideas are possibly the strongest of all the Romantic poets. William Blake (28 November – 12 August ) was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age.
Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. What he called his prophetic works were said by 20th-century critic Northrop Frye to form "what is in proportion to its merits the least read body of poetry in the English language".
In his Life of William Blake Alexander Gilchrist warned his readers that Blake "neither wrote nor drew for the many, hardly for work'y-day men at all, rather for children and angels; himself 'a divine child,' whose playthings were sun, moon, and stars, the heavens and the earth. Far from being an isolated mystic, Blake lived and worked in the teeming metropolis of London at a time of great social and political change that profoundly influenced his writing. After the peace established in , the British Empire seemed secure, but the storm wave begun with the American Revolution in and the French Revolution in changed forever the way men looked at their relationship to the state and to the established church. Poet, painter, and engraver, Blake worked to bring about a change both in the social order and in the minds of men. | English | NL | f09868d5ca162253d91ccab86547bc9d28ed533762e8f1f7494fef0d7572b67d |
The history of Abram St John the Evangelist Parish Church
The original church in Abram was built in 1838, located in the centre of the village, along the main road and at the highest point. The first stone was laid on the 9th March 1836 by Sir Henry Gunning and on Saturday 9th June 1838 the building was consecrated by the then Lord Bishop of Chester and dedicated to St John the Evangelist.
The school was built in 1883 and located just down the road from the church. It was paid for by the Chadwick family and named after St John. As the industrialisation of the area grew so did the housing in order to accommodate the families of those working at the Maypole Colliery.
The original church building was also not able to accommodate the increase in population and was felt to be too small. On 19th July 1907 a meeting was held with the Bishop of Liverpool, Mr J H A Whitley, JP; Mr H E Johnson JP and Mr John Smith JP to consider the possibility of building a new Parish Church to replace the original which was in a bad state of repair.
In December 1907 the bell which was placed on the church roof over the front porch fell down and Mr John Smith JP of Crankwood Road, Abram is quoted as saying that something would have to be done as “The church was falling down round our heads!”
Shortly before the outbreak of the First World War enough money had been raised to commence building the church, but the war intervened and by its end inflation had doubled the cost of building. The money to build the present church was finally raised in 1935 and the first sod was cut on the same site adjacent to the original building on the 10th July by the Rev T F Brownbill Twemlow. On the pillar at the entrance to the Lady Chapel (to the side of the pulpit) is the Foundation Stone, laid 7th December 1935, by Orlando, 5th Earl of Bradford in the presence of Albert Augustus Chavasse, Lord Bishop of Liverpool. A receptacle was placed beneath the stone containing a copy of the Service, the parish magazine, plans and specifications with the names of the architects and contractor and all church officials. The church was dedicated on January 30th 1937 by the Bishop of Warrington Dr Gresford Jones.
The church was aligned north to south not the usual east to west probably because of the geological structure of the land. In excavating the foundations it was found that there was such a quantity of sand that it was necessary to sink columns down to bedrock. The architects were Austin and Paley of Lancaster and the builders were Messrs Thomas. The total cost was £13, 616.12.0; this figure included all furniture, fittings, hassocks, cassocks, hymn books and carpets.
The clock on the church tower was bought by public subscription to celebrate the Silver Jubilee of George V in 1935. It was felt that the church was the most appropriate place in the village for the clock to be installed. The cost was £150; there is a stone on the tower wall commemorating the gift.
To view A Guide to Abram St John The Evangelist Parish Church click here. | English | NL | 3d8901246067313a23df70afc22ae88f4f686d31bf585185313e200064001136 |
Plant and Food Research principal scientist Nigel Larsen is trying to find out why many non-Coeliac gluten-sensitive New Zealanders can eat wheat-based foods overseas but not in this country.
When she moved to New Zealand in 2011, she found herself feeling bloated, having a sore stomach, bowel issues, mood swings and becoming lethargic.
Three months later she cut out bread and wheat products like pizza, pasta and pastries and the symptoms stopped.
But when she goes home or travels to other parts of Europe, or even the United States, she can dig in to all the gluten-filled food she can’t usually eat and feels fine. She can even make her own food using T55 flour imported from France with no problem.
She’s not alone and Nigel Larsen is trying to find out why so many non-Coeliac gluten-sensitive Kiwis eat wheat-based foods overseas without experiencing the gut-wrenching pain they feel at home.
“It is an issue which seems to be real but we don’t know why,” he said. “So far it’s a mystery to us as to why we hear stories like that because that’s one of the things that prompted us to start doing research on the issue.
“There’s all sorts of things that could be different. It could be the wheat varieties, it could be the way we grow our wheat, it could be the way we process our wheat – who knows. It’s just something we don’t understand and we’re trying to get to the bottom of.”
Plant and Food Research has teamed up with the Baking Industry Association of New Zealand to fund research into where the differences could be and why wheat seemed to have such a huge affect on many Kiwis.
Larsen had already looked into the way dough was mixed in New Zealand but did not find an answer there.
He had started studying proteins called amylase-trypsin inhibitors which were present in wheat. Their function in grains was to stop insects from eating them and there had been research suggesting they may cause inflammation. But, there was nothing to indicate the levels in New Zealand were any higher than overseas, he said.
Larsen was also looking into the proteins that aggravated Coeliac disease and how they could breed new wheat varieties with lower levels as well as which sourdoughs lowered the gluten levels of bread.
The yeast and bacteria in a sourdough starter worked together to digest the gluten proteins meaning the gut did not have to work as hard to get rid of them.
But not all sourdoughs are the same, Larsen found. San Francisco sourdough – for example – is better for those intolerant to gluten.
Baking Industry Association of New Zealand president Kevin Gilbert said the rising process in bread could also play a part, but this would not explain the difference when eating pastas and pastries .
When bread rises, a fermentation process is taking place where enzymes begin to break down and convert proteins like gluten. The longer bread is fermented, the more the proteins are broken down and the easier it becomes for the gut to process.
In the 1960s, a new process of bread making was developed called chorelywood. It allowed bakers to go from flour to a loaf of bread bagged in about three hours. The traditional style of bread-making involved anywhere from three to 60 hours of fermenting alone, Mr Gilbert said.
That was part of the reason many artisan breads, which were more common in Europe, were easier to stomach than loaves of sliced bread from the supermarket, he said.
While all wheat contained the same proteins, different grades of flour were used in Europe and had a different protein ratio whereas New Zealand flour usually only came in one grade.
Traditional Italian pasta was also usually made from durum flour rather than wheat flour, he said.
Professor of Nutrition at the Liggins Institute David Cameron-Smith agreed that some types of flour had less gluten and when those low-gluten flours were used to make bread in the traditional style they had less impact on those sensitive to gluten.
He believed part of the problem was that we had become reliant on high gluten strains of wheat that allowed bread to rise and become soft in a very short period of time. | English | NL | 9ce5abe3013f66f400e62e36bedaf016336901281cf72bb4f1c0b4cd0c7f34dd |
Henry Fillmore (December 3, 1881 – December 7, 1956) was an American musician, composer, publisher, and bandleader, best known for his many marches and screamers.
James Henry Fillmore Jr. was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, as the eldest of five children. In his youth he mastered piano, guitar, violin, flute, and slide trombone. He kept his trombone activities a secret at first, as his circumspect religious father James Henry Fillmore (1849–1936)—a composer of gospel songs, often in collaboration with Jessie Brown Pounds
—believed it an uncouth and sinful instrument. Henry's mother secretly bought a used trombone for him and obscured, from Henry's father, the son's learning to play the instrument.
Henry Fillmore, whose relative Frederick Augustus Fillmore (1856–1925) was also a tune-composer for gospel songs, was a singer for his church choir as a boy. He began composing at 18, with his first published march "Hingham", named after a line of brass instruments.
Americans are citizens of the United States of America. The country is home to people of many different national origins. As a result, most Americans do not equate their nationality with ethnicity, but with citizenship and allegiance. Although citizens make up the majority of Americans, non-citizen residents, dual citizens, and expatriates may also claim an American identity. | English | NL | 9655f21067bf686b5836fdda1ea8fa3a2f27163f0bb6d0d1dc2376de29c69e75 |
Once there was a young donkey named Jacob. Jacob lived in the village of Bethphage, right next to Bethany, just east of Jerusalem. Jacob was an enthusiastic little donkey, a bit mischievous at times, but mostly he just loved to play. He loved to run around the stall kicking up his legs, jumping up and down and going “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!”
“Jacob,” his mother often said, “what am I ever going to do with you?” And she would gaze at her son with love and laughter in her eyes.
“Some day,” said Jacob, “I will grow up big and strong. I will be strong enough to carry a man on my back!”
“Yes you will, son, yes you will,” his mother replied, proud of her growing boy.
One day the village grew busy. Crowds of people arrived in great numbers from all over the land. “Mother,” asked Jacob, “where are all these people coming from? Why are they passing through our village?”
“They are going to Jerusalem for the great feast,” explained his mother. “Every year at this time the people come from far away places to celebrate the Passover in Jerusalem. It is a time of great rejoicing and celebration as they remember how God delivered them from slavery in Egypt so many years ago.”
“Can I go to Jerusalem to see?” asked Jacob. “Oh please, Mother, please, please, please, please, please . . .”
“No, Jacob,” his mother answered, laughing. “We can’t go to Jerusalem. But . . . we can go to the village border to watch.”
So off they went, Jacob’s eyes shining with excitement. He watched in astonishment as the people streamed through the village on their way to Jerusalem. He marveled at their bright and colorful clothing. He tried to guess what was in the many packages they carried. He cocked his head, lifted his ears and listened intently to the noise of chattering voices, clicking wheels and a whole chorus of animal sounds. He sniffed the air, and caught the scent of the many goats and lambs being led through the village. He wondered why the people were bringing so many of them into the city.
Distracted by so many new sights and sounds Jacob wandered away from his mother and accidentally crossed the village border. One of his owners spotted him and chased him down. The owner brought him back to the village, took a strong rope, and tied Jacob and his mother to a post.
“Rats,” thought Jacob. “I hate being tied down.”
Suddenly two strange men approached him. “Look, there he is!” one of them cried out in an excited voice.
“Yes,” shouted the other man. “It is just as the Master said.”
“Are they talking about me?” Jacob wondered. Apparently they were, for they came right up to him and started untying him and his mother. Jacob wondered what was happening. He felt an excitement stirring in the air, and his curiosity grew even stronger.
Just then his owners appeared. “Why are you untying our donkeys?” they asked.
“The Lord needs them. He will send them back to you shortly,” answered the men.
“Then you may take them,” the owners replied. And so the strange men began to lead Jacob and his mother away from their home.
“Mother, what is going on?” asked Jacob.
“I don’t know son,” replied his mother, “but do not be afraid. I am with you.”
The men brought Jacob and his mother outside the village. They put their coats over Jacob’s back. “Is someone going to ride me?” Jacob wondered. “I have never carried a man before. I hope I will be strong enough. I will do my best.”
He was also a little worried about the person who was going to ride him. He had seen some pretty mean people ride the other donkeys before. Sometimes they yelled at the donkeys or even hit them with a stick.
But all of his fears vanished right away when he met the rider. The other men called him Jesus. Jesus smiled kindly at Jacob and stroked his back with his big, strong hands. “Hello, little donkey,” he said. “You will carry me into Jerusalem today.”
Jacob’s heart skipped a beat. “Jerusalem!” thought Jacob. “Jerusalem! Whoopee!!! We are going to Jerusalem after all!” Jesus mounted on Jacob’s back and off they went.
As they approached Jerusalem the excitement in the air continued to build. Jesus sat on Jacob’s back, and Jacob’s mother walked beside them. Large numbers of people lined up along both sides of the road. Some of them lay their coats down in the road for Jacob to walk across. Others cheered and waved palm branches back and forth. Some of them even bowed low to the ground as he passed by. Singing, shouting and rejoicing filled the air around him. Jacob did not understand all the words, but he heard the people shouting things like, “Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“I must be the most important donkey in the city,” thought Jacob, “perhaps the most important donkey in the whole world!” And so the little donkey held his head high as he marched strongly and bravely into the city carrying Jesus on his back. It was the proudest moment in Jacob’s life.
It was already late when they entered Jerusalem. Jesus slipped off Jacob’s back and disappeared into the temple. “Come,” said Jacob’s mother, “we must find shelter for the night.”
They found a small stable where Jacob’s mother tucked him into the straw and kissed him good night. “You have had quite the exciting day, my little one,” she said. “I am so proud of you. Now go to sleep — you need your rest.”
Jacob tried to sleep, but he could not stop thinking about the amazing things that had just happened to him. He kept running through the events of the day over and over again. “All those people cheering and shouting . . . for me!” he thought with excitement. “I can’t wait for tomorrow! Perhaps there will be even more people. Perhaps they will honor me with presents and gifts this time!” Jacob finally fell asleep in the straw. He dreamed about parades and music and people cheering.
He woke up early the next morning. His mother was still sleeping, but he couldn’t wait. “I must go into Jerusalem,” he thought. “The people will be waiting for me.”
So off he ran to the marketplace. Large groups of people were already up and about. Jacob marched proudly down the center of the road waiting for the people to start cheering. But they didn’t make a sound. They didn’t even notice him!
“Hey, hey, everybody! It’s me, Jacob!” he called out. But to the people it only sounded like he was saying, “Hey, hey, hey-haw, hee-haw,” and they just kept right on working. No one waved any palm branches. No one put any coats on the ground.
Jacob went to the area outside the temple. “Perhaps they will notice me here,” he thought. Once again he called out to the people and even ran around and kicked up his heels. But no one paid any attention to him. It was almost as if they didn’t recognize him. One mean old man even yelled and threw a piece of fruit at him.
Jacob ran back to his mother crying and confused. He found her and threw himself upon her, just sobbing and sobbing. “I don’t understand it, Mother, I don’t understand,” he wept. “I thought they all loved me. Yesterday they treated me like a king! And now they act as if I wasn’t there. One of them even yelled at me! I don’t understand! Why are they treating me so differently?”
Jacob’s mother looked sadly and lovingly at her poor sobbing son. She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Foolish donkey,” she replied, “don’t you see, that without Him, you are nothing?”
Original story by Wayne Hill; Re-told by Ray Fowler | English | NL | 3ff197a41a9df949ee846fb3f424b5611c5405bd13ea7e689d86f9e575a65d41 |
Hugh was not sure about this, not in the sleightest. He felt his figure shrinking as he took step after step, closer to his destination. The tales of this man had swarmed the school in a multitude of rumours and gossip. Some said he had eaten a student alive, that he hated them to the bone. Others described him as a fierce yet gentle giant, a paragon in honor and duty. Whatever the truth eventually be, he was soon to find out. Professor Griffith had only been sighted by Hugh's eyes on one occasion. That being inside the Gryffindor common room during the sleepover party earlier this year. Even then, Hugh had found mixed stories of those that had interacted with him.
Yet a knight was meant to be brave, and he was Gryffindor at that. The lion would not flee today. Besides, the boy had questions in need of answers. Silly questions he silently admitted. Or at least silly in the eyes of the expert he assumed. yet he would not enter the next stage without his confirmation. His confidence breaking under every step towards the large door with the dark chord. And with every breath, he wholeheartedly built upon his determination. Aye. He was ready for this encounter. His left locked in position much like holding an invisible shield. As if drawing his sword in valor, he reached out with his right and tightened his grip around the chord. One final breath, his eyes cast to the floor and... With one strong pull he stretched the chord downwards to signal the master of beasts.
"So we shall, my friend. We have witnessed - and, in fact, on several occasions incited - many great and weighty events. After all that toil, I believe we deserve a bit of a rest." - STR: 8 AGL 5 CTL: 7 STA: 10 | English | NL | 7489d0782bb96cc6b13d6a710a12434c922eb8c71256dcebd1887d7220efa743 |
An all expenses paid, trans-Atlantic cruise has romance written all over it...unless you’re the poor sap who has to inspect the toilets and time the cafeteria lines. As if secret-shopping her company's failing cruise ship isn't bad enough, Lydia Johnson is forced to bring along a "top talent" new hire as her assistant. With a heart barely healed from her ex-fiancé’s deceit, she's in no mood to train a man who might cheat her out of an overdue promotion.
Paul Thomas may be new to J.P. Theriot Enterprises, but he certainly knows his way around cruise ships. The Cajun charmer also isn't shy about pursuing his desires, including his wary, but oh-so-sexy-when-she lets-her-hair-down manager. He's shared more about himself with Lydia than any other woman...except who he really is--J.P. Theriot.
"Every port has its own special siren's call," she said, brushing the hair away from her mouth.
"Hard to resist," he said gazing at her.
She angled her body toward him. "Except sirens usually lure the susceptible to their doom."
He stepped closer. "A nasty rumor begun by those with no heart or imagination."
"I'm not so sure I agree," she whispered.
"Try." He leaned down and kissed her lips softly. Pulling back barely enough to end any contact but still close enough for their breaths to mingle, he offered her an escape. When she didn't take it, he moved in again, encircling his arms around her waist and pulling her closer.
The second kiss obliterated the first. For the first time, he felt her surrender, reluctant as it was, and reveled in it, taunted her with his triumph at proving she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Deepening it further, her soft moans filled his ears, her breasts pressed against his chest. His body responded to hers. Hands stole lower to grasp her hips and press his erection into her. She had to know how she affected him, there could be no doubt of the strength of his desire, the urgency of his need to touch, taste and bury himself in her.
For a long while, she moved with him, her hips grinding into his with a writhing need as their lips and tongues dueled in a sensuous dance. It wasn't enough. He needed more of her. Lips traveled to her jaw and then to her neck, to the spot right below her ear. Lydia caught her breath on a moan when he tasted the smooth skin there. An answering groan, nearly a growl, came out of him. He hadn't consciously made it, and yet he would claim it. All his instincts rallied and urged him to claim the woman in his arms, to drag her off somewhere private, to pin her beneath him and take her to the heights of pleasure. Forces stronger than the debating voices in his head whispering, "she'll hate you for seducing her" and "yes, yes, she wants you; she wants this; she just needs you to relieve her of a few barriers."
He slipped a hand between them to cradle the warmth of her breast in his hand. Her shirt and the bra beneath were both thin and minimal barriers, but barriers they still were. His other hand dropped to the swell of her ass, full and curvy and a sensuous delight to grip. The woman in his arms was sex incarnate. She was his siren and he gladly went down with his ship, drowning in her seductive depths.
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Claire Gillian is the pen name for a number-crunching executive by day and a darkly romantic curmudgeon by night. She also writes fifty shades naughtier stuff under the pen name of Lila Shaw (but please don’t tell her mother) and young adult fiction as Iris St. Clair. No matter which name she uses, Claire is happiest penning romance drenched in humor with a dash of intrigue and loads of spice. Claire lives in the boggy Pacific NW with her husband and two teen-aged sons.
Claire loves to hear from and connect with readers:
Website Goodreads Twitter Facebook Pinterest | English | NL | 0628cad19ae2b364caccd436e700de4ad6d59cdf97eac85972cff9c8eeb7eff4 |
Joined : 2014-04-02
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Age : 27
|Subject Post 1Subject: Screams In The Forest and Fire in the Mountain [private training] [ongoing] Thu Feb 18, 2016 4:12 am|| |
Neya looked around and gazed up at the canopy of the trees surrounding her. The rays of sunlight that just minutes before were illuminating the entire forest floor, now seemed strangled in the dense forest canopy. Here and there, large patches of light broke through to reveal patches of roots and vegetation, but overall it was as if there was a permanent overcast of clouds wherever she looked. As she observed the trees, and continued to walk, she began to notice the differences in size of the trees. Those ahead were getting slowly larger, getting taller and thicker, with canopies so dense it seemed that nothing could get through the tangled branches. She stopped for a moment to observe her surroundings, to really absorb the scenery.
There was nothing abnormal about the forest so far, and honestly, she had begun to doubt what she had been told.
"it's a deadly place, full of rotting corpses and dead bodies form suicides! It's a dark scary place and there are probably all sorts of scary things going on in there!" "what nonsense...i should have known better than to listen to that old man in the rukongai...but i have to admit, the scenery is very nice here. It's so quiet too...So tranquil....but yet..so devoid of life, save for the trees and plants...there are no birds singing, no other animals running around...which is strange, i'd say...one would assume that such a large forest would be full of life, not..silent and grave.."
She sighed and kept walking. Sure, she could easily just have flown fromt he forest a while ago to make her trip to Mt.Fuji easier, but what fun was making things easy? Plus, she had wanted to check the claims of the old man. Neya observed the ground beneath her feet. There were no corpses littering the ground, not even the remains of old bones. Curious as to whatt he canopy looked like, she quickly climbed her way up a nearby tree, her claws making it easy to travail the large trunk, until she was up int he thick branches. Here, there was enough light that she could tell it was nearly mid-day. She decided then, that she would traverse the canopy, going limb from limb for a while, so she could enjoy the sunlight. As she went, she occasionally looked down to see forest floor. From her position, as she went farther in, it seemed as if the forest floor was completely devoid of anything saving plant life, and boulders. This slowly began to bother her, as a forest should have at least some semblance of wildlife, even it it were worms or insects. But she heard nothing and saw nothing. All was silent and now that she thought about it , things were too calm...eerily so.
"I am one that loves peace and quiet..But this,this is ...unerving.A forest should not be this quiet. There should be the sounds of life and death all around, the sound of predator and prey locked in the great struggle... it is early spring, there should be creatures creating new life...But all there seems to be is a deadly silence that is inescapable."
I have noticed this as well, dearest. It is as if the very life force of all things is snuffed out here...and the trees yet live..it is most..disturbing. Perhaps we should stop moving, and for a time, see what we can sense." This voice was the spirit of her Zanpakutô, Whom she trusted in all things. Neya carried on for a short while, as she considered the spirit's words. Eventually, she stopped and rested in the boughs of a very large tree. "i know this forest is large, but right now it seems to be never ending, especially with the silence....."
__________________"And before the darkness and shadow of death i stood, and stepped from the threshold of fear, into the doorway of eternity."
My Little Godesses.Ascenia Neya | English | NL | dd191f89b3de51806a1a2d91a5f7280a697f12a39a5d2f9915ea9c727974441d |
Chapter 4 : Plotting Anne's Downfall
Having resolved upon the means of securing Anne’s downfall, Cromwell began to quietly gather evidence which would secure her downfall. It is likely that he either bribed some of the Queen’s ladies, or placed spies in her household. The tales that they reported, most of which were innocent enough in themselves, were soon twisted into damning evidence. All of this was conducted with the greatest discretion. Anne knew nothing of the horror that was about to unfold, and even the King seems to have been kept in ignorance until Cromwell judged that he had a suitably persuasive case to take to him.
Then, in the last days of April 1536, events suddenly accelerated. Cromwell returned to court after his week’s absence and at once sought an audience with the king. There is no record of what passed between them, but the chief minister must have imparted his suspicions (and evidence) of the queen’s infidelity. The king, whose attitude towards his wife had until now vacillated between hostility and passion, turned suddenly and irrevocably against her. He ordered Cromwell to gather all of the evidence he needed to secure a conviction.
Among those whom Cromwell questioned was Mark Smeaton. He invited the naïve young man to his house at Stepney and, it is rumoured, tortured him into a confession. Smeaton admitted to having had sex with the Queen, and dutifully provided Cromwell with the names of other members of her circle with whom she had conducted illicit liaisons. According to the Spanish Chronicle, Cromwell wrote at once to the King, enclosing Mark’s confession. When Henry read the letter, he was greatly agitated but ordered that everything should proceed as normal for the traditional May Day tournament, which was to be held at Greenwich Palace.
The first day of May 1536 began like any other for Queen Anne. She had not been informed of her musician’s arrest, and had apparently not yet noticed his absence. The King, ever the master of dissimulation, showed no hint of his inner turmoil and apparently ‘gave himself up to enjoyment.’ Halfway through the jousts, a message was passed to Henry who, to everyone’s astonishment, left the tournament with great haste, accompanied by a handful of courtiers.
Everything now happened with bewildering speed. Henry Norris, who was leading one of the teams in the jousts, was told to accompany the King to London at once. As they rode towards Westminster, a horror-struck Norris was accused of committing adultery with the Queen. He fiercely denied the charge, even though Henry – who still cherished some affection for his long-standing friend and servant – offered him a full pardon if he confessed. He was duly taken to the Tower, where he joined Mark Smeaton. Meanwhile, Cromwell had taken the precaution of blocking access to the King so that none of Anne’s supporters could plead on her behalf – or, indeed, their own.
Other arrests soon followed – including that of the Queen herself, who was taken to the Tower on 2nd May. According to Wriothesley’s chronicle, which was written shortly after the event, Cromwell himself had accompanied her there. She was joined on the same day by her brother, George. The next arrest came two days later and was altogether unexpected. William Brereton was, like Norris and Weston, one of the king’s personal servants, being a Groom of the Privy Chamber. The fact that he became implicated in the scandal that was unfolding at court is one of the clearest indications that Cromwell was its architect.
Brereton was keenly aware of his own status and ran his affairs in a high handed manner. He dominated the monasteries in Cheshire and had blocked Cromwell’s attempts at reform in the region. He also covered up, and may even have encouraged, lawlessness among the marcher lordships where he was steward. Cromwell was determined to bring this troublesome subject to heel, and his plot against the Queen presented him with the perfect opportunity.
Francis Weston joined his fellow suspects in the Tower on 5 May, along with Thomas Wyatt, a former favourite of Anne, and – three days later – Sir Richard Page. The latter two were both close associates of Cromwell and he was almost certainly not responsible for their arrests. Indeed, he made it his business to have them released. That both men escaped reprisal proves not just their association with Cromwell, but the extent to which he dictated the course of Anne’s downfall and that of her followers.
Even though Cromwell had amassed enough evidence to have Anne arrested, he was taking no chances. He therefore appointed ladies to attend Anne in the Tower and actively spy on her there. He also instructed the Constable, Sir William Kingston, to send regular reports of her conduct, and monitored all of her correspondence. There was found among Cromwell’s papers a letter from Anne to Henry, written from the Tower four days after her arrest.
It is a bold statement of her innocence in which she upbraids her husband for bringing her to this state. She ranted against Henry’s ‘unprincely and cruel usage of me’, and declared that if he persisted in this ‘infamous slander’ then she hoped God would pardon his ‘great sin’. Cromwell endorsed the letter: ‘To the King from the Lady in the Tower’. Whether he ever showed it to his royal master is not known. He might have judged that, inflammatory though it was, it was better to keep such a heartfelt avowal of innocence from his royal master. | English | NL | 59f083b985a1ca4f29d71b8165e99b7c33a4dfcf736500511136b79519cb8335 |
During the easter weekend we had the sixth edition of Sail Kampen. This maritime event is held every few years at the start of the sailing season. The goal of the first edition of Sail Kampen was to promote the hanseatic city Kampen and to show the importance of shipping to Kampen.
Bruine vloot and the Kamper Kogge
Many of the ships featuring at Sail Kampen are ships of the “Bruine vloot”. These are traditional sailing ships. Nowadays these ships are mostly used for passenger shipping. Common ships are the Barge, Botter, Clipper, Shooner and Tjalk.
Besides the fleet of traditional sailing ships there are many other ships like steamships, a marine vessel and replicas. Ofcourse the Kamper Kogge is present as well. The Kamper Kogge is a replica of a Cog from 1340 which was found in Flevoland. Though Cogs are widely known from the Hanseatic leaguge in the thirteeth century, it was allready mentioned in the tenth century. The Cogs likely were first used along the Frisian coast or the west coast of Jutland. In the eleventh century, when Limfjord was closed, the Cogs became larger and stronger because they had to circumnavigate the dangerous Cape Skagen to reach the Baltic Sea.
De Halve Maen and the State Yacht
De Halve Maen is a replica of the ship that discovered the area of New York in 1609. It was looking for alternative routes to Asia. After the discovery of new land, Nieuw Amsterdam was founded. De Halve Maen sailed the Hudson river, which was named after the english captain of the ship. On the second trip the Hudson Bay was discovered. There the captain, his son and some comanions were left behind. The ship returned to the Netherlands. After that the ship was mostly active around Indonesia, until it was sunk in a battle. In 1909 the Dutch population gave the city of New York a replica which was lost to a fire in 1934. In 1988 a new replica was built on iniative of dr. Andrew Hendricks. In 2014 the town of Hoorn got the replica on loan for at least five years.
State Yacht De Utrecht is a replica of a ship that was used from the seventeenth to the ninteenth century to transport high-ranking people. The replica was built in six years by around hundred young people, The drawings which were used came from 1746 and were made by Pieter van Zwijndregt.
Below you can find a selection of photo’s which I made of Sail Kampen. | English | NL | f52a0e83c33d257e586ea9885997d9933a242fa085ba30bb68884116a0cdc36d |
|“||I don't trust other hunters, Dean. Don't want their help, don't want them around my family.||”|
Samuel Campbell was a hunter married to Deanna Campbell. He was the father of Mary Winchester and the maternal grandfather of Sam and Dean Winchester. He also served as a vessel for the Prince of Hell Azazel so he could make his deal with Mary. After The Apocalypse, Samuel was resurrected by Crowley to help him find Purgatory, but was killed again by Sam when he was possessed by the Khan worm.
In In The Beginning, it was shown that Samuel Campbell was a hunter married to Deanna Campbell. He was the father of Mary Winchester, father in-law of John Winchester and the grandfather of Sam and Dean Winchester, as well as Sam's namesake. Dean met him when Castiel sent Dean back to 1973 to investigate the origins of the yellow-eyed demon's involvement with his family. He was killed in 1973 by the Yellow-Eyed Demon.
Samuel was a gruff, suspicious and anti-social man who neither trusted nor liked other hunters, though he grudgingly tolerated Dean as he proved himself capable on the job. After he, Mary, and Dean encounter the yellow-eyed demon at the home of Liddy Walsh, one of Mary's friends, the demon possessed Samuel. While using Samuel's meatsuit, the yellow-eyed demon stabbed Samuel himself in the gut, snapped the neck of his wife, killed young John Winchester and made a deal with Mary to bring John, but not her parents, back to life in exchange for entering Mary's home in ten years (1983). Dean arrived and tried to shoot Azazel and Samuel with the Colt, but Azazel fled Samuel's body before he could fire, leaving Samuel dead.
Sometime after The Apocalypse, Crowley now Ruler of Hell sought the location of Purgatory and resurrected Samuel who was spending eternity in Heaven. Crowley promised to resurrect Samuel's daughter Mary Winchester should he comply. Samuel agreed and was able to rally some of his remaining relatives to help in his search while they hunted. At some point, he met his younger grandson Sam Winchester and they teamed up but left Sam's retired brother to his peaceful life.
In Exile on Main Street, when Dean is attacked by a djinn, Sam rescues him and reveals he has been back from Lucifer's Cage for a year and hunting with their cousins Christian Campbell, Mark Campbell, Gwen Campbell, Johnny Campbell, Tyler Campbell and Samuel himself. Samuel doesn't know how he returned from the dead, he tells Dean "We're guessing whatever pulled Sam up, pulled me down." He adds that he wanted to come and get Dean and get him back into hunting but respected Sam's wishes to leave Dean out of it. Samuel is obviously still adjusting to living in the 21st century as he doesn't know the term 'soccer mom' and refers to the internet as the "intranet".
Samuel knows an antidote to the Djinn's poison, which they use on Dean. The Campbells go back to the house Dean is sharing with Lisa and Ben Braeden to catch the djinn, but when they realize the djinn are watching the house, Dean suggests they need to leave so the djinn will attack. While the Campbells do, Samuel returns in time to save Sam from the djinn, killing one and capturing Brigitta after sending Sam after Dean.
In Two and a Half Men, Samuel receives a call from Sam, who is investigating a string of suspicious child kidnappings. Sam thinks the case may not be their "kind of thing," and Samuel questions his lack of concern for the situation. Sam asks him to find out if the previous victims used the same brand of home security. After rescuing a child from another kidnapping, revealed to be perpetrated by shapeshifters, Sam and Dean bring the child (who is itself the offspring of a shapeshifter) to the Campbell's compound. Despite Dean's suspicions that the Campbells might harm the baby, Samuel says that they will raise it, and let it hunt when it's old enough if it wants to. Samuel presents the child to Christian as an adoptive son.
Moments later, however, an exceptionally powerful shapeshifter arrives in Samuel's form and demands the return of its child. The Campbells attack the shapeshifter but it easily overpowers them and kills Mark despite being shot, stabbed in the heart with a silver knife, and hit with several elephant tranquilizers. It then takes the baby from Sam and Dean and escapes. Samuel later reveals the monster to be the alpha shapeshifter, the progenitor of all shapeshifters. He is later seen on the phone with someone, promising that he will capture the alpha shapeshifter for them.
In Live Free or Twihard, Samuel seems certain that vampires are involved in the disappearances in Limestone, Illinois because they follow a pattern: this is the fourth town where kids have gone missing and a blood bank van has been jumped and the blood stolen. In this town, the driver of the blood bank van was found with his throat ripped out. Samuel convinces Sam that he and Dean need to investigate further.
After Dean is turned into a vampire, Samuel tells them that the have a possible cure for vampirism written in Samuel's grandfather's journal, but it can only be used if Dean doesn't drink any blood. Samuel and Sam will gather most of the ingredients for the cure, but Dean has to get the blood of the vampire, Boris, who turned him. Dean insists that he will go into the vampire nest alone: he can sense where they are and he's sure that Sam would just attract attention because he "reeks" like "a walking hamburger." Samuel gives Dean a syringe of dead man's blood to use against Boris, and Dean leaves. Once they're alone, Samuel confronts Sam about his apparent knowledge of the cure. He's worried that Sam purposefully let Dean get infected so that he could get inside the vampire nest and help them capture the Alpha Vampire they've been looking for. Sam denies everything, but Samuel doesn't seem convinced. Later, once Dean has Boris' blood, Samuel helps Sam and Dean to create the vampirism cure that saves Dean.
In Family Matters, when Sam and Dean learn that Sam no longer has his soul, they question Samuel about his own resurrection and he meets Castiel who tests him to see if he still has his soul. They learn that Samuel's soul is still present, and Samuel reiterates that he doesn't remember anything before waking up alive. After Castiel leaves, Sam and Dean learn that Samuel is preparing to attack the nest of the Alpha Vampire, but Samuel seems reluctant to invite Sam and Dean along. Eventually, Dean convinces him to let them help. Before they leave for the attack, Dean, who is suspicious of Samuel's motivations, tries to break into his office but is waylaid by Christian.
Once they reach the house where the Alpha is hiding, Samuel orders Dean and Gwen to stay back and "sweep any stragglers" they flush out, but Dean is unsatisfied with this and heads around the back of the house, where he sees Samuel, Sam, and the other hunters loading the alpha vampire into the back of a van. He waits until he's alone with Sam to confront him about it, and learns that Samuel is taking the creatures he captures somewhere to be interrogated. They activate a GPS tracker in one of Samuel's cell phones so that they can track him to where he takes the alpha vampire, and they arrive to find Samuel torturing it, but not getting anywhere. He leaves the room and Sam and Dean take the opportunity to question the alpha themselves.
Eventually, he tells them that Samuel is trying to get information from him about Purgatory and where it is located, and that he's doing it on someone else's orders. Before they can learn more, Samuel, Christian, Gwen, and another hunter interrupt them and hold them at gun point. They're forced to disarm, but then the alpha escapes and they join forces to try to kill it. Just when things are looking dire, demons show up and take the alpha away with them, and Crowley appears.
Crowley, as the new King of Hell, had the power to resurrect Samuel and Sam, and he did so because he wanted their help. Crowley reveals that Christian has been possessed for a while and serving as his mole, and that Samuel has been working for him, gathering high-ranking creatures and trying to learn the location of Purgatory because Crowley is interested in "developing" it. He tells them that if Sam ever wants the return of his soul, he and Dean need to help Samuel continue to capture creatures for him.Castiel tries to locate Crowley with a ritual, but is unsuccessful. He, Dean, and Sam travel to the Campbell compound and break in so that they can search for clues as to Crowley's whereabouts. Samuel catches them in the act, and when they ask for his help he refuses to tell them how they can find Crowley. Dean asks him why he won't help them and why he's been working for Crowley, and they discover that Crowley promised Samuel that he would resurrect his daughter and Dean's mother, Mary. Dean tells him that it's a bad idea to bring her back from the dead, and Samuel calls Dean a hypocrite. He tells Dean that he never learned how to live without Mary, and leaves.
Eventually, though, Samuel comes around, and he tells them where he's been bringing creatures to Crowley. Using Samuel's information, they find Crowley's prison and Castiel helps them break inside. Unfortunately, Samuel led them into a trap. Samuel uses an angel banishing sigil to get rid of Castiel, and demons grab and imprison Dean and Sam. Dean is horrified by Samuel's betrayal, and he tells Samuel that once he escapes, he is going to escape and kill him. Dean is then taken to a room to be fed to ghouls while Sam is left in his cell, and Samuel does nothing to stop it.In Unforgiven, a year ago in Bristol, Rhode Island during the time when Sam was still without his soul he and Samuel were on a hunt hunting an arachne, a spider-like monster which was taking men in their thirties and poisoning them in order to turn them into an arachne. Sam and Samuel confided and reveal their true identities as hunters to the towns local police sheriff Roy Dobbs along with his wife Brenda.
Eventually after Sam and Samuel figure out that they're dealing with an arachne, Sam suggests that they use Roy without his knowledge, as bait since he fits the profile of what the arachne has been taking. However, the plan doesn't go well as Roy is taken by the arachne back to her lair, leaving Sam and Samuel to eventually follow both the arachne and Roy back to the arachne's lair where they find the rest of the kidnapped men bound in web and also poisoned as well.A fight between Sam and Samuel and the Arachne breaks out but it quickly ends with Sam killing the arachne by decapitating her. After Sam kills the arachne, Samuel tries and goes to help Roy but Sam quickly declares Roy and the rest of the kidnapped men that have been poisoned are beyond help and shoots all of them. As they leave the building, Sam tells Samuel that they need to burn the building and destroy all the bodies of Roy and the rest of the kidnapped men. Samuel seems uneasy about Sam's ruthless attitude and is worried about a deep wound on his arm, but Sam tells him they need to get out of town.
Unfortunately, as they are trying to leave town, Deputy Atkins stops them and asks them where sheriff Roy Dobbs is but when he notice the large wound on Sam's arm, he doubts their cover as FBI Agents and tries to arrest them. However, before Deputy Atkins can go and arrest both of them Sam beats Deputy Atkins unconscious and they leave town. Unknown to Sam and Samuel, Roy and the rest of the kidnapped men that were poisoned didn't die by Sam's gun shots or by the fire that burned down the building that held the arachne's lair; they survived because the arachne's poison turned them all into Arachnes.
In ...And Then There Were None, Samuel is hunting with Gwen, investigating deaths related to a spike in the activity of supernatural creatures. While investigating the murders, they run into Bobby Singer, Rufus Turner, and the Winchesters at a cannery. Dean quickly moves to kill Samuel, as he promised he would in Caged Heat, but Sam persuades him that Samuel might be useful in the hunt. Samuel notices Sam's change in demeanor before he learns that the latter regained his soul and realizes that he has no memory of their year hunting together. He soon reveals the existence of Eve, the Mother of All Monsters who Sam, Dean, and Bobby had only heard of before and explains about her. Samuel argues with Bobby before his betrayal of his grandsons is revealed to Gwen who goes out and tells Dean that she didn't know about Samuel betraying Sam and Dean to Crowley. While they are alone, the creature responsible for the deaths, the Khan worm, infects Dean and uses him to kill Gwen. The creature leaves Dean, and together all the hunters try and work out a way to find and kill it.When Samuel leaves the room, Sam and Dean follow and confront him about what happened with Crowley, but Samuel is not apologetic. He then pulls a gun and tries to shoot them, as he is infected with the worm. They stop him and he escapes, but Sam finds and confronts him alone. Samuel says he will tell Sam about the things he did without a soul, but he advances on Sam, and Sam is forced to shoot him in the head, killing him.
Bobby and Rufus decide to cut into Samuel's skull to see if the worm is still there but as they do, he comes back to life under the control of the worm. In the ensuing fight, he is electrocuted. This forces the worm to leave his body and seek refuge by possessing Bobby. Samuel's electrocution, however, provides Sam and Dean with the information on how to kill the worm.
In There Will Be Blood , when Dean and Sam meet the Alpha Vampire, the latter brings up his capture and torture. Dean states that was what their grandfather Samuel did, Dean is then slammed into a table for making that remark.
During Southern Comfort, while possessed Dean mentions Sam's mistakes namely running around soulless with Samuel for a year and not telling him.
In Stuck in the Middle (With You), a resurrected Mary Winchester gives Arthur Ketch the Colt and tells him that Samuel used to tell her stories about the gun including how it can kill all but five things in existence.
Samuel grew up in the hunter life and had years of experience under his belt. His ancestral relatives, including his grandfather Jebediah have all been hunters. He had a hunter mindset and was very stubborn. In addition, he did not trust other hunters. He also could not understand why his daughter Mary refused to hunt and wished to be normal instead. Samuel believed his daughter's notion to be foolish. Despite their different outlook, Samuel was a family man and loved and protected his immediate family. Although, given a choice between his grandsons and daughter, he chose Mary. In fact, he deemed both his grandsons as strangers to him and with no remorse sold them out to Crowley. When confronted by his actions, Samuel seemed somewhat conflicted but stated he wouldn't apologize for it.
The seasoned hunter had always been a leader as well. When he gave orders, he expected them to be followed. Samuel, due to both his own experience and the experiences of his family for hundreds of years had a massive amount of knowledge of the supernatural, more than any other hunter Sam and Dean knew including Bobby Singer and their own father. Crowley called him a "walking encyclopedia of the creepy and the crawly". Among the things he knew was a cure for djinn poison, a cure for vampirism and information about Eve who hadn't been on Earth in 10,000 years and had little to no lore on her. This knowledge seemed to make him slightly arrogant as he told Dean that he knew "things your daddy never even dreamed of" and tells Bobby that "you don't know half the things I know, kid" but despite this and somewhat flaunting the knowledge when he revealed it, he never hesitated to use it to help. Despite dismissing the Colt as a bedtime story, Samuel was aware that it couldn't kill five things instead of being able to kill everything as the common legend suggested.
Samuel is shown to be a bald man who dresses in simple dark shirts and jeans. He usually wears a thick jacket while going outside. Like most hunters, he also wears disguises while questioning suspects and witnesses.
Powers and AbilitiesEdit
Samuel was a regular human, but possessed exceptional abilities due to his decades of hunting experience.
- Expert Hunting Skills - Samuel was an expert hunter with decades of experience.
- Encyclopedic Knowledge of Lore - Samuel possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of lore, as stated by Crowley. Samuel's knowledge included information on previously unknown subjects such as Eve, Arachne and cures for djinn poison and being a vampire. Previous to Samuel's resurrection, it had been believed that there was no antidote to djinn poison or vampire cure. Though Samuel believed the Colt to be a mere fairytale, the version of the legend he knew and told as a bedtime story to his daughter included the fact that there were only five things in existence that it couldn't kill rather than it being able to kill everything as the common legend suggested.
- Master Tactician and Leader - Following his resurrection, Samuel showed himself to be a master tactician and leader in the way he led the Campbell Family in hunting monsters.
- Spell Casting - Samuel is capable of casting some spells as seen when he used the angel banishing sigil on Castiel.
- Azazel (First Time)
After taking possession of Samuel, Azazel forced Samuel to stab himself in the stomach with a knife. After Azazel left Samuel's body, Samuel died of his wounds. He was later resurrected by Crowley to help in Crowley's search for Purgatory.
- Sam Winchester (Second Time)
After Samuel was possessed by the Khan worm, he approached Sam despite Sam repeatedly telling Samuel to stay back. When the possessed Samuel failed to comply, Sam shot him in the head, killing Samuel once more.
- Season 4
- Season 6
- Season 7
- There Will Be Blood (mentioned only)
- Season 8
- Southern Comfort (mentioned only)
- Season 12
- Season 14
- Lebanon (mentioned only)
- Supernatural: One Year Gone (non-canon)
- The Khan worm shares similarities with the Goa'uld from the Stargate series. Mitch Pileggi, the actor who played Samuel, also played Colonel Steven Caldwell on Stargate Atlantis who got possessed by a Goa'uld like Samuel got possessed by a Khan worm. Unlike Samuel, Caldwell survived the possession.
- When Dean chose to retrieve Sam's soul over resurrecting Mary, Samuel accused Dean of abandoning his own mother. This notion is kind of ironic given Mary's decision years ago to be with John instead of Samuel.
- Samuel's accusation implied he did not know the circumstances surrounding his or Mary's deaths.
- Samuel's secret alliance with Crowley and the belief that what he was doing was for the sake of his own daughter mirrors Mary's actions in Season 12. Mary believes working with the British Men of Letters will free her sons from the burden of hunting, despite their vocal desire for her to stay away from said organization.
- Samuel is the first Campbell shown under possession of any kind, though several seasons later after she was resurrected, his daughter was possessed by the spirit of Hugo Moriarty.
- Samuel appears in the non-canon novel Supernatural: One Year Gone where he works with Soulless Sam hunting a Shtriga. To Samuel's anger, Sam uses him as bait. Later, Samuel and Sam hunt witches in Salem, Massachusetts after Samuel is alerted to Dean's presence there by Crowley. Samuel aids Ben Braeden in escaping and is briefly mentioned to Dean by Ben, but Dean is left unaware of who he is as Samuel never gave Ben his name.
- It is unknown if Sam or Dean ever told Mary of Samuel's brief resurrection and his actions against them. | English | NL | a19a5eded716ad56a22a37f3e207b5721e79972294e4923b3119182d2cece587 |
The New Yorker, November 14, 1953 P. 152
The writer describes Lucy Poole and her family who lived in a hamlet near the writer's home in England. Lucy shared her house with her two sons and their families and did most of the cooking for them, aided by her granddaughter, Patty. The pooles were very easy-going and never seemed to want to keep a job, but they always managed to survive. None of them contributed to or mixed with the rest of the community, but they never disgraced it. When Lucy died, Patty married a baker & they moved into Lucy's quarters. Patty became the family cook and with a baker in the family to keep them in fresh bread, the Pooles lived better than they ever had. | English | NL | 52e72228b461fe7dd491e83a7dd3533e00b4d57877515e7d79296e897c9582e4 |
Angel Has Fallen
I couldn’t wait to stop watching Angel Has Fallen.
I must look into myself and ask why I disliked "Iris" so intensely.
Was it entirely a complaint against the film, or was it also a protest against the fate that befell the great novelist? There is no modern writer whose work I admire more than Iris Murdoch's, and for that mind to disappear in Alzheimer's is so sad that perhaps I simply refused to accept a film about it. Perhaps. Or perhaps it is true that the movie fails to do her justice--simplifies the life of one whose work was open to such human complexities.
Iris Murdoch (1919-1999) was one of the most important and prolific British novelists of her century, and wrote and taught philosophy as well. She wrote 28 novels (between books, she said, she "took off for about half an hour"). Her novels involved "the unique strangeness of human beings," played against philosophical ideas. There were also touchstones that her readers looked forward to: a lonely child, a magus, an architectural oddity, an old friendship sorely tested, adulteries and unexpected couplings, intimations of the supernatural, theoretical conversations, ancient feuds. Her novel The Sea, The Sea won the Booker Prize and is a good place to start.
For years I looked forward to the annual Murdoch. Then her final novel arrived, shorter than usual, and at about the same time the dreaded news that she had Alzheimer's. "I feel as if I'm sailing into darkness," she said, a line used in the movie. After her death, her husband, John Bayley, wrote two books about her, dealing frankly and compassionately with her disease.
The film "Iris," directed by the London stage director Richard Eyre and written by Eyre and the playwright Charles Wood, is literate, fair and well-acted, but is this particular film necessary? It moves between the young and old Iris, painting her enduring relationship with Bayley while at the same time suggesting her openness to affairs and sexual adventures. As a young woman she is played by Kate Winslet, as an older woman by Judi Dench (Bayley is played by Hugh Bonneville and Jim Broadbent). We see her high spirits and fierce intelligence at the beginning, and the sadness at the end. What is missing is the middle.
What Murdoch basically did is write books. It is notoriously difficult to portray a writer, because what can you show? The writer writing? It isn't the writing that makes a writer interesting--it's the having written. In Murdoch's case, that would suggest that instead of making a film of her life, it might be a good idea to make a film of one of her books. Only one Murdoch novel has ever been made into a film (the undistinguished "A Severed Head," 1971). Her stories are rich in characters, conflict and sexual intrigue, and I'm surprised more haven't been filmed.
Instead of honoring the work, "Iris" mourns the life. It's like a biopic of Shakespeare that cuts back and forth between his apprentice days and his retirement in Stratford. Alzheimer's is especially tragic because it takes away the person while the presence remains. The character of Bayley, meanwhile, is presented as a befuddled and ineffectual man who contends with the baffling Murdoch, young and old, accepting her infidelity at the beginning and giving her love and support at the end. Yes, but there is much more to Bayley. He is one of the most brilliant of literary critics, whose essays grace the New York Review of Books and the Times Literary Supplement, but on the basis of this film, you would think of him, frankly, as a fond old fool.
Because the film is well-acted and written with intelligence, it might be worth seeing, despite my objections. I suspect my own feelings. Perhaps this is so clearly the film I did not want to see about Iris Murdoch that I cannot see the film others might want to see. Stanley Kauffmann's case in praise of the film in The New Republic is persuasive, but no: I cannot accept this Iris. The one in my mind is too alive, too vital, too inspiring.
A nightmare movie ruled by nightmare logic, and gorgeous from start to finish.
From a childhood of pain, a lifetime of art.
A review of Amazon's new anti-superhero series The Boys, which premieres on July 26. | English | NL | 8b7e451dcaffe1dc87b172dd570ed32c24f77fa6241b89891c5f385d9801a907 |
NOTES: THIS POST CONTAINS AN IMAGE THAT IS NSFW
How can a man that was not a photographer create photographs of his mother that would evoke all-encompassing emotions worldwide? I was fortunate enough to speak with the visionary himself and gained fascinating insight into this mother/son relationship.
Tony Luciani’s Artistic Beginnings
Tony Luciani, a multi-award winning artist, has spent more than 40 years of his life as a painter using positives and negatives, composition and light to create stunning art. His work has been exhibited in numerous galleries throughout his career. Already drawing at the age of six, he was compelled to enter the TV Guide Magazine weekly art contest. He would draw the images and submit them only to have them returned with instructions not to cheat. Since the contest was to mimic the example pictures, and Tony had done so masterfully enough that they felt he had traced them, he knew he had found his calling. His high school courses were heavily focused in art. After high school, Tony went before the board at Ontario College of Art where his portfolio was evaluated, and he was fast-tracked to third year due to the strength of his body of work.
A Candid Interview with Tony Luciani
Tony called me from Canada and spoke candidly to give me a deeper and more personal glimpse into his backstory and present life. He told me that one of his favorite paintings titled, “Wonder Woman” stirred great controversy and that many galleries would not even consider exhibiting it. It depicts a woman, Monica that is not covering up the scar of her mastectomy but protecting it. It leaves the viewer connected, not just to Monica but to the sacrifices we make for survival. Her beautiful bald head and soulful eyes courageously encourage strength from those facing the same battles. This incredible painting is now a permanent fixture, the smallest ever at the Modern Art Museum in Barcelona, Spain. To view more of Tony’s paintings, visit his website.
Tony Luciani Adds Photography to His Repertoire
Paintings of his caliber take months to finish and Tony wasn’t satiated with only putting out 3-4 paintings per year. He longed for another way to put his feelings to art and decided that photography was a wonderful solution. In his many years as an artist, Tony had only used a camera to take reference images so that he could use them to create his paintings. About a year ago, that changed when Tony decided to start playing around with his camera to learn more about the various technical settings. His strong grasp on composition and lighting as a painter was already ingrained in his mind and made him far more advanced than most who pick up a camera today.
As his mother, Elia, who will be 93 in January, began to develop partial dementia while living on her own, Tony decided that she was too full of life and humor to even consider an assisted living home. So, he moved his mom into his own home/studio, a converted old church, in September 2014. Hearing him tell me about this historic space made me think about the stories that one place must hold. His words, so descriptive and passionate about life and art brought me into his world for a moment and made me feel like I was there watching him work.
How Tony Luciani Drew Inspiration From His Mom
One day, Elia sat in a chair reading a book with her head rested on her hand. Tony noticed the way the light was hitting her through the frosted, diffused church windows and he knew, in that moment, that he had to photograph her hands and face. He grabbed his camera and began reading the light with his eyes as he posed her and took beautiful frames of her features.
Her hands and face adorned in wrinkles that tell her age didn’t stop Elia from thinking of herself in her youthful years and transporting mentally back to that time. Tony realized that when Elia would dress up for him to photograph her, she would come back to life and have so much fun participating. So, he continues to photograph her, and she thrives on it. Tony says that his mother modeling for him is her contribution to the household which admittedly, made me chuckle. His photo sessions with Elia activate her mind while also capturing her spirit. His love for the woman who birthed him shines through and is evident in the portraiture he creates of her. Elia now collaborates with Tony on portrait concepts.
In Tony’s Own Words, He Describes How a “Sew Sew Photo” Came About
“As a young boy, I would at times bring my school homework down to the basement sewing room. There, my mom would be creating & mending clothes for the family on this massive machine she purchased from the factory where she worked. I would cuddle up in this over-stuffed fabric chair and listen to the humming of the motor, as I did my math and English. It relaxed me. Mom’s house was sold a while ago…and I salvaged the Singer machine, saving it for my daughter on her request. One night a few months ago, I heard that same hum from my studio late one night. When I quietly went down, I saw mom mending away. I relived my childhood for a few minutes. I felt like a kid again. I call this shot, ‘A Sew Sew Photo.’ ”
Elia Luciani: More Than Tony Luciani’s Muse
Elia received a Nikon Coolpix P5000, 10-megapixel camera from Tony, and he challenged her to capture at least 10 images per day of her surroundings. He set up a Facebook page for her and posted her work proudly, entered her into some competitions and her work was featured several times as best of black and white on Inspire Magazine. From April to June 2015, 17 of Elia’s beautiful images stood out on the walls of the Chicory Common Natural Foods & Cafe in Durham, Canada. This was her first “One Old Woman Show” and I suspect it won’t be the last.
My Thoughts on Tony Luciani’s Widespread Appeal
Many people create gorgeous images every day so why then does Tony’s images of his elderly mother garner thousands of social media likes every time he posts a new one? I earnestly believe it’s because these portraits connect with nearly everyone. Perhaps you, as the viewer are elderly yourself, or you see someone who has also or is currently suffering from dementia. Maybe you see your future self or feel guilt for an elder that you didn’t continue to care for. Maybe you are reminded of the good days that led up to the end of a loved one’s life. Perhaps you are even afraid of the end of your own. Whatever the reason may be, Tony’s images are captivating. He says he’s not a photographer but in my heart, I disagree. Feel free to check out his photography website and decide for yourself. To see the world through Elia’s eyes, visit her Facebook. | English | NL | 1376ed9248f95580666ca665a2d0fa8e303d4b813f606eccc60a282e0eced1e0 |
The Rt. Rev. James R. Mathes ('91) came to VTS in July 2017. He is currently Associate Dean of Students and Director of Anglican Studies. Mathes was previously the Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego,
Before coming to VTS as a student, Mathes worked in educational development where he helped raise money for his high school alma mater, The Webb School, and directed a successful campaign for St. Andrew's-Sewanee, an Episcopal school in Sewanee, Tennessee.
On March 22, 1992 he was ordained a priest at All Saints' Episcopal Church, Belmont, Massachusetts.
His passion for education and personal growth transferred to a passion for parish life when he became rector of The Episcopal Church of St. James the Less in Northfield, Illinois. During his seven years there, church attendance doubled, school participation tripled, and the congregation founded a community outreach program for the elderly and disabled.
In 2001, Bishop Mathes was named canon to the ordinary for the Diocese of Chicago, where he directed the Department of Deployment and Congregational Development. He secured a grant from the Lilly Endowment to establish a clergy mentoring program. He also helped guide 130 congregations through a strategic planning process.
On November 13, 2004, Mathes was elected to serve as the fourth bishop of San Diego and was consecrated in March of 2005. As bishop, Mathes was responsible for raising up future leaders of the Church, walking with them through their discernment process and seminary experience. Under his leadership the diocese completed a successful capital campaign that established a diocesan school for ministry, created an outreach center serving San Diego’s homeless and working poor, and seeded a clergy mentorship fund. In 2007 he received an honorary doctorate from VTS. In 2014 he received the Mayor George Moscone Humanitarian Award for his support of the LGBTQ community.
Bishop Mathes and his wife, Terri, have two adult children. | English | NL | 8a79dd918bbd6c78910845ff717d55dc75b0b3cc04190df324c1417998799ecd |
Among original staff who may have served in the First World War, two stand out.
Both served in Europe and both were highly qualified science teachers. Sergeant William Caradus, who served with the 3rd Auckland Regiment, was wounded twice. He became the second Headmaster. CP (Clarence) Worley of the Canterbury Regiment was severely wounded at the Battle of the Somme.
After a period of recuperation both were repatriated to New Zealand, though it would be several years before Worley regained his health. Yet, at the outbreak of the Second World War the now Lieutenant-Colonel Worley was back in uniform. This time as Commanding Officer of First Battalion, Auckland Regiment, with responsibility for the defence of Auckland.
This was a serious position. There was an imminent threat of invasion from the forces of the Empire of Japan. They had overrun Indochina, Malaya, Singapore, Philippines, the Dutch East Indies (now Indonesia), some Pacific Islands and had bombed Darwin.
There were trenches on the front lawn of the School and many backyards had underground air raid shelters. If it had not been for thousands of American troops stationed in New Zealand preparatory to taking the war to the Japanese in the Pacific, New Zealand and Australia would have been overrun.
GCL (Guy) McLeod became a prisoner of war of the Japanese and was forced to work on the infamous Burma Railway. He returned to teach here but he was a broken man.
AJ (Bert) Gibson was in the UK, suffered a serious head injury, also returned to teach here, but never the same again.
Around 2000 Old Boys were servicemen and other masters in uniform included Colonel EH (Ted) Boulton and Old Boy Lieutenant GL (Lindsay) Weir. Boulton, a long-time geography teacher had, well before the War started, coached the 1931 shooting team who won the Earl Roberts Trophy. Weir became HOD English and was Acting Headmaster.
Both MD (Murray) Nairn and JLD (Laurie) Wooloxall were navigations instructors. Nairn was with the RNZAF in New Zealand and Woolloxall was with the RAF in England. Nairn later became the third Headmaster, Woolloxall returned to be HOD Science and later Principal of Northcote College.
The absence of so many masters overseas precipitated a staffing crisis, some classes were doubled up, some taken by Prefects and, as a war measure, a number of highly qualified women teachers were employed.
When the men returned from their commitment to King and Country they returned to their former positions. Yet, despite there still being a staff shortage, the ladies were sent on their way. Different times.
Brian Murphy, Archivist | English | NL | e2d7d5a5484cf43a398e291fc1986c72e602a939da6294c9b9a4f895b0de1bca |
German film director Ulli Lommel has died at the age of 72 due to heart failure. The prolific director achieved infamy through the critical pannings handed out to many of his films, with 15 releases directed by him scoring less than 2.0 on IMDB. He was perhaps best known for the cult 1980 film The Boogeyman and notorious comedy Daniel the Wizard in 2004.
Lommel was at the forefront of the New German Cinema movement, which lasted from the late 1960s into the 1980s. It was during this period that he started his career with Haytabo, going on to direct Second Spring, Cocaine Cowboys and many more.
Lommel worked up until the day he died. In recent years he had two documentaries in post-production – R.E.A.C.H Is Rich and A Golden Heart – and had completed filming on Mondo Americana.
According to IMDB he was in the process of filming The Factory: Working with Warhol, about artist Andy Warhol, for release in 2018 and was in pre-production on another film called Breakfast with Charly.
He had also been working on a continuation of the Boogeyman series with Boogeyman Reincarnation.
Lommel was born on 21 December 1944 in Zielenzig, Germany. His career began in front of the camera, rather than behind it. He starred in 1964's Fanny Hill opposite Italian actor Leticia Roman, and in 1969 featured in Rainer Werner Fassbinder's award-winning debut Love Is Colder Than Death.
He starred in several more Fassbinder films, including World on a Wire, Whity and Chinese Roulette.
Daniel the Wizard, the 2004 comedy which regularly features in "worst movie ever" lists, was a comedy-drama about Germany reality TV pop star Daniel Küblböck. In it, two teenagers who set out to murder Küblböck discover he is actually a wizard.
A trawl through IMDB reveals some harsh words from those who watched his movies:
On 2007's Curse of the Zodiac:
The Jake Gyllenhaal part from a much better Zodaic movie is played by a guy who looks like Newman from Seinfield only on coke. If you want a good laugh and your high you might enjoy this
2004's Zombie Nation:
The only person that is fit to watch this movie is Helen Keller... When the zombies finally showed up they had some raccoon paint on their eyes. They talked like regular people. One drove a car. Some voodoo woman asked what one of the "Zombies" wanted and the " zombie" said "I want to Dance".
Borderline Cult (2007):
IMDb has too many guidelines to post a comment. I just want to say how bad I hate this movie but it says I need more lines. So now, I'm typing randomly. I'm angry. And tired. I want to go to bed. But this movie is so bad that I have to keep typing. It's principle. My night is ruined. If I had a wife, I would make angry love to her. But I don't :(. this movie is bad, bad bad. Screw you IMDb. Here's 10 lines for you. Bad.
And 2005's BTK Killer:
I walked home and threw up after watching this piece of dirt movie, I then took a shower and burnt my clothes. | English | NL | 5a9a2d4766f5dab52c312b826dc3973ca07fc5e1414634b6efc52752ffd70da8 |
Lionel Kenneth Phillip Crabb was an MI6 diver and a Royal Navy frogman who disappeared in 1956 while investigating underwater a Soviet cruiser, Ordzhonikidze, anchored at Portsmouth Dockyard. His vanishing led to many conspiracy theories, and it inspired Ian Fleming to write the 1961 James Bond adventure Thunderball.
According to some of the numerous theories, Crabb had been murdered (even decapitated) immediately near the ship or first captured, questioned, and then killed. Others believed that he might have been brainwashed by the Russians and made part of the Russian Navy. There was also a theory that he was a double agent, or the less exciting possibility that he had a heart attack and died underwater. Whatever the truth, it is not revealed what happened to the agent to this day.
Lionel Crabb was born to a poor family in southwest London in 1909. His financial situation forced him to work different jobs until he completed his two-year training at the school ship HMS Conway for a career at sea. Then he joined the merchant navy. At the beginning of World War II, Crabb was an army gunner, but in 1941 he became a party of the Royal Navy. After only a year, he was assigned the challenging and dangerous task of removing limpet mines that Italian divers had attached to Allied ships at Gibraltar. His job was to disarm the mines that were removed by the British divers, and in the meantime, he learned to dive.
He soon joined the divers who were checking the Gibraltar harbor for limpet mines. This was during the period of Italian frogmen and manned torpedo attacks by the Decima Flottiglia MAS. In December 1942, two Italian frogmen died, probably killed by depth charges. After their bodies were recovered, Commander Lionel Crabb and his partner, Sydney Knowles, took the frogmen’s swim fins and Scuba sets and used them from then on.
Back at home, Crabb was awarded the George Medal and promoted to lieutenant commander. After a year, he became Principal Diving Officer for Northern Italy, and his assignment was to clear the port of Venice and Livorno of mines. Later he was made an Officer of the Order of the British Empire for his services in Italy. In 1943, Crabb was also an investigating diver of the suspicious death of General Sikorski of the Polish Army, whose aircraft crashed near Gibraltar. Around this time, he earned his nickname “Buster,” after the American swimmer and actor Buster Crabbe.
When the war ended, he was stationed in Palestine, where he led the team that worked on disposal of explosives set by divers from the Palmach sea force, Palyam, during the years of Mandatory Palestine. In 1947, Crabb was demobilized from the military and moved to a civilian job, exploring the wreck of a 1588 Spanish galleon on the Isle of Mull. He eventually returned to his post at the Royal Navy, diving twice to explore the submarines HMS Truculent in 1950 and HMS Affray in 1951.
In 1955, along with Sydney Knowles, Crabb investigated the Soviet cruiser Sverdlov to evaluate its superior maneuverability. Knowles later revealed that at the ship’s bow, they found a circular opening and inside it a huge propeller that could be directed to give thrust to the bow. That same year Crabb retired, but he was recruited for a mission by MI6 the following year, even though his smoking and drinking took their toll on his health and he was far from the shape he used to be during World War II.
MI6 assigned him the task of investigating the Soviet cruiser Ordzhonikidze, which brought Nikolai Bulganin and Nikita Khrushchev to Britain on a visit. The Soviets were rumored to have made strides with propellers and underwater sonar, and here was one of their ships in British waters. Prime Minister Anthony Eden had told the nation’s secret services not to execute any secret missions underwater while the Soviets visited for reasons of diplomacy–“These ships are our guests”–but he was ignored.
On April 18, 1956, Crabb supposedly went on a bender and drank five double whiskeys with friends. The next morning, Crabb secretly dove into Portsmouth Harbour to take a closer look at the cruiser. His MI6 handler never saw him again. Ten days later, the news about his disappearance during a possible underwater mission was all over the media.
MI6 attempted to cover up this espionage mission. Anthony Eden was upset that MI6 had operated without his consent. The newspapers published stories that Crabb had been captured and then taken to the Soviet Union. The Soviets released a statement that their crew at Ordzhonikidze had spotted a frogman near the cruiser on April 19.
Almost 14 months after Crabb’s disappearance, a body in a diving suit was found by two fishermen in Chichester Harbour, and it was brought to shore by members of RAF Marine Craft Unit No. 1107. The corpse was missing its head and both arms, and it was impossible to identify it with the technology of the time. Rob Hoole, a British diving expert, said that the body found had Crabb’s height and body-hair color, and was dressed in the same clothes. He also thought that there was “nothing sinister” about the looks of it considering the time it had spent in the water.
Nobody could identify the body, neither Crabb’s ex-wife nor his girlfriend. In the end, Sydney Knowles was asked to do so. He carefully examined the body, searching for a prominent scar on the left thigh and a Y-shaped one behind the left knee. Since he couldn’t find any scars, Knowles stated that the body was not Crabb.
There were many theories. The mystery of his disappearance inspired crime-fiction literature. In Thunderball, when Bond investigates the hull of the Disco Volante, Fleming, himself an officer in British Naval intelligence, was directly inspired by Crabb.
In his 2014 nonfiction book, A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal, author Ben Macintyre wrote that Kim Philby, recruited at Cambridge to become a spy for the Russians in the 1930s, became aware of Crabb’s mission through his friends at M16 and most likely warned the Soviets ahead of time. “Aboard the Ordzhonikidze the Soviets were waiting,” Macintyre wrote.
In 2007 a retired Soviet sailor had come forward to relate what happened. On the morning of the 19th, the sailor was ordered to “dive beneath the ship and patrol for any spying frogmen.” Kolstov said he spotted just such a frogman and cut his throat. The sailor was later awarded a medal.
It is impossible to confiirm if that is indeed what happened to Crabb. His fate is still essentially a mystery. | English | NL | 9b266cd6bf5a12c6fa449d9f22d993bdd81b711b32fb24f1cf7babb8ac42436a |
I once saw a funny birthday card. On the front it read Happy birthday to my daughter, the princess. On the inside, it continued, From your mother, the queen.
What is a princess, and what is a queen? Why is princess often a pejorative description of a certain type of woman, and the word queen hardly ever applied to women at all? A princess is a girl who knows that she will get there, who is on her way perhaps but is not yet there. She has power but she does not yet wield it responsibly. She is indulgent and frivolous. She cries but not yet noble tears. She stomps her feet and does not know how to contain her pain or use it creatively.
A queen is wise. She has earned her serenity, not having had it bestowed on her but having passed her tests. She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it. She has proved she can hold her kingdom together. She has become its vision. She cares deeply about something bigger than herself. She rules with authentic power.
Our kingdom is our life, and our life is our kingdom. We are all meant to rule from a glorious place. When God is on the throne, then so are we. When God is in exile, our lands are at war and our kingdoms are in chaos.
To be a princess is to play at life. To be a queen is to be a serious player. Audrey Hepburn was a queen, Barbara Jordan is a queen, Gloria Steinem is a queen. Most of us are a little of both. The purpose of life as a woman is to ascend to the throne and rule with heart.
The growth of a girl into a woman, a princess into a queen, is not a liberal transition. Like any true creative flow, it is radical. That is not to say it is angry or harsh. But it is radical, the way truth is radical—and birth and art and real love and death. It changes things. It represents a shift in core beliefs, a belly-up of dominant paradigms. Without this shift, a woman seesaws between the brink of disaster and the brink of salvation. She goes from moments of bliss to moments of terror. And then the children, and the world, begin to seesaw with her.
When a woman has owned her passionate nature, allowing love to flood her heart, her thoughts grow wild and fierce and beautiful. Her juices flow. Her heart expands. She has thrown off crutch and compromise. She has glimpsed the enchanted kingdom, the vast and magical realms of the Goddess within her. Here, all things are transformed. And there is a purpose to this: that the world might be mothered back to a great and glorious state. When a woman conceives her true self, a miracle occurs and life around her begins again.
Mary's was a virgin birth, and the word virgin means "a woman unto herself." The actualized woman is powerful unto herself and gives birth to things divine. Today we have the chance to give birth to a healed and transformed world. This cannot be done without a major uprising of the glorious in women, because nothing can be healed without the female powers that nurture and protect, intuit and endure. What does this mean for the individual woman living day to day in a world that resists her expansion and makes her wrong for her passions? It means finding others who have seen the same light. They are everywhere, and like us they await instruction. They are men and women, young and old, who have heard the joke but take it too seriously to laugh. It is funny but also tragic, this cutting off at the pass of the life-force of half of humanity. Something new is brewing, and let's be grateful that it is. The Queen is coming to reclaim her girls.
When the Queen emerges, she is magical and enchanting. She is calm and happy. She creates order where there was none. She has grown new eyes.
When a woman rises up in glory, her energy is magnetic and her sense of possibility contagious. We have all seen glorious women, full of integrity and joy, aware of it, proud of it, overflowing with love. They shine. I have known this state in other women and, at moments, in myself. But it could be a stronger statement, a more collective beat. We don't have to do anything to be glorious; to be so is our nature. If we have read, studied, and loved; if we have thought as deeply as we could and felt as deeply as we could; if our bodies are instruments of love given and received—then we are the greatest blessing in the world. Nothing needs to be added to that to establish our worth.
Just stand there. Sit there. Smile. Bless. What a hunger is left unfulfilled in our society for no reason other than that women have been so devalued by others and so dishonored by ourselves.
Every woman I know wants to be a glorious queen, but that option was hardly on the multiple-choice questionnaire we were handed when we were little girls. Rarely did anyone tell us we could choose to be magic.
When I was a child, there was a woman who lived across the street named Betty Lynn. She was sort of a cross between Auntie Mame and Jayne Mansfield. I thought she was the most beautiful, most fascinating, most wonderful woman in the world. Betty Lynn was wild and gorgeous and drove a Cadillac. I thought it was beige, but she called it the color of champagne. She wanted a thatched roof on her guest house. She obviously had sex with her husband. She always told me I was wonderful.
Years later, I remembered the scotch and water that was almost always in her hand, and many things began to make sense that hadn't made sense when I was young. But at the time, she was a model of sorts, a glamorous woman who made me see magic when all I found on my side of the street was a lid placed on my emotions and disapproval of my more outrageous passions.
Why, in the thirty-odd years since I knew this woman, have I never forgotten her? What did she represent that struck me as so real, so passionate, so enchanted?
Whatever it was, the alcohol helped her let it out, but then the alcohol enslaved her, and then it killed her. That's clear. But why do people who have the most ardor, the most enchantment, the most power so often feel the need for drugs and alcohol? They do not drink just to dull their pain; they drink to dull their ecstasy. Betty Lynn lived in a world that doesn't know from ecstatic women, or want to know, or even allow them to exist. In former times, she would have had her own temple, and people from all around would have gathered to sit at her feet and hear her pronounce them marvelous. She would have mixed herbs and oils. But an unenlightened world began to burn these women, and the world burns them still. Betty Lynn crucified herself before anyone else had a chance to. Many of us are a little like her, choosing to implode rather than take on society's punishment. Those of us who don't must bear society's wrath. But we live through it, bruised and battered though we might be. And more and more of us are now living to tell the tale, surviving the fire, surviving sober, and, hopefully, altered in such a way that our daughters will have an easier time.
BUY the BOOK:
(excerpt) A Womans Worth by Marianne Williamson | English | NL | 4bee8af2bce817c7c3d866135e1f0a375cfceb26e6b06a6f6486a49f344f93de |
April 25, 1936 – May 1, 2019
Farrell Jay Spencer, Jr. was born in Logan, Utah, on April 25, 1936. He was the oldest child of Farrell Jay and Betty (née Farnsworth) Spencer. Jay passed away peacefully on Wednesday, May 1, 2019, at the age of 83.
He married Yvonne Erickson September 14, 1960, in the Logan Temple. After graduating from Utah State University, he was commissioned as an officer in the United States Army and was called immediately to serve in Frankfurt, Germany during the Berlin Wall crisis.
After Jay’s military service, he and Yvonne returned to Logan and raised their four children. Jay was an active member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and enjoyed many callings. As a young man, he served a two and half year mission in Mexico, and he later served another mission with Yvonne in Puerto Rico.
He also had the privilege to serve as a Bishop on three different occasions. Jay held many civic positions. He was a member of the Logan Jaycees, President of the Logan Rotary Club, and President of the Logan Chamber of Commerce. Jay worked as a local insurance broker and was honored as one of AON Risk Service’s top producing brokers in the United States. During his life, Jay loved spending time with his family at his “beautiful Bear Lake.”
He is survived by his wife Yvonne; his children Sharlyn (J.L.) Coon, Shirley (Bryan) Pryor, Kristin (Kurt) Kendell, Jeffrey (Julie) Spencer; 13 grandchildren; and five great-grandchildren.
Funeral services will be held Friday, May 10, 2019, at 11 a.m. at the Logan 43rd Ward building, 600 East and 1255 North, with a viewing from 9:30 a.m. to 10:30 a.m. Arrangements are under the direction of Allen-Hall Mortuary. Condolences may be expressed online at www.allenmortuaries.net | English | NL | e19f7efbcced520d287cef329ccb85ec81f90f4ec13de7ee8b4796f78e8e3aac |
|Jesus Heals an Official’s Son|
1 Kings 17:17-24
After this the son of the woman, the mistress of the house, became ill; his illness was so severe that there was no breath left in him. She then said to Elijah, "What have you against me, O man of God? You have come to me to bring my sin to remembrance, and to cause the death of my son!" But he said to her, "Give me your son." He took him from her bosom, carried him up into the upper chamber where he was lodging, and laid him on his own bed. He cried out to the LORD, "O LORD my God, have you brought calamity even upon the widow with whom I am staying, by killing her son?" Then he stretched himself upon the child three times, and cried out to the LORD, "O LORD my God, let this child's life come into him again." The LORD listened to the voice of Elijah; the life of the child came into him again, and he revived. Elijah took the child, brought him down from the upper chamber into the house, and gave him to his mother; then Elijah said, "See, your son is alive." So the woman said to Elijah, "Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the LORD in your mouth is truth."
3 John 1:1-15
The elder to the beloved Gaius, whom I love in truth. Beloved, I pray that all may go well with you and that you may be in good health, just as it is well with your soul. I was overjoyed when some of the friends arrived and testified to your faithfulness to the truth, namely how you walk in the truth. I have no greater joy than this, to hear that my children are walking in the truth. Beloved, you do faithfully whatever you do for the friends, even though they are strangers to you; they have testified to your love before the church. You will do well to send them on in a manner worthy of God; for they began their journey for the sake of Christ, accepting no support from non-believers. Therefore we ought to support such people, so that we may become co-workers with the truth. I have written something to the church; but Diotrephes, who likes to put himself first, does not acknowledge our authority. So if I come, I will call attention to what he is doing in spreading false charges against us. And not content with those charges, he refuses to welcome the friends, and even prevents those who want to do so and expels them from the church. Beloved, do not imitate what is evil but imitate what is good. Whoever does good is from God; whoever does evil has not seen God. Everyone has testified favorably about Demetrius, and so has the truth itself. We also testify for him, and you know that our testimony is true. I have much to write to you, but I would rather not write with pen and ink; instead I hope to see you soon, and we will talk together face to face. Peace to you. The friends send you their greetings. Greet the friends there, each by name.
Then he came again to Cana in Galilee where he had changed the water into wine. Now there was a royal official whose son lay ill in Capernaum. When he heard that Jesus had come from Judea to Galilee, he went and begged him to come down and heal his son, for he was at the point of death. Then Jesus said to him, "Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe." The official said to him, "Sir, come down before my little boy dies." Jesus said to him, "Go; your son will live." The man believed the word that Jesus spoke to him and started on his way. As he was going down, his slaves met him and told him that his child was alive. So he asked them the hour when he began to recover, and they said to him, "Yesterday at one in the afternoon the fever left him." The father realized that this was the hour when Jesus had said to him, "Your son will live." So he himself believed, along with his whole household. Now this was the second sign that Jesus did after coming from Judea to Galilee.
New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved. The New Revised Standard Version Bible may be quoted and/or reprinted up to and inclusive of five hundred (500) verses without express written permission of the publisher, provided the verses quoted do not amount to a complete book of the Bible or account for fifty percent (50%) of the total work in which they are quoted. | English | NL | e0eb0cea52845499d28bc5604e552612476850845450695a8367f0b11258626c |
The Most Mysterious Thing About Edgar Allan Poe Might Be How He Died
If it had been the ending of one of his stories, critics might have said it was unbelievable. But Edgar Allan Poe’s death, which came suddenly and without a definitive cause, was very real—and it's just as mysterious today as it was when it happened.
On October 3, 1849—Congressional election day in Baltimore—a typesetter for the Baltimore Sun named Joseph W. Walker spotted Poe near a tavern that was being used as a polling place. The writer was disheveled, barely awake, and dressed in clothes that weren’t his own. Poe struggled to speak or move, but was coherent long enough to mention the name of Joseph E. Snodgrass, an editor and physician friend. Walker reached out to Snodgrass in a note: “There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe and who appears in great distress,” Walker wrote, “and he says he is acquainted with you, and I assure you, he is in need of immediate assistance.”
The situation hadn’t improved by the time Snodgrass arrived a little while later, accompanied by one of Poe's uncles. Poe was delirious and couldn’t provide any clues as to what had landed him wandering the streets in a shabby outfit that clearly didn’t belong to him. The people close to him also weren’t any help: Poe had been missing for six days before his sudden reappearance, so how he ended up near the tavern, let alone in Baltimore, was a mystery.
The last anyone had seen of him was September 27. He had been staying in Richmond, Virginia, where his new fiancee lived. He told her he was heading to Philadelphia to edit a collection of poems, but there was no clear record of him ever arriving in the city. Instead, he next surfaced in Baltimore nearly a week later, clinging to life.
Poe died at Washington College Hospital on October 7. He spent the days leading up to his death tortured by hallucinations and fever dreams. At one point he called out the name “Reynolds” several times, though the identity of this person has never been discovered. His official cause of death, by some accounts, was listed as phrenitis, or swelling of the brain, but the medical records have disappeared, and some historians believe the full story is much darker—and more complicated.
Many experts at the time, including Snodgrass, held that Poe drank himself to death. It was well-known that Poe had a hard time holding his alcohol, and according to some sources, all it took was a glass of wine to make him sick. The alcohol theory remains popular today, but one crucial piece of evidence runs against it—lead was frequently added to wine in the 19th century, and as Chris Semtner, curator of the Poe House in Richmond, Virginia, explained to Smithsonian.com, lead analysis of Poe's postmortem hair samples suggests he'd been avoiding alcohol toward the end of his life. Other theorists also believe Poe was suffering from some kind of poisoning or sickness, but blame carbon monoxide, mercury, rabies, the flu, or a brain tumor for his demise.
Then there are the more colorful theories, which posit foul play was involved. In 1857, biographer E. Oakes Smith claimed that Poe was viciously beaten by a man defending a woman’s honor. A few years later, a different writer published a story of a drunken Poe being attacked by muggers in the days leading up to his death.
Another group of theorists think that Poe was the victim of a deadly voter fraud scheme. During 19th century elections, gangs would sometimes kidnap people and force them to vote for the same candidate multiple times, wearing a different disguise each time to hide their identity. This practice was known as cooping, and it was prevalent in Baltimore at the time of Poe’s death. Voters were usually given booze as a reward for performing their civic duty, so if lightweight Poe was forced to vote over and over again, that could explain the sloppy state in which he was found. The theory also provides the most solid explanation for why he was wearing a stranger’s outfit. The fact that Poe was discovered on Election Day not far from a polling spot that was a common cooping target makes this one of the more popular possibilities.
Of course, there’s also a school of thought that says Poe was murdered. According to this theory, which was formulated by writer John Evangelist for his 1998 book Midnight Dreary: The Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Poe, Poe did make it to Philadelphia after leaving Richmond. There he was confronted by his fiancee's brothers, who were dead-set against him marrying their sister. After the scuffle, Poe changed into new clothes to disguise himself, hid in Philadelphia for a week, and eventually retreated to Baltimore. But the brothers followed him there and further antagonized him by beating him and forcing him to drink whiskey, which they knew would have a terrible effect.
Though it’s not impossible, this theory is based more on conjecture than hard evidence and isn’t a favorite among experts. In a review for the journal Poe Studies, Poe scholar Benjamin F. Fischer had this to say about Walsh's book:
"Had Walsh stated forthrightly that he was presenting us with a novel, in the detection vein, about Poe’s demise—not a work of academic scholarship—I, for one, would find Midnight Dreary a far more palatable accomplishment […] As it is, Walsh gives us far too many conjectural sentences and phrasings, along with too much shuffling aside of any previous bit of work that does not offer direct support to his thesis."
Over 168 years later, the questions surrounding Poe’s death make it one of the literary world's greatest unsolved mysteries. Despite his macabre reputation, that’s a legacy the writer likely would have been happy to leave behind.
Additional source: Rest in Pieces: The Curious Fates of Famous Corpses | English | NL | e55afaa72ccfe027a3ea8a555cd00deac86c4dd0bdcb86254c3cc4415149136b |
The Savior and the Saint
She had been there for an hour when he arrived.
The food on the table became more unappealing as her parent’s cigarettes began to overfill the ashtray in front of her. Ash fell from her mother’s hand into the last sips of her water; dissolving into gray swirls amongst the melting ice. Her father looked at the coffee stained check the waiter had left thirty minutes prior. Knowing he would complain, she decided to remove herself from the embarrassment. As she passed behind the man sitting at the counter, her father began to make a scene. She quickened her steps towards the bathroom and locked the door once inside. Standing on the toilet, she leaned over the sink and looked into the mirror. Dark hair like her father - a dirty face like her mother.
While she washed her hands with cold water her father drunkenly pushed the young waiter. While she stood under the hand dryer, her mother directed a racial slur towards some teenagers who were laughing at her husband. It was then that the owner came out and asked them to leave.
She opened the bathroom door and peeked out to see what she had missed. The front door to the restaurant slammed shut, and through a window she could see her father being thrown to the ground by two men. Her mother was outside also; yelling and drinking while a waiter tried to get the glass back from her. Her mother drank the remainder of what was in the glass then threw it to the man’s feet, breaking it to pieces. Stumbling to his feet, her father grabbed her mother roughly by the arm and both got into the rusted R.V. The vehicle sputtered to life and lumbered its way out of the dirt parking lot.
She looked around the restaurant; everyone was staring out the window at the now ending scene. She realized what had happened but it was too much for her to take in. The man at the counter had his back to everyone as if nothing of interest was happening. He looked up from his water and looked at her, the only one who knew she was there. She walked back into the bathroom and locked the door. She put the toilet lid down and sat with her feet dangling above the tiles.
Outside the restaurant she found herself behind a dumpster watching the empty road and the dusty parking lot. The sun was setting behind the trees lining the opposite side of the road; their shadows just reaching where she stood. A slowly approaching vehicle caught her attention and at once she hoped it was and was not her parents: it wasn’t.
The front door of the restaurant opened and the man from the counter came out. He began walking towards his car and passed the dumpster which she was hiding behind. He stopped half way to his car and slowly turned around. She made an attempt to conceal herself but then rejected the idea. She tried to give her best ‘everything is okay’ smile, but she knew how she must have looked. With no change in expression, he surveyed her quickly; short brown hair, dirty t-shirt, shorts, flip-flops, seven-to-nine years’ old, typical kid.
The widows in the car came down once the engine was on, releasing the stuffy air and letting in the now forming night breeze. After watching him for a moment she walked to the car, got on tip toes and looked in through the passenger side window. He didn’t look at her. Not knowing what to say she cleared her throat like she saw someone in a movie do once; he looked at her.
Pulling on the handle she found the door was locked. A moment passed and the man pushed the unlock button. She got in and reclined the seat back, instantly comfortable. They sat in silence for a few minutes and then the car backed up slowly, and was off forward down the road. The ride was smooth and the wind relaxing. Within twenty minutes she was asleep.
She awoke in the car, now parked under a lighted Motel sign. The man was gone; the car keys on the floor in front of her. The car doors were locked. It was a much nicer place than her parents had ever taken her to, yet still a motel. Footsteps approached from behind and a shadow formed across her window. She opened her door and got out, happy to see the return of her friend.
Standing in the parking lot she looked up through the light at the moon. It was quiet and she breathed deep. The car door closed and the man walked towards the motel, she quickly followed. Inside the room were two beds, a night-table between them, a television, an armchair, a small fridge and a bathroom. The keys to the room landed on the bed next to her as the man walked out the door. She turned on the television and locked the door. Through the blinds she watched the man sit inside his car for a few minutes then slowly drive away. She turned off the light and got into bed with the television still on. Comfortable, she fell back asleep.
The news was on when the knocking on the door woke her up. The sun was coming through the blinds and she felt rested. Taking the keys from the night-stand she unlocked the door. The man came in with two grocery bags full of food and placed them down on the unused bed. He cracked the blinds to let in more light then left the room, only to return with a bowl, a glass, a plate, and some silver wear. He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and started the shower.
She sat down on the bed next to the bags. First she had a bowl of cereal, then another. Then she found the fast-food breakfast sandwiches that were still warm, a cold bottle of orange juice, and peanut butter and jelly with wheat bread. She was just getting into the chocolate when the man came out of the bathroom; looking exactly the same as when he went in. He left again and came back with another bag which he put in the bathroom. He then lay down on the messy bed which she had slept in and closed his eyes.
After eating a little chocolate she turned to a station that had cartoons on. She went into the bathroom and saw the bag on the floor had some soap and shampoo in it along with three identical light blue sweat suits; the only difference being they were three different sizes. She thought it sweet that he would spend extra money just to make sure she had an outfit that was the right fit.
After having a shower and putting on some clean cloths she went to watch more cartoons and have another bowl of cereal. The man was asleep and she saw no reason in waking him up. She poured some cereal then turned down the volume on the television.
It was weird seeing pictures of herself on the television. The words they used to describe her were even stranger. Every other word was about how beautiful, precious, and special she was. These were words she had never thought to use in describing herself, words her parents had never used while talking to her.
The man still slept as she entered her forth hour of watching news coverage of herself. People from the diner kept telling the story of her parents being thrown out, but no one really remembers the little girl that was with them. The waiter that served them made a statement that he saw the little girl leave before the trouble started, whether or not she got in the R.V. he couldn’t say.
Outside the motel room the sun was beginning to set. She began making another peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she heard her mother’s voice. She sat on the edge of the bed close to the television so she could hear what she was saying. Again she heard words used to describe her that she had never heard before. Her mother was saying things like: ‘please help us find our little angel’, and ‘we hope to find our princess safe and sound.’
Tears streamed down her mother’s face as the camera panned over to her father. His hair was combed and he seemed on the verge of tears also. He began to plead for the safe return of his daughter in the same way her mother did. She turned down the volume and watched her parent’s faces.
The man began waking up so she turned back to cartoons.
The clock on the dashboard read midnight. The motel was a good four hours behind them, in front of them was mile upon mile of tree-lined road. The radio played softly, tuned to a classical station…her choice.
Every half-hour she heard her name mentioned. They were now referring to her as ‘a frightened and lost little girl.’
Looking at the man, she wondered if he knew it was her they were talking about. Something in her thought that if he did, it would be of no concern. Wrapping the blanket he had given her tightly around herself, she fell asleep.
The bumps and potholes woke her. At first she forgot where she was, thinking she was with her parents in the R.V., but after rubbing the sleep from her eyes it all came back to her.
The car moved slowly through the woods on a dirt road that was far past neglect. The sun was just coming up in front of them. She closed her eyes and yawned widely.
In the backseat she noticed a bag that hadn’t been there. Inside was food and juice, which she immediately started eating. Turning the radio on, she heard herself being talked about; she turned the radio off.
The road came to a dead-end and the man turned the car off. Both opened their doors and got out. She began stretching; he walked into the woods. After walking for what seemed like an hour, they reached a clearing on top of a cliff.
The clouds seemed close and the birds flew below them. She breathed deeply and held her arms out wide. Cautiously she stepped towards the edge. The morning sun hung in the sky in front; below was wilderness for as far as the eye could see.
“My father brought me here fifteen years ago.”
He stood next to her, both just inch’s from the edge.
“When my mother was alive we use to go camping all the time. I was young but I have memories. After she passed away my father was never the same. We didn’t go camping for years so when he told me we were coming out here I was excited. We ate at the same diner me and you ate at. We stayed in the same motel room that me and you stayed in. Everything is exactly the same.”
He stopped talking and she felt like she should say something; but she didn’t know what. A few minutes passed as they both looked over the landscape.
“We stood just like we’re standing,” he began again. “He said he loved my mother more than anything, and life without her wasn’t possible. That was the last thing he said to me. I never thought I would understand why he did what he did, but now I do.”
He closed his eyes and prepared to step off the edge when he felt her hand in his. He looked at the little girl and saw she was smiling at him.
“Thank you for bringing me here. It’s very beautiful.”
The News told the story for weeks:
MISSING EIGHT YEAR OLD FOUND
SAFE IN WOODS BY CAMPER.
Girl says she wandered from Diner
into woods, quickly getting lost.
After surviving without food for almost
Forty-eight hours a thirty-year-old out-of-state
man happened upon her in the woods.
Asked what she thought about her Hero
she said “We’ll be friends always.” | English | NL | d26f0867cbe77bbcdf5ee0b3347ad29a3e28663c89f69740ccc211a6f1f7db84 |
Children Of Light was written by Kristian Stanfill, Jason Ingram, Pat Barrett, and Jesse Reeves. Even though the song came out of the 2013 Passion Conference, Kristian and Jason began writing the song at the beginning of 2012. When it was time to begin writing and pulling songs for Passion 2013 they revisited the song, but it felt like it still wasn’t quite finished. That’s when Jesse and Pat were pulled in to help. Pat had written a hook that he had not been able to use in a song yet. They liked Pat’s hook so much that they reworked their version of Children Of Light to fit. The funny part of the story is that Pat had almost entirely given up on it!
The inspiration for Children Of Light comes from Ephesians 4-5 where we are encouraged to live as children of the light. It says, “For you were formerly darkness, but now you are Light in the Lord; walk as children of Light (for the fruit of the Light consists in all goodness and righteousness and truth).” It is a powerful thought to think about what God can do through His followers when we walk as children of light. In obedience to Him, we are all called to let the world know how wide, long, high and deep is the love of Christ.
We love the four-on-the-floor feel that helps drive the song. It will have your church tapping their foot from the first note as you encourage them to be light to those around them, to see the world differently and be mindful of how God wants to work through them.
Wake up, open your eyes
No longer dead, we are alive
Rise up, children of light
Open the doors, go let it shine | English | NL | 976bb721819560ed4be17f2b3a8ced750949d777f844161b91244d10760ffed2 |
I received a copy of this book from netgalley for my honest opinion. Well here it is, I loved this book! Right from the first page I was hooked, not in the kind of 'gotta sit and read this in one sitting' hooked. But where I wanted to sit and enjoy the ride. Sam Thomas has a way with words that is nice and smooth, I felt like I was right in that time period with Bridget and Martha. His descriptions had me visualizing buildings, walks through York and right down to Bridget's husbands.
"...I was struck once again by the artist's inability to portray him as any less pathetic than he had been in life. In truth, it was a peculiar kind of masterpiece. As in life, my husband's eyes were somehow both sunken and bulging, and his uniquely weak chin became his most remarkable feature. His ears were perfect for a man twice his size, and his nose seemed to be recoiling from the prospect of smelling his own fetid breath. More than once I had considered remarriage if only to rid my home of so perfect a picture of so ridiculous a man."
A wonderful mystery that had me guessing right to the end. | English | NL | 9f5805a2e880cbca309ea8f4204c8641f0f61b4400baacfca709d986c530ad69 |
In one of the last letters of his life, 87-year-old John Wesley, founder of Methodism, wrote to a young member of England’s parliament: “Unless God has raised you up for this very thing, you will be worn out by the opposition of men and devils. But if God be for you, who can be against you?” Wesley was referring to William Wilberforce’s hope of abolishing slavery throughout the British Empire. At the time of the letter, Wilberforce had been pursuing the cause in parliament for nearly four years. It would take 16 more years before the slave trade would be outlawed, and the rest of his lifetime before slavery itself was abolished.
Wilberforce was born August 24, 1759, into a prosperous Yorkshire merchant family. His father died before William was nine, securing the boy’s financial independence. At the age of 17 he enrolled at Cambridge University, where he was well liked for his parties and his warm and fun-loving nature. In fact, he preferred socializing and playing cards to attending classes.
With no interest in the family business, Wilberforce decided to pursue a career in politics. He spent the winter of 1779–80 in London, enjoying the social life and observing debates from the gallery of the House of Commons. Another young man also spent his time in the gallery that winter—the future prime minister William Pitt (the Younger). A lifelong friendship began. Both became members of the House of Commons within the year and relied on one another for advice and support throughout their careers.
In 1784 Wilberforce boldly campaigned for the largest constituency in England and won. Although small in stature and weak in constitution, he spoke with a skill, warmth and passion that easily won people over. One parliamentary reporter described his speeches as “so distinct and melodious that the most hostile ear hangs on them delighted,” while Pitt once remarked that Wilberforce had “the greatest natural eloquence of all the men I ever knew.”
The following winter Wilberforce took his mother and his sister on a trip that transformed both his life and his politics. An old acquaintance had joined them, and throughout their journey the two men discussed, among other things, the New Testament in Greek. In the months that followed, Wilberforce reflected on his life and its excesses, and began to regret his idleness, indulgence and lack of political direction. He felt compelled to change but struggled with the decision. Becoming a Christian would place him outside his social circle. Questioning whether he should withdraw from politics, he consulted John Newton, the former slave trader who wrote the hymn “Amazing Grace." Newton encouraged Wilberforce to continue in politics, believing that God could use him “for the good of the nation.”
Wilberforce quickly made up for lost time—politically and personally. He began his first humanitarian reform while continuing his previous support of parliamentary reform. Adopting a rigorous routine of self-examination, he wrote down his goals and evaluated his motives, words and actions at the end of each day. He lowered his tenants’ rents, wrote lists of those needing prayer, studied his Bible and fasted.
It was during this time that he was asked to bring the topic of the slave trade to parliament. A growing body of people had been working to raise public awareness of its evils, but they realized that for such an important economic trade to end, parliament must outlaw it. Wilberforce carefully reviewed the information they presented and then did his own research. Confronted with the evidence of inhumane treatment and the high death rate on the slaves’ sea passages, he became convicted that slavery was wrong, concluding, “I would never rest till I had effected its abolition.”
“As soon as ever I had arrived thus far in my investigation of the slave trade, I confess to you sir, so enormous, so dreadful, so irremediable did its wickedness appear that . . . I from this time determined that I would never rest till I had effected its abolition.”
It became apparent, however, that there was neither the political nor the popular will to banish slavery outright, so Wilberforce began by campaigning only against the slave trade, feeling this could be more easily achieved (it actually took 19 years!). At the same time, in May 1787, some of those who had been active in the antislavery movement formed the Society for the Abolition of the Slave Trade.
Wilberforce collected statistics, evidence of mistreatment, and mortality rates. But when the time came to bring the issue to parliament, he had fallen ill. He turned to Pitt for help, and in May 1788 the latter moved that the House should investigate the slave trade.
The parliamentary debate began in May 1789. Many voiced opposition, fearing that Britain would be economically disadvantaged if the slave trade were outlawed. Others lacked sympathy because of the commonly held belief in the divine placement of one race of people over others. Slave traders painted a rosy picture of the slaves’ circumstances at sea and argued that the high death rates were simply due to epidemics. Wilberforce dealt with each argument presented and went on to propose 12 resolutions. In his first antislavery speech, he appealed to members to think beyond the immediate and to view their responsibility from an eternal perspective:
“There is a principle above everything that is political. And when I reflect on the command that says, ‘Thou shalt do no murder’, believing the authority to be divine, how can I dare set up any reasonings of my own against it? And, Sir, when we think of eternity, and the future consequences of all human conduct, what is there in this life which should make any man contradict the principles of his own conscience, the principles of justice, the laws of religion, and of God?”
The debate was adjourned for nine days and ultimately delayed by a further two years. It was not until April 1792, after Wilberforce’s opponents inserted the word “gradual” into the proposal, that the House voted that the slave trade should eventually be abolished. But without a time line, Wilberforce’s victory had no substance. The slave trade continued in force throughout the 1790s.
In May 1793 Wilberforce proposed the Foreign Slave Bill to prohibit British ships from carrying slaves, but the bill was defeated in the House.
Meanwhile Wilberforce devoted his time to many other social causes, such as the education of the poor, penal reform, and paying the debts of those in debtors’ prisons. But, in his words, “the grand object” of his parliamentary existence remained the abolition of the slave trade.
In March 1796 Wilberforce lost another bill, this time by only four votes, but it soon became apparent that slavery would not have parliament’s attention again until the French Revolution was over. In the intervening time, Wilberforce focused on what he termed “the reformation of manners.” As he considered the root of social problems, he came to the conclusion that if the morals of the country could be reformed, then crime, poverty and other problems would diminish.
“How different, nay, in many respects, how contradictory, would be the two systems of mere morals, of which the one should be formed from the commonly received maxims of the Christian world, and the other from the study of the Holy Scriptures!”
He noticed that the Christianity found in the Bible contrasted sharply with the accepted religious practice of the day. In April 1797 he published A Practical View of the Prevailing Religious System of Professed Christians, in the Higher and Middle Classes in This Country, Contrasted With Real Christianity. The book proved very popular and went on to be published in five languages.
The antislavery movement revived in 1804, and the following year a bill for the abolition of the slave trade to conquered territories was successful. Capitalizing on this new momentum, Wilberforce wrote “A Letter on the Abolition of the Slave Trade, Addressed to the Freeholders of Yorkshire,” and on February 23, 1807, the House overwhelmingly voted in favor. Tears ran down Wilberforce’s face as he listened to the final result and was honored by parliament for his efforts. According to biographer John Pollock, “his achievement brought him a personal moral authority with public and Parliament above any man living.”
Continuing to campaign for penalty clauses to ensure compliance with the new law, Wilberforce saw an amended Abolition Act come into force in March 1807. The slave trade was now officially abolished throughout the British Empire. Still, he did not think the climate was right for total emancipation, believing that slaves must be prepared for freedom.
In 1812 Wilberforce resigned his Yorkshire seat, enabling him to spend more time with his family and to look after his failing health and his many charitable organizations: some estimate that he was president, vice president or committee member of no less than 69 societies.
In 1816 Wilberforce launched a bid for a Registry Bill, which would require colonial legislatures to register all slaves, as it was suspected that some colonies were importing slaves illegally. At the same time, diplomatic negotiations began with Portugal and Spain to abolish their slave trades. Despite all this, little progress on the actual end of the practice of slavery was being made, and the hope that slaves would be treated better following the end of the slave trade was not realized.
Wilberforce began pushing for the liberation of all slaves in 1821, and in 1823 he and others formed the Anti-Slavery Society. He now wrote Appeal to the Religion, Justice and Humanity of the Inhabitants of the British Empire in Behalf of the Negro Slaves in the West Indies, addressing the belief that negroes were “degraded” because of their race. He argued that the men of Sierra Leone (a self-governing black community) and Haiti (the first black-ruled country), had shown themselves, in biographer Pollock’s words, to be “true men, not the brute beasts which some planters believed negroes to be.”
In March 1823 he presented parliament with a petition for the abolition of slavery. Ailing health prevented him from engaging in all of the parliamentary debate that ensued, but others took the cause forward. In June 1824 Wilberforce made a short speech asking the House not to rely on colonial governments to end slavery. The debate continued over the next few years, and the antislavery movement garnered increasing parliamentary support in the process.
By February 1825, after many pleas from his physician, Wilberforce retired from government, though he continued to encourage the movement as best he could. In 1831 he sent a message to the Anti-Slavery Society: “Our motto must continue to be perseverance. And ultimately I trust the Almighty will crown our efforts with success.”
On July 26, 1833, the act for abolition of slavery passed its third reading in the House of Commons. Wilberforce died three days later, but by then passage through the House of Lords was certain. He was buried in Westminster Abbey by request of members of both Houses of Parliament. Slavery was abolished throughout the British Empire the following year. | English | NL | 3ec11cf2d1f2edf1d249707065ab5e51fe11ae331ac7c223a780f0610913c337 |
People love to preface a sentence with “I’m just saying”. It seems that people even have the nerve to say this at the most inopportune time! I’m just saying conotates “I told you so”, “You should have listened to me”, “Why did you do that anyway” or maybe even “That was stupid”. It is a slogan that really gets the listener on the receiving end on edge and angry. When I think of this slogan I think about Job’s ignorant friends and stupid wife! Job’s friends had the audacity to sit around for seven full days looking crazy at each other and at Job and then finally accusing him of doing something wrong. I can hear them saying “I’m just saying you must have done something to cause this wrath to come on you at this magnitude, but I’m just saying.” Job got so frustrated with all of their foolish talk and told them, “Don't talk like a fool! If we accept blessings from God, we must accept trouble as well." Despite all that happened, Job never once said anything against God, because he knew in his heart of hearts that God had his back. Job was unable to see the forest for the trees because he was having a valley experience and he recognized this. When you are in the valley you don’t know what’s going on or in the works outside of that valley. However, he was not content on pitching a tent and staying in that valley. Job placed his trust in God and only God because that was all he knew to do at that particular juncture in his life, and on that he stood; in trust, faith, hope, and believing in what he could not see with his own eyes or come to a conclusion with his own mind was not his final destiny in life.
We must be mindful of the people we bring into our circle, our space, and lives because they love to share and actually invite themselves to be apart of your life when things are well, but when things start making a turn for the worst there they stand with these words, “I’m just saying”. Sometimes we need to take that “I’m just saying” that is coming out of the mouths of other people into your life and rebuke it! Remove yourself from their presence, and tell them to get to stepping. This is what Job told his shallow wife and friends to do.
I’m just saying gets tired and old real fast when you are experiencing these valleys in our life. We must take note of the situation, pray, wait on God to move, and be patient that He has already worked out the kinks in this thing called life. You see a test is between you and God, while a trial is for everyone to see how you will react and respond in these valley experiences. When you are in the valley, don’t be still and set up a tent to stay there! These valley experiences test us, try us, give us more faith, and teach us to believe in God and not man. So, I’m just saying when you are in that valley take heed and note because you are being tested as you go through the trials in this life. You can remain there with those ignorant, unfaithful, unbelieving folks if you want—and you will be there for a long while. The other option is to never give up hope or faith and believe God always has your best interested at heart because He has called you His Beloved, and even engraved your name in the palm of his hand to remind Him of how much He loves you. So, remove yourself from those in your life who speak doom and gloom, just like Job’s close friends and family just like those who are doing the same in your life. God can provide you with new friends, new experiences, and a new life as you come out of the valley to the other side to see all He has always had in store for you, even before the beginning of time. He was just waiting on you to stop with the “I’m just saying” and allow God to say “I am saying”.
By Tina Kay Hughes Author of “TKay’s Inspirationals: Walking In Your Season” www.tinakay.net | English | NL | 8a8d93b568375d63cc3385945d6cd9837c953c9314d37165303bc1869e6d1d2e |
My earliest memory of our church was going to morning worship with my Grandfather Luckham and sitting in the third seat from the front on the organ side. Then Grandfather would take off my bonnet and we would settle quietly waiting for the service to begin. The part of the service I liked the best was the sermon, for Grandfather would put his arm around me, and I would snuggle up to him and go to sleep.
Two important features of our young lives were the Band of Hope and the Sunday School. The Band of Hope occupied quite a bit of our time. At the age of five years, with the help of Miss Boyce who was the Band of Hope secretary, I signed the pledge. I was fully aware of what signing the pledge meant, and I may add that I have kept that pledge through all these years.
Having signed the pledge I was entitled to go to the Annual Band of Hope tea which was held in November. This was a special occasion and well attended. Three of my cousins used to travel from Didcot each year, which helped to swell the numbers.
The ordinary meetings were held monthly and we children were expected to sing a song or recite a piece of verse which had been chosen and given to us at our weekly practices by Edna and May Keast. During the winter months my brothers and I went to these practices by the light of a storm lantern, carried by my elder brother. There were no street lights in the village then.
My earliest recollection of Sunday School is of singing with the other children, 'Hear the pennies dropping, listen while they fall: everyone for Jesus, He shall have them all.'
There were several high spots in the Sunday School year. The first was the Anniversary. This always fell on Good Friday, because it was on Good Friday that the Sunday School was inaugurated. For six weeks before the great day we had to practice special hymns. What a tiresome six weeks those were! All we had in mind was to get out for our customary after Sunday School walk. I think we were all pleased when the practices were over and done with.
The Sunday School 'treat' to Thurlestone was special. We went in wagons loaned by the farmers, but before we set out all assembled at the church and sang, "Jesus shall reign," after which the Superintendent would pray, what seemed to us, an interminably long prayer.
Ladies at Thurlestone beach Sunday School 'Treat'
In addition to this I remember my Sunday School class being taken by our teachers, Edna and May Keast to Soar Mill. It was a lovely afternoon and we had a feast of apple pasties and cream; who made all I couldn't say, but they were delicious.
The other big event was out Christmas Party. On that day we assembled in the church and each scholar received a prize. Then we all went into the bottom school room for the party. The Christmas tree was loaded with presents and a sight to behold!! There was tea and parlour games and the distribution of the presents from the Christmas tree. One memorable year I had occasion to 'go outside.' It was dark and walked into the tombstone situated opposite the church door. I bumped my head and made it bleed so I ran off to my Grandmother in the Lower Town who washed and patched up my forehead and I soon rejoined the party none the worse for the bump. I often recall this when I see that gravestone of Richard Ford.
Another headstone that brings back memories is that of Rev. Crossman, barely legible now, but it was when I was a small child. The epitaph was 'A shock of corn fully ripe.' I knew all about sheaves of corn but nothing of a 'shock of corn.' I imagined that Rev. Crossman had died of shock because the harvest had been particularly early that year!! I was a good bit older when the real meaning of the inscription dawned on me (a shock is a sheave!)
Out church secretary, Mr.Smale, who lived at Lower Soar, used to travel to church by pony & trap, and the pony was stabled under the church in what is now the church storeroom. At times during the services the pony would stamp and snort, all plainly heard by the congregation. We also had pigeons in the loft above the gallery.
For many years my mother was the church caretaker. When I was considered of age I had to help with the dusting, but I was never allowed to dust downstairs, only the gallery, with the instructions, 'don't forget the ledges.'
In the early days there was no piped water in the church and when my mother needed water for cleaning, she would role back the matting from the vestry door, open the hatch into the baptistery, go down a couple of steps and dip her bucket in. The opening looked black and forbidding and quite terrified me. I believe that the baptistery was fed rain water in some way. Perhaps someone with a longer memory than mine can explain how this happened?
Earlier I mentioned Edna and May who were my Sunday School teachers. I would like to record here that their efforts were not in vain, but bore fruit on a June Sunday evening in 1935, when I was baptised as a witness to my acceptance of Christ as my Lord and Saviour.
As a family our lives revolved around the church, as did the lives of many of our people.
The war came. I left the village and except for home visits I was away many years, but the church has a very special place in my heart. I am glad that along with my husband Arthur* I am 'at home' again.
*Rev. Arthur Hallworth died in October 1992. | English | NL | 7f6a70bfa9a2d7ec4206c3669f7ce2e27bec555b99c4fb76692a50521698869b |
New York, NY
I highly recommend Dr. Yang to anyone suffering from dizziness and/or vertigo who has first been checked out thoroughly by his or her physician to rule out systemic illness yet cannot find specific causes or relief.
Although I am generally a very healthy person, several years ago I began to experience unexplained bouts of intermittent dizziness. After being examined thoroughly by various doctors and blood labwork and diagnostic tests performed to rule out systemic illness, I was told that dizziness is unfortunately a very common chronic condition without definitive answers as to the causation. Since in a majority of cases the cause cannot be determined, a cure is not possible and people are just told to learn to live with it. Vestibular rehabilitation exercises were recommended to cope with the symptoms. I followed this recommendation and felt that the vestibular rehabilitation exercises are helpful but by no means a cure - they merely help you cope so as to minimize the impact of the dizziness or vertigo during one's daily activities. Anti-nausea drugs are often suggested but I did not want to go the drug route.
After exhausting the limited possibilities offered by conventional Western medicine, I thought of acupuncture. I was recommended by my doctor to see Dr. Yang .
I realized that while Dr. Yang treats many conditions, she had developed a special interest and expertise in treating dizziness and vertigo. During my initial exam with Dr. Yang, I told her that the previous acupuncturist thought my dizziness was caused by hormonal imbalance. Dr. Yang explained that hormonal imbalance is a frequent cause of dizziness but in my particular case, she had other ideas. It took her about half hour to ask me many questions, exam my pulse and tongue, palpated many points in my neck and head, Dr. Yang felt that in my particular case, the problem was likely caused by an issue relating to the combination of my ear, jaw, neck and upper back. Hence her needle placement was in entirely different spots than the previous acupuncturist had used, she retained needles about other half hour. The initial visit is about one hour. Dr. Yang also suggested a special dietary recommendations which are good ideas for everyone -- avoid excessive salt and sugar -- which she felt could exacerbate vestibular problems by causing water retention.
I was shocked that after my third session with Dr. Yang, I felt a real improvement. I continued for a few more sessions and the dizziness steadily abated until it was completely gone. Dr. Yang is amazing !
As I write this testimonial, I have been free of dizziness for months. Thanks to Dr. Yang, I have been able to resume my normal exercise routine and daily activities. I urge anyone with dizziness to of course first rule out systemic illness with their physician, and then try acupuncture with Dr. Yang who is a tremendously skilled practitioner with a special interest in treating dizziness and vertigo. Even if one has tried acupuncture before for their dizziness to no avail, it is worth trying again with Dr. Yang. Dizziness and vertigo can have many causes -- so after disease has been ruled out by one's physician -- it is imperative to try acupuncture with a highly skilled practitioner such as Dr. Yang who has specific and extensive experience with this particular problem.
NYC, New York | English | NL | 07d022461e46f712b57480203943b0f6a948a7b4197d63b72f39664544e15b47 |
Dr George Elliott Cranstoun (1877-1922) was a much liked and well respected local doctor with a thriving practice in the middle class Melbourne bayside suburb of Hampton. But he lived with a dark secret that very few knew about nor could have imagined the tragedy that was to unfold – he was addicted to morphia. A native of Castlemaine in country Victoria, Cranstoun was the sixth of eight children to Ebenezer Cranstoun and Margaret née Campbell and was educated at the local grammar school before studying in Bendigo. In 1899 he passed the final examination at the Pharmacy College and worked in Castlemaine until graduating at Melbourne University as a doctor of medicine (MB, Ch.B, 1914). He then practiced for three years at Bruthen (1916-19) in Gippsland followed by Yackandandah before moving to 5 Station Crescent, Hampton. His wife Jessie née Haig, whom he married at Castlemaine in 1905, took a leading part in social life in the area and was well connected with charitable organisations; they had five adorable children – John (Jack) Haig aged fifteen; Margaret Annie (Meg) aged thirteen (d 1972, Springvale Botanical Cemetery), Robert (Bob) Stirling aged ten, Colin Campbell aged eight and the youngest, Belle aged six-years old; a sixth died at childbirth in 1910.
At 8:30pm on the night of Sunday 13 August 1922, Cranstoun called his wife into his office. He had mixed a new antidote for influenza and wanted to experiment with her; she consented and the injection was administered. “While I’m about it, I might as well do the lot” said the Doctor, and he called in their servant, 28 year old Gladys Victoria Baylis (1893-1922) followed by Meg and Jack. He then went upstairs to treat young Belle, Colin and Bob in their beds but not before telling Belle – “I am giving this for your cold”. The following morning at 11:00am the full picture of the previous night’s events were stumbled upon by a patient Mrs M Breaden and the local butcher Alexander Dick who were passing by; the Doctor was found in his pyjamas on the floor in the hall with a hypodermic needle; his wife lay fully dressed in a distressed state in the bedroom groaning “Oh George, oh George!”; in the attic Bob and Colin were found dead in bed facing each other while Belle and Meg were found half conscious in a back room; the servant Gladys was found in her room fully dressed having died just a few moments before the house was entered; but the biggest shock that caused outrage in the city was evidence of a fierce and violent struggle between the doctor and Jack in the front room – books were strewn about the room, chairs disarranged and a vase broken.
In what The Argus described as “the worst domestic tragedy in the history of Victoria”, Cranstoun was rushed to the (Royal) Melbourne Hospital where he died at 4:30pm having briefly regained consciousness; luckily his wife and two daughters survived the devilish outrage. Described as a big man with thick dark hair, bright and cheery with a comforting word for everyone, Cranstoun was a keen racegoer having attended a meeting at Caulfield racetrack on Saturday. Police found a number of race books and an addressed unstamped envelope in his desk indicating a financial debt: “It may make it easier for you if I formally acknowledge that I owe you 110 pounds for money lent to me and interest. I have felt for some time that I should have given you a P.N. [promissory note] for the amount, and if you think the same we can fix it up next time we meet”. On 12 September, the Coroner, Dr Robert Cole, found that Cranstoun, his three sons and Gladys Baylis all died from narcotic poisoning administered by ‘Dr Death’ who suffered from “brain disease while mentally unsound”; a post mortem on the victims revealed multiple injections. Bright, well liked and musically inclined, Baylis was born at Omeo, Victoria the daughter of William Baylis and Mary née Angus and had been in the employ of the family since 1917 and was much loved; it was reported that her fiancé was killed in the Great War as were her two brothers, Vere Neville (Bmdr, 7th Bde Aust. Field Artillery, d 22 Oct 1918) and William Osmond (Pte, 38th Battalion, d 11 Aug 1916). She was buried nearby (CofE*ZA*2656) in a private service officiated by Rev Perry Martin. For young Bob, he was buried on his eleventh birthday.
Postscript: On 12 April 1955, Dr Cranstoun’s wife Jessie was cremated at Springvale Botanical Cemetery and her ashes were later interred with her husband and three boys on 27 May (Pres*Q*201).
Main, J., “Murder in the First Degree. True Australian Cases” (1992).
The Argus 15, 16, 17, 19 August 1922 & 8, 13 September 1922.
The Herald 14, 15 August 1922 & 12 September 1922.
The Age 15 & 16 August 1922.
Adams, J., “The Tambo Shire Centenary History” (1981). | English | NL | b3b5480f689fa9e12eeb4755e3d7ed6dba9cb0159636f8beffaea69d0aaf719e |
The term “Celts” (from the Greek Keltoi, or ”barbarian”) refers to a people who lived in a large area of central and western Europe in the second part of the first millennium BCE. They spoke a language belonging to the Indo-European group of languages, and so were related to other European peoples such as the Italians, Greeks and Germans.
The Celts had developed a distinct culture by the 9th century BCE, in their original homeland of present-day Austria, Switzerland and southern Germany. They then expanded westwards into what is now France from the 8th century, having adopted the Iron-age technologies coming in from the south and east.
The Celts soon covered most of today’s France and Belgium. In the 5th century their culture evolved into the late-Iron Age La Tene culture, influenced by contacts with the Greeks of the Mediterranean region. This produced finely crafted jewellery, drinking vessels and armour. They never developed an indigenous literate culture (a few inscriptions show that some of them used Latin by the time the Roman power was expanding). If other warrior societies of northern Europe are anything to go by (Germanic, Scandinavian), however, they will have enjoyed a vibrant oral literature.
The Celts, like other early European peoples, were polytheists, worshipping a variety of gods and goddesses. These tended to vary from region to region, but storm gods and horse gods were prominent.
Religious experts called druids were prominent in many Celtic society, though their status seems to have varied over time, and from region from region. In Britain they seem to have been exceptionally prominent, apparently using their network of contacts to co-ordinate the British tribes’ resistance to the Roman invaders.
Beginning at around the same time, and perhaps linked to the rise of the La Tene phase of Celtic culture, the Celts experienced another period of rapid expansion. From France, they moved southwest into Spain, mingling with the Iberian tribes to form the Celtiberian people. They crossed the Channel to establish themselves as the dominant group in the British Isles. Some groups migrated southwards to settle the Po valley of northern Italy. From there they raided down into the Italian peninsula, famously sacking Rome Britain, northern Spain, northern Italy, Austria and parts of central in the early 4th century BCE. Yet another group moved further south east into the Balkans, eventually arriving in Greece in the early 3rd century BCE. Here they caused immense destruction before crossing over into Asia Minor and, defeated by local kings there, settled down to form the kingdom of Galatia.
By this time, their original homeland had been overrun by German tribes. These had expanded from their point of origin in southern Scandinavia and northern Germany to cover the whole of central Europe east of the Rhine, north of the Danube and as far as the Black Sea coast.
Though the Celts shared a common language and culture, they were divided into numerous tribes, often at war with one another. Many of these tribes were under kings, who seem to have been elected, though probably from within royal families. Other tribes, at least by the time the Romans encountered them, were led by groups of nobles.
Celtic settlements were usually small farming villages. The larger of these were grouped around chieftains’ hill forts, many of which have been found scattered throughout the Celtic cultural area. This, together with the rich grace goods – beautifully made armour and weaponry, drinking vessels and jewellery – found in elite graves indicates that Celtic society was dominated by a warrior aristocracy. This archaeological evidence is strongly supported by the writings of the Greeks and Romans who came in contact with them.
As contact with the Greeks and Romans became more extensive, trade developed amongst the Celts. Small towns began to appear at the major chiefs’ capitals, which functioned as regional centres of trade as well as political and military headquarters. The buildings were made of wood and thatch, so did not resemble the brick- and stone-built cities of the contemporary Greeks and Romans, but some covered large areas of land and must have had populations numbering in the thousands.
Most of the Celts were eventually brought under Roman control. The Celts of northern Italy were conquered right at the beginning of the second century BCE. Celtiberians of Spain were subjugated in a series of wars in the second and first centuries BCE. The Gauls (as those Celts living in France were called by the Romans) were brought under Roman rule in two main stages: the first in the late second century BCE, when the Romans annexed southern Gaul, and the second in the mid-first century when the Roman general Julius Caesar conducted his brilliant but savage campaigns against them. The descendants of those Gauls who had migrated to Asia Minor came under the domination of Rome at around the same time. Another century would pass before the Roman emperor Claudius began to conquest of Britain, in 43 CE.
During the centuries of Roman rule most of the various Celtic societies lost their language and culture as they gradually adopted the Roman way of life and the Latin language. This was probably far less true of the inhabitants of the Roman province of Britain, where most seem to have continued their age-old way of life in their rural villages, with only the tiny minority who lived in the towns taking to Roman ways. Even here, there is evidence that in later Roman times a growing number of them were brought more closely in to the Roman trading system, and this would have helped spread the Latin language and culture.
The only Celtic peoples to escape Roman rule were the inhabitants of the western and northern fringes of the British Isles, Scotland and Ireland. Here a Celtic culture continued to thrive, and indeed took on a new vitality as Christianity came to these regions, just as Roman power was coming to an end in the British Isles (and elsewhere).
In the fifth and sixth centuries, first in Ireland and then in Scotland, the “Celtic” church arose to spread the Christian Gospel in northern England, and as far afield as Germany. Accompanying the Christian faith was literacy, and Celtic monks brought the craft of producing illuminated manuscripts to a high pitch. Here, the flowing motifs found centuries before decorating the La Tene culture drinking vessels were now used to adorn the pages of Christian sacred texts.
Read blog post on “Who were the Celts?” | English | NL | 19f005525293ee1208ade63163de87dc5af5a85b1ebe6f1fb5a3518545ce6e7b |
From the March 1933 issue of the Socialist Standard
Fifty years ago, on March 14th, 1883, Karl Marx died in London, after a lifetime devoted to the workers' cause. The persecutions and privations he had endured in that cause hastened his death. When he died, much of the work he had planned still remained to be done, but, nevertheless, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had given the working class movement all over the world an impulse and direction. His significance as a thinker and as a revolutionary grows more important each year, and although critics succeed one another in an unending line with “refutations" of his theories, those theories still stand awaiting disproof. History as it unfolds brings new illustrations of the truth of Marx*s discoveries and of the inadequacy of opposing doctrines.
But, before we consider the body of Marxian thought, let us take a brief glance at the man himself.
Karl Marx was born on May 5th, 1818, at Treves, in the Rhineland, of Jewish parents who subsequently adopted Christianity. The Germany into which he was born was very different from modem Germany. It was mainly an agricultural country, and such industry as was carried on was still greatly restricted by relics of feudal barriers. There was nothing to which the term large-scale industry, in the modern sense, could be applied. Industrialism, which had been growing apace in England during the previous fifty years, was hardly known. Politically the country was split up into a number of independent States, each with an autocratic government based on land ownership. The feudal restrictions on industry and commerce, the impediment to trade that was constituted by the multiplicity of States, made the German bourgeoisie, then just emerging into prominence and anxious for power, very receptive of the ideas that Napoleon by his victories had spread over Europe. A united Germany arid a liberal constitution, these were the popular ideals in which the needs of the rising capitalist class expressed themselves. When Marx was twelve years old, the 1830 revolution broke out in France and spread to nearly all Europe. It is quite safe to assume that the events taking place around him made a deep impression on Marx even at that age. In 1835 Marx entered Bonn University and started on a course of jurisprudence to meet the wishes of his father, who was a lawyer. He added to this a study of philosophy and history, for the economic changes of the period were undermining all established ideas and forcing all who thought at all to seek a new basis for the understanding of life. The leaders in the new thought were the Young Hegelians, the followers of Hegel. Marx became associated with this school, but soon became dissatisfied with the idealism of Hegel and began to spread a wider net than his master. It was through their common interest in Hegelian philosophy that Marx and Engels first met and the friendship was established that lasted until Marx died.
In 1841 Marx took his doctorate. The next year, when about to take up an appointment at Bonn University, he was offered, and accepted, the editorship of the Rheinische Zeitung, a Cologne newspaper started by the Rhineland Liberals, to which Marx had already contributed articles. This marks the turning-point in his career. From this time dates Marx’s realisation of the historical task of the proletariat and of the inadequacy of all current philosophy. But at this stage Marx was far from the theories that are now known by his name. He was simply a Radical Democrat interested in and anxious to improve the conditions of the peasants and the workers. The controversies in. which his work as an editor involved him soon convinced him of the need to study and understand political economy if political problems .were to be understood. When, therefore, the attention paid by the censor to the Rheinische Zeitung hampered Marx in his work, he resigned his editorship in 1843 and, with his friend, Arnold Ruge, proceeded to Paris. (Notwithstanding Marx’s departure from the editor’s chair, the paper was suppressed shortly afterwards.) Before then he had married Jenny von Westphalen, the daughter of Baron von Westphalen, who was of Scots descent and who later became, in the words of Engels, “ a reactionary minister of State.”
To Paris had come, after 1830, a number of German revolutionaries. They had formed a secret society, out of which grew the League of the Just. The. League had disappeared in 1839, but many of the leaders were still in Paris at the time of Marx’s arrival. One of the original leaders, Schapper, had gone to London and started the Workers' Educational Society among the German artisans there. This was one of the beginnings of the Communist League. In Paris, Marx and Ruge started the Deutsch-Franzosichen Jahrbucher, of which, however, only two numbers appeared. By this time Marx had progressed beyond mere Radicalism, his thoughts were beginning to move along the lines of their final development, but his realisation of the revolutionary role of the proletariat in the development of society still required the basis which the conception of the class struggle was afterwards to give it. In 1844, in collaboration with Engels, he wrote the “Holy Family.” Here the new theories begin to take form. (Engels states that Marx had worked out the ” Materialist Conception of History ” by 1845.) The importance of this book lies in the fact that, in working out the ideas, Marx had come to appreciate how essential for the purposes of his thought was a knowledge of the economic laws governing production in the society in which he found himself. As a consequence, with his usual thoroughness, he took up seriously the study of economics. In 1845 Marx was compelled to leave Paris because of his attacks on the Prussian Government. He proceeded to Brussels. Here he wrote and published, in 1847, his ”Poverty of Philosophy” in reply to Proudhoun’s “Philosophy of Poverty,” and began the career of revolutionary activities that only death brought to an end. In 1847 he joined an organisation which, after a Congress held in London in that year, came to be known as the Communist League. It had grown out of various secret societies started in the different countries in which the leaders of the defunct League of the Just had found themselves. Towards the end of the same year (1847) a second Congress of the Communist League was held in London, at which Marx was present. At this Congress the new ideas of Marx, to which his studies during the preceding years had led him, came in conflict with the revolutionary idealism which up to then had provided the workers’ movement with its basic ideas. Finally Marx managed to convert the Congress to his views and was instructed to prepare, in the name of the League, a manifesto setting out their aims.
The Communist Manifesto
The manifesto was written and issued by February, 1848, shortly before the outbreak of the 1848 revolution. This manifesto is what we now know as the Communist Manifesto. In writing it, Marx used a draft prepared by Engels before the Congress met, but to it he added what Engels himself has described as “the fundamental proposition which forms its nucleus.” Engels goes on to state that proposition as follows:—
That in every historical epoch, the prevailing mode of economic production and exchange, and the social organisation necessarily following from it, form the basis upon which is built up, and from which alone can be explained, the political and intellectual history of that epoch; that consequently the whole history of mankind (since the dissolution of primitive tribal society, holding land in common ownership) has been a history of class struggles, contests between exploiting and exploited, ruling and oppressed classes; that the history of these class struggles forms a series of evolution in which, nowadays, a stage has been reached where the exploited and oppressed class—the proletariat—cannot attain its emancipation from the sway of the exploiting and ruling class—the bourgeoisie—without, at the same time, and once and for all emancipating society at large from all exploitation oppression, class-distinctions and class-struggles. (Preface to Communist Manifesto. Preface written by F. Engels, 1888.)
With the publication of the Manifesto a new stage is reached in the history of the working-class movement. The Manifesto may not be a perfect piece of work, from the point of view of the present day. Had Marx been called upon to write it in 1878 instead of 1848 certain things in it would no doubt have been different. Even so it contains in embryo most of Marx’s later ideas and was a significant advance on anything of the kind that had preceded it. It took Communistic thought out of the world of Utopias and set it up on a basis of reality.
The Writing of “Capital”
On February 24th, 1848, the revolution that overthrew Louis Philippe broke out in France, and by March Germany was in the throes of liberal revolutions. The Belgian Government did not choose at such a time to have a revolutionary of Marx’s calibre in Brussels, so he had to seek shelter elsewhere. He returned to Paris, and from there went to Cologne accompanied by Engels. Here they started a newspaper, the Neue Rheinische Zeitung. For nearly a year this journal poured forth the opinions of Marx and Engels and brought to an examination of the political events and problems of the day the understanding of historical processes that the “Materialistic Conception of Histor ” had provided. It was in the pages of this paper that the articles now gathered together under the title, “Wage Labour and Capital” appeared. Finally, during the period of reaction after 1848, the paper was suppressed (May, 1849), and Marx went on his travels again. After a short stay in Paris he sought refuge in London, and there he remained for the last thirty-four years of his life.
In 1852 the Communist League, after prolonged internal dissension among its members, came to an end, and for about ten years Marx was not actively engaged in political affairs. This was the period that commenced his prolonged economic researches, during which he laboured on the preparation of his greatest work—“Capital.” At the beginning it was a period of great hardship for Marx, whose only source of income was his pen. Three of his children died as a result of the privations to which the family was subjected. In 1851 he became a contributor to the New York Tribune. Certain of the articles he wrote for this paper on events in Germany have since been gathered together under the title "Revolution and Counter Revolution.” Another of his works, now widely read, “The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte,” also appeared about the same time in another paper, Die Revolution, published in New York. Engels meanwhile had gone into his father’s business in Manchester as a means of providing monetary support. In 1859 the "Critique of Political Economy" appeared. This work is the forerunner of “Capital,” and contains the first exposition of Marx’s theory of value. —
The First International
Marx’s active participation in political agitation began again with the First International in 1864, of which he soon became the leading spirit. The inaugural address and constitution were written by Marx. They follow the lines laid down sixteen years before in the Communist Manifesto, but show that Marx’s thought had progressed far since 1848. The Declaration of Principles of the S.P.G.B. bears many strong resemblances to the constitution drawn up by Marx for the First International. But in writing for a body like the International Marx could not be entirely himself, and certain parts of the constitution cannot be considered as indicative of Marx's own ideas. About one passage, for example, he is found writing to Engels: "I was compelled to insert into the constitution some phrases about 'rights' and ‘duties’ as well as ‘truth, morality and justice,' but all this is so placed that it is not likely to bring any harm.”
Marx's struggle with Bakunin sprang out of the International, as did his famous monograph, “The Civil War in France,” which was originally written as an address for the International. In 1873 the bureau of the International was shifted to New York. Three years later it had ceased to exist.
Throughout the period of his work on the General Council of the International Marx was continuing his researches and studies. In 1867 he published the first volume of “Capital.” The other two volumes were first published after his death by Engels, who prepared them from the notes Marx left behind. In 1869 Engels retired from business, and returned to London in the following year. This meant easier conditions for Marx: Engels brought not only monetary assistance, but also relieved Marx of a large part of the work to be done for the International. After the transference of the International to New York Marx devoted all his energies to his studies. On these were spent the last ten years of his life.
The Marxian Theories
Marx’s importance in the history of the Labour movement comes from his having discovered first the basic law governing the development of society, and second the essential economic principles underlying production in a particular form of society, the capitalistic form. The first of these is embodied in the “Materialist Conception of History.” which is outlined above in the words of Engels. The corner-stone of the second is Marx’s theory of value, the only economic theory that has succeeded in giving an adequate explanation of the sources of profit in capitalistic production. Both of these theories have been attacked, but it is safe to say that at no time has their validity been more apparent than to-day. A whole school of economic historians has arisen during the last fifty years, re-writing history from the viewpoint provided for them by Marx, although few of them are honest enough to acknowledge his influence. For the workers the importance of the Materialist Conception of History lies in its revelation of the class struggle as the mechanism through the operation of which social changes are produced. Without the guiding principle of the class struggle working-class thought must inevitably flounder about in a morass of reformism. Until the identity of interests of all workers everywhere, as members of the same class, was made apparent by Marx, there was no solid basis on which an international working-class movement could be established. Without such a movement capitalism cannot be overthrown.
Marx’s theory of value made clear the exploitation of the worker, gave it scientific proof and demonstrated its inevitability under capitalism. Here was the final blow to all theories of social reform. Once it was shown that the preventable evils from which the workers suffer are the result of their being numbers of an exploited class in society it followed that only by terminating their exploitation could those evils be abolished. Revolutionary Socialism was born.
The S.P.G.B. and Marx
It is to preach this that the S.P.G.B. exists. In putting itself forward as the only party worthy of the support of the workers, the S.P.G.B. does so as a Marxist organisation. What do we mean when we describe ourselves as a party of Marxists? In the first place, it does not mean that we claim infallibility for Marx, or accept all he wrote as dogma and true just because he wrote it. But we do claim that Marx, in all his main ideas, was correct and provided explanations of social problems and guidance in the solution of those problems. To the extent that these ideas pass the test of modern experience—and we contend that, fundamentally, they do satisfy such a test —we subscribe to them, but we do so in no blind spirit of hero worship. We appreciate that Marx, like lesser men, was subject to the environment in which he found himself. The body of his thought did not emerge fully formed at the beginning of his career, it developed and grew each year as his researches and experience increased. Inevitably, until Marx had completed his economic studies, his thought was not rounded off, and certain of his earlier ideas are not altogether consistent with those of his mature years. Engels referred to this in his introduction to “Wage Labour and Capital," Engels wrote: —
All his (Marx’s} writings which appeared before the publication of the first part of. his “Critique of Political Economy” differ in some points from those published after 1859, contain expressions and even entire sentences, which from the point of view of his later writings appear rather ambiguous and even untrue.
In other words, where there are contradictions —and they are relatively few—in Marx's teachings it is on the later statement that he must be judged. The particular conditions of his times, the undeveloped nature of capitalism and the struggles to overthrow the relics of the feudal restrictions on capitalist industry, made him an advocate at certain periods of courses of action which, in his later years, he disavowed and which, in any event, are not applicable to modern conditions. For example, Marx’s (and Engels’) ideas on the use of armed force to achieve revolutionary objectives underwent a radical change during his lifetime, and the reasons that led Marx, in 1848, to advocate war with Russia, and later to subscribe to a political programme of immediate demands, including such things as the eight-hour day, are no longer operative: Marx’s example cannot be pleaded in defence of the support given to the war of 1914-18 by the various Labour Parties of the belligerent countries or in justification of reformism. Experience has shown that a programme of immediate demands cannot be used to build up a socialist organisation. In practice immediate demands have soon brought confusion and destroyed the Socialist objective of the parties which adopted them.
Marx and Engels also underestimated capitalism's strength and ability to adjust itself to the demands made upon it. They both thought in the ’fifties that capitalism could not survive its industrial crisis and that its end was imminent.
We dare to mention the shortcomings of Marx even in a commemorative article just because he was a genius. His reputation is big enough to bear the truth. Marx, like Cromwell, would have insisted on being painted “wart and all.’’ Only mediocrity has to be protected from being judged on account of its mistakes. It was Marx himself who said: “Ignorance never helped nor did anybody any good," and ignorance of the development of Marx’s thought can only lead to difficulties in understanding his final ideas. An understanding of these ideas provides a sure and complete key to all modern social and political problems. The S.P.G.B. aims in its propaganda to provide that understanding. | English | NL | ee3fd2707683f75ca40a39c80648ce06f1f42f6ecb6cdf435486890782b6f738 |
Brazilian artist Bernardo Stumpf began by wrapping his feet and ankles with athletic bandages and tape. Wearing loose shorts and a t-shirt, he performed this ritual with deliberate familiarity. Stumpf then pulled kneepads over his muscular calves and began a series of cat-like crouching moves, twisting his spine and slinking around the room. He removed his red shirt and tied it around his head, a kind of turban/mask. Sufficiently anonymous, he continued his gracefully brute maneuvers.
Stumpf showed great command of his toned and agile body. At times, he appeared like a bucking bronco throwing himself to and fro, quickly exhausting as he bounced and gasped. At other points, his serpentine arms evoked a tender delicacy. The overall character of the performance was that of a demented gymnast’s mat routine. Accompanied only by the music of his heavy breathing and the thuds of flesh on floor, he kicked and flailed, never far off the ground in a hardscrabble dialogue with gravity.
Downward force became a subtext of the piece. When Stumpf would execute more balletic moves, he always came down hard. Eventually his breathing evolved into muffled laughter from inside his self-imposed veil. Stumpf manipulated the red-shirt headgear into successive expressive shapes, first exposing his face through what resembled a medieval wimple, then pulling the tail of the shirt forward forming a monstrous red mouth. He peered out at the audience before re-covering his face.
Stumpf ended his performance by unwrapping his feet and removing all his clothing, freeing himself from all constrictions, literal and figurative. He held the red shirt in his mouth and stood still, silent and nude facing the back wall of the gallery. The posture suggested both penance and punishment. Despite hints at muscular abandon, the protective gear (pads and bandages) ultimately foreshadowed that Stumpf would never really lose control and he did not. Real mad men are far scarier and the muffled chuckles heard here were more mischievous than maniacal. Perhaps therein lies the meaning of this action, where inner urges were continually thwarted by outside forces. The things that protect us often keep us from ever finding our limits. Gravity holds us safely grounded, but also keeps us from reaching the stars. Stumpf’s final pose was one of naked honesty. | English | NL | 2d3ea5dbe00133e7099766bed4e095bdc24b63687a0dbf1f1ec2d33bbb82d77d |
Francis Xavier was born in Spain on 7th April 1506 into a wealthy farming family. Little is known of his early life but we know he was brought up surrounded by war and his Father died when he was nine years old. Francis left Spain to go to university in Paris in 1525. He was ambitious and regarded as a fine Athlete, particularly at high jump. Francis shared a flat with Ignatius of Loyola. Ignatius was a very religious man who tried to convert Francis but Francis regarded him as a joke and was very sarcastic towards him. Ignatius finally broke down Francis’ resistance and converted him to Christianity. Following this Francis, Ignatius and three others founded a group called ‘the society of Jesus’ (now the Jesuits) and they took the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.
Francis graduated with a Master’s degree in Arts and remained at the university until 1534 teaching Philosophy. Francis hoped to go to the Holy Land to convert people to Christianity but this didn’t happen because after he was ordained in 1537 the Pope sent him to Africa as one of the very first Jesuit missionaries.
Francis worked, preached and helped the sick in Mozambique before moving to Asia, taking the long journey by boat to Goa in India. In Goa Francis lived among the natives and adopted their customs for 10 years. During that time he converted tens of thousands of people to Christianity and he built nearly 40 churches. Despite not speaking any foreign languages, Francis worked in Malacca, New Guinea, Borneo, the Philippines and Japan before dying en route to China in 1552 where he was planning to continue his missionary work. Francis endured great hardship during his time as a missionary through lack of funds and lack of co-operation from officials in Europe, however, he never gave up. His legacy was the real zeal, energy and enthusiasm he showed to tens of thousands of people who remained Christians for centuries. Francis was canonised by Pope Gregory XV in 1622 and is regarded as one of the greatest missionaries since St Paul. His feast day is 3 December.
When deciding our name, we wanted something that was different, memorable but that also had meaning. Francis Xavier was a teacher and as a missionary he gave much of his time to teaching children, realising that they are the future. He also tended the sick and those less fortunate. Despite encountering difficulties and resistance he never gave up.
As Teachers, Governors, Directors and Support Staff in the Xavier Catholic Education Trust we devote ourselves to serving the children and spreading the good news of the Gospel and like St Francis, we too will never give up in our mission. | English | NL | 7170a5db233b0526da3836db609c6e156cc043b84348204c980a14081ed66a99 |
Millie is sitting on the floor again, her backpack on one side of her, and Boulder on the other, his head resting once again on her lap. He’s not sleeping though, but is closely eyeing the sandwich Millie is munching on.
“I haven’t given him anything,” she says defensively, looking up.
“I know. He wouldn’t have accepted anything,” I inform her. She looks a little dubious, which makes me smile. “Go on, give it a shot. Try to feed him a piece.”
She takes a minute, waiting for me to urge her on with a nod, before she breaks a corner off her sandwich and holds it in front of Boulder’s face. As I knew he would, Boulder turns his head away, looking to me for a signal.
“He was trained to wait for approval before he eats. Watch.” I lift my hand, palm out, indicating to Boulder he should wait, and then I drop my hand as I tell him clearly, “Okay.”
Faster than I can blink my eyes, he snatches the treat from Millie’s hand.
“Try again,” I urge her.
Once again she tears off a piece of bread and holds it out for him to eat, but his eyes are not on the bread, they are on me. I give him the go ahead, and this time Millie smiles.
“That’s awesome. How did you teach him that?”
“Lots of patience and consistent practice, every time he eats.”
“He’s a therapy dog, and he comes in contact with a lot of people. If he just accepted every treat that was offered, he’d be as wide as he is tall. Not healthy for a dog.”
She falls silent and seems pensive as she absentmindedly strokes his fur.
“So how was your first week in school?”
“Not too bad,” she mutters, shrugging her shoulders. “No different from my old school.”
“Is that a good thing?”
Her response comes in the form of another shrug and then she adds, “It’s familiar.”
I’m not sure what to think of that rather detached answer, it seems a bit off, but something tells me not to push. Not yet.
“Do you have a dog? Or any other pet?”
She snorts. “I wish. My mom was allergic to animals, and Dad keeps saying only when I’m responsible enough to take care of one.”
“Are you?” I jump right in, and she shows the first spark of fire in the quick look she throws me, before fixing her eyes on Boulder again. “Your dad does have a point, taking care of, and training a dog, is quite a bit of work. Especially in the beginning. You can’t skip a day because you don’t feel like walking him or getting up to feed him. You get a dog, and it’s the same with a cat or any other kind of animal, it becomes dependent on you for everything. It’s not a toy you can just play with when you feel like it.”
“I know that,” she snaps, suddenly pushing Boulder’s head off her legs, grabbing her bag, and scrambling to her feet.
“Wait,” I call out as she moves to the door. She stops, but keeps her back turned. I smile at the show of defiance. “Millie, I’m not suggesting you can’t handle a pet—I’m asking you if you can.”
Slowly she turns around and when she speaks, her voice is soft.
“I think so. I’d like to try. I’d love a friend like Boulder.” | English | NL | 6507554342a761301c557e58ab740285dd5e742600396905f585f5507557c299 |
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Michael and Patti Ballard’s family was in trouble. Two of their four children had—in their mother Patti’s words—“serious issues,” and Patti could see that the younger siblings were heading down the same path. It was during this time that the Lord directed them to ATI. As the Ballards began working through the Wisdom Booklets, Patti realized that she needed to make some major changes in her own life. As Michael and Patti began to align their lives with the ways of God, their children followed suit. Michael and Patti acknowledge that ATI was the tool God used to save their family. | English | NL | 5c192c04e788e452663cbaf9f3b78cc201d08e9b6b414bb5cbe9a0f7ceaeea29 |
The last 75 years of her life were spent in pursuit of connection, not perfection, unlike the initial twenty years. In her 20’s she realized that the meaning of life, her life at least, was to connect with others. She accomplished this in varying ways, sometimes choreographing deeply moving dances or writing intensely real and raw plays which dealt with human tendencies and suffering.
She had her moments of suffering, which fueled her art and inspired her successful painting career. She got into film in her mid twenties after being seen in a low budget student film. Her breakout was unconventional and she remained grateful until the end for her luck that day.
The films she starred in and wrote were wildly funny and touching. She saw things from a very unique perspective, an insight the world needed after the Trump era wrecked havoc on America.
Her various creative endeavors brought her around the world. She affected and was affected by thousands of people, their photographs, poetry and letters kept in a box by her bed.
With the wealth that she came upon she helped local farmers stay afloat and passionately explored sustainable agriculture. She was a prime player in changing the face of American cuisine. She also helped support numerous musical and visual artists to get on their feet.
She was a mentor, friend, cheerleader, groupie, and advisor to hundreds of up and coming artists. She didn’t take herself too seriously, though, especially in the latter end of her life. Her years spent with her improv team were some of her fondest and she applied the “Yes, And” philosophy to the rest of her life.
She realized life was a game and one that you couldn’t possibly win so competing was unnecessary. Laughter filled the house she shared with her family. Her doors were always open to visitors, friends, and strangers alike as she was eager to learn from anyone she could.
She was proficient in multiple languages. Learning was something she did up until the day she passed away. In her lifetime she did numerous things, succeeding and failing an equal amount, loving every moment of the journey.
She lives on in her films, plays, ballets, paintings, sketch comedies, books, poems, recipes, and the love of her life who outlived her much to her delight.
Her dying hope was that people would remember their humanity. She watched as technology took over and human interaction became obsolete. She watched as people flocked to their therapists and sunk in self doubt because they didn’t know how to be in the presence of another anymore.
The whole point is to look into someone else’s eyes and feel something.
She hoped that people would remember that. She died peacefully in her home in Brooklyn. | English | NL | e441cced41a632f35ad79bc50ac5b2a25e8bc7d7953326f75514d7473604aeaa |
I first read this intimate memoir, written in graphic novel form about the author’s experience of growing up in 1980’s Iran, soon after the Paris bombings in late 2015. I felt it timely, for although the terrorists had not been from Iran, much of the Middle East was getting a bad rap. This book humanizes another culture, and shows how extremism in any culture or religion is done by the few radicals against the many who suffer because of it, and should be read widely for the message it conveys.
The first half is about Majane Satrapi’s childhood. She is the only child of elite, well-to-do parents who have progressive ideals. The book balances the innocence of her childhood with the greater social-political unrest that was swirling around her. As a child she did not understand all that was happening and only knew of the Iran of her present circumstances than the more liberal Iran of the past. But yet, she was aware of friends and loved ones being taken away, and sometimes killed by the Islamic Revolutionists, because of their different political beliefs.
As she became a teen, Marjane’s upbringing led her to start questioning and rebelling against the fundamentalism of the era. This put her and her family in peril, due to her lack of restraint. The last pages show her parents sending her to Europe to further her education, for her safety and theirs. While she needed to escape, for her rebellious attitude certainly would have brought ruin to her family, sending her away to boarding school in another country was heartbreaking to the whole family.
The second half of the book covers her teen years through her early 20’s. Marjane wasn’t always likable and made some terrible choices in Austria, some of her own doing, and some due to lack of an adult support system there. Eventually, she heads back to Iran after her schooling. Having felt unmoored away from home, Marjane is glad to be back home, although her time there is still tenuous due to the continuing political climate. She immerses herself back into her family and culture, and at this time collects the stories she will share in the book, Embroideries, about the secret lives of women in Iran. She has an unhappy first marriage while home, and knows that her future will need to be elsewhere if she is to lead an authentic and safe life as an adult.
I was interested in Marjane’s childhood and her teen years, as they correlate roughly to the time I was growing up. As a mother myself now, I was also interested in the perspective she had of her mother and father, for the book seemed to be a valentine to her parents and culture. The black and white illustrations are deceptively simple, but convey so much feeling, mood and history to the reader. Bravo to the author who shared this beautiful memoir about her beloved family and society with the outside world. | English | NL | 9fa8be02c33a4e7b1e46b8b2739952699fc9a1836492b31ceb85ed82638097f5 |
For years, we have attempted to correct a myth held in many classrooms.
Henson was a skilled sailor and navigator and had joined Peary on numerous expeditions since 1887. On Peary’s eighth attempt at the pole in 1909, Henson was selected as one of six who would make the final push to the pole.
By the finish, Peary could not continue on foot, either due to frostbite or exhaustion. Henson was sent ahead as a scout. On April 6, he made the final run–a run so hard by the time he got his bearings, Henson had overshot the pole by a couple of miles. Here’s what Henson said in a newspaper interview:
“I was in the lead that had overshot the mark a couple of miles. We went back then and I could see that my footprints were the first at the spot.”
When he backtracked to the spot he crossed, Henson realized he reached the pole. He planted the American flag as the rest of the team, including Peary, followed.
Peary, the white naval commander, received numerous honors for the expedition. Yet the man who actually accomplished the goal worked in obscurity as a clerk in the federal customs house in New York City, only receiving recognition near his death in 1955.
Below are some links to find out more about this great African American explorer:
Henson’s 1912 book A Negro Explorer at the North Pole – via Project Gutenberg | English | NL | aaf88f2f1864b95c852a14557272ad48781324330a5f8f97e1177f005a8ebe60 |
Our Pastor, Donald Yancey, was born on November 21, 1962, and is from Fayetteville Ga. where he graduated from Fayette County High School in 1980. Pastor Yancey attended Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College, Tifton Ga., where he earned an Associate Degree in Biology in 1983. In June 1986 Pastor Yancey married his high school sweetheart, Robin, and they moved to Lagrange, Ga. to begin their lives together. The Yancey’s have two children, Cory and Katie, and a daughter-n-law Amanda Yancey.
Pastor Yancey was saved at New Hope Baptist Church in Fayetteville Ga. on January 5, 1986. He and his family moved their membership to Faith Baptist Church in 1995. Pastor Yancey has been in ministry at Faith since 2006. His ministry began with mission trips to the Lighthouse Children's Home in Costa Rica. He now serves on their Board of Directors. Pastor Yancey began teaching a Sunday School class in 2008 and in 2010, after being called to preach, he began preaching as a missionary in Costa Rica, Panama and the southeastern United States as he raised support for the Light House Children‘s Homes. Pastor Yancey attended Titus Baptist Seminary from 2010 until 2016 and earned his Bachelor of Science Degree, Masters Degree and Doctorate Degree in Biblical Theology. He served as a Deacon and later as Chairman of the Deacons at Faith until February of 2014 when he was elected as the Pastor of Faith Baptist Church.
Pastor Yancey has a sincere passion for the things of God. It is his desire to see people thrive in their walk with the Lord. He loves the Lord, he loves people and he loves Faith Baptist Church. | English | NL | d2e83a2e71dbdd96a3f04987874e0a1713c4a30d7c2761a6f6acd233b5ff50ab |
The Burrell Collection was given to the City of Glasgow in 1944 by Sir William and Lady Constance Burrell. Sir William Burrell (1861-1958) was a wealthy Glasgow shipowner with a lifelong passion for art collecting. The family was of Northumbrian origin, and his grandfather George moved to Glasgow in the early 1830s. By 1856/7 George was established as a shipping and forwarding agent at Port Dundas, the Glasgow terminus of the Forth and Clyde Canal. In the following year he was joined by his son, Sir William's father, and henceforward the firm traded
under the name of Burrell and Son. Initially its shipowning was confined to vessels small enough to transit the Canal, but in 1866 it took a half-share in an ocean-going steamer and by 1875 a further six steamers had been built for them. Two bore the prefix "Strath", which continued to be used by Burrell and Son throughout the firm's existence.
In 1876, the future Sir William entered the firm at the age of 15, and on his father's death in 1885 he and his eldest brother George took over the management. Burrell and Son was already prospering, but under their shrewd direction it reached a position of international standing in worldwide tramping and in ship management.
The Burrell brothers undoubtedly had the Midas touch. George kept abreast of developments in marine engineering while William specialized in the commercial side. Their fortunes were based on a steady nerve, foresight and breathtaking boldness. The formula was quite simple. In times of depression they would order a large number of ships at rock-bottom prices, calculating that the vessels would be coming off the stocks when the slump was reaching an end. Burrell and Son was then in a position to attract cargoes because it had ships available and could undercut its rivals. Then, after several years of highly profitable trading, the brothers would sell the fleet in a boom period and lie low until the next slump occurred, at which point the cycle would begin again. It sounds easy, and Burrell himself described it as making money like slate-stones, but none of the firms competitors was bold enough to take such risks.
The operation was repeated twice on a large scale. In 1893/4 twelve new ships were built for the fleet of Burrell and Son at a time when the industry was in a very depressed state. A few years later, advantage was taken of the current high prices obtainable for shipping and every vessel flying the Burrell house flag was sold. After going into semi-retirement for several years, in 1905 William and George rocked the shipping world by ordering no fewer than twenty steamers; a further eight were delivered in 1909/10. After a few years of prosperous trading the brothers once again decided to capitalize on the rise in the market value of ships, a rise which became dramatic after the outbreak of the First World War. Between 1913 and 1916 almost the entire fleet was sold, including vessels which were still on the stocks. With his share of the proceeds shrewdly invested, William Burrell devoted remainder of his long life to what became an all-consuming passion, the amassing of a vast art collection.
By now, Burrell was one of the most important collectors in Scotland. His interest in art went back to his youth. While still a boy he was already buying pictures, although he used to say in later years that their chief value lay in the frames. Although it is not known what sparked off Burrell's love of art, there were plenty of opportunities in late 19th century Glasgow for him to form his tastes. A number of collectors were to be found amongst the wealthy Scottish industrialists and shipowners of the time, men like Alexander Young, Arthur Kay, W. A. Coats, T.G. Arthur and Sir Thomas Gibson Carmichael. This market was created and serviced by several discerning dealers, of whom the most important was Alexander Reid (1854-1928) who in 1889 opened his galleries in Glasgow. Although Reid stocked works by Monticelli and the Hague School artists, he also gradually introduced Scottish collectors to French painters like Boudin, Fantin-Latour and Degas. In addition, he was a great friend of Whistler and an admirer of Crawhall. Burrell, many years later, paid glowing tribute to Reid's influence: "He did more than any other man has ever done to introduce fine pictures to Scotland and to create a love of art." Burrell bought from him continuously from the 1890s into the 1920s.
An estimate of Burrell's early interests can be obtained from his loans to the Glasgow International Exhibition of 1901, when he was the largest single lender with more than two hundred works. Their range and scope show that he was already a collector of major standing. They included medieval tapestries, ivories, wood and alabaster sculpture, stained glass and bronzes, Roman glass, 16th and 18th-century Dutch, German and Venetian table glass, silver, furniture and Persian rugs. The pictures numbered amongst them works by the Maris brothers, Couture, Gericault, Daumier, Manet, Monticelli and Jongkind, in addition to two Whistlers, three Crawhalls and seven drawings by Phil May. It is noteworthy that most of the areas in which Burrell collected throughout his long life are well represented, demonstrating that the shape of the Collection was already formed.
Between 1901 and 1911 little is known of Burrell's collecting, apart from his acquisition of some fine pictures, including his first Degas. Unfortunately, at the same time he was selling as well as buying, a policy he was to continue even after the sale of the fleet had removed any major financial restrictions on the scale of his spending on art. In 1902, for example, he sent nearly forty pictures for auction, and among those sold were paintings by Daumier and Manet which are now in the United States.
From 1911 until 1957 Burrell kept detailed records of his expenditure in twenty-eight school exercise books. He made almost all the entries himself, except during the last few months when failing eyesight compelled him to delegate the task to others. These purchase books are an invaluable record of the astounding range and scale of his collecting. Although the entries tend to become more detailed as the years go by, the basic format was established on the first page of the first book. There are separate columns for date of acquisition, description, from whom the item was acquired, its price, date of delivery, insurance and whether photographed. The last column is headed "All in Order" and usually has Burrell's initials.
For the first five or six years after the commencement of the purchase books he confined his acquisitions almost exclusively to Chinese ceramics and bronzes, fields in which he appears to have shown no interest prior to 1901. Until 1915 his level of expenditure was low, consisting of an annual average of £500. From 1915 the graph of Burrell's spending starts to rise, coinciding with the sale of the bulk of the fleet. From then onwards, using the interest from his investments, Burrell spent very large sums. Altogether, between 1911 and 1957 his outlay on new acquisitions averaged £20,000 per annum. There are two peaks: in 1936 when his expenditure reached nearly £80,000, and 1948 when he spent in excess of £60,000. His most costly purchases were paintings and tapestries.
Throughout his long career as a collector Burrell bought from many dealers, chiefly in London and Paris. Amongst them was a small number of specialists who acted as his tried and trusted advisers and agents. These included Alexander Reid for pictures, Wilfred Drake for stained glass, Frank Surgey and Frank Partridge for furniture, John Hunt for medieval and Elizabethan furniture and objets d'art, and John Sparks for Chinese art.
Burrell was never an easy client. He was strong-minded, liked to haggle over prices and could be very cautious. Even dealers with whom he had done business over some years would find him seeking a second opinion on an object they were attempting to sell him. Burrell was also very circumspect in his approach to a potential acquisition. He liked to "circle round it", as he put it in order to disarm potential rival bidders if the item were to be auctioned or avoid raising the price by alerting a dealer to his interest. On occasions his refusal to pay high prices caused him to miss some very important pieces, but on the other hand his knowledge, excellent memory and good eye enabled him to pick up some outstanding bargains. It must also be noted that although Burrell was wealthy, he was not in the league of great American art magnates like Widener, Walters, Kress, Mellon and Hearst; in order to compete with them he had to use his resources carefully.
There can be no doubt that Burrell bought extremely well. He succeeded in forming a major collection in almost every field in which he was interested. The Chinese ceramics and bronzes are surpassed only by those of three or four other museums in the British Isles, of which two are national collections, and the Persian, Caucasian and Indian rugs and carpets can be ranked with the holdings of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Burrell's paintings, particularly those of the French 19th century, would grace any major gallery. And all this is before the real strength of his collection, the Late Gothic and Early Renaissance works of art from Northern Europe, is taken into account. The entire range of medieval artistic activity is represented: the stained glass stands comparison with the holdings of the Cloisters museum in New York and the Victoria and Albert Museum; the tapestries rank amongst the world's finest collections; and the medieval sculpture, particularly the English alabasters, and the furniture include some outstanding pieces. Taking the medieval section of the Burrell Collection as a whole, it is no exaggeration to say that within the British Isles it is second only to that of the Victoria and Albert Museum in its range.
Until about 1930 Burrell seems to have been buying merely for his personal enjoyment, with no thought of forming a collection which would be kept together after his death. Until then he continued to sell or exchange paintings, but in the 1930s he formed the idea not only of having a permanent collection but of handing it over to public ownership. Burrell had discussions with a number of interested parties regarding the disposal of the Collection, and eventually, in 1944, it was donated to Glasgow, the city of his birth and centre of his business activities, in the names of himself and Lady Burrell. By this time it numbered some 6,000 items. A few years later he gave the then Glasgow Corporation £450,000 for the construction of a building in which the Collection was to be housed and displayed. The terms of the Deed of Gift as regards this building, however, presented difficulties. Burrell stated that it should be within four miles of Killearn in Stirlingshire and not less than sixteen miles from the Royal Exchange in Glasgow. He felt that the Collection would appear to best advantage in a rural setting and was also deeply concerned at the harm which could be caused by the high levels of air pollution then prevailing over Glasgow. The councillors and Corporation officials were aware of the problems in, firstly, finding a suitable site and then in administering a museum so far removed from the city, but attempts to persuade Burrell to make his conditions less stringent met with little success. Various sites were considered, but the issue was still unresolved at the time of Burrell's death. It was only nine years later, in 1967, when Mrs Anne Maxwell Macdonald presented Pollok House and estate to the City of Glasgow, that a site was at last found.
Whilst the search for a permanent home for his Collection continued, Burrell applied his organizing ability to the recalling of those items on loan throughout the country and the transference to Glasgow of the objects in his home at Hutton Castle in Berwickshire. Also, despite his advanced years, his taste for new acquisitions remained undiminished, and the Collection grew at an even faster rate: between 1944 and 1957 a further 2,000 items were added to the original gift. For some years Burrell continued to use his own money for new purchases, but in 1949 he came to an arrangement with the Corporation whereby he was empowered to use some of the interest on the sum he had given for the new museum. In these last few years he continued to buy in the same fields as before, but concentrated on certain areas which he considered needed strengthening. Between 1947 and 1957 the largest number of acquisitions were made in the ancient Civilizations of Mesopotamia, Assyria, Egypt, Greece and Rome, a field into which Burrell had scarcely ventured prior to 1944. He felt that these purchases would serve to round off the Collection.
He also kept an eye open for items which would enhance the appearance of the new museum. Some major acquisitions of stained glass were made, especially the splendid series of early 16th-century heraldic panels from Fawsley in Northamptonshire, which Burrell tried to obtain before the Second World War and which finally entered the Collection in 1950. Most important of all was the purchase from William Randolph Hearst's collection of a series of medieval stone doorways, windows and niches, and of screens and other architectural fittings in wood, all of which were acquired with the aim of incorporating them into the fabric of the proposed gallery. It must have given Sir William Burrell much pleasure to know that the Fawsley glass and Hearst Collection items were amongst the best bargains he ever obtained in more than eighty years of collecting. Sadly, he did not live to see them in the gallery in Pollok Park, where they form such an important feature. He died at Hutton Castle on 29 March 1958, at the age of 96.
The Burrell Collection
Freedom of City
The Burrell Collection
Burrell, Sir William | English | NL | af9f4033926d9e05228f864e6f4b688ed1a06e10a6dc2654d45845e55089e248 |
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Gumby Navedo – A Tribute to Orquesta Aragon$30 – $40
With the beginning of this New Year 2019, we want to take advantage of it to be able to record a tribute to the Orquesta Aragon that has been performing for 80 years as a group. It is exquisite music to enjoy with the combination of the violins with the flute and the typical sound of the Traditional Charanga. It consists of 2 violins, flute, piano, bass and three percussionists (Conga, Timbal & Guiro).
Jesus M. Navedo Marrero is best known in the artistic musical field as Gumby Navedo. Navedo is a musician with a long history at international level. He has presented in many countries around the world. Since he was a child, music was always present in his home. Family and friends got together with musical instruments and formed a party in seconds.
The first major influence on Gumby’s artistic career was his grandfather, Moses, a well-known “Tresista” who infused joy by playing and singing for everyone. At age 5, his cousin Carlos Morales, taught him the blows of the tumbler. Then, Gumby fell in love with all the sounds of the percussion instruments and from there he began his musical career.
The great music teacher Roberto Soler taught him at the beginning of his musical education. Under the leadership of maestro Soler, Gumby participated in the middle school band and the municipal band. These were the beginnings that gave him the foundation to his musical career as an interpreter and musician. He played in different genres such as salsa, boleros, bomba y plena, jazz and all kinds of Caribbean music. During his amazing musical career, Gumby has played as the lead percussionist and the choir with many well-renowned artists.
Gumby continues to share his musical talent in many local and international venues accompanied by renowned. “Gumby” performs in several tourist places in Miami, Fort Lauderdale, and also West Palm Beach.TICKETS | English | NL | 041e7848c1e3e0feaf35611026d32b79b5e76d012397d81e7a1a06517e1e4889 |
I think it was 1969. My friend Jeff brought a book to school that he had checked out of the public library and showed it to me. It was called Harold Lloyd’s World of Comedy. We did not know Harold Lloyd, but there were pictures and comments on Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Fatty Arbuckle, and many other comedians with whom we were familiar, so we pored over the book.
The reason we did not know Lloyd was because his films just weren’t on television or anthologized in the various salutes to silent movie comedians. We wondered why, but did not realize that Lloyd owned most of his films and was keeping them out of circulation. I guess he had his reasons. When he died two years later, Jeff called me with the news, and we both regretted knowing him well from the book, but never having seen his movies.
It was probably around 1971 when I received a GAF Dual 8mm home movie projector for Christmas, along with some tiny 50 foot Castle Films, which were essentially 4 minute clips of Abbott and Costello and W.C.Fields movies without the sound. In this age of blu-ray and big screen high definition TVs, it seems silly to be excited about something like this, but the idea of having Bud and Lou cavorting on a screen in my basement rec room was incredible. Eventually I discovered the public library that held the Harold Lloyd book also had a slew of 8mm films to check out, so I discovered the magic of Charlie Chaplin’s best work and the Laurel and Hardy silents that I had read about but never saw. Many rainy Saturdays were spent in the darkness of our basement, with several neighborhood kids delighting in films from their grandparents’ time. But the library had no Harold Lloyd.
Most of the movies at the library were from a company called Blackhawk Films. I copied the address from one of the boxes and sent for their catalog. They had Harold Lloyd movies — a few of his early shorts that he did not happen to control, so I sent for a few. I thought movies like “Haunted Spooks,” “His Royal Slyness,” and “Don’t Shove” were funny, but not so remarkable as all that. The one I liked best was called “High Hopes,” which I found used from a company in England called Walton Films. I did not know then that it was a one-reel cut down of the three reel “Never Weaken” in which Lloyd balances dangerously on a skyscraper. It was the portent to his later feature “Safety Last;” another film I had only read about.
Fast forward a few years. I think it was around 1980 or so. I was grown up, engaged to be married, and the Time-Life company got hold of the Harold Lloyd movies, added some music, and put them on TV, including a local PBS station. I saw an abridged version of “Hot Water,” which is considered a weaker Lloyd, but remains one of my favorites. I saw ‘The Freshman”and, finally, “Safety Last.” Extraordinary films.
But it was two other factors, occuring a few years later, that made me truly realize why Harold Lloyd is one of the most brilliant comedy filmmakers of all time. First, a bio-bibliography by Annette D’Agostino released in the mid-80s taught me more about the films, and all involved with making them, than I thought possible. It remains one of the most thorough and informative books I have read by anyone about anyone. The other factor in my Lloyd appreciation is the release of a DVD box set containing nearly every feature and short Lloyd made, beautifully restored, with appropriate music scores. Finally I could see complete versions of films I had wondered about since 1969, that I learned so much about from Annette’s book. It was an enormously affecting experience for one who truly appreciates film’s rich history, as I do.
Now the Harold Lloyd films are as accessible and available via DVD, and Turner Classic Movies cable screenings as they were unavailable back in 1969. “Safety Last” was recently issued on blu ray in a beautiful remaster from top pre-print elements. Annette D’Agostino is a friend of mine, and actually married a guy named Lloyd (no he is not related, and yes everyone asks her — including me. I think I even asked him once!). As if the bio-bibliography was not enough, she has written other books about Harold Lloyd’s work, including “The Harold Lloyd Encyclopedia” and her latest “Harold Lloyd: Magic In A Pair of Horn Rimmed Glasses.” And, just last year, I found a copy of Harold Lloyd’s World of Comedy in a used book store for only a buck, complete with its dust jacket intact. I emailed Jeff with the news.
If you ever have the opportunity to see such incredible classics as “The Kid Brother,” “For Heaven’s Sake,” “Girl Shy,” “Why Worry,” “Hot Water,” “The Freshman” or “Safety Last,” you will be entertained by a true master at work — one who can evoke both laughter and tears in the most brilliant manner imaginable. In an era of mindless reality shows, shallow effects-driven blockbusters, and lame sitcoms, I say an investigation of Harold Lloyd’s work should be mandatory for each of you.
and Thanks Harold | English | NL | d0a0eb079019929fa68ae0bde9584db827c041b4f45a462c139e0438c272ecb9 |
Josephine Knitting by Edmund Tarbell, the painting is of a woman by herself in a house knitting. Through this painting, the artist is echoing features of modernism. For example, he is portraying a sense of loneliness and alienation. Woman in the early 1900s were still viewed as caretakers of the household. They were not on the same “level” as men. They were alienated from having significant value to society other than caring for the children and their husband. Another example of modernism in this painting is that he is using mysterious features in this painting. The use of open doors and roses, as well as the woman being alone, is a mystery to the viewer. Something terrible could have happened to a loved one, and now the woman is alone or something else. The features keep the viewer guessing. Modernism in this painting is very prevalent. | English | NL | b5885bda2986b4523f4711d980f8c5b51371ef934576a6e9981f431f4bb2804e |
From the first days of its existence, a baby seems to be trying to communicate: smiles, tears, screams. He is the apple of his parents’ eyes. But in the very beginning of his life a baby does not make any difference between himself and the rest of the world. In a way, he is the world! It will take several weeks and often months before he can tell the difference between himself and the rest of the world! | English | NL | 683a50fefb5184de541a889abb910d103927b7275f030eead31dbe7b89b93aa1 |
One of the examples of over the top seemed to be Anupam Kher, until I got to appreciate him in serious movies. He has had a lot of supporting roles in English speaking movies ("Silver Linings Playbook," "The Big Sick" "Bend it Like Beckham" etc). You can read my blog on him and see a little of my earlier attitude, http://www.therealjohndavidson.com/2014/05/anupam-kher-actor-i-now-respect.html
The big breakthrough for me was a movie called "Kal Ho na Ho" It had a great buildup and I had developed a liking for Shah Rukh Khan. When I put it through the library checkout the checker commented that it was a very sad movie. When I started watching, my first experience was that it was pretty juvenile--corny jokes until the second half when the mood changed dramatically and I have since felt that I was being set up. In the end I found it to be very sad, profoundly moving and I almost felt ashamed for feeling the main character Shah Rukh Khan was so shallow. The stereotypical humour made the contrast so much more stark. I became a fan and accepted that along with the dramatic a little corny humour serves a purpose. Successful theatre caters to what Shakespeare students called "the peanut gallery." Shah Rukh Khan is my favorite actor and you can read about it at:http://www.therealjohndavidson.com/2016/06/shah-rukh-khan-worlds-most-famous-actor.html
Early on it was explained that going to movies in India was a family affair. Young children, parents and the grandparents would go together--entertainment had to offer somethings for the kids (or they would become unruly), something for the adults and something for older women. The situation has changed with couples dating at movies or groups of students socializing.
"Chalo Dilli" was seen mainly as a time killer, not profound or artistic. It followed a familiar pattern with a relatively sophisticated person paired with someone more crude and unaware of how they are perceived. After a series of incidents the plot leads to them appreciating one another as relatively equal humans. The initial contrast was pretty stark with a sophisticated Lara Dutta and Vinay Pathak playing the role of a crude bumpkin. There was a twist at the end that made it more poignant. Despite many almost slapstick moments the change in the characters was well done.
The best remembered comedies have some sort of social meaning and this is no exception. The two main characters are constantly running into problems--missed flight, car breakdown, gangster intimidation, stolen money. The Vinay character breaks it down in steps to "it's no big deal"--while each event seems catastrophic. Lara's character undergoes a few changes, but often only temporarily. Vinay is crude (not vulgar) and that alone makes it difficult to accept.--at one point Vinay says that instead of crying he laughs.
Vinay Pathak was one I associated with crude comedies, but looking over his movie list I have enjoyed a number of his efforts. In his first movie, "Fire," he had a very minor role in a movie directed by Canada's Deepa Mehta. It was very controversial in India as it portrayed a lesbian relationship. He later had roles in two other Mehta pictures, "Water" and Midnight's Children." I watched him in "Dasvidaniya," where he played a man wanting to do a simple bucket list as he knew he was dying. He had a strong supporting role in "Manoram Six Feet Under" a murder thriller. He played another strong supporting role with Shah Rukh Khan in "Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi." In " Bhejja 2" boisterous clumsy--tying up a tax inspector with a tax evader has comic potential.
"Bheja Fry" in 2007 earned him a best actor in comedy role. (India breaks down acting awards to include both comedy and negative roles) Beja Fry stands for "fried brain." A sequel, "Bheja Fry2" did not get as good reviews, but set in motion for the upcoming "Bheja Fry3"
His starring roles have mostly been comedic. He is nothing like a leading romancer, Instead he is more ordinary, but as an actor he is versatile.
Lara Dutta a former Miss Universe who also happened to claim the highest intelligence of contestants. In the movie she plays a beautiful, sophisticated, somewhat arrogant executive, but she does gradually modify her attitudes. She is listed as a producer along with her husband.
Arshad Sayed, the writer worked on "Davidaniya," "Hum Tum aur Ghost" and also on some prolific tv series.
Shashant Shah, the director has also worked on "Davidaniya" which he also produced
An enjoyable comedy I had seen just before was "Phas Gaye re Obama" with Rajat Kapoor, a frequent co-star with Vinay (you can also see him the background of the Bheja Fry poster). It had some clever plotting and a social message. It was about kidnapping rich people, but in this case Rajat had returned to sell some property to cover his overwhelming indebtedness. Still he was able to con a series of kidnappers "I have an idea" repeated after each setback .
Actors like Vinay Pathak and Anupam Kher have to be versatile and especially in their early careers accept any reasonable role they can latch onto. As time goes by other opportunities will open up.
Many times I feel the world is absurd. Why not laugh? | English | NL | 6afea507c635fddc85da256db977b3c2ee5a33374ab8f2e7027da0e43d7ab1c2 |
A few weeks ago I took a two hour train ride to my parents. Unlike most people, I am always happy to travel by train. To me, a train ride means me time, also known as READING TIME. That day I was reading The Circle by Dave Eggers. At the first train stop a man at about 50 years of age sat next to me. I immediately sensed that he was the type of man that is always looking for a conversation, I could tell by the way he tried to look at my book. I already prepared for him to ask what book I was reading (that happens a lot while reading in public, and I am always happy to answer the question), so when he finally started talking I was kind of stunned for a second: “Isn’t that a book for man you are reading?”
I wasn’t stunned by the fact that he did not ask the question I was expecting. I was stunned because, apparently, there is a male/female divide in literature I had never heard of. For a moment I was not able to answer, then I got a little mad: what is this man implying? So I asked him why this book was so ‘manly’ to him. The man took a moment to answer: “Well, I am not a reader, but from what I’ve heard this book is a sci-fi (he pronounced it as: SI-ONS FIC-SJON, but it was clear he meant sci-fi). Sci-fi is for man.” I was getting pretty upset, but I also wanted to set the record straight, so I told him this book is more dystopian than sci-fi. Off course, he had never heard of the term. So I asked if he had ever heard or maybe even read Orwell’s 1984, but he gave me a look that clearly said “not interested”, and continued: You should read the books my wife is reading, I bet you would enjoy those much more.” At this point I was so upset I could cry, but I somehow got myself to ask which books his wife reads. It didn’t surprise me at all when he answered: “I have no names but she is pretty into romantic love stories. I do know she has read that 50 Shades of Grey book everyone is talking about (off course he did remember that one!).” At this point I kind of lost it, it seemed like this man was convinced he could persuade me into reading books he considered appropriate for women, books like 50 Shades of f-ing Grey. I was only waiting for him to tell me that I should always remember my duty to cook and keep my house clean. Luckily for him, he didn’t, because I swear I could not have helped myself and it would have definitely resulted into me punching him in the face.
At the next stop I acted like I had to get off, and seated myself at the other side of the train. For a moment I hesitated to give the man my copy of The Circle, so he could give it to his wife. But I was sure he would not even show her the book, afraid she would forget her duties as a female.
Since, when starting a new book, I catch myself wondering if that particular man would consider the book male or female. Not because I believe in this male/female divide this man made up, just because I got a little fascinated by the idea that people are really this narrow-minded. | English | NL | cbb011671712e8b3f6c5d06b4c2f2a53212119c0b6ad9af79eccfc314ddaf899 |
photo credits: CC-BY-3.0
Gregory of Tours
Gallo-Roman historian and Bishop of Tourswd:Q67841
country of citizenship:
occupation: hagiographer, writer, historian, Catholic priest
position held: bishop
Gregory of Tours (30 November c. 538 – 17 November 594) was a Gallo-Roman historian and Bishop of Tours, which made him a leading prelate of the area that had been previously referred to as Gaul by the Romans. He was born Georgius Florentius and later added the name Gregorius in honour of his maternal great-grandfather. He is the primary contemporary source for Merovingian history. His most notable work was his Decem Libri Historiarum (Ten Books of Histories), better known as the Historia Francorum (History of the Franks), a title that later chroniclers gave to it, but he is also known for his accounts of the miracles of saints, especially four books of the miracles of Martin of Tours. St. Martin's tomb was a major pilgrimage destination in the 6th century, and St. Gregory's writings had the practical effect of promoting this highly organized devotion.
Read more or edit on Wikipedia | English | NL | cee28b07c087945fa6086c52343b4d18eb0a734d712a0a07e30bbce54ec5d82c |
by Bob Gates
Imagine yourself exploring central Africa much like Henry Morton Stanley in search of missionary and explorer David Livingston and stepping into a clearing from the jungle stands your quarry. Only in this case the phrased uttered is Captain Harrison, I presume?
This is how our own Bobby Nokes envisioned meeting Captain Stanley Harrison. Like David Livingston, Cap Harrison had a mythical status about him. Stanley Gordon Harrison was born in Lancashire England March 24, 1885 and was one of eight children born to James and Annie Harrison. He came to Canada in 1904.
Cap fought and was injured in the Great War. He was with the 27th City of Winnipeg Light Infantry Battalion that went overseas in 1914.
Harrison, master of the Stockwell Stud in Fort Qu'Appelle, Saskatchewan was a typical Englishman. His Stockwell Stud Farm was a bit of Old England transplanted to the Qu'Appelle Valley. The farm was located on the uplands of the Valley, four miles south of the famous old fort.
He imported broodmares from England to his farm at Fort Qu'Appelle and sought to improve the western Canadian thoroughbred. Harrison did for the west, what E. P. Taylor would do for the east decades later. He was one the most popular horsemen in Canada and a familiar figure at eastern tracks. His lot in life was to see western Canada produce as fine a strain of race horse as any where in North America and abroad.
Captain Harrison was a part of the early days of racing in Winnipeg when Jimmy Speers was the boss of River Park, Whittier Park and Polo Park. Harrison's time racing in Winnipeg is rivaled by no one. He was front and center in 1922 as an owner when the Winnipeg Driving Club had its first meet at River Park that was devoted entirely to "runners." Harrison also raced at Assiniboia Downs until the mid-1970s.
I have the absolute privilege of owning an official program from old River Park from Saturday, June 30, 1923 (please see photo) which came to me from Downs patriarch Bert Blake and to him originally from "Joe Duck." A quick perusal of the sixth race handicap showed that #4, Mutuel No. 5173 was Stockwell Stud's, Merry Marquis. Harrison's colours back then were heliotrope (pink-purple tint), purple sash and cap.
For most of us Cap Harrison's exploits, especially those in the early years of River Park, Whittier Park and Polo Park took place almost a century ago. But I hoped you, the readers of this blog would give Captain Harrison's story a chance even though his iconic years occurred before most of us were born.
No one wrote about the history of horse racing in Canada like Jim Coleman. He had a unique style and vocabulary. On occasion I'm convinced he even made up his own words. If you get the chance, be sure to give his book, A Hoofprint On My Heart a read.
Jim had this to say about the man they called "Cap:"
"I can tell you that the first race horse which I appraised at close range was Merry Marquis, owned by Captain Stanley Harrison, the poet laureate of the turf. The confrontation occurred in Edmonton, the summer following our circuitous trip to Qualicum Beach…
Captain Harrison made a practice of nailing portable nameplates on his horses' stall doors. I remember Merry Marquis because he was a stallion and accordingly he occupied the position of honour in the stall adjoining the tackroom in which the groom slept."
Harrison impacted many lives of those who were part of the backside. Here are a couple of examples:
Minnesota's Milo Monroe was a 17-year-old wanna be trainer in 1961 who got the help he needed from Stanley Harrison to get his trainer's licence. At the time Milo was the youngest person to be granted a trainer's licence at Assiniboia Downs.
Brandon's Glenn Wismer was 18 when he started training at the Downs in 1968 and it was Cap Harrison who gave him his first job. Glenn said Cap sent him to the Downs with a few head and a cheque for $500 with the instructions to "watch it." No more money was ever needed. Glenn had drawing privileges on the account from which he paid for the care and feed for the horses. For himself? Not a cent! It was called paying your dues and Wismer was happy to do it. Glenn said he did what he had to do and had the experience of a lifetime.
Glenn paused and on reflection remembered how Cap would get mad at the horses for biting each other. He would scold them in his old English way "You bloody bastards" he would say, but in a non-vulgar, kind-of-way.
I am a sucker for a great quote and Cap Harrison could fill pages with his intelligent and charming thoughts. Old fashion and now somewhat dated, but in so many ways still relevant. When you consider that these musings were made 90 years ago, it's quite amazing. His words serve to add a romantic touch to the racing of these great animals.
On horses - "They are like us in that there are days when they feel off colour and days when no task seems too big, no demand too great; the latter is when their battery of nervous energy is fully charged, their digestive and muscular system in perfect condition."
Owners - "The vast majority of owners do not race horses for the sole purpose of offering the public a betting medium, they race for the value of the purse."
Jockeys - "Good horses make good jockeys, rarely do good jockeys make the horse - though they help tremendously. A lad who rides for a stable will win only when the stable is in condition; when that stable goes off form owing to, say, too much racing or change of climate the same jockey is quite helpless to get them back to winning."
Racing in Winnipeg - "As an example in sportsmanlike conduct efficiency and control. racing in Winnipeg is as good, if not better than anywhere on the American continent. There is greater restraint, chivalry and a more sincere love of horses as apart from gaming element that it has been my fortune to encounter elsewhere."
Racing Generally - "I believe the sport of racing in any country is the best gauge to its national standard of morals and deportment. I am anxious to see our racing achieve its place in the sun as a genuine sport, divorced from selfish commercial interest and adhere steadfastly to the real tradition of the British turf. I think that no man has truly experienced the whole gamut of human emotions unless he has seen a horse of his own breeding win through to hard-won victory."
Harrison was well known for his views on breeding of thoroughbreds. He believed It was the broodmare and not the sire which played the major role in producing an outstanding race horse. He said that the sire dictates the temperament of his offspring and the distance they can run, but it is the mare's blood that carries the racing ability.
Harrison was a founding director of the Prairie Thoroughbred Breeders and Racing Association from 1924 to 1950 and president from 1951 to 1959 when he took on the role of steward at Assiniboia Downs. He was a steward at the Downs, representing the Prairie Thoroughbred Breeders until 1961.
In 1967, the centennial issue of the Canadian Horse magazine selected ten men who they believed did the most for racing in Canada. The list included E. P. Taylor, Sam Perlman, Judge George Schilling, Robert James Speers and Saskatchewan's Captain Stanley Gordon Harrison. Fine company indeed!
In April 1978 Harrison was the first person to represent racing in the Saskatchewan Sports Hall of Fame. Stanley Harrison owner, breeder, trainer, writer/poet, artist and racing official was without doubt Saskatchewan's most outstanding contribution to the sport of thoroughbred racing. He was inducted (as builder) to the Canadian Horse Racing Hall of Fame in 1979.
Harrison passed in January 1980, a few months shy of his 95th birthday. Cap was as much an icon in the sport of racing as has ever existed.
"Somewhere in time's own space
There must be some sweet pastured place
Where creeks sing and tall trees grow
Some paradise where horses go.
For by the love that guides my pen
I know great horses live again."
- Stanley Harrison
… and you just know that Cap Harrison is there tending to each and every one of them. | English | NL | 20e6b02fd65667a39b93aa9fed9645460f7daf7423e8ff9ce23fec41323e2744 |
It started with a treasure box and a personal connection to a fellow artist, and now the result of more than six years of research and sleuthing by Galt Museum & Archives Curator Wendy Aitkens comes to life when the exhibition “A Legacy of Adventure & Art: The Life of Miss Edith Fanny Kirk” opens at the Galt on Saturday, June 6.
“Miss Edith Fanny Kirk, who was born in England in 1858 and lived in Lethbridge for the last 35 years of her life, painted watercolours of Lethbridge, the prairies and western National Parks, and taught many people how to create their own art,” says Aitkens. “After all, Miss Kirk had been trained in several of the most prestigious art schools in her home country.”
Miss Edith Fanny Kirk was a woman of adventure and courage who, at an early age, decided to become an artist and art teacher. For years she studied at prestigious art schools in England and France. Her need to create watercolour art encouraged Miss Kirk to attend artists’ colonies where she painted watercolour landscape and village scenes as she sat outdoors. Then, in 1905, Miss Kirk immigrated to Canada where she continued her travels and her art.
“Prior to coming to this city,” explains Aitkens, “Miss Kirk experienced travel and adventures in many intriguing places in British Columbia and along the eastern seaboard of North America. She worked mainly as an artist and art teacher during her long life, but also as a nurse’s helper in a gold mining hospital, and as a public school teacher in B.C.’s ranching country. Once she settled in Lethbridge, she continued her adventures by joining the Alpine Club of Canada at the age of 60.”
The exhibition explores the adventurous life of Miss Edith Kirk through treasures she received from her mother and those she gathered throughout her own life. Examples of her watercolour paintings, art created by one of her English teachers and a fellow student, and paintings by some of her local students are also featured. An audio tour of the Curator’s adventures in tracking Miss Kirk’s life is an integral part of the exhibition, offering an intimate glimpse into the personal connections Aitkens made with Miss Edith Kirk. | English | NL | e28f5bc1db702c3559dcd0cceadc53c6367888e5d5238d28f8b9eb4e2bd9b3ce |
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