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I Bumped Into the Pigeon Man
Union Station does not just unite the Go Train, buses and TTC together to form the main transportation hub of Toronto; it also unites cultures. Every day thousands of commuters pass through Union Station and each one of them is a true testament to the diversity of our city. They come and go from every direction and they may not notice him, but Pigeon Man is there every day.
When I met Pigeon Man, I had just bumped into him. I got off the Go Train at Union Station and was rushing off to catch the TTC when I turned to look at something shiny and didn’t see Pigeon Man standing in my way, and I bumped right into him.
“Excuse me,” he said with a gentle smile and looked me in the eye.
“No, I am sorry,” I said, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“That is quite alright,” he said, still smiling and maintaining eye contact.
There was something very striking about him. He did not have any particularly strong features, and his face gave no indication of an ethnicity. His complexion seemed two-toned and it changed as the light reflected on him at different angles; one moment he looked remarkably pale, and the next his complexion seemed quite dark. When he talked his voice had a hint of an accent, but I couldn’t tell where it was from. I guess he looked pretty ordinary, but the striking thing was how calm he made me feel when I was talking to him.
As if he saw that I had finished studying his face, he said to me, “I hope you have a good day,” then turned and walked away. I didn’t really think much about him after that — I didn’t even know he was Pigeon Man until a few months later.
That day I finished work early and was standing just outside Union Station on Front Street having some street meat, when I saw Pigeon Man walk right by me. I recognized him right away, and I wanted to say hello. Instead I just stood there and watched him. He was carrying a small bag and he walked about fifty meters further down, then stopped, reached inside the bag, brought out some bread and started to break it up and gently toss it all around him. The pigeons flew in from every direction, but instead of forming a mob and fighting over every breadcrumb, they seemed to have an organized and civilized system.
About fifteen birds would fly to the ground and eat as much as they could for a few seconds, then, as if they had an internal alarm go off inside them, they would simultaneously fly up in the air and another fifteen or so pigeons would fly down and take their place. The birds would then fly to the back of the line and wait for their turn again. It was hard to keep track of each individual bird, but I am quite certain none of them butted in line or tried to steal any breadcrumbs from another bird.
When there was no more bread left, the Pigeon Man folded up his empty bag and went down into the train station. I didn’t intend to follow him, but I was done eating my hotdog and I needed to find out what platform my train was going to be on, so I decided to go down into the train station as well.
I headed towards the south end of the station where the Go Train TVs are and I looked up to read the screen while I kept walking and ended up bumping right into him again.
“Excuse me,” he said almost automatically as he looked up with the same smile on his face, bringing with it the same feeling of calmness as it did the first time.
“No, it is my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” I said.
“That’s OK. I have a small confession to make,” he said without relinquishing eye contact, “you didn’t bump into me, but, I stood in your way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I stood here deliberately so you would bump into me.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Every once in a while, some people need to bump into someone or something and it just so happens that today was your day.”
“That’s funny. You may not recognize me, but we have bumped into each other once before.”
“I know exactly who you are. And, actually we bumped into each other two times before, but you do not remember the first time because you just kept walking.”
“But why me?”
“Do not be eluded. It is not just you. I do anywhere from fifty to one hundred bumps in a day.”
“This is crazy. You feed pigeons and deliberately stand in peoples’ ways so that they will bump into you?”
“That is correct.”
“What is your job?”
“Let’s just say you can call me the Pigeon Man. I noticed you watching me feed the pigeons a few minutes ago.”
“Do you do that everyday?”
“Two times a day. The pigeon’s are my eyes and ears. They tell me what is happening in the city. I am never alone; there is always a small flock of birds or a small crowd of people surrounding me at any given time.”
“But, how come I have only noticed you twice if you are here everyday?”
“People only see what they want to see, or what they are forced to see. Maybe you will recognize me a little more now that we are better acquainted,” he said as he offered one more gentle and calming smile and walked off.
I looked up at the screen one more time and saw that I had three minutes to get to my train — plenty of time. I walked slowly and watched the people in front of me rush ahead. I knew eventually every one of them would bump into him too. | English | NL | bc343e40b3ffe604a43b557104bcffff3caccb801ecc5216c93979b349bcc673 |
He was sure she had been there, but there weren’t any other people on the street aside from him, and there weren’t any doors nearby she could have slipped into. A brick wall stretched away from him in both directions, spotted with dark windows and unmarred by either door or alley.
Was it some kind of decoy? Had Sor known she was being followed?
Well, whatever it was, that was his only lead gone. He considered giving up and going home, but if he called for a rideshare now, he might get Kendrick again, and he wasn’t in the mood for another encounter with him just yet. He might even give Kendrick a one-star rating, prevent him from accepting any of Zebra’s requests ever again. And, as a bonus, that would damage his current five-star rating, which would be a small portion of the punishment Kendrick deserved for annoying him.
It was something to think about, anyway. At the very least, Kendrick wasn’t getting a tip for this particular ride. Continue reading →
At least, that’s what it felt like. A hot, sick feeling sat just below his ribs and spread like fire up his spine and into his throat. He hunched around the feeling. Held himself, fingers digging into his upper arms. His sinuses and his eyes burned, and he found himself trying not to cry.
Only, none of that was really his. It was Sor’s guts that felt too heavy, Sor’s sinuses that felt too raw. Her tears, too, in all likelihood. Blurring his vision. Sticking her eyelashes together.
And her magic, curling around his heart and dragging spindly legs over his lungs.
This was worse than any injury he’d ever had to endure. He had to have been bleeding internally. Ruptured something important. Developed spontaneous, stage-four magic-cancer.
Sor’s shop was closed, and locked, and there wasn’t a bell. Zebra did knock, but that only made the glass door rattle in a way that he knew would not carry well through the rest of the building — though, even a wooden door would have trouble announcing visitors to the fifth floor, or the sub-basement Zebra knew was lurking beneath the building.
He stalked around the front, not sure what he was looking for. Katters, maybe, passed out on Sor’s lawn like a drunken idiot. It had been a while since she’d last gone on a bender, perhaps she was due.
If Katters had dragged him out here because she’d been drinking more than she could handle, again, he was going to kill her. Continue reading →
It took Zebra a week to notice Katters was missing.
Well, no. He noticed immediately, or near enough. It was odd, that she didn’t come home that first night, that her bed remained empty clear through to the following morning. Odd that she skipped work the next day, and the day after, and the day after. Odd that she didn’t take her turns in the basement.
But it didn’t sink in that she was gone gone, not until a week had passed.
Zebra’s voice carried, sing-song, through the house, and Katters considered jumping out a window.
Zebra had been bored, lately, and he acted that frustration out in ways that usually ended poorly for her. Whatever he had cooking this time, she wanted no part of it — but before she could even leave the bed, he was at the door.
“There you are.”
“I’m reading.” She held her book up before obstinately settling herself against the headboard.
He walked into the room with the confidence of a pick-up artist on a bus and sat himself on the end of the bed. He had a plastic bag with him, and he let that hang between his knees. | English | NL | fdae8630545815d6d48c00a132c3eb8d00cf08d98d7efffb5755efa529c5767a |
Pray for Repentance and for Reformation
Where feasible, it seems fitting to include some portion of a sermon on our Sunday entries. To get there today, we’ll start from volume 1 of Sprague’s ANNALS, where we find this account of the Rev. William Hill:
“William Hill, the son of Joseph and Joanna (Read) Hill, was born in Cumberland County, Virginia, on the 3d of March, 1769. His ancestors were from England. He lost his father when he was five years old; and, after the lapse of a few years, his mother gave him a stepfather in Mrs. Daniel Allen, father of the Rev. Carey Allen, and an elder in the Presbyterian Church in Cumberland County, at that time under the pastoral care of the Rev. Samuel Stanhope Smith. At the age of eleven, he lost his mother, who seems to have been a devout and exemplary Christian, and to have made impressions upon the mind of her son in favor of a religious life, that had a powerful influence in ultimately determining his character. One year previous to this, he was placed under the tuition of Mr. Drury Lacy, who, for three years, was employed by Mr. Allen as a teacher in his family. After his mother’s death, he was placed under the guardianship of one who cared little for religion, and under whose influence he soon lost his serious impressions, and became absorbed to a great extent, in the pleasures of fashionable life.
“This habit of carelessness, however, was not destined to be of long continuance. In 1785, he entered Hampden Sydney College, then under the Presidency of the Rev. John Blair Smith. So low was the state of religion in the College at that time, that there was not a student who evinced any regard for it, nor one who was known to possess a Bible. During the early part of his collegiate course, he endeavored to banish all thoughts of religion, and indulged freely in the views common to his ungodly associates; but even then he had his moments of reflection when he was haunted by the remembrance of his mother’s counsels and prayers. Nearly two years elapsed, after he entered College, before his character seemed to undergo a radical change. After his mind had, for some time, been turned inward upon itself in silent and anxious thought, he retired to a secluded spot, where he gave vent to the agony of his spirit in earnest cries to the Divine mercy, and was enabled, as he believed, to devote himself without reserve to the service of God.
Shortly after, two or three other young men connected with the College experienced a similar change of views and feelings, and associated themselves with him in a private devotional service, which, as it became known, excited the most bitter opposition from their fellow students, and even drew forth threats of vengeance, unless it were discontinued. This brought the matter to the ears of the President, who assured them not only that they should be protected in their rights, but that they should have the privilege of holding their meeting in his parlor, and that he would himself be present and assist in conducting it. A revival of religion now commenced, which soon included among its subjects half of the students in College…The revival extended into neighboring churches, and then into those which were more remote, and was more extensive and powerful than had been experienced in Virginia since the days of President [Samuel] Davies.”
It breaks our preconceptions to read that times then were not much different than today. Unbelief, atheism and the persecution of those who desire to live godly lives, these things were just as much a part of early American history as they are today. God brought reformation and revival then, and He can so bless again.
It was during the summer of 1787 that William Hill made a public profession of his faith in Christ as his Savior. In 1790 he was licensed to preach, and after serving a term as a missionary, took the pulpit of the Presbyterian Church in Winchester, Virginia in 1800. It was there in 1812 that he preached a sermon in reflection on what has been termed early America’s first great disaster. Late in 1811, a great fire had swept a theater in Richmond, VA, trapping many of the theater-goers and killing 72. The nation mourned, and Rev. Hill was one of many who delivered a sermon in retrospect of that tragedy. A portion of his sermon follows, with a link at the end for those who may want to read the full sermon.
Luke XIII.–1st and r5th inclusive.
“There were present at that season some that told him of the Galilaeans, whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. And Jesus answering said unto them, Suppose ye that these Galilaeans were sinners above all the Galilaeans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, Nay: but, except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish. Or those eighteen, upon whom the tower in Siloam fell, and slew them, think ye that they were sinners above all men that dwelt in Jerusalem? I tell you, Nay: but, except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.”
The Blessed Saviour in the close of the last chapter had just mentioned what would be the dreadful doom of obstinate and impenitent sinners, who, when in the hands of their adversary, and about to be hauled before their Judge, should still neglect to make their peace with him.–This induced some person present to mention the case of those Galileans, whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices, as a case supposed to be in point. The Saviour, as was his custom, took an occasion, from the relation of that barbarous act, to deduce a pious improvement, and to impart useful instruction.
By referring to another passage of Scripture, and to the Jewish historian Josephus, we learn the occasion of this cruel deed. These persons, slain by Pilate, the procurator of Judea, were some of the faction of Judas of Galilee, mentioned by Gamaliel in the 5th Chap. of the Acts of the Apostles, and more at large by Josephus. This Judas had stirred up the Galileans to sedition against the Roman government, under a pretense of asserting their liberty, by freeing them from the Roman tribute; and some of them coming to Jerusalem, to sacrifice according to the custom of the Jews, at the Passover, Pilate caused them to be slain upon the spot, while they were engaged in offering up their sacrifices, shedding their blood, with that of their beasts, which they were slaying for the altar.
Our Saviour takes occasion from the relation of this event, to correct a very vicious humor, which has always raged in the world, that of censuring the faults of others, while we overlook our own.
The principle of self-love which was inherent in man, has, by our apostasy degenerated into self-flattery, so that it has now almost become natural in man, to supply the want of a good conscience, by a good opinion of themselves. And hence it comes to pass, that men are so ready to take all advantages to confirm themselves in that false peace, which they have created to themselves in their own imagination; and so they can but maintain a comfortable opinion of themselves, it matters not how uncharitable they are to others; and knowing no better way to foster this fond conceit of themselves than by fancying God to be their friend, it hence comes to pass, that they are so apt to interpret the providence of God towards others in favor of themselves, and to abuse the judgments which fall upon their neighbors, into an argument of their own comparative innocence.
Therefore, our Saviour, who knew what was in man, and what kind of conclusions men are apt to draw from such occurrences of Providence as are before us, endeavors in the first place to prevent the bad use which they were apt to make of them. “Suppose ye,” says he, “that those Galileans were sinners, above all the Galileans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, nay.”
To this instance of the Galileans, he adds another still stronger. Pilate might be represented as a tyrant, and the best of men are liable to suffer, by the cruel hand of oppression. But he now mentions an occurrence of a recent date, and well known to all at Jerusalem, which proceeded immediately from the hand of God, without the agency of man. “Those eighteen upon whom the tower in Siloam fell, and slew them, think ye that they were sinners above all that dwelt at Jerusalem? I tell you nay.”
And having thus anticipated the censuring of others, our Saviour proceeds to awaken his hearers to a consideration and care of themselves. “I tell you nay; but except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.”
The general sense of which words, is, that impenitency in sin, will certainly be the ruin of men sooner or later. It will bring great mischiefs upon them in this world; but however that may be, it will infallibly plunge them into inconceivable misery in the next. But besides the certain denunciation of misery and ruin to all impenitent sinners, which is the largest sense of the words, and analogous to many other declarations of Scripture, it is probable that our Saviour, in the present instance, more immediately referred to those temporal calamities which were shortly to befall the Jews; and by way of prediction, foretold what would be the fate of that whole nation, if they continued impenitent. There is a peculiar force in the [Greek] word [in our text] which means something more than merely, likewise, or also, as it is rendered in our translation. It means literally, “except ye repent, ye shall all perish in like manner,” i.e., besides the vengeance of another world, a temporal judgment as sad as those just alluded to, and not much unlike them, shall come upon this whole nation; which awful prediction was soon after fulfilled at the siege and sack of Jerusalem, by the Roman army of Titus.
The pious and useful reflections, suggested by the subject under consideration, would also very naturally arise from the late awful visitation of Richmond which has shrouded that city in gloom—thrown our legislatures into mourning, and suspended the voice of melody and song. The dreadful scene forbids all attempts at painting it, for it would actually beggar all description. It is true our friends and fellow citizens have been arrested—suddenly arrested—in an hour of thoughtless gaiety and mirth.—Many—Ah! many have fallen victims to devouring flames; without previous reflection hurried to a judgment bar, and to a destiny henceforth unalterable. And are we to conclude, that they were the guilty, and we the innocent? Our Saviour cautions us from drawing such a conclusion, but assures us, “that except we repent, we shall all likewise perish!”
From the text and occasion thus explained, let us consider two things.
1st. The wrong use and censorious conclusions which men are apt to draw from signal judgments of God upon others.
2nd. The right use which we should make of these things; which is, to reflect upon our own sins, and repent of them; lest the like, or great judgments overtake us….
and Rev. Hill concludes his sermon:
…Be assured we have not been called to repentance and reformation too soon. God knows, the state of religion, of morals, & manners is gloomy enough among us; we have enough to repent of, enough that calls aloud for reformation. May we not hope we are already sensible of it! Let us then show our sincerity by our conduct—use all our influence from our standing in society and from the stations we may fill, to suppress vice and impiety in every shape; and to approve ourselves to our Maker. Other places have been sorely visited and have sorely suffered. Sin, no doubt, has been the procuring cause of all our sufferings.
To read the full sermon, click here.
Sprague, William, vol. 3, p. 563-564.
To read more about the Richmond fire and a recent book written about that tragedy, click here. | English | NL | 6a0d0ca53a9d8b7d25c55a6251a85c5e49763486a01f4ad8fcea96aab22f3581 |
We’d known sickness before. In a city where whole families lived in one room and open sewers flowed down many streets it is an accepted part of life. People will fall ill and some will die. Myself, I had nursed the Tuke children through scarlet fever and I was hardly the only one with such a story. For them to lose only Esther was considered a blessing at the time. Yet, when the rumours began to filter through that another sickness was spreading through the city, another far more lethal, I couldn’t act with complacency.
I was within weeks of my due date, and I’d have guarded my precious cargo with my life. Seeing Samuel all those months ago had changed the course of my life once more. I could not say whether the child I carried was his or that of my husband, but I prayed every night that he was Samuel’s.
I returned home that day, soaked again by the rain on my walk back, to find Thomas in a temper, demanding to know where I had been. I never told him the truth, of course; instead that I had been visiting my family, and the next time I saw Eliza, I handed her the precious volumes to keep safe; I couldn’t risk Thomas finding them.
I hadn’t seen Samuel since but those brief hours we shared, reunited, were enough to bring some light back into my life. Knowing that he did not betray me, and that he too would grieve for the child we lost, had lifted me from the cold dark place I had willingly crawled into.
To say I was filled with joy at my life with Thomas Smith was to tell a lie, but I was reconciled; accepting of my circumstances. He was a violent, coarse, crude man, but I was provided for, and with no reason to suspect the babe I carried might not be his, his pleasure at discovering I was pregnant almost touched me.
He had proved a milder man since that day, and I was no longer taken so roughly. I could look Simon in the eyes once more, and that time, my rounded belly was no shame. Neighbours congratulated me, and I was welcomed most openly into my childhood home. No one begrudged me an hour or two with Eliza those days.
But there was a slight shadow; for the first time in my life, I was keeping a secret from her. No one apart from Samuel and myself knew of our brief reunion. I hadn’t dared tell Eliza; not for lack of trust for I would entrust her with my life, but for simple superstitious fear that to speak of such things will be to release them into the world, for anyone to catch at. I dared not. I had simply handed her the books.
And so I carried my babe and my secret alone, and then sickness came to the city and I knew real fear once more.
They said some sailors brought it with them from Hull. Hearing of the habits of such men, I don’t doubt it, even today, and certainly, within hours of their arrival, the first people began to fall ill. We might not have afforded a daily newspaper in our household, but news travels fast by word of mouth.
With the first death came confirmation of the worst kind. Cholera was come to York.
Months ago, while snow still laid on the ground, it was rumoured that something was afoot when city officials had begun to make their rounds demanding a clean up. We had laughed at them. How do you clean up an open sewer? Where do you put your nightsoil when there are no drains? The river has always seemed as good a place as any for most.
And yet, rooms were whitewashed, as were the pigsties and privies, for those lucky enough to have the latter. Ma had said it wasn’t the first time officials had been to Bedern, but they had scurried away fast enough with their tails between their legs and shit on their shoes. But when nothing followed these incursions into the filthier parts of the city, interest had waned. We should have known that something had spurred those officials on; they never spend money unless they have to.
It was May, Race Week, and a hot day brought with it the stench of sewage, hardly unusual and liable to get much worse before the summer was out; a yearly occurrence, but never one with the whisper of cholera before.
I was unsure whether to count myself fortunate or not for I had a little knowledge of the disease. Samuel’s library was varied and he had let me have free rein. I had thought once I might have been interested in medicine had I been a boy and of means. I remembered only fragments of what I had read but those tightened around my heart like a vice.
It is a dreadful sickness, striking fast and taking those inflicted within days, even hours, as they lie in their own filth unable to keep any fluid in their body. Sacrificing a coin from my pitiful savings, I bought a copy of the day’s Gazette and read:
“The disease has at last manifested itself in our city. The first alarm was on Sunday when a poor man named Hughes residing in The Hagworm’s Nest became ill. He has now recovered and is doing well. The next was Greaves a sawyer living in the same court. He went home intoxicated on Monday night and was a corpse on Tuesday night. Barrett who kept The Anchor in Middle Water Lane was taken to the cholera hospital; a woman in Swan Street (in an advanced pregnancy of an illegitimate child) was the next victim…”
Despite the relief I felt that Hagworm’s was far removed from Petergate, the infection of a pregnant woman hit me hard. It should not have come as a surprise to me. Everyone knows a woman with child is at risk, and to be carrying an illegitimate child is to court infection, for, who does cholera target other than the poor and depraved? Or so we are led to believe.
I only knew a few days’ relief for soon we received news that victims were numbered in the Shambles, and the city officials appeared in full strength once more.
Notices were pinned up (a futile effort if ever I saw one for many in the poorer areas barely knew to recognise their own names, never mind struggle with alien words) across the city urging for increased cleanliness from the citizens, and strong-smelling quicklime was dumped in great quantities across the roads, ditches and ancient moats, turning the cobbles and puddles white, while houses with sick inhabitants were fumigated with pitch.
From single figures, the name of victims rose rapidly as the disease wound its lethal way through Bootham, Coppergate, Gillygate, Monkgate and ever onwards, until, inevitably it found its way into Bedern. A note was delivered to Thomas and I in Eliza’s hand begging us not to visit them; she needn’t have feared for my husband.
As soon as he learnt of the sickness, he forbade me from attending them, and for once, I did not resent his demands. I was torn between my desire to help my family, and my need to protect the child inside me. My unborn child won out.
By now, my belly was so big that the birth could only be days away, and I carried myself ungainly. Thomas’ comparisons to a cow were unkind, yet sadly just. The heat caused my ankles to swell uncomfortably in my leather shoes and in the house, where I spent most of my hours, I had taken to wandering barefoot like a slattern.
My back ached from the weight of my belly, my thighs chafed and my breasts were tender. The housework suffered as it took me long minutes to heave my bulk up the stairs and I thought, not altogether joking, that if the pregnancy went on for much longer, I might have to take up permanent residence in the kitchen, where even a restful minute on the stool caused sweat to pour down my face and pool between my breasts from the heat of the stove. An elegant brood mare, I was not, yet Thomas remained pleased with me, and for that, I was hugely grateful, and relieved.
It was amidst the news of the disease spreading to Goodramgate that I was brought to bed. I had thought to have Eliza and Ma with me at my confinement, but was instead tended by a local midwife on whom Thomas had spared no expense, perhaps motivated by guilt at his continued insistence that my family were not to visit us while cholera was still rife; more likely to protect his heir.
The heat from the midday July sun was stifling and I longed to have the window open, but this was forbidden, and a fire was built up in the grate instead. After Simon had brought the great copper bowl from the kitchen and filled it with water, both he and Thomas were banished downstairs by the midwife; an unnecessary pronouncement for the former scuttled off as fast as his legs could carry him, and the latter had yet to make an appearance. I imagined him either in the kitchen with a pint, or the pub with several. I couldn’t say that I blamed him. As the pain increased in my belly, I half wished I could join him. Drinking certainly seemed to take Pa away from the trials of everyday life.
The pains were coming stronger and faster now, and I knew, from helping Ma that it couldn’t be too long now. I also knew that first babies could take the longest, although, was this really my first child, I wondered. By the time Ma was on Maria, I’d swear she slipped out like a puppy. Mind you, that’s what having thirteen children will do to you. I was the first and I bet I didn’t come easily.
When the midwife told me to push, I did and it was a relief to have something to do, something to push against to fight against the pain. I screamed out. It’s unladylike to do so and I had never heard Priscilla Tuke do so in all the time I was with them; four babes in all, but I’m no lady and never had pretensions to that.
“That’s right, love,” said the midwife. “You scream out. Let your husband know what he’s put you through.”
I felt a tightening down below, as if I was going to explode, and with the next push, I knew that the head had passed through. Stretched beyond belief, it was a blessed relief to push the rest of my child out from me and into the midwife’s capable hands, who briskly cut the cord and then laid the sticky red bundle on my chest.
“A boy, Mistress Alice,” she said. “A healthy baby boy. But it’s not over yet. There’s still the afterbirth to be delivered. That’ll come in it’s own time. Now let me clean up baby for you,” and my son was taken away from me.
I watched as he was tenderly sponged down and wrapped tightly, before being placed in the cradle, a makeshift thing provided by Eliza many weeks ago. A son. I could not believe it. After carrying him inside me for nine months, I had a son. Samuel’s son, I hoped, I prayed.
“Come now, let’s get you finished. Push, Mistress Alice; push one last time for me.” I did as bidden and was rewarded with an excruciating pain that shot across my belly. I had never known pain like it and screamed accordingly. “There now, Mistress; the worst is over.”
“It feels different,” I panted. “Wrong.”
“Wrong?” she repeated and put a firm hand on my stomach before slicking her hands with oil and slipping up inside me. I felt a sharp tug and screamed again. “Not the afterbirth,” she said, under her breath. “You’ve got another bairn coming there.”
“Another?” I said.
“Another, and he’s lying funny.”
“A breech?” I asked. I knew what a breech was. Ma had had one with our Philip. He didn’t last more than a few minutes once delivered, and for a while, we wondered if Ma might follow him. “What can you do? Will it be alright?”
“Aye. I’ve delivered breech before. Don’t you worry, Mistress; we’ll have this baby out of you in no time but first, I need to twist him. I’m not going to tell you a lie; this is going to hurt. I’ll put my hands inside you, and I’ll be looking to pull him the right way. Now take a big breath; that’s right, and bite down on this.” I slid the wood into my mouth and tried to calm the rising panic in my chest. “Scream as much as you like, it won’t make no difference to me.”
Her cold hands slid into me once more and almost immediately I felt a brutal yank from deep inside. I clenched my hands into fists and closed my eyes. I wished Eliza were there. I felt as if I was being torn apart and with one final agonising wrench, the hands came free and with them, an immense pressure was lifted.
The arms that held up my second child were covered in blood to the elbows, and this time, the baby was taken away immediately. I was too tired to lift my head and watch it being washed and wrapped. With a slithering that felt like I was voiding my bowels, the afterbirth slipped out from within me, and exhausted, my head dropped to one side and my eyes closed. I didn’t even know if the child lived.
I was wakened by the sound of crying, not the cries of a week-old baby, but the soft, almost pathetic, mewing of a newborn when it has been so cruelly ripped from warmth into the cold brightness of this world. I shifted my position, and attracted the attention of the midwife.
“Ah, there you are, Mistress Alice. You’ll want to be seeing the bairns.” She placed one bundle on one breast. “This is your son.” And another to his left. “And this is your daughter.”
“A daughter? I have a daughter?” I was filled with joy. Ma always used to say that sons were for the fathers but daughters were for the mothers. And I was blessed with both. Another shift caused me to wince in pain.
“You’ve torn down there, my love. But nothing a few days rest won’t fix as long as that husband of yours keeps his hands off you. I’ll go tell him the good news, shall I?”
Without waiting for a response, she shuffled out of the room, and left me alone with my babies, my twins. They were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Both topped with a fluffy down of whisper-fine brown hair, their skin was the smoothest thing I had touched, and their hands, with tiny grasping fingers each with their own miniature nail, seemed like miracles.
Cries abating, and as drowsiness overcame them after their epic battle, I fell in love with their pale blue eyes; unfocused and soft, they reminded me of my new role as their protector. How defenceless they were. I thought, already, that I would die for them, and I pressed my nose on to their scalps and breathed in deeply. It was heaven, but heaven was interrupted by the arrival of Thomas, who threw open the door with a bang, causing two pairs of sleepy blue eyes to start open, and two pink perfect mouths to open in harmony.
“I have a son!” he exclaimed and strode briskly to the side of the bed. “A son!”
“Yes, and a daughter too.” I smiled at him, determined to let nothing prick my bubble of happiness. “Would you like to hold one of them?” I offered up the boy, knowing this to be the real source of his elation. “What shall we name them?” I said. Thomas was cradling our son close to his chest. One hand cupped the small head, the other laid flat taking the weight of the body, and if I hadn’t known otherwise, I’d have said that it is natural for him.
“Thomas,” he said. “After his father. Young Thomas Smith. I’ll train him up to take over from me. Smith and Son. A fine sounding name.”
“Thomas,” I said. The name was not disagreeable to me. I would not have suggested Samuel. “And our daughter?”
“You name her, Alice. It is your right.”
“Rebecca,” I said. “A good strong Christian name. Thomas and Rebecca Smith.”
Thomas let his son’s tiny fingers clasp one of his own, and he studied him with love, but as I watched, his back stiffened, and he roughly thrust the baby back into my arms.
“Blue eyes?” he said.
“Yes, Thomas. Blue, and Rebecca’s as well. See.”
“Blue eyes and dark hair.” I suppose new motherhood had dulled my senses for it took me a second to realise what he was saying. “And you with brown eyes and fair hair? And I with brown eyes and red hair? Not a blue eye between us.”
“But-” I stuttered, and was interrupted by the midwife.
“Master Smith, babes are more often than not born with blue eyes. They change as the weeks go by.”
“Hold your tongue!” he snarled. The atmosphere changed the room in an instant. “Let’s see then, shall we? Let’s see if the child’s eyes turn brown like his father, or stay blue; a sure sign his whore of a mother is up to her old tricks. I said I’d raise your bastard once before, but I’ll not this time. Not if you strayed while living under my roof. No bastard boy is going to be called Thomas.”
“But, we had decided. He is yours Thomas. I swear to it. They both are yours.” I would have sworn anything to protect those babes, even that the blue eyes, in which I prayed I saw their real grey-eyed father reflected, were only a passing colour.
He pressed his face up to mine, his anger caused spit to escape as he said, and “The boy will not be called Thomas; understand?”
The babies were scared. I could feel them squirming on my chest, and soon their cries would join my husband’s.
“But what shall I call him?”
“It’s no concern of mine, Mistress Smith. You call the bastard what you will,” and he swept from the room, slamming the door behind him. | English | NL | 68ee177e10516d9e859cd2bdd421f63df665b5189383f552e468e9868804af91 |
The question of who God is is something that people have been asking since time began. Is it possible for us to know about God? Where do we go to find an answer to this question and when we have an answer, what impact does that have on who we are?
In order to frame who God is, we should first identify the nature of God. According to the Bible, He is a personal, loving, moral and everlasting being who created the world. The Bible also says that we were created in God’s image, and so, shouldn’t we share His characteristics and maybe even His goals? If meaning and purpose can be found in what is true in life, then perhaps our answer of who God is, is closer than we think?
God the Creator
“For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.” Romans 1 v 20
Have you ever looked at a mountain range, a forest, or the ocean and thought how beautiful it was? Why are we drawn to admire these natural things? Research suggests that love and admiration are central to our emotional well-being. In general, people who give and receive love, report more positive feelings in their bodies as a result.
People who live in towns and cities are told to go out into nature to improve their mental health. Have you ever heard anyone say that being next to nature brings them closer to God? Or, one is closer to God in the garden than anywhere else on earth? I believe it’s because He designed these things especially to catch our attention, and that He created us to enjoy Him – the Creator – through his creation.
The loving God
“God has shown himself to us in the person Jesus and His rich love for us in this, that whilst we were still sinners, Christ [Jesus] died for us” Romans 5 v 8
Humans are relational beings. We tend to thrive when we know we are loved and even more so within an accepting community. We don’t do so well when isolated from others. If we were made in God’s image, then it follows logically that God is relational too and doesn’t distance Himself from His creation. Unlike other creatures, God made us different. Animals function out of instinct, not needing to consider what is right or wrong. But we have free will, we purposely interact with our environment and one another. Out of our own free will we make judgements, decisions and can choose how we live and love.
God made us to have free will, with which to choose or reject him. He sent his son Jesus to be the fulfilment of hope, for all those He created and the embodiment of love that we so strongly recognise in ourselves and others.
Jesus as God
‘The son (Jesus) is the radiance of God’s glory, and the exact representation of His nature, upholding all things by his powerful word.” Hebrew 1 v 3
We are all searching for the truth to believe in. For me, that’s Jesus. Many people think that all religions are the same, but I would argue that Christianity is different. The Bible tells us that we can’t earn our way to God, but that it was God who made it possible for us to have a close relationship with Him, by sending to us his son Jesus. Compare this to other religions who insist that you must earn your place in paradise by doing certain things, praying the right prayers and balancing your actions between what is good and bad.
God desires us to want him more than anything else. It’s only by the free gift of God’s loving kindness that we can be in a relationship with him, not by how good we are! Jesus took the punishment for our sin on himself and that is how God saves us. It’s not by what we can do, it’s by what He has done. No other faith teaches this.
Every other great religious leader received their revelation about their god in dreams or written accounts of just one man. In contrast, Jesus claims to be the one God and although he did not write one word of the Bible, we have plenty of historical written evidence and many witnesses, that tells us that Jesus lived, and did amazing miracles, to demonstrate that he was indeed God.
God made us so that we could enjoy his creation and knowing that we were helpless without him, showed how much he loved us by sending Jesus who is the very nature of God in every way. If you’d like to know more about him, we’d love to chat more with you. | English | NL | fc5dc0a3268042c3750a3cfa094c6c5a777643cfd9e4ceddd7a081e1a3ea9d37 |
Adapting To Dental Implants
One of the great many challenges of getting older is coming to grips with every thingthat is still on your plate and your to do list, but which you do not have time to finish, or do not have the energy and physical ability to complete. After all, things have to slow down sooner or later, and that means one can be in for a lot of surprises at once. However, what many do not think about is the way in which the body is actually always moving along to a new stage in a gradual decline. It's just that all these ailments are more apparent with old age, and more found here than any other time in one's life. Looking on though, one will discover that memory loss can occur as early as fifty, putting many into a startling outlook for where they're headed, especially if they didn't plan on worrying about memory issues for another twenty-five or even thirty years. Then there is eyesight, which can actually really start to wear down and make a need for glasses in one's daily routine as early as forty. It will probably be even sooner in the future what with each newer generation more devoted to computer screens and television screens. And joint pain is nothing to turn away from, considering it usually emerges in one's thirties. Take professional athletes for a prime example. Every single one of them has to retire in their thirties because their body simply cannot keep up with the shape they were once in. Lastly there is the issue of dentures. Dentures are the key sign of old age for so many, but not only are dentures a common fix at multiple ages, but dental implants of all sort happen in every life phase.
Not everyone actually knows how dental implants work.
It sounds like one's teeth are being replaced all together, but that's not it.
It might sound like a cavity filing, but often times it is a little bit more involved.
Dental implants are actually a process of using a synthetic substance like titanium to fuse with the root of one's tooth.
This creates room for movement and repair as directed.
So if you are having braces, if you are having a crown fit, or if you are having dentures made, you will find dental implants. The trick is to just not think about what age you and roll with the punches of what is to come.
At any possible moment of one's life, they may be faced with the difficult position they were not expecting to deal with until they were much, much older. However, that is a huge part of life, to face the unexpected, and so one must learn to not be bitter if such happens, but to take each new flaw with a grain of salt. By staying so open minded to the world around, one might be able to adjust for the better. Even if your dental implants might make you cut back on your favorite snack, it might all be for the better in the long run. | English | NL | 70d0fa19e227ae2ee24beaf7ed27045a5957cf9576c78c2b443fd3470bcd7c02 |
Title: A Change of Grace
Chapter: 26 of 41
Summary: Taylor ends up traveling back in time to New York in the 19th century. There he meets Kathryn, Benjamin, Joshua and Grace among many others. The story follows both Taylor’s adventures in the past and Isaac and Zachary’s search for him in present (1997/1998) time.
Zac stretched, as far as he could, wishing he could just keep stretching forever. “Oh God, I slept good… weird dreams though.” Vague memories of voices, silver and crimson strands warming his hands, Tay’s hands? He rolled over onto his side, watching his oldest brother sleep. “He doesn’t move when he sleeps, he’s like the living dead.” The phrase echoed through his head, triggering the memory of another dream… Ike holding way too many pills…
“WHAT???” Sitting up abruptly, Zac probed his memory, looking for more information. He scowled, he just couldn’t remember any more than a vague visual of Ike, anguished pain on his face, holding white pills in his hand, staring at them. He got off his bed, heading over to Ike, worry on his face.
He felt his brother’s wrist, looking for life signs, scared of the pale face, the sweat darkened hair on the pillow, the faint movement of Ike’s chest, as he breathed. “Oh God, not you too, Ike, not you too…” He leaned closer, not sure what to do, not sure if Ike was alright, and suddenly, he found himself lying across the bed, in a headlock. Ike kneeling over him, laughing like a loon.
“Gotcha, Zac! How many times do you have to be taken down before you learn not to try to sneak up on me?”
“Lemme go you moron! I wasn’t sneaking this time, honest! Ike, PLEASE!”
Hearing a tone in Zac’s voice, a tone not usually there, Isaac released his brother. “What is it, Zac, what’s wrong?” He patted the bed, “Sit, what’s going on?”
“Ike, are you ok? Did you take the pills? Where are they now? WHY?”
“Whoa… one at a time. I’m ok. I didn’t take anything. How do you know this?” Ike looked searchingly at Zac, he reached out, rubbing Zac’s arm.
“Zac, talk to me…” His head down, Zac reached up, and wiped his cheeks.
“Ike, I dreamt that you tried to kill yourself.”
Isaac held his brother close, offering the comfort of familial love.
“It’s a long story, just listen.”
Diana looked at her sons, sitting on the couch, almost joined at the hip.
They’d spent the morning in their room, refusing offers of food or drink, saying only that they were talking. The air of serenity about them was almost eerie, considering the circumstances.
“Guys, are you ok? Do you need anything to eat?” They looked up from the laptop, almost surprised to see her there. They’d been lost in websites, surfing the net, looking for references to the Dakota of yesteryear. “Oh, mom, um, no, we’re cool, right, Ike? We’re gonna go out in a bit, to talk to George. We’ll grab something in the park, maybe. Is that ok?” Zac smiled at his mother, wishing he could lend her some of the comfort and ease that Ike had shared with him. He wasn’t all that sure he believed the whole story or dream, or whatever it was, but he was positive of one thing. Tay was okay.
Diana eyed them both, sure they were hiding something. Ike had been so upset the night before, now he was calm, quiet, serene. She sighed, her boys would share when they were ready, and not before, especially Isaac. He kept things inside, worrying at them until he’d figured them out. He would not gracefully accept help, not until he requested it.
“Fine, you can go out for a while, but take the cell phone, ok? I want to be able to reach you at all times.”
“Yes, mom, we will.” Ike closed up the laptop, setting it on the table. Getting up, he stretched slightly, grimacing at the stiffness in his muscles. “That was a rough trip last night…” He grinned at his complaining thoughts, at least now he was certain his brother would be home. He knew his mom would never believe the tale, though. He hugged her on his way past, already deep in thought, about what, she had no idea. “Let’s go, Zac, get a move on. I need to go for a run, gotta get rid of these aches and pains.”
“We gotta talk to George first” Zac reminded him, as they headed out the door, grabbing the phone off the table, and absently waving to their parents.
Walker put down the phone, and sat beside his frowning wife. “Well, I wonder what’s up with those two?” he remarked. “I’m not sure, but they’re acting too complacent. Like they know something…” Diana scowled, looking like her missing son. Her husband laughed slightly. “What could they know? All the FBI could tell me was ‘Sorry, Mr. Hanson, no news yet.’ What could the boys possibly find out?”
“Walker. You know those boys. God only knows what they’re thinking, or doing, especially with the laptop.” Diana eyed the black case on the table like it would bite her. She just wasn’t sure at all about the hours her kids spent online. “They’re gonna turn into cyberkinetic beings one of these days, I know it.” Walker laughed, almost choking, the look on Diana’s face was priceless. “My dear, they’re fine. Now, it’s lunch time, woman. Feed me.”
“Hey George!” Zac leaned against the wall of the guard house, and smiled at the older man. “Can I ask you some questions?”
“You certainly may, but don’t expect answers to all of them, alright? And where is Isaac going?” George watched Ike disappear down the street, his ball cap firmly in place, and turned back to Zac. “Just going to grab us some lunch someplace, he knew I wanted to talk to you.”
“What’s so important, then, Mr. Zac?” He smiled at the intensity on the boy’s face. He knew this was going to happen, he just hoped that he was up to this task. He’d been assured that he’d do fine, but he wasn’t entirely
“Well, ok. Um. I had a dream about you last night. And silver strands. And red strands. All shimmery and shiny, and warm. And a voice, telling me I was a red strand, and so were you. It was a lady’s voice, but I don’t know her. Do you? Are you? Am *I*?”
“How would I know someone in your dream, Zac?” Non-committal was the way to go, he knew that, but George was surprised at the details in this dream. And how perceptive Zac was.
“Was it a dream, George? Or is it real?” Zac knew that George wasn’t going to be real forthcoming with his answers, so he knew he’d have to ask just the right questions.
“Dreams often seem very real, don’t they?”
“Who lives in the apartment above us, George?”
“You don’t know them, Zac, and you’ll not ever see them about.”
“But they know us, don’t they, and Tay.”
“I’m not sure.” George was starting to sweat, he still wasn’t very good at this, and Zac was starting to get too close, too… just too.
“George, just look at me. It’s about time, isn’t it. Red shiny strands, I mean. And I’m one, like you.”
“Zac…” George’s voice trailed off, as Isaac returned, bag in hand. He pulled his eyes from Zac’s gaze with relief. “What did you find to eat, Ike? You weren’t gone very long.”
“Oh, just some burgers. George, maybe you can help us here, we have some questions about this place.” Ike looked at Zac, and at George, knowing he’d interrupted something, but not sure what. George looked way too relieved to see him, and Zac looked disappointed, but smug.
“Yes, Isaac, I know the history of this building, better than most, I suppose. What did you want to know?” Hoping that Isaac wouldn’t ask him things he just wasn’t allowed to answer, he started sipping at the coffee that Ike had handed him.
“Well, we were wondering if there were any photos of the building, in the year it was built, or any books, or anything like that. We’re interested in finding out stuff from it’s very first year. 1883.” Isaac watched in concern, as George half choked on his coffee. George waved off the boy’s hand, catching his breath. “How did these boys…” He sighed, knowing full well what had happened, but knowing that Ike shouldn’t remember as much as he obviously did. The bond between the brothers was much stronger than they had all realized, apparently.
“Well, there’s boxes of papers in the back room. But it’s nothing interesting, I’m sure. Just receipts from contractors, and delivery people, and such. I’m not aware of any photos, though.” He thought it safe to offer them the boxes of boring, mostly faded receipts. And it would keep them from asking him any more questions. “Feel free to dig through them, but be careful. The tenants are looking for someone to catalogue all this
The boy nodded. “We’ll come back after we eat our lunch in the park, then, is that ok?” Ike had a feeling, one he couldn’t explain, but he knew something was in one of those boxes. What though, he just wasn’t sure.
“Zac, let’s move, I see some of those girls heading this way. How’d they know…”
His voice trailed off as George waved them off. “Go. I’ll deal with them. Hurry now!”
The boys headed to the park, finding a quiet grotto, separated from the park by trees. They sat on the soft grass, leaned against the trees that hid them from view, and started eating. Silent thoughts whispered back and forth, neither boy aware of their communication, until Zac half whispered.
“Here, it was here he disappeared? Disappeared?” Ike dropped his lunch in shock.
“Oh God, you… how’d you… oh God.” His eyes wide, his mouth hanging open
in disbelief, he looked at Zac, not knowing what to say.
“Ike, just explain one thing. Why did you say ‘disappeared’? What do you mean?”
“I thought I saw him here, then he was gone. I’m just insane, don’t mind me, Zac. Think about it, how could he disappear?” Ike knew he could never explain what he thought he had seen, never in a million years, and he hoped Zac wouldn’t push.
“Ok, I’ll buy that. The only thing Tay can make disappear is food.” Zac looked at his brother, knowing there was more, but not willing to push it right now. “C’mon, Ike, lets go look at dusty boxes now. I’m done.”
He gathered up his garbage, packing it neatly into the bag, and hauled his brother to his feet. “I hope George got rid of those girls for us. I do NOT want them knowing where we are. In the past 6 days they’ve been such a pain, weeping and wailing all over the place. I swear, if I see one more black
armband, I’ll explode.”
Isaac laughed, the look on Zac’s face was comical. “They’re just worried, and grieving ahead of time. They’d do the same if it were you or me missing, you know. So would MTV.” His expression darkened, as he remembered the newsflash he had seen the evening before. “By the way, we need to call Christopher today, he has to do something about the lies MTV is spreading ‘cross the airwaves. That story has to be squashed, and now.” He pulled out the cell phone, determined to get this out of the way now.
Heading back to the Dakota, he told Zac what Christopher Sabec had said. He’d seen the newsflash too, and had already started dealing with it. MTV had received quite a bit of flak already, from fans who thought that they had crossed the bounds of good taste. A quiet word from a lawyer or two would bring a retraction, Christopher assured him. “And it will be aired as frequently as that damn newsflash was!” Reassured, the boys peeked through the trees, looking to make sure the coast was clear. Running up to George, they laughed.
“How’d you get rid of them? What’d’ya tell them, eh?”
“I was perfectly calm, I assure you. Just informed them that this is private property, and if they wanted to stand in the street, I’d make sure to call an ambulance, when I got a moment. I told them point blank that you were NOT here. Mainly because you were in the park.” George grinned at them, as the boys chuckled.
“Thanks George. Can we see those boxes now?”
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by dust covered boxes, and piles of faded brittle paper, Zac sneezed again. “Ike, are you sure about this? What ARE you looking for?” He wiped his nose on his sleeve, as Ike handed him a tissue.
“Geez, Zac, someone has to touch that shirt, to wash it, you know. That’s gross… I don’t know what I’m looking for. I guess I’ll know when I see it. Just keep sorting. If it’s not from summer of 1883, I don’t need to see it.”
Ike scanned the handful of papers he held carefully. Receipts from delivery men. Receipts from fabric merchants. He snorted with laughter as he deciphered one note, on what was once fine stationary. “Please, do not allow that ill bred man who wears only his undershirt to deliver anything to my apartment. I do not care to expose my delicate sensibilities to this kind of being.” Another note read “Could you please tell the young man living in apartment 806 that I do not appreciate his young friends traipsing in and out of our building? Thank you.” Ike stared into space, “That’s the apartment right above us… young man… I wonder…”
His concentration and line of thought was broken by another sneeze from Zac.
“God, Ike, did no one ever throw anything away? Look at this! An entire pile of receipts from some ice company! What’d’they need ice for, anyways?”
Explaining iceboxes, and how they needed to be filled, Ike started scanning the faded old papers. The entire summer of 1883 was detailed here, deliveries to each apartment. By the tenth receipt, Ike was getting the hang of quickly scanning apartment numbers, and signatures. By the sixieth receipt, he was starting to recognize names. Suddenly, he gasped, almost choking in surprise. He started to shake, his hands trembling.
“ZAC! LOOK AT THIS!” He handed the paper over, watching Zac’s face carefully.
“Ike… this looks like Tay’s writing… how… why… whoa…” Zac, wide eyed, stunned beyond belief, handed the slip back to Ike.
“He WAS there, here, then, he was, it wasn’t a dream!”
The boys looked at each other, and looked at the paper, the receipt that clearly stated that Taylor Hanson accepted delivery of one 30 lb block of ice, one summer day, in 1883. | English | NL | e485629e545ea43d4ae829ecc4e5ee4161d4224426b28425bb812c3fed454d72 |
Sir Alexander T. Galt on Prohibition
GREAT SPEECH OF
Sir A. T. GALT, G.C.M.G
Campaign Tract No. 2.
At a public meeting held in Sherbrooke, P. Q., under the auspices of the Quebec Branch of the Dominion Alliance for the Total Suppression of the Liquor Traffic, Sir A. T. Galt, who presided, spoke as follows:
Ladies and Gentlemen,—I think we may congratulate ourselves on the crowded audience we have to-night. It is a pleasing sign of sympathy with the earnest efforts put forth by the friends of the temperance cause to extend to the Dominion of Canada the benefits of recent legislation on that subject. When my friends in Montreal were kind enough to ask me to give them my assistance in Sherbrooke with reference to this movement I very gladly acquiesced. They were good enough to think that I possessed some small amount of influence in the Dominion, and, ladies and gentlemen, I felt that if I am happy enough to have any influence in our common country, that that influence is largely due to the confidence with which I have been honored by the people of the Eastern Townships, and especially by the people of Sherbrooke, for many years. (Applause.) If, therefore, there be any one place more than another where it is my duty to appear publicly to give my adherence to this great and good cause, I think this town of Sherbrooke is that place. (Cheers.) I do not propose this evening to make any appeal to your sympathies. The cause which is advocated here will find other and more eloquent gentlemen to make those appeals. Fortune has generally required me to deal with any subject on which I had to speak rather with the hard facts that surround it, rather with the reasons which attend it, than with those passions and sympathies regarding it which others may, perhaps, have a greater gift in exciting. What I propose is to show the process of reasoning in my own mind by which, after a comparatively long life, I have come to the conclusion that it is the duty of every good citizen to promote this pre-eminently useful work. (Hear, hear.) I have been struck, as we all have, with the fact of what we call the hard times, under which we have suffered during the last live years, and under which the country is still suffering, and I have noticed that the consequence of these hard times has been to produce on all hands, on every side, and in every family, economy. Economy has been found to be absolutely necessary as the only wholesome and reliable cure for much of the distress which previous extravagance had brought upon us. Believing that to be the case, I could not help considering what was the most costly article of consumption in this country,—the one which we could most easily spare, the one which costs us the most in its indulgence, and I did not fail to find that it was in the use,—in the consumption of intoxicating liquors. (Hear, hear.) Reference was made last night by our Chairman, Mr. Brooks, to the amount of revenue that is derived from spirits and wines and beer. The amount is not quite so large as he stated it, but still quite large enough to excite the apprehensions of everyone who is opposed to seeing the resources of his country wasted. Last year the official reports show that the amount of revenue raised from the three articles I have mentioned was $4,367,000. Now it will be observed, ladies and gentlemen, that it is not the amount of revenue that is raised upon these articles which is the measure of their cost to the country,—very far from it, that is only the proportion which is taken by the Government. That amount must be multiplied at least by four to ascertain the real cost of those articles, especially that of spirits. It represents a consumption, and I may say, with scarcely an exception, a useless consumption of at least $16,000,000 per annum (hear, hear), an amount which is very nearly equal to the whole amount of the commercial failures in the country on the average for the last five years. While I am speaking on this subject of the revenue derived from these beverages, I may take occasion to remark that though the amount is not so large as it was stated last night, when it was put at six millions, it quite large enough—for it is four and a half millions—and that is one of the difficulties which have in the future to be met with in advocating total prohibition. Now, there is another point mentioned by my friend, Rev Mr. Duff, last night, which I think I may say two or three words about. In his eloquent remarks he referred to the amount of revenue raised from ardent spirits, and in terms which were probably understood by the audience, and were so understood by me as charging upon the Government what really amounted to a great sin in obtaining this money (hear, hear). I am quite sure that that could not have been what Mr. Duff proposed the meeting should understand. The truth is, that far from the Government being blame-worthy in raising that amount from spirits, they are acting precisely in the direction that is most in the interests of temperance. The more money they raise from spirits the more expensive those beverages become, and clearly the less they are within the reach of the poorer classes of this country, and I should be glad if, instead of four millions and a half, the Government had been able to raise twice that sum. (Hear, hear.) If they could raise twice that amount to-morrow from this particular source it would be unquestionably a move in the right direction, and one for which instead of blaming the Government we should support it, for we should be glad to know that so large a portion of the taxation necessary to the Government of this country is drawn from a source which our object should be to dry up, since it is drawn from an article of consumption which is, in very many respects, and perhaps wholly, injurious to the well-being of society at large. But to return to the question of the cost to the country of the consumption of ardent spirits and other strong drinks, I have stated that the loss in actual consumption cannot be put at less than $16,000,000 But all of us know—painfully know—that the direct cost represents but a very small part of the indirect cost. The indirect cost is, in its influence upon society, infinitely greater, infinitely more onerous, than the direct charge. I would gladly see the whole of the sixteen millions thrown into the St. Francis River if I could be sure that in doing so we had wiped out the infinite evils that arise from the consumption of those articles. (Great applause.) Now, the position of this country,—a country struggling to establish for itself a prosperous future, where we have to develop the present natural resources of the country, under great difficulties—a country under these circumstances cannot wisely afford to waste anything. Our business should be, as far as possible, to retain within our reach all the sources of wealth and of industry which we are able to secure, and, therefore, if we find that one particular cause produces enormous waste to the country, an enormous waste of money, an enormous waste of energy, and, I am sorry to say, an enormous destruction of intellect, then, I say, it becomes the duty of the Government and of every good citizen, to do their best to diminish that waste and correct those evils. (Hear, hear.) If we examine the course of the temperance question in the past—and I remember perfectly well myself the phases it has taken—we find that it commenced with arguments, with public addresses, with appeals, and, in many cases, strong appeals, to the sympathies and passions of the people. From that point, as soon as it had established itself in the minds of a certain number of the community, it then assumed the form of organization, and temperance societies were established. At first they did not go beyond prohibiting the consumption of ardent spirits, and afterwards the more energetic of their members went to the extent of the total abstinence societies, and in that way public opinion was educated up to the point when legislation was resorted to in aid of the efforts which benevolent gentlemen hadd made to correct this evil. And it is in that way that we have reached the point arrived at to-night of dicussing the Canada Temperance Act. Indeed, it is quite useless, if we should attempt it, to outrun public opinion. If there is one thing more necessary than another in reference to any social reform or any social question, it is this: That you should convince public opinion that you are right, and then you will carry it with you. If you do not do so, one of two results will follow—either you will surprise a victory from your opponents—and that will be followed by a reaction and defeat—or you will fail altogether to obtain the victory. It must be by the intelligent education of the people on these subjects that you can create such a public sentiment as will enable you to give effect to the legislation that you obtain from time to time. Now, I think, with regard to legislation, and to what is known as the Dunkin Act, that the advocates of temperance have great reason to be thankful for the progress that has been made under it. I am aware that in many districts it may not have worked altogether well, but still the fact that so many counties and so many townships in Ontario and Quebec have put, themselves voluntarily under the operation of the Dunkin Act, I think is one of the strongest evidences possible that public opinion in these districts was running parallel with the thought of those gentlemen who have from time to time been the organizers of this movement. (Hear, hear.) We have now reached the point, as I said before, of the Canada Temperance Act of last session, and I am happy to be able to announce to you that at the close of my few remarks, you will have the pleasure of listening to an explanation of that Act by the Rev. Mr. Gales, which I am sure will be exceedingly interesting. It is now sought to give effect to that legislation through what is known as the Dominion Alliance. Now, this Alliance is only, as it were, in the process of inception; it is not altogether organized or a fixed fact yet. It is in the interests of this organization in the Province of Quebec that this meeting is being held here to-night. The Dominion Alliance is not a Temperance Society or a Total Abstinence Society, but it is one the object of which is to include every one who desires to see the use of, and the traffic, in intoxicating liqours banished from the country. As I understand it the object is to make the platform so broad that every one can put himself in line with it. Perhaps a good many of my friends here may be surprised to see me presiding at a temperance meeting (applause), but I hope as I grow older that I may grow wiser (loud cheers), and that, at any rate, in regard to any good object, I hope I am never too old to learn. (Hear, hear.) When the question has been put before me, and I have been told that I have a moral duty to perform, or can serve a moral purpose by becoming a member of a total abstinence society—and that is a question which I have revolved in my own mind very seriously for several years past—I have said this: I am perfectly willing at once to give up the use of intoxicating drinks if you will guarantee to me that it will do any good (hear, hear); if you will only guarantee that my doing so will be the means of preventing my friend from getting it, whether he likes it or not. That is the train of thought which has passed through my own mind, and, no doubt, through the minds of many other men like myself. The sacrifice of their own enjoyments, I have no doubt, many who do not belong to a temperance society will gladly make when they understand that in giving up that which they may not consider hurtful themselves, they really produce a good result to other individuals. (Hear, hear.) Now, I am bound to say—and I hope my friends from Montreal will not find fault with me for saying it—that I think the principles defined on the Dominion Alliance cards go a little further than they will carry everybody with them. In the remarks which fell from Mr. Dougall last night, which I think were exceedingly sensible, and they certainly commended themselves to my judgment, he spoke of the desirability of carrying everyone with them so far as they could, and gradually preparing for something better in the future. Now, if we examine this question of Intemperance I think that ninety-nine men out of a hundred, and all the ladies, will agree with this proposition: That the great and crying evils of Intemperance are rather to be traced to the use of ardent spirits than to the other fermented liquors. That is my own observation. It may be quite true, as is alleged, that the taste for ardent spirits is increased by indulgence in other liqours; but the great and crying evils, the crime, the domestic cruelty to wives and children,—those evils, I believe, are to be traced in all cases rather to an indulgence in ardent spirits than to others more innocuous. I believe the gentlemen of the Dominion Alliance will carry ten persons with them in favor of prohibiting the manufacture and importation of spirits to five persons who will support them in endeavoring to prohibit all kinds of liquors. That is my impression, and I merely throw it out in consequence of the remarks that fell from Mr. Dougall last night. It might be well to follow a similar course to that followed by temperance societies when they were first initiated. If I mistake not, that was their original starting point—that they only prohibited the use of ardent spirits. I think that when you propose to the nation at large to deal with this subject it would be well to be guided by the experience of the past. When you have struck down the greatest source of the evil it will be comparatively easy for you to carry public opinion in any further steps you may find it necessary to take. (Hear, hear.) If I have said a few words which may perhaps be considered a little discouraging, though I do not regard them as such, I would like to say something which I think is rather encouraging. In that respect I wish to deal with two great objections which are raised to the Alliance and to the object that is ultimately sought to be attained. Now, these objections are, first, the difficulty which the Government of the country would experience in replacing the revenue that would be lost by the prohibition of the traffic; and the other objection is that prohibition is incompatible with what we regard as true British freedom. With reference to the first, I think I may say that it a change were made by prohibiting spirits in the first instance and afterwards fermented liquors, the change would be more gradual, and consequently the difficulty of meeting the loss of revenue would be diminished. But I am quite prepared to sustain this statement, after having had a good deal to do with the question of revenue and the raising of taxation. I am quite prepared to assert before this audience to-night that the Finance Minister who should succeed, by prohibiting the traffic in intoxicating liquors, in restoring $16,000,000 now lost to the people of this country and wholly wasted,—the Finance Minister who should succeed in doing that and should also save the indirect loss that arises from the injury that is done to society by it,—I say he will have no difficulty whatever in raising the sum of money which appears in the first instance to be thus lost to the revenue. (Loud cheers.) There can be no doubt whatever ahout it. One of the bugbears about taxation with which we are met is that of direct taxation. Now, I will venture to say this: that when you have educated the people of this country up to the point of prohibiting this traffic, you will at the same time have educated them up to the point of paying direct taxes sufficient to meet this deficiency. Another objection is that we would not be exactly free men. Well, now, that is a point upon which I take the liberty of differing entirely from those who urge it. The law now restrains our liberty in everything that is injurious to us—in most things at least. Liberty, as I understand the true definition of it, is freedom to do good. As a necessary consequence of the ability to do good, you must have the prevention of evil. Therefore freedom is in harmony with everything which goes to suppress vice in the community. Besides that, we have a case in point which must be familiar to you all. We know that for the last two hundred years the Indians have been prohibited from using liquors. There have been penalties attached to the people who sold it to them, and why? Because in the eyes of the law they were regarded as minors, as children unfit to take care of themselves, and consequently they were by law prevented from taking that which was injurious to them. No one supposes that this prohibition has injured the Indian; on the contrary, it is known that that is the only way by which any portion of that race has been preserved in North America. It is solely owing to their having been prevented from using intoxicating liquors that there are any of them alive to-day. Another objection is often raised, on the ground that the nation has no right to interfere with vested interests. In reply, I affirm that there is nothing in the manufacture or sale of liquor which in any respect, differs from any other branch of commercial industry. We see sugar refineries, cotton and woollen factories, and all other mechanical industries, exposed to hazard and loss by changes in the fiscal system of the country, but no one ever dreams of their owners having any claim for indemnity; and I wholly fail to discover anything in the cause of a distiller which entitles him to different and more generous treatment. His investment must share the same risks that are encountered by every other member of the community. The conclusion at which I have arrived myself from a somewhat lengthened consideration of this subject is that the only ultimate safety is undoubtedly to be found in the perfect carrying out of the views of the Dominion Alliance. (Hear, hear, and applause.) But, at the same time, I perceive clearly enough that public opinion is not yet ripe for that measure. It must be brought up to that, and in order to bring it to that point we have before us to-day the Canada Temperance Act, which is regarded as a very considerable step in the direction pursued as the one most in the interests of society. I cannot fail to see that while the present Act is in itself wise, it is at the same time the best preparation for future progress, which will be carried out, perhaps, after we are gone. It is a question that will live, and we have evidence that it will grow. (Hear, hear.) This growth may be slow, but at the same time as long as it appeals to the sound common sense of a community such as ours; so long as its advocates depend upon facts and arguments that cannot be questioned, then I venture to say that they must in the end and finally succeed. (Hear, hear) I have, therefore, no hesitation whatever in personally urging upon you as your Chairman this night to give all reasonable support in the first place to the objects of the Dominion Alliance, and next to the more immediate point of putting in force the Canada Temperance Act. Now, there is one other subject which, as I may not address you again very soon, I may refer to. Mr. Dougall told us last night, and with a great deal of truth, that a work of this kind cannot be carried on without a certain pecuniary support. It requires more than the moral support, more than the intellectual support of its friends; it requires the pecuniary aid of those who desire to see its objects promoted. I agree entirely with him on that point, and in case my friend Mr. Dougall should ask me what my sympathy is worth, I may take this opportunity of saying—and I hope I am not the first who has done so—that my sympathy on this occasion is worth a subscription of one hundred dollars. (Hear, hear, and applause.) Thanking you for your kind attention, I will call upon Mr. Gales to be good enough to give us explanations of the Canada Temperance Act. (Loud applause.) | English | NL | bdcb654b4f3e5ba5e4e54cbd6e662bd39edae9be6076351cf3d217370e0136e6 |
Dotted across our rural landscape are haunting vestiges of what once was.
Abandoned houses and buildings always draw my curiosity. I once spent a day with a photographer roaming the countryside as we took a look at abandoned properties. We crept in and out of buildings, breaking trespassing laws and pushing safety boundaries by testing spongy floorboards.
It was a project that remained on the unfinished pile when I accepted a promotion in the company. But to this day I like to photograph old buildings — but now stop short of inside exploration.
Each place has a story. Who lived there? When was it built? Why was it abandoned? Will anyone ever live there again?
Recently, I traveled to central Wisconsin along Wisconsin Highway 54. I passed several abandoned properties. On my return, I took a short stop in City Point, an unincorporated hamlet on the Wood-Jackson county line.
Next to the railroad tracks, about one block off the highway, a house stood with weathered siding and broken windows and missing shingles. Decorative spindles grace the front porch. It had the look of what was once a fine building.
City Point was at one time a bustling village in the township of the same name. Originally called Sulllivan after the local resident John L. Sullivan, the town was renamed City Point in 1889.
The Black River Falls resident Darren Durman said his great-great-grandparents George and Mary Galloway lived in the house, which was once the post office. Mary was the postmistress.
Durman said the house has two front doors. One went into the post office and the other into the residence, which also served as a boarding house for travelers coming off the train. Many different businesses lined the street.
Mary Galloway died in the 1920s; a new post office was built across the street. Rail passenger service in Jackson County stopped in the early 1960s. Only a few old buildings remain. Today the area is part of the Pittsville Post Office.
I’m glad Durman was able to tell me some of the story behind the building. Those stories are often lost.
One of the houses I explored almost 20 years ago looked like the residents had just left that morning. The bed was still made. Dishes were in the cupboard. Yet the calendar hanging on the wall was dated July 1967 and only half the windows were intact.
It’s possible it was still in use by homeless travelers. Maybe the owner still came back to check on it. It was an odd feeling of being in a distorted time warp.
I drove past the site of the house late this past year, but the structure no longer there. There’s only a barn to mark what was once a homestead. Perhaps that too will soon be gone.
Chris Hardie spent more than 30 years as a reporter, editor and publisher. He was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and won dozens of state and national journalism awards. He is a former president of the Wisconsin Newspaper Association. Contact him at email@example.com. | English | NL | d8e33a749eafcefe76a6dd3dd87a6cc03d96c51a0c01df28341c5a27a33fb0d3 |
I have lots of Halloween stories I like to tell. Here's one. Though my mother attests that I went as Punky Brewster for three Halloweens in a row as a very young girl, the first costume I remember was the Queen of Hearts. Maybe I liked her demanding aesthetic, maybe Alice was just too much of a wimp, maybe I just wanted a crown and a big ass dress and a scepter heavy on the hearts. At six years old, I suspect it was entirely the last.
My parents, being the clever and thrifty folks that they were, put a lot of time and effort into my costume and it was a secret to me until the day before the Halloween parade at school. While the other girls would be wearing flimsy plastic masks and store bought tunics that tied like hospital gowns over their school clothes, I would have an ensemble. I'd seen the crown my parents had made for me, adapting a New Year's Eve party hat, hearts bobbing and glittered gold letters in my mother's hand announcing my title. What I hadn't seen was the sandwich board to be affixed above my shoulders, the Queen of Hearts painstakingly rendered by my dad, a damn fine likeness of your standard Bicycle playing card. I was mortified, but it was too, too late to do anything about it. My rebellion against the costume extended only so far as refusing to take off my jean skirt at the school parade, for leotard and tights or no, my modesty would not permit me to go about with nothing but cardboard and a layer of red nylon between me and my classmates.
In retrospect I find their efforts brilliant and wish I had the costume still, or at least a photograph of it. We made our costumes every year, later favorites including a ghost from a story I'd liked on Unsolved Mysteries, a gypsy draped in my mother's shawls from high school homecoming dances, and, taking advantage of my wild hair in early adolescence, the Bride of Frankenstein.
My brother and I would run from house to house in neighborhoods much nicer than ours, always prepared with two pillow cases for when the first one became full. No paltry pails for us. I had no patience for cousins when we suffered trick or treating in groups, when they became whiny or tired or refused to commit to our breakneck speed. Clearly, they did not understand that we had only three hours to acquire as much free candy as we could. Each street we failed to visit was one less house with a fog machine and grave stone dotted yard that we would miss, a teenager leaping from a leaf burial to make us shriek, a porch veiled in black garbage bags promising mystery. And candy. Did I mention the candy?
Halloween always was and still is my favorite holiday. What's yours? | English | NL | 8d03fea97cb921cd845321169de2115f062be72be7ea4f5975ba5efa057bf86f |
By now, I hope you have seen the new cover of the revised and illustrated second edition of “Beyond All Price.” It features the never-before-seen photograph of Nellie M. Chase, the plucky young woman who served as the matron of Pennsylvania’s Roundhead Regiment. After a year with them, she moved on to become one of the best-known nurses of the Civil War. The men she cared for christened her with titles like Angel of Mercy, The Florence Nightingale of the Western Army, and a Woman Beyond All Price. With that kind of reputation, it’s not surprising that there’s a lovely photograph of her.
There’s quite a story behind the image that graces this book cover. The photograph is taken from a carte de visite—a visiting card of sorts, but much more than that. Two developments in the 1850s made it possible. The first was a photographic process developed in France in 1854. With it, a photographer could print multiple copies of a small image, which could then be pasted onto a sturdy cardboard backing to make it durable. The second was a Civil War that took thousands of young men (and a few hundred women) away from their homes and families in 1861 to serve their country. These new little cards became keepsakes—a way for families and friends to remember their missing loved ones. At the urgings of their families, soldiers flocked to get their pictures taken, and a new fad was born.
The cards are small. The backing measures about two and a half by four inches.
The photographic sheets were smaller—approximately two by three and a half inches. (If you look closely at the image, you can see the borders). And then the image itself was often no larger than a penny.. As photographers grew more skilled and cameras more complex, the images became more detailed and often filled the entire card. But Nellie’s photograph was made in 1863, and it’s no larger than an inch. On the reverse of the card is a stamp identifying the photographer, but there are no identifying words printed on these cards because they were meant only for those who knew the individual.
As I began to research Nellie’s story, I learned that she had a carte de visite, which she could give to patients who asked for one. A small paragraph in a Philadelphia newspaper announced that Frederick Gutekunst had taken her photograph, but no such card existed in any of the boxes of documents that recorded her history. Members of the Society of the Roundheads began searching for her picture, but it was not until this past spring that one actually turned up.
The card displays only the tiny headshot. The reverse has Gutekunst’s seal and Nellie’s handwritten signature (which you will also see on the cover of my new book. The signature indicates that she gave this card to a “W. W. Blackman of North Carolina.” So far, his identity has eluded investigation. The card also has a penciled note in another later hand that identifies her as the “wife of Geo. W. Earnest of the 15th Pa. (name spelled wrong). and says they both died of smallpox (although it was actually yellow fever). But for me, this little card is--like Nellie herself--another treasure "Beyond All Price." | English | NL | 17db812ec9b642f32f981ef4ee6073d6a55f7b0a26f9715f3f6250b919e93cfe |
The other day, when we were dealing with the chapter Solutions, our teacher asked us this:
If I add a drop of water, to a tin full of sugar (without mixing it in), what's the solvent here? The water or the sugar?
Naturally we were taken aback by the 'unorthodox' nature of the question. Seeing that none of us were in a position to answer that any time soon, he gave us the "answer":
It's the sugar. If you remember the definition we learnt ( solute + solvent = solution; between the solute and the solvent, the solvent is one present in a larger quantity and is in the same phase/state of matter as the solution ) you ought to have realized that, since there's more sugar than water, and at the end of the process the tin's filled with a solid.
Now that may seem like a clever way of testing our command of terminologies and definitions, but I saw a hitch there.
A solution is defined as a homogeneous mixture.
Adding a drop of water to a tin of sugar (without mixing it in) does not result in a homogeneous mixture. So as interesting as the question is, I feel it's flawed on this account... because what we're dealing with isn't technically even a solution.
Now I told this to my teacher, but he (quite deftly) side-stepped my query...a subtle way of indicating that he's not comfortable discussing this.
So I guess my question here boils down to this:
Was my teacher's "answer" correct? Or was the question seriously flawed to begin with?
I wouldn't call this a duplicate. Sure, I mean, both my question and the other one that was linked with this was about identifying the solvent and solute but I feel my question is distinct because:
1) It isn't answered well enough in the other question (that answer was too generalized... I've given a specific instance here)
2) I also want to know if a drop of water added to a tin full of sugar (without mixing it) can be considered a solution. | English | NL | e1f21f51869adb466eeb710c2cd73e8b91f4ccac67da03ef3620faf5d1fdc011 |
Kreeya is a a fictional character from a television program called Mortal Kombat: Conquest, and was played by Fabiana Udenio. Kreeya was the queen of a legendary race of Amazonian warriors called the Kreeyans, and was also their progenitor and acted as their "mother" as well.
Kreeya used to carry her special necklace that is the symbol of her culture and her entire empire, and it also can withstand all sorts of magic.
About Kreeya and her species
Kreeya was the queen of an unnamed distant realm as well as the progenitor of her entire race, and Vorpax was her firstborn daughter. Her race, the Kreeyans (named as such by Kung Lao after the queen herself), are comprised primarily of Amazonian females. They are spawned in a giant insectoid hive that contains thousands of maturing fetuses. Newborn Kreeyans mature into adult form within days (similar to bees), commanding hand-to-hand combat skills and weapons expertise. They are also immune to many human-borne diseases, including leprosy, and are capable of healing the afflicted by mingling their blood. The queen alone has the power to breed, though a few of her "daughters" have attempted to create hives (or at least were encased in the golden energy field normally used by the queen to create hives) as evidenced in her premiere episode. Also, it is not uncommon for the queen's mates to die suddenly after mating with her, as shown in her first two episodes, though it is implied that stronger, more powerful mates are less likely to be killed by this effect. (Known survivors include Reptile and Shang Tsung, the mates of Kreeya and Vorpax respectively.) Newborn Kreeyans have not been shown, as they have only appeared in their grown-up forms.
Queen Kreeya seeks to take over all of Outworld from Shao Kahn, and other worlds as well, but bound by the same rules of the Elder Gods as Kahn, she is forbidden to openly attack realms. Her expansionist campaign relies instead on seduction, circumventing the rules by being openly invited into new realms by their inhabitants. In a short time (presumably within a matter of weeks or months), they ultimately drive their populations into extinction through sheer numbers. Upon realizing the threat she posed to Outworld, Kahn had Kreeya's hives destroyed while his armies battled the Kreeyans on Outworld's borders. Kreeya was forced to find a new mate while secretly establishing new hives in Earthrealm. She persuaded Reptile to betray Kahn in exchange for sharing dominion after the Emperor's defeat. Reptile agreed, and several Zaterrans were reluctantly sent to guard her hives in Earthrealm while the children matured.
Kung Lao discovered Kreeya's children maturing in the hive, and realized the serious threat this posed to Earthrealm. When he confronted Kreeya and Vorpax and rejected their advances to stay, he was imprisoned along with Shang Tsung. The two were freed by Raiden and sent the Queen fleeing using the magic of her now-destroyed amulet after they defeated her together in combat, while Shang Tsung destroyed Kreeya's hive.
The combined effort of Earthrealm and Outworld in eliminating the hives infuriated Vorpax, who believed that Kreeya was carelessly sacrificing her people for her safety. Vorpax urged Kung Lao and his friends to aid her in defeating Kreeya, in return for her leaving Earthrealm once the Queen was dead. After Kreeya was defeated in combat, Vorpax slew her herself, and left. Unbeknownst to the humans, Kreeya's death imbued Vorpax with all of her breeding powers, and her legacy was to continue under a new ruler. However, Vorpax is revealed to not be able to create a hive after a failed mating with Shang Tsung in the final episode, and she angrily orders one of her servants to burn the torn bed they were having sex in. She then decides to mate with the Netherrealm sorcerer Quan Chi out of vengeance, but is prevented from doing so because she is killed by Shao Kahn's Shadow Priests.
The ultimate fate of the Kreeyans is unknown. Since Vorpax died without any children and no other Kreeyan was ever seen claiming the Queen's powers, it is implied that the Kreeyans eventually became extinct, either slowly dying out over time or being wiped out completely by Shao Kahn's forces.
On the German DVD release of MK: Conquest, one disc featured episodes centered exclusively around Kreeya. | English | NL | 55f0fe69df67055ddf1a9bdf9edec82f83150df85873d4ffa925a3b878cd5c20 |
Collins Gallery Exhibit, 2003
The second exhibit by CMPCE was in the Collins Gallery on the third floor of the historic Multnomah County Library in
Portland, Oregon. It drew from the artifacts brought home by returned volunteers serving all over the world. The high
traffic afforded by the location brought the experiences of Peace Corps volunteers to the attention of many people.
Some people recognized objects from their homeland and cautioned us to be careful that no woman touched a
particular mask. We were able to reassure her that the mask had cracked and thus no longer had its original powers. | English | NL | 7cc0f9e5b57ba971bde97a1acc0cf8d76d279efb17fab6239fc38a6c94e7c0b2 |
The popularity of your name is likely far different today than it was the year you were born. Maybe you’re one of those men born in 1983 and named Michael, the most popular name of the year. Today, if you were given the most popular boy’s name, you’d be named Liam. The following interactive shows you which name had the same popularity in the past year and every decade since 1890 as yours did the year you were born, using newly released baby name data for 2018.
Name trends are provided by the Social Security Administration. Whenever names were tied for popularity in a given year or decade, they were assigned the same rank. This tool only searches for names of the same gender as what you entered at the top. Many names have drifted from being associated with boys to being associated with girls over the years, so it can appear as though female names are showing up in the male results.
Note: This feature has been updated with data from 2018. | English | NL | 89d15eb5a695b9c1cbe25636028d6a34e30e3fa7803f3b2ae2bdf577b6c8a96d |
During the Ramadan month, the Iraqis had rationed the water. One of the prisoners of war who belonged to Abadan city would bring a 10 meter pipe to the sanatorium and he would connect one side of the pipe to the bath tap located outside of the sanatorium and he would bring the other side to the sanatorium.
The problem was that in the evening when the Iraqis would count the number of prisoners of war, there was no one to open the tap in order to bring water to the sanatorium of prisoners. The prisoners of war staying in the sanatoriums 10, 11 and 12 would be counted after the other sanatoriums and they had more freedom; that is why for the purpose of doing this work, someone was chosen from them. Eventually one of the prisoners of war volunteered and he risked and he passed among the herbs in order to connect the pipe to the tap. By this method, the prisoners of war had drinking water inside the sanatorium every night. In order to preserve the water, they needed to guard from the window by a mirror, so if an Iraqi soldier would pass from there, the Iranian guard would shout: "Pull it, Pull it, Pull it”, so the first soldier who was so close to the pipe, he would pull the pipe and they would hide the pipe in the sanatorium and to stay without water until morning; although this event would rarely happen.
At one night, the soldier passed among the herbs and the guard noticed him so late. When he arrived there, they took the pipe into the sanatorium, but the sign of water had remained on the ground. The soldier shouted and he informed the Guard Officer and other soldiers. The door was opened and they started investigating the sanatorium. They searched so much, but they found nothing after two hours investigation. Eventually the Guard Officer shouted and told the soldier: "You are crazy, how can they hide 10 meters pipe?” the soldier swore that he had seen the pipe with his own eyes which has been taken into the sanatorium.
So where is the pipe now? There was a thin soldier who would wrap the pipe around his waist in a fitted form and it was not clear at all when he would wear the cloths on that.
After awhile, the prisoners of war provided an electricity wire with two pieces of tins and they made an electrical element to warm the water too. So each of the prisoners of war would warm up the water based on turns, so the prisoners of war in addition of having drinking water in the sanatorium, they benefited from warm water for bathing as well. | English | NL | 446f1c56a6aee714b26880646a3e33a78280aed1427b946a31c1dbe216866a55 |
|J e r b l .C o m||M o n i s a w a : [ H o m e ] [ T e a m C l a w ] [ O e k a k i ] J e r b l . c o m : [ F o r u m ]|
TEAMCLAW EPISODE V
----------------------------The Rising Rebellion-------------------------------
Part 1 Last edited on 8/4/05
Part 2 Last edited on 8/9/05
Part 3 Last edited on 8/12/05
Originally concept by Jeremy Blake (www.jerbl.com)
Written and Illustrated by Mike Blake(Monisawa)
© 2005 Mike
Blake (Monisawa), Jeremy Blake (www.jerbl.com); All
privileges reserved. _____________________________________________________________________________________________
EPISODE V : part
EPISODE V : part
Holding up her PDA looking unit, she looked at the map that was displayed on it and noticed where her location was. Seeing that where she needed to go was close, she decided that she would walk, instead of transporting herself. It is always nice to get a good early morning stroll.
Turning towards one of the exit tunnels, to get out of the control room, she walked up the path and carefully pushed the hatch up. Lifting a section out of the yard, the lid reclined up and rested completely vertical. Hoisting herself up and out, she rested carefully on the grass and pushed the door closed. Glancing around her, of which she was back between the shed in the back yard and the fence that surrounded it, she noticed the tall hedges which kept her mostly hidden.
Looking back and forth, she dashed across the yard and leapt over the fence by grabbing the pole with her right hand and launching herself over.
Though she was not completely as powerful as Nemo had been before he had disappeared, she had many good talents. As Nemo had discovered last night when he was fighting her, she was unusually fast. No mere human could keep at the speeds that she could run and jump and attack. Unfortunately though, once Nemo remembers everything, he would probably be able to out do her in all of what she specializes in.
Casually striding towards the sidewalk, she followed along parallel, until she merged onto the sidewalk which ran along side the road and headed in the direction she needed to go.
Her mind reverted back to the Prince, her responsibility. She had to struggle to leave him alone with the other cats, but there had been many times before that she had to leave him alone so that she could lose or fight Viktor and Tenalt's men.
Walking up the sidewalk, as if just a neighbor in the area, she made her way to the corner of the block. Glancing at the rising sun, Rebecca smiled at the warmth. Someday she was going to be free from this mission; and she would be able to relax. Watching the birds begin their morning clamor, she sighed as she longed to be like them; careless.
Turning down the street, she walked off of the one that had Nemo's house, and began to walk towards one of the busier main streets in the area. Though Rebecca was not totally familiar to the area that Nemo's house had been, she was familiar with how the street system and city layouts worked. Rebecca had been to almost every major city while escaping from evils' grasp.
Casually smiling at a cat that strolled across the street, who glared its beady eyes in her direction, Rebecca continued to walk in the direction of the busy street. As if looking to cross the street, Rebecca glanced up and down the street. Seeing no cars coming, nor anyone getting out of their houses or looking through their windows, Rebecca knew it was safe to do what she was about to do.
Crouching low to the sidewalk, Rebecca flexed her leg muscles and took deep relaxing breaths. Truthfully, the main reason that she did not use the teleportation was because she had wanted to get out and think….
Steadying herself, she closed her eyes for a second and then before any person could ever imagine seeing; she took off. Running towards the busy street at tremendous speeds, she jumped towards a tree, scrambled up the trunk and landed towards the top and then leapt off of it. Blasting herself a considerable distance, across and over the street, she landed into another tree without any harm. Grasping onto the top of it, while it swayed back and forth, Rebecca got her direction set, and then jumped to the next tree and to the next. Avoiding all of the streets and houses, which were below the carpet of trees, she continued on her way.
As she headed for her destination, she reverted back to last night. So much had occurred last night and her head was swimming with the details. After her nice long sleep and slow recovery from being nearly frozen to death, she had tensed up and her mind was cluttered with stress. Landing carefully onto a large oak, she balanced herself in the majestically tall branches and took a quick breather.
The air in her face, the rushing of the trees and the thrill of the leap all gathered together and made her feel more at ease. Taking a quick glance down below, she saw little children playing games in the back yard. Because she was so skilled at doing this, having to have done it for over ten years from running from Tenalt and Viktor’s men, she was now completely silent and skilled. Leaping to the next tree, she carefully avoided a bird, by grabbing an outreached branch, which swung her wide around it and on to another tree. Taking one last push, she blasted across the last of the trees and landed softly onto the grass field of a city park.
Straightening her shirt and pants, she reached back and drew her hair carefully down and back, from its frayed and wildly blown position. Taking one quick glance around her, she looked at the fence, that was behind her, and noticed no one up and about. Taking quick strides, she then headed towards one of the paths that went through the forested park.
Seeing no morning joggers, or bike riders, she once again readied herself on a long stretch of straight pathway. Much like a jet airplane, she needed a runway to launch herself. Taking one last glance, she then started running faster and faster. Her feet rolling off of the ground like the soft sound of a wind chime. Gathering speed, she took one last heave in her run, and launched herself far into the air as the pathway curved into another direction. Throwing herself hundreds of feet into the air and at least a half mile in the direction that she needed to go, she laughed to herself. Now she truly felt as if she had let all of her troubles go. Just like the birds that she had seen frolicking in the air, she was gliding in the same air that supported them.
Watching her fly, one may wonder why she did not use this incredible strength and ability when the guards of Viktor had surrounded her. The incredible speed would have easily downed every single of the guards, especially with her sword in hand. Or she could have also used it when she was in the Post office, fighting the cat. Unfortunately, when she is in tight spaces, her abilities are limited. She can go fast, but it is very dangerous, and has to be controlled exactly, as we saw when she destroyed all of their guns, while they were in the basement. She also was kind of hoping that if she did not help as much in the fighting, that Nemo might remember more of his past. That is one of the main reasons she did not take out the guards, but with the fight with Sakura, she was caught unaware.
Prematurely landing, she spun her feet furiously on the ground, trying to keep her speed. Gaining her balance and keeping her speed, she kicked off of a fence, in an open field, which shot her over the main highway in the area.
The city that Nemo was stationed was huge, and always busy, but was also spread out. Most big cities were compact and tight together, in a small area with bid buildings, Nemo’s city, that he lived in, was merely stretched out and supported mostly Rural neighbor hoods, and many apartments.
Ignoring all of the motorists, and escaping their sleepy eyes, she landed far across on the other side of the highway. Back stepping, she carefully slowed herself down and then stopped. Resting on the hill that was adjacent of the huge highway, Rebecca sighed and laid back in the tall grass. Hearing the buzz of the bugs begin their morning routes, she also listened to the roar of the cars rush and the diesels grumble and snort, blowing their black dusty smoke into the air. Taking sweet calming breaths, she sat up from her position and looked down below into the gully that was farther in the distance of the slopping hill. Seeing several squirrels jumping and playing, she smiled as they raced after one another, or after food that was all over the edge of the one of the many forests that lay scattered inside the city parameters.
Reaching into her pocket, once again Rebecca pulled out her PDA and looked at the coordinates on the screen. Noticing that she was almost there, she noticed that she had to enter another small neighborhood. Standing up, and letting the grass and dirt fall from her clothes, She walked up the side of the hill and climbed over the guard rail that was set up so that cars would not drive into the steep ravine. Glancing up and down the road that went perpendicular to the highway, and crossed it, with a bridge, Rebecca was glad that there was no one on it as of yet. Taking quick strides down the sidewalk, she passed many houses that were mostly by themselves, up and on the hills, away from the roads and the larger neighborhoods. Passing these houses, she was getting closer to where she needed to go.
Taking her usual precautionary glances, she then blasted her worn sneakers across the pavement, and then leapt up and into the air. Landing on a tree that was atop one of the hills she launched off its large trunk and was floating casually, once more through the air. Taking a few more strides off of some trees, she landed quickly and suddenly in the middle of another neighborhood that was a little smaller than the one that Nemo lived in. Quickly slowing down, Rebecca began to stroll, as if nothing was going on, and as if she had been walking this way the whole time. She was not sure if anyone might have seen her fall down through the cover of trees.
Taking a turn into a cul-de-sac, she headed towards one of the houses. Avoiding one of the cars as it drove on its way, Rebecca avoided eye contact from the driver and acted like she was heading towards another of the houses. Carefully walking up to the yard of the house that was in the upper most part of the circle, she glanced at the large window on the front of the house, and did not see any of the family that lived at the house was up. Quickly running to the monstrously huge tree that lifted itself high and across the whole yard and over the house, Rebecca climbed up and then over onto one of the branches that forked over to the roof.
Leaning over, she carefully balanced herself on the branch, and laid down on it. Letting her feet dangle she quickly spotted the small hole, big enough for a squirrel to fit, into the attic. Pulling from her other pocket, Rebecca pushed the button of the equipment only for her to shrink. Using the technology that she had used when she fought Nemo, she made herself just big enough so that she could fit through the hole. Finishing, she then placed the equipment back into her pocket and quickly dangled from the branch, but then released and landed onto the sloped tiled roof. Leaning over the edge, she grabbed onto the rotted wood and pushed her way into the stuffy attic.
Letting her eyes adjust to the dim lit area, she walked forward. Listening to the tap of typewriters and the whirring of printing machines and such, Rebecca smiled as she walked into the middle of the attic. A whole organization of squirrels and small creatures had established themselves into the roof of a family’s home.
The network Rebecca used was created to find out information on anything. Kind of like bounty hunters for hire, except that since squirrels and the other creatures were small and supposed useless, they just spied and found out information. This network spanned across the world and had stations everywhere. The network was independent from all corporations, such as HQ and Viktor’s company. This network was individually run, by station biases, and whenever others needed info, they would get onto their system and ask other stations. It was extremely well organized.
Stepping over the many different cords that lined the room, Rebecca walked over to the main reception desk, which had a hanging light focused onto it. One of the squirrels was deep in debate with another, as they yelled at each other and pointed to a paper.
“Excuse me,” Demanded Rebecca.
Pulling them from their conversation, one of them jumped in surprise.
“Don’t do that. Every time you come here, it always freaks me out to see a human as tall as I am.”
Setting the paper down, the other tilted his head, “That is strange. How did you know that you had a package for you? We were just getting ready to send it to the post office that you picked up your last package at.”
“Another package?” asked Rebecca? “I didn’t have anything else coming…as far as I knew.” Obviously confused she gathered their attention.
“Well, it was delivered to us last night.” said the squirrels.
Rebecca didn’t know what to say, but she had other matters, “Forget the new package, I need to know something. Last night my position was ratted out and I was ambushed at the post office.”
The foremost squirrel leaned forward, tilting his glasses, and pulled his billed hat up. Keeping his voice down he stated, “You mean someone squeaked?”
“Yes,” Rebecca said as she took the initiative and quieted her voice down.
The two squirrels backed off and began to whisper amongst themselves. Taking their conversation away, one of them called a mouse up. Huddling together, they began to look around the room at the several offices that were all over, with other creatures helming machines, typewriters, or keyboards. By then half of the other attendants in the room were looking up, at the conversation between management.
Suddenly they pointed to a chipmunk that was stationed at a cubicle far in the corner, “HE,” yelled the mouse. “He is a TRAITOR GET HIM.” All of the attendants swarmed him as he tried to struggle.
LIVE VIKTOR,” The little tiny
creature yelped, as his voice was drowned out by the clamor of the
group. Surging together in a group they
walking across the rafters, and avoiding the insulation, towards the
outside. Rolling the chipmunk across
their hands, as he struggled, they shoved him through the hole.
Pretty soon the whole group began to bustle and pull cords out and gather their equipment together.
The first squirrel that she talked to came up to Rebecca, “Sorry about that. I guess we didn’t see his suspicious conduct before. Unfortunately now we have to move, most likely our hideout has been told on to Viktor. So we must go and find another house.”
“So how am I supposed to contact you guys,” asked Rebecca, trying to speak over the clamor.
“Well…”The squirrel paused, as he thoughtfully took in his options, “when we find a new place to station ourselves, we’ll e-mail you on your PDA. But until then let this tide you over.”
Holding out a small calling card, Rebecca took it from him and quickly glanced it over. “Join the Fight against Viktor,” She read aloud, “If you are interested call the number below and ask for Cocoa bean.”
“The person who left the card is the one who brought the package. The guy said he was your friend.” Bringing an object that was wrapped in brown shipping paper, Rebecca pulled the paper to the side, releasing the tape she gasped as she saw what it was; it was Sakura’s sword…
+ + + + + + + +
Groaning from his sore muscles and many injuries that he had acquired last night, Nemo rolled over, but sprawled his arms out as he crashed to the ground. Falling off of the couch, he felt somewhat unfamiliar with his surroundings; the dome shaped room, incandescently reflected the light off of the solid cement walls, making it seem a rather dim room. Sitting stiffly up, Nemo turned his gaze around the room to see if any one was there, but even Sakura had left the computer unattended. Glancing around, Nemo looked for a clock, to see what time it was, but there was none to be found. Letting his eyes wander to the floor, machinery, everyday household items, and pieces of equipment lay strewn about, broken into scattered pieces. Nemo smirked as he brushed the fur, which was matted from sleeping on the couch, down into its sleek position. Trampling onto his paws, he slightly swayed, as the sudden movement had caused blood to rush to his head.
Getting his balance back, he began to make his way out of the new control room. Walking past many of the things that were torn apart, Nemo recognized the familiar chip marks of Tsuki's screwdrivers. She always makes a mess when she does her experiments, Nemo thought to himself. Turning his attention of the pathway, he began to climb up the sloped curve that circled around, so as to make it so that the decent to the control room, would not be a gaping pit....though, Nemo thought, they could have built an elevator, but that would only prove a bother, too much maintenance. Joyce
It was a good thing that they found the digger tool; it was truthfully useful for them digging these deep tunnels. Suddenly a loud explosion rocked the entire house. Dropping flecks of wood, dust and dirt from the bottom of the house joists, Nemo panicked.
"Maybe another of the robots had made it through the portal and was still alive! Or worse; somehow Viktor had made to their outpost again." Turning towards the exit of the tunnel, he made his way to the secret compartment, in the space between the house and the ground, and Nemo squeezed between the space on the stairs.
Still feeling the groggy tugs from last nights activities, Nemo cowered as sheer sunlight burst down from the window that was above the stairway. Holding his arm up, he continued to the basement as he heard the sound of several voices desperately coughing.
Lowering his head below the smoke, Nemo ran down the stairs and onto the basement floor. Quickly analyzing the room, and squinting through the dense smoke, Nemo realized that he could not see anything. Back tracking up against the wall, he jumped up to where he thought the switch for the overhead fan was. He had to take care of this problem before the neighbors called the human fire and police department. Clicking it on, Nemo had to close his eyes as the smoke began to make his eyes burn and water.
Knowing that the fan was on, he needed some place for the smoke to go. Shimming across the wall of the basement, Nemo followed it around to the bigger part of the basement. Reaching blindly, with his eyes still closed, Nemo grabbed the release button for the underground closet. Blasting and hissing up, the door opened as the smoke sucked into the closet. The room was pressurized and every time the door was shut, the closet was sealed off, and the air sucked out. So, as the lack of air down below, it pulled the smoke down into itself.
Standing above the quickly fading mess, Nemo watched as the smoke sifted away in clumps, almost as if it were sand being blown by a wild wind.
Finally revealing the source of the smoke, of which was dissipating, Nemo saw cinders, wire frames, and a large ashen crisp hole, burnt into the carpet. Lying three feet from it was Tsuki, who was obviously still stunned, but covered, in the same ash as the carpet. Leaning his head back to rest on his shoulders in aspiration, Nemo sighed a deep breath. Though tools lay scattered everywhere from the explosion and equipment that Tsuki had also torn apart up here, was all over, Nemo was still glad that it had not been Viktor, or another robot.
Pulling himself together, he focused his thoughts, as the victims of Tsuki's experiment slowly recovered. Glancing at the layout, Yoru had fallen onto the ground, obviously in an attempt to run, but due to his stout nature, he had obviously tripped over himself. Tsuki was where he had previously seen her.
Walking up to Tsuki, Nemo glared down at her; she was stuck in the expression of initial surprise. Slightly kicking her stiffened and scorched fur, Nemo scolded her, "What did you do this time Tuski?"
Yoru rolled over onto his back and then flipped himself wobbly onto his feet. His fur was also scorched in areas, and was definitely matted down due to the ashes. "That psycho tried blowing us all up."
Tsuki, hesitant at first, carefully moved her arms. "Ouch," she gasped out, coughing ashes out from her mouth. Sitting up dazedly, she squinted around at the damage in the room, and then looked back at Nemo. "Looks like I switched the wrong wire..." She smiled.
Nemo smirked disapprovingly, hoping that it would make her feel bad.
Turning his attention from her, he quickly went over to the underground closet, as the smoke began to rise back out of it. Pressing the button for it to close, the door solidly pulled itself shut. Smiling, Nemo knew that the smoke was now being filtered out of the closet and was being ejected into the underground street water system, built to catch big amounts of rain, or floods. Some of the smoke would escape into the road from the run off areas, but for the most part it would vaporize. Turning his attention once again to Tsuki, she was poking at the frame that was left of her experiment. Looking closer at what it had been, Nemo recognized it as one of Viktor's robots, or at least in the overall design. Seeing that there were schematics all over the floor and around Tsuki, Nemo looked closer, and noticed that they were first of all in Tsuki's hand writing, but Second of all, it was of the robot that Nemo had fought last night.
Seeing Nemo's inquiry about the drawings, Tsuki piped in, "I WAS building a secondary prototype for the robot...like you had asked me, but like I said, i crossed a wrong wire. My robot was so SO much better. It would have so taken out the other robots." She looked longingly at the remains, but then pulled her drawings forward and cheered up. "Seems I will have to try again...
Nemo cringed at the thought of another experiment. "Clean up this mess first, he stated to Tsuki and to Yoru. And for that carpet we're going to have to pull out the spare from the closet. In the mean time, where is Rebeeca, Sakura and the boy?" The new members of his team, he had noticed were not here and had not been down here at all.
Yoru commented, “Rebecca had to go and do some errands. She said you would know what she was doing. And of the boy and the annoying cat," he trailed off and scowled, "they are upstairs."
"Okay team, then get to work. I've got to go and check on them." Nemo was a little bit curious as to why Yoru did not like Sakura, but he figured that he would learn soon enough. Turning from them, as they began to drag the wreckage away, Nemo heard the door to the secret incinerator open and deafeningly close, as the wreckage slid and crashed below in the scorching hot chamber.
Turning the last corner, Nemo gasped in surprise as he looked at the table. Sitting on the table, Sakura was awkwardly holding a spoon. Balancing the spoon in her tiny paw, she lifted it up to lips and poured the cereal and milk into her mouth. Closing her lips over the spoon she smiled and pulled the spoon to continue the process.
“What are you
DOING?” Asked Nemo?
“First of all, Cats don’t get on the table. The humans JUST DON’T like it. Second, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE HIDDEN. And third, cats don’t eat with spoons and forks; we eat with our mouths and our paws.”
Sakura rolled her eyes, “That’s how I always eat. Everybody looks at things so linear, I need to be different.” She coy fully smiled at Nemo.
“Sakura, we don’t eat with silverware because it would draw attention from the humans…” Nemo then took a deep breath to clear his head.
Taking his eyes from her, she began to clean up the mess and scoop the cereal and milk into her bowl, but gave up and ate it directly off of the table…using the spoon. It was obviously going to take awhile to get her trained to stay hidden and out of sight. It would be a nightmare if the humans ever saw her, once that is, they got back from vacation.
Walking away from her, Nemo slipped up next to the boy Prince, who was stationed on the couch in the front room. Looking out the large picture window, he sat fixated at the sky. Clouds slowly going by, whispering sweet essences of places far and distant, but pleasant to be in.
Nemo knew the boy could not talk, but maybe it would be worth trying, “Looking at the sky?”
Nemo glanced at his face, as the boy temporarily pulled his attention back and realized that Nemo was there. Pulling his chin from off of the back of the couch, he looked over to Nemo, but did not answer; not even a nod. But looking into his eyes, Nemo could feel and tell exactly what the boy was expressing. “Reminds you of home?” Nemo shook his head, “Nah, were too young. Perhaps it just reminds you of freedom…a place that you have been trying to get to your whole life. Instead you are filled with fear, and constant running.” The boy turned his gaze back out the window and watched as the trees swung meticulously back and forth. Ghostlike, they would drop an occasional leaf in the wind and reach higher up into the sky; seemingly shed their scales of their weight.
Suddenly Nemo turned and faced the middle of the room as a blast of warm energy pierced the silence and tore madly about. Suddenly appearing, a bright hole tore itself from the existence of air and made a doorway. Nemo quickly recognized the door as the portal from the teleport unit that Rebecca uses.
Stepping out, Rebecca came into view and Nemo sighed. He had felt that he had had too much action for at least a month, just in the past day. Closing behind her, the portal vanished as quickly as it had come.
“Nemo I got some news,” Began Rebecca. Holding forward a small sword, Nemo took a glance at it.
“It is a
sword,” Commented Nemo. “What is its
Nemo suddenly remembered the events of last night; he had grabbed Rebecca’s sword, but had utterly forgotten about Sakura’s. “How did you get it? Surely the human police would have picked it by now!?”
Rebecca placed it on the floor next to Sakura, as she was annoyingly demanding it back from her. Shrugging her shoulders, Rebecca shook her head, “I don’t know why we got it, but whoever retrieved it left this,” reaching into her pocket, Rebecca pulled the Calling card out and handed it to Nemo. “You were right about the leak in my information, but they gave me this last package,” referring to the sword, “and told me that the person who left it for us was a friend.”
“Truly,” Nemo marveled, “Whoever took it must either be from Viktor, or is a friend…despite this war of chaos that is beginning.”
“Viktor it may be,” said Rebecca, “But I think it is our obligation to contact this person and meet them.”
“Yes,” agreed Nemo, “If this sounds like what I think it is, there is a movement beginning; a movement to stop the spread of Viktor’s control with the recent loss of HQ. We will meet him.”
END PART 1
HERE TO GO TO PART 2 | English | NL | b97ae0ec6387abd733c3ce92d73dca9df70a2c5126aa612cbb97690ea6789877 |
In the summer of 1977 John and Sue were sent to the inner city of Providence, Rhode Island, to begin a church-planting ministry with Missions Door.
A new mission field had emerged in core city neighborhoods as many churches followed urban and suburban growth movements. Those left behind had become trapped in chronic poverty, disenfranchised and unable to live under the demands of society.
John and Sue remain committed to evangelizing, discipling and church planting among those living in chronic poverty. Their prayer remains that the church of Jesus Christ would not leave behind the weakest and most needy among us here in America.
John received Christ as his Savior through Sue’s witness in 1965. John served four years in the United States Air Force. Coming home to Massachusetts following his discharge, discouraged and despairing, he met the Savior.
Christ revolutionized his life and gave him a great burden for the lost, particular those who were left behind. During his years at seminary a growing burden for church planting became his mission.
Sue became a Christian in early childhood and was raised in a Christian home. She worked as a legal secretary off and on for fifteen years, at which time she went back to school.
Besides tending to the family, Sue speaks to women at conferences and carries on a significant music ministry. She also maintains a vital ministry in the local church through leading an adult Sunday school class, playing keyboard at worship services and counseling people regularly.
John and Sue were married in 1966 and have two adult children: Michael and Melissa.
John: B.S. in Business Administration and M.Div.
Sue: B.A., M.A. Certificate of Advanced Graduate Study,
Licensed Mental Health Counselor | English | NL | 9f4ecbbd40546b1b1023c1162771ba504315a9fbc0c2c22ac5b4fff0eb3f0434 |
Team 7 had to protect their charge at all cost. But what if their charge couldn't get his dirty hands off their pink-haired teammate? Patience, patience, Naruto... Sasuke-kun.
Disclaimer: Naruto is not mine!
Hello to everyone! After editing my first two fanfics, I decided to edit this one, too... since I have nothing better to do and am still trying to get over my writer's block... -sighs-
Anyway... Please do enjoy the edited version of this fic!
by fascinatrix femina
"She might get mad at me."
Tsunade could see the frown forming underneath the jounin's mask. "I didn't say you have to," She raised an eyebrow at him. "it's just..." She intertwined her hands together in front of her face. "...a suggestion."
There was a moment of silence before she started to speak to him again. "It's your choice. After all, she's your student." She stared at him with her usual haughty look.
Kakashi couldn't help but slightly tilt his head to the side in confusion. "Why suggest it then? Is the mission really that dangerous? I'm sure my Sakura could handle it. She's gotten pretty strong..." He paused when a rather funny memory of Sakura and Naruto flashed inside his mind. The punch she threw at Naruto was so strong, he almost swore to himself that Naruto's neck would forever remain disfigured. "Not to mention, she's a really smart girl. Besides, I doubt it if the boys would let anything bad to happen to her."
He was rather surprised when he heard her sigh at this. "That's the point. And no... it's not the mission that you should be worried about."
He blinked. "Not the mission?"
"Your team can surely handle the mission." Tsunade bent her head down to study her well-trimmed fingernails before she looked at him again. Her face was serious. "I'm just not so sure if they could handle the guy whom they're gonna protect."
This caught Kakashi's full attention. Now that was... interesting. "What's wrong with the guy?"
He didn't expect her next reaction, so he was quite taken aback when he saw the fifth hokage's expression turned sour. She glared at him as if he'd just pulled a Naruto on her or said the most revolting words in front of her face.
Moments later, Tsunade eventually calmed down, much to Kakashi's relief. She looked angry enough to kill him! Was his team's charge really that worse?
"He's... an idiot. A really big idiot..." Tsunade breathed with a low growl. Kakashi could sense the venom in her voice. He curiously narrowed his eyes at her when she mumbled something about huge money, dirty hands and... breasts?
Kakashi didn't dare speak his thoughts. He wasn't stupid enough to mess around with an upset Tsunade. So, he patiently waited for her to speak again.
Tsunade parted her lips as if to say something more, but strangely, she stopped and closed her mouth. A few seconds later, she let out a deep sigh. "Patience."
Again, he blinked. "What?"
She turned to glare at him. "Patience is the key... Honestly, if only the other teams were available, I wouldn't have to assign this mission to your team." She grumbled more to herself than to him. "That's why," she paused and looked at him straight in the eye. "I'm gonna say this again, if you don't want any trouble, you'd better leave Sakura out of this mission."
Judging from the tone that she'd just used on him, she'd just threatened him to leave Sakura out of it or else! And to think that she'd just told him a while ago that he had the freedom to choose whether he'd let Sakura join or not...
"Uhh..." Kakashi had always felt uncomfortable whenever the godaime looked at him like that. He scratched the back of his head in order to lighten up the mood. "Can I at least know the real reason why you want her out?" He asked. This person may be an... idiot, but surely, he couldn't be all that bad...
Famous last words...
"It's getting late! Where in the heck is Kakashi-sensei?"
Sakura, annoyed at Naruto's non-stop grumbles, turned to glare at the blonde fox-boy to make him shut his big mouth up. "Naruto, you know how Kakashi-sensei is! Stop whining already!" Although she said that, she too was getting quite irritated at the constant tardiness of their lazy teacher.
Well, who wouldn't be? Here they are, standing in the middle of the field with the hot sun scorching their skins into crisps! And they've been standing here for the past three hours already! Heaven only knows what kind of hell the three of them must look like now...
"Man! This heat is driving me nuts! Just where in the heck is Kakashi-sensei!"
Sakura sighed. Naruto ignored her scoldings yet again. And it must be because the unbearable heat had gotten into that thick skull of his. There's no use trying to get Naruto to quiet down, is there? She thought as she bit back a small smile when Naruto tried to pull the ends of his spiky blonde hair in frustration.
"Get a grip, dobe."
Sakura's eyes immediately turned towards the source of the low voice. Sasuke, with his arms crossed, was sitting conveniently on top of one of the rocks. Sakura couldn't help but stare at him in awe. He didn't look at all bothered by the heat and their sensei's lazy butt! He still wore that cool and expressionless face as if he did not have a care in the world.
The pink-haired kunoichi blushed at the sight of him. Sasuke-kun is so...
"Shut up, Sasuke!" Naruto's yell halted Sakura's train of thoughts. "Stop pretending you're cool." He angrily spat the last word. "I bet you're just as frustrated as me!"
The Uchiha genius gave Naruto one of his infamous glares. "At least I'm not whining like a loud idiot like you."
Sakura sweatdropped as she continued to watch her two teammates trying to out-glare each other for the third time today. She sighed. Here we go again. Another bout of pointless squabbles from Naruto and Sasuke.
And it was all their sensei's fault! Why couldn't he just try not to be late for once?
"I'm not an idiot!"
"No, you're a dobe."
"Damn you, Sasuke-bastard!"
"Tsk. Tsk. It seems like Lady Tsunade's right about you guys."
All heads turned to the grinning Kakashi, who, like always, popped out of nowhere with his trusty perverted book. As soon as he came, he made a gesture with his hand to stop Naruto and Sakura from yelling at him with the usual 'You're late!'. "Save it for next time, kids. I intentionally came in late today."
Naruto snorted. "As if your past late-comings weren't done on purpose!"
Kakashi ignored him and continued on with his speech. "I was trying to see if my team has a decent amount patience. Judging from what I've seen earlier..." He glanced at both Naruto and Sasuke. "...but then again, you guys aren't patient enough to begin with."
Sakura saw Sasuke scowl at their teacher. "It's that dobe's fault." He pointed at Naruto. "He's too noisy for his own good."
"What? Why you..." Naruto was just about to strangle Sasuke with his bare hands when Kakashi caught his shirt and pulled him away.
"Sensei, why are you testing our patience?" Sakura finally asked as she watched Kakashi trying to restrain Naruto. She grew curious when their teacher let out a deep sigh.
"Sakura... I can't let you go in this mission." He suddenly said.
Naruto stopped struggling and gaped at Kakashi in surprise. "Sakura-chan's not coming? Why?" He asked almost desperately. "I don't want to be alone with that bastard!"
Sakura was shocked. Hundreds of possible reasons raced inside her mind... and one particular reason caught her full attention.
The mission was too dangerous and she wouldn't be able to handle it.
In other words... Inner-Sakura growled in her head. You're weak, therefore, a burden.
"Why can't I go?" She tried not to sound disappointed and angry. She had been training so hard for the past few months! She swore vehemently that if their sensei tells her that it was because she's weak, she would prove it to him that she isn't weak right here and now!
"Don't get the wrong idea, Sakura." Kakashi shook his head. "The mission's too... uhh.."
"Dangerous? Is that it? Is that the reason why you can't let me come with you?" She couldn't keep the anger in her voice. "I'll beat Naruto up for you, if you want!" She glared murderously at the fox boy, who began to shrink behind Kakashi's back.
Naruto immediately protested. "Hey, hey! What did I do?"
Kakashi chuckled good-naturedly. "No, no. The mission's a piece of cake. You three are just going to escort someone."
"Wait." Sasuke interjected. "So, you're not coming?"
"Yeah... and I can't watch over you guys." Kakashi scratched the back of his head. "We jounins have missions to do as well, after all." He turned to look at Sakura again. "Sakura, even if you're more patient that these two, I still don't think it's a good idea for you to come. It's for your own good."
"But why?" Sakura frowned. "Whatever your reason is, you can't be serious enough to leave these two alone! Honestly speaking, I don't think they're going to cooperate with each other!"
"Like hell I will! No way I'll stick around with that stuck-up bastard!" Naruto scowled and glared at Sasuke, who continued to ignore him.
"Come on, Kakashi-sensei! What happened to teamwork?" Sakura insisted as she tugged at Kakashi's arm.
"This is different..."
"I'm going to come whether you like it or not!" Sakura still persisted.
Kakashi looked at the pink-haired girl in front of him. "Well... if you insist." He gave in and shrugged. How could he say no to Sakura's pleading look? "Just don't get too close to your charge, okay, Sakura?" His tone was serious. "Lady Tsunade's gonna kill me for this..." He grumbled mostly to himself, but Sakura heard it loud and clear.
"What do you mean not to get too close...?" She asked him, but before their sensei could answer her question, team 7's charge finally arrived.
Their eyes widened in shock.
His voice was slick and undeniably seductive. Sakura blinked at the sight of his well-built body and his expensive clothes. She turned to look up at his face and gasped. He has feminine features... and if it weren't for his deep voice and the way he carried himself, Sakura would have mistaken him for a girl. His long brown hair that was neatly tied with a string behind his back, swayed along with the gentle breeze. His whole entrance created a rather enchanting scene.
"Uhh... now then." Kakashi broke the strange atmosphere and stood beside the young man. "This is..."
"Allow me to introduce myself." The guy cut Kakashi off. He smiled brightly and revealed those perfect rows of white teeth.
Sakura instantly felt uncomfortable. For some weird reason... she didn't like the way the new guy was staring at her.
Before she knew what was happening, she felt someone tug at her hand. She looked down and almost shouted in surprise when she felt the young man press his lips on the back of her hand. "My name's Henta, pretty one, may I ask..."
"DAMN YOU!" Naruto whacked him on the back of his head. Henta fell face-first on the ground and was instantly knocked unconscious.
Kakashi sighed. He knew that this was going to happen. He turned to look at the dark-haired boy and noted that his fists were clenched on both his sides. His right eye was twitching.
Kakashi could only wonder with a frown what would happen to the four of them later. It seemed like letting Sakura join in this mission really wasn't such a good idea after all.
And as for Sakura, she was wondering about the same thing.
To be continued… | English | NL | d3105b26bb85500f52100a9e8699c661c8f4e8f03cc97811fb1a1e1ce011648d |
In a rural part of Killedam in the Deltalunds, there stood a tall, imposing, stone building with barred windows: Iason House, an asylum for the insane. The approach to it was a stone path leading up to a twisted, black metal gate. Through that gate led a winding way through gardens, up to a heavy wooden door.
And, through that door, one entered the foyer. It was a large room full of tables, chairs, and numerous guards. Some of the calmer inmates were allowed here, under watch, and the more educated of them sat around reading from the extensive libraries on the walls. A few of them gazed from the barred windows. Others drew or entertained themselves in other ways. Overall, it seemed peaceful, and the inmates seemed well tended to and happy.
The foyer was full of nice furnishings and well-lit, with the large windows that let in the light - and large curtains that could be drawn to shut that light out. Overall, however, it looked a lot like a slightly lower-class nobleman's house. But it was warm, it was comfortable, and it was well decorated with a handful of tapestries and other things to make it feel welcoming.
At night, things didn't turn horrific. True, fog often fell around Iason House thanks to its location, and true it looked very foreboding, but the asylum remained calm and quiet. Candles and chandeliers were lit at night as the inmates were ushered into their bedrooms. A fireplace always roared in the foyer to keep things warm and lit and exude a calm atmosphere.
But, like most any asylum, it held more than a few secrets...
After several days and nights' worth of riding - during which time the group stayed in inns along the roads, inns in towns or villages along the way, or sometimes sleeping by the roadside, they at last reached the city of Killedam*. It was a pleasant, sunny day when they reached the city, and they were largely feeling quite well-rested.
The Templars, Inquisitors, and two Venatori entered Iason House after their leisurely trot through Killedam. Their horses were put away by servants, and now they entered into the foyer of the asylum. The inmates currently allowed at the front of the building all turned to stare with wide eyes, though the eyes of a few betrayed grimmer thoughts about their organizations. The guards standing around kept a close eye on everyone as the large group of armored men and women paraded inside.
Sebastian muttered under his breath, "Iason House... Iaso is the goddess of recuperation from illness. Is this truly recuperation?"
"Don't break the illusion," Ben murmured darkly under his helm.
A warden came forward immediately, giving a brief bow. "When I learned the Templars knew of Juilus, I suspected a visit. Please, come with me. We don't want you startling anyone."
He motioned for them to follow, and he led everyone aside to a relatively narrow corridor lined with doors. Taking out an iron keyring, the warden unlocked a door and led them inside. Ben had to duck slightly to get through that doorway, glancing in warning back to the other particularly tall members of the party, although the ceiling past that door weren't particularly low. Regardless, Ben shifted around in apparent unease...
And he wasn't wrong to do so. They entered into a far less welcoming, stone hall lined with torches. The warden kept walking, leading them deeper and down a spiral staircase, speaking as he went.
"I won't question a bunch of Imperial officials - especially your kind... kinds," said the warden as they walked. "But I would ask that none of you do anything particularly loud or disrupting while you're here. Especially while you're down here. This is where we keep the ones who can't be around others. If we let them, they'd probably end up killing someone. We don't treat them poorly, but we don't want them causing trouble.
"That," he glanced back at everyone, the dark beard shadowing his features looking even more foreboding in the dim torchlight of the halls, "and we have to keep them away from any tools they might use to kill themselves. That applies doubly to Julius Solon."
They entered into a long, dark hall, lined with torches, like the one above the spiral staircase they had descended. The doors in this hall had only a very small window of iron bars at about head height. Otherwise, they were lined with metal and made of thick, heavy wood, all locked tight. Everything else was sturdy, solid stone. A few of the doors they passed by had strange noises coming from them. Some didn't even sound human.
The warden halted before one of those doors, turning to face everyone. He held up a hand for them to stop. The hall they now stood in was about wide enough for three to stand abreast, though some of them were feeling a little crowded, regardless.
Through the opening of the door the warden stopped before, they could all hear low muttering from within. It was low but fast, like a man out of breath, gasping occasionally and murmuring louder, his voice rising in pitch to a point of panic every few seconds.
When the warden spoke again, his voice was considerably lower. "Julius Solon," he said slowly to make sure everyone listened closely, "is one of our worst cases. He speaks nothing but pure madness, and he's tried several times to kill himself. He's scared. Nothing he says makes a whole lot of sense, but I do know this: if he sees any of you Inquisitors, he might just crack even worse. Those of you who have questions for him, tell the Templars or Venatori and let them go in and ask him. He can respond to questions, but the things he says are complete nonsense."
He held up the keys. "So let me make myself especially clear: I can't stop you, I don't have the authority. But I don't want an Inquisitor to walk through this door or even be seen in the doorway. I'm not responsible for what Julius might attempt if he sees another person in solid black with the symbols of the Inquisition. We've done everything in our power to keep him calm and keep him alive."
The warden then slid a key into the lock, though he waited a moment to add, "And try to keep your voices down when the door's open - close it behind you when you go in. He's easily overwhelmed. Anyway, if any of you need to see any of the other inmates for your investigation, I'll let you see them."
"I don't think that'll be necessary," Stevan said, "but thank you."
The warden nodded. "The offer stands, if any of you want or need it."
As he turned the key, Ben turned and strode off back down the hall, disappearing the way they came. Yaroslava glanced at him as he went, but she didn't ask any questions, and she scooted farther away from the door as the warden opened it.
He certainly opened it slowly enough. It swung inwards with an ominous creak to reveal a stone box of a room, its only furnishing a bedroll in the corner and a small candle within a cage hanging high from the ceiling, out of the inmate's reach. A narrow, barred window rested right against the ceiling, just enough to let in some light and fresh air.
In a corner, a man was curled up in tattered clothing, clearly ripped apart by his own hands. He was curled into a fetal position. Other than how disheveled his dark hair was, he didn't look terribly old, and he clearly hadn't been stuck in here very long, particularly as his face only had a thick stubble rather than any kind of heavy beard.
But his blue eyes almost bulged out of his head as he gasped and looked up at whoever entered as they stepped inside. Right now, he stared only at the open door. For the first time in hours, Julius Solon's muttering fell silent.
((*: For a description of Killedam, see the description featured in this zone thread. You are, of course, in this zone, not that one; I'm just linking to it for the sake of description of the city you had to pass through to get to Iason House.)) | English | NL | ce492f895d73d035d58fa10a3c85d0273a10ac4097cf602ba2eea65d489fabcf |
On Friday 27th May 2016, the 28th General Chapter of the Society of the Missionaries of Africa (White Fathers) elected Rev. Fr. Stanley Lubungo as new Superior General. Fr. Stanley was born at Ndola (Zambia) on the 16th June 1967. He took his missionary oath in Toulouse on the 7th December 1996 and was ordained a priest in his native town on the 2nd August 1997. He worked as a missionary for a few years in Democratic Republic of Congo and was appointed, after a few years of studies in Rome and Dublin, as formator in Abidjan. He had just completed new studies in dogmatic theology in Paris when he was appointed Provincial of Southern Africa (including South Africa, Mozambique, Malawi and Zambia) on the 1st of July 2015. As part of his responsibilities as Superior General of the Missionaries of Africa, Fr. Stanley Lubungo becomes the new Vice Grand Chancellor of the PISAI. Congratulations! | English | NL | f0bac6d21832b36d6e8c648d79a1d3b71144b3fdf74d571468b6d9187e4f66e0 |
Bricriu of the Poison Tongue, aptly named for his abuse of his masterful arts. His satires broke peoples reputations, and likely as not, livelihoods, and his dry, cruel sense of humor much feared across the land of Erin.
His saving was his sparkling wit and the fact that he was tremendously, fabulously wealthy. He entertained lavish get-togethers and he announced the biggest feast of the year to be held at a special stronghold built just for the occasion. It was fit for a High King when completed, and the gathering was expected to be the talk of the region for some time to come. Absolutely everyone was invited and they determined to go, Poison Tongue or no.
The Ulster champions in particular were warned by Fergus MacRiogh, who had a good head on his shoulders, that to attend would end in some mischief, and like as not would be fatal to those boisterous lads. He wasn’t listened to.
Cuchulainn attended with his equally impressive wife, Emer, she of the Six Womanly Gifts: music, physical beauty, the gift of song, embroidery, the gift of wisdom, and of modesty. Conal Cearnath’s wife was with him, Lendabair the Fair, whose golden hair shone like spun silk in the sun. Fedelm the Ever-blooming travelled there as well with her champion husband Laoghaire Buadach, and her voice was like that of birds on a warm summer day.
All were impressed as they entered Bricriu’s house with it’s open, airy spaces and massive pillars. Bricriu, playing the indulgent host, saw an opportunity to express his twisted humor. He struck up a conversation with Fedelm, who came of an old, royal family, and made a point to tell her so. He complimented her and said “It has been given unto me in a vision,” he went on, the first lady to enter the banqueting hall shalt be queen over all the other women, indeed over all the people of Ulster.”
That evening the ladies with their maids strolled to take the air in the garden. After a time it was apparent that the evening was wearing on and they should return.
Over the first rise the women and their servants walked, neither walking faster than the others. They walked with dignity and grace, Then they reached the second ridge and their pace quickened, each one glancing at the other to see their progress. After the third rise one after another broke into a run, startling the attendants who clambered to keep up. Catching up their skirts they tucked them into their girdles for easier running, and they dashed full-out Cascades of hair streamed behind them, blonde and red and brown hair flowing in the breeze, screaming war-cries and nostrils flaring.
The Champions rushed out to see the huge pile of women in front of the door, still fighting amongst each other over who gets to be High Queen. And laughing so hard tears streaming down his cheeks was the well-dressed starter of troubles, Bricriu of the Poison Tongue. | English | NL | 5ab74886398c8412a914def153ad1ccc74519762bfca74ac7531332ad99bb162 |
- Year Published: 1892
- Language: English
- Country of Origin: United States of America
- Source: Munroe, K. (1892). Canoemates: A Story of the Florida Reef and Everglades. New York, NY: Harper & Brothers.
- Flesch–Kincaid Level: 9.5
- Word Count: 2,075
Munroe, K. (1892). Chapter II: “Three Canoes, and the Fate of One”. Canoemates: A Story of the Florida Reef and Everglades (Lit2Go Edition). Retrieved August 22, 2019, from
Munroe, Kirk. "Chapter II: “Three Canoes, and the Fate of One”." Canoemates: A Story of the Florida Reef and Everglades. Lit2Go Edition. 1892. Web. <>. August 22, 2019.
Kirk Munroe, "Chapter II: “Three Canoes, and the Fate of One”," Canoemates: A Story of the Florida Reef and Everglades, Lit2Go Edition, (1892), accessed August 22, 2019,.
As Sumner’s mother opened the door, she saw that the gentleman who, politely lifting his hat, asked if she were Mrs. Rankin, was too young to be the father of the boy by his side.
“May I introduce myself as Mr. Tracy Manton, of New York?” he said, when she had answered his question in the affirmative; “and my nephew, Master Worth Manton? We have called to see if we can engage rooms here for a week or so. We will take our meals at the hotel; but we have two canoes that we propose fitting out here for a cruise up the reef, and we want to find a place close to the water where we can keep them in safety, and at the same time be near them. Mr. Merrill advised us to come here, and it looks as though this were exactly the place of which we are in search. So if you can accommodate us we shall esteem it a great favor.”
With the remembrance of Sumner’s last words, Mrs. Rankin hesitated a moment before replying; whereupon Mr. Manton added
“I trust you are not going to refuse us, for I have set my heart on coming here, and will gladly pay full hotel rates for the accommodation.”
“If my vacant rooms suit you I shall be pleased to let you have them at my regular rate, which is all they are worth,” answered the widow, quietly, as she reflected on the poverty which would not allow even a mother’s feelings to interfere with honorable breadwinning.
“Will you step in and look at them?”
“We are in luck, my boy, and our little expedition has begun most prosperously,” said Mr. Tracy Manton an hour later, as he and his nephew sat in one of the two pretty backrooms that they had engaged, surrounded by their belongings, and looking out on the sparkling waters of the Gulf.
On the grass of the palm-shaded back yard, and in plain sight from the windows, lay the two canoes that had so excited Sumner’s admiration and envy. They were indeed beauties as they lay there divested of their burlap wrappings, and that they were fresh from the builder’s hands was shown by their unscratched varnish and gleaming metal fittings. They were fifteen feet long by thirty inches wide amidships, were provided with folding metal centerboards, metal drop rudders, foot- and hand-steering gear, watertight compartments fore and aft, and were decked, with the exception of their roomy cockpits. These were surrounded by stout oak coamings three inches high, sharp-pointed, and flaring outward at the forward ends, but cut down so as to be flush with the deck aft. Beside them lay the confused mass of paddles, sails, spars, canoe tents, rubber aprons, cushions, and cordage, that completed their equipment. They were simply perfect in every detail, and the most beautiful things Sumner Rankin had ever set his eyes upon. At least he thought so, as, returning from a long tramp on which he had tried to walk off his unhappiness, he found them lying in the yard. In spite of his surprise at seeing them there, and a return of his unwelcome feeling of envy, he could not help stopping to admire them and study their details.
“Hello!” exclaimed Mr. Manton, again looking from his window. “There’s a chap down there staring his eyes out at our boats. I shouldn’t wonder if he were our landlady’s son — the one, you know, we were advised to engage as a guide. You wait here while I run down and find out.”
So Worth waited and watched from the window to note the result of his uncle’s negotiations.
At a first glance one would have said that Worth Manton was an effeminate boy, with a pale face, blue eyes, and fair hair. If, however, the observer looked long enough to note the square chin, the occasional compression of the thin lips, and flash of the eyes, he might form a different opinion. He was the son of Guy Manton, the great Wall Street operator who had made a fortune out of western railroads, and he had all his life been accustomed to lavish luxury. He was rather delicate, and it was largely on his account that his parents had decided to spend a winter at St. Augustine. The boy had taken but slight interest in the gaieties of the Ponce de Leon, nor had he gained any benefit from the chill rainstorms driven in from the ocean by the east winds of midwinter. The doctor had advised his going farther south; and when his uncle Tracy proposed that they make a canoe trip up the, great Florida Reef, which lies off the most southerly coast of the United States, Worth had eagerly seconded the proposition, and had finally won the reluctant consent of his parents. He knew nothing of canoeing, nor did his uncle know much more; but the latter was a good yachtsman, and Worth had had some experience of the same kind, so they felt confident they could manage. They intended to devote some time to studying their craft, and learning their possibilities in the waters about Key West; so two canoes, completely equipped, were ordered from the builder by telegraph. Worth’s father promised to charter a yacht, sail down the coast in it, and meet them at Cape Florida about the first of April, and the two would-be canoemen started for Key West full of pleasant anticipations.
Sumner Rankin started at being asked if that were his name, for he had not heard Mr. Manton’s step on the grass behind him, and answered rather curtly that it was.
“Well,” said the young man, plunging into business at once, as was his habit, “I have been told that you are a first-class sailor, as well as a good reef pilot. My nephew and I are going to cruise up the reef, and I should like to engage your services as boatman and guide. I am willing to pay —”
“It makes no difference what you are willing to pay,” interrupted Sumner, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
“My services as boatman are not for hire at any price.”
With this assertion of his pride, or, as he imagined, of his independence, the boy turned and walked into the house.
“Whew!” whistled Mr. Manton, gazing after the retreating form in amazement. “There’s a bit of dynamite for you! Pride and poverty mixed in equal parts do make a most powerful explosive. However, I haven’t forgotten my own days of poverty, and can fully appreciate the boy’s feelings. I’ll try him on a different tack as soon as this little squall has blown over. He and his mother must be different from the majority of the people down here, for they are the first we have met who don’t seem to want to make money out of us.”
Mr. Tracy Manton had no idea of giving up his purpose of engaging Sumner to accompany them on their trip, for he was the kind of a man who wins his way by sticking to whatever plan be has decided upon, in which respect his nephew Worth strongly resembled him. So the next time he met the lad, which was in the afternoon of the following day, he held out his hand and said:
“I beg your pardon for my unintentional rudeness of yesterday, and my forgetfulness of the fact that a gentleman is such, no matter where he is found. Now, I want you to forgive me, forget my offense, and do me a favor. I can’t make head or tail of our sails, and they don’t seem to me right somehow. If you will come and look at them I shall be greatly obliged.”
By this time Sumner was so heartily ashamed of his conduct of the day before that he was only too glad to accept this overture of friendship, and a few minutes later the two were busily discussing the sails of the Cupid and Psyche, as the Mantons’ canoes were named. The spars were much heavier than they need be, while the sails were of the ill-shaped, unserviceable pattern generally furnished by canoe builders, and these defects were quickly detected by Sumner’s experienced eye. When he pointed them out to Mr. Manton, the latter readily comprehended them, but was at a loss how to make the improvements that were evidently demanded.
In order to explain more thoroughly the idea that he wished to convey, Sumner dragged out his own canvas canoe, stepped her masts, and hoisted her sails. They were of a most ingenious and effective lateen pattern, such as Mr. Manton had never before seen.
“Where did you get hold of that idea “ he asked, after studying them carefully a few moments. “It is a capital one.”
“I got it partly from an Arab dhow that I once saw off Madagascar, and partly from the feluccas at Civita Vecchia.”
“Madagascar and the Mediterranean!” repeated Mr. Manton, in astonishment. “If you have visited both of those places you must have traveled extensively.”
“Yes,” answered Sumner, quietly, but with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “The son of a naval officer who attempts to follow his father about the world is apt to see a good bit of it before he gets through.”
Mr. Manton, who had known nothing of Sumner’s history, no longer wondered that he had been offended at being taken for a boatman whose services could be hired. He was, however, too wise to make further mention of the subject, and merely said,
“Then you have had a splendid chance to study sails.” And again turning to the subject under consideration, he asked, “Would you be willing to help us cut out some for our canoes after your models.”
Sumner answered that he would not only be willing but glad to lend every aid in his power towards properly equipping the two canoes for their trip.
In the mean time the sun had set, and the sky was black with an approaching squall that caused them to watch with some uneasiness for Worth’s return. He had gone out in one of the canoes, an hour before, for a paddle, and had not since been seen. Just as the storm broke he appeared around a point and headed towards the little landing place near which they were standing. As his course lay directly in the teeth of the wind, his struggle was long and hard. They watched him anxiously, and more than once Sumner offered to go to the boy’s assistance; but his uncle said he wished Worth to learn self-reliance more than anything else, and this was too good a lesson to be spoiled. Finally the young paddler conquered, and, reaching the landing place in safety, sprang ashore. He was either too exhausted or too careless to properly secure his canoe, and as he stepped from it a spiteful gust of wind struck it full on the side. In another moment it was beyond reach and drifting rapidly out to sea.
Both the Mantons were confused by the suddenness of the mishap. Before they could form any plan for the recovery of the runaway, Sumner had shoved his own canvas canoe into the water, jumped aboard, and was dashing away in pursuit of the truant. He was almost within reach of his prize, and his tiny sail was almost indistinguishable amid the blackness of the squall, when the watchers on shore were horrified to see another and much larger sail come rushing down, dead before the wind, directly towards it. Then the tiny canoe sail disappeared; and as the larger one seemed to sweep over the spot where it had been, the Mantons gazed at each other with faces that betokened the dread they dared not put into words. | English | NL | 1220ae559658809694f2f31d4631bc30b6a0a3d8fc68784244d83c7adb8e3bd8 |
When my great-grandfather, Archibald Van Orden, arrived at New York City in late 1861, he was 15 years old. Alone and with few funds, he sought shelter in an area called Five Points. Though the center of this notorious slum was called Paradise Park, nothing could have been farther from the truth. It was a living hell-hole.
Cheap lodgings were available in squalid tenements, where robbery, assaults and even murders were almost daily occurrences. This was no place for a boy. Just walking the streets, danger lurked in every alley, such as “Bandit’s Roost” below.
Even worse, the infamous gangs of Five Points — Bowery Boys, Dead Rabbits, and Roach Guards — frequently battled over their filthy turf. Innocent bystanders were hurt and even killed in sudden skirmishes among criminals.
Archie was desperate to escape the daily dangers that surrounded him in the city, which increased his earlier resolve to join the Union Army, despite the fact that he was too young to enlist. The way he was able to accomplish his goal, in spite of the impediments, will be revealed in my book which I in the midst of writing now.
Hamilton Fish was a boyhood chum of my great-great-grandfather, Abraham Van Orden, in NYC. They remained friends throughout life. As fortune would have it, his friendship not only helped Abraham in adulthood, he even rescued my great-grandfather, Archie Van Orden, during his days of direst war horrors in late 1864.
Even in young adulthood, Hamilton demonstrated innate talent for politics. Perhaps this was a genetic predisposition, as he was a descendant of Pieter Stuyvesant, Director-General of the Dutch Colony of Nieuw Netherland in 1647 (which would become New York in 1664 ). From those 17th century roots, the Fish and Van Orden families became neighbors, collaborators, and friends. Hamilton’s parents, Nicholas and Elizabeth, named him in honor of their friend, Alexander Hamilton, who was a Founding Father of the United States of America.
Hamilton Fish would be elected by the people of New York to serve as State Representative, NY Governor, and U.S. Senator. An early and vital supporter of Abraham Lincoln as the Republican Party Candidate for President in 1860, Hamilton would be recognized by Lincoln for his exceptional abilities, with presidential appointments both during and after the Civil War.
Thousands of Union troops were spared horrible extremes of pain and death through the personal intercession of Hamilton Fish in southern prison camps. Thus, it is no surprise that Archie’s younger brother, my great-grand-uncle, was named Hamilton Fish Van Orden in honor of that great man and patriot. | English | NL | 95cfdc92af8b99bce5fdace34e205f4d900f3f32e03430ef440e3ee154eedb4a |
A/N: This takes place directly after "Burned." Anything occurring in the show afterward should be disregarded in relation to this story.
Special Thanks goes out to my beta readers: Jo; Wendy; svuismylifemoce from TV dot com; dadoinkdoink, FAN4EVER, mrslee, MunichGirl and SVUgal1318 from the USA forums and Froggie from MySpace.
Extra comments and things can be made at the forums at the site in my profile.
Flight, a novel
To: Edrith…for beating me there.
Part One: Flight from Rage
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Greenwich Village, New York
Lights from the eighth floor apartment shone bright amid the darkened windows of the neighboring flats. The hour was late, and as many of the building's inhabitants had retired to sleep, the fourth apartment to the right glowed against the remaining haze of city lights.
Olivia Benson stood inside the small bedroom of Apartment 84, separating her laundry into whites, darks and those in-between. The dark-haired woman worked quickly, knowing that every moment of her time was precious. Large, dark brown eyes darted about the room searching for any errant articles of clothing and spotted the bottom half of a dark blue uniform that had escaped her laundry hamper.
She picked up the navy pants and tossed them into her dark pile with a smirk on her face. The pants were part of a complete police officer's uniform, though she had purchased them with a completely different purpose in mind. Olivia had been a plain-clothes, New York City detective for nearly a decade, and the idea of having to wear a uniform was more than abhorrent to her, however, she had bought an additional one that fit just a size too small. Olivia had no intentions of wearing the tight uniform in front of the other detectives in her unit; it was meant solely for the man she had been seeing for close to two years.
Jonathan Halloway had relished the idea of Olivia playing "dress-up" for him and for once, she did not mind the game. Her case load had been higher than ever; each one more upsetting, more heart-breaking and more devastating and she had needed something to take her mind off her work, if even for one night.
Olivia was a detective in Manhattan's Special Victims Unit and all her cases dealt with the violent scourge of humanity. Child molestations, rapes, rape-homicides, child sexual abuses and any type of sexual crime that a human could imagine. She had not seen it all, but she had seen far more than she would have liked. Even the strongest and most stable of New York detectives only lasted two years in the SVU; Olivia had been there for more than eight.
Having finished her clothing separation, she gathered her whites into the blue, plastic laundry basket, picked up her keys and made her way to the laundry rooms in the basement of her building. Olivia cleared the doorway, when she caught sight of tall, dark, black man folding his own clothes by the set of dryers along the far side of the wall. He wore a white wife-beater and a pair of navy basketball shorts, showing off large muscles on both his arms and legs. A smirk spread across Olivia's face as she quietly set down her basket.
"Bringing out the old wife-beater, eh?" Olivia said setting her clothes on the nearby machine.
"Yeah," he said, with a scoff. "You gotta problem with it?"
His voice held the long, Southern twang of a Houston native and always brought a smile to her face. Olivia had met Adam Jackson the day he moved into the apartment two floors above Olivia, and although they had respective significant others, they had developed a flirtatious, but benign friendship in the years thereafter.
"Well," Olivia said with a hint of arrogance in her voice. "I think it might be a little inappropriate...even for the laundry room."
"What would you like me to do?" he said matching Olivia's arrogance with his own voice. "Take it off?"
"Maybe...you can do what you want." Olivia winked at him and they exchanged glorious, pearly smiles.
"'Spose I could," Adam said slyly. "It is, after all, laundry night."
He slowly pulled off his shirt, allowing Olivia to stare at his bare chest for a moment.
"It's a Thursday," Olivia said. "Shouldn't you be out clubbing with two or three ladies on each arm?"
"That's for Friday," Adam said raising his eyebrows at her. "Tonight's just for you, babe."
Olivia laughed and they went about their respective business silently. Adam gathered the rest of his clothes and gave Olivia a little pinch on her side as he left the room. She let out a girlish shriek and watched him walk away as he added an extra swagger to his step for her enjoyment.
Setting her own load in the laundry, Olivia returned to her apartment and organized the files on her desk. Flirting with Adam in the laundry room was one of the few moments of "fun" she had throughout her week of dealing with the city's lowest criminals. Her eyes fell upon the framed image of herself and Jonathan, and she allowed a smile to play across her face.
Jonathan was the youngest son of New York's Halloway family, one of the older and wealthier families in the city, with a long list of political connections and a history of destroying the "common man" to further their own interests. Instead of falling into the family business of buying, selling and splitting apart corporations, Jonathan became a corporate attorney and built his own fortune without the help of his affluent relations. He was considered the black sheep of the family, going into his own business and dating women with whom he could hold a conversation and actually fall in love, instead of the uptight, well-to-do women the men of his family often married. Most of the time, he was subtle and only those closest to him would know the amount of family money that stood at his disposal.
Set up by her friends Jillian Harfort and Sarah Hyman, Olivia had been duped into a blind date with the "lesser known" Halloway two years earlier. She had no idea who he was when she first had dinner with him and he had refused to divulge his last name for the first three days they had known one another. It was not until Jonathan saw in Olivia someone he could trust and someone he was sure was not looking for a wealthy husband to solve her problems that he let on about his family. After the initial shock wore off, they settled into a relationship that flourished mostly because they both worked long hours and varied times. The little time they did have for one another was meant for the simple things and, unlike past boyfriends, Jonathan never once asserted the idea that Olivia should find different employment. He respected what she did and she respected his ability to remove himself from his family.
Each time a difficult case would come to her, Olivia had the need to push him away, an act that strained their relationship more often than not. When her partner, Elliot, had been shot a year earlier, Olivia had refocused all of her attention onto him, much to Jonathan's disdain, and that had erupted into a month-long argument, complete with yelling and insults. In the end, however, Jonathan would always apologize for being smug or rude, regardless of whether he was, and they would continue as if nothing had happened. Most recently, Olivia jumped on the opportunity to work with the federal government as an undercover agent without telling anyone important in her life. In her own line of personal importance, Jonathan, unfortunately, came third, and it was only upon her return three months ago, that she realized that Jonathan had been completely left out of the information loop. He was furious when she finally contacted him, but as usual, he apologized without knowing why he had and they fell back into a routine.
As the weeks turned into months, Olivia saw herself falling in love with Jonathan. In May of 2007, she would be turning the big 3-8, and with every relationship that ended, Olivia felt she was one moment closer to spending the rest of her life alone. It was not that she felt the need to settle at this point in her life, but her biological clock was loudly ticking and with each passing day, she felt her remaining youth fade a bit more. At thirty-seven, she was still single and childless, though she was not sure whether or not she wanted to remain such. Her own alcoholic mother had not been much of an example, and most men were either turned off by her line of work or turned on in a way she would just as soon not relate.
Then there was also the question of never knowing what she might pass onto to potential children. Olivia never knew her father, as he was the man who had raped her mother, and the fear that she would impart his violent genes onto her own children was ever present. Many of those in her life questioned her choice of volunteering to work in the SVU given her history, but she knew she was doing the right thing. Who better to assist rape victims through their difficult time than someone completely involved in said situation?
The muffled sound of a police siren bellowed outside her apartment and Olivia sighed as she glanced toward her window. She pulled a file from her newly organized stack, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and studied the cover for a moment, hoping for inspiration on the case. Someone was murdering children; not really out of the norm in her line of work, but the case managed to flip her stomach more than usual. A vague image of Elliot came to mind as she thought about how he must be internally dealing with the case, having a son just the victim's age. Whenever Olivia heard of some tragedy happening to children, she immediately considered the only children with whom she had constant contact: Elliot's. She knew, although he would never voice his reservations to her, anytime a case dealt with children, and a fair amount of their cases did, Elliot would automatically think of his own.
Jacob Lewendale had just celebrated his Bar Mitzvah when he was found three days later stuffed into a cardboard box, sodomized and strangled to death. The frightened expression etched on his face was what struck Olivia most. Jacob had lived on the Upper West Side, yet had been found miles away in Tompkins Square Park, and he had not been missing for more than twenty-four hours when he was found. His parents had not even filed a Missing Persons report yet. The only reason they were able to identify him was that an officer at the scene was a friend of the Lewendales and recognized Jacob instantly. The last time anyone had seen him was when he was talking to a dark-haired man in a truck, but there were no other leads to follow.
Olivia opened the file and stared at the large image of the thirteen-year-old boy paper-clipped to the manila folder. Jacob's face was still round and youthful, but a brush of acne appeared to have erupted in small, red blotches on his forehead and chin. Large blue eyes offset by light brown hair gave anyone who viewed his seventh grade yearbook photo the instant feeling that Jacob had enjoyed a normal, happy childhood and would have gone on to lead a normal adolescence had his life not been cut short just five days earlier.
The yearbook photo varied greatly from that of the crime scene photo paper-clipped opposite the class picture. Jacob's naturally tan skin had lost all vestiges of colour, appearing grey though the image was not, yet red marks still marred the skin around his neck in the shape of something that had been long and thin. The box in which he had been found was no bigger than a standard moving box and was sold at retailers across the city. In the top photo, Jacob had been folded, nude, inside the box, smears of blood along the inner sides appearing as if the murderer who had set him there was too hasty to get rid of the body to wash his hands first.
The Lewendales had no enemies, no large debts and no real problems. No one could understand how someone could hurt Jacob in such a way and it was all Olivia could do to stifle a somber sob when the memory of Deborah Lewendale's wail upon learning that her son had been murdered came to mind.
She flipped through some of the notes on the case and, in her head, remade the list she and her partner had created days earlier regarding the killer: possibly a friend of the family, possibly a complete stranger, possibly a garden-variety pedophile, possibly a hate crime against Jews. She had seen enough rape-homicide cases to lean toward the idea of the pedophile, but she also knew that sociopath murderers often had a way of thwarting her even most basic instincts.
Olivia pulled a second folder from her pile: rape victim, Evelyn Rivers, her newest case. She had spent the majority of the day staying with Evelyn throughout the lengthy process of a hospital rape kit and then the near ritual of obtaining a statement and simply comforting her. Even after all that had happened with the case, Olivia could do nothing to make Evelyn file charges against the abusive boyfriend who had raped her and left her to bleed to death in their apartment.
"Are you sure you don't want to file charges, Evelyn?" Olivia had said.
Evelyn Rivers shook her head quickly, straight black hair falling into her eyes. "No," she breathed. "I-I…I can't. He'll come after me."
"Not if he's serving time at Rikers," Olivia had said.
"But he'll get out eventually…and then he'll come for me." Evelyn brushed a tear from her grey eyes. "I can't live like that, Olivia…I just can't. B-Besides…he's said he's changed. He promised he wouldn't do it again."
Olivia sighed. Micah Diorel was no different from any of the other perps she had seen abuse and rape their girlfriends, and like so many of these victims, Evelyn was falling into the trap of thinking the apology she had received was for real. Olivia knew all too well that no matter what they said, they always did it again.
"Evelyn," she had said. "Micah beat and raped you and if your neighbors hadn't heard the commotion, you would have died in your apartment. Do you really think he means it when he says he's sorry?"
"Maybe…," Evelyn had said giving a long shrug. "But…I don't know. I think he was really just having a bad day. But, it doesn't really matter because I can't talk against him. He'll kill me. I know he will."
"I wish you would change your mind," Olivia had said shaking her head.
"He said he was sorry," Evelyn said with a little more backbone in her voice. "I was the one who screwed up and he just reacted. I'm not going to press charges against him, when I know he didn't really mean it."
There was a finality to Evelyn's statement that had made Olivia's heart ache. Evelyn was just part of the vicious cycle that probably wouldn't end until her boyfriend murdered her.
Olivia made a mental note to stop by Evelyn's apartment on Saturday to make sure that she was not only okay, but that Micah Diorel saw that the police were watching Evelyn very carefully. Sometimes it helped; many times it did not, but she had to try.
She changed her laundry load and returned to her desk to organize the rest of her notes. She came across her planner and opened it to Saturday with a bemused expression on her face. Regardless of the amount of planning she put into any event, the job always came in the way. She kept buying pages for her leather-bound planner because it seemed like something she ought to have, but she rarely wrote in it, knowing how quickly her schedule was likely to change in just a few hours. Six days ago she had been planning a winter getaway with Jonathan at one of his family's cabins out in the country, but Jacob Lewendale's murderer had halted her plans.
Olivia flipped to the address book in the back of the planner and made a second note to call Sarah to see if she was available for dinner. She rarely got to see her as Sarah had three children and her own career to chase after and even though they had been close while at Siena College, they were more or less acquaintances at this point in their lives.
She glanced over the Lewendale file once more and rose to pour herself a glass of cranberry juice from the refrigerator. The phone that hung on the wall near her refrigerator rang once and she picked it up absent-mindedly.
"He's leaving his wife!"
Olivia paused a moment, unsure if she understood what had just been shouted at her through the telephone.
"Maya?" she said.
"Livia! He says he wants to leave his wife!"
She glanced at the clock on her microwave and sighed. Maya Shah had been a part of Olivia's life since before she could remember. They had gone to college together and unlike her dwindling friendships with Jillian and Sarah, Maya remained her best friend, just as she had been throughout her life. Maya had been the first person Olivia had called on her return from Oregon, and one of the things she missed most while undercover was the sordid details of Maya's numerous affairs. Their lengthy friendship notwithstanding, Olivia sometimes felt the antics of her Indian friend almost irritating.
At thirty-seven, Maya still lived off of her parent's money and held no qualms about the fact. She had gone to law school and had even passed the bar exam, but did little to acquire clients for her practice, preferring instead to date an Indian doctor who was willing to dote upon her, as well as several others at the same time. Her newest fling, a Mason Garriston, had been a pain in Olivia's side for the past year as he was always the foremost topic on Maya's mind, and while she was always laden with work and she found the entire situation more than ridiculous, the sparkle had yet to fade from the story. Olivia was always ready and willing to dispense advice to her scatter-brained friend.
"What makes you think he wants to leave his wife?"
Maya made a disgusted sound into the phone. "Because he just left my apartment saying that he wanted to leave his wife and be with me all the time."
"He's got kids," Olivia said sitting on her couch.
"I know! The way he says it, he acts like he want to marry me or something…and I just wanted him for the sex."
"Honestly, Maya. I don't think you have much to worry about."
"These guys never leave their wives. You know that. Did any of the others leave their wives?"
"No, but this is different. He says he's so unhappy with his wife and he's just a little too interested in the Hindi language and India, in general."
"And what," Olivia laughed. "You don't want any light brown kids running around?"
"Don't be a bitch," Maya said laughing as well. "I don't want any kids in any shade of brown and I sure as hell don't want to marry him."
"Well, you know what you can do?"
"Break up with him and stop cheating on Amit!"
"Olivia! Come on. I'm serious."
"So am I. How long do you really plan on keeping this up? Amit's been dropping hints that he wants to marry you for ages now."
"Exactly. How long's he going to drop hints before actually doing something?"
"So, what? Are you actually going to stop seeing other people if Amit proposes?"
Olivia was met with silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. "Yeah…Yes. Yes, I will."
"Good because he asked me if I knew what your ring size was a week ago."
"Olivia, don't be a bitch. Are you serious?"
"Of course I'm serious. Break up with Mason."
"Yeah, I know, I know," Maya said. "Oh shit!"
"What?" Olivia said worried that something had happened to her friend.
"Mason just popped up on my Caller ID."
"Break. Up. With. Him. Marry your Indian doctor and live happily ever after."
"Okay, I know. You're right…but, Livia…?"
"You don't really think Mason'll leave his wife, do you?"
Olivia rolled her eyes and sighed into the phone. "Maya, śubha rātri."
"Yeah, good night yourself, Livia."
As soon as Olivia had set down her telephone, there was a knock at her door.
"Who is it?" she asked with the door still closed.
She hesitated for a moment before opening the door. She was about to simply lie and say that she was about to go to bed to avoid seeing her neighbor across the hall, but she thought better of it. Mark Landon had often alerted her to odd things happening in the building and he had the aggravating, but helpful habit of taking it upon himself to look out for her well being, regardless of how many times she informed him that she could take care of herself. Standing at just over five feet tall, Mark was nearly a foot shorter than Olivia, but she was always amused by his willingness to offer himself as her "protector" time and time again.
"Hi," she said just barely opening the door.
"Hey!" he said far too enthusiastically for the late hour. "I…uh…thought I heard you struggling with some laundry earlier. Do you have another load to do, 'cause I'm going down in a sec?"
"Thanks, Mark," she said with a smirk, "but I think I can handle washing my own clothes."
"Okay," he said. "Just thought I'd ask, 'cause you never know who's wandering 'round the building at night, 'specially since that big, black guy moved in. God knows who he's been letting in."
Olivia stared at Mark with a blank expression for a moment. What fascinated her most about bigots was their assumption that all those around them shared their same beliefs. For all of Mark's many endeavors to win her few affections, his assumptions about her life always killed any thought she could gather about even having dinner with him.
"Adam's a good guy," she said.
"Yeah, but I saw him on the elevators wearing just a pair of shorts. No shirt. Do we really need that in our building?"
Olivia attempted to hide a smile. "He was probably coming from the laundry room and it's late. Who cares?"
"I do. It's not right. I don't like him."
She sighed. "Mark…it's late. Is there anything else you wanted?"
"No," he said caught off guard by her sudden change of topic. "Just wanted to know if you needed anything…"
"I'm fine and even if I wasn't, I'm not about to let you do my laundry for me."
"Well…y-you know, I know you're busy, so I just thought I'd ask."
"Thanks," she said, not meaning the words. "Good night."
She shut the door on the little man and gathered the remaining files from her desk and into her bag. She wanted to make as much of Friday as she could and the best way to do such was to ensure that she was organized.
Fridays typically meant that lab results would come back to the unit far slower and witnesses would be far less willing to cooperate, wanting instead to get their respective weekends started quicker. Olivia could barely remember the last time she had a weekend to herself, constantly bogged down by one case or another. On occasion, she would take a personal day just to allow her mind some time to relax before she dove back into the sexual deviants with whom she daily contended.
She took another moment to tidy her apartment a bit more, pausing briefly over the old cello that leaned in the corner of the living room. She longed for the days when she could sit and play for hours just because the moment had moved her, but as always, work came first. She had once played the violin, which sat in the Hope chest she used as a coffee table, for a younger rape victim who had been hospitalized for several weeks to entertain her for a bit and keep her spirits high. The little girl, Amarie was her name, at seven years old, had enjoyed Olivia's small performance and Olivia later learned that Amarie was inspired to take up the violin herself.
A small smile appeared on her face, but she quickly sighed away the memory. The job did not end at five o'clock or on Friday. It did not end even when the case was won or lost in court. Each case continued on for months or years after the fact. She was still in contact with victims she had cared for during her first months as an SVU detective. It was a difficult job that had consumed nearly every facet of her life, but still, she loved it.
Her apartment buzzer rang a little after one o'clock, and she crossed the room in three long strides to answer it.
"Who is it?"
"Girl scouts!" a masculine voice attempting to sound like a young girl said from the speaker on her wall.
She smiled and bit her lip. "Girl scouts…? I'm on a diet."
"Please Miss! Let us up! We've got Thin Mints. Loads of them!"
"Sorry, I give to The United Way and we don't want any cookies."
"Olivia, seriously," Jonathan said breaking into his natural voice. "Open the damn door. It's freezing out here."
"Oh hey, Babe! Did you buy any shortbread cookies from the girl scouts?" she said laughing.
She could hear that he was growing impatient with their little game and she buzzed him into the building.
"Hey!" she shouted when he finally got to her apartment. "You're not a girl scout!"
Jonathan wrapped his arms around her, the cold from his clothes seeping into her skin through her t-shirt and cotton pajama pants.
"I missed you," he said into her hair.
"Well, why don't you take off your coat and stay awhile." She unwrapped herself from his grasp. "Or at least get warm before you touch me again because you're freezing."
"Yeah, well I parked nearly a mile away," he said, jet black hair shining in the lights of her apartment.
She rolled her eyes. "Why didn't you just take a cab over?"
"Felt like taking the Jag for a drive. He doesn't get to leave the garage much and I figured now was as good a time as any."
Olivia nudged him. "Only you would park your Jaguar a mile away from my building and leave it there all night."
"If he gets stolen, I'll just get a new one. He's getting on in years anyway."
She rolled her eyes again. "Come on. Time for bed."
"Oh boy," he said unenthused, but taking off his jeans to reveal flannel pajamas.
"Like a boy scout," he said his bright blue eyes sparkling when he saw Olivia had noticed his ensemble. "Always prepared."
She walked into her bedroom and set her alarm clock for five-thirty in the morning. She was not going to get a lot of sleep, but perhaps she might have the rare opportunity to sleep through the night. So often was her slumber interrupted by the news that someone had been involved in a sexual catastrophe, that she had grown accustomed to living on less than five hours of sleep a night.
"So," Jonathan said, pulling back the covers of Olivia's bed, with a smile. "When are we going to play 'Bad Cop, Good Civilian' again?"
She tried not to smile at his boyish grin, but she could not help herself. "I don't know…maybe if you're good…we'll see."
"Oh boy," he said as she settled into the bed beside him.
"Why do we always sleep at my place?" Olivia asked after they had wrapped her many blankets around themselves. "You hiding a wife or something at your place?"
"Of course not!" Jonathan said with a false indignation. "At least not as of yesterday."
She gave him a slight kick under the covers, but he just laughed.
"It's 'cause my place is so stark and unloved and designed by an interior decorator. Yours has got you all over it and it has something extra special in it that I just love."
"Oh," she said yawning. "What's that?"
Jonathan said nothing, but simply nuzzled her between her shoulder and the side of her neck. All thoughts of Jacob Lewendale's murderer and Micah Diorel's crimes began to melt away as Jonathan wrapped his long arms around her.
Olivia smiled into her pillow and as exhaustion finally caught up with her, she let loose a happy sigh. Unlike so many of her past relationships, Jonathan never needed to be told when she was or was not in the mood. He never needed a hint as to how her day had gone and he never wanted her to tell him all about her day. He always knew precisely what she needed and wanted, and she loved him for it.
Thursday January 11, 2007
Woodside, New York
It was just past eleven o'clock at night when a light flickered in the third floor Queens apartment. The bathroom lights never quite reached full brilliance the moment their respective switch was hit, as they were fairly old and hummed for a full second before showing even the slightest spray of light. They sputtered a short blast of light a few times before they continually stayed lit and it was that initial blast of light that Elliot Stabler hated the most about his apartment.
The two-bedroom flat was comfortable and Elliot had no real reason to complain. A friend of a friend held a rent-controlled apartment, and Elliot managed to get it at far less than market value for the area. It was simply its purpose that destroyed him each time he left work for "home."
Elliot and his wife, Kathy, had been separated for more than a year and a half, yet leaving the home they had shared and in which they had raised four children was the memory that sprung to mind each time he entered his bathroom. Bathed in the light of his new apartment, he was only reminded that he was no longer at home with his family.
He removed his clothes, leaving them in a heap in the corner and stepped into the shower. He knew he would take a second one early in the morning, but before he could even attempt to relax for the night, he needed to rinse the stink of human frailties off of his skin. Elliot had spent the greater part of his day watching a young man named Micah Diorel lie through his teeth while his partner, Olivia, cared for Diorel's victim.
Working in the SVU, Elliot had seen it a million times and he wished, as he had watched Diorel make up lie after lie regarding his whereabouts the previous night, that he could round up all the women of the world and warn them all at the same time to stay away from men like Diorel. What frightened him most about Diorel was that he held the kind of allure that could entrap anyone, even one of his own three daughters.
It never failed to set him in awe: guys like Diorel, who were charming at first, could beat their significant others a hundred times, but the women continuously came back to them. He had wanted to throw a chair across the room when Olivia had told him that Diorel's girlfriend refused to press charges against him. After he had beaten and raped her and left her for dead, Diorel was going to walk home a free man; free to repeat the acts again and again, until he finally killed her.
Elliot allowed the hot water to run down his face and the rest of his muscular body. Regardless of how the majority of the day went, he still felt slightly relieved. The same friend of a friend who got him his apartment, enabled him to get basketball tickets to a semi-professional team and Elliot took the time to take his son, Dickie, out for the night. Though it was a Thursday, Kathy had agreed and as Dickie was spending the night at his father's apartment, Elliot had been "allowed" to spend an additional day with his only son and youngest child.
He had wanted to take Dickie's twin sister, Lizzie along as well, but she was going through a phase where she did not want to be associated with anything that was not feminine and "girly," making a basketball game with her father and brother completely out of the question. He had made sure to ask around the precinct for tickets to any "feminine" events and Olivia had passed him tickets to a ballet she was not using. Elliot planned on surprising Lizzie with the ballet tickets when she least expected it.
He got out of the shower, wiped the steam off the small mirror and stared at the forty-three-year-old man staring back at him. He ran a hand over his receding, close-cropped brown hair and squinted through hooded, large blue eyes into the mirror, all the while wondering about time and age.
Where had all the years gone? It seemed like just yesterday he was at the hospital with Kathy when Dickie and Lizzie were born. His oldest daughters, Maureen and Kathleen, were about to graduate from college and high school, respectively, and the twins had just been confirmed in the Catholic Church. He had never intended for his job to come before his family, but the SVU was easily one of the most demanding units on the force, giving a detective little to no time for his or her family. The job required his full attention, which meant the majority of his time was spent with the other detectives in his unit, specifically his partner, rather than with his family. He never wanted it to be that way, but it was the way of the SVU and he had explained it to Kathy more times than he could remember. He had missed birthdays, holidays and important events in his children's lives, moments he could never get back, all for the job he loved for twelve years.
Most recently, he had sacrificed his marriage, and although he had signed the divorce papers a few weeks earlier, after dragging his feet for months, he still hoped that his wife was simply going through her own mid-life crisis and would let him come back home. He and Kathy had married when they were just nineteen and not under the best circumstances. A generation earlier would have called it a "shotgun wedding," but Elliot knew he had done the right thing marrying her. They were just kids, but Catholics just the same, and he knew that no real man would leave a pregnant woman to have a child out of wedlock. Yet, since they were so young when they married, they each held a fair amount of growing-up to do before becoming the people they were, and somewhere along the line it seemed they had simply grown apart from one another.
Kathy had told him when she was leaving with his children, she was tired of him being angry all the time, and he knew truthfully that he wasindeed angry all the time. In his unit, however, it was difficult not to be such. After watching criminals like Diorel walk free, if not by the fruition of their victims, then by some flaw in the legal system, anger was simply a primary response. One could only take so much of society's filth before the weight of the world would seemingly fall straight upon one's shoulders.
Kathy had also told him, on more than one occasion, that she was unsettled by the fact that he would not open up to her, but he could never quite explain that to her. How could he tell her everything he saw in his day? Did she honestly expect him to tell her about the women found raped with scissors or the little boys sodomized to the point they would never walk again? If there was one place he did not want to bring what he saw during the day, it was in his home, with his family. The fact that she would not understand his position, instead pointing out that he opened up to Olivia and not her, simply angered him all over again.
Elliot put on his bathrobe and dressed in his own bedroom, noting the light coming from the guest room that served as a bedroom for each of his children when they spent the night.
The phone rang and he quickly picked it up, hoping it would not bother Dickie and also was not a call stating that someone else had been raped or murdered with sexual connotations.
"Stabler," he said into the phone.
"Hey, Dad," replied a young female voice.
Elliot smiled into the receiver. "Maureen. How you doin', Babygirl?"
"Good," Maureen said.
Maureen, his eldest and, although he hated to admit it to himself, his favorite, attended Hudson University and was majoring in Psychology. A part of him hoped that she would pursue the same field as her father, while another part of him, the part that always saw her as the blonde toddler he had watched take her first steps into his arms, prayed that she would take another path. Several months earlier, though, Olivia had informed him that Maureen had called her wanting a woman's perspective on the NYPD.
"What are you doing up this late?"
"Well, it's still technically early in college time, Dad." Elliot could hear Maureen smiling.
"Oh, right," he said.
He did not have the chance to go to a traditional four-year college when he was Maureen's age, as he had to take care of both her and Kathy, and he loved knowing that she experienced many of the opportunities he missed by marrying young.
"Everything okay?" Elliot asked switching gears. "Do you need any money or anything?"
"No," she said. "Everything's fine. I'm just procrastinating because I've got a paper that's due to tomorrow."
Elliot laughed. "Okay. As long as you get it done."
"I will, Dad," Maureen said in the same voice she had used when he nagged her as a teenager.
"So…uh, how's Jared…er...Johnny…er…"
"Justin," Maureen said. "God, Dad. Jared? Where'd you get that one from?"
Elliot shrugged although he knew Maureen could not see it. "Knew his name was somewhere along those lines."
In all actuality, he knew Maureen's boyfriend's name; he just liked to mess with her from time to time since she was away at school. In fact, he knew nearly everything there was about Justin Wheeler: his primary school, his high school, sports he played, number of speeding tickets he had had, jobs he held, what both his parents did for a living, what his siblings had done with their lives. The list continued endlessly and was part of a process he had used since the first day Maureen had announced she had a "boyfriend" while in the third grade.
Anyone who came into contact with her was subject to gross scrutiny and if, and only if, they appeared to be clean and decent individuals would Elliot even bother acknowledging them with Maureen. For all the rest, and with his daughter there were many, he simply made his presence well known, as well as the fact that he had the ability to throw someone in jail for a day just because he looked at his daughter the wrong way.
"He's fine," Maureen sighed. "He's been working a lot on his thesis lately, so we haven't seen much of each other."
Good, Elliot thought. The less they saw of one another the less likely Maureen would be to repeat the same mistakes he and Kathy had made at her age.
"Marilyn's moving in with her boyfriend at the end of the semester."
Elliot felt his heart skip a beat as he considered his daughter's roommate's many dramas that oft times involved Maureen. "Don't you get the same idea. I'm telling you right now, your mother and I will not approve."
"I know, Dad. I'm just telling you so you'll know why I'll be looking for a new apartment in a month."
"You have any place in mind, and keep in mind that Daddy isn't exactly made of money?"
Maureen chuckled and Elliot could feel her rolling her eyes across the phone. "I know, Dad. I was thinking of something farther from school, like around Tompkins Square Park."
Elliot thoughts flitted to his impending caseload and his latest case, which had brought him to the very park Maureen had been considering. "I don't know if I want you that close to Alphabet City."
"I'm almost 23. When are you gonna start to let go?"
He sighed. "You know that's never going to happen. The sooner you figure out that I'm your father for life, the better. What about Chelsea?"
"Chelsea," she whined. "That's closer than I wanted to be."
"But think of the nightlife you'll have for your last year at school."
"Not my last year," she corrected. "I sent out applications for Columbia and St. John's Master's programs."
"Master's? You might as well go for your doctorate."
She groaned. "Dad, not again. I'm not going to med school and I don't see the point in getting my Ph D in psychology."
"You don't have to go to med school. You could do the same thing a psychiatrist does. Everything except prescribing the meds."
"And I don't want to do that, so the subject is moot."
"Maureen, psychology is a good field. Especially in this city."
"You know what," she said impatience watering her voice. "I think I've got some inspiration on my paper. Talk to you later."
"Hey!" Elliot said. "Don't leave like that. It was just a suggestion. Besides, you have a few months yet before you have to make a real decision. Have you thought anymore about internships."
"Yeah," she said. "I…uh…well, I last semester I interned at the Manhattan DA's office."
Elliot sat silent for a moment wondering how best to approach the subject. It was not that he disliked district attorneys; far from it. However, he had seen his fair share of them destroy cases that were more than solid when presented to them. The SVU had a specific DA assigned to it, and while Casey Novak did an outstanding job, he had watched as numerous criminals slipped through her fingers into acquittals and back onto the streets.
His own disdain for the other side of the criminal justice system notwithstanding, he did not want his eldest child to become a lawyer. He knew her too well. She would start out with the district attorney's office, but then switch sides obeying her ambitious side instead of her conscience. The very idea of Maureen defending the same criminals he spent his life trying to put in prison sickened him.
"Dad?" she said. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here," he said still stunned. "Why didn't you say anything about it earlier?"
"Well, I know how you are sometimes about lawyers."
"But, if that's what you want to do…" He allowed his voice to trail to silence. "You could've still told me or your mother."
"Well, I told Mom forever ago, but I guess…."
It was Maureen's turn to fall silent and Elliot tensed knowing the reason. Kathy had been good about relaying important details of their children's lives onto him in the past, but in the recent months, she had become far more passive. He was only notified when major moments came about, like Dickie fighting at school or Kathleen just barely passing her exams. Kathy had obviously felt that Maureen's possible choice of vocation was a detail too unimportant to relay to Elliot and he felt a hot flash of anger swell over him.
"Well," he said after a moment of shared silence. "Whatever you decide to do, just think about it for a bit. Don't just go rushing into something because you think it sounds cool."
"I know, Dad. It's Maureen, remember?"
Her snide comment referred to her younger sister's ability to bandwagon jump with greater occurrence and far more accuracy than most teenagers her age. Kathleen did whatever her friends were doing, no matter how ignorant. Her friends drank as freshmen in high school and Elliot and Kathy were forced to have a long-winded discussion about alcoholism with her after she came home drunk at just 14. Her friends dated older men and Elliot found himself pulling Kathleen out of a car from a twenty-one-year-old deadbeat she claimed she loved.
Elliot knew he had lost control of his second child sometime around the same time he lost control of his marriage and the rest of his life, and it came as no surprise to him that Kathleen seemed to be taking his and Kathy's impending divorce harder than the rest of his kids.
"I know, Sweetie," he said. "I just want what's best for you."
"Eventually you'll have to trust me," Maureen said.
"I'm getting there."
She laughed. "Okay. Well, now I really do need to get to my paper."
"How much have you got left?"
"Well, including the eight pages I did over the past week…twelve.
He shook his head. "What time's it due?"
"In the morning? God, Maureen," he said noting his alarm clock.
"I know," she said quickly. "I'm on it. Bye Dad!"
"Love you," he replied and set down the receiver.
Elliot suddenly had the need to procrastinate, not wanting to return to his world of murder victims and shattered lives. He was about dress for a few quick laps around the block, but he thought better of it. Jacob Lewendale's family would never have a conversation similar to the one he had just had with Maureen with their son. They deserved to know who murdered their child and they deserved that answer as soon as possible.
He headed out into the living room wearing sweatpants and t-shirt and sat down with a copy of Jacob Lewendale's file on his coffee table, hoping to get a greater grasp of the case. He normally would not have had the cases in the open while his kids were present, but Dickie was most likely about to go to bed and he knew that he would have time to close anything not meant for his thirteen-year-old's eyes.
He opened the file, took one look at Jacob's large, blue eyes and closed it immediately. He did not want to let this case get to him, but nearly alone in his apartment, he was not ashamed to let his own fears show. Everyday since he started with the force, he feared for the lives of his wife and children. Since joining the SVU, those feared had tripled. The Lewendales were an average family whose lives had been ripped apart by the loss of their son, and Elliot could not help but relay those same emotions onto his family.
At thirteen, Dickie's blond hair was turning brown, lighter than Jacob's, but his blue eyes shone just as bright as Jacob's had and it was heart-breaking to think of what he might do if it was Dickie in that file instead of a stranger. He had voiced what he wanted to do to all the criminals with whom he dealt on a daily basis and those words had him brought before the police commissioner. He was not about to make the mistake again, but feelings still raged, especially with cases such as this.
He opened the file once more, focusing immediately on the crime scene photos and the dozens of questions that had come to mind in the five days he and Olivia had been working the case came rushing back to him. Was it simply a pedophile? Some guy who liked early teenaged boys instead of grown women or even grown men and killed Jacob when he fought against what was done to him? Was it someone Jacob might have known and trusted, like a parent or a teacher? Jacob, like Dickie, had played soccer and played on an indoor soccer league during the winter months. Perhaps there was someone who frequented the soccer fields involved? Was this only the beginning of a serial killer's spree?
The last question that came to mind bothered Elliot the most. They had had the case for five days and while there was DNA found from semen on the body, there was no match in the New York City database, no fingerprints on the box and no witnesses. Everyone who was even remotely close to Jacob and the rest of the Lewendale family had been questioned relentlessly, yet only one of Jacob's teammates had any information about the last night Jacob had been seen alive. The boy's own parents had simply assumed he stayed at a friend's house following soccer practice, and since he was constantly out and about with school, sports and friends, they had not even considered their son missing when he was found in Tompkins Square Park. There were simply no leads to follow and it seemed like yet another criminal was going to get off Scot Free.
Elliot ran a hand over his face and sighed. He considered putting the file away to consider another he had on his caseload, when the door to Dickie's bedroom opened.
"Hey," Elliot said, quickly closing the Lewendale file.
"Hey," Dickie replied, his voice still young and childlike. "Later, Dad." He had on his coat and was heading for the door to the apartment.
"Hey!" Elliot yelled standing from the couch. "Where do you think you're going?"
"David's," Dickie said innocently.
The Kalinger family lived a block West on Heiser Street and their youngest son, David, went to Dickie's school and played soccer with Dickie as well. When it had come time for Elliot to find another place to live, he chose an area of Queens that would keep him close to his children's schools and also close to his former residence, just in case Kathy or the kids needed anything.
Elliot glanced at his watch and then stared at his son with furrowed brows. "It's eleven o'clock."
"I'll be back by one," Dickie said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"On a Thursday night?"
"Dad, we're gonna be doing homework."
"Well, why didn't you tell me you had stuff to finish up before we went out tonight?"
Dickie shrugged and put his hands in his pockets.
"How 'bout this afternoon?"
"I was out."
"That's all you've got to say? Out?"
"Come on, Dad," Dickie said becoming exasperated. "I'm there a couple of hours and I'm back by one. What's the problem?"
"The problem is you had all day to do whatever it was you were supposed to do. I'm not going to let you go wandering the streets just because you chose to procrastinate."
"But, it's due tomorrow and I already told him I'd be over!"
"Well, I suggest you this remarkable invention known as the telephone to call David and do your homework over the phone."
"Dad," Dickie said. "Come on…Mom would let me go."
Elliot paused before issuing a retort. Unlike his daughters who always referred to his separation from Kathy with either tears or forlorn expressions, Dickie used the issue to his advantage at times, knowing it was the one and only soft spot Elliot had formed throughout Dickie's life.
He sighed. "We both know she wouldn't. Now, go back to your room and take care of it over the phone."
"Jessica's gonna be there!" Dickie finally shouted, his hands held out as if pleading for understanding.
A smirk spread across Elliot's face as he stared at his son. Dickie's long-standing crush on his partner had begun to subside slightly, and the newest dark-eyed love of Dickie's life, Jessica Barrow, lived three doors down from the Kalingers.
"So," Elliot said, "This is going to be a homework par-tay?"
Dickie rolled his eyes. "Come on, Dad. I promise I'll be careful and I'll be back at one. It's just down the street."
Elliot's eyes gave an involuntary glance toward the case files sitting benignly under day-old newspaper on his coffee table and then back at his son. "No," he said sternly.
Dickie shook his head in a fashion Elliot had seen more than once in Kathy. "This blows!"
He stormed across the living and slammed his bedroom door shut.
"Tell me about it," Elliot sighed to himself.
He hated being the disciplinarian, especially now that he was completely removed from his children. Even when he and Kathy had been together, she was always the parent of the household. Elliot saw his family so infrequently that he was more or less the guy who simply brought home a paycheck.
He sat back on the couch and picked up Jacob's file again trying to imagine the face of his murderer instead of dwell on the similarities between Jacob and Dickie. The killer would most likely be male, judging from the crime scene images, and would have an average face, a face a boy of thirteen would be prone to trust. From the only eye witness statement, Elliot supposed the killer would have most likely known Jacob, had the chance to get close to him, even become his friend.
Elliot shook his head at the face of the murdered child, gathered his files and went into the unoccupied bedroom. He knew he had had enough of imagining Jacob Lewendale's killer, but he still could not wait to have the bastard in his squad room. Elliot loved the interrogation process as much as he loved running down perpetrators in general. He had caused criminals to cry, wet themselves or even call out for their mothers while enduring his interrogations. After so many years as a detective, Elliot was the complete professional and he knew exactly which words could make a suspect confess everything, which made Micah Diorel so very frustrating. Even after three hours of Elliot's interrogating, Micah still claimed that he had not touched Evelyn Rivers, regardless of the fact that a hand print that matched the size and shape of his hand, glowed red on her face.
He ran a hand over his hair wondering if it was the stress of the job that was causing the hairline to slowly creep farther and farther back on his head or if it was just his genes at work. He shrugged off his own question choosing instead to lie on his back on the bed that was not nearly as comfortable as the one he had once shared with his wife, hoping for some semblance of sleep to come quickly before he was awakened by yet another case in the middle of the night.
Some nights he wished that every criminal or would-be criminal could simply hold up his or her crimes in favor of other undertakings just for one night so he could get the full night's rest his body so terribly craved. Just one night.
A creak outside Elliot's bedroom door caused his eyes to fly open at one-thirty in the morning. He instinctively grabbed his gun from his nightstand drawer, but set it back down remembering that Dickie was spending the night and was most likely half asleep, walking to the bathroom like he did as a child.
He opened his bedroom door to find Dickie fully-dressed and in mid tiptoe, halfway across the living room and going back to his bedroom door. Father and son stood a moment staring at one another, each staring back at the other in disbelief; fear building in Dickie's eyes, rage building in Elliot's.
Elliot shifted his weight on his feet and put his hands on his hips. "Where the hell have you been?" he said.
"I-I haven't b-been anywhere," Dickie stammered.
"You haven't been anywhere? Why are you wearing jeans and your shoes?"
Dickie glanced down at himself and his eyes darted toward the side of the room. "I needed…like a…drink of water."
"And you put your shoes on for that? And your jacket?"
Dickie's searched around the living room again.
Elliot squinted at him. "I'm gonna ask you again: where you have been?"
Dickie took a deep breath. "David's."
"After I told you not to go!"
"You were being unreasonable," Dickie said, now nonchalant and rolling his eyes.
"Unreasonable! I don't care if you ever think I what I say is reasonable. When I say no, it means no!"
"Dad, it's just like I said. I was out at eleven and back at one."
"It doesn't matter! I told you not to go and you did it anyway! What, did you wait until you thought I was asleep and sneak out?"
Dickie stared at the floor. "We got the project done and I'm back home safe. I don't see the problem."
"You don't see a problem with doing exactly what I told you not to do?"
"You were being unreason-"
"Unreasonable! You don't even know why I told you no! No, you know what? All that matters was you disobeyed me just because you thought you could get away with it."
Dickie continued to study the floorboards.
"What if something had happened to you? I'm expecting you to be here and safe, and you're out wandering the streets with whoever!"
"Not whoever. David, Jessica and a few other peo-"
"I don't care! I need to know where you are at all times."
"You knew where I was going."
"No, I knew that I sent you to your room and you should have been there until breakfast tomorrow, this morning!" Elliot was so angry he wanted to shake his son. "Go to your room. You're grounded."
Dickie's eyes grew wide. "For how long?"
"'Til I say so."
"How the hell long is that gonna be?"
"Until you learn you are not going to run the streets whenever the hell you feel like it!"
"I wasn't running the streets! Dad, I was at David's working on homework for Chrissake!"
Elliot threw his son a cold glance at the use of God's name in vain and Dickie fell silent immediately.
"You talk to you mother like that?" he said sternly.
"Mom would've let me go."
"If you hadn't waited 'til the last second, I would've too, but you did, so I didn't and now you're grounded."
"For how long?"
" 'Til I'm not pissed about this anymore."
"Fat chance that's ever gonna happen."
"Well, then I hope you had good time with your friends tonight because you won't be seeing them anytime soon."
Dickie started stormed past him. "What, are you going to lock me in my room?"
"I'll do what's necessary."
"Whatever. I gotta go to school in the morning, don't I?"
Dickie took the finality in the sound of his name to heart and raced into his room, slamming the door shut. Elliot sighed as he settled back down on the couch. He held his face in his hands and closed his eyes. Things were easier when the kids were little. For the most part, they did as they were told. Now that they were older, it seemed like they were all turning against him at the same time. He sighed, not knowing if this was just his children acting as teenagers or acting out because of what had happened with he and Kathy.
He got up and poured himself a glass of water making a mental note to tell Kathy what Dickie had done in the morning. Elliot still could not believe it. Dickie was thirteen and already sneaking out of the house. Dozens of questions came at him at once. How long had he been doing this? What if he had not have woken up as Dickie was coming back home? Would he simply continue doing this until Elliot found him in a box on Tompkins Square? What if something had happened to him? How could he explain it to Kathy? How would he live with himself?
He went back to his bedroom and saw that Dickie's light was still lit. He wanted to barge into the room and demand that Dickie go to sleep immediately, but decided against it. Elliot had done enough to damage the relationship with his son for one night.
Glancing at his alarm clock that read close to two o'clock in the morning, Elliot lied on his bed and simply stared at the ceiling. Maybe he could get three or four hours before he needed to get up and make his trek back into the SVU's thunder.
He turned toward the window and closed his eyes. He would have to deal with Dickie in the morning, but he was unsure how to do it. They only had so much time between the two of them and he hated the idea of spending that little time at odds with his son. Feeling the waves of sleep overtake him, Elliot allowed his mind to drift into the precious REM sleep he so rarely achieved.
He was unsure how long he slept before he heard the ripping chirp of the cell phone that sat on his nightstand. Elliot groaned and glanced at his clock. Four-seventeen. He let out a deep sigh and flipped open the phone after fumbling a bit.
"Stabler," he said exhaustion emanating from his voice.
"Detective Stabler," a male voice said with a heavy accent. "This is Officer Keith McKillen from the 1-6."
"Yes," Elliot said knowing precisely what was about to be said.
"You're one of the SVU detectives on-call tonight, and we have a situation here at Tompkins Square."
Elliot's ears perked up immediately. "Who's been found?"
"Still unsure at this point," McKillen said. "It's a white male. 'Bout twelve, maybe thirteen."
"Was he found in or by a box?" he asked thinking of the case that set on his coffee table.
"No, but he was found nude, near the same place that other body was dumped a week ago."
Elliot sighed. "I'll be there in thirty."
He pushed "End" on the phone and quickly pressed "Star 2."
The phone rang twice before a less than familiar, groggy male voice answered the phone.
"The West Side of Olivia's bed speaking."
Elliot sat silent for a moment while he heard some slight rustling and then Olivia's voice.
"Give me the phone, Jonathan," he heard her say a distance from the phone.
"Benson," she said after a few moments more.
"Olivia," Elliot said. "There's been another one."
"Tompkins Square?" she asked.
"In the same place as Jacob Lewendale."
Olivia let out a low, heavy sigh into the phone. "I'll be there in a bit."
"Yeah," Elliot said closing the phone and running a hand over his head.
Thankfully, his apartment was in walking distance of Dickie's school and Elliot knew Dickie had friends to walk to school with in the morning, but the situation exasperated him nonetheless. He did not want to be gone when Dickie woke up in the morning, as that had been the situation far too often in the past, but depending on how long it took for he and Olivia to go through the crime scene, interview witnesses and canvass the area, it would be past nine o'clock before he would even have a moment to think. Any thoughts of having "make-up" breakfast with his son faded quickly and Elliot rose from his bed to dress and face yet another young victim.
Unknown Time and Place
He felt her shudder under his touch and the shivers ran electric under his fingertips. He would be done with this one soon and then…then he would be ready for another.
She whimpered, knowing what was about to happen and he relished in the moment. The pitch black of the room kept her from seeing him, but he had been there for so very long. He could see her just fine. She was beautiful in the light that just barely peered into the room from the door that only he could locate.
He had taken her again and again for ages now, but he still had a use for her. She sold well and he enjoyed her on and off the clock, but boredom was edging on him day by day. He would need a new one. Not one of the others he kept away, but someone new altogether. Someone who had not come to anticipate what he was about to do. Someone special; someone great.
It would need to be someone exceptional and strong and he did not want to fork over another couple grand for one who had been weakened by beatings and other abuses. He needed someone he could break and train and mold into a wonderful possession, all of his own. Someone feistier, with a little zest to make the productions a little less monotonous and his nights all the more fun.
He had his sources, but for now he would simply have to wait. Wait until the perfect one came to him. They always came by fate and eventuallycame to him in fear. But for now he would have to wait and take this one, as well as the others, as often as the urge reared him to them. | English | NL | 53959b50f34959d8a3083e2d4b4365b22fcc04eae6dca9e91480d3602c175565 |
Noodle is a type of food that is made from dough and cooked in a mixture of boiling water and oil. Noodles are known for such characteristics as thin, having an elongated shape, stingy and chewy. They are believed to be the oldest prepared type of food found intact. Today, they are a delicacy to many.
The origin and genesis of noodles has been a mystery and for a long time been a born of contention. This is because several nationalities have claimed to be the inventors. Italians for instance argue that they created noodles as them as a perfect complement to tomato sauce. The Chinese believe contradicts this. According to their scholars, the earliest and oldest noodles were found in the Qijia culture Lijia site. This is found in Qinghai of Shandong province. These appeared to be made from millet. According to these researchers Italians got it from Marco Polo, a Christian merchant from Venice. He and his friends embarked on a 24 year journey that is well documented today. It is believed that he first encountered noodles on his journey of Asia and only introduced it to the Venetian Italians upon his return.
Apart from the above two, the Japanese, Koreans, Germans as well as the French claim the ownership of this invention. Many researchers have tried to dig deep to uncover the mystery of who exactly it is that invented this widely eaten delicacy. Among them are Gary Crawford of Toronto University and Houyan Lu of Chinese Academy of Science, Beijing China. The Chinese researchers seemed to have solved this age old question after unearthing a 4000 year-old container of noodles. These were found in a well preserved bowl that was buried up-side down in clay. This bowl was found in an archaeological site located in Qinghai province of northeastern China. It was quite a unique discovery given that only ingredients such as corn and other ancient grains had been found earlier. There was nothing that concrete.
The unearthed noodles were considered older than any other that was previously discovered. They hence predated the earlier written records by 2000 years or more. Some celebrated fusion chefs from China could not believe the existence of other convincing evidences pertaining to the origin of noodles as these. According to them, the unearthed bowl proved without a shadow of doubt that indeed the Chinese were making noodles long before the Italian Marco Polo went to China. To them, it was a source of great pride.
Noodles of the early days were similar in various respects to those of modern times when compared. The major difference was found to be in their composition. Today’s noodles are made from rice or wheat but those from ancient China were made from millet. The history of millet in China can be traced back to over 7000 years ago. It still remains to be part and parcel of diet in the northeastern parts of China. This is confirmed by the works of Gary Crawford. As a researcher in Chinese sites dating from the same period, Gary reveals that the same period was characterized by high reliance on millet. According to him, this was a suitable explanation as to why grains were not found at some of the visited and studied sites. High reliance on millet meant that most of the grains were ground into flour and eventually made into noodles.
The unearthed noodles were delicate, yellow and about 20 inches in length. They were similar in appearance with the ‘lamina’ type of noodles. These are made by repeatedly stretching dough by hand. Upon examination of the starch grains and mineral deposits in the noodles, it was determined that they were made from millet. This is a plant re-known for its toughness as it has the ability to thrive in hot and dry climates, a characteristic feature of the northeastern part of china.
Presence of millet in the above mention part of China emphasizes that millet domestication was key in early civilization. It therefore goes without mentioning that millet had already been in use before other grains came to play i.e. the use of other grains came later on in China’s history.
With the availability of millet, it wasn’t that difficult to produce the first noodle. This is according to Tsui. He argued that the needed ingredients were readily available, flour and water. With the knowledge of grinding, the millet was ground. The then people realized that if eaten raw, the ground grain wouldn’t have an appealing taste. They ended up mixing it with water and eventually cooking as it would at least improve the taste, thereby making it more edible.
It is however important to note that not everyone is convinced that the Chinese did actually invent noodles. There are those that believe that there is a high possibility that they were invented many times over by different people. Other people trash arguments regarding the real inventors altogether. To them, noodles have been a solution to many people in one way or another. What matters is that they have been a source of food for many over the years. The argument of who really discovered it doesn’t really hold any water. | English | NL | e25a9456f3ee47432871134eec9a3684499517662e426d50159a6bdadb29a9d0 |
Written by Mrs Fun7
23 Jan 2017
OUR JOURNEY (PART ONE)
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3 minute read
We met on my 17th Birthday. He showed up with one of my friends. When I was about to aproach them standing on our balcony he said to our friend "That girl I am going to marry!". To cut through some tough stuff and give the short. We very soon became friends first. I even arranged him dates and he was my wing man. At some point the energy between us was just to much and he asked me to be his girl. At a Roxette concert. A day I will never forget. We were inceprable. We loved the same things. Laughed and just always had fun. I had found my best friend and lover all in one. That is priceless. It came to a point were our parent said let him just turn 21 and get married. They got nervous that we would produce babies. He he he. Could not blame them. He has this magical dark blue eyes blush skin black hair and a haert of pure gold. He had a body to die for. But his haert and soul captured me. He new I was a wild child he loved that about me. He encouraged me to be me. As I said my best friend. So we tied the not. Best decision I ever made. We had fun laughs tears. Getting to fit all this being married stuff house and make it work. Soon came the babies. I flipped. But he was a rock. Made it all go smooth. We have from day one took the journey of sexual experiences toghether. Found out new things tried it all. We are now married almost 20 years. What a journey it has been. 12 years ago he mentioned having another man join us!!!!!!!!!!!!! Dear God I thought this man must be crazy. No No No. As most women I thought this was to pave the way for him to have sex with other women. So we went back and forth. I made a mistake wich hurt us both dearly. One I will always regret. But he gave me love care and understanding. Then one night just over a year ago he fed me way to much wine. Our sexual energy has always been erotic. He pinned me down. I was so full of lust . My clit was throbbing at his sudden rage. I begged him to please me. As he went slowly down on me and started to lick my clit in circular motions I moaned at the pleasure then he stopped!!!!! Wile holding me down and me pumping my hips he said "would you enjoy another man fucking you now" My haert raced faster than Michael Schumacher's Fi ever could. I said No. He continued to please me and just before I could orgasm he stopped again. I was shouting in frustration. He said I know the truth but I need you to tell me your truth. So I screamed. "Yes yes yes I would love to explore and fuck other men. " I could not believe I said that out loud.
So scared that I might hurt my lover and best friend. But he became so hard and aroused by my admission that I could not stop. So we admitted to one another our crazy fantasy's.
Could he love me so much and share me? Did he still love me like a Godess and be willing to do this?
In my Insecurity he said. Ok we will meet single men. I will not have sex with another woman. As I don't need it. I just want to see you with another man. I want to see you experience ultimate plesure!!!!!! My brain raced. Is it posibble? So I read up on it. As I did not think I could discuss it with anyone.. To my surprise what I read left me in awe. Certain men worship their women and tend to share them to see the plesure. So he loves me more than anything in this world!!!!!!!! Here our naughty journey started. What an experience it has been.
More in Part 2. | English | NL | 580d6cbe5878c862f5dba783bdb78de71f8ea5cf1e62babed418f3d96522ade2 |
March 17, 1844 – June 24, 1946
From Sunset and Dusk of the Blue and the Gray
It is shortly after D-Day 1944. Berlin, Maryland’s most revered citizen is out in his victory garden as usual, hoeing up his vegetables. “Uncle Zear” Fassett is doing his part for the was effort just as he had in 1942 and 1943, just as he would do again in 1945. Already past his century mark, he stands erect, his shoulders and back incredibly straight. He stands 5’4″ of his youthful 5’5 5/8″. Yes, he stands sturdily on this most familiar plot of earth – his garden now green with pregnant promise, again victorious and symbolic of a successful life.
Born in slavery on the Fassett estate down on Sinepuxent Neck, near Berlin, Isaiah grew up working at farm chores for white folks, cutting fuel logs for their manorial fireplaces, and picking up the skills of carpentry. On Nov. 11, 1863, Isaiah’s owner, Sarah A. Bruff, under provision of General Order No. 329 of that year, drew up and agreed to sign his “Deed of Manumission and Release of Service,” to becom effective that day. On Feb. 16, 1864, Sarah A. Bruff submitted her application (Claimant’s Certificate No. 307) for compensation upon her loss of “Isaiah Bruff alias Isaiah Fassett.”.
That very day of freedom, Nov. 11, 1863, Isaiah enlisted in the Ninth Infantry Regt., U.S.C.T., and soon became a private in Company D for three years. Known battles that Pvt. Fassett fought in with the Ninth Regt. U.S.C.T. were the Wilderness, Johns Island, S.C. (July 5-7, 1864), Deep Bottom, Va. (Aug. 14-18, 1864), Fussel’s Mills ( ), the storming of Petersburg, and early entry into Richmond. The death toll for Isaiah’s regiment during its thirty months at the front was 315 men. After Richmond fell Isaiah was promoted to corporal. Eventually he was sent to Texas with the Ninth and from there they crossed the Gulf to Cuba and after some weeks they were shipped back to New Orleans. Isaiah was mustered out at Green Village, La., and received his discharge Nov. 26, 1866.
The following September he married Sallie Purnell in Berlin, and they would have eight children and fifty-nine years together. One of their children lives today [at the unknown date of this article] in Philadelphia – Robert, 92, who relates in his Nov. 20, 1975 letter –
Father’s parents were sold to slave owners in Georgia when he was very small. He had three brothers and three sisters who grew up in Berlin. He was a kind and loving father who spanked me when I misbehaved. He taught me his trade, carpentry. His favorite hymns were “The Gospel Train Is Coming” and “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing My Great Redeemer’s Praise.” He went by the golden rule. Father was concerned for the needy, the sick, and for community progress. My sister, Estella Harris, and my cousin, Sara Purnell, came to live with and take care of him in his late years. He always had cider to give folks. He walked a lot of exercise until 100. He showed courage in enlisting in the Ninth Regiment. We loved him for his devotion to family, concern for Berlin, and his loyalty to his country.
The same week William D. Pitts, an 86-year-old surveyor of Berlin, Md., wrote :
“I knew “Uncle Zear” Fassett best from 1899 until 1907 when I moved to New York. In a small town a boy knows everyone. I used to see him in the Memorial Day parade. This part of Maryland’s Eastern Shore was so predominantly pro-Southern, that all the towns in Worcester County were garrisoned by federal troops during the war. But the Purnell Legion was formed from men of Worcester and Somerset Counties and fought with some distinction for the Union. I had five relatives on the Southern side and one on the Northern. We had a colored man (term of respect when I was a boy) named Ned Purnell, who belonged to my grandfather, who gave him his freedom. Ned and Isaiah were in the same outfit. When “Uncle Zear” came to work our garden, I’d follow him up and down the rows while he told of the war. He talked of the Crater fight, the tunneling under the Rebel earthworks, and the explosion. Well, Ned said that just before they exploded the mine, they lined up Co. D and told each to note who was on each side of him. Uncle Ned heard Uncle Isaiah cry out in pain. When they lined up after the fight, they called off Isaiah’s name. Isaiah answered, “DEAD!” He wasn’t dead at all. He was only creased by a bullet – a flesh burn!”
Miss L. Katie Henry, a retired teacher in Berlin, wrote on Dec. 1, 1975 :
“My Uncle Zear was a lifelong resident of Berlin. I was at his bedside when he died peacefully at his Branch St. home he built with the help of his son. He repaired and built many houses here. I have a house that he built for our “milk house” before refridgerators came along. He liked to till the soil and had a favorite horse that lived nearly thirty years. He raised watermelons, corn, vegetables. As a member of St. Paul’s Methodist he served as class leader, Steward and janitor. The young people loved him. He told them stories of army life. He’d run and jump to amuse them. I can hear him now, relating an incident.
“Kate,” he’d say, “I had marched and marched until I really thought I couldn’t go a step father. I got to a place where the grass was nice and green under a large tree. I says to myself, ‘This is a good place to give up.’ Just then I looked up higher in the tree where a buddie had been hanged and was dangling. Well, I braced myself up and began marching again. (He would imitate how he braced up) I realized there was no need to stop after all and I found energy I didn’t know I had.” He could tell it so’s to make his listener’s laugh and laugh. He was witty and good-hearted. Never missed a Memorial Day parade. When younger he marched every step. For years he rode a horse in the lead until he was elderly. Then he rode in an auto, enjoying it much. All those years he wore his Grand Army fedora and dressed in the old uniform he brought home and kept for each year’s parade.
In her Dec. 7, 1975 letter from Wilmington, Delaware, Gwendolyn Brown offers :
“When I went to Berlin to visit Grandmother, I remember my great Uncle Zear best on his last Memorial Days when he was too old to be in the procession. He would stand at attention on his porch dressed in uniform, and salute as they marched past his home. Mrs. Ada Anderson was instrumental in asking my Aunt Catherine Smith to see if Cousin Kate Henry (Zear’s niece) would arrange to loan his musket to our Wilmington Historical Society Museum in Old Town Hall at Sixth and Market Sts. The persons who prepared the musket for display said that at that time it was still loaded.”
Finally, Mrs. Ada J. Anderson’s Dec. 10, 1975 report from Wilmington provides further revealing answers – “I am a member of the Ladies of the G.A.R. Though I was not privileged to know Mr. Fassett personally, I have admired him for things I’ve heard about him. Since he was our last Department Commander of the G.A.R. in Delaware, when we organized our second junior group, this circle was named in his honor. His little grand niece was a member of this circle and continued and was made president of the National Junior Organization. She is now Sandra Brown Thomas, a member of Charles Sumner Circle No. 1, L.G.A.R.”
For many years Corporal Fassett had been an enthusiastic comrade and Commander of G.A.R. Post 51 of Berlin until its disbandment. When his fellow Civil War survivors passed on, he joined Charles Sumner Post 1 in Wilmington in 1940. Two years later he was elected Jr. Vice Commander, was advanced to Dept. Sr. Vice Commander and the next year named Delaware Dept. Commander, serving from Aug. 14, 1943 until his death. He was the last G.A.R. comrade between the area of Cape Charles and Philadelphia. When the customary three volleys were fired at his funeral June 28, 1946, representatives from three states paid their final tribute. Full G.A.R. honors were accorded amid the roll of muffled drums.
Comrade Fassett’s holding of Delaware’s highest G.A.R. office does not appear unique in G.A.R. history, but it surely was a rare distinction. While he never lived in Delaware, he did survive all of Delaware’s Civil War soldiers. The table below is reconstructed to disclose the strength and composition of the Grand Army during its final years in Delaware. Apparently it was customary in the Delaware G.A.R. to fill out its ranks with old soldiers from neighboring states, that the brotherhood might last a bit longer. Comrade Fassett’s last local comrade in Berlin, James B. Lytle, had already transferred to the Delaware G.A.R. in 1938 as had Dallas M. See of Queen Anne, Md.
- Hometown & Military Unit
- Last Sunset
- *George W. Baker**, Sr.
- First Dela. Batt Lt. Art.
- Oct. 19, 1940
- *Henry Banzett
- 57th New York
- May 3, 1941
- *Joseph T. Berry
- Co. A, 39th U.S.C.T.
- Dec. 12, 1941
- *Joseph W. Showalter
- Oxford, Pa.
- Co. C, 124th Pa. Inf.
- Co. B, 58th Pa.
- Feb. 27, 1942
- *Joseph Hynson
- Rock Hall, Md.
- Co. D, First Md. Inf
- Feb. 11, 1943
- *Benjamin F. Scott
- Co. A, First Va. Loyal Vols
- Jan. 17, 1944
- *Isaiah Fassett
- Berlin, Md.
- Co. D, Ninth U.S.C.T.
- June 24, 1946
“Uncle Zear” Fassett was one of Maryland’s twenty-two Boys of ’61 to attend the 75th Battle Reunion at Gettysburg in July 1938. From that occasion forward he proudly wore his VETERAN badge presented each of the 1845 Civil War soldiers who were there.
Corporal Fassett was the next-to last Civil War soldier in Maryland, for he lived to within four months of the death of James M. Reed of Cumberland, who was 100-6-16 when he died Oct. 20, 1946.
Like so many among his late comrades featured here (Eli Dance of Md., Reuben Hurd or Elias Fenstermacher of Minn., Moses Ratledge, Adam Riley, Zachariah Smith of Okla., Solomon Strickland of Texas, Uriah Alley of W. Va., or Josiah Cass of Wis. – “merely to scratch the surface”), there was a decided biblical dimension in Isaiah which far transcended his name. Individuals like him were what helped make America so beautiful for younger folks growing up in the early years of this century.
*Delaware’s last G.A.R. Department Commanders
**Erroneously listed as Delaware’s last Civil War veteran in C.S. Peterson’s Last Civil War Veteran in Each State, Baltimore, 1951.
#Journal of the Seventy-Fifth National Encampment, 77th CONG., 2nd SESS., House Doc. No. 535, p. 17. | English | NL | 134cea6cb193b6bcbd2fa1a64a06389a3ffd5e85740d9a54a83127bf00ec19cd |
I have had it on my heart for a while lately that the Lord is calling His people to spend more time at His feet. To make room in their lives to spend time ministering to Him in their own expressive way.
There is an increase released upon the people of God as they sit at His feet. MORE will be released and accomplished the MORE time there is spent at His feet. In the natural world, we would think this is not "logical" but it is heavenly logic. There is a grace being released over the people of God to accomplish MORE as there is more time spent ministering to Him.
I saw a spirit of excellence being released and exploding over the people of God as they sat at His feet. There was such creativity, excellence, favour, abundance, revelation and blueprints of heaven released over the people of God as they sat at His feet in a heart of rest. Beyond "their imagined best" was being seen to manifest. This spirit of excellence was not birthed out of a heart of striving and perfectionism but birthed out of of a heart of rest, intimacy and security in His love and their identity in Him. Excellence was being birthed out of the overflow. There will be radical demonstrations of heavenly excellence increasing as the hand of the Lord’s favour rests heavily upon His people as they sit at His feet.
SO many are longing for breakthrough and are so weary, yet breakthrough is coming rapidly as the people of God enter into His rest and sit at His feet.
Many of the people of God have hearts full of anxiety, anger, fear, restlesness and hopeleness but as they come before Him and sit at His feet, hearts are being steadied and readied. I saw promotion and great insight being released over the people of God as they gazed lovestruck at their Beloved.
The Lord doesn’t want His people heavy ladened but escalated in their intimacy and revelation of Him and His love. You will have greater responsibility and greater capacity with such ease and grace as you sit at His feet.
Your capacity will increase and you will move in greater excellence with the Lord’s hand of favour upon you that will turn heads and attract promotion to you to minister for Him and shine His glory and bring His Kingdom.
The "night" feels long, but as you sit at His feet, you will see the "dawn"!!!!
Image taken from: www.klrc.com | English | NL | 2ec197aa8ddbf36258ee55fe2c2b3dcd74cf54ac7429f053ecc88f77c8c5cc82 |
Mandy left me, and I stopped caring. I didn't answer the phone, I quit my 'cover' job. I ignored a ping from Dreamland.
I suppose I should thank her, in a weird way, because if I had answered the ping I would have been sent out with Fatboy and White Dragon and The Illustrated Man, and I'd be dead now. Instead I unplugged the phone and lay in my bed and sulked until someone knocked on the door.
It was McLeary. "Where have you been? Get dressed, we're going to the Presidio. I'm driving, I'll brief you on the way."
I didn't care enough to argue. When he told me what had happened to B Team, I started to get angry. Not just angry at Micro, angry at the world. Angry at being a Cape. Angry at Mandy for leaving me now, and not some time in the future.
We got to the south end of the bridge and everything was a mess. We squealed to a stop at the police barricade across Presidio Parkway and I climbed out.
Rapture was there, in the white suit. Rapture glows. There's not a religious bone in her body, but she plays the part it for all it's worth. "Nice of you to join us."
I just looked at the bridge. It was… blurry. "What the hell?"
"Grey goo. There's just enough of the bridge left to keep it standing. He's right in the middle. I don't know how he's keeping it from going runaway, but as soon as he takes his foot off the brake that mess will eat San Francisco."
"What does he want?" They always want something, and it's never something anyone can actually give them, and you'd think they'd know that. The Speaker wanted to be the only show on television. We tried to compromise: offered him an hour on cable every Sunday. We shouldn't even have gone that far. Panix wanted money. They want money at least half the time. The Game Player just wanted to 'play the game' and didn't care who got hurt.
"Who cares? Somewhere in there is what's left of B Team."
Much as I hate to admit it, Rapture is stronger. Rapture has telekinesis. Rapture can fly. "You have a plan?"
"I'll handle the grey goo; you take out Micro."
McLeary piped in. "D1 wants him alive."
Rapture was icy. "We don't care." She leapt into the air, and I walked towards the edge of the churning blur that was the Golden Gate bridge. I could see him: Micro, standing atop a double-decker tour bus window-deep in the goo.
I can yell pretty loud. "Time to give up now, Micro."
"You think you're putting me in jail, Fleet?"
Rapture, hanging above us like some strange cathedral's neon cross, shouted, "It's gone too far for that, Micro."
I grimaced. Wrong thing to say. But she started to do her thing: the goo started to lift from the bridge as if sucked away by a vacuum, stretched away from the superstructure in pseudopods, pulled apart into streams and filaments, and then began to converge into a ball, high in the air, near Rapture. She does it with her mind, somehow. There aren't a lot of telekinetes; Rapture is the strongest. We're all just glad she didn't go bad.
He still had control — some control, anyhow — over the baitball of nanomachines. It bubbled, it spat. It lunged at her.
The Golden Gate Bridge is nearly three thousand yards across. When it was clear enough, I ran at Micro, fast. The deck, under my feet, felt as if it had been sandblasted within an inch of its life as I went supersonic. Three figures lifted from the pavement ahead of me.
Fatboy, White Dragon, and The Illustrated Man. Corpses, animated by nanotech. If they still had their powers, Fatboy would be a real threat…
They launched themselves at me, fists swinging like hammers. That answers that. Strong, fast, but otherwise, just big dumb zombies. "This is going to take a minute!"
Rapture didn't answer: she was concentrating on fighting the baitball. How it was pushing itself closer to her I have no idea. Micro must have re-programmed the nanomachines to use the air around them as reaction mass for a hurriedly-configured thruster. But while the roiling ball strained to reach her, it was shrinking. Not shrinking: compressing. Rapture was squeezing them.
Putting down the zombies of B Team hurt. But not physically. By the time I was done, my anger had drained away from me. I wasn't angry at Mandy anymore, or Dreamland, or anyone. I wasn't even angry at Micro, somehow.
Micro, who had climbed down from the half-converted tour bus and was looking in vain for an escape route; his nanomachines had eaten all the vehicles but his virtually impregnable (and apparently goo-proof) MicroMobile. I closed the rest of the distance before he could reach it, and forced him to the ground. The gadget guys, they never fight back once their tech has been neutralized. What would be the point?
Above us, Rapture had squeezed the baitball into a glowing point-mass brighter than the sun. When she let go of it with her mind, it exploded into a cloud of harmless ash that floated away on the wind. She floated down over me and Micro, landed. "Time to finish it."
"It's over." The SFPD had sent an armored car in behind me, it had managed to negotiate the broken bridge surface to reach us, and it was now disgorging cops in riot gear.
"He killed B Team. He killed White Dragon."
"And he's going to pay for it."
She was a statue as I handed Micro off to the cops. I could see her working it through in her head, making a decision. "Fine."
McLeary was the last out of the armored car. He gave Micro a hard look before turning to Rapture, and to me. "Congratulations. The two of you are now 'B Team'." | English | NL | 3e3366b3398e666ba1300a6a297f049b696eed26989188b25f501addfd707253 |
Photo credit: mconnors from morguefile.com
The room languished in deep shadows cast from the cheap brass lamp with the paper shade as Peter wrote his letter. Note. It was on a pretty piece of stationery; he'd found it in the drawer, right next to Mindy's wedding ring.
The wedding cake was expensive; he knew that it wouldn't be so big of a deal, but she'd insisted, and so it was ordered: a heaving, tiered, chaliced and laced monstrosity of a thing, with a gag bride-and-groom statuette set on top, and the groom was sinking into the icing.
Wire-in-the-mire, his mind flashed at him, like a temporary neon vacancy sign, just before dawn arrives and the illumination is no longer needed or appreciated. He swallowed his gumption to call the whole thing off, and so they were wed.
Anthony came first: a robust, rosy-cheeked baby that grew to a boy that grew into a teen who learned to hate his own father. Renee was next: the total opposite of her big brother, a slender, sickly little thing that adapted to the shadier side of things and learned the biggest virtues in a good coat of SPF 75 in the summertime. And then there was Linda: a sweet infant that walked three months early, neither cried or threw any tantrums, but died mysteriously just before she turned a year old.
Her little death threw Peter and Mindy into chaotic torment, and nights of insomnia and drinking, until one day, Anthony stole the family car, Renee picked up her bags and followed her mom out to the taxi and Peter found himself alone in that big house.
The fridge tided him over for a solid three weeks before he was forced to go out into the cruel sunshine, pretending that his life wasn't utterly disgusting and worthless, and find sustenance to feed his withering frame. He wasn't good at cooking, and twice he set the burner afire, but soon he grasped the elementary mechanics of heating food to eat and was able to get by just a little easier.
Which of course, added to his guilt, and there was one gloomy afternoon that he ducked into a Goldrush Pawn Shoppe with two p's, one e on the end, like olde England.
Towards the back of the store was a glass case that ran the length of the wall, containing weapons of all shapes and sizes and among them, guns. | English | NL | daf59840324d675f73457e18a6cbbe2c330f06dd632157653cb3d501960bdf2b |
Dr Greg Deleuil is an unusual GP. He joined the Army reserve as a civilian doctor and often found himself treating the army divers. Through this experience he gained expertise in diving medicine and became skilled at lung function testing. Just down the road from his surgery in North Perth was the headquarters of the Asbestos Diseases Society and he soon came to the attention of its director Robert Vojakovic. The ADS started referring to him people affected by asbestos-related diseases, beginning a relationship that has now lasted for over a quarter of a century. | English | NL | d806c070f85f7fd33002c5910c8624ae8e2f55e94750cae8b9801beb66feb700 |
Prior to establishing Peter Lehmann Wines, Peter had only worked in two wineries, both of which were built more than a century earlier. To process fruit for his first vintage as an independent winemaker, he had to build a winery from scratch in only five months.
With his breakaway team of winemakers, cellar hands and engineers, he designed a winery with the most efficient use of space and resources, allowing for future expansion.
Rows of tanks were put in place, and the Weighbridge - where every Peter Lehmann wine starts its life - was built out of local marble as a monument to the growers.
By February 1980, the winery was ready for its first vintage.
Peter spent most of that first vintage at the Weighbridge, keeping an eye on the incoming fruit and keeping up the relationships with the growers, as he did for every vintage until he retired in 2002. At the end of each day, and long after vintage finished, the Weighbridge became Peter’s bar, hosting many a memorable catch-up with the growers. The tradition continues today. If the old marble walls of the weighbridge could talk, they would tell a compelling version of Barossa history.
The Peter Lehmann winery today is one of the Barossa’s most sophisticated medium-size winemaking operations. | English | NL | 4f22a241457c546c3496a829b16853b3622b1125796d789365f9ccde3079a7e3 |
Over the years, Susan has had several different experiences as a CSV volunteer. As soon as she retired as an academic publisher in 2005, she was delighted to be able to resume volunteering. Her first assignment was tutoring a second grader from Haiti in reading and writing.By the end of fifth grade, her amazingly bright tutee, Leah, had aced the MCAS, tied for third place in a city-wide poetry competition in which there were nearly 700 entries, and was doing sixth grade exercises with ease. Leah had also mastered some of the mysterious features of Susan’s cell phone, like the camera, and succeeded in explaining them to Susan. Along the way, Susan picked up other “assignments,” and more recently has worked as a coach in a first and second grade Writers’ Workshop and as a K-2 “publisher.” The kids adore this activity, she reports. Susan once ran into one of her student authors, accompanied by his parents, on the street. To her amusement, the student introduced Susan as “my publisher!”
Susan Milmoe (left) at the CSV Now! Event. Susan was an ambassador for the CSV Publishing Program with fellow volunteer, Nancy Spence (right). They created a wonderful display of the published stories for grades K-2. Susan publishes at the Martin Luther King School. Nancy leads the publishing at the Graham and Parks School.
Three lasting legacies of the program for Susan are her deepening awareness of children’s incredible resilience and ability to learn; an ongoing respect for the hard work teachers have to do (and that her Martin L. King Jr. School teachers do so well); and her appreciation of other cultures. In each of her classes, up to one-third of the students speak another language at home. Often no two students in class speak the same language. There is great variety – Somali, Portuguese, Haitian Creole, Mandarin, and others. The parents of some children are immigrants (not infrequently refugees); some are graduate students in the Boston area who will return to their countries. She is amazed every year by the progress the students are able to make.Susan loves children, so her engagement with them in school brings great joy. To acknowledge her service to young elementary students over the past eight years, CSV recently presented Susan with a Mack Davis Award and looks forward to her continued involvement as a volunteer.
Thank you notes to Susan from the writers. | English | NL | cba6a315df78ebb1994d6d449e0122305f06cfeeeb6c58bab78c57fd40d68c44 |
Set just before the outbreak of the Second World War, Battling Spirits and Kindly Hearts follows the story of twelve-year-old Michael Forbes. He lives in the East End of London with his parents.
Coming from a family that has lived in poverty, holidays were always an important time to celebrate for Michael’s family. However, little did they know that the annual hop picking season event they attended in Kent would be the last time they celebrated together as a family….
When war breaks out, Michael is evacuated to Australia to live with his aunt. The novel follows Michael as he adapts to life and misses those that he has left behind. | English | NL | 1b70ad62a9d479303126e81f1dbdd35b69537a1cba4bb666d2cae06e0eb4bb3f |
The Liberation of Prometheus is a prose text which Heiner Müller has dropped into his play, Cement, like an erratic block - a real stumbling block for the theater which cannot do it justice with ordinary theatrical methods. Whether I can manage it, I don't know; but I'm trying - with independent musical means which, in the hierarchy of expressiveness, are not beneath the text but equal to it (with song forms, collages, flashbacks and the kind of editing used in films) - to make at least two things audible:
- the great fascination I feel at the unbelievable dimensions of work and time, filth and stench in the text,
- and the new (since André Gide and Kafka) political perspectives of myth interpretation with which Müller humorously and incisively endows the double character of Prometheus: as the fire-stealing benefactor of mankind and the privileged guest at the table of the gods.
This enables me to make analogous association with other texts by Heiner Müller (for example from his play Der Auftrag) and let Prometheus drop 10000 years down (or up) as a mid-level employee in an elevator on his way to see the boss. Acceptance of oppression, nostalgia for the elevator, a longing for the beloved eagle on the rock, - all these are stronger than the quest for altered living conditions.
The Liberation of Prometheus
Prometheus, who brought lightning to the humans, but did not teach them how to use it against the gods because he sat at the gods' table and their meals would have been less sumptuous if shared with the humans, was, either on account of his action or his omission, and on order of the gods, fastened by Hephaestus the smith to the Caucasus, where every day a dog-headed eagle returned to his constantly regenerating liver to feed. The eagle, which considered him to be a partly edible rock formation capable of small movements and, especially when being eaten, of discordant song, emptied his bowels over him. The faeces were his nourishment. He passed them, in the form of his own faeces, on to the rock below, and so when, after three thousand years, Herakles, his liberator, reached the top of the unpopulated mountains, he was able, even from a great distance, to make out the prisoner, glistening white with bird faeces. But, repelled again and again by the wall of stench, he circled the massif for another three thousand years, while the dog-headed eagle fed off the liver of the prisoner, so that the stench grew to the degree that the liberator became accustomed to it. At last, helped by a rain which lasted five hundred years, Herakles managed to approach within shooting range. He held his nose with one hand. He missed the eagle three times for, stupefied by the wave of stench which struck him, he took his hand away from his nose to stretch his bow and involuntarily closed his eyes. The third arrow wounded the prisoner slightly on his left foot, and the fourth killed the eagle. Prometheus, it is told, wept aloud for the eagle, his only companion in three thousand years and his provider for twice three thousand. Am I supposed to eat your arrows, he cried out, forgetting that he had known other food: Can you fly, peasant, with your feet of dung. And he vomited from the stable smell which had clung to Herakles since he had cleaned out the stables of Augeas, because the dung stank to high heaven. Eat the eagle, Herakles said. But Prometheus could not grasp the meaning of his words. He also knew full well that the eagle had been his last link to the gods, its daily pecking his remembrance of them. More flexible' than ever in his chains, he cursed his liberator, called him a murderer and tried to spit in his face. Meanwhile, Herakles, bent double with nausea, looked for the fetters which bound the raging Prometheus to his prison. Time, weather and faeces had made the flesh indistinguishable from the metal, and both indistinguishable from the rock. Now, loosened by the more violent movements of the prisoner, the fetters became discernible. It turned out that they had been eaten by rust. Only at his sex had the chain grown together with the flesh because Prometheus had, at least during his first two thousand years on the rock, occasionally masturbated. Later he must have forgotten even his sex. The liberation left a scar. Prometheus could easily have freed himself if he had not been afraid of the eagle, unarmed and exhausted from the millenia though he was. His behaviour during the liberation shows that he feared freedom more than the bird. Roaring and foaming at the mouth, he defended his chains with tooth and claw against the grip of his liberator. Once liberated, he howled on his hands and knees from the torment of trying to crawl with his numb limbs, and he cried out for his quiet place on the rock beneath the wings of the eagle, where nothing moved unless shaken by an occasional earthquake decreed by the gods. Even after he was able to walk upright again, he struggled against the descent like an actor who does not want to leave the stage. Herakles had to hump him down from the mountain on his shoulders. The descent to the humans lasted a further three thousand years. While the gods rooted up the mountains, so that the descent to the humans was more like a plunge, Herakles carried his precious booty snuggled like a baby against his chest. Clinging to the liberator's neck, Prometheus indicated in a low voice the direction of the projectiles, so that they were able to dodge most of them. Meanwhile, screaming loudly to the heavens darkened by whirl of rocks, he declared his innocence in the liberation. There followed the suicide of the gods. One after the other they hurled themselves down from the heavens onto Herakles back and shattered in the rubble. Prometheus worked his way back onto the shoulders of his liberator and assumed the pose of the victor who rides in on a sweat-bathed horse to meet the cheers of the people.
(Heiner Müller: Zement. © Henschel Verlag Schauspiel, Berlin, vertreten durch den Verlag der Autoren, Frankturt/Main)
1 January 2000 | English | NL | f37babee05c486e5a6335ce70ff867136c58a8002bf8e20b8c95dbefb091b896 |
For different reasons I have neglected this blog for quite a while. But maybe it is now time to start with it once again. I have now deleted a lot of the old texts because they were somehow outdated or I have lost interest in these topics at the moment. Only the short song histories about "Corrina, Corinna" and "Alberta" have been left and hope I can revise them some day soon. Most of what I have written can now be found on my regular website Justanothertune.com. I am particularly interested in researching the histories of old popular songs (or "folksongs"). Some song histories, for example about "The Water Is Wide", " Brennan On The Moor", "Farewell To Tarwathie", "Mary Of The Wild Moor" have been posted on that site. And the moment I am once again very busy with a particularly interesting song family, the one that is today mostly represented by "Eileen Aroon" but also includes "Robin Adair", one of the greatest popular hits of the 19th century .
This particular group of songs had a very fascinating history and there are already three relevant articles on my site. About three years ago I put together an attempt at a systematic overview of the British and American tradition from the early 18th century to the early 20th century. :
At some point I noted that this tune had also been very popular in Germany. There were different new texts, different translations and also a couple of new tunes for some of these texts. It even became - as "Heimat, Ade!" - a standard in songbooks for schools. In fact It is not unlikely that my grandmother sang this song. The article about "Robin Adair" in Germany is still in the works but I have already posted nearly six chapters and hope to be ready soon.
While working on this topic I was also somehow surprised to learn that Robert Burns must have been immensely popular in the German speaking countries during the 19th century. There were a lot of translations and many of them were then set to music by numerous composers. Burns had written two new poems to the tune of "Robin Adair", at first "Phillis The Fair" and then "Had I A Cave". These texts were of course also translated into German and then at least 18 times published with a new tune. A preliminary list can be found here:
It seems to me that "Robin Adair" was an early example for what now would be called an "international hit". Besides Britain, North America and Germany (as well as Switzerland and Austria) this tune was also regularly published in France - after Boieldieu had used it in his opera La Dame Blanche - as well as in Italy and I assume in other countries, too. But I am not sure if I should investigate these lines of traditions in more detail. The British and German histories of this song family will surely keep me very busy for quite a while. | English | NL | b5f13d9c8755dce6e140507ed197af0e979fd066b082f95849661f85896b47cd |
Rosa is a timid lady who has had a sorry time of it.
Poor Rosa came back into our care as she was suffering from stress and anxiety, it turned out this was due to her suffering from previously undetected bladder stones which were uncomfortable, leading to her temperament changing.
She is now on a special diet designed to help keep her PH level balanced and prevent the build up of any future stones. She will need to remain on this specialist diet and our vet also recommends that a urinary analysis is carried out every three to six months and medical imaging (ultrasound) every six to twelve months to detect recurrent stones when small to permit their removal without surgery. Any new owner would have to be happy to take this on.
Then how about these wee beauties... | English | NL | 009b0538ea1281c4de59755ae284584ec1cfd3ecdb1265319623a820f679616a |
how many surgeons does it take to remove a polish screwdriver?
■ A Polish man impaled his head on a screwdriver, but only realized it later, when he saw himself in his rear-view mirror. “I don’t remember what happened that day,” said the 25-year-old, who doesn’t want to be named. “At some point when I was working in my garden I slipped and fell down.” Only later, after feeling some pain, did the man notice he had a screwdriver in his forehead. Surgeons removed the tool, which went in two inches deep but somehow missed his brain. | English | NL | 044d0ab7883834b026b5c11e22d8edf4008675a2b79bad55fe31dcea8c9fa085 |
Audience members may well see Stanley as an egalitarian hero at the play’s start. He is loyal to his friends and passionate to his wife. Stanley possesses an animalistic physical vigor that is evident in his love of work, of fighting, and of sex. His family is from Poland, and several times he expresses his outrage at being called “Polack” and other derogatory names. When Blanche calls him a “Polack,” he makes her look old-fashioned and ignorant by asserting that he was born in America, is an American, and can only be called “Polish.” Stanley represents the new, heterogeneous America to which Blanche doesn’t belong, because she is a relic from a defunct social hierarchy. He sees himself as a social leveler, as he tells Stella in Scene Eight.
Stanley’s intense hatred of Blanche is motivated in part by the aristocratic past Blanche represents. He also (rightly) sees her as untrustworthy and does not appreciate the way she attempts to fool him and his friends into thinking she is better than they are. Stanley’s animosity toward Blanche manifests itself in all of his actions toward her—his investigations of her past, his birthday gift to her, his sabotage of her relationship with Mitch.
In the end, Stanley’s down-to-earth character proves harmfully crude and brutish. His chief amusements are gambling, bowling, sex, and drinking, and he lacks ideals and imagination. His disturbing, degenerate nature, first hinted at when he beats his wife, is fully evident after he rapes his sister-in-law. Stanley shows no remorse for his brutal actions. The play ends with an image of Stanley as the ideal family man, comforting his wife as she holds their newborn child. The wrongfulness of this representation, given what we have learned about him in the play, ironically calls into question society’s decision to ostracize Blanche. | English | NL | 89f9dead67fd091114d2e47bcd5dfdf26c7100e48b9527048cf258ce3d889f5c |
When St. Mary’s University School of Law brought back the evening law program in 2007, the idea was to attract talented, motivated students who would be able to balance their professional lives with the demands of law school. The program, which just finished its fourth year, has not only done that, it also produced the top graduate for the Class of 2011, Bernie Kray.
The evening program – which early in the history of the School of Law was the only option – now accounts for a quarter of the School of Law’s student body. This time around, the evening program was designed as an option for students with significant work experience who needed or wanted to keep working while attending law school.
“The evening program is a difficult one,” said Dean Charles E. Cantú. “It requires a different set of skills to balance fulltime careers with legal education. These students not only excel in the classroom, but are involved in extracurricular activities such as the Clinical Program, the Advocacy Program and the scholarly journals.”
This spring, the St. Mary’s School of Law Foundation awarded scholarships to the top students in each class, two of whom were evening students (Kray for the third-year class and Viera Buzgova, for the second-year class). Several evening students were staff writers and editors in the St. Mary’s Law Journal and The Scholar, including Kray, Tiffany House, Alicia Calzada, Carolyn Rangel and Sarah Minter. Some, including Nicole Hines-Glover and Marion Reilly, have excelled in the advocacy programs.
“I was really impressed with the level of my fellow students,” said Alicia Calzada, a successful photojournalist who completed the program in December and passed the bar in February. She remained an evening student throughout her education, but took summer courses and internship credits to finish early. “It was an intelligent group that was already so accomplished. I enjoyed getting to know them.”
“Faculty members have stated one reason theynenjoy teaching evening students is they are very hard workers who understand clearly the reasons they are in law school,” said Michael Ariens, professor of law, who served as Assistant Dean of Evening Studies for the program’s first four years.
By the midpoint of their legal educations, many students accelerate into the full-time day program and take leave from full-time careers. The flexible program encourages students to fulfill their legal education in a way that fits their routines and professions.
Richard Johnston, a certified public accountant for Valero, was looking to beef up his résumé with an advanced degree, but not a drastic career change. Johnston, a California transplant, graduated from the University of Texas at San Antonio and had already completed a career in the U. S. Air Force and worked in public accounting before joining Valero.
“I’m an older student; I knew where I was going at the end of the day,” Johnston said. But balancing a fulltime career had its ups and downs. “Some days were worse than others. Once you get past the initial shock of going back to the classroom, it becomes tolerable. You realize you can do it. It is tough, but doable.”
The sentiment is echoed by Kray, who also had a career in the U.S. Air Force. He earned his undergraduate degree in telecommunications from the University of Denver and was a technical support engineer for Qwest Communications when he came to St. Mary’s. Kray chose the evening program to continue his career while studying law. “I wanted to hedge my bets and didn’t want to quit my job with the economy,” said Kray. “After my first semester I realized, ‘I can do this’ and took advantage of a layoff opportunity at my company.”
While no longer working fulltime, Kray chose not to accelerate into the day program, but decided to concentrate on academic activities like the St. Mary’s Law Journal and fine tuning legal skills through experiential internships. At the journal, he spent a year as a staff writer and last year served as articles editor. He worked as law clerk at Davis, Cedillo & Mendoza from August 2009 to July 2010 and as legal research assistant for law professor Chenglin Liu. Kray also did a stint as a judicial intern with Judge Edward Prado, U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit. In his home life, Kray got married three weeks before beginning law school and now has one son.
Johnston worked with St. Mary’s Academic Support program tutoring first-year law students for two years. He was the lone evening student who took on clinic hours in the Criminal Justice Clinic, and all the while continued working full-time at Valero.
“The faculty was very accommodating. I was working on an acquisition in Europe and they worked with me through that as I traveled out of the country,” Johnston said. Like most of his classmates, he has spent this summer studying for the July bar. “The School of Law did a great job providing the evening curriculum with all the core classes and making sure we had a core education to prepare us for the bar. The other side of that is we didn’t get the opportunity to take some of the electives we would have liked to take, but there are only so many hours and so many professors,” Johnston said.
The same scheduling challenges face the new graduates as they study for the bar. Johnston takes his bar preparation course online and does an hour at lunch and a couple hours at night.
After passing the bar, Kray hopes to concentrate in intellectual property law and Johnston may move into a more legal position within his company. Calzada continues working as a photojournalist with her established clients, but the only new clients she accepts these days have legal issues.
Calzada was inspired to go to law school after working closely with the National Press Photographers Association on issues that photographers face, such as access to sporting events, harassment while shooting in public areas and First Amendment rights. Now, the National Press Photographers Association is her first client. In the fall she will be doing contract work for an attorney who concentrates on photographer issues as well.
“I learned as a photographer how many legal needs I had and now I am really excited to be in a position to help photographers,” Calzada said. “This is what I envisioned when I started law school and now I’m doing it.” | English | NL | c255f17bd58397684b273675a229a5a2cba4f705931dcc194d40e570a816fc41 |
One of the greatest and most peculiar SF writers has died. Henry Farrell’s post at Crooked Timber is a concise look back:
I preferred his early novels, and (even more) his short stories to his later work. I read “The Voices of Time” (probably in one of the old Spectrum SF collections) when I was seven or eight, and didn’t understand it at all, but somehow, it caught me and haunted me. Much of his later work read like different versions of the same novel. But they were often very funnyhis over the top plotlines with their garden-turned-into-chaos and insane reformer-cum-dictator-wannabes were intended to be satirical. I have a particular fondness for Super-Cannes, if only because of how it jumps up and down in glee on the corpse of the notion of social capital. His work had its problemsmost obviously in its depiction of women which was at best chilly, at worst rather worse than that. But he was genuinely a great writer, in the sense that Borges described Kafka as being a great writerhe created his own precursors (but these summoned ancestors were to be found less in literature as such than in what he perceptively called “invisible literature”all the bureaucratic forms and minutiae that define our lives). We all live in the decaying aftermath of the Space Age that he, better perhaps than anyone else, described. If he was a novelist who was better at describing landscapes and extreme social situations than people, he captured, as a result, something important about an era in which individuality simply doesn’t mean as much as it once seemed to. There are bits of the world (and not-unimportant ones) that are Ballardianif you’ve read him, you experience the shock of recognition when you see them. | English | NL | c81f27d9c26ad1fca03a0cbac8933e8d847d2aa50383d8c8e4b6064b47472d30 |
Monday 22 September 1662
Up betimes among my workmen, hastening to get things ready against my wife’s coming, and so with Sir J. M., Sir W. B., and Sir W. P., by coach to St. James’s, and there with the Duke. I did give him an account of all things past of late; but I stood in great pain, having a great fit of the colic, having catched cold yesterday by putting off my stockings to wipe my toes, but at last it lessened, and then I was pretty well again, but in pain all day more or less. Thence I parted from them and walked to Greatorex’s, and there with him did overlook many pretty things, new inventions, and have bespoke a weather glass of him. Thence to my Lord Crew’s, and dined with the servants, he having dined; and so, after dinner, up to him, and sat an hour talking with him of publique, and my Lord’s private businesses, with much content. So to my brother Tom’s, where Mr. Cooke expected me, and did go with me to see Mr. Young and Mr. Lull in Blackfryers, kindred of Tom’s mistress, where I was very well used, and do find things to go in the business to my good content. Thence to Mr. Townsend, and did there talk with Mr. Young himself also, and then home and to my study, and so to my lodgings and to bed. | English | NL | 108b15ae77e5cf488c0bbbeeccc586dd0d5607aa1f3372c6f7a99c0ea9bb7a1f |
Like all Time Lords, Andro was taken from his family at the age of eight for the selection process in the Drylands. Staring into the Untempered Schism as part of a Time Lord initiation rite, Andro was inspired by what he saw in the Schism. (PROSE: A Brief History of Time Lords) After graduating from the Academy, Andro eventually worked on TARDISes.
Behind the scenes Edit
Andro was never referred to by name during his brief on screen appearance. | English | NL | d10907623eb3143d0d809a01d32db1bc960d0ea1386883dce91b1efe8a963711 |
Alexi Morgan, a talented artist, was busy painting away at her new piece of artwork, a wolf running through the snow. It had been some time since Alexi started painting again. She had to thank her Cherokee friend, Jake Standing Deer Richards, for him convincing her to not let her talent go to waste.
When she finally did start painting again sometime back, Jake made her a pendant to celebrate her first sale after all that time had passed. The pendant was a stunning Lapis nugget surrounded by a silver wolf. When she inquired why he had chosen the wolf he explained to her that he had chosen it because he was her totem animal and her teacher. She admitted that she did have dreams of a wolf and he was always running. She didn't know what that had meant to her, but she was determined to paint the beautiful image that had appeared numerous times in her dreams.
What happened when Alexi finished painting the wolf running in the snow? What other information did Jake tell Alexi about her teacher, the wolf? Who was the wolf to Jake? Did the wolf have any significant meaning to Jake? Why?
I really enjoyed this short story by Ms. Acone. I absolutely loved the idea of the story being wrapped around a beautiful looking wolf. I am an avid lover of wolves myself, among many other animals, and there was just something magical that I felt while reading this story. I would recommend this story for others to read and I would definitely look into other stories by Ms. Acone.
A wolf is being drawn by voices on the wind to a place he's never been or seen, miles from his home. At the same time, wildlife artist Alexi Morgan is working on a painting of a wolf running through the snow, seemingly drawing on snippets from her dreams. The further along in her painting she gets, the closer the wolf gets to Alexi. By the time she's finished, the painting has taken on a life of it's own. Can this really be a time when art really imitates life? | English | NL | 4d01eefae39966db87883135de675c6fe68c310276cadba3e36cadf5e96999f9 |
But this command I gave them: ‘Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people. And walk in all the way that I command you, that it may be well with you.’ Yet they did not obey nor incline their ear, but followed the counsels and the dictates of their evil hearts, and went backward and not forward. From the day that your fathers came out of the land of Egypt to this day, I have persistently sent all my servants the prophets to them, day after day. -Jeremiah 7:23-25
In Jeremiah 7 God is begging the Israelites to return to Him. They had forgotten Him, disobeyed Him, and disregarded His power.
God brought them out of Egypt, and destroyed their enemies, but soon after He gave them the law and the ten commandments, they built a golden calf symbolizing their rebellion against God.
Every generation since had the choice to return to God, but more times than not, they didn’t. That was high treason against God.
Despite everything they had done, God wanted them to come back to Him. So He sent prophet after prophet to point out their sin and point them back to Him.
They didn’t listen, but instead listened to their hearts, and did what they wanted. They didn’t want to walk uprightly. Instead they walked upside down.
Their view of the world was inaccurate. Every thought they had was upside down. It was impossible for them to see forward to where their rebellion was going to end up, but God was trying to warn them through Jeremiah the prophet. Soon after, however, they were taken into captivity.
Every way of a man is right in his own eyes,
But the Lord weighs the hearts. -Proverbs 21:2
We are no different than the Israelites. We too have committed high treason against God.
We like to do what we think is best. The problem is, we don’t know what is best; we only think we do. God made us. He knows what is best. He has told us what is right and what is not.
If we would listen to Him and walk uprightly, we would see clearly where our path is going. If we would obey, we would avoid the things that hurt us. We need to stop walking upside down.
But the choice is still ours. Will we choose to walk upside down or right side up? | English | NL | 62d294d491f75a98b948e1cc86426d9f0449051b3a4e442170b604600688d393 |
We left at 9am today as the boat was so rough and rocky yesterday. We were all looking out for birds as these would lead us to the herring, and then the orca. There was also an opening in the sky, showing a beautiful sunrise. We quickly found some fishing boats and pods of orca feeding from them, and before long two humpbacks arrived as well! The waves were crashing against the boat and the snow and sleet was really hammering down!
Tonight we had an informal chat with a Norwegian orca survey team, who study the whales’ behaviour. They study their eating patterns, travel routes and the particular tail-slaps which they use to stun herring. By documenting the orcas’ fins and saddle patches, they can even tell individuals apart. We were also told a story about an orca getting stuck in a fishermen’s net during a hunt, after which the rest of the pod stopped chasing the herring and tried to free the trapped orca from the net; unfortunately, their efforts weren’t enough, and the orca died. The team went on to talk about their tagging of orcas, and their contributions to the footage used in Blue Planet II. They also study how old orcas live for, with the best current estimate being around 75 for females and 65 for males.
We also watched some of Pat’s drone footage, and you can the big male orcas doing a non-enthusiastic “pre-slap” when hunting the herring ball... This behaviour has not been scientifically explained, so we discuss possible theories: are they teaching young calves how to tail-slap themselves, or maybe tricking the herring into thinking they’ve been spared so they don’t expect a second, much more forceful slap? Whatever the case, it’s been really fascinating to talk about the orcas with people who know so much about them, and be lucky enough to witness some as yet undescribed behaviour! | English | NL | 84b47b33eabe230d9f7ab06f88de2840b88b37152ad77807283802044631fc82 |
We've been working hard in 3rd Grade! I really am enjoying teaching this group of kids. There are a couple of friends that are challenging but that's how it is every year. Here is a peek at what we did this week.
The kiddos picked their first story to publish last week. Before we get to revising I decided we needed to go over complete sentences. So I began by making an anchor chart together with the kids on subjects and predicates.
Then they had to read their first draft and look for a sentence that had a subject and underline it in red and look for a predicate and underline it in pencil. The next day we used the Complete and Incomplete Sentence Sort from my Sentences Supplemental Activities Pack. Table groups worked together to sort the sentences.
You can see this group almost got it right. After they sorted them they had to discuss what the subject and predicate were of the complete sentences. I gave them a test from my pack at the end of the week and most of them did well which made me really happy! I can always refer back to these lessons when we write to make sure they are writing complete sentences.
In Reading we worked on story elements. To model it I used the story Oliver Button is a Sissy because we had already read it for making connections. We used the hamburger to organize the different elements. Throughout the week the kids worked on their own hamburger using the book Little Grunt and the Big Egg. I just love that book!
I will be returning to story elements and plot development but realized that I really need to go over inferring first so they can analyze characters and how they develop. So on Friday I did the trash lesson from Comprehension Connections and the thinking stems.
(I wish I would have remembered to take a picture of the trash.) If you haven't read this book it's a must for hooks before teaching the reading strategies. The kids had a ball making inferences about the trash so I know this lesson will stick with them. Inferences is my favorite reading strategy and I can't wait to do more next week. Well I hope you enjoyed looking in at some of the things we did this week. I realized that next time I need more pics of the activities in action. I have a busy weekend ahead of me and I hope you all have a great one!
Labels: Language Arts, Reading | English | NL | 8ca5c9f3b2fa3b8643f5e95453610610aef7d531496216c28c4ff8a9c8e695da |
Here’s an excerpt from another work in progress. This is from a short book (novella) I’m working on called The Nightingale’s Angel. It follows the exploits of the Eldara twins Ingrid and Ashley during the Crimean War in the 1850’s. I hope you enjoy this sneak peek.
Ingrid banked and swooped lower over the field of battle, the wind sweeping past her wings lifting her up as she soared. The Valkyrie sought a particular individual on the British side at the Battle of Inkerman, a man who had served with honor and bravery. He made the ultimate sacrifice by leaping into a desperate struggle between a comrade and a pair of advancing Russian soldiers. His action had saved his friend’s life but had exposed himself to the advancing bayonets of the enemy. He had perished but also accomplished his goal, to save his friend’s life. The Valkyrie’s wings flared as she alighted on the ground next to a shimmering figure standing next to a fallen soldier. He looked to his left as she approached but his expression of sorrow did not change and he looked back down at the body at his feet.
It was late evening over the battlefield at Inkerman. The field between Shell Hill on the Russian side of the lines and Home Ridge, where the British 2nd Division held their lines, was littered with dead and wounded as the evening fog began to settle after a day of hard fighting. Ingrid thought the view spectacular as she had soared over the carnage. Many men had distinguished themselves that day, earning themselves a place of honor in the afterlife. Some called their next life Valhalla, others Heaven, still others final enlightenment. It was a place where those who distinguished themselves during life found themselves escorted at the end of their days.
“Corporal Calvin Smith,” Ingrid began, her voice low but heard over the raucous calls of the carrion birds. Your service today was noticed.”
The young British corporal looked over at her, now standing next to him. “I don’t see Cawley’s body here. The last I remember I saw him driven to his knees before two Russian soldiers. I tried to stop them from slaying him. Did I succeed?”
“You did, Calvin,” Ingrid replied. “David Cawley will grow old and die surrounded by a wife, children, and grandchildren after a long and fruitful life. He will name his eldest child Calvin after you. He will tell everyone who will listen about you, the man who saved his life here at Inkerman Field.”
“And I?” The soldier’s shade asked looking her way again.
“You will sit at a table of honor in my Father’s house reserved for all those who served their comrades honorably in battle. There you will await the day of final battle. when you will be called upon to serve with your new comrades to defend the light against the darkness.”
Ingrid watched as he thought on that for a moment and then gave a nod of affirmation. She invoked her one of her runic tattoos and opened a portal there before the shade. The doorway to Valhalla began as a pinpoint of light that expanded outward to form a perfect circle nearly seven feet across. The light and warmth from the other side could be felt by Ingrid and she knew that even the incorporeal shade could sense it too.
“You only have to walk through to take you place with the heroes of all time, including the heroes past, present, and future,” Ingrid said. Her wings flared wide and she gestured towards the portal. “It will only open this once for you. You must decide, Calvin.”
Calvin looked at her and smiled. The light from the other side shined on his face and he turned and took a step through the circular opening to the next world. The moment he stepped through the portal, it winked shut, leaving the Valkyrie alone again in the valley. She cast her senses around and then with a mighty flap of her wings, launched herself aloft to return to her search of the lost on the battlefield below.
Check back here on the blog often as I’ll be sharing other sections from this book as I go through and edit it. The plan is to release this around October 1, 2016. | English | NL | 8790ccadcf65de7d1de0ce1bb7cc34cf1827dfc7148cc4d1abb00850f853ca9f |
Miriam and Aaron Speak Against Moses
1 And Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Ethiopian woman whom he had taken; for he had taken a Cushite as wife. 2 And they said, Has Jehovah indeed spoken only to Moses? has he not spoken also to us? And Jehovah heard it. 3 But the man Moses was very meek, above all men that were upon the face of the earth. 4 Then Jehovah spoke suddenly to Moses, and to Aaron, and to Miriam, Come out ye three unto the tent of meeting. And they went out, they three. 5 And Jehovah came down in the pillar of the cloud, and stood at the entrance of the tent, and called Aaron and Miriam; and they both came forth. 6 And he said, Hear now my words: If there be a prophet among you, I Jehovah will make myself known to him in a vision, I will speak to him in a dream. 7 Not so my servant Moses: he is faithful in all my house. 8 Mouth to mouth do I speak to him openly, and not in riddles; and the form of Jehovah doth he behold. Why then were ye not afraid to speak against my servant, against Moses? 9 And the anger of Jehovah was kindled against them, and he went away; 10 and the cloud departed from off the tent. And behold, Miriam was leprous as snow; and Aaron turned toward Miriam, and behold, she was leprous. 11 Then Aaron said to Moses, Alas, my lord, I beseech thee, lay not this sin upon us, wherein we have been foolish, and have sinned! 12 Let her not be as one stillborn, half of whose flesh is consumed when he comes out of his mother’s womb. 13 And Moses cried to Jehovah, saying, O GOD, heal her, I beseech thee! 14 And Jehovah said to Moses, But had her father anyways spat in her face, should she not be shamed seven days? She shall be shut outside the camp seven days, and afterwards she shall be received in again. 15 And Miriam was shut outside the camp seven days; and the people did not journey till Miriam was received in again. 16 And afterwards the people journeyed from Hazeroth, and encamped in the wilderness of Paran. | English | NL | 13ec5f0479995a8cf7271000af3ef103838e09cdab840173f3d9d727cd951250 |
Beverly Glenn Copeland (with Indigo Rising)
“There was a generosity to the performance that afternoon that was as rare as it was overwhelming. And there was a deep and rare honesty. He sang spirituals, and he sang openly of the spirit. He drummed on African hand drums and electronic pads. He sang Onward And Upward. He revealed the mischievous tenderness that made him such a beloved entertainer for children (having appeared for years on the Mr. Dressup show). He addressed us directly as a trans person while celebrating a multiplicity of heritage, and acknowledged the reality of pain and struggle by telling us how encouraged he was by the young people of today. And he sang, in an incomparable voice.”
– Steven Lambke, Sappyfest
New Age & Folk Jazz pioneer Beverly Glenn Copeland is already known amongst collectors and music heads for two sought-after albums of folky jazz in the key of Joni. But it was this album, Keyboard Fantasies, originally self-released on cassette in 1986 that really caught peoples attention. The album, entirely recorded on DX-7 and TR-707, lies somewhere between digital new-age and (accidentally) early Detroit techno experiments. The inimitable style of BGC here is both peaceful and meditative while simultaneously rhythmic and bass heavy. The album was recorded in the northern Canadian town of Huntsville where BGC was living at the time and is a beautiful fusion of personal vision, technology and place. It is not surprising that Red Bull Music Academy, Sappy Fest, Suoni Per Il Popolo, Kazoo Fest invited him to perform following a re-release.
Beverly Glenn Copeland, born into a family all of whom were very musical, essentially studied the classical piano repertoire from ‘cradlehood,’ listening to his father playing the piano four to five hours a day. He went on to study classical music at McGill, and then after a few years of concertizing, he felt called to write music that would weave all the different musical cultures he had come to love together.
During his life thus far, Glenn has written a large body of music for adults, music for film, four musicals for children, recorded six albums of his songs and been the recipient of composition awards from Canada Council, Ontario Arts Council, and Arts NB. His songs have been performed by various Canadian artists including Rita MacNeil and Jackie Richardson, as well as by the Toronto Pops Orchestra under the direction of David Warrack.
Concurrent with writing compositions for adults, Glenn wrote music for children’s television programs in England, Canada, and the U.S. He also had the wonderful opportunity to spend twenty-five years entertaining kids as a regular actor on the Mr. Dress-Up Show.
After many years of absence from the concert stage, Glenn has resumed performing with his new band, Indigo Rising, in Canada and Europe. With great joy and appreciation, Glenn acknowledges his deep connection with the younger generations that are now so enthusiastically embracing his music. | English | NL | e3912741987a7e96c9dd91f39c591eb4dd1c5ad0688a199222092a34bb071179 |
Pointers to Help You Get a Companion in Essex
One of the things that you should know is that it is important to choose the right set of companion who will help make sure that you do it right so that it can serve the purpose that you intend. If you want to be in better hands, it is best to choose someone who works with an organization. Agents have rules that they have to follow. The last thing that you need is to get someone without the ground rules it will be hard to plan your day.It is important that you get someone who already has the basic rules so that you plan your day. Here are some tips to help you when hiring the expert.
In case you are working on a budget it is best to choose someone working with a rate that you can afford. You might be wondering what affects the rates you should be aware it is looks as well as experience. However, you should know that this does not imply that the expensive attendant is the best. By no means does this mean that getting an expensive companion is the best. You should test the various organizations and compare their prices.
The time that you will be spending together is also another thing that you should put in mind. You should know that most of the rates are per hours and the time mainly depends on your budget.
Why No One Talks About Professionals Anymore
The other thing that should help you choose is her appearance. It is best to ensure that you spend your time with a person whose appearance pleases you. You need to make sure that you are confident about the appearance as there are some sites that lie about how the companion looks. Some will change the appearance of the companion by using photo editing tool. This is the reason that it is best to meet the person you have in mind before making the decision. That way you can be sure that you will not have a different person in your service.
A Quick History of Dates
When you are choosing an agency, make sure that you get the one that checks the health of the companion. This is paramount so that you do not get someone who is sick. Do not just choose any company find the one that is licensed. Doing this is important as it will help make sure that you do not get involved with illegal acts. All agencies have their conditions, and you should ensure that you have read them before going into this venture. The one thing that you should do is review the terms that you do not like. You should also read the comments and the reviews left by the previous clients. | English | NL | b07ddaa965d74bb0251809c5743fb0ecef1c40307c06bd4895910c6f5b05b595 |
The road to Damascus forever changed Saul’s life. He had lived his entire 33 years on the path that he thought was serving God. He was trying, to the best of his ability, to eliminate this new and growing group of people “belonging to the Way” (Acts 9:2b) and that was the purpose of his travel at the time of the interruption that changed his life and gave him his new name—Paul.
There are so many ways Jesus could have “scolded” Paul, but He did not. As He did so many times, Jesus posed a question.
Jesus did not need to prove He was right or explain himself. Jesus was looking upon His creation, Paul, and interrupted at the perfect time to get him on the path for which he was created.
Paul moved eagerly into the life he was created to live, writing almost half of the New Testament and planting twenty churches.
With this question — “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?”— seven words brought truth into Saul’s life for the very first time and changed him forever. How beautiful!
The right question at the right time can be life changing.
When Jeff asked me “have you ever asked God what He thought you should do?” this brought truth into my own life, possibly for the first time for me as well. My life was interrupted and Jeff, just like Jesus, could have condemned me but he did not.
“For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:17).
Jesus also did this with Peter (Simon) after he had denied him. “He said to him a second time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” (John 21:16).
I believe Jesus used Jeff to bring truth into my life just like Jesus brought truth into Paul’s life. Sometimes a perfectly timed question can propel us toward the life God created us to live. We often need a nudge to live out the calling for our lives.
What question has been asked of you that propelled you into living the life God created you to live? | English | NL | d761e4683ddabaa32a67f2613803729d236de7fe338f26f0b995d856ccaeab16 |
We're in the last stretch of white able bodied Americans save the world (yes, I know it's longer than simply saying The Last Ship; however, it's a shit ton more accurate).
The seeds are now in Velleck's possession thanks to Fletcher's betrayal of the Americans. The episode begins with a somber memorial to all of the people lost in Fletcher's theft of the seeds. Master Chief is clearly injured and not doing well but gives Doc Rios a look when Doc asks about it. It's clear that Master Chief is ignoring his health in favour of hunting down the seeds. I hope that this doesn't mean that Jeter's character is going to be killed off, we've already lost too many characters of colour this season.
Velleck is pleased to have the seeds but recognises that because Fletcher's cover has been blown, this means that Tom will be hunting him down. For her part, Lucia plays up the role of spurned woman to the hilt and vows to take care of Chandler himself. Has this woman never heard of a one night stand? Tom didn't promise her ever lasting love. Velleck orders Lucia to take Fletcher to his room but warns her not to get to friendly with him. Yes, you can and should read that as lowkey slut shaming. Velleck however is less pleased with Giorgio, who he sees as a continual fuck up and has no problems comparing him to his brother. Unsurprisingly, Giorgio does not take his father's criticism well and decides to rush back to his home and throw a party. Giorgio is nothing if not predictable.
As with every other episode, the characters all have to confirm that whatever plan of action Tom comes up with is perfect. This week, the task falls to Meylan, who admits that Tom was right about using Giorgio as a conduit to Vellek. It wouldn't be The Last Ship without a moment of Tom worship. Tom wants to kidnap Giorgio to steal his key to get into the room he snuck into earlier. Fortunately for Tom, Giorgio's place is located next to a 2,000 year old landmark and so they the crew of the Nathan James has no problem locating it.
Vellek, Lucia, Fletcher and Christos sit down for dinner. Christos is not at all pleased by the fact that Vellek made a deal with the U.K. for the seeds and points out that Vellek wouldn't have made it this far without the help of the Greek navy. Vellek tries to argue that Greece now has a powerful ally in the British but Christos is only interested in getting food for the nation state of Athens. Yes, the world has regressed so far that Greece has returned to having nation states. It's left to Lucia to soothe the tension in the room, greasing the way with an obvious display for feminine wiles, as Fletcher watches without comment. Lucia and Vellek then encourage Christos to eat some bread and drink. To anyone paying attention, it's obvious something is wrong with the bread.
As the team prepares to storm Giorgio's, Tom take a moment to comfort Sasha, suggesting that she did nothing wrong. Sasha however feels that Fletcher's actions prove that she has terrible taste in men. The away team lands on the island, only to discover Giorgio's party in full swing. This means a direct confrontation is off the cards, because to do so would mean risking innocent civilians. Hmmmm what to do? Why have a female character just strip down to a bikini that she just happens to be wearing under her wet suit. Yes, Azima is a gorgeous woman but is it necessary to sexualise her in this fashion?
Azima sashays into the party and predictably gets Giorgio's attention. Giorgio leads Azima back to his bedroom where she plays nice until the team arrives, allowing her to end the ruse. Giorgio's only comment is that Tom could have allowed him to finish, as if he actually had a legit shot with Azima. I seriously screamed at the television, "dude she is so out of your league". Sasha takes the key from Giorgio and gets to work transferring data to the Nathan James. Even though he's clearly in a tight spot, Giorgio begins throwing weight around by invoking his father and reminding Tom that Lucia wants revenge for what he did to her. Tom however will not be goaded into responding, even if Giorgio just blasted out his business to the crew. It's only when Giorgio brings up Fletcher's betrayal that he gets a response. Sasha forces Giorgio's head against a desk and puts a gun next to his ear. Giorgio loses a bit of his bravdo and calls out reminding Tom that they still need him and therefore cannot afford to kill him. It's clear that Tom sees Giorgio as the equivalent of a gnat but he does concede that for now at least, they still need Giorgio and so Tom calls Sasha off for now. | English | NL | c164d1eb3859ab291b8123a0f8fb4dcd1b4e42dff8b98b20a56c025739aba2d1 |
The Queens Museum, September 13 - October 26, 1986
Television’s Impact on Contemporary Art was just the right subject for my first project as a curator at the Queens Museum, a contemporary arts venue located in historic Flushing Meadows Park, where television first debuted as part of the 1939-1940 New York World's Fair. For fair-goers, television was an exciting part of "The World of Tomorrow" but it wasn’t until the 1950s that TV fully entered American life. It was my generation, the baby boomers born in the 1940s and 50s, that first grew up with television. For us it was a powerful force, the ever-present intermediate through which we learned about the world.
I witnessed the impact of television on the art world first-hand as an active participant in the conceptual art movement in the 1970s and in the East Village art scene of the 1980s. Artists began to use the technology of television when lightweight video cameras were introduced in the late 1960s, and by the 1970s "video art" displayed on TV monitors was a regular feature in galleries and museums. In the 1980s the impact of television could be seen in every creative media including painting, sculpture, photography, and performance. Artists used TV subject matter; they found inspiration in the light, color and pixelation of the TV screen; and some even worked directly with television consoles both as a form of decoration and commentary. The time was ripe for a show about the phenomenon. My immediate inspiration was the Television Show that my friend Tom Wolf curated at Bard College.
Since video art was often surveyed in exhibitions, I emphasized the less familiar ground of television’s influence on painting, photography, and other traditional, static mediums. The exhibition and catalog were organized chronologically but also included thematic sections such as "Media Overload," "Toward a New Abstraction" and "Into the Future. “Television's Impact was both a popular and critical success. The museum guards were especially happy because the exhibition coincided with the World Series triumph of our Flushing Meadow Park neighbor, the New York Mets, and they were able to watch the games on the televisions included in the exhibition.
Illustrations on front and back cover of catalogue by John Holmstrom. | English | NL | 1acf53d68c03805012c4e5841f7268add310c79e97c62f0e82ca93bfde5c9519 |
This was a survey of a timber yard located next to Streatham Common Station. The yard occupies a wedge-shaped plot of land adjacent to the station ticket hall and the platform.
Using our Leica 1200 series robotic total stations and GPS antenna, we established a network of control. We then surveyed the full detail using our HDS laser scanners. The timber yard is a working operation, and we were able to survey the area with minimum impact on the tenants and their clients. As all our surveyors are PTS qualified, we were also able to survey the station platform.
The final results were issued as AutoCAD dwg files of the topographical survey, cross-sections of the ground profile across the site and elevations of the yard and the adjacent station buildings. | English | NL | 1e220266f3cb01264e20c889ebcf9aaec6b7db135dfb60c057f1620efbdc5b32 |
The church of All Saints, originally of Norman foundation, was rebuilt in 1273 by the abbess and nuns of Godstow near Oxford, and was largely reconstructed early in the 15th century.
Abbesses have a right to demand absolute obedience of their nuns, over whom they exercise discipline, extending even to the power of expulsion, subject, however, to the bishop. As a female an abbess is incapable of performing the spiritual functions of the priesthood belonging to an abbot.
The mode of election, position, rights and authority of an abbess correspond generally with those of an abbot.
The abbess Hild and her monks recognized that the illiterate herdsman had received a gift from heaven, and, in order to test his powers, proposed to him that he should try to render into verse a portion of sacred history which they explained to him.
This office of abbess is of considerable social dignity, and is sometimes filled by princesses of the reigning houses.
Two slight innovations were introduced: the minimum age of an abbess was fixed at sixty, and the period of novitiate was prolonged from one year to two.
The scene of the legend now shifts to Rome, where Diocletian falls in love with a lovely nun named Ripsime; she, rather than gratify his passion, flees with her abbess Gaiana and several priests to Armenia.
The last abbess was Sophia Albertina (d.
The special feature of the institute was that the abbess ruled the monks as well as the nuns.
All that we know of his date is that his dream took place during the period (658-680) in which Hild was abbess of Streanwshalch, and that he must have died some considerable time before Bada finished his history in 731. | English | NL | 17cdb9625245615700c2fc60675f7716559764b7f08f1030c2b3597c0b2a4fcf |
The sons of Noah were named Shem, Ham and Japheth. These sons in turn became the fathers of children so that the descendants of Noah were very numerous.
One of these descendants, named Nimrod, was a mighty hunter and a man of power and authority in the land, and it has even been said that the people worshiped him as a god.
In those days men liked to build high towers reaching away up toward the heavens. Perhaps they were afraid of another flood, and perhaps they simply wished to show what they could do; but however that may be, ruins of towers can still be seen in various parts of the world, one of the most noted of which is that of the "Tower of Nimrod." It is forty feet high and stands on the top of a hill near the River Euphrates in Asia.
In the time of Nimrod, the people said, "Let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto Heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth." So they began to build the tower, and they made it very strong indeed, and kept raising it higher and higher toward the heavens, thinking, Jewish tradition, or story, tells us, that they would have a shelter in which they would be perfectly safe from any flood which might come, or any fire. There were some of the people also who wished to use the tower as a temple for the idols which they worshiped. Six hundred thousand men worked upon this wonderful tower, so the story goes on to say, and they kept up the work until the tower rose to a height of seventy miles, so that, toward the last, it took a year to get materials for the work up to the top where the laborers were employed. Of course this story is exaggerated, but without doubt the tower rose to a great height and was a wonderful piece of work.
God was not pleased with what the people were doing, however, because they thought themselves so great and powerful that they had no need of Him, and so He put an end to their bold plans.
Up to this time all the people of the world had spoken the same language; but now, when they were working upon this wonderful tower, they commenced to talk in different tongues so that they could not understand each other, and there was great confusion. Owing to this, they were obliged to give up the building of the tower, and they separated themselves into groups, or divisions, each division speaking the same language, and then they spread out over the world, forming the various nations.
The tower was called the Tower of Babel because of the babel, or confusion, of tongues which had taken place there, and it was left unfinished to be a monument of God's power and man's weakness without Him.
These men were skillful in building, else they never could have gone as far as they did in their stupendous work, and God was willing that they should exercise their skill, as He is willing that people shall do now; but when they thought themselves equal to Him, they learned how weak they really were in comparison. The story teaches the great lesson of dependence upon God and submission to His will and His laws.
Site copyright© 2002-2019, Surf-in-the-Spirit. All rights reserved. | English | NL | 121e71937f674c23834f83ab09ab08f74fbe02312c3e2d4340a37b703b25d5b4 |
Nikola Tesla is one of history’s most acclaimed scientists and engineers, a prolific inventor who transformed modern society.
Tesla is most widely known for his contributions to the development of the modern AC electric supply system and as an early pioneer of many of the technologies that shaped the second half of the 20th century.
Tesla was also an eccentric, known particularly for his showmanship, charisma, and talent when speaking in public.
However, throughout his life he struggled with mental health problems, most notably, a debilitating form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD).
Like many people with OCD, Tesla was particularly concerned with germs, cleanliness and avoiding disease.
According to Smithsonian Magazine, he obsessively washed his hands, and in his later life ensured that all his food was boiled before he would touch it.
He often refused to shake hands when he met someone, and usually wore gloves to avoid any physical contact with people he met.
He stated that this was due to his experience of seeing bacteria in his own drinking water through a microscope in his lab, commenting, “if you would only watch for a few minutes the horrible creatures, you would never again drink a drop of unboiled or unsterilized water.”
Tesla was also a famous night owl. He claimed to survive on just two hours sleep each night, although he often took short naps during the day too. He would work on experiments in his lab throughout the night, much to the distress of his neighbors, who were often kept awake by the strange noises that emanated from his house and regularly called the police out of concern for the famous scientist.
His lab assistants reported that he would often become so fatigued through an intense period of work and lack of sleep that he would simply collapse in the middle of his experiments and fall asleep at his desk. This chronic insomnia is likely to have exacerbated his struggles with his mental health.
Another one of Tesla’s particular quirks was a strange obsession with the number three. He would often engage in rituals that involved the number three, including his habit of walking three times around a building before entering it.
When dining he would fold 18 napkins before he started eating because 18 was divisible by three. Similarly, when arriving at a hotel, he always requested that his room number was divisible by three and specified that he required 18 fresh towels to be delivered every morning.
According to Smithsonian Magazine, in addition to boiling all of his food, he would also precisely determine the cubic mass of the food on his place, and then calculate the precise number of jaw movements required to digest it. He had a profound phobia of round objects, and could not remain in the company of a woman who was wearing earrings.
While these strange habits and rituals may appear comical, they evidence a man struggling with serious mental illness. Unfortunately, Tesla was born in a time and society that did not fully understand mental illness and his struggles with his own compulsive behavior.
Furthermore, mental illness appears to have run in his family, with both his father and brother displaying symptoms of schizophrenia and personality disorder. His father was known to have intense and violent arguments with himself, incarnating different personalities, and his brother experienced frequent and violent hallucinations.
Tesla himself also reported experiencing hallucinations, although he also attributed many of his scientific successes to the inspiration provided during these experiences. His idea for the AC motor, for example, was apparently inspired by a hallucination of flashing light and flames.
Tesla’s unusual habits and strange behavior were often minimized by his fans, who described them as mere eccentricities, and ridiculed by his critics, who considered him to be completely insane.
Although today we might consider Tesla a profound genius afflicted by serious mental illness, during his lifetime, the stigma surrounding these conditions meant that Tesla rarely found the help and support that he needed.
He died alone, in poverty and relative obscurity, a sad end for one of the most acclaimed inventors of the modern age. | English | NL | bf0f49b919a01522dae6a02e536300dc694f347a6438478f277035ea1e43678b |
Lost and broken, Celaena Sardothien’s only thought is to avenge the savage death of her dearest friend: as the King of Adarlan’s Assassin, she is bound to serve this tyrant, but he will pay for what he did. Any hope Celaena has of destroying the king lies in answers to be found in Wendlyn. Sacrificing his future, Chaol, the Captain of the King’s Guard, has sent Celaena there to protect her, but her darkest demons lay in that same place. If she can overcome them, she will be Adarlan’s biggest threat – and his own toughest enemy.
While Celaena learns of her true destiny, and the eyes of Erilea are on Wendlyn, a brutal and beastly force is preparing to take to the skies. Will Celaena find the strength not only to win her own battles, but to fight a war that could pit her loyalties to her own people against those she has grown to love?
Title: Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3)
Author: Sarah J. Maas
Publisher: Bloomsbury USA Children's
Publication Date: September 2, 2014
I want to thank Bloomsbury for sending me an advanced copy of this book to read and give an honest review. You cannot imagine the amount of squealing that went on when it arrived in the mail. Receiving this book for free has in no way altered my opinion or review.
***SPOILER ALERT*** If you have not read any of the books in this series, then this review will surely contain spoilers from the prequel novellas and the first two books. So I suggest you close this out and pick up <i>The Assassin's Blade</i> so you can find out what the awesomeness of these books is all about!
There is no way to keep this review short, or to do this book the justice it deserves. I don't even know where to start or how to do it without spoilers! But I will try my hardest to do it!
First I must talk about the awesome cover of this book. I have loved them all but this one is truly my favorite, Not sure if it's because of the color, or just the fact that Celaena looks so bad ass on it. And it shows her fae side, which I absolutely love because while we know she has been trouncing around as a human for so many years, her fae side becomes far more important than we would have ever realized.
I think my most favorite part of this book is that you get so many different points of view. I usually am not a fan of third person but it is the only way this book could make sense. And it is the only way Maas could have given us all the different elements we need to see as the plot of the book comes together. I love that she introduced new characters, once again. Characters that make us think and wonder what purpose they serve.
So we are once again thrown into Celaena's world as she tries her hardest to navigate Wendlyn and figure out how she will do the King's dirty work without getting her hands dirty. In <i>Crown of Midnight</i> we see that Celaena has no intention of getting her hands dirty at the request of the King, so it's not a surprise when we see that she has been hanging out in Wendlyn and has yet to do anything about the job she's been tasked with. But she has other plans, plans that Chaol must have known she'd come up with when he suggested to the king she be sent to take care of the royalty of Wendlyn. Calaena is focused on finding out more about her fae heritage and about how that part of her can help stop the Kind's atrocities. She remains strong and confident in how she pursues this, as she did in the other books. But she still has this self-loathing that underlies everything she does. This makes her put herself at risk more often than not, because she continues to feel she is not worthy of living this life, or any other life. My heart breaks for her and the way her thoughts run through her head.
I will say that I absolutely, positively love Rowan. He's crass and brash, cold and brutal and many times cruel. He's also and closed off and he's the perfect ying for Celaena's yang! It's like they are two halves of a whole. They compliment each other very well. There's banter between them that I thought would surely lead them to kill each other. But there's also this underlying connection that you know will ultimately bring them together. They fit like a lock and key. I won't give more information than that, because I don't want to spoil their relationship, but let's just say there is no disappointment in how they interact.
Manon is an interesting twist to this story. Mass brings us more into the witch's realm in this book. We got a bit of it in <i>Crown of Midnight</i> with the Yellowlegs and her interaction with Dorian and Celaena. But in this book, we see that the witch's are gathering, under the guidance of the King's men, and that they will play a huge part in his war that he has been waging. It's not completely clear how he will use them, though they train for battle in this book, so obviously he has some kind of conquering in the works, but their ultimate goal as warriors is still a bit of a mystery at the end of the book. These characters never directly interact or cross paths with the other characters in the book, but I can see how they will be essential to the plot of the future story in this series.
We also meet Aedion, the King's general who has no qualms about doing the king's dirty work. But Aedion is not all he seems. He plays a huge part in Celaena's plans and life, so much more than we would expect. I won't give away more than that because I love how Maas weaves plot twists in so we can see how the characters are linked.
And we are introduced to other fae and demi-fae (Emrys, Malaki, Luca, Gavriel) throughout the book. Characters who show Celaena she is so much more than she believes she is. They make her question herself and why she is so important to her people. The are essential to her development as a leader in the Fae world, as their queen. Although Celaena is reluctant to really accept this role, the fae and demi-fae ahead lots of light on her need to accept who she truly is.
Of course we still see Dorian and Chaol in this book, which made me really happy. I still cry over Celaena's loss of Sam and I really need to see her find some kind of love, through friendship or romance. I know eventually she will learn that she is worthy of it, but I also know that it can't happen until the world is set straight. And for the record, I team Chaol. I was from the moment I met him in <i>Throne of Glass</i> and I will be until the end.
Mass has several story lines going at once. I thought it would be hard to keep them straight, but it's not. They are all intricately woven and each means so much to the story. The world building is incredible. Each time we are introduced to a different area of this world it gets more and more intricate. And Maas keeps you on the edge of your seat with it all. I have to say that I get antsy when I read a Maas book, but not because I feel the need to put the book down, more because I just can't read fast enough to find out what happens. My nerves gets jittery and I literally hand on the edge of my seat. Maas has a way of infusing a certain energy into her books that makes them epic. And I love how Maas reintroduces us to things, so if you've read her other books a long time ago you are not lost. She reminds us of things that have happened without boring the reader who has already read those books.
One thing I usually love about YA stories is you get some romance. But honestly, you don't really get that in this book. There is the underlying leftovers from the previous books, and most of it made me sad, to be honest. But the book doesn't need it. It's got so much other stuff going for it, that not having a ton of romance really gave the book a life of it's own. It didn't rely on the heroine pining over someone. It relied on that fact that she's strong and has other things to worry about.
My only complaint about this book, one that I'm surprised was not addressed, was the fact that the Kind does not even check up on Celaena. She's sent off to murder the Wendlyn royalty and he has threatened to kill Chaol and other's she loves if she does not return, yet she is gone a long time without any word and he never necks on her. I kind of wish this would have been addressed.
Overall this book is absolutely fabulous. I thought it would take me forever to read, with how long it is, but I finished it in only three days! And the ending! OH GOSH I need the next book yesterday. I have no idea how I will wait. But the one thing I must say, it's not a cliffhanger that makes you annoyed and wanting to kill the author. She does wrap the story up in a nice enough package that you can wait a bit for the next installment (that is if you are crazy enough to want to). Maas has created a world that is on par with Game of Thrones, if not better. It's intricate and energized, fun and terrifying, all at once. Pick it up, you won't be sorry!
Sarah lives in Southern California, and over the years, she has developed an unhealthy appreciation for Disney movies and bad pop music. She adores fairy tales and ballet, drinks too much coffee, and watches absolutely rubbish TV shows. When she's not busy writing, she can be found exploring the California coastline with her husband. | English | NL | e6031f3fbb9142d738ef0c05540bfa1c3d92c4f599cb278991e57b6dbed9ddbe |
It is not the first book about the great actress. There is the 1998 biography by John Miller. But in this volume Dench fills in many of the gaps in her own words and so we get a frank and funny account of what it’s like performing on stage, in a film as well as on television. She does not drop names for the sake of it, but this book is really the story of theatre on both sides of the Atlantic for the last 50 years.
She grew up in a theatre-loving family. Her father, though a general practitioner in York, did a lot of amateur theatricals, as did her mother. Judi considered ballet dancing, as well as theatre design before getting into acting. In 1957 she was asked to play Ophelia with the Old Vic Theatre Company. In 1961 she joined the Royal Shakespeare Company playing with John Gielgud and Peggy Ashcroft in “The Cherry Orchard.”
She confides much of what she learned along the way. The Old Vic taught her how to be part of a company. She also says: “If you really want to know how to speak Shakespeare, Sir John (Gielgud) and Frank Sinatra will teach you. Because one used to present the whole arc of a speech, and the other presented the whole arc of a song, without any intrusive extreme emphases.”
Judi Dench went on to give indelible performances in the classics as well as some of the greatest plays and musicals of the 20th century. She is still acting as anyone knows who catches her in the long-running BBC series “As Time Goes By” with Geoffrey Palmer. This book gives a closer picture of the great actress, with the story of her happy marriage to actor Michael Williams, her actress daughter Finty Williams and grandson Sammy. There are many charming photos. The book has no conceit, just a sharp intelligence and endless sense of humour.
Review by Anne McDougall | English | NL | 7a66c833d8cc9365e8cfa951a4ce39af3effa3bee9fc4fb4066ba0e7c8ac4a0b |
I am reading two volumes of Emerson’s writings. One is a luxurious, leather bound collection of his essays and lectures. The other is a marvelous little cloth bound book of the sort that were common in the early twentieth century (this one was published by T.Y. Crowell & Co, but is similar to the Modern Library or Everyman editions you might find of more or less classic or otherwise edifying works), containing his early poems.
The essays made me wish I had a bit of time to consider Emerson as a philosopher, because I will say that I think he’s probably underrated by modern academics. I’m not saying he’s a first rate, original thinker, but still criminally underrated. But, while obviously, I have time to consider him, what I really mean is the sort of stuff I don’t have time for (like going back and re-reading Kant side by side with Emerson in a comprehensive fashion).
Emerson one had the stated intention (though maybe not the ambition) of becoming a pastor when he was in college, and while that career did exist for a while, he sloughed it off. But his lectures have the tone of a sort of secular sermon. My own church and the churches I attended in my youth, were not of the fire and brimstone mentality and were often intellectually probing and sophisticated. That’s not to say there aren’t plenty of ‘off weeks’ when the priest talks about his cat, but perhaps the styles can be linked. Not saying the my current Catholic parish or the Episcopal parishes of my father were particularly in the style of American Transcendentalism, but rather that they perhaps share something of an origin story. Oh, and that Emerson, despite claiming not to be much of an orator, took something useful from his time as a pastor.
I remember distinctly a poem by Emerson appearing in a high school or middle school textbook. I can’t remember what it was. These poems seem equally forgettable. His mixture of the conversational, urgent, and erudite, so masterful in his essays, feels so bland here. If they had had creative writing programs back then, I’d say that he possess the nineteenth century equivalent of the sameness that afflicts so many MFA graduates (many are wonderful, but the criticism of an ‘MFA style’ seems not entirely misplaced to me).
The essays would be wonderful to bring to Thailand, because they can be read and re-read, but the volume itself is too big to lug around a tropical metropolis. The poems would be easy to bring, but wouldn’t provide the value one needs in a travel book. | English | NL | 0dff643e2c37c8a57753d4298272ed3e308b90bec2cbe4c041396965a87e4ce5 |
Fun Facts And Trivia
What "WDSU" Stands For:
The radio station signed on the air on July 23, 1923, as a 5-watt station with the call letters WCBE. In the fall of 1928, the letters were changed to WDSU. The "D" and the "S" in the station's call letters were taken from the moniker of the De Soto Hotel (the present day Le Pavillion) which served as the radio station's headquarters. The "U" honored the stations original owner, Mr. Joseph Uhalt. The "W" represented the geographical designation that was put into place by the FCC.
Long before he was a television and movie celebrity, actor Dick Van Dyke was once the floor director at WDSU Television.
WDSU-TV has taken up residence in three locations. The first was in the old DeSoto Hotel. The administrative offices were moved in 1949 to the Brulatour Mansion on Royal Street. The studio building on Toulouse Street was completed in 1950. Eventually, in 1996, WDSU moved out of the French Quarter to its present day facility at 846 Howard Ave. | English | NL | 0098d45ee42d22fa609a510a9caef9ae178c8fde18670a51e5592ef59938ed60 |
“The Kill Order” by James Dashner is the fourth book in the maze runner series and it is set as a prequel to the first book.
SPOILER ALERT – There are spoilers about the first three books in the Maze Runner series.
At the end of the third book we learn that The Flare is a man-made virus that was released after the devastation of the Sun Flares in an attempt to control the population and ensure humanity’s continued survival. The first book takes place years after the Sun Flares and The Flare, the virus that shredded the sanity of much of the population. WICKED was working towards a brain map that was supposed to lead to a cure, all of which is slowly revealed as Thomas and his friends are put through hell.
More than a dozen years in the past, “The Kill Order” follows Mark, a seventeen-year-old that happened to be lucky enough to be on the subway when the Sun Flares hit earth and therefore was shielded from the heat blasts and the initial radiation. Through flash backs, we learn just what it was like for Mark and others after the initial disaster of the Sun Flares. “Mark nodded even though she couldn’t see. He’d suddenly lost any desire to talk, and his plans for a perfect day washed away with the stream. The memories. They never let him go, not even for a half hour. They always had to rush back in, bringing all the horror.” (The Kill Order, pg 13). After surviving the natural disaster of the Sun Flares, Mark and his companions are beginning to settle into a routine when their world is once again turned upside down.
It is really interesting meeting the different characters and wondering how they are going to react to the desperate situations they continually find themselves in. Despite what Mark thinks about himself, he holds it together pretty well in an impossible situation. “He also doesn’t want her to know how he’s almost trembling with fear of what might happen at any second, which is making it hard to run. Almost seventeen years of life, and he never knew what a coward he was.” (The Kill Order, pg 102).
Would I recommend this book? Yes, but not to everyone. If you enjoyed the first book in the series, it is a no-brainer to read the rest. I like that a lot of the questions that I found myself asking throughout the series were answered to a degree in this book. It wrapped everything up nicely. At the same time, it felt a little like this book was not planned by the author and instead the result of the first part of the series doing so well that he decided to bang out another book. James Dashner’s writing is adequate, but what really kept bringing me back for more was the story itself. I liked the different take on a natural disaster and the fact that the heroes in this book were not so cut and dry. I found the series to be very enjoyable and I would likely pick up another novel by James Dashner.
“The Enemy” by Lee Child is the eighth book in the Jack Reacher series. What was fun and different about this book was that it took place further in the past, before Reacher left the army to explore civilian life. That is how we meet him in the first book. Also in the first book (spoiler alert) Reacher finds himself part of a murder investigation and learns that the victim was his brother.
I always found the relationships between Jack and Joe Reacher to be curious. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about one another; they just were never overly close. I consider myself to be very close with my siblings, so I find it hard to believe that one could be so estranged from their brother when there was nothing really wrong there. In “The Enemy” we get to see the Reacher brothers together for the first time and it was a nice change of pace. “Joe was probably the only other human on the planet who liked coffee as much as I did. He started drinking it when he was six. I copied him immediately. I was four. Neither of us has stopped since. The Reacher brothers’ need for caffeine makes heroine addiction look like an amusing little take-it-or-leave-it sideline.” (The Enemy, pg 81).
I really enjoyed how in “The Enemy” we get to learn more about Reacher’s relationship with his brother and his relationship with his mother. While he is trying to figure out who the enemy is that he is battling, Reacher learns that his mother is very sick and dying. Not only did we get to learn about his relationship with his mother, but Joe and Jack learn more about her after she dies. It was really interesting to get a better picture of why Jack Reacher is the way he is, beyond just how he was shaped growing up in the army.
Would I recommend “The Enemy”? Absolutely, I really enjoyed this book. I think that it was brilliant for Lee Child to spend some time on a story that takes place in the past so we could learn more about how Reacher grew into the man we know from the first seven books. I highly recommend this series. It is very well written and I’m already salivating waiting to start the next book, which I’m certain I will devour as well. Lee Child has a real gift for writing and considering there are at least ten more books in the series – I have a feeling that he is just getting started.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass” by Lewis Carroll were interesting books. The copy that I have features both books together and after much debate, I decided to review them that way. Once upon a time, I saw the cartoon movie of “Alice in Wonderland” but I never read the books as a kid and after having read them recently, I’m glad I didn’t try to dissect that madness when I was younger.
“Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.” (Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, pg 105). I think this quote really says it all – this is a weird fucking book. There are parts that literally need to be read aloud to understand what Lewis Carroll was trying to say. And even then, you’re still fifty-fifty on understanding the nonsense that is littered throughout this novel.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” follow Alice as she follows the white rabbit and ends up on many crazy adventures. In “Through the Looking-Glass”, Alice falls through a mirror and has crazy adventures in a world where everything is backwards. If possible, this book is even more challenging to understand than the first. “That’s the effect of living backwards,” the Queen said kindly: “it always makes one a little giddy first – ” / “Living backwards!” Alice repeated in great astonishment. “I never heard of such a thing!” / “– but there’s one great advantage in it, that one’s memory works both ways.” / “I’m sure mine only works once way,” Alice remarked. “I can’t remember things before they happen.” / “It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards,” the Queen remarked.” (Through the Looking-Glass, pg 204). I liked this exchange. Here Alice is conversing with the White Queen, who is much kinder than the Red Queen who is infamous for ordering people’s heads off. Alice’s adventures with the White Queen are slightly less violent.
Although I found both books to be more than a little absurd, I enjoyed reading them. These books are quoted so often and so well known that it is worth reading them. I might even consider picking them up again. Would I recommend these books? Yes – but only to those willing to spend the extra time on the books. The complexity of Lewis Carroll’s work is evident from the start. The greatest challenge I faced while reading “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass” was slowing myself down. The language itself isn’t overly complicated, but the way that Lewis Carroll vomits all over the pages – that is what is difficult to decipher and what makes this a challenging read. It’s enjoyable, but certainly is not for everyone.
“The Waitress” by Melissa Nathan was a quirky chic-lit book that I just happened upon. I’m not certain where it came from, but it appeared on my bookshelf when I was looking for a light read, so I grabbed it. I was a little surprised at the different directions that the book went off in, but overall found myself interested in Katie. The book has a romantic side to it, but there is also a lot of focus on Katie trying to discover who she is and who she wants to be.
Part of what I enjoyed about “The Waitress” was just how relatable I found Katie to be – her indecisive nature, her attitude towards life, her ability to get super lost while driving, her extreme sarcastic nature – all attributes that I share. Her knack for becoming comfortable right before she has to wake up: “She rolled over. And then, oh joy, she was unable to move. She was, quite unexpectedly, more comfortable than she had ever been in her life. She focused on it so as not to forget the feeling. Yes, her body had chanced upon a position that made all other positions a nonsense. Her limbs felt light with the luxury of it. The spaced between them were perfection. There was probably an equation for it. Every feather in her duvet had found its optimum position, and as for her pillow, it was a cloud. Her head seemed to be cushioned in cotton wool. All thoughts were clear here. All emotions profound. Was this what heaven felt like? Why, she thought, had this not happened ten hours ago? Why had she spent an entire night trying to get this comfortable? Why had she not tried this position? It was hardly complicated. Her body almost hummed with happiness. She was the closest she’d ever come to purring. It felt as if time had stood still.” (The Waitress, pg 110/111). I thought this was pretty funny, and a good illustration of the way that Melissa Nathan writes.
Would I recommend this book? Yes, it was a fun read and it wasn’t overly predictable like many chic-lit novels tend to be. I liked that in addition to the perspective of Katie, we got a peak into the other character’s minds. I wouldn’t have minded a little more development with the other characters, but it was enjoyable. I probably wouldn’t go out of my way to read “The Waitress” again, but it was worth reading once. If I happened upon another novel by Melissa Nathan, I would read it.
“Death Du Jour” by Kathy Reichs is the second book in the Temperance Brennan series. Once again, we follow Temperance Brennan as she pairs with Andrew Ryan to help solve a horrible mystery. Tempe starts out the book excavating human remains for a convent and is called in the early morning hours to help on a case where a fire broke out and burned down a home. She shortly discovers that this fire was no accident and that two of the bodies belonged to twin babies. Brennan finds herself pulled into an investigation that provides more questions than answers and is so brutal that she has to step away at times. “Though it is my business, I have never grown immune to the sight of violent death.” (Death Du Jour, loc 425). The brutality of these killings lead to inquiries about cults and the further involved with the case that Brennan gets, the more her own life and those around her are in danger.
Although she works in a highly specialized field and has a superior intelligence, Brennan is a very relatable character. Meeting her and interacting with her would be intimidating, but the great part about a book narrated by such an amazing character is that you get to see her flaws that otherwise you might not notice. She is such a brilliant anthropologist that it is easy to forget that she too, is human and becomes weary from her work. That is part of what I really liked about this quote. “I wanted to be somewhere else. To be someone else. Someone who had not spent years smelling death and seeing its final degradation. Someone who did not work day after day reassembling the human carnage left by macho pimps, enraged partners, wired cokeheads, and psychopaths. I had come to the island to escape the brutality of my life’s work. But even here, death had found me. I felt overwhelmed. Another day. Another death. Death du jour. My God, how many such days would there be?” (Death Du Jour, loc 2939). Who hasn’t wanted to escape sometimes from their life? And that’s without having to deal day in and day out with death.
Would I recommend this book? Yes, but not to everyone. It was really well done and I found myself enjoying this book even more than “Déjà Dead”. But the book is brutal and violent. I consider myself to be a bit desensitized to fictional murder, but there were times when even I was taken aback with “Death Du Jour” and the killings taking place. I am however, looking forward to reading the next book in the series. The more I read, the more I understand why these books have been so successful! | English | NL | 0bf5662af211840770a6017711f7f5724800229f75c359619a16a0d8e29e0823 |
Day broke, grey and chill. The boat was close-hauled on a fresh breeze and the compass indicated that we were just making the course which would bring us to Japan. Though stoutly mittened, my fingers were cold, and they pained from the grip on the steering- oar. My feet were stinging from the bite of the frost, and I hoped fervently that the sun would shine.
Before me, in the bottom of the boat, lay Maud. She, at least, was warm, for under her and over her were thick blankets. The top one I had drawn over her face to shelter it from the night, so I could see nothing but the vague shape of her, and her light-brown hair, escaped from the covering and jewelled with moisture from the air.
Long I looked at her, dwelling upon that one visible bit of her as only a man would who deemed it the most precious thing in the world. So insistent was my gaze that at last she stirred under the blankets, the top fold was thrown back and she smiled out on me, her eyes yet heavy with sleep.
"Good-morning, Mr. Van Weyden," she said. "Have you sighted land yet?"
"No," I answered, "but we are approaching it at a rate of six miles an hour."
She made a moue of disappointment.
"But that is equivalent to one hundred and forty-four miles in twenty-four hours," I added reassuringly.
Her face brightened. "And how far have we to go?"
"Siberia lies off there," I said, pointing to the west. "But to the south-west, some six hundred miles, is Japan. If this wind should hold, we'll make it in five days."
"And if it storms? The boat could not live?"
She had a way of looking one in the eyes and demanding the truth, and thus she looked at me as she asked the question.
"It would have to storm very hard," I temporized.
"And if it storms very hard?"
I nodded my head. "But we may be picked up any moment by a sealing-schooner. They are plentifully distributed over this part of the ocean."
"Why, you are chilled through!" she cried. "Look! You are shivering. Don't deny it; you are. And here I have been lying warm as toast."
"I don't see that it would help matters if you, too, sat up and were chilled," I laughed.
"It will, though, when I learn to steer, which I certainly shall."
She sat up and began making her simple toilet. She shook down her hair, and it fell about her in a brown cloud, hiding her face and shoulders. Dear, damp brown hair! I wanted to kiss it, to ripple it through my fingers, to bury my face in it. I gazed entranced, till the boat ran into the wind and the flapping sail warned me I was not attending to my duties. Idealist and romanticist that I was and always had been in spite of my analytical nature, yet I had failed till now in grasping much of the physical characteristics of love. The love of man and woman, I had always held, was a sublimated something related to spirit, a spiritual bond that linked and drew their souls together. The bonds of the flesh had little part in my cosmos of love. But I was learning the sweet lesson for myself that the soul transmuted itself, expressed itself, through the flesh; that the sight and sense and touch of the loved one's hair was as much breath and voice and essence of the spirit as the light that shone from the eyes and the thoughts that fell from the lips. After all, pure spirit was unknowable, a thing to be sensed and divined only; nor could it express itself in terms of itself. Jehovah was anthropomorphic because he could address himself to the Jews only in terms of their understanding; so he was conceived as in their own image, as a cloud, a pillar of fire, a tangible, physical something which the mind of the Israelites could grasp.
And so I gazed upon Maud's light-brown hair, and loved it, and learned more of love than all the poets and singers had taught me with all their songs and sonnets. She flung it back with a sudden adroit movement, and her face emerged, smiling.
"Why don't women wear their hair down always?" I asked. "It is so much more beautiful."
"If it didn't tangle so dreadfully," she laughed. "There! I've lost one of my precious hair-pins!"
I neglected the boat and had the sail spilling the wind again and again, such was my delight in following her every movement as she searched through the blankets for the pin. I was surprised, and joyfully, that she was so much the woman, and the display of each trait and mannerism that was characteristically feminine gave me keener joy. For I had been elevating her too highly in my concepts of her, removing her too far from the plane of the human, and too far from me. I had been making of her a creature goddess-like and unapproachable. So I hailed with delight the little traits that proclaimed her only woman after all, such as the toss of the head which flung back the cloud of hair, and the search for the pin. She was woman, my kind, on my plane, and the delightful intimacy of kind, of man and woman, was possible, as well as the reverence and awe in which I knew I should always hold her.
She found the pin with an adorable little cry, and I turned my attention more fully to my steering. I proceeded to experiment, lashing and wedging the steering-oar until the boat held on fairly well by the wind without my assistance. Occasionally it came up too close, or fell off too freely; but it always recovered itself and in the main behaved satisfactorily.
"And now we shall have breakfast," I said. "But first you must be more warmly clad."
I got out a heavy shirt, new from the slop-chest and made from blanket goods. I knew the kind, so thick and so close of texture that it could resist the rain and not be soaked through after hours of wetting. When she had slipped this on over her head, I exchanged the boy's cap she wore for a man's cap, large enough to cover her hair, and, when the flap was turned down, to completely cover her neck and ears. The effect was charming. Her face was of the sort that cannot but look well under all circumstances. Nothing could destroy its exquisite oval, its well-nigh classic lines, its delicately stencilled brows, its large brown eyes, clear-seeing and calm, gloriously calm.
A puff, slightly stronger than usual, struck us just then. The boat was caught as it obliquely crossed the crest of a wave. It went over suddenly, burying its gunwale level with the sea and shipping a bucketful or so of water. I was opening a can of tongue at the moment, and I sprang to the sheet and cast it off just in time. The sail flapped and fluttered, and the boat paid off. A few minutes of regulating sufficed to put it on its course again, when I returned to the preparation of breakfast.
"It does very well, it seems, though I am not versed in things nautical," she said, nodding her head with grave approval at my steering contrivance.
"But it will serve only when we are sailing by the wind," I explained. "When running more freely, with the wind astern abeam, or on the quarter, it will be necessary for me to steer."
"I must say I don't understand your technicalities," she said, "but I do your conclusion, and I don't like it. You cannot steer night and day and for ever. So I shall expect, after breakfast, to receive my first lesson. And then you shall lie down and sleep. We'll stand watches just as they do on ships."
"I don't see how I am to teach you," I made protest. "I am just learning for myself. You little thought when you trusted yourself to me that I had had no experience whatever with small boats. This is the first time I have ever been in one."
"Then we'll learn together, sir. And since you've had a night's start you shall teach me what you have learned. And now, breakfast. My! this air does give one an appetite!"
"No coffee," I said regretfully, passing her buttered sea-biscuits and a slice of canned tongue. "And there will be no tea, no soups, nothing hot, till we have made land somewhere, somehow."
After the simple breakfast, capped with a cup of cold water, Maud took her lesson in steering. In teaching her I learned quite a deal myself, though I was applying the knowledge already acquired by sailing the Ghost and by watching the boat-steerers sail the small boats. She was an apt pupil, and soon learned to keep the course, to luff in the puffs and to cast off the sheet in an emergency.
Having grown tired, apparently, of the task, she relinquished the oar to me. I had folded up the blankets, but she now proceeded to spread them out on the bottom. When all was arranged snugly, she said:
"Now, sir, to bed. And you shall sleep until luncheon. Till dinner-time," she corrected, remembering the arrangement on the Ghost.
What could I do? She insisted, and said, "Please, please," whereupon I turned the oar over to her and obeyed. I experienced a positive sensuous delight as I crawled into the bed she had made with her hands. The calm and control which were so much a part of her seemed to have been communicated to the blankets, so that I was aware of a soft dreaminess and content, and of an oval face and brown eyes framed in a fisherman's cap and tossing against a background now of grey cloud, now of grey sea, and then I was aware that I had been asleep.
I looked at my watch. It was one o'clock. I had slept seven hours! And she had been steering seven hours! When I took the steering-oar I had first to unbend her cramped fingers. Her modicum of strength had been exhausted, and she was unable even to move from her position. I was compelled to let go the sheet while I helped her to the nest of blankets and chafed her hands and arms.
"I am so tired," she said, with a quick intake of the breath and a sigh, drooping her head wearily.
But she straightened it the next moment. "Now don't scold, don't you dare scold," she cried with mock defiance.
"I hope my face does not appear angry," I answered seriously; "for I assure you I am not in the least angry."
"N-no," she considered. "It looks only reproachful."
"Then it is an honest face, for it looks what I feel. You were not fair to yourself, nor to me. How can I ever trust you again?"
She looked penitent. "I'll be good," she said, as a naughty child might say it. "I promise--"
"To obey as a sailor would obey his captain?"
"Yes," she answered. "It was stupid of me, I know."
"Then you must promise something else," I ventured.
"That you will not say, 'Please, please,' too often; for when you do you are sure to override my authority."
She laughed with amused appreciation. She, too, had noticed the power of the repeated "please."
"It is a good word--" I began.
"But I must not overwork it," she broke in.
But she laughed weakly, and her head drooped again. I left the oar long enough to tuck the blankets about her feet and to pull a single fold across her face. Alas! she was not strong. I looked with misgiving toward the south-west and thought of the six hundred miles of hardship before us--ay, if it were no worse than hardship. On this sea a storm might blow up at any moment and destroy us. And yet I was unafraid. I was without confidence in the future, extremely doubtful, and yet I felt no underlying fear. It must come right, it must come right, I repeated to myself, over and over again.
The wind freshened in the afternoon, raising a stiffer sea and trying the boat and me severely. But the supply of food and the nine breakers of water enabled the boat to stand up to the sea and wind, and I held on as long as I dared. Then I removed the sprit, tightly hauling down the peak of the sail, and we raced along under what sailors call a leg-of-mutton.
Late in the afternoon I sighted a steamer's smoke on the horizon to leeward, and I knew it either for a Russian cruiser, or, more likely, the Macedonia still seeking the Ghost. The sun had not shone all day, and it had been bitter cold. As night drew on, the clouds darkened and the wind freshened, so that when Maud and I ate supper it was with our mittens on and with me still steering and eating morsels between puffs.
By the time it was dark, wind and sea had become too strong for the boat, and I reluctantly took in the sail and set about making a drag or sea-anchor. I had learned of the device from the talk of the hunters, and it was a simple thing to manufacture. Furling the sail and lashing it securely about the mast, boom, sprit, and two pairs of spare oars, I threw it overboard. A line connected it with the bow, and as it floated low in the water, practically unexposed to the wind, it drifted less rapidly than the boat. In consequence it held the boat bow on to the sea and wind--the safest position in which to escape being swamped when the sea is breaking into whitecaps.
"And now?" Maud asked cheerfully, when the task was accomplished and I pulled on my mittens.
"And now we are no longer travelling toward Japan," I answered. "Our drift is to the south-east, or south-south-east, at the rate of at least two miles an hour."
"That will be only twenty-four miles," she urged, "if the wind remains high all night."
"Yes, and only one hundred and forty miles if it continues for three days and nights."
"But it won't continue," she said with easy confidence. "It will turn around and blow fair."
"The sea is the great faithless one."
"But the wind!" she retorted. "I have heard you grow eloquent over the brave trade-wind."
"I wish I had thought to bring Wolf Larsen's chronometer and sextant," I said, still gloomily. "Sailing one direction, drifting another direction, to say nothing of the set of the current in some third direction, makes a resultant which dead reckoning can never calculate. Before long we won't know where we are by five hundred miles."
Then I begged her pardon and promised I should not be disheartened any more. At her solicitation I let her take the watch till midnight,--it was then nine o'clock, but I wrapped her in blankets and put an oilskin about her before I lay down. I slept only cat- naps. The boat was leaping and pounding as it fell over the crests, I could hear the seas rushing past, and spray was continually being thrown aboard. And still, it was not a bad night, I mused--nothing to the nights I had been through on the Ghost; nothing, perhaps, to the nights we should go through in this cockle-shell. Its planking was three-quarters of an inch thick. Between us and the bottom of the sea was less than an inch of wood.
And yet, I aver it, and I aver it again, I was unafraid. The death which Wolf Larsen and even Thomas Mugridge had made me fear, I no longer feared. The coming of Maud Brewster into my life seemed to have transformed me. After all, I thought, it is better and finer to love than to be loved, if it makes something in life so worth while that one is not loath to die for it. I forget my own life in the love of another life; and yet, such is the paradox, I never wanted so much to live as right now when I place the least value upon my own life. I never had so much reason for living, was my concluding thought; and after that, until I dozed, I contented myself with trying to pierce the darkness to where I knew Maud crouched low in the stern-sheets, watchful of the foaming sea and ready to call me on an instant's notice.Next | English | NL | acb342eede044db015ff4c5cae445f553d05a728313b8ab8e7567c64024dc9d1 |
Koran’s first experience of magic was watching a street performer named ‘Pins’ Draper who worked London’s Petticoat Lane and Club Row. Koran soon began to act as his stooge and assistant, being taught in return, the secrets of such classics as the Cups and Balls and Glass of Water from Borrowed Hat. His earliest recalled readings in magic included the Hoffmann books, loaned to him by his tutor, along with numerous magic catalogues full of effects and equipment he could not afford; and so began his study of sleight of hand, an area in which he was to later excel. In fact, as a close-up performer, he went on to gain a reputation for his incredible card effects including a magician-fooling card stab routine.
At the age of 16 he joined The Magician’s Club, giving his age as 19. On the outbreak of war he joined Entertainments National Service Association (ENSA) for a time, later joining the Parachute Regiment. He was performing and increasing his knowledge and experience, constantly and after the war he became a member of The London Society of Magicians, soon making a name for himself by his originality and enthusiasm; at the age of 29, he became the youngest member ever to be awarded their Gold Medal (although some references claim he joined at 15 and gained his gold award at 16!).
At this time Eddie Doe (as he was still called) was a hairdresser in Trueffit& Hills (still in St James. London) and living in Bethnal Green with his wife Kay; he made the decision to become a full-time professional magician, taking the name of Al Koran. Many people were skeptical about the name and its potential religious connotations but in fact it worked out well, being easily remembered and making effective billing. In 1947, in collaboration with Jack Lamonte, he wrote the book ‘Mastered Amazement’ which established his reputation as a clever originator. This was only the first of his many writings; manuscripts and magazine articles followed in profusion with his last major publication being the fine ‘Professional Presentations’ which Harry Stanley published in 1968. In fact, Koran had a long relationship with Harry Stanley and his Unique Magic Studio in London, and many of Koran’s creations were marketed through Unique; these included a special deck of cards known as the Koran Deck and the Colour Psychology (Billiard Ball Effect) and his best-known effects were probably Ring Flight and the Koran Medallion; as well as his many simple yet striking creations, Koran also dabbled in the use of electronics in particular for a card from pocket routine.
Though he first became known for immaculate card and close-up magic, like many of his predecesors and followers, he decided that he would be more successful focusing on mentalism and so channeled his efforts in this area. He set out to completely transform his image from that of a friendly, ingenuous trickster to that of a serious, cultured, highly educated gentleman possessed of unusual powers. He really did put in effort to create the exact image he wanted; he dressed and spoke accordingly (he previously had a strong cockney accent), and he even whitened the hair at his temples to give himself added dignity. He put together routines that were direct, subtle and original; many were simply genius thinking from a creative mind (along with much painstaking thought and effort) and a testament of this is the number of his routines still being used today. He had the knack of turning long-neglected magical concepts and ideas into absolute miracles and was clever with the use and simple addition of words, which in itself is a great, and extremely underestimated skill in this genre of magic, in order to create strong presentations. Much of methodology was quite daring, another trait of some of the best mind-reading performers we have seen. Koran would, unlike many magicians who have specialized in mental magic, often wove conventional magic into the presentation of his mental feats (similar to Alexander); he might, for example, divine the contents of a locked box and then cause the box to vanish. It’s true to say Koran was a prolific ideas man who also had good sense of theatre. In fact, before turning pro Koran was an ‘ideas’ man for many other acts. Amongst his many well publicised predictions were his correct revelation of the results of an election, along with the newspaper headline, four days before the event on TV to an audience of millions of viewers, and the correct winner and runner up of an English Derby two weeks before the race.
He frequently earned publicity in the national press, though it must be admitted that it occasionally misfired. As variety waned he turned to well-paid private engagements. Latterly he worked the clubs and nightspots, for which he needed great courage, for audiences were far from ideal for his type of act and style of presentation. He secured residencies at The Savoy and Quaglino’s in London; his first performance at the Savoy being a complete disaster when he used all new material for the act, and he almost lost the residency almost before it began.
In 1964 a book was published titled ‘Bring Out the Magic in Your Mind’, purportedly by Koran but actually ‘ghosted’ and widely advertised. Later it was reissued as a cheap paperback. It was a combination of self-help positive-thinking advice with a number of publicity stories about Koran. Some referred to it as weird mixture of sound psychology and mumbo-jumbo, full of extravagant claims and inaccuracies, none the less the book publicised Koran’s name and no doubt increased interest in his performances. It was also described as the ‘world’s thickest advertising brochure’
Koran’s fame and certainly fortune never quite reached the levels of other big named mind-readers before or after, and certainly pound for pound he probably expected to achieve much more in terms of financial reward for his endeavors. Despite his popularity he never quite made ‘the big time’. Writing the ‘psycho’ book as he did seemed to be the de rigue amongst famous mind-readers to enhance their reputation and make some money, but what seemed clear is that Koran lacked the crucial promotional and marketing talents and expertise (or access to a good publicist) that other more successful, yet possibly much less talented performers did possess.
In January1969, Koran and his wife uprooted themselves and emigrated to the United States. It is uncertain what the reason was; his brother had moved to Chicago some years before and his wife had relatives in the US; these factors may have contributed, yet it appears that seeking fame and fortunes may have been the overriding factor for Koran to move; perhaps he felt that his driving ambition was being thwarted in his native land, and that America offered him greater prospects for top class private work; he had an immense confidence that bordered on ego that his act would be a success in the States.
On moving to the States, Koran first went to Cleveland, Ohio, later settling in Chicago, the Convention Centre of the U.S. He moved into an expensive apartment, buying a large salt-water aquarium and other non-essential extravagant trimmings; he wanted to live the life he fully expected to be able to afford. He was soon advertising exclusive ‘Professional Secrets’ in Genii, in limited numbers at high prices. He began to appear at some of the American Conventions and other events and the engagements began to come in. He was making frequent appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show and appeared to be within sight of new success when his rise was cruelly cut short when he became terminally ill three years later. A short spell in hospital only served to prove that nothing could be done to save his life. There is no National Health Service in America, and the cost of medical attention has been enormous; led by his friend Ken Brooke, British magicians raised nearly £1000 ($2500) towards his medical costs.
Though Koran deliberately made himself something of a lonely figure in latter years, he had many friends and admirers in the world of magic. He grew more frustrated with amateur magician’s constant quest for new material or new ‘moves’, and would frown when a magician went into a dealers room and purchase an effect that he would immediately put into his act that night! He believed that they did magic a colossal amount of harm and even claimed that there was probably more exposure done by magicians who were bad performers than by any newspaper or media exposure.
His interests outside magic included photography (as with Alexander), tropical fish and DIY. In magic, his originations and brilliant routines have secured for him a place of his own in magical history, and his writings will be studied for many years to come.
After a brave fight, Koran came to his inevitable end on Monday, 12th June, at the age of 58. After Koran’s passing from cancer his ashes were handled by his good friend and fellow magician Billy McComb, who took the ashes back to London and scattered them from numerous small vials in various meaningful places – including the stage of the London Palladium, the Dealer’s Exhibition at the Magic Convention in Margate, Davenports & other dealers and in Bond Street by Truefitt & Hill. Koran left a wife and daughter, Katherine, along with a legacy of Mentalism that is greatly admired today
* Professional Presentations; Hugh Miller
* Koran’s Legacy; Hugh Miller
* The Magic of Al Koran; edited by Martin Breese
* The Mind Readers; William V Rauscher
* Genii Magazine 1972; Bayard Grimshaw | English | NL | 9a9afd322de1a09476fc749108febbaabaaef8ccad63763195db0a4b1607cd95 |
After I said farewell to my sweet friends one afternoon, I happened to glance into an art exhibit. There, surrounded by haunting paintings of naked women gazing at distant explosions of light, was a man. He sat at a small desk and plucked away at his computer, alone. My feet began moving me toward him, toward the exhibit, toward the paintings. I felt drawn to that room like the women in those paintings were drawn to the explosive lights on the horizons of their worlds.
As I walked in, he greeted me warmly. “Welcome, sir. My name is V, please let me know if you have any questions,” he said.
“I’m Michael. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I replied.
I walked up to each work of art and took in as much of the beauty and horror as I could stand; as much as my imagination would allow me to. I asked him what he thought the explosive light represented. He said he wasn’t sure, but he noted that all of the women in the paintings were facing the explosions and gazing at them. I wondered aloud if they were watching the end of the world.
As V and I began to talk, I learned that he is a graduate student and picked up the gig in the art exhibit as a way to make some extra cash. I told him that I am a student of Divinity and I want to someday be a chaplain. He was perplexed by my response, and asked me what a chaplain does. As I moved to another painting I told him of my work. I explained that I accompany people who are suffering. I told him that my job is to witness their lives and to be present with them during their hardest days. Then he asked me why I want to do this kind of work – why would I want to be a chaplain?
I told him that I believe in a suffering God. I am a Christian and, for me, that means I worship a God who came to this Earth in human form exactly once. If the life and execution of Jesus tell us anything about God it must be that God suffers. I believe that the world suffers as a result of God’s suffering – not the other way around. If God’s suffering results in our suffering, then we are obligated to ease the suffering of each other. Perhaps then, we can ease the suffering of God.
“I wonder if that is why Jesus so often aligns himself with the oppressed, with the poor, and with the suffering. He said that what we do to the prisoner, the naked, the hungry, is what we do to him. For me, that means that when I encounter suffering people, I encounter God,” I said as V stood up and walked over to me.
We gazed at the painting for a few minutes more.
“Maybe it’s selfish of me,” I continued, “but I am moved by the suffering of others. It makes the ground I’m standing on Holy when I look into their eyes. It gives my life meaning to be there with them in the hellfire of their lives.”
“Are you moved by my suffering?” V asked abruptly.
“It’s why I walked in here.” I replied.
“My name is Vincent,” he said, with tears on his cheeks.
“It’s an honor to meet you, VIncent.” I said, as tears raced from my eyes.
Quite suddenly, the ground we were standing on became holy. We embraced, and said goodbye.
When I was 14 years old I was masturbating… a lot. The fundamentalist evangelical culture that I was raised in drilled it into my head that this was a surefire way to end up in hell. I would go to the altar at church, weep and beg for God’s forgiveness – and within 24 hours I’d be guilty again. Twice.
Worse than the shame and guilt was the loneliness of living with the secret. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I couldn’t talk to my pastor because he was my dad. I couldn’t talk to my dad because I was 14. I couldn’t talk to my youth pastor because he worked for my dad and I couldn’t talk to my friends because I had a reputation to uphold. I was the leader of the intercessory prayer group and I even preached youth revivals in the summer. I was trapped and ashamed and I had nowhere to turn.
So one Wednesday afternoon, I took the train to Chicago and made my way to St. Michael’s Catholic Church. I was far enough from home that I didn’t have to worry about seeing anyone I knew and no God-fearing Pentecostal would ever be caught dead in a Catholic Church anyway so I might as well have been on Mars. As soon as I walked in the door there was a queue of people waiting to enter the confessional. When it was finally my turn I entered the confessional, ready to unburden my soul.
I explained to the priest that I was not Catholic, but needed someone to talk to. In the movies, priests in confessionals always listen no matter who is confessing and this priest did not disappoint. I wept as I told him of my inability to control myself despite my deep desire to please God. I told him of how ashamed I was of my hypocrisy.
“First of all,” the priest began, “I hear you weeping and I don’t think I’ve ever met a boy as young as you who wanted to please God more than you do. God is not mad at you, son. He must be so very proud of who you are. And don’t worry so much about this sin. It sounds to me that you are mostly guilty of being a teenage boy. That is not your fault. When it happens, ask God to forgive you if you feel you’ve sinned and then go on with your day. This is a part of growing up and you are just adjusting to new hormones and instincts as your body changes. You are loved. You are forgiven. God is proud of you and your church is lucky to have you.”
“And give your dad more credit,” he concluded, “You should talk to him. I’m sure he will understand more than you think he does.”
It was Ash Wednesday.
Five years later, I attended an Ash Wednesday Mass at Maternity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. I walked up to the front when they administered the ashes and as the priest smudged my forehead he said, “Turn from sin and be faithful to the Gospel.” I remembered the confessional from five years earlier and the way that day changed my perception of myself. I remembered that liberating redemption and my heart leaped. The ritual felt ancient and sacred and the ashes felt holy on my forehead; not because I’m a sinner, but because I’d been redeemed.
I eventually left the Pentecostal church I was raised in. I left as a licensed minister with a full time gig as a youth pastor in the very church my father once pastored, though he had long since moved on to a different congregation two states away. I left that tradition for a lot of reasons, but the biggest reason was because I felt that they were incapable of distinguishing between their culture and their doctrine. It seemed to me that their cultural orthodoxy was identical to their definition of piety and I found that to be dangerous. It proved dangerous when President George W. Bush waged war on the LGBTQIA+ Community via the “Marriage Amendment” and the evangelical church-world celebrated and rallied for a change to the U.S. Constitution that would only serve to ostracize and marginalize an already marginalized people. I was confused. How could the world “know us by our love,” if we were supporting a gesture of intolerance and hate?
It seems as though I left just in time.
In the 2016 Presidential election the white evangelical church sold its gospel for political power and supreme court justice seats when over 80% of them voted for the most godless president we’ve had in recent memory – and they did so while praising the name of Jesus. Even after he praised white supremacists who murdered an activist in Charlottesville, they support him. The Roman Catholic Church has just begun to acknowledge the systemic war they waged on children around the world and they will never be able to right what they have wronged. The Mainline Protestants are having an identity crisis right now as the United Methodist Church just voted to exclude members of the LGBTQIA+ Community instead of loving them. Conservatives in virtually every Christian sect have been anti-Semitic, homophobic, white supremacists, racist, xenophobic, misogynistic, abusive colonizers, and the list goes on and on. So why the fuck should we bother with any of it at all anymore? Why bother with religion or ritual when it has failed us at every turn?
It’s a legitimate question, and one worthy of substantial consideration. Some have chosen to walk away entirely; chosen not to bother with it anymore. Many needed to walk away in order to preserve themselves and I hold these siblings in my heart and pray that they find nourishment for their entire beings in the ways they want and need to find it.
Others have wrestled with this truth for centuries since the birth of the Christian institution and its first failures. When the ancient Christians sold their gospel for political power under Constantine, the Desert Mothers and Fathers fled the cosmopolitan cities and embraced God in solitude, silence, and stillness. When the American Protestants bent the Holy Scriptures to defend and uphold chattel slavery in the Antebellum South, black and brown enslaved people cried out to a God who liberates and sets the captives free. They cried out to a black Messiah who was murdered by the State – who defeated death itself so that ALL may go free! Like Daniel in the lion’s den, while the Church has persecuted the Queer Community throughout history, queer folks have exalted a God of Love who courses through their veins and calls them righteous! And while the Church has attacked trans-folks and even rallied to police where they can use the restroom, our trans siblings have boldly stood like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego – refusing to bow to a hateful god but insisting that there is another, higher, mightier God who cannot be contained in a binary but exceeds all human understanding. These failed institutions may own the buildings we once worshiped in, but they don’t own the Truth. They don’t own our Faith. They don’t own our rituals, and they damn well don’t own us.
The witness of the oppressed is the tradition I seek to follow now. They have led by example all along. As Millenials leave church en masse (pun intended), as the evangelical world and the UMC mortgages its future for points in a culture war, we find ourselves in a diaspora of sorts. We are homeless for now, but we are not alone. We have each other, and the witness of the saints who have gone before us (and died at the hands of oppressors, may they rest in power). We must learn from their example if we are to carve out a path in this wilderness.
Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and I will once again stand in line for ashes. This time I’ll be on the steps of Legislative Plaza in Nashville, Tennessee in protest of the anti-Queer legislation they continue to push and the white supremacists symbols and statutes they continue to live by and venerate. This time the ashes will be mixed with glitter as the ritual of Ash Wednesday grows to reflect, and shine, and TESTIFY to the lives and witness of the Christians pushed to the margins by those who used the Gospel for their own pursuit of power. And later in the evening I’ll meet with the faith community I belong to as we dine together at Christ’s Table and conspire to live out God’s Kingdom here on Earth!
And perhaps, on some Ash Wednesday in the future, the institutions that have failed us and failed to execute the Great Commission will humble themselves and join us in repentance. Perhaps, someday they will “turn from sin and be faithful to the Gospel.” But if they won’t, we will mix them with glitter, smudge them on our foreheads, and declare that Christ is Lord!
It was June, and summer in Iraq was merciless. The air reminded me of a car that had been baking in the hot Arkansas sun all day long, trapping the heat that smacks the face of the unfortunate soul who has to open the door. Only there was no window to roll down, no air conditioner to turn on, and 130 degrees of misery that beat down on SPC M and I from above and rose off the rocks beneath our feet. We sat in quiet agony as we waited impatiently for the helicopters to arrive to take us on our way out of Iraq and back home for a couple of weeks of R&R.
The boredom of slowly cooking on the rocks of the flightline was interrupted by two military police officers as they escorted a prisoner across the rocks toward the holding area for passengers; toward us. The man’s hands were bound and he had a bag over his head which completely concealed his face. His clothes were dirty and torn and he was barefoot. Under each arm was the hand of an MP as they controlled his every move, guiding him across the rocks.
I held my breath. I had never been this close to an enemy combatant. Was he responsible for all of the nights I had been woken up by rockets and mortars crashing into our camp? Did he know who had ambushed us two weeks before? Did he sing praises to his God when our soldiers were killed in those blasts? Would he be happy to know that I had been wounded? Was it an answer to his prayer? In the midst of these questions I felt my heart starting to race. My breathing quickened, making up for the moments I held it. One question rang louder in my mind than all of the others; would he be flying in my helicopter?
I began to imagine scenarios in which he broke free from his restraints, removed the bag that was over his head, and tried to fight the MP’s mid-flight. Were they trained for that? He was getting closer now and I prayed he would be on the other helicopter; helicopters always fly in pairs (except medivacs). What if he broke free and charged me? What if the young MP’s, desperate to restrain him, foolishly shot at him on the helicopter and accidentally killed me?
Nonsense. God has a plan for my life.
What if he is really important? What if he is barefoot and blindfolded because he is a “mob boss” for the Shiite Militia? What if he has people waiting to shoot our helicopter down? I looked over to see what SPC M thought of this development. SPC M had his nose buried in his duffle bag and then abruptly stood up and started toward the prisoner.
He walked briskly across the rocky flightline and knelt down in front of the barefoot man. He lifted the man’s shackled ankle and slid a flip-flop onto his foot. Then he lifted the man’s other ankle and slid another flip-flop onto his other bare foot. Then he stood up, turned around, walked back, and sat back down next to me.
I don’t remember which helicopter the man flew on, but I remember how much easier he walked across those rocks with flip-flops on his feet.
I’ve thought about that day every day since it happened. I was so afraid of that man that I had failed to notice how gingerly he walked over those jagged rocks with his bare, shackled feet. I was so concerned about my own safety that I never considered the pain in that man’s body. I never asked myself why I was afraid of a man rendered powerless by shackles; the tools of domination. SPC M, on the other hand, saw the same man I saw and responded to his need. It didn’t seem to matter to him whether the man was good or evil, guilty or innocent. He cared only for his feet.
Perhaps SPC M had a different perspective because of his experience of living in America as an immigrant. Perhaps he was less keen to villainize a person simply because our government deemed them “criminal” in their own country. Perhaps my privilege, my whiteness, and my American birth made it easier for me to see the brown man in custody as a threat. Or maybe SPC M was a different kind of Christian. My Christian identity caused me to view Muslims as my natural enemies. His Christianity caused him to give away his shower shoes to a barefoot, blindfolded man in shackles. His faith wouldn’t let him demonize another human being. I want my faith to be like his.
While I was working as a manager at a movie theater, I asked the new manager, Tim, if he had a girlfriend. I did not ask him in the privacy of the manager’s office, I asked him in front of a handful of employees as we were closing the theater for the night. I only asked him because I had a girlfriend and we were in the middle of a fight – I was looking for advice and I was trying to connect with Tim.
He said that he did in fact have a girlfriend but asked if we could talk about it later since he was busy working. I tried to hide how much I’d embarrassed myself but one can only wait for the blood to drain from the face once it has flowed to the cheeks. Tim was cool and just kept training an employee on the proper cleaning of the popcorn machine.
A few days later Tim asked to talk with me in the office. Our general manager was there and I could tell she had been included purposefully. Tim explained that he did not have a girlfriend, that he’d lied when I asked him publicly if he did. He laughed and said he didn’t know why he’d lied, that he’d been out of the closet since middle school, but somehow when I asked such an unexpected question he found himself lying.
I felt terrible. I apologized for putting him on the spot, for asking such a private question so publicly, and for being so presumptuous with someone I had only just met. Tim was gracious and generous in his forgiveness and I left that meeting with a genuine appreciation for how kind he had been to me. Before I left the office, he mentioned that he knew I was a youth pastor and extended an invitation to discuss or debate with him the finer points of homosexuality in the Bible.
I was 19 years old and deeply entrenched in a fundamentalist evangelical church that taught that “homosexuals and lesbians” (as though people could be identified solely by their sexual orientation) were out to “destroy America with their gay agenda!” This is no exaggeration. This position may not have been held by everyone in our congregation but it was certainly the consensus of the majority.
I had never been convinced of a “gay agenda.” Back then I did believe that homosexuality was sinful, but I also knew that I was sinful. Surely, same-sex attraction couldn’t be sinful since we can’t willfully be attracted or not-attracted to someone. So I held the belief that sex acts between people who were unmarried was sinful whether homosexual or heterosexual. This allowed me to believe that queer folks could be christians, that they could go to heaven, and that they weren’t out to “destroy the American family;” they were just born with a heavier cross to bear. There are plenty of problems with this theology, but perhaps the most obvious problem is that it damns all queer people to a life without sexuality simply because of the way that they love; the way that they exist in the world.
A couple of weeks later, I was invited into another conversation in the office by the general manager, Jeni. She told me that Tim had begun to worry that I was uncomfortable working with him because of his sexual orientation. He told Jeni that she should cut his hours if I was uncomfortable. He didn’t want me to lose any shifts since I had been there longer.
The truth is, I probably was uncomfortable. The culture I had been raised in demonized people in the LGBTQIA+ Community. I didn’t know how to be around someone who was out. But my respect for Tim’s gesture and the way he treated me far outweighed my prejudice and homophobia. I told Jeni that Tim was a damn good manager and I would be glad to work every shift alongside him. As I left the office I choked back tears. While I had been judgmental, arrogant and homophobic, Tim had been gracious, merciful, and Christ-like.
Tim and I became very close after that. I looked forward to working with him and we spent hours laughing together, talking, and learning about each other’s lives. By the time I left that job I knew Tim. I knew about the ins and outs of his love life, the ups and downs with his family, and his plans for the future. He knew my girlfriend (who later became my wife), my struggles with the exclusivity of the church I belonged to, and my ever present financial woes. I never did accept his offer to “debate” the Biblical texts about homosexuality. Instead, I got to know Tim and I learned about God.
The last time I saw Tim he was dropping a deposit off at the bank I was working at. He was managing somewhere else and, I’m sure, doing an amazing job. He really was a gifted and natural leader. He was worried about his car that day because a light had come on informing him that he had a tire that needed air. He was clueless about how to fix it so I tried to explain what he should do.
“Can’t you just fix it for me?” he asked. “Of course.” I said.
We drove to a nearby gas station and I inflated his tires to the proper pressure. He didn’t get out of the car to pretend he wanted to learn and I found that delightfully charming.
When he dropped me back off at work he parked his car, got out, and hugged me goodbye. As he drove off I smiled and I reflected on the course of our friendship. We had come a long way since we first met. I said a small prayer for him. I prayed that God would keep him wherever he goes. That God would help him find love that was fulfilling and that God’s love would protect Tim and preserve his beautiful heart.
It was then that I realized I loved Tim. I loved him just exactly the way he was. When I prayed that he’d find love, I did not mean with a woman. I envisioned a man who could love Tim the way Tim wanted to be loved romantically. When I prayed that God would preserve Tim and keep him, I did not want God to fundamentally change him into someone who was heterosexual and then preserve that imaginary version of Tim. I wanted God to preserve Tim exactly as he was; as a gay man and a wonderful friend to me.
This realization was a seed that, over time, grew into a revelation for me. If I loved Tim just as he was, then God must love Tim even more perfectly. God, after all, is Love. And Tim is queer. Imagining Tim as numerically identical to himself without his queerness is the same as imagining me as numerically identical to myself without my relationship with my wife. I would be fundamentally different absent that relationship. In fact, I find that trying to define myself without naming the people I love is impossible! Go ahead and try it. Try to explain who you are without naming your partner, your children, your parents, your friends, your chosen family, or your loved ones. I’d wager that you cannot do it.
Love is who God is – how could it be any different for us? And if God is Love, how could he despise the Love in us? That would be a self-loathing God.
This week, the third largest christian organization, the United Methodist Church, voted to officially exclude members of the LGBTQIA+ Community from their fold. In doing so, they rejected the very essence of so many of their members, their clergy, and queer folks everywhere. They called into question the morality of our siblings existence by assaulting their Love.
In response, I want to say publicly that Tim and countless other queer people have enriched my understanding of God through their work, their presence in my life, their love, and their most courageous existence. I will never eat at a Table where they are not welcome.
To my LGBTQIA+ siblings, and especially those in the UMC, I love you. I need you. I am not me without you being you. Thank you for enriching the world I am so honored to live in. I’m with you, wherever you go. | English | NL | 5f83961989c131df9a2197fe6e600a8d1824ab6f178abde2f7dadbcf34b9978a |
This is the tenth interview in my Classical Conversations Series which features British pianist Ashley Wass.
Described as an ‘endlessly fascinating artist’, Ashley is firmly established as one of the leading performers of his generation. He is the only British winner of the London International Piano Competition, prizewinner at the Leeds Piano Competition, and a former BBC Radio 3 New Generation Artist.
Increasingly in demand on the international stage, Ashley has performed at many of the world’s finest concert halls including Wigmore Hall, Carnegie Hall and the Vienna Konzerthaus. He has performed as soloist with numerous leading ensembles, including all of the BBC orchestras, the Philharmonia, Orchestre National de Lille, Vienna Chamber Orchestra, Hong Kong Philharmonic, RLPO, and under the baton of conductors such as Simon Rattle, Osmo Vanska, Donald Runnicles, Ilan Volkov and Vassily Sinaisky.
In June 2002 he appeared alongside the likes of Sir Thomas Allen, Mstislav Rostropovich and Angela Gheorghiu in a gala concert at Buckingham Palace to mark the Golden Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II, a performance broadcast live to millions of viewers around the world. In recent years he has become a regular guest at the BBC Proms, making his debut in 2008 with Vaughan Williams’ Piano Concerto, and returning in following seasons to perform works by Foulds Stravinsky, Antheil, and McCabe.
Renowned for a broad and eclectic repertoire, Ashley has received great critical acclaim for his recordings of music from a wide range of styles and eras, with glowing reviews of his interpretations of composers such as Liszt, Franck, Beethoven and Bridge. His survey of Bax’s piano music was nominated for a Gramophone Award and his discography boasts a number of Gramophone ‘Editor’s Choice’ recordings and BBC Music Magazine ‘Choices’.
Much in demand as a chamber musician, Ashley regularly partners many of the leading artists of his generation. He is a frequent guest of international festivals such as Pharos (Cyprus), Bath, Ako (Japan), Cheltenham, Kuhmo, Mecklenburg, Gstaad, City of London, and Ravinia and Marlboro in the USA, playing solo recitals and chamber works with musicians such as Mitsuko Uchida, Steven Isserlis, Emmanuel Pahud, Richard Goode and members of the Guarneri Quartet and Beaux Arts Trio.
Ashley Wass is the Artistic Director of the Lincolnshire International Chamber Music Festival. The Festival has grown from strength to strength during his tenure, with sold-out performances of challenging repertoire and broadcasts on BBC Radio 3.
Ashley is currently a Professor of Piano at the Royal College of Music, London, and is an Associate of the Royal Academy of Music.
Ashley in action…
For those who prefer to read, here’s the transcript…
MELANIE SPANSWICK: British classic pianist, Ashley Wass, has carved out a very successful career playing concerts all around the world. He was a former BBC Radio 3 New Generation Artist and is a prizewinner too at the International Leeds Piano Competition and I am so delighted that he is joining me here today for one of my classical conversations here at the Royal College of Music in London. Welcome, Ashley.
ASHLEY WASS: Thank you.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: I’m going to dive straight and ask you all about your musical education, how you started playing, why you started playing, what age. Did you come from a musical family?
ASHLEY WASS: Not at all. Actually my parents ran a guesthouse on the sea front at Skegness of all places [laughs].
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Quite different.
ASHLEY WASS: I know. Absolutely. And…And…For some reason, I’m not quite sure why we had an electric organ in the house. And when I was old enough, about 5, 6 or something like that, they decided that I should be the one to play it because none of them could. Umm, so through my early year I’ve went through this traditional waves of associate board examinations [Melanie interjects, “Right”] and most of my pieces were some popular or light classics. Really nice to play with the guests of the hotel with the Christmas carols at Christmas time and yeah, I’ve sort of got swept along and then I went to Chethams. That’s where I sort of feel that I’ve began my proper music education.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: So which teacher did you think really developed your piano playing the most. Which one was the most helpful?
ASHLEY WASS: Well I was with a man called David Hartking for seven years when I was at Chethams so from eleven to eighteen, which I think is such a crucial age [Melanie interjects, “Yes, it is.”] and unfortunately, he passed away after a couple of years I left for school but he was, I think just an invaluable part of my development. First, I don’t wish to be disrespectful to the teachers I’ve had prior to him, but he was the first teacher that I had who came from a really strong foundation, strong traditional teaching. He had wonderful teachers himself and I feel that he gave me a really good, solid foundation and of course from then I moved to the Academy and had lessons with Christopher Elton and with Hamish Milne. Hamish in particular, was a wonderful pianist. I mean, he can demonstrate so, so well and for me, actually in my own teaching now, that’s one of the key elements that I try to bring is actually to be able to demonstrate, say so much. So much in such a short time if you can play [Melanie interjects, “Yes”] and he was such a great colourist and he taught me so many things. It was a fantastic education. And the other great influences was Maria Curcio who was a student of Schnabel. An elderly Italian lady who lived in London and who I’ve met, actually she came to give master classes when I was 14 or 15 – something like that and had taken me under her wing. I used to come down a couple of times a term from Manchester, to have lessons with her. When I moved to London permanently, I lived a couple of minutes around the corner from her [laughs]. So I used to go regularly for lessons and she gave me free tuition and she was incredibly generous with her time. As a musician, she was exceptional.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Yes, fantastic reputation she has.
ASHLEY WASS: She was, at the time when I met her, the most distinguished teacher, probably in the world. It was a great honour to be able to play to her and I feel like I’ve learned a tremendous amount from her.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: So how did you develop your technique?
ASHLEY WASS: I remember, it’s very hard to say [laughs]
MELANIE SPANSWICK: [laughs] Are you one of those people who loves practicing Czerny studies? [laughs]
ASHLEY WASS: Not at all no! I can’t remember the last time I sat down and played a scale for the sake of it. I remember going through the books of Czerny, I remember Maria giving me the Brahms 51, which were invaluable and something I now give to my students as well. Umm, but a lot of my technique was developed through repertoire actually. I would have to say, I think, David, during those early years, he was fantastic at finding just the right pieces to play and finding the pieces that will develop areas of your technique that were perhaps lacking in comparison to others and working with you through those avenues rather than the business of giving you lots of etudes and scale which of course nobody really enjoys doing that much. You know, for a young boy who’s perhaps still uncertain if music is what he wants to do. I think a fantastic way to sort of engage them is to actually try and be very specific, very careful about the repertoire that you give them and you can learn so much from that without actually having to spend hours practicing scales and arpeggios.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: That’s true. Now you were a prizewinner, as I said, at the Leeds Piano Competition and you won the London Piano Competition, so how did these shape and change your career, do you think? How important were they?
ASHLEY WASS: Umm. Probably very important is the honest answer but there are certain qualifications to that and London was something that I did when I was twenty and I entered it primarily for the experience of actually preparing repertoire. I had to prepare a lot of music. And at that age, I never sort of had the need to have so many pieces at my fingers at the same time. And, I didn’t expect to win. I didn’t expect to be accepted to the competition and then I expected to be knocked out of the first round and then in the semi-finals, I remember sitting on stage an they’re about to announce the prizes, I thought, Oh I’ll be third. Then they announced the third prize, I thought I’ll be second. You know, it was such a great shock to me when I came first. Perhaps I wasn’t quite ready for it at that time. [laughs] Ummm. But of course, I was already playing quite a lot of concerts by that stage. The difference was, the concerts that I started playing after that were perhaps more high profile. And you know, I got a recording after it, which many years later eventually led to a recording contract. It’s one of many kind of important building blocks in the development of a career but it’s not the kind of career-maker in its own right.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Yes.
ASHLEY WASS: Leeds was…Umm…It was a strange experience and it was something that many people advised me not to do. I was very unsure about doing it myself. I mean, it was the last competition I did. I mean, I did very few anyway and that was absolutely the last one, I remember and at the semi-final stage, there were 12 semi-finalists and then 6 finalists, we were all sent to a room with a big platter of food actually, I remember, and everybody was too nervous to eat it because we were just waiting for them to come and collect us to give us the results. And…Umm. It was such a long time then every time someone would come in, everybody’s head was swinging around in anticipation and eventually the twelve of us were marched to this room and the name, six names were read out. It was the first time we’ve heard of a firing squad. Now I remember calling my girlfriend at the time immediately after that saying look, if I ever think about entering another competition again, just remind me of how I feel right now. I mean, I was the lucky one that night but it was a horrific experience to go through and I realized that that was it. I think being one of the very few British pianists that have had success in a competition; inevitably, I benefitted quite a lot from it in terms of the number of engagements I got but having said that, I was BBC engineer at the time and it was very hard to differentiate between what that was bringing, what Leeds was bringing in, what the management was bringing in so I don’t know hand on heart, how much of an impact it directly had. I do think that, in a way, competition winners or prize winners are sometimes viewed with a degree of suspicion. That’s my theory [laughs] I know many pianists who are genuinely wonderful pianists and wonderful musicians, who have had immense success in many competitions but are somehow viewed rather negatively because of it. You know, there’s a stereotype that to win a competition you must be, somehow, a rather boring player. You must conform to, you know, sort of strict regulations and rules of piano playing. It’s not true. There are wonderful people who have come through that route and the idea that if you are really special, you do not need to do a competition, it’s nonsense. It’s just not that way for everybody. If you’re lucky, it is but it’s not that way for everybody and I feel that some of those people that I know who have had great success and are genuinely deserving of immense careers and who have not had those careers because they had competition success that doesn’t sit very easy with me. I feel there’s a certain kind of lack of justice there. So competitions are sometimes a necessary evil but I think there is a danger to them tp.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: You’re a professor of piano here at the Royal College, do you advise your students to do them or do you tell them to do other ways of establishing their career?
ASHLEY WASS: I…if a student comes to me and asks to enter a competition because they’ve done the research, they’ve done the homework and they’ve found something that they really like to do, I don’t discourage them. I think, on the whole, they are a positive experience but, I think the main reason that the student should do a competition is not because of the success and the rewards that can come from the award but actually rather from the benefits of preparing for it.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Yes.
ASHLEY WASS: For many students, it just focuses the mind and it really makes them work hard and they have to take a huge amount of repertoire into their fingers and into their brains at the same time. And it’s one of the few occasions when as a student, you actually need to do that; as I said for me as a twenty year old it was the first time I had to prepare five or six hours of repertoire. You know, up until that point, you know you have a 90 minute recital here and then a month later, maybe you have a concerto there, and then you never sort of take that amount of repertoire onboard so it’s a fantastic way of learning. You have to learn and work across at such detail and again, some students don’t always find the motivation to do in front of all other things but I think if you look at it as a vehicle by which to really hone your preparations, then it’s worthwhile.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: So which composers are you drawn to? What do you really enjoy playing?
ASHLEY WASS: Umm. It’s very hard to say. I mean, I grew up in so much Beethoven, so much Brahms, some of those kind of early general romantic composers are very much my first love. I have real fascination for quirky, airy repertoire; a repertoire which is played quite so often ummm.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: That’s my next question because I notice you play a lot of British composers. How did that come about?
ASHLEY WASS: I have. Well, I mean the British thing came…It’s rather actually misrepresentative of me. I recorded a disc of Bax for Naxos back in, I can’t remember now, back in 2000, early 2000, which was really nicely received and led to a recording contract and we had this loose arrangement to record three discs a year over a period of five years. Two of those discs will be British and one would be so-called international repertoire. It didn’t quite work out that way and the reality of what that I was recording a lot of British repertoire and so that it what I became known for. Actually, when you break it down and you think that that repertoire takes up a three or four day recording session and it’s not, or what was rarely, part of my concert performances which take up 100 days of my year but because the recording is the thing that gets reviewed in countless publications and gets lots of PR around it…..
MELANIE SPANSWICK: It was nominated for a gramophone award.
ASHLEY WASS: Yeah, which was lovely but they are the things which you became known for so actually although the British repertoire, in real terms, was just taking up a very small percentage of my work because it was the thing getting the most publicity, it’s the thing that people associated me with.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Yes
ASHLEY WASS: So the last few years, I’ve really withdrawn from that. There are exceptions. There are pieces that I’ve recorded. That I want to re-record actually that I love very dearly that I feel very passionately about.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Which composers, which British composers do you particularly like? I mean, you obviously love Bax.
ASHLEY WASS: Well, I mean Bax, I have a slightly mixed relationship with, I mean there are pieces that I love, pieces that I, I recorded a lot of Bax. I actually lost count of the number of discs that I’ve done.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Because he wrote tremendous amount of music.
ASHLEY WASS: He did. He did. Of course when you’re recording complete works of one composer there are inevitably works which are less strong than others and there are pieces that I love so much but a lot of things that I actually would never wish to perform so we have to take that into content. I think Frank Bridge, a fantastic composer. Really wonderful composer. His piano sonata I think is a masterpiece of the very highest level. That’s something I’d love to come back to and record again and I’m not terribly happy with the recording that was released and I’d love to go back to that. But, as a whole, the role of British music in my performing career is quite minimal. It’s been great to have, in some ways, it’s led to opportunities, which otherwise would have never existed. The Proms have asked me to play Vaughan Williams and John Fowles and things there because I’m associated with that music and in festivals in countries all over the world, occasionally, they ask me to go and play if they’re focusing on British music because again, I’m associated with that but in the last 2, 3, 4 years, I’ve really had to…kind of withdraw slightly and focus much more on music which is my true love. And to explore…rather than saying I love this composer or I love that composer what I really enjoy doing is building programmes around a particular concept and find works to fit into that. I love programme building and creating and in that way, you can’t really allow yourself room to become obsessed with one or two composers. You have to have very wide imagination.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Which venues have you really loved performing in? Which ones stand out.
ASHLEY WASS: Quite often, they tend to be pretty unexpected places. Rather than saying Wigmore Hall or Carnegie Hall, the ones that I really remember actually are really unusual things like a few years ago I went to Cuba to play and there was an old, semi-derelict monastery right in the center of Havana and I gave a recital there. It was a beautiful piano, which have been donated by Japanese businessman, a brand new Steinway model D. It was one of the best pianos I’ve ever played. The venue was just magical and so atmospheric, you could hear the car horns beeping away outside! But there’s something about that. The acoustic was fantastic and I remember that, I’ve always remembered that as a really special place to have played. Sometimes you go to little churches dotted around and you find things that are just magical. Really acoustic gems. ( Melanie: they stick in your mind) They do. Actually they’re the ones I remember much more than the grand symphonic halls.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: What’s your favorite musical memory?
ASHLEY WASS: I have three, If I can. [laughs] In 2009, I fulfilled one of my dreams which was to trek to Everest base camp. I love mountains. I love hiking. This was a fantastic thing. A couple of days after I returned from Nepal, I had a concert in Cyprus. It was a piano trio concert with cellist, Alexander Chaushian and Daishin Kashimoto who is one of the concertmasters of the Berlin Phil. They’re really good friends and we play together a lot. We had just great time together performing on stage and I’ve been in Cyprus every year for the last how many years so that the promoters there also are really good friends. I was playing with good friends, for good friends. We were playing great music and I hadn’t touched a piano for about a month because I’ve been hiking. Somehow, I wasn’t expecting it to be a great concert but the freshness and inspiration that I’ve taken from the scenery that I been witnessing just a few days earlier, it was inspirational actually and somehow it just kind of gelled and I had a great time. I remember also my Proms debut not so much that it was a Proms debut but actually although as a young man growing up in the UK it is something which you dream doing of, which is great but mainly because I got engaged to my wife just literally just a couple of minutes before going on stage so it was a very nice way to remember that. Then finally to make reference to Maria again, I remember when she first came to Chets and she gave a week of master classes and she selected 3, 4, 5 students to play in a concert at the end, the ones she enjoyed working with the best. I played first movement of Beethoven 4 with a second piano not with orchestra, and I think I was first in the concert and I disappeared after my performance to my dormitory and hid in there for a while and someone suddenly came knock to my door and said Maria wants to see you. I remember thinking oh goodness, what have I done wrong! and I was terrified [laughs] my heart was pounding and I was wondering what she was going to say because I’ve seen her on television with documentaries about her with her really famous students and it was just a dream to have met her. She was the teacher that I idolized. She called me over and said Ashley I, remember now, she said, actually you’re a great pianist, a great musician but most of all a great artist and I want to work with you and that was a huge point in my life. I did. I come down regularly for lessons with her. For me, getting my lessons with her was awesome.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: So what exciting plans have you got for the rest of the year?
ASHLEY WASS: I’ve got a busy year with concerts and recordings which is lovely and I just started a new piano trio with Matthew Trussler and Thomas Carroll, which is really exciting actually. We’ve got some great plans for that with various new commissions which I think are lovely so and again, recordings for that as well. Just about to go to California next month for a series of concerts and, concerts in lots of different places. I’m trying to spend as much time as possible at home because we have a young a baby in the house [laughs] it’s always always a pain when I have to go away, as much as I enjoy this musical life. I have to say this is such a wrench to leave my daughter. I try not to go away too much, but it’s busy and it’s a good thing, I think.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: So what does playing the piano mean to you?
ASHLEY WASS: It means a life of freedom, a life of which I’m mostly in control of and I’m my boss, which is nice and but most of all, I think it means a form of expression. I’m quite a shy person actually and the piano is one place where you feel that you can give everything of yourself without inhibition. You don’t have to…actually, there’s no room to be shy. You can’t be possibly shy at the piano so I think that’s a mean of expression for me, somebody who perhaps doesn’t always find it easy to express myself with words. It’s just a great vehicle of which I can give everything of myself.
MELANIE SPANSWICK: Thank you so much for joining me today, Ashley.
ASHLEY WASS: It’s a pleasure. Thank you.
My publications:For much more information about how to practice piano repertoire, take a look at my piano course, Play it again: PIANO (published by Schott Music). Covering a huge array of styles and genres, the course features a large collection of progressive, graded piano repertoire from approximately Grade 1 to advanced diploma level, with copious practice tips for every piece. A convenient and beneficial course for students of any age, with or without a teacher, and it can also be used alongside piano examination syllabuses too.
You can find out more about my other piano publications and compositions here. | English | NL | 9ca593cd2ffa458f0914362f03fbe4f865f481e824ee0e3e027debe1a6af8f7d |
Biography: British caricaturist and illustrator who worked under the pseudonym "Kyd". Born in Onchan on the Isle of Man, Clarke had many occupations during his lifetime, including designer of cigarette cards and postcards. From 1927 Clarke earned his living from watercolor sketches, mainly of Dickens' characters, which he sold to and through the London book trade.
Apart from his Dickens work, "Kyd" also illustrated humorous series such as "Some Typical Newspaper Readers" (c.1900), "The Book and Its Reader", and "London Types”. He also illustrated a series of 50 smokers for Gallaher Ltd., issued as a set of cigarette cards entitled 'Votaries of the Weed' in 1916.
Six of his illustrations were issued as stamps by the Royal Mail in 2012 to mark the 200th anniversary of the birth of Charles Dickens.
Clarke died at the New End Hospital in Hammersmith, London in August 1937. | English | NL | 6f206e96883e9d04f740a54407ae6e940c54519880914b0fdd6da72ecf47dd36 |
Authors: Amy Star
PARANORMAL BEAR SHIFTER ROMANCE
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“She was willing to be hired for anything, anything at all...”
Curvy Jane Arnold was a small town girl who had moved to Las Vegas to start a new life. Only problem was, she was dead broke and desperate for a job. Any job.
Vincent Mezzanote was a powerful billionaire bear shifter with a huge business empire based in the City Of Sin. He was a man full of opportunities along with dark secrets.
Now Vincent is recruiting a new personal assistant and Jane has been invited for an interview. When she arrives Vincent is stunned.
Not because she is perfect for the job, in fact she is far from it. But because he can tell from her scent that she is the mate for him.
Now Vincent has to decide, does he hire her as his PA or does he hire her as his mate?
Or does he do
It was official; Jane Arnold was not attractive enough to manage to secure a job at a dentist’s office in Las Vegas. That had to be an all time low on the rejection scale, to be called “not the right type” for welcoming patients for root canals. One might think, based on the latest in a series of similar rejections, that Jane was horribly disfigured, perhaps even troll-like in stature, or even of the unwashed miscreant variety. Although Jane was generally a pretty positive person – especially about her looks – the last string of interviews made her question the beauty she always took for granted. She checked herself out in the mirror across from her in the waiting room of her final job interview and she was finding it harder and harder not to be critical of a body that she generally liked.
The woman staring back at her in the mirror was perhaps taller than the general public liked their women. Standing at five foot ten, Jane had never been a shrinking violet. In addition to her height, Jane was also blessed (cursed?) with the curves of a 1950’s pin-up. Her cup overfloweth and her pencil skirt restrained a butt that could have been a body double for Kim Kardashian. Jane finished the look with a tight cardigan and red lips. She had always thought she was a Sophia Loren-type but the past week of being told that her body “wasn’t quite right” for jobs had her rethinking her entire look.
Jane had been so convinced that the City of Sin was going to be the perfect place for a curvy girl with a retro bent that she risked her entire life savings and the scathing criticism of her mother to come to Las Vegas to finally strike out on her own. It had taken her an entire year to save up the money for the trip. Jane had picked up extra shifts at a diner in addition to her day job running the office of Sandpoint Idaho’s biggest car dealership. Her mother, Grace Arnold, had once been the beauty of the town and now seemed to think that criticizing Jane was her life’s purpose.
Grace wasn’t supportive of anything in Jane’s life. A waifish redhead, Grace found Jane’s bulk to be unbecoming and at the tender age of eight, suggested her chubby daughter consider a diet. For the next sixteen years, Grace had made it her life’s purpose to shape Jane into a replica of herself. Constant jabs at Jane’s weight, curves, and height, started early but when Jane began to develop a love of art and retro style, Grace took every chance to nag her about those as well. When Jane had reached the age where the rest of her high school friends were graduating from college and striking out on their own, Jane took a look at her life and realized she needed to escape as well. It was either that, or, be buried under her mother’s distaste for the rest of her life. Jane was too young to stare down that bleak road for long. For the next year, Jane scrimped and saved, polished her resume and spiced up her wardrobe in preparation for the great week of job interviews. She’d pinned all of her hopes and dreams on twelve interviews for managerial positions Jane thought herself more than qualified for. She’d thought it was going to be a piece of cake.
Now, sitting at her last interview of the week, Jane was preparing herself to turn the rental car around and use the last of her savings to buy the return bus ticket back to Idaho. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but it was nothing compared to the ear-beating she was going to receive from her mother. Jane sighed and caught a glance of herself in the mirror again. The woman who reflected back now looked dejected, in addition to being horribly disfigured and troll-like. It was the sadness in her own eyes that snapped her out of the funk, though; Jane had never been a doom and gloom kind of gal. She was a sunny daisy in the face of all her mother threw at her. Las Vegas didn’t have her beat, yet. Jane sat up straight and fixed her lipstick as tattoo machines buzzed faintly from the room beyond. Jane didn’t know a thing about tattooing or tattoo parlors in general but she was going to kick ass at this interview nevertheless and finally stake her claim in Las Vegas.
Satisfied, Jane looked more closely at her surroundings. The name of the parlor was Midnight Ink. The waiting room had walls painted in a warm dark blue – so blue they were almost black –and the rich color was studded with actual crystals that shone white and clear blue. Black velvet curtains tied with silver accents framed the windows that looked out onto the thriving Mezzanotte Casino. The whole effect was a sort of luxurious den of iniquity. Beyond the matching velvet curtains was the actual tattoo studio. Craning her neck, Jane could see that the space was done with creamy ivory walls with gallery-style art hanging all around. She was heartened to see that a few of the selections were tattoo-style pin-up girls. Perhaps she’d saved the best interview for last, she thought pleasantly.
Hearing the resounding thud of boots hitting the tiled floor, Jane sat back up and straightened her skirt. She watched as the largest man she’d ever laid eyes on escorted out the previous interviewee. The interviewee would probably be considered a tall man himself in normal circumstances but walking next to the blonde giant, he appeared to be almost petite. The blonde man in the shit-kicker boots wasn’t just tall – he was big all over. Muscles strained against his plain gray t-shirt and his hands looked to be the size of dinner plates as he said goodbye to the previous interviewee. Turning to Jane, a broad smile lit his face and he extended a hand to her.
“Hello, my name is Xavier. I’m one of the artists here at the Midnight Ink location. Vincent had to step out for a phone call so I’ll be starting your interview.”
Jane smiled dumbly as she shook Xavier’s huge hand. When Xavier raised his eyebrows, Jane remembered to respond - she had to nail this interview. “Nice to meet you. Xavier, my name is Jane Arnold.”
“Nice to meet you Jane, please follow me…”
As Jane and Xavier passed by Vincent’s office, Vincent’s nose twitched in recognition of a scent. It was a fleeting sensation and after it passed, he was tempted to step out of his office and try to track it down. But the voice on the other end of the phone kept him tethered. Vincent pulled a hand over his face as if scrubbing it would make his burgeoning headache go away.
He’d been dragged into a phone meeting about a recent break-in at the edge of Clan territory. The neighboring Werebear Clan, Corvino, hadn’t gone to much trouble to hide their scent so Vincent’s father, Vincenzo, a.k.a. the head of the Mezzanotte Clan, figured it was a case of not knowing where the border between territories was drawn. Vincent figured after 200 years in the continent of North America, the Corvino Clan knew exactly where their territory ended but he kept silent. The break-in resulted in nothing more than a raid of a liquor cabinet and Vincenzo was now trying to rationalize that it must have been a group of underage cubs looking for some fun. But something in Vincent’s gut told him there was more to the raid.
Vincent was trying hard not to speak during the meeting. Lately, if he spoke out about something in the committee meetings, Vincenzo would assign Vincent to look into the problem. Ostensibly, it was to afford his eighty-year-old son the opportunity to get his feet wet solving some of the real problems in the Werebear community. More often than not, it was turning into situations where Vincenzo would simply solve the problem before Vincent could, thereby discrediting his son. Or, sometimes, during a debriefing, Vincenzo would end up second-guessing every choice Vincent had made in getting to the solution. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. But when his father started to say that the incident was so harmless as not to merit contacting the other Clan, Vincent lost his patience and couldn’t help but jump into the fray, despite the unpleasant consequences.
“Father, with all due respect, I think we would want to know if any of our cubs were committing crimes, much less committing them on another Clan’s territory. According to the contract between Clans, we have to report something like this.” Vincent’s eyes rolled heavenward in the empty space of his office. Now he’d done it.
Vincenzo’s voice broke the silence of Vincent’s comment, deep and cool, “Well my first son, apparently you’ve found time in your busy schedule to read over the Clan’s legal documents. Perhaps you’d like to carry out this task to the letter of the law?”
Vincent studied Vincenzo’s wording. It seemed to indicate that this would be a task he’d criticize Vincent for later, rather than try to beat him to the punch. Despite the inevitable criticism, Vincent sighed and said, “Of course, Father, I would be happy to intercede on this issue of Clan relations.” After the formal response, Vincent punctuated his stupid act with an eye roll. He really had to stop making more work for himself.
Vincenzo’s jab at finding time was in reference to Vincent’s truly packed schedule. Vincent was damn jealous of those Werebear cubs and their nights of drunken debauchery. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d had a night out on the town with the guys, much less a night in bed with a woman. Vincent clicked off the call as his father finished doling out a few more tasks to other committee members, including Vincent’s younger brother, Valente, who happened to be the owner of the Mezzanotte Hotel and Casino.
The perspective that Valente possibly had a fuller plate than Vincent didn’t help matters much, not when Vincent was drowning in all of his commitments. Vincenzo wanted Vincent to sell his business to Xavier. As the owner of five high-end tattoo parlors across the city of Las Vegas, Vincent wasn’t exactly a lazy man. He’d found the art as a young cub from the Native American tribes in the area. Once the Hoover Dam brought water, and air conditioning brought comfort to the sweltering temperatures of the Nevada desert, Las Vegas became a boomtown of gambling and luxury. The Mezzanotte Clan staked their claim early and in the 1960’s Vincent had just reached full bear status and was itching to start something of his own. Thus, Midnight Ink was born. Vincent rode the high of tattoos as they became more and more popular, eventually opening his five shops and banking over a billion dollars in savings as he did so.
Now, Vincent only tattooed at Midnight Ink and he’d handed off a lot of the day-to-day grind to Xavier, which had alleviated some of Vincent’s stress in the beginning. But now, as he took on more and more leadership jobs from his father, and still tried to maintain tattooing five days a week, Vincent was having trouble keeping everything in check. To add insult to injury, his shop manager had just quit. Vincent decided it was time to find a new manager who could organize his life.
But so far, the interviewees had been duds. They were a combination of under qualified artists trying to get their break in a big shop and Werebears that Vincent strongly assumed were spies for Vincent’s father. The artists were out of the question. Vincent had made that mistake in the 90’s and ended up with a PR nightmare on his hands and more than a few cover-ups (the shop manager had offered to ink illegally in his off time). On the other hand, if Vincent hired any of the Werebears, even Midnight Ink would no longer be a place of refuge from his father.
The human sitting down the hall with Xavier was his last chance. He needed to hire someone today.
Checking the time, Vincent decided he could take a minute to review the woman’s resume. Her name was Jane Arnold and she was most decidedly not a tattoo artist. She didn’t have a degree, but she had at least three jobs as manager at various offices and stores. Most notably was her position as manager of the one of the largest car dealerships in Idaho. Taking on Midnight Ink would be a piece of cake compared to the amount of people she had to deal with at the dealership, even with Vincent’s leadership schedule thrown into the mix.
The fact that she was a human wasn’t an issue. The electronic information, like email and online documents she’d be dealing with would never directly mention that the Clan was really the Italian American faction of the Werebear community. Anything on a computer was too easily hacked and long ago they’d made the decision to keep anything electronically transferred devoid of specifics regarding the ancient race. Once she’d gained their trust, they could talk about letting her in on the secret.
It’s not like an entire Clan of Werebears could exist in a single city without being noticed without letting a few humans in on the secret. The average Werebear could live for up to 300 years. Mated Weres could live for almost 500 as mated bears generally died together. It was only the rare circumstance that one lived on without their mate.
Vincent pulled Jane Arnold’s documentation together into his folder and then picked up his iPad and iPhone, slipping the latter into his back pocket after double-checking that he was on vibrate. He didn’t want to ruin his chances of hiring this woman. In fact, after looking at her resume, Vincent was tempted to let Xavier vet the girl sight unseen and just offer her the job. Sighing, Vincent knew he would never be comfortable hiring someone without shaking their hand first. Maybe it was his Werebear instincts, or maybe it was just that he was getting old enough to be old fashioned, but Vincent needed direct contact before giving someone a job. Judging by his bank account, the formality had served him well so far. | English | NL | 6242e2ccfa1bc455099ecca35d0e2ac41ec4bbd4162f4e74eef87b1ab456315d |
This paper touches upon the psychological crisis of the old hand poet Suhaim Abd Bani Al-Hashass in his poems. This personality disorder resulted basically from his inability to socialise and merge into his local society which denied him both his masculinity and recognition as a poet.
The paper also deals with the repercussions of the poet's psychosis which reduced him to sadism, narcissism, and perversion. As a result, he was resolved to get his revenge on the tribe through tarnishing the chastity of its women and depicting sexual savagery towards them in his poems. These poems were nothing but mere delusions and he had to pay the price eventually by being burned to death | English | NL | 30fc222f423ae1767a94e3622525e570a19902e70ff3e2fa5ceb6cb9c4cde507 |
Romans 6 — Identification and Position
In our struggle as Christians to be like Christ, we may wonder if there is any help from the constant pressure to do the things we know are not right. The answer is Yes!
In our study through Romans we have now moved from justification by faith to the results of being justified, and our sanctification. Over the next two Sundays we will be studying the sixth chapter of Romans. Romans 6 informs us that believers have been crucified, buried, and raised with Christ. We were are no longer slaves to sin, but free to choose the right.
Paul writes about the importance of Knowing, Reckoning and Yielding in this very important 6th chapter.
As you continue to read and study the book of Romans, I pray that God will use it to radically change your life.
Romans 6:3-4 Or do you not know that as many of us as were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? 4 Therefore we were buried with Him through baptism into death, that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life. | English | NL | 3688c65f09d1445ae5927ab078fabc94b5745597fcc7fa1b66bc487c2971e55e |
Today’s Artist Birthday: Paul Joostens
Paul Joostens (18 June 1889 – 24 March 1960 ) was a quirky Antwerp painter , illustrator and creator of collages . He was briefly an impressionist, after that he dabbled in being a symbolist, futurist, cubist, surrealist, Dadaist, anarchist, nihilist and finally existentialist. He took a special place in Flemish art, but little was recognized during his life and died almost forgotten and in poverty.
Born in Antwerp into a bourgeois environment, he was the youngest in a family of four children. He had a strict religious upbringing at home, the family following the practices of the Jesuits. His father was a stonemason and participated in the restoration of the Antwerp cathedral. He instilled in his son an appreciation for the style and form of Gothic art. A visit to the exhibition of the Flemish Primitives in Bruges, in 1902 and 1907, opened a new world for him. The influence of the art he was exposed to, in particular, Hans Memling and to a lesser extent other Flemish primitives, left a deep impression on the boy which would later manifest itself in his own works.
On the advice of his father, he began an internship with the Gothic-inspired architect Max Winders . He studied fine art at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts of Antwerp, with classmates which would later acquire some degree of fame: Joseph Peeters , Floris Jespers and Oscar Jespers . After his studies at the academy, he joined the Antwerp Avantgarde. He was for a short time an impressionist, but it was a style that he quickly abandoned.
From 1916 he experienced a rapid evolution from symbolism to futurism and then to cubism , sometimes in combination with elements of the ancient art he had seen as a child. He withdrew from Expressionism as he felt it didn’t suit his vision, despite the fact that is was then the dominant art movement in Belgium.
Joosten made his first three-dimensional works in 1917. Around that time he also began to produce collages, influenced by Georges Braque. He was very productive throughout the 1920s, and in 1922 he exhibited Dadaist abstract collages and constructions of disposable materials, in a group exhibition along with poet Paul Ostaijen and artists Oscar and Floris Jespers. Together they founded the avant garde artist group, “Bond Zonder Gezegeld Papier.”
After World War I, he lived briefly first in Rotterdam and then in Paris. He published his first collection of Dada poems in 1922, entitled “Salopes ou le quart d’heure de rage au soleil sans chapeau. (Sluts or 15 Minutes Of Rage Under The Sun Without A Hat).”
In Paris, in 1924, he married a young lady by the name of Mado Millot, but by 1930 the couple had divorced. Related to the cause of their divorce or not, in 1925 he signed about a hundred pornographic, sadistic-humor drawings in the series Les Mollusques under the pseudonym A. Malibot (A play on “mal beau,” or “beautiful evil”). He also used the pseudonym Duco for other erotic drawings.
Around 1925 he returned to the avant garde. From then began years of poverty, often extreme poverty. In 1930 he began a relationship with the French poet Rose-Marie Malet. After her death in 1938, he began to retreat and isolate himself from the world. He had great difficulty in any social situation and eventually broke with his friends. Unhappy and alone, he lived in his studio, and due to unpaid rents, was forced to move from one studio after another.
During this time he created his own style, his own mythical world: the “Joosten Gothic“. Inspired by Hans Memling and the mystique of the Flemish Primitives he had admired in his youth, he painted numerous Madonnas and other religious scenes, but often they were portrayed in a pornographic or what was considered a “disrespectful” manner.
In addition, he drew and painted young women from the Antwerp area, he called “Poezeloezen.” These works were an expression of his love-hate relationship women, a subject which had obsessed him.
Throughout his life he had a great interest in film and movie stars. In fact, after 1940, he rarely left his home except to visit the cinema. He was “crazy in love with” (in his own words) the film stars Greta Garbo , Marlene Dietrich and Brigitte Helm . Their graceful, sensual moves and erotic attraction are also fundamentally reflected in his work and his way of thinking.
Throughout the 1940’s, he made a remarkable series of photo collages, continuously made drawings, collages and assemblages, which no one ever saw, as neither he nor his artwork ever left his studio. He also wrote numerous poems, journals and other texts, however unpublished. In 1947 he made his most extensive collage collection Le Royaume des choses inutiles (The Kingdom Of Unnecessary Things). He also conducted an extensive correspondence with the painter Michel Seuphor, as well as painter and designerJos Leonard .
In the fifties he resumed his Dadaist assemblages, works that made him a pioneer and forerunner, albeit in his lifetime in obscurity, of pop art and the American artist Robert Rauschenberg . His temperamental character led him over time into a deeper, self-imposed isolation that he expressed in dark charcoal drawings. Due to the cold and the humidity in his studio his poor health deteriorated rather quickly. He regularly and often spent several months in hospital. These problems were reflected in his work, and he lost his identifiable and sleek style.
During his life Joosten exhibited only a few times in his youth, and it was only after his death that his work was given a chance to be appreciated. His first retrospective was at the ICC in Antwerp in 1976, and in 2014 was given a larger, major retrospective in Muzee Ostend, where numerous texts, drawings, paintings, collages and assemblages were shown for the first time in almost 25 years. Almost all works included in the show came from private, international collections.
In 1960, he died alone and basically forgotten in the Stuivenberg Hospital in Antwerp. He left behind an extensive body of work and a large number of French-language writings, to which he had attached just as much value as his pictorial oeuvre.
He was buried without a funeral by the state, in a pauper’s grave in the Antwerpen Schoonselhof Communal Cemetery in Antwerp.
Edited from the Google translation of: | English | NL | a9f9547b6b2661e825b8abc8bbb9e523423b4aab2b04f07c85941b0a8f3e95ef |
By Donald DeMars '64
In front of the Pearson Library and Preus-Brandt Forum stands an abstract sculpture of Martin Luther, the 16th century rebel monk whose interpretation of faith and very name were incorporated into the name of this university by the religious organizations that founded it. Since its inception, this sculpture, mainly due to its form, has been the center of much discussion, controversy and interpretation.
The Luther Statue (Enormous Luther) was a gift to the Cal Lutheran community from the members of the first graduating class, the Class of 1964. The idea for the gift originated with Jim Gulbranson, a member of the class, and Sir Bernardus Weber, the school's first sculpture teacher who was commissioned by the class to create and develop the work. Professor Weber was originally from the Netherlands where his works had earned him a knighthood from Queen Wilhelmina.
When Weber presented the concept and small 6-inch model representing the sculpture to the senior class at the graduation festivities, he explained that the concept, form and massing grew out of his memories and impressions of Luther from his early art academy years in Holland. The one word that described his impression of Luther that had stayed with him from those early years, he said, was... "enormous!"
Luther's personal integrity, commitment to truth, radically new interpretation of faith, and a grim willingness and determination to do the dirty work of his age culminated in the protestant Reformation and the rending of Western Christendom. Luther was like an enormous wall between the Middle Ages with its hierarchical dogma and the enlightenment of the Renaissance that offered a clearer and more refined personal theology for the modern world.
For Luther, God's steadfast grace and love were to be understood as a gift, centered on the cross, calling people to understand meaningful life as service to others through compassion and hopefulness.
When presented with the model and concept, members of the first graduating class were not quite sure how to react; we were certainly not expecting what he presented. Although the class had never talked about it, I think we were all expecting a more realistic depiction of Luther. Weber explained that this was not meant to be a realistic rendition, but a symbol of Luther's time, place and posture in history: old forms were being questioned and new forms were emerging.
After graduation our class moved on toward pursuing "life after Cal Lu," all the time vowing to complete the statue at some time in the future.
Finding a vocation
Receiving a gift scholarship to further my education through travel following graduation, I went to Europe with the intent of going to Wittenberg to Luther's Castle Church where there was purported to be a statue of Luther. Without a proper "Tourist Visa" to visit East Germany, I crossed through "Checkpoint Charlie" in Berlin with only a Transit Visa, which required me to stay on the Autobahn expressway until I reached Dresden where I had to report to the East German police.
I was so intent on getting to Wittenberg that I secretly got off the Autobahn, found my way to Wittenberg, got a great picture of Luther's statue, and went on to Dresden, later returning home to complete seminary and pursue the dream of finishing the statue. Little did I realize how much further Martin Luther was to influence my own life.
In my second year at Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary, I took a course on Luther from the noted scholar Dr. Robert Goeser. A pre-seminary student at Cal Lutheran, I was now struggling with the decision of whether to remain in seminary or leave to follow my "artistic leanings" and love of art and design.
Dr. Goeser gave me a small treatise to read that Luther had written in the 16th century; it was called "Vocation." In this short work, Luther compared the scrubwoman and the priest, basically describing the priest as going through his tasks virtually by rote with no feeling while the scrub woman, although burdened with hard physical labor, took pride in the end product of her efforts and displayed great joy in doing a good job.
Luther ended the treatise by saying, "You are meant to do (and the German is not perfectly translated in English) ... that which 'tickles you on the inside.' Find that tickle and dedicate yourself to it; that is what you were meant to do." The very day that I read this work is the day that I left seminary. I knew exactly what "tickled me on the inside." I returned to school, completed a graduate degree in art history, became licensed in architecture and interior design, and opened my own firm in 1975.
A promise fulfilled
It took roughly 20 years for me to realize the implications of my decision to leave seminary and pursue design and art, especially as this related to bringing the gift of the '64 graduating class into reality. As the class president, it was my responsibility to keep the class focused, help leverage the funds, pursue the process of developing the statue, and look for an environment on campus in which to place it.
The opportunity came in 1984 when I received a call from President Jerry Miller. The new campus library had been announced and designed with a firm budget of $3.5 million. However, the construction bids had come in roughly $3 million over budget. I was asked to analyze the situation and report my findings and recommendations to the Board of Regents.
I presented a new design to the Board, resized and reoriented the placement of the library to its present location, and created a North/South campus axis and promenade leading to a small plaza in front of the library. At last we had found a place for the statue.
Ben Weber had originally conceived the statue as an enormous bronze figure 12- to 16-feet high, presented on a walk-up pedestal. By the time the Class of '64 had raised the funds necessary to build such a monumental statement, Weber had reached an age that made it difficult for him to physically perform the work. Therefore, my brother David, a professional sculptor who had also studied under Weber at Cal Lutheran, was commissioned to transform the small 6-inch model and concept into its present size and form.
A skeletal armature of wood and steel was first built. More than 1,000 pounds of clay was then modeled to create the finished form. A plaster impression was made, and this casting was shipped in massive pieces out to the bronze foundry in Sun City, Calif. The individual parts were poured in bronze and welded together. David then deburred, ground and burnished the finished statue. It was shipped to campus on a large flatbed truck completely wrapped in the drape that would keep it hidden until its unveiling. Finally, a large crane hoisted the 5,000-pound statue onto the pedestal where it sat until its unveiling and dedication in October 1986.
The form as symbol
The one thing that everyone agrees on when discussing art is that everyone has an opinion. Creativity seems to engage our "aesthetic sensibilities" and often challenges our accustomed ways of looking at things. Our instinct for order and our need to understand can be challenged by conceptual or abstract art; it pushes the boundaries of what we count as art.
Conceptual or abstract art can nevertheless communicate something underneath appearances perhaps more significant of reality than any exact resemblance of reality might be. As Cézanne said of his own work, "I have not tried to reproduce nature, I have simply represented it."
Observing the statue's shape and posture on site, the "enormous" block-like form is reminiscent of a barrier or barricade. The form is narrower at the shoulders and cascades down to a wider base, as in a monk's robe. The arms are truncated, suggesting abruptness, and raised in defiance as if saying, "Stop!" The form is leaning back, as if pushed by the force it is standing against. The face and head appear to represent something inside that is trying to push up, out and through the outer surface containing it.
The accepted definition of symbolism is one thing standing for another, tacitly understood to mean not by exact resemblance. Thus this statue is a symbol; a symbolic expression by which Luther the man and his moment are recreated and reenacted. Why this sculpture took the form it did is indeed complex and hidden in the personality of Ben Weber and his personal artistic expression; it was and is subjective, instinctive and subconscious.
Martin Luther was a man of his time, but this symbol of what Luther stood for is a strong and vital statement of what CLU continues to stand for in our present context. The official seal of our institution shows that our school was founded on "Love of Christ, Truth, and Freedom."
Luther's thoughts, beliefs and actions were based on faith, reason, conscience, academic discussion and a commitment to truth. What could be a better foundation for students seeking a liberal education in our modern world?
President of the Class of '64, Donald DeMars, IIDA, has specialized since 1975 in the planning, design and financial positioning of health/fitness/sports and mixed-use facilities throughout the world. He is the Chairman and CEO of Donald DeMars International, an internationally recognized design and development consulting firm; President of the California Dreams Corporation, a nonprofit, philanthropic organization; and is Managing Director of Power of Human Energy, a corporation creating capital resources for developing countries. | English | NL | 9d870feb33658fa4572e1bf8c0bcdfc3fb49cdfe61e9d4969fad0c5f13465b74 |
Tommy Blacha (born August 25, 1962) is an Emmy-nominated American comedy writer, working for shows such as Da Ali G Show and Late Night with Conan O'Brien. Tommy is currently working on Metalocalypse as a voice actor. Tommy co-created the show with Brendon Small and wrote for the first two seasons, but as of season 3 he is strictly involved as a voice actor. He is still credited for his role as an original co-creator following his departure from production.
Tommy Blacha was completely uninvolved with "Metalocalypse: The Doomstar Requiem", and his voices for Murderface and Dr. Rockzo were imitated by Brendon Small, while Mike Keneally voiced Toki. It is unknown if he will be involved in the future of Dethklok at all. In October 2015, when Brendon Small was asked in an interview if Blacha will be on board with the Metalocalypse Finale: "Metalocalypse: The Army of the Doomstar", Small stated "we do not know that, just yet".
Tommy started as a local Chicago Comedy writer, where he met Andy Richter. Andy eventually landed Tommy a job with the Conan O'Brien show in 1993. Tommy worked on the Conan O'Brien show until 1999 writing bit pieces and developing such characters as "Gaseous Wiener" and "PimpBot5000".
After leaving the Conan O'Brien show, Tommy went on to work for WWE in 1999 as a Creative Director. At WWE he helped come up with new plotlines and stories for the company. This role put him in bit parts for the fights themselves, where while playing a medic he once ended up getting slammed into a table by the wrestler Kane . Tommy also participated in what was voted Monday Night RAW's worst moment, which was the delivery of Mae Young's hand baby.
During this time, Tommy was also doing work with TV Funhouse, an animation short for Saturday Night Live. He was part of the writing team as well playing the voice part of Hank and Whiskers. Some sources also list Tommy Blacha as a Producer for TV FunHouse. While there he wrote and produced the infamous "Black Sabbath" cartoon and the Oprah-bashing "Stedman: Secret Agent" cartoon with Andy Breckman.
Tommy lived in Las Vegas for a short while in 2002 and 2003 where he was promoting mixed martial arts and pro wrestling events. He was also attempting to do this in Japan and Russia.
By 2004 Tommy Blacha moved onto new projects, becoming a writer on "Andy Richter Controls The Universe, the Da Ali G Show and head writer for "Late World with Zach" and The Orlando Jones Show. During this time, he met Brendon Small and began developing the concept for Metalocalypse which was picked up by Adult Swim in 2005 and was first aired in August 2006. In the show he voices the characters of Toki Wartooth, William Murderface, Dr. Rockzo and many others. He has written every episode of the first two seasons of the show and directed the episodes Dethstars and Dethgov. | English | NL | 9b7c0868811dbbafcc07ccd63dba2bf04d26ed30a8d90e18d3941f1f8e662808 |
Figure of Admiral Oquendo in military attire with his sword in his right hand.
Work erected through popular subscription promoted by the City Council of San Sebastián. Cast in bronze (granted by the Ministry of War, taken from old cannon) in the Masriera workshops in Barcelona and placed on a terrace of stone from Mutriku. The first stone was laid on 5th September 1887. Unveiled on 12th September 1894 to coincide with the anniversary of the Battle of Pernambuco. On the day of the unveiling, a bronzed plaster replica was positioned, because the original had broken at the foundry and had to be cast again. The definitive piece was placed in position on 18th March 1895. The allegorical statues of War and the Navy, in marble, placed on the pedestal, are also by Aguirre. Carmelo Echegaray wrote the inscriptions for the statue (after they had received the approval of the Academy of History). There were several differences between the sculptor and the Royal Academy of San Fernando regarding the execution of the work. | English | NL | ce9341729d674d2c91fd5c60c9e59986c4d81826eb482edb8ce7706307416985 |
Some things never change. Its May. The vixens are starving, with cubs to feed and yes, dear readers, I no longer have any chickens. Whats even more galling is that I went to lock them up at 9pm, but the fox had already been. It was an awful sight that left me wondering whether it was fair for me to keep poultry as they always come to a grisly end. However, Ive decided to invest in a clever gadget that automatically opens and shuts the hen house at sunrise and sunset. If that fails, Im giving up.
The hawthorn trees are in full bloom like showers of snow. In the tag relay of springs glories, the tree has taken over from the bluebells, which are now fading. In one thorn, Ive watched a pair of blackbirds make their nest, but so had the local magpie, which casually raided the nest of its eggs despite being bravely attacked by the male and female blackbirds. Nature can be very cruel. As a countryman, I should accept that the chickens and eggs were simply fodder for another species, but I prefer to think of the culprits as vermin. | English | NL | b2b581e8468e355505980472b36397e4fbc5243e52b0b1e84edbe66f282f6680 |
“The deeply emotional conviction of the presence of a superior reasoning power, which is revealed in the incomprehensible universe, forms my idea of God” — Albert Einstein
There is that space within each and every one of us where we must rest in silence before that which is the ground of our being. For it is in that space from which we re-emerge to continue to confront the world we find ourselves in. Einstein speaks of “the deeply emotional conviction…” that he attributes to a superior reasoning power. Watts describes this state as that place from which further attempts to deconstruct or reduce phenomena is absurd.
Scientific positivism is the assertion that if anything cannot be seen, heard, tasted, touched , smelled and cannot be measured, then it doesn’t exist. This is the arena of physical science, from which practitioners in other fields of study find common ground to assert their findings. Those of us who are sometimes seen and disparaged as anti-reductionists, find that the line between subject and object is very blurry indeed.
DEEPLY EMOTIONAL CONVICTION
Einstein, the great scientist and mathematician grounds his be-ing on something that most of his peers would find illusory, indeed. I teared up when I first read this quotation. Moses had been there on Mount Sinai, Jesus and chosen apostles were there on Mount Tabor and I have shared with my spiritual director being there, also. This presence is not something you learn to do or is granted after x years of meditation or faithful service. It is a gift you are asked to receive. My endocrinologist at the time said these episodes were not hot flashes from my gender reassignment. My spiritual director said I was becoming more spiritual. Now, as a being towards death*, my being is prepared for its return to Being.
THAT FROM WHICH THERE IS NO WHICHER
There is the story of Pilgrim, who was troubled about not being able to find God in the mountains, hills, valleys and rivers he encountered in his journey seeking enlightenment. When he was dying he finally understood. God was in the mountains, hills, valleys and rivers he encountered. In fact, God was closer to Pilgrim than Pilgrim was to himself and farther away from him than the farthest point in the universe. Now he could die in peace and let the mountains, hills, valleys and rivers just be themselves.
*Being And Time by Martin Heidegger | English | NL | 453b8295e2a20b4967967302004d88e089ac8a40ddea4ecf50ac458d36742750 |
History of Medal of Honor
The Medal of Honor is the nation's highest medal for valor in combat that can be awarded to members of the armed forces. It sometimes is referred to as the “Congressional Medal of Honor” because the president awards it on behalf of the Congress.
The medal was first authorized in 1861 for Sailors and Marines, and the following year for Soldiers as well. Since then, more than 3,400 Medals of Honor have been awarded to members of all DOD services and the Coast Guard, as well as to a few civilians who distinguished themselves with valor.
Medals of Honor are awarded sparingly and are bestowed only to the bravest of the brave; and that valor must be well documented. So few Medals of Honor are awarded, in fact, that the only ones awarded after the Vietnam War were bestowed posthumously to Army Master Sgt. Gary I. Gordon and Army Sgt. 1st Class Randall D. Shughart for valor in Somalia in 1993, and posthumously to the most recent recipient, Sgt. 1st Class Paul R. Smith for valor in Iraq. There were no Medals of Honor awarded during Operation Desert Storm and operations in Grenada, Panama and Lebanon.
However, since 1993, 39 other Medals of Honor have been awarded to correct past administrative errors, oversights, follow-ups on lost recommendations or as a result of new evidence.
Here are just a few examples of Soldiers who were awarded the Medal of Honor from three wars. Their actions, like the other recipients of the medal, were far and above the call of duty.
During the Civil War, the job of color bearer was one of the most hazardous as well as important duties in the Army. Soldiers looked to the flag for direction and inspiration in battle and the bearer was usually out in front, drawing heavy enemy fire while holding the flag high. On Nov. 16, 1863, regimental color bearer Pvt. Joseph E. Brandle, from the 17th Michigan Infantry, participated in a battle near Lenoire, Tenn. “…[H]aving been twice wounded and the sight of one eye destroyed, [he] still held to the colors until ordered to the rear by his regimental commander.”
Corporal. Alvin C. York, from the 82nd Division, fearlessly engaged the numerically superior German force at Chatel-Chehery, France, on Oct. 8, 1918--just a month before the armistice was signed. His citation reads: “…After his platoon had suffered heavy casualties and three other noncommissioned officers had become casualties, Corporal. York assumed command. Fearlessly leading seven men, he charged with great daring a machine gun nest, which was pouring deadly and incessant fire upon his platoon. In this heroic feat the machine gun nest was taken, together with four officers and 128 men and several guns.”
Officers, as well as enlisted, have been awarded the Medal of Honor. Valor cuts across the ranks, as well as the services. On July 11, 1943, 2nd Lt. Robert Craig, from the 3rd Infantry Division, led his company in battle at Favoratta, Sicily. His citation reads: “…2nd Lt. Craig voluntarily undertook the perilous task of locating and destroying a hidden enemy machine gun which had halted the advance of his company. Attempts by three other officers to locate the weapon had resulted in failure, with each officer receiving wounds. 2nd Lt. Craig located the gun and snaked his way to a point within 35 yards of the hostile position before being discovered. Charging headlong into the furious automatic fire, he reached the gun, stood over it, and killed the three crewmembers with his carbine. With this obstacle removed, his company continued its advance. Shortly thereafter while advancing down the forward slope of a ridge, 2nd Lt. Craig and his platoon, in a position devoid of cover and concealment, encountered the fire of approximately 100 enemy soldiers. Electing to sacrifice himself so that his platoon might carry on the battle, he ordered his men to withdraw to the cover of the crest while he drew the enemy fire to himself. With no hope of survival, he charged toward the enemy until he was within 25 yards of them. Assuming a kneeling position, he killed five and wounded three enemy soldiers. While the hostile force concentrated fire on him, his platoon reached the cover of the crest. 2nd Lt. Craig was killed by enemy fire, but his intrepid action so inspired his men that they drove the enemy from the area, inflicting heavy casualties on the hostile force.” | English | NL | 4ce0da2ae291b01cd13b278f969f3a262eea38fb5e8842a56e189854ba0cc02a |
“That’s weird, Nanny. Should we see why they want to go over there?” Timothy asked her. “I don’t think we’ve ever gone to this area of the park before.”
Melissa whined and then barked again. Teddy and Angus started barking and pulling. As they went around the corner of the hedges, they could see a group of older kids pushing a young girl around. They were saying some really mean things to her. Before Nanny even got around the bushes, Timothy and Reid shouted, “Hey, leave her alone! Pick on someone your own size.”
Two of the kids looked at the boys. “Mind your own business, kid, if you don’t want to get hurt.” Then the leader of the group looked around and muttered something to the others, and they each kicked or hit the young girl as they walked by her, laughing as they left.
Timothy, Benjamin, and Reid walked over and helped her pick up her stuff.
“Are you okay?” Benjamin was worried because it looked like she was bleeding.
“Yes, thank you. I’m used to it; this is nothing.” Sadly she pulled out a little homemade first-aid kit. “You shouldn’t have done that. Now they are going to pick on you too.”
Nanny came around the hedge to see what was going on. “Everything okay, boys?”
Timothy looked at Nanny and then at the young girl. “Would you like to join us for a picnic? Is that okay, Nan?”
Nanny looked at the young girl; she could tell something bad had happened. “Yes, of course. The more, the merrier! We should let someone know where you are and who you are with first, though, to make sure it’s okay.” | English | NL | e06882c3b424b537ad73df81a70ad4faab48abc25be08d8a58b8ebec38dadcc5 |
Setting the stage for a successful real estate proposal
Question: I want to create a purchase proposal for a property owner. These are modest houses in a decent neighborhood where we own other rentals. One is vacant. We have a rental right next to the homes I would like to purchase.
I have become somewhat of a friend of the homeowner to whom I want to make the offer. He is an elderly fellow at around age 90 whose wife is ill. He owns five houses, including their residence. These houses are in the 1960s era, and all floor plans are the same throughout the neighborhood. He has kept them in good shape. They usually are valued at around $65,000. If all of his properties are rented, he grosses $3,000 a month. I would like to make an offer on all five, including his residence, where he can live rent-free for the rest of his life while I rent out the others. I would like to get a great deal that would be favorable to him as well. Any suggestions?
Answer: You know much more about what has transpired in the relationship with your neighbor. Based on what you describe as your goal, here are a couple of ideas that may be helpful.
The needs analysis. Learn how he thinks about his property and his situation. Tell him you are interested in acquiring the properties. You want to sit down with him (and his adviser, if he has one) to better understand how he is thinking about his real estate and his future. Tell him you do not want to waste his time (or your time) making a proposal to him without the benefit of his input first. Here are some sample questions to ask:
a. Have you ever considered selling your property? If he says, "yes," ask him if there is any reason he hasn't done it already. If he says "no," ask him if anything is preventing him from doing so.
b. Where would you move if you sold the property?
c. Is anyone helping you take care of your wife?
d. Would your family be interested?
e. If you could pick the ideal way to sell your property, what would it be?
f. Do you still like taking care of the property?
g. Are you concerned about losing the rental income?
h. Are you concerned about outliving your money?
i. Have you been through the senior housing development over at ____? (Offer to take them to look)
There will be other questions that come up. Without saying it, you want to hold genuine concern for their situation. The way you demonstrate this to him is through the questions you ask. You are seeking to understand. This meeting is a "needs analysis." You want to learn if there are some drivers that may give you hints about how to proceed (or how not to proceed).
Take a step back. Once you have a good grasp of his fears, desires, and his intentions, tell him you want to think about possible ways you could work with him to acquire the property. Ask him when would be an appropriate time for you to get back to him with some ideas.
Absorbing the discussion. Depending on how you interpret his reaction to the discussion, you may decide just to offer to buy the vacant one, buy the four he is not living in or buy them all.
Consider passing on the life estate. It complicates the calculations and is difficult to project because you have no way to calculate how long he and his wife will live. He also may be leery of the idea. Instead, consider asking him for a land contract to keep cash flowing. He may see that as a fair deal.
If he does not want to sell them all or wants to die in his home (not uncommon), perhaps he would consider a right of first refusal on the others. You have discovered how he is thinking. Presenting options you can accept may make the difference.
Calculate. Now you can crunch the numbers under different scenarios, some of which he may have already indicated an interest in pursuing. Determine which ones work out best for you. Now you can make a proposal that fits his desires and defeats his fears. He may even suggest a proposal you never considered.
Send questions to real estate veteran Richard Montgomery by going to his website, DearMonty.com. | English | NL | a42c0ed94f370cd381c8d4bda18a4dc0194dc28c19d29f6b9613741446f6d964 |
Kathryn Ghazali, cohort 1984, her story tells us how Garden International School formed her. She also explains us how her beautiful career path started and developed to where she stands now.
Garden school offered me the opportunity to shine in areas that were not strictly academic, which boosted my confidence and it showed people what I was capable of. I’m now a psychologist and a strategy planner for management and this is my story.
I was with Garden School for a very long time ago. I think I joined when I was two and that was in 1970 I didn’t stay after kindergarten I had a break and I went off to the local government school “Bukit Nanas”. When I came back for high school and I finished my “O” levels at Garden School. It was a great time I really had a very very good time at Garden school.
After Garden School I left and lived in Switzerland for a little while to study languages so I learned how to speak French, German and Spanish. From there I had a gap because I’ve had a little baby and I went to uni in Lancaster when I was living in England. I found that I was really drawn into the psychology part of that I wanted to understand why people do the things they do.
My background and niche is in industrial Psychology. I have specialized in nonverbal therapies as well so that I can help people who have difficulty trying to communicate what it is that they’re feeling that makes them unhappy or if they’re feeling that they don’t fit in how can they get over that what would that life look like is it feasible of course it’s feasible because if you can think it you can do it so get out there and do something. | English | NL | 5a098ddb34668913b7e6ecbf535e63b9b534e697955a60de8e5860d4bd8d77cd |
It was an image Melody would never forget. Or was it the emotions the image conjured - hope, excitement, and fear of the unknown, all three tightly braided together, creating a fourth emotion that was impossible to define. She was getting a second chance at happiness and it tickled like swallowing fifty fuzzy caterpillars.
Suddenly, I was just sure he was going to kiss me. He was there, I could feel his breath, the ground solid beneath us. But then something crossed his face, a thought, a hesitation, and he shifted slightly. Not now. Not yet. It was something I'd done so often - weighing what I could afford to risk, right at that moment - that I recognized it instantly. It was like looking in a mirror.
When I think something nice is going to happen I seem to fly right up on the wings of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize I drop down to earth with a thud. But really, Marilla, the flying part glorious as long as it lasts...it's like soaring through a sunset. I think it almost pays for the thud.
Whereas during those months of separation time had never gone quickly enough for their liking and they were wanting to speed its flight, now that they were in sight of the town they would have liked to slow it down and hold each moment in suspense, once the breaks went on and the train was entering the station. For the sensation, confused perhaps, but none the less poingant for that, of all those days and weeks and months of life lost to their love made them vaguely feel they were entitled to some compensation; this present hour of joy should run at half the speed of those long hours of waiting. | English | NL | 435516a3ade194edc16f33bfd981de0e3e80dc2f7843d99a6a9922573e5480d7 |
HUNTSVILLE, AL, June 13, 2018 — LSINC Corporation today announced that James “Trip” Ferguson has joined the company as Vice President of Strategic Accounts and Initiatives. He will lead new business development initiatives in support of the company’s strategy and product development divisions by identifying and securing new strategic markets and clients, as well as working with the internal teams to help bring client ideas to reality.
“We are pleased to bring Trip to the team to help us expand into new markets, building on the first-class work we do for current clients,” said Alicia Ryan, CEO. “It is the combination of his unique leadership in both operations and strategy, as well as his deep understanding of operations management and manufacturing that makes him the perfect fit to help grow LSINC to a new level of client delivery.”
Ferguson is the former Vice President of Operations for the U.S. Space & Rocket Center, where he led Space Camp programs, museum and facility operations resulting in double digit revenue growth annually during his tenure. Previously, he was Vice President of Operations for the Remington Outdoor Company where he led start-up activities for the Huntsville campus. He has extensive leadership experience working in the medical, energy, and firearms markets.
Ferguson is a former Captain in the U.S. Marine Corps who has served overseas twice in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom, and as the Battalion Landing Team Intelligence Officer for the evacuation of American citizens from Lebanon in 2006 as a member of the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit. He received his bachelor’s degree in economics from the U.S. Naval Academy and master’s in business administration from the University of Alabama in Huntsville. | English | NL | 5d0fbed75ae24d9d60cc1ef55b747a7d3021dbf7708ccb29db56b8f10ad508dd |
Season Six of "Heart to Heart with Anna" is all about Carpe Diem -- Seizing the Day. In this episode we'll learn about a remarkable congenital heart defect (CHD) Survivor who was born in the 1950s. Being born with tetralogy of Fallot in the 1950s could have been a death sentence but instead Jim Larson was a pioneer. One of the early survivors of what was commonly referred to as "blue baby syndrome," Jim Larson was operated on by the most promising up-and-coming doctors in the United States and instead of dying young, as so many other children did who were born with that heart defect in that time, Jim survived and even thrived. Tune in to hear how he learned to "seize the day" and what advice he has for others born with heart defects or any other kind of chronic illness. | English | NL | 1056f418ed4f0906f2c9db046f4f73d6832556d973af553f036d0ef288469214 |
Authors: Sarah Mallory
Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and picked up the blackjack sitting on the table. Charity heard the kettle singing merrily and was a little reassured by the familiar sound. She knew she should keep her eyes averted, but could not resist glancing up under her lashes as her host filled a mug with ale and drank deeply. She watched, fascinated, as he swallowed, watching the muscles of his throat working, noting the strong lines of his neck, the hard, straight jaw and lean cheek. There was power in every line of his body and it seemed to call to her, an attraction so strong she found it difficult to keep still.
As he lowered the mug and wiped his hand across his mouth he met her eyes, holding her gaze with his own near-black eyes. Charity’s heart began to pound and her hands gripped the arms of the chair. The space between them seemed charged, like the heavy air that preceded a thunderstorm. Surely he must hear the thud of her heart, or even see it, since it battered mercilessly against her ribs.
She should say something, but her breath caught in her throat. She was in thrall to that dark predatory gaze, unable to look away. Unwilling to look away. She had to acknowledge that the perilous attraction was all on her side, the man before had not moved or spoken, so how could she blame him for the danger she felt now?
Was it the rattle of the kettle lid and sudden hiss of steam that broke the spell? Or was it the fact that she was no longer subject to that dark stare? He turned to the fire and proceeded to make the tea. With a conscious effort Charity made herself release her grip on the chair arms. She watched as he lifted a rosewood tea caddy from the shelf and spooned leaves into a silver teapot before pouring in the boiling water. She was desperate to break the silence, but when she spoke she almost winced at the inanity of her words.
‘Tea making is more commonly a woman’s role, Mr Durden.’
‘Since my housekeeper is not here it falls to me,’ he said shortly. ‘I could ask you to do it, but I am not in the habit of making my guests work.’
Charity thought his manner suggested he was not in the habit of entertaining visitors at all, but she did not say so. Instead she watched him fetch out of the cupboard a beautiful teacup and saucer.
‘I do not have much call to use these,’ he remarked, as if reading her thoughts. ‘There is sugar, if you want it?’
‘Just a little milk, if you please.’
His strong hands were remarkably gentle with the fine porcelain.
As if he was caressing a beautiful woman.
A hot blush raced through Charity at the thought and she sat back in her chair, away from the direct heat of the fire. She took the cup from him with a murmur of thanks, but did not look up, conscious of an unfamiliar ache pooling deep inside her.
He refilled his tankard and drew up a stool for himself. It was a little lower than her chair, she noted, and thought she would be grateful that he was not towering over her, but when he sat down his face was level with her own, which was somehow even more disturbing. Desperate to avoid his gaze, she looked about the kitchen. The room was large and high ceilinged, big enough to accommodate a cook and at least half a dozen servants. She recalled Lady Beverley’s comment that Mr Durden had no money at all. However, even with a lack of staff, the long table was spotless and on the dresser the copper pans gleamed.
‘I beg your pardon, madam, for bringing you into the kitchen, but it is the only room in the house with a fire.’
‘Oh, no, no, I am very comfortable, I assure you.’ She smiled, forgetting her unease in her eagerness not to be thought critical of his hospitality. ‘I was merely thinking how much work there must be, maintaining a house like this.’
‘It would take an army of servants to do so,’ he replied frankly. ‘Most of it is closed up until I have the funds to restore it. I have an excellent housekeeper in Mrs Cummings, but she can only do so much. She insists on keeping one parlour tidy for me, and my study, but I spend very little time indoors so there is no point in having a fire anywhere but here during the day.’
Charity sipped her tea. It was good. However poor he might be, her host did not buy inferior bohea. Sitting by the fire, with a hot drink to revive her, she began to relax a little.
‘I enjoyed your performance in
‘Thank you. It was very well received.’ She gently replaced her cup in its saucer and would have got up to put it on the table, but he forestalled her, reaching out to take the saucer, his fingers brushing hers as he did so.
It was as much as she could do not to snatch her hand away. She was so aware of him that her skin burned at his touch and little arrows of excitement skimmed through her blood. It was like the heady excitement of a first night, only worse, because she had no idea how to deal with this. Nervously she began to chatter.
‘We open in a new play tonight,
The Provok’d Husband
. Do you know it? I am very much looking forward to it, because I play Lady Townly. Hywel—Mr Jenkin—is to play my long-suffering husband. We have played it together before, but not for many a year. Perhaps you will come and see it.’
‘No, I won’t.’
His response was so blunt she blinked at him, but it also made her laugh.
‘Fie upon you, Mr Durden, I did not expect quite such a strong rebuttal.’
‘I beg your pardon. What I meant was that I rarely go into Allingford, save when there is business to attend to.’
‘Of course, and pray do not think that I shall be offended if you do not come. I am not so conceited as to think people cannot go on quite well without attending my performances.’ Smiling, she rose to her feet. ‘I have taken quite enough of your time and must be getting back. Thank you, Mr Durden, for your hospitality.’
He grimaced. ‘Such as it was.’
Sympathy clenched at her heart. She did not think him embarrassed by his straitened circumstances, but he was most clearly aware of how it might look to others. Impulsively she put her hand on his arm.
‘A warm fire and a warming dish of bohea—I would ask for nothing finer, sir.’
He was staring at her fingers as they rested upon his bare forearm and Charity wondered if he, too, felt the shock of attraction. She could almost see it, a dangerous current rippling around them. Carefully, she removed her hand and began to pull on her gloves. The dog had left his box and was looking up at them, ears pricked expectantly. Glad of the distraction, Charity smiled down at him.
Embarrassed by the nervousness that had her addressing a mere animal, she hurried to the door, biting down on her lip as Mr Durden reached past her to open it. He was so close that if she leaned towards him, just a little, their bodies would meet. Stifling the thought and the heady excitement that came with it, she swept past him along the corridor and opened the outer door herself.
Charity was almost surprised to step out into the cobbled yard. Some part of her—the part that remembered her upbringing, she thought bitterly—had almost expected to find the door opened directly into the fiery jaws of hell. She welcomed the chill air; it gave her something to think of other than the presence of the man beside her. She buttoned her pelisse and smoothed her gloves over her hands while he called for Jed to bring out the gig. Anything to fill the awkward silence. Her eyes fell upon the basket and the large pile of unsplit logs by the chopping block.
‘I interrupted your work, sir, I—’
‘It is no matter, the break was very welcome.’ The words were polite, his tone less so. He handed her into the waiting gig and shook out the rug before placing it over her knees. She held her breath, not moving lest he think she objected to his ministrations when in fact it was quite the opposite. A strange, unfamiliar awareness tingled through her body as he tucked the rug about her. She did not want him to stop.
‘It looks like rain.’ He glanced up at the sky before fixing her with his dark, sober gaze. ‘Go directly to Allingford, Mrs Weston. No more exploring today!’
She tried to smile, but her mouth would not quite obey her, not while he was subjecting her to such an intense stare. With a slight nod and a deft flick of the reins she set off out of the yard. The track was straight and the pony needed little guidance. She could easily look back, to see if he was watching her.... No! She sank her teeth into her lip again and concentrated on the road ahead. It was a chance encounter, nothing more. To turn and look back would give Mr Durden completely the wrong idea.
But her spine tingled all the way to the gate of Wheelston Hall and she longed to know if he had watched her drive away.
* * *
Ross stared at the distant entrance long after the little gig had disappeared. He heard Jed come up beside him and give a cough.
‘Who were that lass, Cap’n? I’ve not seen her hereabouts.’
Ross kept his eyes on the gates.
‘That,’ he said, a smile tugging at his mouth, ‘was the celebrated actress Mrs Charity Weston.’
‘Actress, is she?’ Jed hawked and spat on the ground. ‘And were she really explorin’, think ’ee?’
Ross turned and walked back towards the woodpile.
‘She said it was so.’
‘And you invited ’er indoors.’ Ross looked up to find Jed regarding him with a rheumy eye. ‘Never known you to do that afore, Cap’n. Never known you to show any kindness to a woman, not since—’
‘Enough, Jed.’ He beat his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of the cold. ‘If you’ve nothing to do, you can carry that basket of logs indoors and bring me an empty one.’
‘Oh, I’ve plenty to do, master, don’t you fret.’
The old man shuffled away, muttering under his breath. Ross returned to the woodpile and began to split more logs, soon getting into the rhythm of placing a log on the chopping block and swinging the axe. He tried not to think of the woman who had interrupted his work, but she kept creeping into his mind. He found himself recalling the dainty way she held her teacup, the soft, low resonance of her voice, the bolt of attraction that had shot through him when she met his eyes. He had felt himself drowning in those blue, blue eyes.... Ross tore his thoughts away from her only to find himself thinking that the gleaming white-gold centres of the freshly split ash boughs were the exact colour of her hair.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, get over her!’
‘Did ye call, Cap’n?’ Jed poked his head out of the stable again. ‘Did ye want me to get Robin ready for ye tonight? There’s a moon and a clear sky, which’ll suit ye well...’
‘No. That is—’ Ross hesitated ‘—you may saddle Robin up for me this evening, Jed, but no blacking. I’m going to Allingford!’
y the time Charity arrived back in Allingford, her disordered emotions had settled into a state of pleasurable exhilaration—very much as they had done after she and some of the other players in Scarborough had made an excursion out of the town and walked on the cliffs overlooking the sea. It had been dangerous, especially for the ladies, because the blustery wind had snatched at their skirts, threatening to drag them off the cliff and dash them into the angry seas below, but the excitement was to see the danger and know that it was just a step away. That same thrill pulsed through her now. It puzzled her and she wondered just what it was about Ross Durden that set her so on edge. He was not conventionally handsome—and she had had experience enough of handsome men in the theatre. He had said nothing that could be construed as improper, yet his very proximity had set the alarm bells ringing in her head.
She was still pondering this conundrum as she left the gig at the stables, and was so lost in thought that she did not notice the Beverleys’ carriage standing outside the gun shop, nor hear Lady Beverley calling to her until she was almost at the carriage door. Charity begged pardon, but Lady Beverley waved away her excuses.
‘No matter, my dear, you are the very person I need.’ She alighted from her carriage. ‘Do you have ten minutes to spare? Sir Mark is inside inspecting a pair of pistols he is minded to buy. He will doubtless be an age yet and I have seen the most ravishing bonnet in the milliners, but I am not at all sure the colour would suit. Would you be an angel and come along to Forde’s with me now and give me your opinion?’
‘Why, yes, if you wish....’
‘Excellent.’ She turned to her footman. ‘Wait here with the carriage for Sir Mark and then tell him to pick me up from the milliner’s on High Street.’ She tucked her arm through Charity’s, saying with a smile, ‘There, that is all settled. Come along, my dear, it is but a step. You shall give me your arm and tell me what it is that has you in such a brown study.’
‘If you must know,’ Charity began as they set off, ‘I was thinking about Mr Durden.’
Lady Beverley stopped to stare at her.
‘Heavens, what on earth has brought this on?’
Charity felt the colour flooding her cheek and gently urged her companion to walk on.
‘I was exploring today and came across the lane leading to Wheelston.’ No need to say she had actually driven to the Hall. ‘It looked so run down and forlorn....’
‘Yes, well, the whole estate is in dire need of repair.’
‘I remember seeing Mr Durden at the reception for my first appearance at the theatre. You said then something had happened to him....’ Charity let the words hang.
Lady Beverley did not disappoint her. She leaned a little closer, saying confidentially, ‘It was such a prosperous estate in old Mr Durden’s time, but after he died the son continued in the navy and left his poor mama to run the place. She was very sickly, you see, and died in... Now, when was it? Two years ago, almost to the day. Young Mr Durden came home to find the place nearly derelict. But then, what did he expect, leaving an ailing woman to look after his inheritance? Quite shameful of him. A dutiful son would have sold out when his mother became so ill. Of course, that is easy for us all to say after the event, and Mr Durden was a very good sailor, I believe. Certainly, he reached the rank of captain and was commended for bravery on more than one occasion, that much I know is true, for it was reported in the newspapers.’
They continued in silence for a few moments and Charity tried to reconcile this picture of Ross Durden with the man she had seen an hour or so earlier.
‘I cannot believe— That is,’ she continued cautiously, ‘he did not look like a man to neglect his duty.’
‘No, well, I believe he was truly grieved when he came back and discovered just how bad things were at Wheelston. But then, if he had shown a little more interest in the place when his mother was alive...’ Lady Beverley stopped. ‘Ah, here we are, my dear, Forde’s, and there is the bonnet I like so much in the window. The green ruched silk, do you see it? Let us step inside and I shall try it on.’
Charity spent the next half hour with Lady Beverley in the milliner’s, and by the time the lady had made her purchase, Sir Mark was at the door with the carriage. Charity realised there would be no more confidences today. She took her leave of her friends and made her way back to North Street, ostensibly to rest and prepare for her performance, although it took all her willpower to force her mind to the play and away from the enigmatic owner of Wheelston.
* * *
The ride into Allingford restored some sense into Ross’s overheated brain. What was he thinking of, paying his hard-earned money for a theatre ticket? He should have been on the road tonight; who knew what luck he might have had? At least there was a chance that fortune might have favoured him, whereas this way he knew that his pocket would be several shillings lighter by the time he went home.
It was madness, he knew that, but having come all the way into Allingford it would be even more foolish to turn round and ride all the way back again without doing something. The thought of risking his money in a gambling den or drinking himself senseless at the George held even less appeal for him.
‘Damnation, I have come this far, I might as well watch the play.’ Savagely he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and slid to the ground. The stable lad at the livery took charge of Robin, and Ross made his way to the theatre. He was early, so he went into a nearby tavern, called for a mug of ale and took a seat by the window, where he had a good view of the theatre’s entrance.
It appeared this comedy was very popular, for a large crowd was gathering. A number of carriages drew up on the street and disgorged the wealthier country gentlemen in smart wool coats and embroidered waistcoats and their fashionable ladies wearing a startling array of headwear, some with so many ostrich feathers that Ross felt a twinge of sympathy for anyone unlucky enough to be sitting behind them that evening. He continued to watch, deriving no little amusement from the scene, then, suddenly, all his senses were on the alert.
A smart travelling carriage had pulled up outside the theatre. Very few people in the area owned such an equipage and he knew of only one who affected a hammer cloth on the box seat. It was pretentious in anyone other than the nobility, but the gentleman Ross had in mind was all pretension. The footman opened the door and Ross’s lip curled as he watched a young woman alight, the flambeaux on the street sparkling off the gold thread in the skirts that peeped from beneath her short, fur-lined cloak. Even at this distance he could see that she was strikingly pretty, with large dark eyes and dark curls that were piled high and adorned with gold ostrich feathers.
Ross felt a surge of loss and regret, but it was quickly succeeded by bitter anger. How could he feel anything more than contempt for the woman after what she had done to him? He stared more closely at her, observed that despite her rosy cheeks and creamy skin, there was a frown between her brows and her mouth was pursed into a look of discontent. She glanced around her with disdain and held up a nosegay as if to protect herself from the offensive smell of the crowd.
Ross turned his attention to the man who followed her out of the coach. He was some years older than the woman, a tall, portly man in a wine-coloured coat with stand-up collar, beneath which his starched neckcloth was so wide it seemed to be holding his head up by the ears, while the ears themselves appeared to be supporting his powdered wig.
A gold waistcoat strained across his bulging stomach and white satin knee breeches were stretched over his thighs, the breeches tied at the knee with gold ribbons that dangled against his embroidered stockings. Everything about the man screamed opulence, but not elegance. He walked with an air of self-importance that would have been amusing in anyone else, but Phineas Weston was a magistrate, and as such he wielded terrifying power over the common people.
Weston! Ross struck his palm against his forehead. When Charity had told him she was an actress and had no business in Beringham, he had immediately assumed Weston was not her real name and had dismissed all thoughts of a connection. But to see the Beringham magistrate and his wife here in Allingford—surely that was more than a coincidence. Especially when it was well known that Phineas considered theatres dens of iniquity and would not license any such entertainment in Beringham. Ross downed his drink and went out to join the crowds making their way into the theatre. He could see the gold ostrich feathers dancing some way in front of him, but he kept well back—he had no wish for them to remark his presence just yet.
He bought his ticket and made his way to the pit, but did not sit down immediately. He waited for the ostentatious couple to appear in one of the boxes, then chose for himself a seat on the far side of the pit, where he could keep them in view. It was providential, he told himself, that he should see them here. It made the journey worthwhile. Certainly it eased his conscience in coming to Allingford. However, once the play began he forgot all about gold waistcoats and nodding ostrich feathers, for Charity Weston was on stage and he found it impossible to think of anything else. Her last performance had been as a young heiress; this time she was equally convincing as a rich man’s wife with a penchant for gambling.
It was hard to believe the assured woman on the stage was the shy, nervous creature he had entertained at Wheelston that afternoon, but perhaps that had been an act, too. He was suspicious of her beauty. The luxuriant blonde hair and deep blue eyes belonged to a fantasy, far too good to be true. He had been caught before by a pretty face only to find a grasping nature and a heart of flint beneath. He glanced up at the box where Phineas and his wife were sitting. Mrs Weston—Hannah—was laughing and applauding the comedy, until her husband admonished her and she subsided into stern-faced silence.
It must have cost Phineas a great deal of soul-searching to come to the theatre, and he certainly could not be seen to approve of the entertainment. Ross had no such qualms, but he was on his guard. He would enjoy the performance but not—most definitely he would not—allow himself to be captivated by the actress.
* * *
The play ended to enthusiastic cheers and applause from the audience. It was clear that Mrs Charity Weston was hugely popular. A number of nosegays were hurled onto the stage and she gathered them up, lifted the flowers to her face as if to inhale their delicate perfume then smiled her thanks towards the audience. One had to admire her technique. Ross glanced up at the boxes again. Phineas and Hannah Weston were the only ones not applauding.
There was a short interval before the next part of the programme, which according to the handbill promised amusing songs and recitations. Ross noted that the Westons were leaving their box and he joined the throng heading for the foyer. Few people paid him any heed; those that did recognise him gave him no more than a disapproving stare before moving away. He took no notice, for he had spotted those golden ostrich feathers a little way ahead of him. The wearer was standing alone and Ross was at her side before she had even seen him.
‘Good evening, Hannah.’
‘Ross.’ Alarm flashed across her face, but she quickly concealed it. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Nor I you. I thought your husband considered entertainments like this an affront to the Lord.’
He noted the wary look in her eyes, but before she could reply he heard an angry voice behind him.
‘Durden. I might have known we should find you in such a place as this. Get away from my wife, damn you!’
A hush fell over those nearest them and people edged away. Ross turned slowly to find Phineas Weston at his shoulder. His lip curled.
‘You should try for a little civility, Weston. You are not in Beringham now.’
The older man’s eyes narrowed and his face turned a dark angry red, almost the same colour as his coat.
‘The law is the law, whichever side of the county border you may be.’
‘And is there a law now about speaking to an old friend?’ drawled Ross. His tone was deliberately taunting and he saw the flush deepen on Hannah’s already rosy cheeks.
He allowed himself a contemptuous smile as Weston struggled with his temper. A bell rang out, summoning everyone back to the auditorium. Phineas took his wife’s arm.
‘Come, my dear, this way. I have fixed it....’
Ross watched them go, then with a shrug he made his way back to his seat.
* * *
‘Another successful first night, Miss Charity.’
Charity cleaned the paint and powder from her face while Betty eased the heavy wig from her head.
‘It isn’t over yet. We have still to play the farce.’ Charity met her maid’s eyes in the mirror and smiled. ‘But we have made a good start. Can you work your magic on the wig again for tomorrow night’s performance? The
curls looked very well, I think.’
There was a knock at the door and the stage doorman looked in, his old eyes twinkling.
‘Mrs Weston, I have a lady and gentleman here who are very desirous to meet you and don’t wish to wait until tonight’s reception.’
Charity glanced at the little clock on her dressing table. Smudgeon must consider these patrons important—and very rich!—if he was prepared to allow them backstage between performances.
‘Of course, Mr Smudgeon. I have a few minutes to spare before I need to change my gown for the farce.’ She sent Betty away and rose to greet her visitors.
Her smile froze when the couple walked in. She gave no more than a cursory glance to the woman in her glittering, overdecorated gown and gilded feathers before fixing her eyes upon the man at her side.
For the first time in thirteen years she was face-to-face with her father.
* * *
It took Ross a few minutes to realise that the Westons had not returned to their box. He recalled the magistrate’s words as he led his wife away.
I have fixed it....
Mayhap there was some advantage to be gained here. Quickly he slipped out again and made his way to the stage door. He bribed the boy standing guard to let him in and depleted his meagre purse even further to be directed to Mrs Weston’s dressing room. | English | NL | 840feb0c91a429543562d803d764f691a09756c1f06426c706eaceb50a24af5a |
There is no evidence to prove that children below three years of age who were given anaesthesia had lower intelligence level than those who did not have it, say researchers. New York: There is no evidence to prove that children below three years of age who were given anaesthesia had lower intelligence level than those who did not have it, say researchers.
In 2016, US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) had warned that prolonged or repeated sedation before age three may affect brain development.
However, the warning was based largely on data from animals, which may or may not apply to children, said the researchers from Mayo Clinic in Minnesota.
The new study, published in the journal Anaesthesiology, showed that intelligence, memory and several other measures of brain function were similar among those who received anaesthesia and did not.
"For the majority of kids undergoing surgery, the results overall are reassuring," said lead author David Warner, a paediatric anaesthesiologist at Mayo Clinic.
"About 80 per cent of kids who need surgery under age three only need one and its relatively brief," he added.
However, for those with multiple exposures to anaesthesia had modest declines in fine motor skills, but their parents reported more learning and behavioural problems.
Parents whose children had anaesthesia once under age 3 reported more problems with mental skills known as executive functions -- skills that help with memory, impulse control, planning and flexibility -- but not with other behaviours, the findings showed.
For the study, the team studied 997 people who had anaesthesia exposures before their third birthdays.
Beyond their anaesthesia exposure, the three groups of patients were matched to be as similar as possible, the results revealed.
Several other studies also show little evidence that a single anaesthetic is associated with significant harm.
"Although we do have some concerns about the children who are receiving multiple anaesthetics, its important to note that our results dont allow us to conclude that anaesthesia itself is causing problems," Warner said, adding that other factors, such as the conditions that make surgery necessary, could contribute.
"However, the fact that we found some problems in some of these children means that research in this area needs to continue, including further analysis of our data," he added. | English | NL | d1c4a913b3a3678b3eb2de02cb5c00e7ceceee3dae1167c561f1b01e470bad0f |
Posted on January 20, 2012
The Acts of the Lords of Rannick, XLV
This is the WTFD&D article that had been cracking me up. Those henchmen tables are pretty funny, I’m sorely tempted to house rule introduce them. Pedro, the Domineering, yet Cowardly, Unselfish Loyal henchman rides again!
The choice magic item of this session (because there have been no drops in the past two sessions – stupid infernal outsiders!) is called a Fanged Falchion, but that’s stupid and I can’t let that kind of shit go, for some reason. It is a two-handed scimitar, whereas a Falchion is a single-handed machete. Falchion is really just a machete for people who can afford not to do something as vulgar as clear vines.
While Ben ended up with the Compleat Adventurer, it should be noted that last night Rolland pretty consistently kicked ass. Not in a way that was showy with massive exploding criticals, but just that almost everything Halvard wanted to do, he did competently. So that was nice, since normally Halvard’s dungeoneering career whiplashes from failing in battle to falling in battle. He got a Shout spell in and managed to get the last few hits in on a slippery opponent for a slick finishing move. Everything’s coming up Skyrim!
The Scribbler’s Lair under Sandpoint
Halvard, Albedon and Torgor had previously gone to cover the rear to prevent ambush while the complex was being searched. No sooner had the thick fog closed in around them and they became separated from Torgor. Walking into the large hallway when they had no intention of doing so, they realised that something was going wrong with their sense of direction. Leaving the hallway, they became separated from each other and there was a bit of ships passing in the night before they finally made it back to the temple of Lamashtu and decided to meet up with the rest of the party who were now engaged in combat with the Hounds of Lamashtu. Making their way along the passage Albedon arrived first to find the party having finished off the Hounds and being asked why they lied by the mysterious raspy voice.
Halvard arrived shortly after and Albedon posed a question to the voice, something nobody had tried before. The ensuing conversation revealed that the speaker was called He Who Writes and that he was a servant. It also revealed that he believed the party to be lying fools who had wasted his time and that he was done with them. At this, his voice became possible to pinpoint, not from all around, but back at the temple of Lamashtu. As people started heading that way he appeared at the rear, summoning a Barghest and two Hounds of Lamashtu to fight with him.
Dagfinn got a good look at their opponent; human, well built and well attired, but with an unsettling appearance. One eye was milky, the other normal (although, it should be noted, purple irised), but both possessed a nictating membrane that gave them an inhuman appearance. In addition, his unhealthy looking skin was covered in a thin film of translucent scales. His armour bore the sihedron rune prominently on the chest and in his hands he held a long, heavy curved blade, its edge wickedly serrated.
Everyone rushed to meet the threat. Except Tersplink who was panicked by the Hound’s baying, but under Dagfinn’s Suggestion to refrain from running. So he just stood his ground and cowered on it as hard as he could. As the Barghest and Hounds were dispatched, he withdrew and reappeared at the rear of the party, stepping out to hack at Kerplak. Catching him with one good swipe of the two-handed scimitar, the dreadful serrations came to life as they made contact with the gnome. Gnawing and churning at Kerplak, they caused an impressive spray of blood.
The party realigned itself to meet him again, but just as they got to grips with him, Arradin lopping his hand off, he Dimension Doored away. He appeared a little while later (with hand) and attacked at an exposed party member. And that’s how the rest of the fight went. He Who Writes drew them to him, disappeared, then popped up at the back of the party and hacked at them again. He was thwarted in killing any of them by Albedon’s judicious use of Stoneskin spells on Arradin and Halvard and Tersplink’s use of Displacement on Halvard. Tersplink also provided Haste spells and a Bull’s Strength to Halvard as the Ulfen, Arradin and Dagfinn took on the front-line fighting roles. Tersplink and Albedon were having trouble getting past HWW’s spell resistance, but the buffs and Walls of Fire were helping. Kerplak didn’t have much luck: two of his criticals were ignored due to HWW’s resistances.
Eventually, having rarely landed blows on her, He Who Writes decided to take out Arradin, catching her alone with a successful Hold Person. Stepping in to Coup De Grace her, he swung the fanged blade at her neck, churning it up pretty badly, but remarkably not killing her. A strange twist of fate that. Halvard stepped up and with two mighty swings of his greatsword, split He Who Writes almost all the way down the center.
With no one on dire hit points, there was a little bit of healing done, but mostly looting. Kerplak, ready to win at something, pounced on the curved sword.
It was identified as a Fanged Falchion, a +1 Unholy Falchion. In Kerplak’s hands it is a 2d3+1 weapon, but when it criticals it has a chance to stun, damages Con and does +2d6 damage to those of Good alignment. But Kerplak seems happy with it. I look forward to making a gnome miniature with a chainsword strapped to the underside of his crossbow.
Halvard took a Cloak of Charisma, which is the kind of thing Our Lord In Iron shouldn’t be swayed by, but in game mechanics, that’s what happens. No one took the Breastplate, which is probably good because my finishing move fluff meant Halvard rent it verily in twain. The other thing was a +1 Cold Iron Returning Dagger. Tersplink got that maybe?
With the fog lifted and the way ahead apparently clear, the party moved on, scouring the area for more of the poem, a fragment of which Dagfinn had already found. Tersplink found some in a small square chamber and pointed it out to Dagfinn.
However, as this was going on, it began to dawn on Tersplink that all this time spent with these people had simply been building up to this point. He remembered every sideways glance any party member had even given him, every conversation that had ended abruptly when he entered a room… he realised that it was all a big conspiracy. All of it leading to this place. It became clear to him that at some point his party mates had been turned, converted into willing disciples of Lamashtu. He’d trusted them and they’d led him here, so that he could be sacrificed to their infernal mistress in a place holy to her. Struck by this horrific revelation, he abruptly disappeared from the room, having cast a spell that took him far from these monsters, his friends. If he’d been of a more violent disposition, he may have struck out at them, but fortunately, he isn’t.
The thing is, he wasn’t the only one affected like this…
Ben picked up the Compleat Adventurer for his act of story appropriate self-preservation, which was particularly apt since he isn’t going to be able to play for a while due to showbusiness. | English | NL | 1dd050cdb6b397cec4b2526d96241fb7cc02677b197811009bfb6b319a8b2e7c |
Girl in Blue Booktalk
Choosing between the army and marriage to a man she despised was easy. Sarah cut off her hair, put on men’s clothes, and joined the Union Army.
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t hate my father, but I never hated him more than the day I left home. He’d beaten and humiliated me for years, but when he decided I should marry Zeke Kunkel, who owned the farm next to ours, I refused. Zeke was as cruel and violent as my father, and wanted to marry me only to get his hands on our farm. So I packed some provisions and went to Flint to live with my mother’s sister, who had a hat-making business. Not that I intended to make hats for the rest of my life — far from it. I had decided to join the Union Army and fight for my country.
Late one night, I cut my hair short, dressed in men’s clothes, and went from being 16-year-old Sarah Louisa Wheelock to being 18-year-old Neddy Compton. Next day I joined the 2nd Michigan Regiment as a member of the Flint Union Greys. No one questioned me at all.
It wasn’t so bad at first, since I was used to hard work, was a good shot, and had my own rifle. Soon we were sent to Washington City, but we weren’t there much more than a month when we were ordered to move out, and I suddenly found out just how horrible war can be. We marched to Manassas, Virginia, where we fought the Battle of Bull Run. I hadn’t really thought about actually killing another person. But I did, and watched him die before my eyes.
But then everything changed when the colonel found out I was a woman, and only 16. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the army any more, and was wearing dresses instead of a uniform. I had two choices, either go to jail or go to work for Mr. Pinkerton as a detective. So now, I’m a spy for the Union.
Come on with me and let me tell you what it’s like to be a soldier, a spy, and a woman during the Civil War. | English | NL | 07cb4de27b445b3360f330c9d4cbecdefd93c4520249bccd9fb4ab8ea027ffde |
Berlin is a student at the Thurman White Academy of the Performing Arts. She's been playing music since the age of four, and is known as a skilled piano player who writes, sings, and produces music .
Berlin's audition in Episode 1306 was very briefly seen, and it is unknown what song she sang. However, at least three judges voted "Yes", sending her to the Judge Cuts.
Berlin's Judge Cuts performance in Episode 1310 consisted of singing James Arthur's "Say You Won't Let Go" while playing the piano. Her performance was not strong enough to advance to the Quarterfinals, eliminating her from the competition. | English | NL | 49c3f83e144d3ba23857ce922be87af84bdcc8171ff1c5c3ed317173c58e40f6 |
The First Thunder of Summer
The First Thunder Of Summer
(Tiếng Sấm Đầu Mùa)
by Trần Thanh Diệu
Short story prize awarded by Viet-Nam Pen Club - 1965
Translated from the Vietnamese by Kitty
I have this phobia that I don’t seem to be able to overcome: I’m scared of thunder. Not the thunder that tears off the sky and brings along driving rains, but only the thunder that rumbles, echoing through the valley, thunder that breaks out from a reddish horizon at the end of a hot day, announcing the arrival of the summer, like today.
I have never determined the reason for that state of mind, but every year, with the coming of the first summer days, this image of the reddish stormy sky reminds me of an event which ended my childhood in my home village. It was an insignificant anecdote, but it took me from pre-adolescence to too early an adulthood – like a young fruit that has parted from its branch with its velvet powdery skin to ripen in a jar of rice or husk and whose bitter juice will never turn sweet.
At that time, I was still only a schoolboy finishing his classes at the village’s elementary school. My village was on the Binh-Luc river, a branch of the Perfume river, but in fact it was separated from the Perfume river by a solidly built rock dam. Every year when the season of rains and floods came, for children my age, it was an opportunity for lots of fun mingled with fear. Day and night we listened to the river roaring over the dam like waterfalls. The river swelled to immense proportions, became like a sea, and the village seemed to have shrunk into a small isolated island. Rains poured down incessantly, but that didn’t keep us, the village children, in groups of four or five, from playing merrily, wading in floodwaters, or following our parents to collect driftwood that the floods had brought down from the mountains a long way upstream, and that we would use for fires. We also often spent hours and hours anxiously watching the ferries that precariously transported travellers across the river to the town. Even at our young age, the roaring of the river, and the image of ferries which might sink into the waves and drown people would keep us from sleeping at night.
Nevertheless, every time we heard the warning that the dam would be flooded, we, the village children, were secretly elated because there would undoubtedly be special days off school.
One day, when the dam was well covered by floodwaters and no ferry would risk transporting travellers across the river, the level of the water in our village reached our knees. Of course, for children like us, it was like a festival day with lots of fun. Apart from the very old people and the very young children who could not yet wade in the water, everybody was out, whether having fun like we were, or collecting firewood like the grown-ups.
Completely naked, I was splashing the floodwater, pretending to be a car. Behind me were three or four boys about my age who belonged to my form at school. We held each other around the waist, and so our little chain ran through the area like a miniature train. We were having so much fun that we forgot that in the village there were schoolgirls the same age and that on ordinary days, when we met them, either we, the boys, or they the girls, usually showed timidity and reserve.
When we got to the corner of a street we slowed down, “honking” the horn hard like a car about to take a dangerous bend. Suddenly I heard someone call my name at the same time as he touched my side:
‘Lâm, please let me be part of your train.’
I turned round, not specially surprised:
‘Ah, Tuân, yes ! Get on quickly or we’ll leave without you.’
And so our little train had a new small “wagon”. But as he was so small – he was three years younger than me – I should have let him join us at the tail end. Instead, I let him join us straight behind me. He had to reach up to grab my waist with his arms, and the boy behind him had to bend down to reach his. From that moment on, our train ran no longer smoothly, either as a result of our uneven height or because of some psychological reason that I did not know about. The only thing that I was aware of, was that Tuân was wearing a pair of blue shorts with suspenders, while the rest of us, including me at the head of the train, were in our birthday suits – stark naked.
When we arrived at the village market I decided to break up the train without explanation, and rushed straight home. Tuân who had just joined us was very disappointed. He called after me, but I went on running, saying nothing. After slipping on a pair of boxer shorts I returned to the market, where the others were still wondering why our train had stopped.
I took Tuân’s hand and led him away from the others. When we were out of earshot, I asked him:
‘How did you get to come alone, you cheeky brat ?’
‘I like wading in water, but my parents don’t allow me to, so I slipped out’, he replied, hopping joyfully from foot to foot.
‘And what if your parents got to know ?’
He didn’t hear my question, but pointed at a wooden box floating on the floodwaters a little way from us. I quickly ran after it to fetch it. It was an empty cigar box. Tuân was very pleased with it, but at once I thought of its usefulness. It reminded me of the beautiful boxes of certain rich friends of mine, in which there were separate compartments, and the words “Le plumier ” (pencil box) were beautifully written on it. I turned to Tuân:
‘This box is completely soaked. I’ll dry it and bring it to you in a few days. And also, if you take it home right now, your parents will know that you have been out, wading.’
Whereupon, someone launched a pebble which hit me hard on my back. It hurt a lot, so I looked around, trying to spot the culprit, when roars of laughter broke out from behind the village small shrine:
‘Hey ! Hey ! Lâm the bootlicker !’
Stunned, I couldn’t understand why they called me the bootlicker. And whose boots was I supposed to be licking ? I turned around. There was no one besides Tuân and me. They couldn’t have understood my secret thoughts about the cigar box. And even if this was the only reason, it certainly wasn’t reason enough to call me a bootlicker… I thought for a moment. Perhaps they thought that I was sucking up to Tuân because his father was a teacher in a school in town! Nevertheless, I felt that my ‘pride’ had been wounded, and my rage was ready to explode. I needed to show everybody that I was a hero, particularly in front of “someone” like Tuân, even though till now, I had never won a fight against any of the boys my age; moreover, they were four of them now against me. Tuân looked frightened, he pulled me away. But that response from him convinced me to stay. I turned to face the others, one hand on my waist, shouting:
‘Damn you !’
At once, all four of them rushed threateningly towards me. But fortunately, at that moment, someone shouted out from a small tea kiosk. I recognized the voice of Mr. Tinh, who was a member of the village militia squad:
‘Hey ! You boys there ! You want to fight ? I’ll chain you all and put you up on the guard post !’
Feeling reassured, I considered myself the winner of the battle.
On the following day the floodwaters had receded a lot. The ferries, loaded with travellers, started crossing the river. Students of the town schools resumed their work, but in our village there were areas where the streets were still flooded, and so was our school. We had a few more days off. However that morning I had woken up early as usual. I went to the street along the river bank with other people who had come to assess the damage caused by the floods. I meant to meet Tuân, because I knew that he would be going to school with his sister. I had the cigar box in my hand. In the box, I had slipped a piece of paper on which I had written something, meaning that I offered him the box. Now thinking back, I realize that it was totally ridiculous from my part. But when I put my pen down to write these words, I thought that I was doing something really “sublime”. Tuân was only a fourth form schoolboy, and perhaps my handwriting at that time was not even legible enough for him to decipher. However I wanted him to keep something from me, something that would make him remember me; I didn’t really know why.
I waited for a moment. I started feeling disappointed and was about to go back home, but then a vague hope made me walk towards Tuân’s house. When I reached the blacksmith’s workshop I saw the shape of a small girl about my age, still in the distance. She was wearing a long raincoat. I thought that it was Liên-Hy, Tuân’s sister, but Tuân was not with her. I hastily hid behind the corner of the workshop, waiting for her to pass by, then I stepped out and followed her silently, holding the cigar box in my hand, not knowing what I was going to do.
After a moment, Liên-Hy turned her head round unintentionally and caught me staring intently at her. Her expression was completely indifferent, to the extent that I wondered whether she had recognized me. However, I felt something hard to describe, a pinch of joyfulness mingled both with a twinge of reproach to Liên-Hy who didn’t seem to recognize me, as well as a bit of shame at the memory of the word ‘bootlicker’ the boys had called me the previous day.
I was still lost in my thoughts, when the horn of a bike startled me; I turned my head and saw Mr. Minh, Liên-Hy’s and Tuân’s father. Mr. Minh was a teacher, of a very kind and jovial nature, he liked me very much because I was neither an unruly boy, nor an insolent child. Sometimes he came to my house as a village elder to ask my parents about my schooling and studies. Nevertheless, taken unawares, and especially as I had the impression of being caught red-handed doing something illegal, I couldn’t reply him in time when he asked me:
‘Aren’t you going to school today, Lâm ?’
I still heard his voice fading away as he rushed past me on his bicycle. Hesitating for a moment on the spot, I watched Liên-Hy’s shape and Mr. Minh’s bicycle disappearing behind the village shrine, then suddenly I remembered Tuân: “Why didn’t he go to school ? Perhaps he was sick because he had waded in water the previous day !” A sense of guilt seized me, and I ran straight to Tuân’s house, to try to find out why he had not gone to school, and whether he was ill. But no, he was not ill. Simply because his parents thought that he was too young to cross the river in those weather conditions, and had allowed him one more day off.
I lingered under the bamboo trees in front of Tuân’s house. Gusts of winds showered down what water was still remaining on the leaves from the previous rains. I shivered with cold but still tried to stay and wait. I whistled a scout tune, and Tuân hesitantly appeared on the threshold. I walked out from under the bamboo trees, holding out the cigar box. As soon as he saw me, he rushed out towards me when Mrs. Minh’s voice sounded at the same time, making me fear that perhaps I was doing something at the wrong moment.
Tuân also looked frightened, he grasped my hand and pulled me to the house. I had no time to protest when Mrs. Minh arrived on the threshold too. To explain his doing, Tuân hastily said:
‘I wanted to invite Lâm to come and play with me’.
Shyly I followed Tuân into the house. The old people in the house saw that I was only a child, they left us alone and paid no attention to us.
Tuân showed me around every nook and cranny of the house and I was filled with wonder by everything. In reality there was nothing really special, but compared with the simplicity and the total lack of decoration of my house, what I saw in his own was for me something too wonderful, surpassing anything in my imagination, even though the outside of the house was already well-known to me. How often had I attended campfires on his square clay yard – I was at that time a cub scout, and Mr. Minh was my troop leader – but I had never known what the inside of his house looked like. Sometimes I had imagined how it might be, but all my imaginations and suppositions were wrong, and far from the real thing.
That whole morning, I went from one wonder to another. Tuân showed me his toy box, full of “real” toys, mechanical toys, all kinds of toys and all beautifully made or coloured, not like my own toys which were all designed and made by myself. Suddenly I envied him, I envied his way of living, and I hoped I could have some relationship with him, with his family, I didn’t know really why, and what it really meant.
Then Tuân left aside his toys when he was tired of them. He led me to his room, which was also his sister’s. Seeing the books and school stationery on the table and the shelves, I thought that it was a student’s studio. But what mostly drew my attention in the room was the enlarged portrait photo on the wall. The photo in itself was not special, but what made it special to me was that it was Lien-Hy’s portrait. I stood perplexed, silently hesitating while Tuân showed me his picture books, cheerfully chirping away beside me. I became suddenly thoughtful, I didn’t know why, because at the age of ten, I could not truly analyse my state of mind. Tuân took my hand and pulled me down on the bed.
‘Sit down here, and look at these beautiful pictures.’
He told me stories from his picture books, as he had heard from his father. But with his way of tale telling hopping from one subject to the next, plus my kind of stupefied state of mind, I didn’t take in a single word he said. I was only aware of a strange newly born emotion I felt in me. Then from time to time I turned around and moved closer and closer to the pillow which bore the sky blue embroidered initials “ LH ” in the corner. I felt a warm sensation flowing throughout my body.
The wall clock struck ten. Although I didn’t want to part from this particularly attractive room, something, on the other hand, made me fear that perhaps it wouldn’t do to linger; I got up and left the room, leaving the cigar box on the bed where I had been sitting, pretending I had forgotten it.
I went home in the stillness of the world that was enclosing me and the seething emotions in my heart, the heart of an elementary class schoolboy.
What had happened during these last two days is not really the subject of my story for, in itself, it was insignificant.
Since that day on, I felt that I wanted to be closer to Tuân. That was not difficult for me, but paradoxically, the closer I became to him, and the more opportunities I had to play with him, the more I felt that it was not enough for me and that it was not my true desire.
From then on, every time I talked to my sister, I tried to turn the conversation to subjects concerning Liên-Hy or having something to do with her. My sister was two years older than me, and we were very close to each other. And I knew that she was a friend of Liên-Hy’s too, even though there was a difference of three years in their ages. Liên-Hy liked my sister very much. Sometimes she came to ask my sister about her homework, or to show her new knitting or embroidery patterns. Every time after her visit, I lingered around my sister trying to know what her visit was about, what she had said, but each time I learned nothing more than homework or knitting and embroidery patterns. Normally I should have tried on these occasions to find ways to come near my sister and join in their conversation. It was the other way round: I lost all my normal countenance. Even when I was doing something very important, I would drop it at once and run to the rear garden to hide myself. I wanted Liên-Hy to feel free so that she could stay longer with my sister. I feared that my presence could make her feel uneasy and would make her leave quickly. Sometimes I tried to get a look at her through a slit in the bamboo woven wall of our house.
- - -
To be continued
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What is a monk?
Sometimes when a little boy seemed especially smart, his parents would take him to a monastery and leave him there to be taken care of by the monks and educated, and when he grew up he would become a monk. One example is Thomas Aquinas.
Monks (pronounced MUNKS) were men who devoted their lives to the service of God and of the Catholic church (there are still monks today actually).
Buddhist monks and Christian monks
The first monks were not Christians but Buddhists, starting about 500 BC. Probably the first Christian monks, in Egypt in the 300s AD, got the idea from Buddhist monks in India; there were plenty of traders traveling between India and Egypt during the Roman Empire.
To show that they were monks, Christian men had the back of their heads shaved bald. They called this being “tonsured” (TON-soord).
About some modern Christian monks in the north of Scotland
What did monks do all day?
Christian monks lived together in a monastery (MAHN-ah-sterr-ee) under the rule of an abbot (AA-but). They prayed five times a day, and went to Mass every day. Sometimes the monks sang in choirs. In between some of the monks copied manuscripts in the monastery’s library, or taught other little boys to read and write, or did the laundry for the monastery. Other monks worked in the fields like most other people, planting grain for the monastery and harvesting it, and taking care of the monastery’s pigs and sheep and cattle.
In some monasteries, the monks made wine to drink and to sell in town. Monks never married and were not supposed to have children, and they did not own any property of their own.
Why did men become monks?
Sometimes men joined monasteries when they were older. Maybe they felt drawn to a religious life, like Gregory the Great. But also this was a way to be a scientist, like Roger Bacon. And it was like going to assisted living: maybe they were so poor or sick that they wanted someone to take care of them. (For another reason, check out the story of Heloise and Abelard).
Even kings became monks
Even kings and emperors, like Michael V, sometimes became monks. A stronger rival who made himself king might force the ex-king to become a monk to get him out of the way. Families sometimes also sent their boys to be monks if they had too many children. They didn’t want to have to split their farm among too many children for the inheritance. Girls couldn’t become monks, but they could become Christian nuns.
So what is a monk? Did you find out what you wanted to know about Christian monks? Let us know in the comments!
Learn by doing: visit a monastery if there’s one near you
More about Christian nuns
More about the Franciscans | English | NL | 9cac25fd1ccb283cdbe28ffad39cd4b5f0c0551d19958635f51462d5904599f0 |
Checkov's gun went off, in The Soul Blade Chapter 29.
The pacing issue is still around. While Tricia is handling the heavy lifting for the plot, Brenna is waiting for her cue. Problem is, the story is Brenna's, not Tricia's, so there is a lot being shown of the Hallidays and their lives. Tricia gets to violate the laws of nature. Brenna gets forced out of the house by her own sister.
Brenna not being a morning person surprised me. Part of it may be that ghosts are more active at night, so that can mess up Brenna's sleep patterns. She also doesn't have to be up early for any reason, unlike her father, who works, and her sister, who has classes. Brenna can avoid the early morning chaos and eat breakfast at a leisurely pace instead of having to scarf down a couple slices of toast while filling a thermos with coffee. What work Brenna does have is freelance; as long as it gets done, the hours aren't as important.
Fabric stores are money drains for people who sew. My mother quilted. She would often go to a fabric store to get something for a one quilt and come back with fabric that she thought she could use for future projects. Cosplayers tend to be the same. Fabric stores are like live mouse traps to them. Brenna isn't just thinking of the work she needs to complete, but of future possibilities. She really should have an Etsy shop.
Tricia used the gun she picked up at the end of Chapter 28 I hope Fiona's demise wasn't telegraphed too hard. Tricia planned to have Fiona as the last sacrifice. The shock of betrayal in the dispatched soul would have an exquisite taste, or so Tricia believes. The portal opened. Partially. Tricia siphoned off a bit of each soul for her own misuse. She assumed that the ashen man would do to her what she would do to him if their positions were reversed. To be fair, she was correct. Evil doesn't share power well with others. The ashen man was going to kill her, though he'd never tell her that.
The question of how to show what the ashen man is saying inside Tricia's head was one I had to consider during NaNo. The original work has the interior dialogue marked as italics. I've used italics in the past to show what a character is thinking, notably in Subject 13. With that as a precedent, I wanted to clearer that it was the ashen man and not Tricia speaking. The temporary solution is a font change. I have no idea if it works, so let me know.
Friday, power corrupts; absolute power is nifty, in The Soul Blade Chapter 30.
Also Friday, over at Psycho Drive-In, Hanna-Barbera's Godzilla.
Saturday, over at The Seventh Sanctum, Jem and the Holograms. | English | NL | cb237cee977097fb12d63e2bba7b08750029a3169e58d7cf193eabd015a4da1b |
John MacGregor M.A., Trinity College, Cambridge; (1825-1892) Barrister-at-Law, Captain of the Royal Canoe Club, through his extremely popular books and magazine articles from 1865 to 1892, practically invented the sport of canoeing (or kayaking). He was a man with a penchant for boat design and exploration, who developed his craft based on the Eskimo Kayak, which he named Rob Roy. He took the boat on long journeys along the rivers and across the lakes of Europe, lecturing and writing about his travels as he went. His tales attracted quite a following and soon there were many kayaks in Great Britain.
Canoes are the larger category under which kayaks fall: while all kayaks are canoes, not all canoes are kayaks. Paddlers in kayaks sit with their legs stretched out in front of them and canoeists generally paddle from a kneeling position. Most canoes are open hulled; while kayaks have covered decks. Canoe paddles are typically single bladed, while kayak paddles are double ended. Some might say these differences occur because of the type of water available, but a look at the evolution of British canoeing culture during the past one hundred and twenty years would suggest that the major changes are due to those who have written and taught, coupled with the availability of canoes or kayaks.
The first period from 1865 evolved from the founder of British canoeing, John MacGregor. His book, A Thousand Miles in the Rob Roy Canoe, fired the imagination of the Victorians. The ‘Rob Roy’ was a stable kayak, went in a straight line and had a large cockpit. Made of wood, it was easy to handle and a boat in which any beginner would have felt safe. In this period, wooden canoes were imported and were used for family outings and touring, the limitation to the growth was the cost of the wooden craft.
The second period from the 1930s to the 1950s is identified with the wooden frame and canvas kayaks and the start of the BCU Coaching Scheme. Percy Blandford (1912-2014) wrote books and produced a host of designs for the Scout movement, which brought canoeing to a much wider number of people. The low cost, make-it-yourself PBK (Percy Blandford Kayak) designs, were, like the ‘Rob Roy’, stable, went in a straight line, and had large cockpits. The BCU Coaching Scheme was started in the 1950s by John Dudderidge and the original proficiency tests were designed around the use of these open cockpit straight-line kayaks.
The third period, which had a massive impact on both the expansion and the change in direction of British canoeing culture, started around the early 1960s when, in 1962, the BCU appointed its first Director of Coaching, Oliver Cock, giving added drive to what was to become a very powerful teaching scheme. For various reasons, the Coaching Scheme became more and more interested in rough water canoeing. At the same time, glass reinforced plastic became available. Moulds were produced for the home builder and the designs reflected the interest in rough water. Thousands of kayaks were produced with rockered hulls and small cockpits. By 1980, the Coaching Scheme had 3,000 members almost all teaching in the close fitting cockpit kayak. So powerful had that culture become that, if the word ‘canoeing’ is mentioned to almost anyone in Britain, their immediate image would be that of a young man or woman strapped into a kayak, wearing a crash helmet and wetsuit, performing turns and rolls on rapidly moving rivers. This was a great image for the adventurous teenager but daunting for many others who might wish to paddle. Indeed, a far, far cry from the canoeing of MacGregor.
MacGregor’s wooden split paddles were presented to Royal Canoe Club in 1959 and have subsequently been used as the annual trophy at the BCU National Inter-Club Sprint Racing Regatta, being first presented in 1977 to the winning club, Fladbury.
The original ‘Rob Roy’ canoe was built in 1865 by Thames boatbuilders Searle & Sons of Lambeth for John MacGregor’s tour of Europe, the subject of the bestselling book ‘A Thousand Miles in a Rob Roy Canoe’ and is now preserved at the River and Rowing Museum, Mill Meadows, Henley on Thames, Oxfordshire, RG9 1BF, UK. It is clinker built with an oak hull and cedar deck. | English | NL | 7cd83aeae3a03c5eeef90e82ebe6d33665843821922a849afc495abff51105a6 |
Late that evening, after sunset, they kept bringing to him all who were sick or troubled by evil spirits. The whole population of the town gathered round the doorway. And he healed great numbers of people who were suffering from various forms of disease. In many cases he expelled evil spirits; but he would not allow them to say a word, for they knew perfectly well who he was.
Then, in the early morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a deserted place, and there he prayed. Simon and his companions went in search of him, and when they found him, they said, “Everyone is looking for you.
“Then we will go somewhere else, to the neighbouring towns,” he replied, “so that I may give my message there too—that is why I have come.”
So he continued preaching in their synagogues and expelling evil spirits throughout the whole of Galilee. (Mark 1:32-39 JBP)
The whole town gathered at His doorway. He healed great numbers of people who were suffering with all kinds of issues and disorders. God in the flesh had come to a sleepy little town filled with people in desperate need. And I'm sure when the last person left the house it was significantly late in the evening, if not well into the early morning hours. And you just have to love the next verse...very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a deserted place, and there he prayed. I'm not exactly sure what this looked like, but maybe he prayed the words of Psalm 23..."He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul...my cup overflows...and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." Or maybe it was the words of Psalm 37..."Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart." Or perhaps even Psalm 131...I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me." Whatever he prayed, it gave him life and sustenance and renewal...and direction for the day ahead.
While he was off by himself spending this intimate time with His Father, much was going on back in town. People had heard; they had caught wind of the happenings of the night before and were already knocking on the door again, probably before it was even light outside. Maybe they had brought a neighbor or a family friend, or a relative from a few miles away. But the words the disciples meet Jesus with when they finally do find him tell the whole story. "Where are you? Don't you know that everyone is looking for you? There are more needy people at our doorstep, come on, get with it, we have to go do something about this."
But the answer Jesus gives them shows us something very telling about the time he had just spent with his Father. It was that time and space that guided and determined his life and his steps; not demands, not needs, not expectations...there will always be those, just as there will always be needy and broken and hurting people. Jesus' life and direction was determined by something much deeper and bigger than that, it was determined by the voice of God. He guides me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake say the beautiful words of the ancient prayer (Psalm 23:3). And indeed it's true. Prayer determined Jesus' direction. What determines mine?
It is our life (and time and space) with God that must determine everything, if it is ever to be of any eternal value or significance. He must determine my steps, the details of my day, and more importantly my mission and my purpose. Too often, if I don't have a very clear picture of who God wants me to be and what he wants me to be about, I can get distracted or derailed by the thousand-and-one details, expectations, demands, and voices of the external world and lose track of that eternal must he has placed deep within me. I must be led by something larger than events, expectations, demands, or circumstances. I must be guided by something with substance, with true rootedness. I guess the question becomes: Unless I consistently make time and space for God, and for prayer, how will I ever know if the things that have found their way onto my plate are really the things that are mine (the things He has in mind for me) to do? There is a very thin, and sometimes almost indiscernible, line between calling and compulsion; between what God is truly calling me to be about versus what I think I need to be about due to my own deepest fears and insecurities. Sometimes it's really hard to tell the difference between the two. Therefore, let us be like Jesus, and let us early in the morning, while it is still dark, get up, leave the house and go off to a deserted place, and pray. | English | NL | 9b9d6b743820a31a806cf54f7204eb97c383eaf53ca3cc36940f0789fd64015b |
b. 14/06/1913 Wimbledon, Surrey. d. 09/12/1941 Malaya.
Arthur Stewart King Scarf (1913-1941), known to the family as John, and to many friends as “Pongo”, was born in Wimbledon, Surrey on 14th June 1913. Educated principally at Kings College, Wimbledon, he gained little distinction academically, and he channelled most energy into his sporting activities. He played rugby for his school, and his non interest in academics almost got him expelled from the College. On leaving the College in 1930, he took up employment in an insurance office, but the atmosphere didn’t suit him, and he applied for the Royal Navy.
His lack of academic qualifications though stymied his application to the Royal Navy and he was rejected. Instead, in January 1936, he applied to join the RAF for pilot training, and was accepted by a discerning interview board whose decision was based on potential rather than paper qualifications. For his first thre months he underwent initial flying instruction at the AST, Hamble on Avro Cadet biplanes; then progressed to 9 Flying Training School, Thornaby, flying Hawker Hart trainers under the skilled guidance of veteran fliers Squadron Leader D’Arcy Grieg DFC AFC and Flight Lieutenant John Grandy (in later years, Chief of Air Staff, RAF).
On graduation to pilot on 11th October 1936, he was posted to 9 Squadron at RAF Scampton, Lincolnshire to fly the Handley Page Heyford bombers with which the unit was then equipped. His stay with 9 Squadron was brief and, after a short detachment to 206 (GR) Squadron at Hemswell on 20th March 1937, flying Hawker Hind bombers. Just 4 weeks later, on 18th April, he was posted to Abingdon, Berkshire to form a new unit, 62 Squadron, flying Hinds, which moved to RAF Cranfield in June 1937. Promoted to Flying Officer, he was immediately detached to Manston in the summer of 1937 for a short navigation course, then rejoined A Flight, 62 Squadron at Cranfield.
62 Squadron then converted to Bristol Blenheim I bombers in February 1938, and when war looked imminent the following year, they were posted to Singapore via India, and arrived at Tengah airfield, Singapore, though for two years they saw no active service. The routine was exercises, training flights, and manoeuvres including mock dogfights and bombing runs. In February 1941, they changed bases and moved north to Alor Star in the Kedah Province, close to the neutral Siam (Thailand) border. Then, in December 1941, Japan struck. They launched an invasion force at Kota Bahru on the east coast, and five RAF Squadrons were detailed to attack at first light on the invaders.
On 9th December 1941 in Malaya, near the Siam border, all available aircraft had been ordered to make a daylight raid on Singora (where the Japanese Army was invading), in Siam. Squadron Leader Scarf, as leader of the raid, had just taken off from the base at Butterworth when enemy aircraft swept in destroying or disabling all the rest of the machines. Scarf decided nevertheless to fly alone to Singora. Despite attacks from roving fighters he completed his bombing run and was on his way back when his aircraft became riddled with bullets and he was severely wounded, his left arm had been shattered, he had a large hole in his back and was drifting in and out of consciousness. He managed to crash-land the Blenheim at Alor Star, without causing any injury to his crew, and was rushed to hospital where he died two hours later.
Working at the hospital where he passed away, was his wife, Elizabeth (known as “Sally”) a nurse, whom he had married in Penang in April 1941. She had volunteered to work at Alor Star Hospital to be near her husband. She donated blood to try and help save his life in the operating theatre. Sadly, he collapsed and died soon after he last saw her and squeezed her hand and said “Keep smiling, Sal” Arthur was laid to rest in Taiping War Cemetery, Malaya.
In the chaos of the Malayan campaign, most records were lost or destroyed, and it was not until 1946 that the full story of Scarf’s heroism was brought to the notice of the RAF authorities. He was immediately recommended for a posthumous VC, and this was approved and then gazetted on 21st June 1946; his widow receiving the medal at an investiture on the 30th June. Shortly afterwards, his parents donated a sum of money to the RAF to create the Scarf Trophy, to be awarded to the Far East Air Force Squadron considered best in weaponry. Scarf’s medals are now held by the RAF Museum, Hendon.
LOCATION OF MEDAL: RAF MUSEUM, HENDON, LONDON.
BURIAL PLACE: TAIPING WAR CEMETERY, MALAYA.
Arthur Scarf's medals including VC courtesy of the RAF Museum, Hendon.
(Picture courtesy of Thomas Stewart)
Cemetery Plan courtesy of Kevin Brazier
PLOT II, ROW G, GRAVE 14.
St Clements Danes Church, Aldwych
National Memorial Arboretum (Andy Wright)
Bomber Command, Lincoln (Brian Drummond) | English | NL | e8ca37a8d6162e262d35ba15c98d9d423053e45965680e5e9a54b41f2d9e2271 |
I haven't had time to participate the last weeks in Haiku Heights, but this week's prompt I couldn't let go. This week the prompt is WISH and that's of course something for this time of year.
entering the year of the Snake -
|Year of the Snake (2013)|
According to ancient Chinese wisdom, being born in the year of the Snake is a good omen; it means your family will never starve. Whether this is intended metaphorically -- because the snake is a great mediator and therefore good at business -- or literally -- because a Snake would sacrifice his many possessions to pay for food -- is often debated. In either case, it is clear that a Snake is considered a good provider as a result of his wisdom. This wisdom, however, can on occasion become cunning trickery, as a Snake is known to plot to get exactly what he wants. The Snake is also profoundly private, and as such, as known as a poor communicator -- possessive of both his words and his emotions.
Character Traits : Snake
Positive: Wise, creative, shrewd, responsible, purposefulNegative: Loner, distrustful, suffocating, cold
Well ... maybe 'till next week. | English | NL | 1f601ccacf01d6b4099efb0f00d81bbfb61e23db522e4ad4807c04633fd3f4fa |
My two-and-a-half-year-old daughter is obsessed with school buses. There’s a bus stop right on our corner that provides a full morning of excitement. More buses pass our house on their way to pick up “kids go big school.” We must cross paths with at least ten more on the way to daycare. Each time a bus passes out of view, my sweet baby demands, “More bus, Mama!” She thinks I control the world.
Of course, it’s developmentally appropriate for her to have this unshakable faith in me. I love her so much for her trust and optimism. But because I am so acutely aware that I do not control the world, it’s also occasionally painful.
My obsession with control started early. When I was five years old, my parents separated, and my mother and I moved away. I had been pretty happy in my small town Catholic school. I knew most of the kids before I started kindergarten, and my cousins were at the same school. My teacher was warm and friendly. My new school was a different story all together. I wasn’t used to city life where I didn’t already know everyone. It was mid-year, and all the kids had established friendships that didn’t include me. Then there was the teacher. Oh, the teacher.
I was familiar with nuns, but this one was different. Sr.Mary wore a down-to-the-floor black habit with the full head covering. Only her face showed. This type of habit was long out of fashion in the 1970’s, but she was a throw-back in more ways than one. I was scared to death of her. Her teaching style was far more authoritarian than I’d experienced previously, and I could tell that she really didn’t like me. When she broke the class into group activities, she’d take me and one other child aside.
I didn’t understand why we were singled out, but eventually it became clear, if not the reason, at least the purpose. At first, I was mere witness to the torture of my little companion. Sr. Mary had a full litany for poor Tasha. Her parents were divorced and, according to Sr. Mary, Tasha’s mother had abandoned the family. Somehow in this twisted old nun’s mind, Tasha’s parents’ divorce and the fact that they were African-American were irredeemable sins. The nun claimed all “negroes” go to hell when they die. The fact that Tasha wore braces on her “crippled” legs was punishment from god for both being African-American and having divorced parents. Tasha’s father was a member of the city’s professional football team. Each time he left town, which was a lot during football season, Sr. Mary would tell Tasha that her father wasn’t coming back just like her mother hadn’t. She was destined to become an orphan.
Eventually, Sr. Mary set upon me. She told me that, while I was at school, my mother and father would have a terrible fight, they would stab one another, and I would become an orphan. Just like with Tasha, this insane nun had figured out my greatest fears and then went about convincing me that they were a destiny over which I had absolutely no control.
Tasha and I never exchanged any words about our shared torture, just knowing glances when we were called aside. We shared a common shame. Each afternoon as the other children played with blocks or dolls while they waited for their parents to pick them up, Tasha and I sat paralyzed in fear, waiting to see if her father and my mother would arrive or if the day Sr. Mary predicted had finally come and we were orphans.
School became a nightmare. I had horrible dreams about blood, my parents’ death, being all alone, and Sr. Mary. Around the time that my parents decided to reconcile, my mother found out what the malevolent Sr. Mary had been doing and withdrew me from the school. But Sr. Mary had one last prediction. She said my parents wouldn’t stay together and that we would all go to hell. She was right about the first part.
I remember feeling a tremendous sense of relief to be away from that psychotic, but I also felt guilty for leaving Tasha. Perhaps it was survivor’s guilt. In some way, I also felt isolated to be separated from Tasha. After all, we were both on the same road to orphan-dom.
The next school year was first grade, a full day of school with bus transportation. Each morning’s goodbye with my parents at the bus stop was like then end of a World War II epic film. I just knew that this would be the last time that I would see them alive and that when the bus dropped me off in the afternoon, they would be dead in a giant pool of intermingling blood. I would be an orphan.
Sr. Mary was gone, but my paralyzing fear was not. I symbolically transferred it from her to the school bus. After all, the bus and the school where it delivered me were the only two places I was ever apart from both of my parents. Since my child brain was convinced that I could somehow keep my parents from killing each other, the school bus was taking me away and thus creating the opportunity for Sr. Mary’s prediction to be realized.
I screamed and sobbed at the bus stop. The bus driver offered to let me sit right next to her. My mother bribed and threatened to get me on that damn bus. Didn’t she understand that I was trying to save her life?
One of Sr. Mary’s forewarnings came true. My parents’ reconciliation didn’t last, and they divorced when I was seven. My mother and I moved to a neighborhood where I walked to school, and my school bus phobia subsided. But my white-knuckle grip on everything else I could conceive of controlling did not. I became hyper-vigilant about my surroundings and pathologically organized with my toys and books. As an adolescent, I developed an eating disorder.
Adulthood and therapy smoothed out a lot of those rough edges, and I evolved into a run-of-the-mill control freak. Through my twenties and most of my thirties, I went about doing quirky things like alphabetizing my spice rack. I found that my obsession with control and order was also a great asset. After all, that was the aspect of my personality that made me good at my job.
Then I got a rude awakening. Four years ago, while living in New Orleans, Hurricane Katrina blew my fantasy of control out of the water. Puns intended. I had moments of panic and despair and railed in anger at god. It was hard, but eventually I rallied on, feeling a bit free to relinquish my compulsion for control.
Parenthood mellowed me more. When waiting to adopt a child from Africa, you either go with the flow or go crazy. And parenting an infant who has been orphaned requires the patience and flexibility of the Buddha. I was feeling the groove, that is until the recent “economic downturn.”
It’s difficult to be a single parent and self-employed while facing economic uncertainty. I think I’m doing a good job of keeping my priorities straight and my fears at bay, but I have my moments. There aren’t a whole lot of nuns in full regalia roaming the streets, so my old symbol of panic—the school bus—sometimes flips the switch. You know, the bus I’m supposed to welcome. The one I’m supposed to materialize.
I didn’t realize that my daughter can see my face in the rearview mirror from her car seat behind me, but she can. One morning, as a bus turned a corner and rambled up a hill, she said, “More bus, Mama!” I gave my usual reply of, “Let’s look for more.” A moment later, she spied one and exclaimed, “Look, Mama, bus!” Then she sweetly added, “No more sad Mama.”
And so it goes. It took me a while to see how the past connects to my present and how an everyday experience can have a hidden meaning waiting to be confronted. I am raising the child Sr. Mary predicted Tasha would become. My daughter relishes the sight of the very symbol of my worst childhood fear. Each day, I have the choice to fall back into old patterns of panic and control or release and relish my child’s bright-eyed enthusiasm.
Let’s look for more! | English | NL | f37b939e0b50f2a295cbe89e91c7f0f816dc9a107bd782b069eb79d34be06014 |
The Allen family first came to Fayette county, Ohio, nearly a century ago, and have been identitied with the history of Jasper township during all of these years. Ephraim L. Allen has spent the half century of his life within the limits of this township and consequently is well known by the residents of his township. His life has always been conducted along such lines as to merit the high esteem in which he is universally held, and he is conceded by every one to be one of the progressive and representative citizens of the township.
Ephraim L. Allen, son of Elijah and Mahala (Harper) Allen, was born September 11, 1860, on the farm where he is now living. His father, who was the son of Elijah and Sorilia (Hinkle) Allen, was born in Jefferson township, near Lancaster, this county, in 1827. Elijah Allen, Sr., came from Pendleton county, Virginia, and was one of the early pioneers of Fayette county, Ohio. Elijah Allen, Jr., and wife were the parents of twelve children, James, Mrs. Adelia Sanderson, Mrs. Selvelia Wilt, Mrs. Christina E. Street, Ephraim L., Emma, Ella, William S., Carrie and Maywood P. Of these children, Emma and Ella are dead.
The education of Ephraim L. Allen was received in the Milledgeville and Octa schools, finishing at the latter. He remained at home until he was twenty-two years of age and then began working out by the month. After his marriage he rented land of his father and subsequently purchased sixty nine acres where he is now living. He has always engaged in general farming, dividing his attention between the raising of grains and live stock in such a manner as to make his farm yield the best results. He has a good country home, excellent barns and outbuildings and everything which the successful farmer needs to farm to the best advantage.
Mr. Allen was married in 1893 to Frances Servis, the daughter of Phillip and Martha (Harrison) Servis. Phillip Servis was the son of Charles Servis, a native of New Jersey and an early settler in Fayette county. Phillip Servis and wife reared a family of nine children, Phillip, Ollie, Mrs. Elizabeth Lambert, Mrs. Martha Watts, James, Phoebe, Mrs. Frances Allen, Jacob and Charles. Four of these children are deceased, Philip, Ollie, James and Phoebe. Mr. Al!en and his wife have a family of seven children, five of whom are living, Oscar, Melvin, Grace, Ediith and Harry. Grace married Arthur Himser and has one daughter, Helen Lucile. The second and the last children born to Mr. and Mrs. Allen, Katie and Charles, are both deceased.
Politically, Mr. Allen is identified with the Republican party and has always taken an active part in local politics. He has served as road supervisor and school director, filling both positions with credit to himself and satisfaction to the citizens of the township. Mr. Allen is a whole-souled man, interested in everything which might benefit the general welfare of his community, and is a strong supporter of all worthy moral, educational and civic enterprises.
From History of Fayette County Ohio - Her People, Industries and Institutions by Frank M. Allen (1914, R. F. Bowen & Company, Inc.) | English | NL | f540e198fc180eef044cc6c868626e93af4376031034340123a581eeaae24039 |
Tuesday, April 24
Homogeneity or Diversity?
Narrative Lectionary Daily Devotions written by Kace Leetch from Clergy Stuff.
In the early days of the spread of Christianity, there were many debates over how, exactly, to live as Christians in a world divided by religion, race, and culture. Until now, being born a Jew meant you were Jewish by religion, race, and culture. Your roles, rites, rituals, and relationships were all dictated by your status as a Jew. But now, with the rise of Christianity, life as a Jew was changing dramatically. Additionally, Gentiles (non-Jews) were being welcomed into the Christian faith. No longer was religion settled by birth. A new melting pot of people from all over the world, all faith traditions, all cultures was being created in the name of Christ.
Paul knew that the saving work of Christ depended on Christ's work, not ours. For this new faith to survive and thrive, it had to be founded on something greater than one's birthright. It had to be shaped on unity and the coming together of varieties of people, rather than the separating of people by ritual. Circumcision had been a requirement for all Jews to satisfy the covenant created between God and the Hebrews. With the welcoming of Gentiles, the question of circumcision became a hot topic. Paul believed and argued that to put that "yoke" upon the shoulders of the disciples charged with the spreading of the word would put unnecessary burdens on their work and words. It was, after all, Christ's work that saved, not ours.
I have family and friends in California, where the state is quickly becoming more of a Spanish-speaking state than English. The transition makes me want to learn Spanish so I can become even more involved with the cultures of the world that are coming to my doorstep. I have friends, however, that find the transition a nuisance. "If they ("Us and them" language? Really?) come to America, they should learn to speak English. If they want to speak Spanish, they should stay in Mexico." What a sad, self-centered, ignorant, and divisive attitude! If we followed Paul's example, we might see that the strength of an emerging culture isn't in its homogeneity, but in its diversity. Instead of expecting "outsiders" to conform, we can blossom as human beings if we receive with open arms and open hearts the diverse gifts that others bring. That is how cultures survive and thrive.
Narrative Lectionary Text: Acts 15:1-11
Then certain individuals came down from Judea and were teaching the brothers, “Unless you are circumcised according to the custom of Moses, you cannot be saved.” And after Paul and Barnabas had no small dissension and debate with them, Paul and Barnabas and some of the others were appointed to go up to Jerusalem to discuss this question with the apostles and the elders. So they were sent on their way by the church, and as they passed through both Phoenicia and Samaria, they reported the conversion of the Gentiles, and brought great joy to all the believers. When they came to Jerusalem, they were welcomed by the church and the apostles and the elders, and they reported all that God had done with them. But some believers who belonged to the sect of the Pharisees stood up and said, “It is necessary for them to be circumcised and ordered to keep the law of Moses.”
The apostles and the elders met together to consider this matter. After there had been much debate, Peter stood up and said to them, “My brothers, you know that in the early days God made a choice among you, that I should be the one through whom the Gentiles would hear the message of the good news and become believers. And God, who knows the human heart, testified to them by giving them the Holy Spirit, just as he did to us; and in cleansing their hearts by faith he has made no distinction between them and us. Now therefore why are you putting God to the test by placing on the neck of the disciples a yoke that neither our ancestors nor we have been able to bear? On the contrary, we believe that we will be saved through the grace of the Lord Jesus, just as they will.” | English | NL | 3c14aaac0d9c25ceffca6f463285994d417dc82c60591c90e193475cb5ed6971 |
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