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“Reuben! Reuben come back! Reuben! REUUUBENNNN! Reuben, make a good choice now! Reuben, you need to make a good choice!”
I'm not convinced that Reuben was ever going to make a good choice, and while I'm fully committed to the concept of the will of the people, I couldn't help feeling that here was a moment when a hefty dollop of parental autocracy was needed. Reuben was only just three. Not much older than my tiny little grandchildren. I know this because his mother, who seemed to be placing an inordinate amount of faith in Reuben's grasp of the concepts of action and consequence at such a tender age, had already pointed the fact out to him loudly enough for everyone on the right hand side of the beach to hear. Meanwhile, the small boy's eyes followed the older children up the cliff; the fifteen year old, pursued by the nine year old, next by the six year old, and then our little crusading sherpa with a death wish. Reuben was desperate to climb to the top as well, and after all attempts to reason with him had been ignored, was plucked from the sheer rock wall before he could escape. I wanted to make the short ascent too, but I was waiting until I could have it to myself. I hoped my eighty year old mother wasn't going to suddenly appear out of nowhere, yelling in my general direction at three thousand decibels when the moment came. It seemed that Reuben hadn't made a good choice. Later, he tried again, as I watched and wondered at how he’d given Mum the slip and trotted halfway across the stony beach to Base Camp Zero once more. Soon she hot footed it over after him, still trying to appeal for common sense, and managing to thwart his progress before I, or anyone else present felt the need to get involved. Modern parenting. Something tells me Reuben’s going to be a mountaineer when he grows up. Either that or a tree surgeon.
I wasn't sure whether I'd made a good choice either. Clevedon is undeniably lovely, but wasn't I just playing it safe by coming here? Earlier, on the long drive south from Cheshire, the Malvern Hills had briefly filled the distant horizon with a semi mountainous haze under an azure sky. I hadn’t visited Great Malvern in thirty-five years. I could have stayed nearby and walked up to the top for golden hour, to enjoy views towards the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains on the border with Wales. Later, phone snaps came from home, where clouds had gathered to absorb every last drop of pink from the setting sun. Here at Clevedon the sky was completely clear, save for a mass of burning cloud that hovered over the Bristol Channel a long way to the west. And we don’t like clear skies do we? Not when we’re taking pictures we don’t. Well it was too late. Here is where I was, and once Reuben and all of his associates had finally abandoned the scene, I clambered up to the raised area of rocks beneath the pier. I was soon followed up by a gang of adolescents, but Clevedon is an easy going sort of place, where people seem to be very chilled - at least in my experience they do - and they were perfectly peaceful as they waited for the sun to set somewhere over the Welsh coast. Hell, they were even playing some quite agreeable sounding music. I’m not sure what it was, but I was getting gentle overtones of early seventies progressive folk rock, which I far prefer to much of the banal noise we generally associate with young people these days. My goodness I’m starting to sound like my dear old Grandad who’s been gone for more than thirty years now. They were nice kids. I shall move on. Where was I? Oh yes, I was on top of a small cliff, setting up the camera in the direction of my favourite pier. Now I come to think of it, I’m not even sure if I’ve ever photographed any other piers.
Once I was up in this rarefied atmosphere, an entire fifteen feet above the pebbles, I began to wonder whether I was too close to the pier, almost looking along it as I was. If I'd stayed at the bottom I could have opened up the angle a bit and experimented with some variations to the composition. But I wasn't looking forward to abseiling back down the cliff, at least not until I'd watched those kids make their descents first. Everything looked different from the top, and I couldn’t even remember exactly what route I’d taken up here. But then again there was an advantage to this elevated viewpoint that I hadn't enjoyed in previous visits. A slightly different angle in fact, and in addition to this it was easier to lose the untidy foreground rocks that were being revealed by a rapidly falling tide.
Then came the glow, the green ironwork catching the golden sunlight against the clear blue sky as the clock moved towards six. Maybe I was in the right place. Maybe I'd made a good choice after all. Behind me, the strains of something soft and soporific came from the group of youngsters. Fairport Convention? Probably a modern reboot, but it fitted the mood well enough. They climbed down. I climbed down after them and watched an orange band of light slowly fade across the estuary above Cardiff’s waterfront. Reuben was probably at home, trying to smash his way out of his bedroom window and onto the roof by now. There was a pub just across the road and I wasn't driving anywhere until the next day. It was time to make another good choice and find a pint of something warm and hoppy. And then maybe another one.
Chanti ensaiava com seu violino quando Pancada entrou abruptamente no quarto com cara de poucos amigos e enchendo Chanti de perguntas e acusações. A garota não estava entendendo nada do motivo de tanta fúria do namorado...
Chanti: Eu não estou entendendo nada do que vc está falando... Vc entra aqui desse jeito todo estressado, vc me assusta!
Pancada: Não vem com essa de assustada não, Chanti! Vc fica aí com essa cara de santa mas na real vc ferrou comigo! Vai agora me dizer que vc não sabe de onde veio o dinheiro do estúdo?!
Chanti: O que eu tenho com isso? De onde vc tira essas coisas??? Vc bebeu como sempre... - a garota mantém o ar frio e a arrogância, fazendo de tudo para disfarçar a culpa.
Pancada: Eu não estou bêbado, Chanti! Eu posso ter cara de bobo mas não sou estúpido! Eu já descobri tudo, vc emprestou o dinheiro pro Yue colocar no estúdio mesmo eu falando que não queria. Teu irmão me contou!
Chanti: O QUE ELE TE CONTOU???
Pancada: Que o cara do banco ligou pra ele. Vc foi lá com um cara tatuado tirar dinheiro. Teu irmão achou que era eu e veio me ameaçar. E eu não tiro a razão do Oreo, se fosse com a minha irmã eu faria o mesmo!
Chanti: Hunf! O dinheiro é meu e eu faço o que eu quiser. - diz resoluta, sem nenhum remorso.
Pancada: Ah! Então vc admite!!! Mesmo eu falando que eu não queria??? Não me importa se vc tem dinheiro ou não, Chanti, EU DISSE NÃO! VC ME TRAIU! Vc se juntou com o meu melhor amigo para me apunhalar pelas costas!!!
Chanti: Eu não traí vc, eu só quis ajudar! Vc fala como se eu tivesse feito algo tão nojento e inescrupuloso... Mas e o Yue??? Vc não vai ficar bravo com ele? Foi tudo idéia dele!!!
Pancada: Eu não tenho compromisso com o Yue, Chanti. Em quem eu confio, me deito todas as noites e acordo todas as manhãs é com vc, Chantilly!
Chanti: Ah não!!! A culpa é só minha agora???
A midnight blue 1950 Ford Custom. A perfect choice for running moonshine on the back roads of Anywhere USA.
The moonshine distilleries favorite Rum Runner car during the 1940's and through the mid 50's was a Ford. The flathead V-8 could be souped up! Moonshine Rummers were never flashy vehicles- no chrome pipes, no loud mufflers, no distinctive paint jobs - plain and dark colored cars were the norm .
Like old thoroughbreds the aging moonshine-hauling cars sit at the ready. Their rear suspensions are still ultra-stiff and ready to conceal the weight of more than 100 gallons of white lightning that the cars would haul out of the foothills to Winston-Salem, Lexington, or other points east.
They wait for loads that will never come from creek-side stills that no longer exist. The customers are gone, too. The moonshine culture is dead—killed not so much by the persistence of law enforcement as by the spread of legal liquor and ABC stores into previously dry Southern states and counties. The backwoods still, an American tradition that predates the founding of the United States, has all but disappeared from the ravines and hollows of the southern Appalachians.
On the brink of its demise, after flourishing since colonial times, the moonshine business went out in a blaze of iconic glory and real-life drama born of its integration into another uniquely American custom—the hot rod. Big loads, fast cars, and tough law all came together in the 1950s and 1960s in a pageant of high-speed chases, roadblocks, wild escapes, crashes—and on rare occasions, gunplay.
Most of the old moonshiners are now up there in years. Call is 65. They could still stir the mash if push came to shove, but making bootleg liquor is some of the hardest work a man can do. Even if the market still existed, they have long since lost the need to bother. But they did quite well for themselves in the underground business, despite the cars that were confiscated, the stills that were blown sky-high, and the pieces of their lives lost to prison terms.
- Rich Chenet
Hot Rod Magazine
A break from the Zoo shots. I've done this location before, and so has one of my contacts, Mike (pentlandpirate), but found myself here on Sunday morning.
Walking the streets of London always presents a lot of choices of which way to go!
View the entire London Street Photography Set
View the entire London Set
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View my - Most Interesting according to Flickr
Life's so complicated. What choice should i make ?
My holiday has come to an end. Thanks for visiting my stream. I'll be glad to visit yours too ! Assalamualaikum & have a nice day ^_^ [Temporary shut down]
I am sending a mug rug to a special friend and need your help in deciding which one to send! If it were you would you prefer the cup, the bird or the tree mug rug? I can't decide which one to send off!
The lure of the hills or an open fire and a glass or two.
Years ago it would have been a no-brainer but, as I get older, there's more of a debate.
in support of Gender fluidity & my daughter's choices.
Gender fluidity refers to change over time in a person's gender expression or gender identity, or both. That change might be in expression, but not identity, or in identity, but not expression. Or both expression and identity might change together.
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“Something's about to end. Or start. I'm not sure. I just know we're not in the middle anymore. It's safer in the middle.”
― Jim McCann, Return of the Dapper Men
Jim McCann is an award-winning writer of comic books, television, and theatre. He worked on several films and music videos before he was accepted into the ABC Daytime Writer Development Program. During that time he wrote for the popular ABC daytime drama One Life to Live. Upon moving to New York, he found a position at Marvel Comics, where he remained for six years, working in publicity and PR.
There are always choices to be made in life. Some are as sweet as picking your fave dress :-)
Finally a full rack again! PetiteApplestore (ex Marinart)
Outfits by Petite Apple.
Rack by Taylor Couture
Lexington Ave and E. 83rd Street,
Yorkville neighborhood, Manhattan
Photo by Robert Louis Bracklow,
Digital Culture of Metropolitan New York
Here is the moc you chose for a revamp.
I'm gonna start the build soon, i'll keep posting other mocs in the meantime.
I'm on the run today, so just a quick shot of these 2 beauties. Too many choices for the girls...LOL! They are wearing my 2 fave colors though!!!
Someone was testing colours on a new wall. In the end they chose brown. (Second top right)
Wishing you all a very Happy New Year! Have a wonderful 2020!
😊
For Wednesday Walls
One from our recent Norway workshop.
Aurora Borealis south of Tromso..
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All images are copyright © John Finney Photography.
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