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Let me begin by saying that this is not a religious tract. Although this is about a Christian holiday, this is also not about Christianity per se. It’s a spiritual meditation on my recent journey to Taxco, Mexico.
This Easter I traveled to the colonial town of Taxco, Mexico to relax and document the Semana Santa or Holy Week procession festivities. One can witness the processions as they wind through ancient cobblestone streets. The occasion is devotional and festive. Children are dressed as angels, followed by the regular folks, Penitentes and more faithful shouldering beautifully carved religious statues.
While in Cacalotenango, during a Good Friday dramatization put on by local indigenous peoples, I overheard the artistic director of the re-enactment say to the participant/actors: "Don't 'materialize' the art that you are participating in......let yourself become a medium for spirit." As an artist, the director's injunction made me stop and think..............
That these indigenous people could celebrate in this manner many hundreds of years after their civilization and culture were torn asunder by greedy and muderous prostylizers got me thinking.
As I walked the streets of Cacoletenango and Taxco and then working on these images, the word that kept coming to mind was.....”forgiveness.” Forgivenes is a fundamentally human choice that chooses peace beyond the emotional drama of what "justice" may look like. It's beyond logic, beyond keeping scores..... What for some might be a difficult existential undertaking..... Especially for people like myself who are keenly atuned to human rights...
To see more images of this series click: www.flickr.com/photos/artedelares/sets/72157600067315557/
According to Wikipedia, of all things, forgiveness is the mental, emotional and/or spiritual process of ceasing to feel resentment, indignation or anger against another person for a perceived offence, difference or mistake, or ceasing to demand punishment or restitution[1].
This definition, however, is subject to much philosophical critique. Forgiveness may be considered simply in terms of the person who forgives, in terms of the person forgiven and/or in terms of the relationship between the forgiver and the person forgiven. In some contexts, it may be granted without any expectation of compensation, and without any response on the part of the offender (for example, one may forgive a person who is dead). In practical terms, it may be necessary for the offender to offer some form of acknowledgement, apology, and/or restitution, or even just ask for forgiveness, in order for the wronged person to believe they are able to forgive.[1]
Most world religions include teachings on the nature of forgiveness, and many of these teachings provide an underlying basis for many varying modern day traditions and practices of forgiveness. However, throughout the ages, philosophers have studied forgiveness apart from religion. In addition, as in other areas of human inquiry, science is beginning to question religious concepts of forgiveness.
Psychology, sociology and medicine are among the scientific disciplines researching foregiveness or aspects of foregiveness. Instances of teachings on forgiveness such as the parable of the Prodigal Son[2] and Mahatma Gandhi's forgiveness of his assassin as he lay dying, are well known instances of such teachings and practices of forgiveness. Some religious doctrines or philosophies place greater emphasis on the need for humans to find some sort of divine forgiveness for their own shortcomings, others place greater emphasis on the need for humans to practice forgiveness between one another, yet others make little or no distinction between human and/or divine forgiveness.
For more on religious and spiritual views on forgiveness see: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forgiveness
The Endless run
... a dog's Dream
Probably safe to say that dogs only dream of a few things, one of which would definitely be chasing.. something, anything.....and for as long as possible.. I have been regularly reminded of this by a thing that kinda resembles a dog (at that size I think rat would be a more appropriate name ;) ) which seems to take great enjoyment in chasing me up the road on my run to train station, not at all deterred by the threat of my size 14 boot :) I have given up and now just expect to see him come flying out the driveway (of his house i assume) and and lose his vita-dogs or whateva dog snacks are equivalent to a sugary lollies at the indignation that someone dare use the footpath :)
heres to to you little rat-dog :) see ya next week.
#ratdog
"Face it tiger... you just hit the jackpot!"
With these words, Mary Jane Watson, the vivacious, charming, and determined extrovert who fell in love with one Peter Parker, became the most popular "non-powered" character in the Marvel universe.
Initially set up by Aunt May as a blind date, redheaded party girl Mary Jane "MJ" Watson was depicted in her early appearances as Gwen Stacy's competition.
Though Peter dated her briefly before Gwen, both of them broke it off as Peter saw her flamboyance, flakiness and 'life of the party' personality as shallow and MJ was not ready to be tied down by one man.
She eventually became Peter's main love interest after Gwen's death at the hands of the Green Goblin. The pair formed a bond through the grief of losing Gwen, as Mary Jane grew to become a more mature and open-hearted person.
She and Peter got closer, fell deeply in love, had an on-off relationship for years and eventually married.
Mary Jane is an empathetic and understanding person, willing to give the benefit of the doubt to friends and take the time to wrap her head around something.
Having grown up in a troubled household due to her father's teaching positions and frustrations in private, Mary Jane coped with the emotional trauma by acting with an extroverted personality, which was useful in her pursuits of an acting career.
Mary Jane is also shown to be a dedicated person as she kept pursuing her acting career and worked hard to open a business.
Due to her training as an actress, she also has great insight and almost always knows when someone is pretending or lying. She is also an exceptionally trustworthy character, having kept Peter's identity as Spider-Man secret.
Her friendship with Gwen Stacy exemplified Mary Jane's extroverted nature and willingness to be around others, such as her dating Harry but also flirting with Peter and other guys they knew.
After Gwen's death, a distraught Peter lashed out at Mary Jane for not caring, but despite the harsh words and instead of leaving with indignation, she stayed to be with a grieving Peter out of her compassion and empathy for his situation.
In fact, her relationship with Peter is one of the factors that most defines Mary Jane.
Because of her coexistence with his superhero life, while she initially suffered a great deal of stress and insecurity from worrying about him, Mary Jane would improve her perception of herself as she matured.
In general, even after so many troubles that have plagued them over the years, they always ended up reconnecting and supporting each other.
⚡ Happy 🎯 Heroclix 💫 Friday! 👽
_____________________________
A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.
Secret Identity: None
Publisher: Marvel
First appearance:
Cameo appearance:
The Amazing Spider-Man #25 (June 1965)
First Full appearance:
The Amazing Spider-Man #42 (January 1967)
Created by:
Stan Lee
John Romita Sr
John Romita said he designed Mary Jane after redhead Ann Margret in Bye Bye Birdie. See that here:
On bended knee is no way to be free
lifting up an empty cup I ask silently
that all my destinations will accept the one that's me
so I can breath
Circles they grow and they swallow people whole
half their lives they say goodnight to wive's they'll never know
got a mind full of questions and a teacher in my soul
so it goes...
Don't come closer or I'll have to go
Holding me like gravity are places that pull
If ever there was someone to keep me at home
It would be you...
Everyone I come across in cages they bought
they think of me and my wandering
but I'm never what they thought
got my indignation but I'm pure in all my thoughts
I'm alive...
Wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere
underneath my being is a road that disappeared
late at night I hear the trees
they're singing with the dead
overhead...
Leave it to me as I find a way to be
consider me a satelite for ever orbiting
I knew all the rules but the rules did not know me
guaranteed...
Eddie Vedder - Guaranteed -
P.S. = raga vi prego ascoltatela.. www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3SxCph5I1Q
“The Story” continues...
For those who have never seen a Pukeko run, trust me: they can run quickly, and this bird (See previous photo!) was no exception. Holding on to his Tail Feathers (as he had instructed), we bolted along the Blue Gravel Path, charging around corners, down dips, and up short but steep hills. Finally, I could take no more! “S-s-s-top!” I managed to splutter (gasping for breath!), and to my surprise, we did – so suddenly that I nearly banged into him!
“Oh! I’m sorry”, he said with a smirk. “Was I running a bit fast for you?” I ignored his sarcastic comment as I fought to catch my breath. “Anyway”, he went on, “when you’ve recovered, you might like to have a look over here!” And with that, he jumped up onto a railing and looked away to the south...
The view (I had to admit) was pretty spectacular! The Hutt River tumbled over an Earthquake Fault Line with a roar, and continued its more sedate journey towards the distant harbour. The hills way in the distance had been scarred by a Lumber project, but newly planted trees could just be made out, whilst over to the left the traffic on State Highway Two threw up a muted hum... Yes, it was quite a view, but...
“Very nice!” I said to Pukeko, but: what about Alice? Where the heck IS Alice??? And come to think of it,” I said (starting to feel rather cross because my precious Time was being wasted by all this carry-on!), “I never came to the park to look for her in the first place. I only came to take some photos of you birds, and the River...!”
“Well...!” said Pukeko, puffing his chest out in indignation! “You never said that, but just for the record, Alice and Straw Man have probably stopped a passing logging
truck and are now long gone, so I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time! Anyway, if this is all the thanks I’m going to get, I’m out-a here! Bye, Mister...!”
And before I could reply, he dropped over the side of the railing and swooped low across the boiling river to land neatly on the other side. “Mister” he called out. “Remember: Life is an Adventure, so keep your eyes open and enjoy the Journey...!” And as I turned to walk back up the Blue Gravel Path, he raised one wing in a sort of salute; I waved back, shaking my head in absolute amazement...!
As I headed back towards The Park, I began to think about Rooster (whom I’d met soon after my arrival. (He was the guy who’d been – well – “transformed” into a bird when his friend the Magician was practicing for a TV Talent Show...). I wondered what had happened to him; was he still waiting for his princess to come and kiss him and thus restore his humanity???
And so, Friends, the story of my Journey into this strange world is not quite over yet... I have to return to The Park to see what (if anything) has happened to Rooster – and because that – after all – is where my car is...!
(Click on photo to view Large; click again to return to normal).
Here's another macro shot of Jellyroll, one of the new squirrels on my back deck lately. I often have two squirrels dining on the deck at one time and feel like a harassed maitre d' trying to seat warring celebrity diners at a posh restaurant...if their piles of seeds are too close to each other, the bitchy chattering remarks start to fly and if they're feeling particularly spicy, my furry clients will fly at each other in indignation. It takes a little fussing over them to settle them down to their respective seed piles once again. But over here at Chez Peggy, we aim to please.
It had taken the crew somewhat longer to finish cleaning up. The scrimmage had caused more
damage than usual. It would take a few more hours to remove the stains off the carpet. She would write the damage report to Veronica after the cigarette.
The crisp air felt refreshing against her face. She tossed her toothpick carelessly on the ground. There were more where those came from. Right now, she needed the reassurance of that focused inhale and exhale.
Something weighed heavy on her mind. She felt slightly guilty for slapping Sonya. She was a good kid but how could she be so careless? So irresponsible… We pay for our recklessness. We pay for not understanding the rules of the game.
Her time in French army taught her that lesson very well. Those in power will use it,
regardless of its nature. It could be someone of a higher rank, it could be someone stronger than you. Even the disposable ones, who shared her fears, misery and despair in red painted sands of a foreign land… even they weren’t an exception to the rule. She thought they were brothers… brothers in arms and brothers in death…
So naive.
Her cold metal tags pressing into her chest, a rough hand over her mouth, a pungent smell of stale sweat, a deep sense of shame…
So naive of her…
She solemnly puffed the smoke into a night sky. You could barely see the stars. There the sky was pitch black and stars were glowing with detached indignation at what was happening behind the shattered barracks, in the red stained sand.
What do you do? Resent? It’s of no use…
She was not the same person as then…
Her bunk mate had introduced her to chess. Much like life, every figure had their role. Predicting one’s move became easier once she understood the rules of the game. In reality, humans were very simple… predictable… stereotypical…
He’s dead now. His bones covered in the relentless never-ending sand. Just sand, all around them. Sand and the gleaming sun…
She put out whatever was left of her cigarette with her boot. Another toothpick returned to its
rightful place. The dry taste of wood would take her back there every time. It was a reminder… of fleetingness of human life. And unfaltering beauty of human soul.
She would have to speak with Sonya soon. Buy her a drink. Teach her how to play chess.
An adult Chinese Moccasin (Deinagkistrodon acutus) in pre-strike posture. She is shown awaiting further stimuli prior to delivering a strike. This strike was initiated by the warmth emitted by the dual flashes firing simultaneously upon taking the shot. Taken whilst visiting a European snake collection in the summer of 1999 with a classic retro Contax RTS 1 SLR film camera body coupled to a Yashica C/Y Bellows rail system with a 100/f.4 Yashica Macro Bellows lens with the aperture fully closed (F.32). Drum scanned from Fuji Sensia 100 35mm colour positive (slide) film.
This young girl from the Guere tribe insisted on my taking her photo after watching me take Polaroid-like images of Moms and their babies. This may be one of my most favorite portraits because I remember the situation so well and her indignation that I would put my camera away before I took her picture.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we are following Edith, Lettice’s maid, as she heads east of Mayfair, to a place far removed from the elegance and gentility of Lettice’s flat, in London’s East End. As a young woman, Edith is very interested in fashion, particularly now that she is stepping out with Mr. Willison the grocer’s delivery boy, Frank Leadbetter. Luckily like most young girls of her class, her mother has taught Edith how to sew her own clothes and she has become an accomplished dressmaker, having successfully made frocks from scratch for herself, or altered cheaper existing second-hand pieces to make them more fashionable by letting out waistlines and taking up hems. Thanks to Lettice’s Cockney charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, who lives in nearby Poplar, Edith now has a wonderful haberdasher in Whitechapel, which she goes to on occasion on her days off when she needs something for one of her many sewing projects as she slowly adds to and updates her wardrobe. Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery is just a short walk from Petticoat Lane**, where Edith often picks up bargains from one of the many second-hand clothes stalls. Today she is visiting Mrs. Minkin with her friend and fellow maid, Hilda, who works for Edith’s former employer, Mrs. Plaistow and has Thursdays free until four o’clock.
“Cor, you are so lucky Edith,” remarks Hilda as the two friends stand at Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered, but well ordered shop counter. “Your Miss Lettice seems never to be home. Weekend parties and all that.”
“Are you complaining, Hilda?” Edith asks her friend as she gazes around the floor to ceiling shelves full of ribbons and bobbins, corsetry, elastics tapers, and fabrics and breathes in the smell of fabrics, and the cloves and lavender used by Mrs. Minkel to keep the moths at bay.
“Oh no!” Hilda defends with a shake of her head. “I’m so happy that you’ve got spare time in her absence to catch up with me, Edith. I just wish I had such luxury. You remember what it was like. I’m lucky if Mr. and Mrs. Plaistow go to Bournemouth for a fortnight in high summer, and even then, I get penalised by being paid board wages*** since they take Cook with them.”
“Miss Lettice has only gone down to Wiltshire for the weekend, Hilda,” Edith confirms, toying with a reel of pale blue cotton she plans to buy along with a reel of yellow and a reel of red cotton. “She’ll be back on Monday, so it would hardly be worth putting me on board wages.”
“She never does though, does she? Not even for Christmas when she goes home, and you go to your parents?”
“Well, no.” Edith admits, dropping her head as her face flushes with embarrassment. She knows how much better off she is with Lettice than in her old position as a parlour maid alongside Hilda at Mrs. Plaistow’s in Pimlico. Mrs. Plaistow is a hard employer, and very mean, whereas Lettice is the opposite, and she knows that she is very spoilt in her position as live-in domestic for a woman who is not at home almost as often as she is. “But,” she counters. “When Miss Lettice does come back, she’ll be bringing her future sister-in-law with her, and then I’ll be busy picking up after two flappers rather than one, and she often entertains when she has guests, so I’ll have my work cut out for me between cleaning and cooking for the pair of them.”
“Still, it’s not the same.” Hilda grumbles. “Even if you do have to work hard, it’s not like the hard graft I have to suffer under Mrs. Plaistow. Did I tell you that Queenie chucked in her position?”
“No!” Edith gasps, remembering Mrs. Plaistow’s cheerful head parlour maid who was kind and friendly to both her and Hilda. “She was always so lovely. You’ll miss her.”
“Will I ever.” Hilda agrees. “She’s gone home to Manchester, well to Cheshire actually. Said she’s done with the big lights of London now, and she wants to be closer to her mum now that she’s getting on a bit.”
“That’s nice for her.”
“That’s what she said, but I think she really found a new position to get away from Mrs. Plaistow and all her mean ways.”
“What’s her new position?”
“She’s working as a maid in Alderley Edge for two old spinster sisters who live in a big old Victorian villa left to them by their father who owned a cotton mill. She wrote to me a few weeks ago after she settled in. She told me that the old ladies don’t go out much as one of them is an invalid, and they seldom entertain. Half the house is shut up because it’s too hard for them to use it. There’s a cook, a gardener cum odd job man, and like you a char comes in to do the hard jobs, so she’s finding it much easier. She writes that she can even take the train in to Manchester on her afternoons off to go shopping and see her old mum.”
“That sounds perfect. Does that mean you’ll become the head parlour maid now, Hilda?”
Hilda cocks an eyebrow at her friend and snorts with derision. “Don’t make me laugh. This is Mrs. Plaistow we’re talking about.”
“Yes, but you seem the most obvious choice to fill Queenie’s spot.” Edith says cheerily. “You’ve been there for what, three years now?” Hilda nods in agreement to Edith’s question. “So, you’d be perfect.”
This time it is Hilda’s head that sinks between her shoulders in a defeated fashion, the pale brown knit of her cardigan suddenly hanging lose over her plump frame as she hunches forward slightly.
“Of course you would, Hilda!” Edith assures her friend, placing a comforting hand on her forearm.
“Mrs. Plaistow doesn’t think so. She says I need more experience.”
“Oh what rubbish!” Edith cries, the outrage and indignation for her friend’s plight palpable in her voice. “Three years is more than enough experience!”
“She’s gone and hired a new girl after putting an advertisement in The Lady****. Her name’s Agnes.”
Both girls look at one another, screw up their face at the name, mutter their disapproval and then burst into girlish laughter as they chuckle over the faces each other pulled in their shared disgust. It is then that Edith has a momentary pang of loss as she remembers the nights she and Hilda used to share in their tiny attic room at the top of Mrs. Plaistow’s tall Pimlico townhouse. It might have been cold with no heating to be had, but all the girlish silliness and fun they had made up for the lack of warmth: talking about the handsome soldiers they met on their shared days off, discussing what their weddings would be like – each being the other’s bridesmaid – and constant discussions about what was fashionable to wear.
“Mrs. Plaistow’s just being her usual penny-pinching self.” Edith remarks. “She just doesn’t want to increase your wages and pay you what you’re really worth. I bet she hired this Agnes at a lesser wage than Queenie got, and even then, I don’t think Queenie was paid her worth.”
“Probably not.” Hilda says in return.
“I don’t know why you put up with her, Hilda. There are plenty of jobs going for parlour maids. I got out and look at me now. I’ve overheard Miss Lettice talk about something called ‘the servant problem’ with some of her married lady friends, where people cannot find quality domestics like us unless they can provide good working conditions. That’s why my wage at Miss Lettice’s is higher than it was at Mrs. Plaistow’s, and why I have a nice bedroom of my own with central heating and a comfy armchair to sit in.”
“And Miss Lettice is a nice mistress.” Hilda adds. “Who’s away half the time.”
“And Miss Lettice is nice mistress.” Edith agrees. “I can always give you the details of the agency in Westminster that I registered myself with, which led Miss Lettice to me. It has a very good clientele.”
“I don’t think a duchess will pay any better than Mrs. Plaistow will.” remarks Hilda disparagingly. “Anyway, I’ve been making enquiries on my days off, not today of course, and putting my name about Westminster and St. James’, so who knows.”
“Well, the offer is there if you fancy.” Edith begins.
“Here we are, Edit, my dear!” Mrs. Minkin chortles cheerily, breaking the girls’ conversation as she appears through the door leading from her storeroom, a bolt of pretty blue floral cotton across her ample arms. “Mr. Minkin needs to keep to buying fabric and leave it to me to arrange it in my own back room.” She wags a pudgy finger decorated with a few sparkling gold rings warningly as she places the fabric down in front of the gleaming cash register. “It was hidden, but now it is found Edit my dear.”
A refugee from Odessa as a result of a pogrom***** in 1905, Mrs. Minkin’s Russian accent, still thick after nearly twenty years of living in London’s East End, muffles the h at the end of Edith’s name, making the young girl smile, for it is an endearing quality. Edith likes the Jewess proprietor with her old fashioned upswept hairdo and frilly Edwardian lace jabot running down the front of her blouse, held in place by a beautiful cameo – a gift from her equally beloved and irritating Mr. Minkin. She always has a smile and a kind word for Edith, and her generosity towards her has found Edith discover extra spools of coloured cottons or curls of pretty ribbons and other notions****** in the lining of her parcel when she unpacks it at Cavendish Mews. Mrs. Minkin always insists when Edith mentions it, that she wished all her life that she had had a daughter, but all she ever had were sons, so Edith is like a surrogate daughter to her, and as a result she gets to reap the small benefits of her largess, at least until one of her sons finally makes her happy and brings home a girl she approves of.
“Thank you, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith says.
“Have you seen the latest edition of Weldon’s*******, Edit my dear?” the older woman asks as she jots down the fabric price in pencil on a notepad by the register. “There’s a very nice pattern for a frock with side and back flounces in it.”
“That’s what this fabric is for!” Edith says excitedly. “I think it will make a lovely summer frock.”
“I thought so.” Mrs. Minkin says with a wink. “I’m getting to know my Edit’s style. No?”
Edith nods shyly in agreement.
“Now, anything else, Edit my dear?”
“I’ll take these three cottons too please, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith places her hands over the spools and rolls them forward across the glass topped counter.
“Of course, Edit my dear.” the older woman chortles. “Some buttons too?” She indicates with the sweeping open handed gesture of a proud merchandiser to a tray of beautifully coloured glass, Bakelite and resin buttons expertly laid out next to the till.
“Oh,” Edith glances down at them quickly. “No thank you Mrs. Minkin. I have some buttons at home in my button jar.”
“Nonsense!” she scoffs in reply, expertly flicking through the cards of buttons. “A new dress must have new buttons.” She withdraws a set of six faceted Art Deco glass buttons that perfectly match the blue of the flowers on the fabric Edith is buying. “You take these as a gift from me. Yes?”
“Oh, but Mrs. Minkin!” Edith begins to protest, but she is silenced by the Jewess’ wagging finger.
“I’ll just fold them in here with the dress fabric.” She announces as if nothing were more normal. “You take them home with you and when you have made the frock, you wear it in here for me so I can see my buttons.”
Then just as she is slipping the buttons into a fold in the patterned cotton, a contemplative look runs across her face. She glances at Edith and then shifts her head. “You know what would go nicely with this fabric?” she asks rhetorically as she deposits the cloth onto a pile of brown paper next to the register and leans back. Stretching her arms over a basket of various brightly coloured and patterned fabric rolls she plucks a hat stand from behind her on which sits a beautiful straw hat decorated with a brightly coloured striped ribbon and some dainty fabric flowers in the palest shade of blue and golden red. “This.” She places it on the counter between herself and the two maids, smiling proudly as though the hat were a beautiful baby.
“Oh Edith!” gasps Hilda. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Oh yes it is.” agrees Edith.
“And with your blonde hair it would be perfect.” Hilda adds enthusiastically.
“Your friend has a good eye.” Mrs. Minkin pipes up, nodding in agreement at Hilda, blessing her with a magnanimous smile. “It would suit you very nicely.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith protests.
“Now, I can’t give it away,” the Jewess answers, squeezing her doughy chin between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand as she contemplates the pretty bow and flowers. “But for you, my dear Edit, I sell it for twelve and six.”
“Twelve and six!” gasps Edith. “Oh Mrs. Minkin, even at that generous price I could never afford it.” She gingerly reaches out and toys with one of the fabric blooms as it sits tantalisingly on the hat’s brim.
“Ahh,” sighs the older woman as she reaches over, picks up the hat stand and hat with a groan and returns it to the display top of the mahogany drawers behind her. “Pity. Your friend its right. It really would suit you.”
“I’m only a maid, Mrs. Minkin,” Edith reminds her. “And whilst I might get paid more generously than some,” She dares to glance momentarily at Hilda who does not return her gaze, distracting herself looking through a basket of balls of wool. “I’m afraid it’s Petticoat Lane for me, where I can buy a straw hat cheaply and decorate it myself with ribbons from here.”
“And you’ll do a beautiful job of it I’m sure, Edit my dear.” Mrs. Minkin replies consolingly. “Just remember to echo the colours on your new frock. Yes?”
“Alright Mrs. Minkin. I will.”
“Good girl.” Mrs. Minkin purrs.
Just as the older woman turns back to the two girls, Edith notices for the first time a small square box displayed next to the hat. The cover features the caricature of a woman in profile with a fashionable Eaton crop******** wearing a pearl necklace reaching into her handbag. “May-Fayre Handkerchiefs,” she reads aloud softly.
“Oh, I just received a delivery of them.” Mrs. Minkin reaches down and pulls open one of the drawers and withdraws another box. “They’re British made, and very good quality. Look.” She points proudly to some red writing on the face of the box. “The colours are guaranteed permanent.”
“Hankies?” Hilda queries. “You don’t need hankies, Edith. You’ve got loads of them.”
“Not for me, Hilda: for Mum,” Edith explains. “For Christmas.”
“But it’s summer. That’s months away!” Hilda splutters.
“I know, but I don’t see why I can’t do a spot of early Christmas shopping.” Edith defends her actions. “It will save me having to join the crowds desperately looking for gifts in December. How much are they Mrs. Minkin?”
“They’re three shillings and ninepence.” Mrs. Minkin replies. “You’re a sensible girl, Edit my dear. You shop for bargains, and you look for gifts all year round. What a pity you aren’t Jewish. You’d make a good wife for my Gideon.”
“No thank you, Mrs. Minkin,” Edith laughs. “No matchmaking for me.”
“Never mind.” Mrs. Minkin chuckles, joining in Edith’s good-natured laughing as she carefully folds brown paper around Edith’s fabric, buttons, box of handkerchiefs and spools of cotton.
“Besides,” Edith adds. “I already have a chap I’m walking out with. I can’t very well walk out with two, can I?”
“Well, a clever girl like you must have dozens of young men vying for her attentions, I’m sure.” The older woman ties Edith’s purchases up with some twine which she expertly trims with a pair of sharp shears.
“I wouldn’t say dozens. Anyway, just one will do me fine, Mrs. Minkin.”
“Now, the fabric is six shillings,” the proprietoress mutters, half to herself. “And the handkerchiefs three shillings and ninepence. With the three cottons, that comes to ten shillings exactly.” She enters the price into the register which clunks and groans noisily before the bright ting of a bell heralds the opening of the cash drawer at the bottom.
Edith opens her green leather handbag and pulls out her small black coin purse and carefully counts out the correct money in her palm. “Cheaper than a new straw hat.” She hands it over to Mrs. Minkin, who carefully puts it in the various denomination drawers of the till before pushing the cash drawer closed.
“Right you are Edit my dear. There you are.” Mrs. Minkin says cheerfully as she hands over Edith’s brown paper wrapped package bound with twine. “Now, what may I hep you with, my dear?” She turns her attention to Hilda.
“Me?” Hilda gulps, pressing the fingers of her right hand to her chest. “Oh, I’ve just come to keep my friend company. I don’t sew.”
“What?” The older woman’s eyes grow wide as she looks the rather dowdy brunette in the brown cardigan up and down appraisingly. “Not sew? What girl cannot sew?”
“Well I can’t,” Hilda replies. “And that’s a fact.”
“Foyl meydl*********!” gasps the Jewess aghast, her hand clasping the cameo at her throat. “All girls should know how to sew, even if badly.” She folds her arms akimbo over her large chest, a critical look on her face. “No goy********** will want to marry you if you can’t sew, my dear! Edit my dear,” She turns her attention away from Hilda momentarily. “You need to take your friend in hand and teach her how to sew.” She turns back to Hilda. “Your friend can show you. She knows how to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. Eh?”
Hilda looks in terror at Edith, who bursts out laughing at her friend’s horrified face. Wrapping her arm comfortingly around her friend, Edith assures Mrs. Minkin that she will take Hilda under her wing. Winking conspiratorially at Hilda so that the proprietoress cannot see, she ushers her friend out of the haberdashery and back out onto the busy Whitechapel street outside with a cheery goodbye to Mrs. Minkin.
*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
**Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.
***Board wages were monies paid in lieu of meals and were paid in addition to a servant’s normal salary. Often servants were paid board wages when their employer went on holiday, or to London for the season, leaving them behind with no cook t prepare their meals. Some employers paid their servants fair board wages, however most didn’t, and servants often found themselves out of pocket fending for themselves, rather than having meals provided within the household.
****The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. It is particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties.
*****Pogroms in the Russian Empire were large-scale, targeted, and repeated anti-Jewish rioting that began in the Nineteenth Century. Pogroms began to occur after Imperial Russia, which previously had very few Jews, acquired territories with large Jewish populations from the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman Empire from 1772 to 1815. The 1905 pogrom against Jews in Odessa was the most serious pogrom of the period, with reports of up to 2,500 Jews killed. Jews fled Russia, some ending up in London’s east end, which had a reasonably large Jewish community, particularly associated with clothing manufacturing.
******In sewing and haberdashery, notions are small objects or accessories, including items that are sewn or otherwise attached to a finished article, such as buttons, snaps, and collar stays. Notions also include the small tools used in sewing, such as needles, thread, pins, marking pens, elastic, and seam rippers.
*******Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.
********The Eton crop is a type of very short, slicked-down crop hairstyle for women. It became popular during the 1920s because it was ideal to showcase the shape of cloche hats. It was worn by Josephine Baker, among others. The name derives from its similarity to a hairstyle allegedly popular with schoolboys at Eton.
*********”Foy meydl” is Yiddish for “lazy girl”.
**********”Goy” is Yiddish for a gentile, non-Jew.
Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered haberdashers with its bright wallpaper and assortment of notions is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The pretty straw picture hat on the left, decorated with a real fabric ribbon and artificial flowers is an artisan piece and was acquired through Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders miniature shop in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. In this case, the straw hat was made by a British artisan. In complete contrast, the hat on the right with its restrained decoration is a mass manufactured hat and came from Melody Jane’s Doll House in the United Kingdom. Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society even after this. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.
The May-Fayre handkerchief box and the lisle hose box sitting directly behind it come from Shepard’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, who have a dizzying array of packaging pieces from the late 1800s to the 1970s. The Warner Brothers corset box behind them and the corset box sitting on the second shelf to the left were made meticulously by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The box of Wizard tapes on the top shelf to the left and the pink corsetry box on the bottom shelf to the left I acquired from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artisan miniature hats, gloves, accessories and haberdashery goods. Edith’s green leather handbag also comes from Marilyn Bickel’s collection.
The jewellery stand, complete with jewellery comes from a 1:12 miniature supplier in Queensland. The round mirror, which pivots, and features a real piece of mirror was a complimentary gift from the same seller.
The basket in the midground to the right, filled with embroidery items is a 1:12 miniature I have had since I was a teenager. I acquired it from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house accessories.
The Superior Quality buttons on cards in the foreground next to the cash register are in truth tiny beads. They, along with basket of rolled fabrics in the left midground, the spools of cottons and the balls of wool in the basket on the right all come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures.
The brightly shining cash register was supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom.
The mahogany stained chest of drawers on which the hats, jewellery, mirror and boxes stand I have had since I was around ten years old.
Let’s believe the dialectical faith of wokeism (woke Marxism), let’s join their dialectical cult! Since society is full of injustice and inequality, let’s tear it down and rebuilt it into a communist utopia—let’s Build Back Better. Let’s awaken to a higher consciousness, let’s awaken to a critical consciousness (critical Marxism)—to negative thinking (capitalism is bad). You’re a racist (a capitalist). The system (capitalism) is systemically racist. Let’s awaken the inner activist, let’s awaken the communist revolutionary. What will all this evolve into? It will evolve into the abolishment of private property. Communism: you will own nothing and be happy. Communism: equality for all! Communism: it’s for the greater good! Communism: the ends justify the means: murder, starvation, and the gulags! Marxism causes tribalism and division, because it’s intolerant of everything it doesn’t like. Get your reeducation: diversity, equity, and inclusion. DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion): a precursor to a Social Credit Score System. ESG (Environmental, Social and Governance): a Social Credit Score System for companies (Can anybody say: Bud Light!). The Green Transition: equality (poverty) for all! Climate communism: climate justice, climate equity, climate sustainability, climate lockdowns! Sustainability: the road to a good global citizen consciousness!
The fifth tenet of the Communist Manifesto: “Centralization of credit in the hands of the state, by means of a national bank with State capital and an exclusive monopoly.” Three cheers for central banking…not! Lenin: “The best way to destroy the capitalist system is to debauch the currency.” Three cheers for fait money…not! Stakeholder Capitalism is Fascism. Why do you think the (WEF) World Economic Fascists like to talk about Stakeholder Capitalism? The Free Market is the enemy of Stakeholder Capitalism. Grover Cleveland: “Corporations, which should be the carefully restrained creatures of the law and the servants of the people, are fast becoming the people’s masters.” Say what: corporate personhood? So, that’s nothing, the coming New World Order will obtain Beasthood—666 worship the Beast. The Metaverse Beastsystem: techno-spiritualism in which humanity will be free from the limitations of mind, body, and soul; a techno-spirit of oneness with the universe—universal collectivism: Mystery Babylon, Babylon the Great, and the Tower of Babel—antichristism.
Here is a report by Oxford University and Imperial College London for the UK Government:
Flying (page 6):
2020-2029: “All airports except Heathrow, Glasgow and Belfast close with transfers by rail.”
2030-2049: “All remaining airports close.”
Food (page 6):
2020-2029: “National consumption of beef and lamb drops by 50%, along with reduction in frozen ready meals and air-freighted food imports.”
2030-2049: “Beef and lamb phased out, along with all imports not transported by train; fertiliser use greatly reduced.”
Tacitus: “The more numerous the laws, the more corrupt the state.”
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The NWO commies at the United Nations have outlined an agenda to decriminalise ‘consensual sex’ between adults and minors in a report titled: “The 8 March Principles for a Human Rights-Based Approach to Criminal Law Proscribing Conduct Associated with Sex Reproduction, Drug Use, HIV, Homelessness and Poverty.”
Principle 16-Consensual Sexual Conduct (page 22-23):
“Moreover, sexual conduct involving persons below the domestically prescribed minimum age of consent to sex may be consensual in fact, if not in law. In this context, the enforcement of criminal law should reflect the rights and capacity of persons under 18 years of age to make decisions about engaging in consensual sexual conduct and their right to be heard in matters concerning them. Pursuant to their evolving capacities and progressive autonomy persons under 18 years of age should participate in decisions affecting them, with due regard to their age, maturity and best interests, and with specific attention to non-discrimination guarantees.”
Mark my words: pedophilia will one day become normalized (a human right).
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2 Timothy 3:13 “Evil people and impostors will become worse, deceiving and being deceived.”
Daniel 11:36 “Then the king (the Antichrist) will do exactly as he pleases; he will exalt himself and magnify himself above every god and will speak astounding and disgusting things against the God of gods and he will prosper until the indignation is finished, for that which is determined [by God] will be done.”
An editorial illustration for Link Idee Per La TV to an article about the triggers and the formula of online indignation - so called shitstorm, to put things simple. Here's the link to an article in italian: bit.ly/3fO8qYi
⛈️n
Saw this mother indulging her baby daughter while walking thru the market. It was such a pretty sight and I asked her to pose for me. I like the look of pride on the mother's face and the look of innocent indignation on the baby's at being asked to pose for a nobody like me!!
Demonstration in Brussels, Belgium in support of Ukraine and against Russia starting a war in this country. More than 5000 were present on 6 March 2022 to show their indignation.
When you never expect something to happen, it will - freely adapted from Murphy´s Law.
In the afternoon of August 30th, 2008, four enthusiasts had taken their spots at the canal bridge west of Lutzelbourg/Luetzelburg to await Intercity train 97 from Brussels to cross the bridge.
It would have been much desirable to get a better view on to the train that would pass on the right track*, but due to a dense forest of fir and spruce trees on the steep slope behind my spot it was not possible to gain a higher point here. Okay, tripod was built up, camera positioned, train time was reached but no IC 97 turned up.
Impatient waiting, the sun was going down already.
Then came the sound of a signal-horn of a train from left, where a tunnel ends. (In France trains also have to blow their horn when leaving a tunnel.)
A TGV turned up on the bridge - - and right at this very moment the IC entered the bridge from the right!
A protesting cry of indignation from myself, but luckily I managed to press the shutter in the best moment - a moment filled with adrenaline, but worth it, as the shot turned out as the image of the day!
Criminal story at the end of a wonderful sunday tour on this summer day!
* On almost the whole SNCF network trains generally left-hand running is the rule. The exception are lines that formerly belonged to the AL(Alsace-Lorraine) lines, the former "Reichseisenbahnen Elsass-Lothringen" where right hand running is retained by SNCF.
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In many small towns across America you will find veteran/war memorials to honor those that served and made the ultimate sacrifice for their country and or mark the area of a particular battle. For those of you who love historical detail here is a copy of an article describing the battle.
During the war of 1812 the British attacked the town on August 9, 1814. With the harassment of American shipping the state of Connecticut sent the town two large 18 pound guns to defend the harbor which you see pictured here. In mid afternoon on August 9, 1814, four British ships anchored off Stonington Point: H.M.S. Ramillies with 74 guns, Pactolus with 44 guns, Dispatch with 22 guns, and the bombship Terror, all under the command of Captain Thomas M. Hardy. Hardy sent an ultimatum to the town: “Not wishing to destroy the unoffending inhabitants residing in the town of Stonington, one hour is granted them from the receipt of this to remove out of town.” The time on Hardy’s note was 5:30.
Some people did leave, according to Caulkins. Women and children carrying hastily collected possessions fled the village, many of them crying in fear and anxiety. Most took shelter in the neighboring fields, woods, barns, and farmhouses. Some went as far as Montauk Hill, where many stayed in the open. Caulkins noted that the mild August weather allowed the fleeing families to remain nearby, where they anxiously awaited the outcome of the British attack. The timorous may have fled, but according to Haynes, some Stonington men stayed behind and set the tar-barrel signal smoking to alert the militia in nearby towns. The first defenders rushed to the breastworks, small protection against the combined firepower of four ships of the British Navy. Town residents William Lord, Asa Lee, George Fellows, and Amos Denison manned the three cannons. By 6 p.m. 16 volunteers from Mystic joined the original 4, including Captain Jeremiah Holmes, a vital addition to the ranks of the defenders. Holmes, a Mystic native, had suffered impressment at the hands of the British navy several years earlier. It had taken more than three years for him to prove that he was an American with valid seaman’s papers and gain his release. Unfortunately for the British who attacked Stonington, during his service in the British Navy, Holmes had become an expert, accurate gunner. Caulkins notes that the defenders were all “self-impelled and self-directed.” Town officials sent messengers to all neighboring towns seeking powder and reinforcements, but an uneasy silence endured for two more hours as the town’s defenders waited for the fighting to begin. The Terror started bombarding the Point at 8 p.m. The defenders fired back with its 18-pounder. Congreve rockets and bombs showered the village, lighting up the night like fireworks. The band of volunteers manned the cannons and used the light of fire from the British ships to aim their returning cannonade. The bombardment continued until midnight.
Though there was no organized effort to fight any fires that first night, enough people dared the shower of bombs and rockets to put out any fires that started. Amazingly, not a single building burned to the ground, according to Caulkins. Also in Caulkins’s manuscript she described the luck of one young man who had promised a widow that he would protect her house from fire and plunder. When the shelling stopped, he fell asleep. Awakened by the renewal of the attack the next morning, he rushed outside. Returning to the house, he discovered a smoking shell had fallen through the roof onto the bed he had occupied. The feather mattresses had smothered it, reports Caulkins, whose description of the battle cites eyewitness and participant recollections.
Accurate news of the attack was hard to come by. On August 10, a New London paper reported, “It is confidently reported that the British fleet have taken possession of the Point and ordered the families who lived there to retire ten miles from the point.” The truth was that on the morning of August 10, Stonington still continued its defense.
At dawn the British again fired on the town. The Dispatch had moved in closer to shore overnight, within half a mile of the coast. Its guns laid down a withering broadside. Caulkins, again citing eyewitness accounts, wrote that it seemed impossible for anyone to survive the British firepower. She claimed that the shells blasted the flag from its pole, shattered the barricade, and tore up dirt around the little fort. Yet the tiny group of defenders stayed at their posts until they ran out of powder. The men rescued their downed flag, spiked their cannon, rendering them inoperable should the British try to capture them, and retreated amidst the taunts of the British Navy carrying across the water: “We want balls; can’t you spare us a few?” The defenders shouted back, “When the powder comes, you shall have enough.” Caulkins, again citing eyewitness accounts, described the retreating men: Many had lost their hats, their clothes were begrimed with powder and dirt, their faces were blackened, and their eyes were burning.
For more than an hour the British fired, unimpeded, on the hapless village. The defenders became a fire crew. At 8 a.m., fresh powder arrived from New London. The original 20 defenders, their number now increased by a half dozen more, returned to the barricade. They nailed their flag back to the flagpole, drilled out the cannon, and set about defending the village. The firing continued between shore and ship, nonstop, for four hours. The volunteers managed to damage the Dispatch severely, hitting it below the water line, damaging the rigging, killing a number of British sailors, and forcing it to withdraw out of their range.
Although this was not the end of the fight, the young defenders celebrated as though they had already won. They shouted in victory; they leapt from stone to stone in the barricade; they climbed on fences and fence posts; they waved their hats in exultation. The flag, shot through seven times by British shells, still waved in defiance over the tiny breastworks.
The celebration was short-lived. Survivor Jesse Deane later described helping a fellow defender stagger away from the barricade. The clothes of Frederick Denison, age 19, bore blood from his wounded knee, caused by flying debris from the shattered walls of the breastworks. Denison’s wound seemed minor at first, but infection set in, and just a few months later he died, the only American fatality of the attack. Young John Miner suffered a powder burn to his face and eyes from a premature ignition of one of the cannon. Initially totally blinded, he later recovered the sight in one eye.
Not only did the defenders have to cope with their wounded after their triumph over the Dispatch, but they had to resume fighting as the British returned to the attack. The Ramillies, the largest ship of the attacking squadron, now approached as close as it could to shore and seemed ready to take up the unfinished job of the Dispatch. The Pactolus also drew nearer and anchored. Stonington’s end appeared near.
Hoping to forestall this dreadful outcome, the town magistrates sent two men to meet with Captain Hardy. Under a flag of truce they rowed out to the Pactolus to find out why the British had attacked poor Stonington and to try to save it. Hardy, who had been the commanding officer of Lord Horatio Nelson’s flagship Victory during the Battle of Trafalgar, was said to have welcomed them politely, even pointing out the couch where, he said, “Lord Nelson lay in his death after I had given him my parting embrace.” Hardy then accused the men of Stonington of providing torpedoes that Americans had used against British ships in Long Island Sound and refusing to release the wife of the British vice-consul James Stewart at New London. (See page xx for more on the Stewarts.) The men of Stonington received these charges, according to Caulkins, “with surprise, contempt, and indignation.” They had launched no torpedoes, and they did not have Mrs. Stewart. According to Caulkins’s manuscript, the men of Stonington believed that Hardy had absolutely no reason to believe Mrs. Stewart was in Stonington and was merely using that as a pretext for his assault. Hardy gave the town until 8:00 the next morning to deliver Mrs. Stewart. If it did not, he promised to destroy the town. The men then rowed back to the town to prepare for additional attacks.
Inexplicably, Hardy held his fire the following morning. The town magistrates, under another flag of truce, informed Hardy at 8 a.m. that they could not effect a release of Mrs. Stewart. Hardy extended the ceasefire until noon, saying that if the authorities did not bring Mrs. Stewart on board by then, he would demolish Stonington.
At noon, the British launched the renewed assault with bombs from Terror. She was able to launch her bombs from so far off shore that fire from the cannon at the Stonington battery couldn’t reach her. The defenders again retreated from the protection of the battery walls and served as a fire brigade in the village.
That night the British bombardment stopped, but it began again early on the 12th. Both the Pactolus and Ramillies had worked their way even closer to the Point overnight. According to Caulkins, at 8 a.m. the two ships “opened a cannonade with the design of raking the village and sweeping it, as it were, from the earth.” Fortunately for the village, most of the balls fell short or overshot the town. The firing stopped at noon, and the two ships drew away from the shore. The next morning, the 13th, the British squadron set sail from Stonington without firing another shot, returning to its position at the mouth of the Thames River off New London.
The attack by the British was a horrible assault on the peaceful denizens of Stonington, yet despite hours and days of bombardment, damage to the town was surprisingly light. Haynes claimed that the real reason for the lack of damage was that the British aimed at the Stonington Congregational Church steeple near the current Wadawanuck Square, believing it marked the center of the village. In fact, he wrote, the majority of the Borough’s 100 houses actually were clustered near the barricade near the Point, with the result that most of the British shells landed harmlessly in fields beyond the town center.
Nevertheless, Caulkins reported, the British assault damaged about 40 buildings but none beyond repair. On the Stonington side casualties were also surprisingly light. Aside from the wounds suffered by young Denison and Miner, four other defenders had minor injuries. Residents lost a horse and one or two other farm animals, but the total damage amounted to only about $3,500. British losses far outstripped those of the Americans. Caulkins, citing Holmes’s Annals, wrote that 21 British men were killed and more than 50 wounded. The damage to the Dispatch and some of the British landing barges was severe, and the report estimated the British used 50 tons of metal in the bombs, rockets, and shells they fired at the town. For many years after the assault, one Stonington home-owner adorned his gatepost with remnants of a large shell. Inscribed on the shell were the words: “Bomb-ship Terror, Aug. 10th, 1814, W. 215 lbs.” Etched on the other side were the words, “Stonington will be defended while its heroes have one cannon ball.”
Chroniclers of the defense of Stonington have focused on the bravery and recklessness of the original band of defenders, mostly teenagers who seemed oblivious to the dangers they faced. The young men leapt from rock to rock of the barricade, waving their hats over their heads in derision and defiance of the attackers. They exposed themselves to British fire to drag the cannon from place to place and to put out fires or help protect property. Yet foolhardy or foolish, the residents of the little coastal village of Stonington faced down the might of the British Navy, and they won.
Cotttonwood trees abound in the central United States. The usually grow near water. They release large numbers of seeds with float on a cotton-appearing web.
"Human nature itself is evermore an advocate for liberty. There is also in human nature a resentment of injury, and indignation against wrong. A love of truth and a veneration of virtue. These amiable passions, are the 'latent spark'... If the people are capable of understanding, seeing and feeling the differences between true and false, right and wrong, virtue and vice, to what better principle can the friends of mankind apply than to the sense of this difference?" --John Adams, the Novanglus, 1775
Democracy must be built through open societies that share information. When there is information, there is enlightenment. When there is debate, there are solutions. When there is no sharing of power, no rule of law, no accountability, there is abuse, corruption, subjugation and indignation.
Atifete Jahjaga
Canada votes today . and its the first time for my daughter
and in an amazing coincidence i walked in and my daughter was the one in front of me .
and a stunning result to come from 3rd place previously to form a huge majortiy govt . . Trudeamania .
texture by skeletalmess
Reboot.
المذكرات التفسيرية التي تكشف عن اختيارات مهمة استبدلت كتابة الأعمال الرئيسية الممتدة للأنظمة النثرية السابقة بالقوانين المميزة,
stækkuð sálfræðileg samfélagsþekking andstæðar öfgar ráðþrota hugur beygja fyrirætlanir stjórnað möguleikum sem hafa áhrif á hátterni,
directions correspondantes perturbations de l'indignation auditeurs avis discours bouillants tentations croissantes poésie préceptes de douceur,
affectiones praedominantes copias demonstrat operationes scholasticas determinatas increpationes hominum numerorum negligentes exempla conclusionum peremptoriarum,
Întrebări de conservare arată progrese tulburătoare pierderi pofte de mâncare drepturi în continuare cele mai înalte grade furtună presupuneri,
uaillmhianta inmheánacha sáruithe pléisiúir difríochtaí freagraí bríomhara rothlú meabhlaireachta ag casadh amhras uaireanta imní caitheamh aimsire,
お世辞の処方箋特定の割合知識の不一致を観察する綿密な真実市民の部品の欠陥大きな元の部品の四肢の罰の力が増加しました.
Steve.D.Hammond.
Stefhane Hessel:" Les deseo a todos, a cada uno de ustedes, que tengan su motivo de indignación."
" I wish you all, each one of you, having your reason for indignation."
8 Rejoice not over me, O my enemy;
when I fall, I shall rise;
when I sit in darkness,
the LORD will be a light to me.
9 I will bear the indignation of the LORD
because I have sinned against him,
until he pleads my cause
and executes judgment for me.
He will bring me out to the light;
I shall look upon his vindication.
The Holy Bible: English Standard Version (Wheaton: Standard Bible Society, 2001), Mic 7:8–9.
The Eiffel Tower is a wrought-iron lattice tower on the Champ de Mars in Paris, France. It is named after the engineer Gustave Eiffel, whose company designed and built the tower.
Locally nicknamed "La dame de fer" (French for "Iron Lady"), it was constructed from 1887 to 1889 as the centerpiece of the 1889 World's Fair and was initially criticized by some of France's leading artists and intellectuals for its design, but it has become a global cultural icon of France and one of the most recognizable structures in the world. The Eiffel Tower is the most visited monument with an entrance fee in the world; 6.91 million people ascended it in 2015. The Tower was made a Monument historique in 1964 and named part of UNESCO World Heritage Site ("Paris, Banks of the Seins") in 1991.
The tower is 324 metres tall, about the same height as an 81-storey building, and the tallest structure in Paris. Its base is square, measuring 125 metres on each side. During its construction, the Eiffel Tower surpassed the Washington Monument to become the tallest man-made structure in the world, a title it held for 41 years until the Chrysler Building in New York City was finished in 1930. It was the first structure in the world to surpass both the 200-metre and 300-metre mark in height. Due to the addition of a broadcasting aerial at the top of the tower in 1957, it is now taller than the Chrysler Building by 5.2 metres. Excluding transmitters, the Eiffel Tower is the second tallest free-standing structure in France after the Millau Viaduct.
The tower has three levels for visitors, with restaurants on the first and second levels. The top level's upper platform is 276 m above the ground – the highest observation deck accessible to the public in the European Union. Tickets can be purchased to ascend by stairs or lift to the first and second levels. The climb from ground level to the first level is over 300 steps, as is the climb from the first level to the second. Although there is a staircase to the top level, it is usually accessible only by lift.
The design of the Eiffel Tower is attributed to Maurice Koechlin and Émile Nouguier, two senior engineers working for the Compagnie des Établissements Eiffel. It was envisioned after discussion about a suitable centerpiece for the proposed 1889 Exposition Universelle, a world's fair to celebrate the centennial of the French Revolution. Eiffel openly acknowledged that inspiration for a tower came from the Latting Observatory built in New York City in 1853. In May 1884, working at home, Koechlin made a sketch of their idea, described by him as "a great pylon, consisting of four lattice girders standing apart at the base and coming together at the top, joined together by metal trusses at regular intervals". Eiffel initially showed little enthusiasm, but he did approve further study, and the two engineers then asked Stephen Sauvestre, the head of the company's architectural department, to contribute to the design. Sauvestre added decorative arches to the base of the tower, a glass pavilion to the first level, and other embellishments.
The new version gained Eiffel's support: he bought the rights to the patent on the design which Koechlin, Nougier, and Sauvestre had taken out, and the design was put on display at the Exhibition of Decorative Arts in the autumn of 1884 under the company name. On 30 March 1885, Eiffel presented his plans to the Société des Ingénieurs Civils; after discussing the technical problems and emphasising the practical uses of the tower, he finished his talk by saying the tower would symbolise
[n]ot only the art of the modern engineer, but also the century of Industry and Science in which we are living, and for which the way was prepared by the great scientific movement of the eighteenth century and by the Revolution of 1789, to which this monument will be built as an expression of France's gratitude.
Little progress was made until 1886, when Jules Grévy was re-elected as president of France and Édouard Lockroy was appointed as minister for trade. A budget for the exposition was passed and, on 1 May, Lockroy announced an alteration to the terms of the open competition being held for a centrepiece to the exposition, which effectively made the selection of Eiffel's design a foregone conclusion, as entries had to include a study for a 300 m four-sided metal tower on the Champ de Mars. (A 300-metre tower was then considered a herculean engineering effort). On 12 May, a commission was set up to examine Eiffel's scheme and its rivals, which, a month later, decided that all the proposals except Eiffel's were either impractical or lacking in details.
After some debate about the exact location of the tower, a contract was signed on 8 January 1887. Eiffel signed it acting in his own capacity rather than as the representative of his company, the contract granting him 1.5 million francs toward the construction costs: less than a quarter of the estimated 6.5 million francs. Eiffel was to receive all income from the commercial exploitation of the tower during the exhibition and for the next 20 years. He later established a separate company to manage the tower, putting up half the necessary capital himself.
The proposed tower had been a subject of controversy, drawing criticism from those who did not believe it was feasible and those who objected on artistic grounds. Prior to the Eiffel Tower's construction, no structure had ever been constructed to a height of 300 m, or even 200 m for that matter, and many people believed it was impossible. These objections were an expression of a long-standing debate in France about the relationship between architecture and engineering. It came to a head as work began at the Champ de Mars: a "Committee of Three Hundred" (one member for each metre of the tower's height) was formed, led by the prominent architect Charles Garnier and including some of the most important figures of the arts, such as William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Guy de Maupassant, Charles Gounod and Jules Massenet. A petition called "Artists against the Eiffel Tower" was sent to the Minister of Works and Commissioner for the Exposition, Adolphe Alphand, and it was published by Le Temps on 14 February 1887:
We, writers, painters, sculptors, architects and passionate devotees of the hitherto untouched beauty of Paris, protest with all our strength, with all our indignation in the name of slighted French taste, against the erection … of this useless and monstrous Eiffel Tower … To bring our arguments home, imagine for a moment a giddy, ridiculous tower dominating Paris like a gigantic black smokestack, crushing under its barbaric bulk Notre Dame, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the Louvre, the Dome of les Invalides, the Arc de Triomphe, all of our humiliated monuments will disappear in this ghastly dream. And for twenty years … we shall see stretching like a blot of ink the hateful shadow of the hateful column of bolted sheet metal.
Gustave Eiffel responded to these criticisms by comparing his tower to the Egyptian pyramids: "My tower will be the tallest edifice ever erected by man. Will it not also be grandiose in its way? And why would something admirable in Egypt become hideous and ridiculous in Paris?" These criticisms were also dealt with by Édouard Lockroy in a letter of support written to Alphand, sardonically saying, "Judging by the stately swell of the rhythms, the beauty of the metaphors, the elegance of its delicate and precise style, one can tell this protest is the result of collaboration of the most famous writers and poets of our time", and he explained that the protest was irrelevant since the project had been decided upon months before, and construction on the tower was already under way.
Indeed, Garnier was a member of the Tower Commission that had examined the various proposals, and had raised no objection. Eiffel was similarly unworried, pointing out to a journalist that it was premature to judge the effect of the tower solely on the basis of the drawings, that the Champ de Mars was distant enough from the monuments mentioned in the protest for there to be little risk of the tower overwhelming them, and putting the aesthetic argument for the tower: "Do not the laws of natural forces always conform to the secret laws of harmony?"
Some of the protesters changed their minds when the tower was built; others remained unconvinced. Guy de Maupassant supposedly ate lunch in the tower's restaurant every day because it was the one place in Paris where the tower was not visible.
By 1918, it had become a symbol of Paris and of France after Guillaume Apollinaire wrote a nationalist poem in the shape of the tower (a calligram) to express his feelings about the war against Germany. Today, it is widely considered to be a remarkable piece of structural art, and is often featured in films and literature.
The Freedom Monument (Latvian: Brīvības piemineklis, pronounced [ˈbriːviːbas ˈpiɛmineklis]) is a memorial located in Riga, Latvia, honouring soldiers killed during the Latvian War of Independence (1918–1920). It is considered an important symbol of the freedom, independence, and sovereignty of Latvia.[1] Unveiled in 1935, the 42-metre (138 ft) high monument of granite, travertine, and copper often serves as the focal point of public gatherings and official ceremonies in Riga.
The sculptures and bas-reliefs of the monument, arranged in thirteen groups, depict Latvian culture and history. The core of the monument is composed of tetragonal shapes on top of each other, decreasing in size towards the top, completed by a 19-metre (62 ft) high travertine column bearing the copper figure of Liberty lifting three gilded stars. The concept for the monument first emerged in the early 1920s when the Latvian Prime Minister, Zigfrīds Anna Meierovics, ordered rules to be drawn up for a contest for designs of a "memorial column". After several contests the monument was finally built at the beginning of the 1930s according to the scheme "Mirdzi kā zvaigzne!" ("Shine like a star!") submitted by Latvian sculptor Kārlis Zāle. Construction works were financed by private donations.
Following the Soviet occupation of Latvia in 1940 Latvia was annexed by the Soviet Union and the Freedom Monument was considered for demolition, but no such move was carried out. Soviet sculptor Vera Mukhina is sometimes credited for rescuing the monument, because she considered it to be of high artistic value. In 1963, when the issue of demolition was raised again, it was dismissed by Soviet authorities as the destruction of the building would have caused deep indignation and tension in society. Soviet propaganda attempted to alter the symbolic meaning of the monument to better fit with Communist ideology, but it remained a symbol of national independence to the general public. Indeed, on June 14, 1987, about 5,000 people gathered at the monument to commemorate the victims of the Soviet regime and to lay flowers. This rally renewed the national independence movement, which culminated three years later in the re-establishment of Latvian sovereignty after the fall of the Soviet Union.
Revive Us Again
1 LORD, you were favorable to your land;
you restored the fortunes of Jacob.
2 You forgave the iniquity of your people;
you covered all their sin. Selah
3 You withdrew all your wrath;
you turned from your hot anger.
4 Restore us again, O God of our salvation,
and put away your indignation toward us!
5 Will you be angry with us forever?
Will you prolong your anger to all generations?
6 Will you not revive us again,
that your people may rejoice in you?
7 Show us your steadfast love, O LORD,
and grant us your salvation.
The Holy Bible: English Standard Version (Wheaton: Standard Bible Society, 2001), Ps 85:title–7.
Tia's grandfather was a thirty-two ton mech sporting two pairs of linked autocannons and what might be best described as a laser-guided lightning cannon. This was unusual- most ancestor machines, having died once already, elected support fire or logistical roles. Grandpa was a scrapper.
The miracle of the ancestor's creation was a closely guarded secret in the Techgnostic priesthood, but everyone among The People participated in the rituals that fueled it. Families would attend the temple and tell the developing neural network stories of their shared past, read to them from old journals, or even play recordings to ensure the spirit remembered who they were when the officiating thaumaturge fused them to the substrate.
Tia was overjoyed when her grandfather was reborn with his rich, melodic voice freed from the cancerous rasp that had ended his first life. After a year and a half of duty, she vaguely wished he was dead again.
"All I am saying, little one, is that your contract is almost complete. You should get out. Find a nice boy. Make me some great grandchildren."
Tia pretended to focus on scanning the horizon. The plateau offered a perfect view of the island, the sole obstructions being its twin peak to the North and a tenacious tree that was home to a cau-cawo bird.
"The airspace is clear for five miles beyond the horizon," Her grandfather said. "Speak with me, little Tia. This is important- the future is important."
Across the way, Tia's cousin Ekko made a show of inspecting his kit. His communication bead suddenly switched to a different channel. No help there.
"I told you, papa, we all have a duty to protect our lands; and besides, you have plenty of descendents already."
There was a crackle of dead air as her grandfather considered saying more. Instead, he rolled his turrets. A shrug, maybe. Probably a sigh.
Tia smirked behind her faceplate. "Besides," she continued, "I can always get a maternity discharge if I catch some good dick."
Her grandfather lurched as if stricken. The air filled with the hum of his gyro as it frantically struggled to keep him upright.
"Cau-cawo," the cau-cawo bird trilled with indignation at the commotion. It flapped its glossy black wings officiously before nestling back into the leaves.
"Papa! Get a grip! It's bad luck to bother a cau-cawo bird!"
Her grandfather became still, legs akimbo, and stared at her with every sensor array he possessed. Tia could feel the microwave energy warming her skin.
Then he laughed. Deep and booming and hearty. The moment moved on.
The sun was warm against the languid sea breeze as the trio lingered in silence. It was a good day.
-----
Built for the lego group, The Future is Bright.
(Ok maybe not really.)
“I reflected how many satisfied, happy people there really are! What a suffocating force it is! You look at life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and brutishness of the weak, incredible poverty all about us, overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying... Yet all is calm and stillness in the houses and in the streets; of the fifty thousand living in a town, there's not one who would cry out, who would give vent to his indignation aloud. We see the people going to market for provisions, eating by day, sleeping by night, talking their silly nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see and we do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes...Everything is so quiet and peaceful, and nothing protests but mute statistics: so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition... And this order of things is evidently necessary; evidently the happy man only feels at ease because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and without that silence happiness would be impossible.”
― Anton Chekhov, Ward No. 6 and Other Stories
The RCBC building is a prominent landmark at the Makati Business District.
Makati can now be considered as the new Plaza Miranda. For perspective, Plaza Miranda, in Quiapo Manila, used to be the seat of activism where activists or the opposition articulated their sentiments against the government. After which, concerted marches towards Malacanang Palace (home and office of the President) were held.
The protest venue, however, changed with the killing of Senator Benigno Aquino Jr. The Makati employees in the different offices showed their indignation by throwing yellow confetti (made from the yellow pages) from the windows of the high rise buildings. Since then, protest rallies and marches have been condoned and permitted in Ayala, Makati by the incumbent mayor, an opposition, Jejomar Binay..
Thought of using yellow, the "Laban" (Fight) color popularized by the late President Corazon Aquino..
Saturday night cruising in Paprihaven, at the Market Street 7-11.
Ah, the crisp night air of March in Paprihaven.
"The Ides of March!" Lennox Lorin shouts aloud, alone in the parking lot. He pauses to admire the elect baritone of his genteel voice.
Lennox breathes the air deeply, imagining that his sophisticated nostrils are able to parse out any foul essence that might be emanating from Lee Crimmel's Mustang.
"Psh!" Typical American. The man didn't even use a parking space as he dashed in.
It is not properly yet the Ides of March but, once the month has arrived, Lennox insists on using it regularly. He is sophisticated, after all.
A wide smile, (Almost a grin but gentlemen of formulated nobility like Lennox don't 'grin'.), breaks across his countenance even as he turns to admire his Brit Speed.
Of course Lennox possesses a cultured admiration for the automobile and his particular niche is the land speed record type.
His custom V12 is built for the salt flats. Over 1,000 howling horses propel... Wait, Lennox frowns. Horses do not howl. He'll need a witticism more in comportment with his cultivated sensibilities.
Nevertheless, his Brit Speed is fast. Staggeringly so. And it has those long elegant lines that immediately signal all the charm and magnificence of British motor cars.
Lennox decides he may mingle with the commoners tonight. Stop light racing is so plebeian but, if the outcome is the recognition of British racing superiority, then Lennox will suffer that momentary indignation.
🚌🚦🚗⛽🚐🚍🚎🚔🚑🚨🚒🚓🚔🚕🚧🚖🚜🚘🚲
═════════════════════════════════════
A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.
Hot Wheels
Brit Speed
City 5-Pack
2020 Indonesia
Hot Wheels
'67 Shelby GT500
Multipack Exclusive
2018, Malaysia
Hot Wheels
Muscle Tone
Color Shifters
2014, Thailand
* The last time Lee was here, also eschewing a parking spot, he was approached by the strange lady.
www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/54175476138/
Another fine Bijou Planks entry from Grab Bag #25!
In the late 1980s, West Midlands Travel utilised a number of spare Leyland Fleetline buses for use in their 'Trans-Skill' bus driver training fleet.
6600 (NOC600R) was one of the buses selected for this role, receiving this rather unflattering white and blue livery, and being renumbered 8600.
Based at Birmingham's Perry Barr bus garage, the bus served only for a relatively short time as a driver training vehicle (DTV). In c1992, 6600 was selected to return to public service duties, and as such, 6600 underwent a fairly extensive mechanical overhaul in readiness for its return to traffic. However, for reasons unknown this never occurred. The bus being placed into storage, thus avoiding the internal modifications needed to bring it up to the then current service standards.
Not having been internally modified for its proposed return to service, 6600 remained very original inside, retaining its WMPTE red Rexene seating. In addition to this it did not suffer the indignation of being 'hacked about' to fit dummy video cameras upstairs and downstairs, or any new ticketing equipment as the others did.
After a long period of storage, 6600 was sold straight into preservation in 1996. Today, 6600 remains active on the bus preservation scene, and wearing WMPTE livery, it is often to be seen at local bus events around the West Midlands.
The photograph shows 6600 as DTV 8600, parked on 'the hill' at the former bus driving training centre in murky weather. The training centre was situated directly behind Perry Barr bus garage, and was an excellent facility to get rookie drivers used to driving large vehicles on its internal roadway.
Buses allocated to the training centre were generally parked outside on site, either at the rear of the bus garage or on the internal roadway.
In what I thought was a poor decision by TWM, the training facility was sold off for redevelopment some years ago. In more recent times, Perry Barr bus garage itself was closed, replaced with a 'modern' outdoor facility located about a mile from the former garage.
Photo - 12th January 1992.
with a future of indignation,
poverty,
umbrage,
corruption,
disgruntlement,
disappointment,
outrage
and
the pain of being human in a callous corrupt
world
AKA
LIFE!
Photography’s new conscience
I was sitting at my pc and heard a thunk on my porch window and knowing it was a bird strike I went to see if there was evidence of who it was and there was a very stunned but conscience White-throated Sparrow. One of my all time favorite LBJs ( Little Brown Jobs). I went outside to see if it was ok and then went and grabbed my camera, took a few photos and then patted it. I picked it up and held it for about 30 seconds until it squawked and made his indignation known, so I opened my hands and off he flew!
Georgia 2014, trix 1600
“Is that vodka?' Margarita asked weakly. The cat jumped up from its chair in indignation. 'Excuse me, your majesty,' he squeaked, 'do you think I would give vodka to a lady? That is pure spirit!”
― Mihail Bulhakov
Red Phone booths
Now with modern technology, one wonders(or at least I do) how long we will
continue to see this ?
The red telephone box, a telephone kiosk for a public telephone designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, was a familiar sight on the streets of the United Kingdom, Malta, Bermudaand Gibraltar. Despite a reduction in their numbers in recent years, the traditional British red telephone box can still be seen in many places throughout the UK, and in current or former British colonies around the world. The colour red was chosen to make them easy to spot.
From 1926 onwards, the fascias of the kiosks were emblazoned with a prominent crown, representing the British government. The red phone box is often seen as an iconic Britishsymbol throughout the world.
The paint colour used is known as "cherry red" and is defined by a British Standard, BS 381C-539.
The red telephone box was the result of a competition in 1924 to design a kiosk that would be acceptable to the London Metropolitan Boroughs which had hitherto resisted the Post Office's effort to erect K1 kiosks on their streets.
The Royal Fine Art Commission was instrumental in the choice of the British standard kiosk. Because of widespread dissatisfaction with the GPO's design, the Metropolitan Boroughs Joint Standing Committee organised a competition for a superior one in 1923, but the results were disappointing. The Birmingham Civic Society then produced a design of its own—in reinforced concrete—but it was informed by the Director of Telephones that the design produced by the Office of the Engineer-in-Chief was preferred; as the Architects’ Journal commented, 'no one with any knowledge of design could feel anything but indignation with the pattern that seems to satisfy the official mind.' The Birmingham Civic Society did not give up and, with additional pressure from theRoyal Institute of British Architects, the Town Planning Institute and the Royal Academy, the Postmaster General was forced to think again; and the result was that the RFAC organised a limited competition.
The organisers invited entries from three respected architects and, along with the designs from the Post Office and from The Birmingham Civic Society, the Fine Arts Commission judged the competition and selected the design submitted by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott.The invitation had come at the time when Scott had been made a trustee of Sir John Soane's Museum—his design for the competition was in the classical style, but topped with a dome reminiscent of Soane's self-designed mausoleums in St Pancras' Old Churchyard and Dulwich Picture Gallery, London. (The original wooden prototypes of the entries were later put into public service at under-cover sites around London. That of Scott's design is the only one known to survive and is still where it was placed all those years ago, in the left entrance arch to the Royal Academy.)
The Post Office chose to make Scott's winning design in cast iron (Scott had suggested mild steel) and to paint it red (Scott had suggested silver, with a "greeny-blue" interior) and, with other minor changes of detail, it was brought into service as the Kiosk No.2 or K2. From 1926 K2 was deployed in and around London and the K1 continued to be erected elsewhere
Please do note fave my photos without commenting ( what do people do with thousands of faves, look at them every morning ?)
More London here
www.flickr.com/photos/23502939@N02/sets/72157629381724431/
More candids here
Eurasian Blackbird / turdus merula. Cannock Chase, Staffordshire. 04/12/15.
Male Blackbird.
Ever so slightly 'pigeon-toed', full of grumpy indignation but nevertheless, looking rather splendid in Friday's sunshine.
The latter was a welcome treat!
Even today there are still more than 350 million cases of malaria worldwide each year and one to three million people - mostly in sub-Saharan Africa - die of that terrible ague-governed malady. It's hard to imagine that well into the twentieth century malaria was a major affliction in Europe and North America. In a country such as the Netherlands - who would now even dream of malaria there? - the last case of endemic malaria occurred as late as 1959. It wasn't until 1970 that the WHO officially declared Holland to be malaria-free. Especially hard hit were coastal provinces such as Zeeland - since about 1640 - and the newly drained polders around the turn of the nineteenth to twentieth century. Likewise, malaria was a major illness in North America until well into the first quarter of the twentieth century.
It wasn't until the end of the nineteenth century that the actual cause of malaria was discovered. But it had been well known since the middle of the seventeenth century that the bark of the cinchona tree of Peru and neighboring countries had a mitigating and perhaps curative working on at least malaria's symptoms. It became known as 'Peruvian Bark' or 'Jesuit Bark'. English and particularly Dutch colonial powers were highly interested in procuring that bark for their own use and to distil from it the high-quality drug quinine.
The story of how seeds and plants came into their possession in the first half of the nineteenth century is full of adventure, subterfuge, great danger and scientific stalwarthness and acuity.
Among the central players in the drama of its 'culturisation' are Franz Wilhelm Junghuhn and Johannes Elias Teijsmann (whose names often recur in my photo-log) aided by Justus Karl Hasskarl (1811-1894). Obviously, there are other players as well... But these three men - often at loggerheads with each other - were indispensable and enormously hardworking botanists who put down the groundwork for the growing of Cinchona on Java, Indonesia. Thus they were instrumental in the early development of quinine - the natural anti-malarial drug.
Such was then the power and monopoly of Dutch Cinchona-science that The Netherlands until into the Second World War held an 85-95 percent world monopoly on the production of quinine, mostly from Cinchona plantations of Java. The Japanese invasion of the then Dutch East Indies - in particular Java - in 1942 cut the supply line of quinine to the Allied forces whose soldiers now suffered more than ever from that disease. Enormous effort was put into finding a synthetic quinine-like alkaloid, and by 1944 such a drug had been found. But even today, natural quinine is still the only drug for at least one kind of malaria. Its production though is no longer on Java plantations but mainly in Zaire.
This photo is of Cinchona pubescens - hairy cinchona - which used to be called Cinchona succirurbra - red-sap cinchona. And there are other synonyms as well. It was first described scientifically by Martin Henrichsen Vahl (1749-1804), a student of our friend Carolus Linnaeus.
Last year I took many photos of Cinchona flowers at the Taman Junghuhn in Lembang, but none of them was good enough to post. Just the other day, I found a flowering tree in the Kebun Raya Cibodas - one of the places Teijsmann considered most suitable for its cultivation, to the enormous indignation of Junghuhn. My little Sony T900 patiently clicked about 70 photos, of which this is the best one. Sorry for some fuzziness... Maybe I should get another camera for this kind of macro-shot. The flower measures only between 4 and 6 mm across, and its calyx is about 10 mm deep.
As I slowly ambled away from the fruit of my labor, some shiny, sun-colored skinks - Mabuya multifasciata - slipped into the underbrush, and what I hope might have been a Bartel's rat - Maxomys bartelsii. You might imagine how lucky I felt in such a wonderful environment!