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Installation view of the JASC one night art show/benefit "Living Our Culture: A Celebration of Japanese American Arts and Culture" - George Suyeoka's sculptures are in the foreground.
George Washington Carver
1864
Missouri
When George was only a week old, George, a sister, and his mother were kidnapped by night raiders
Took this one of George before the weather turned back to autumn like again (other wise known as the British Summer) Hot weather is forecast to be back next week - hopefully not as hot as they are having in the States at the moment from the reports that I have read!!
When it arrives I will once again have two cats looking pitiful in the heat.
Mary Randazzo (4) runs down the field during Friday afternoon's game against George Washington. Photo by Katherine Mayo.
The Cape St. George Light is a 72-foot (22 m) high brick lighthouse which had originally stood for 153 years on St. George Island, Florida, until toppling into the Gulf of Mexico October 22, 2005. The pieces of the lighthouse were retrieved, and in April 2008, the light's restoration was completed.
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Recess wheel ferry George Rogers Clarke, built 1870 and run for many years at St. Louis. In 1916 she was sold to operate the Louisville-Jefferson route. She was retired in 1929 when the Louisville Highway bridge ended ferry operations.
From the John Hartford Photograph Collection (P-29).
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George with Theresa Carter aka The Local Tourist (www.thelocaltourist.com). Need to know where to go in Chicago? Get in touch with Theresa!
French President Jacques Chirac (L) shakes hands with US President George W. Bush (R) on the third and final day of the Group of Eight Summit 10 June 2004 in the southeastern US coastal state of Georgia. Bush walked into the G8 summit buoyed by a unanimous UN vote on Iraq, but walks out with few new signs of international help just three weeks before the handover of power there. AFP PHOTO/Tim SLOAN (Photo by TIM SLOAN / AFP) (Photo by TIM SLOAN/AFP via Getty Images)
Overlooking the Niagara River, Fort George was built between 1796 and 1802. This fortification served as the headquarters for the Centre Division of the British Army during the War of 1812, and played a pivotal role in the defence of Upper Canada. Fort George saw action during the Battle of Queenston Heights, was destroyed and captured by the Americans during the Battle of Fort George, and was reclaimed by the British seven months later.
George Dyson: The Canoe and the Code
George Dyson is lanky and quiet in that way that suggests a life lived both in thought and on the water. On a damp April morning in Bellingham, Washington, he met me dressed in a blue fisherman’s sweater, the color of tide-washed denim, a garment that seemed to belong to both the sea and the sky. There’s something unmistakably familial in his bearing, the long, thoughtful face, the gentle smile. As he grows older, he resembles his father, Freeman Dyson, more and more. But George is, unmistakably, his own man: a writer, historian of technology, boatbuilder, and builder of worlds.
His home sits on the edge of things, close to the sea, surrounded by trees, filled with books and sketches and the soft presence of a cat named Nikita, who lives up to her name. She’s named after Nikita Shumagin, the first of Bering’s crew to die of scurvy in 1741, a nod to George’s deep engagement with exploration, history, and the often-overlooked figures that shaped it. The house feels like a mind made physical: ideas roosting on shelves, a telescope pointed toward the harbor where his boat Ranger rests on blocks. Nearby, a shelf holds a full run of translations of The Starship and the Canoe, Kenneth Brower’s 1978 book about the parallel lives of Freeman and George Dyson. Neal Stephenson, one of many who admire George’s work, wrote the foreword to the 2020 reprint.
George showed me photos of the treehouse he built and lived in from 1972 to 1975, thirty meters up a Douglas fir on the shores of Burrard Inlet. He salvaged every piece of it. There was no electricity, no running water. It was, in every sense, a complete space: a livable idea suspended between the earth and the sky.
That idea of the “complete space” returned again and again throughout our day together. After his home, we walked to his workshop, located in the former Dick’s Tavern, a dive bar with a history of its own. It still has the feel of a gathering place, but now for wood, aluminum, tools, and dreams. This is Dyson, Baidarka & Company, his boatbuilding space. Aleutian kayaks, long and sinewy, sit on platforms in various stages of becoming. Plans are rolled and stacked neatly. Tools hang on the wall like instruments in a sound studio. In the back, a modest bed waits, a reminder that this has been a home.
“I could live here,” he said, almost offhandedly. “And I have.”
There’s no romantic affectation to it, just a fact, as true as a boat’s draft or the pitch of a sail. In this space, George is both naval architect and philosopher, a man building vessels not only to move through water, but to carry meaning.
A few minutes’ walk brought us to the harbor, where Ranger, a Fisher 30 motorsailer built in 1976 in Southampton, sat, lifted from the sea for repair. He visits her nearly every day. This is his favorite place. We climbed the ladder to the cockpit, stepping over the railing, ducking belowdecks where the floorboards were lifted to expose the engine. He was mid-project, sleeves pushed up, parts spread like puzzle pieces. You could see the joy in his eyes. The boat, like the baidarka, like the treehouse, is a world he has made for himself. It doesn’t just move through space, it moves through thought.
Watching him there, crouched over the engine, it all came into view: the treehouse, the baidarka, the workshop, the boat. These are more than places, they are systems. Each one a self-contained cosmos, a structure for living, thinking, observing. They are his way of being in the world, immersed, but also just outside of it. Not disconnected, but differently connected.
Many have called George Dyson “Thoreau-esque,” and it’s true in a sense. But he’s no hermit, and certainly no Luddite. He’s deeply engaged in the discourse around technology. What sets him apart is his vantage point. He’s not caught up in the rush of the tech world’s constant reinvention, but he’s not nostalgic for some pre-digital past either. His critiques come from the waterline, from a mind trained to think structurally, to understand what keeps something afloat.
He’s written several books that trace the evolution of our tools and ideas, from Darwin Among the Machines, which reawakens Samuel Butler’s 19th-century speculation about machine evolution, to Project Orion, about the audacious attempt to launch a nuclear-propelled spaceship, to Turing’s Cathedral, a remarkable deep dive into the origins of digital computing at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. His writing connects kayaks and code, wilderness and algorithms, with a sense of pattern and implication often missing from more narrowly focused accounts of technology.
We talked about artificial intelligence. He’s less concerned about the usual apocalyptic fears and more interested in a quieter erosion: that “Good AI,” the kind that works too well, might slowly displace our capacity to reason. That we’ll gradually delegate too much, our judgment, our critical thinking, even our curiosity, to systems we’ve designed to serve us. It’s not the monster at the gate that troubles him. It’s the soft, helpful voice we welcome in.
His thinking exists within a far-reaching constellation of big thinkers, friends and fellow travelers like Stewart Brand, Kevin Kelly, and Neal Stephenson, people whose work, like his, moves fluidly between history, technology, and imagination. Others, like J. Robert Oppenheimer and Stephen Hawking, were part of his father’s world and, by extension, his own: mentors, correspondents, and passing dinner guests who became part of the background fabric of George’s intellectual life. Some he’s known through decades of conversation, others through the thick web of letters and stories that surrounded Freeman Dyson. Ideas were always in the air, shared across pages, passed around tables, or carried by the tide.
Later in the afternoon, as the light faded over Bellingham Bay, we sat near the harbor, drinking cold beer at a pub that, George noted, used to be a tool rental shop. The conversation drifted, as it tends to with him, from engines to ancestors, from shipbuilding to the shape of the internet. History here doesn’t feel like something behind us, it feels tidal, patient, always flowing underneath.
George Dyson builds boats, yes, but more than that, he builds frameworks. He builds stories. He builds spaces that let us ask, and sometimes even live inside, the essential questions: What are we building? Why? And what will we carry with us when the tide turns?
St George's Church is a Church of England church on the Isle of Portland, built between 1754 and 1766 to replace St. Andrew's which had fallen into disuse and was no longer suitable as a place of worship.
During the 1960s a restoration of the church took place under the stewardship of a group formed to protect the church. It then came under the care of the Churches Conservation Trust, which continues to the present. No longer retained for regular worship, services are nevertheless held twice annually, on St George's Day and Christmas Day.
The history of St. George's Church began in August 1753. A committee of Portlanders was formed to decide whether to put further finances into the dilapidated St. Andrew's Church or to erect a new church at a more accessible position. St. Andrew's suffered from an unstable site and was prone to landslips (notably those on the east side of Portland in 1665 and 1734). Within two months a decision was made, with a survey of the old church finding that repairs would be at least half the cost of a new building. A year after the completion of the church, a house was built nearby for the parish clerk, and this building would become The George Inn.
The church was closed in 1914 for many reasons, and fell into further disrepair ever since that time. In the 1960s however, the church fell under the protection of a newly formed group, the 'Friends of St George's Church', who were able to restore the church. Now no longer needed for regular worship, the church is now a redundant church in the care of the Churches Conservation Trust. It was declared redundant on 16 April 1970, and was vested in the Trust on 27 October 1971.
Designed by architect and quarry merchant Thomas Gilbert, St George's is regarded as one of the most impressive 18th-century churches in Dorset. It is a large church built of Portland stone and has a tower, a nave, transepts, an apse, and a kind of 'abortive dome' over the crossing. The design is reminiscent of the works of Christopher Wren (particularly the tower, in relation to those of St Paul's Cathedral). The windows are arranged in two tiers, all with simple, broad raised frames that lack moulding. It is designated as a Grade I listed building. Gilbert is also believed to be the architect of a number of houses within the local area, including the Grade II* Listed Queen Anne House, his own residence built in the 18th century.