View allAll Photos Tagged Slips
Playground slips into darkness and nothingness - some of the last lights flash faintly on the screen - the quality was not top notch but the creativity lit up
67029 slips past the south end of Shrewsbury Station on the back of the Holyhead to Cardiff Ruggex on Saturday 16.11.13 (67001 up front) heading for the Wales versus Argentina autumn international.
The working had been routed via Platform 7 at the back of the station. Meanwhile, a sizeable ruck of passengers await a service heading in the opposite direction to Holyhead, which, as you might have guessed, was being worked by a two car 175 unit!
My photographs are my private property and are copyright © by me, John Russell (aka “Zoom Lens”) and all my rights are reserved. Any use without permission is forbidden.
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25 years ago I made an abstract painting with this title. I sold it...I have no idea where it is now...and at the time I painted it I was land-locked in the middle of Texas, having no idea that some day I would live 15 minutes away from the ocean and the most beautiful beaches...
Funny how time slips away...
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www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZaZqx9v3dU
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More sea, surf, shore, and sand photos in my set, "The Ocean Atlantic:"
They came for the day. The brochure promised fantastic views - but not all bird watching involves seagulls.
Han Dynasty Wooden Slips (93-95 A.D.)
Monthly and Seasonal Records of Military Supplies from the Kuang-ti South Platoon in the Yung-yüan Era.
This is the best-preserved and most complete wooden slip text extant, with the wooden pieces, strings, and ink all mostly intact. The slips are made with four lengths of strings and seventy-seven wooden slips. Other than two blank slips, the rest of the slips show five monthly and seasonal reports about the number and condition of the pots, mortars, crossbows, arrows, and other equipment of the two beacon stations -the P'o-hu and Ch'ien-shang beacon stations- belonging to the Kuang-ti South Platoon. This set of wooden slips not only allows us to understand how the Han made wooden texts, but also what kind of equipment was available at the border and how it was regularly checked.
漢代木簡（公元 93-95 年）
廣地南部永元五年至七年官兵釜磑月言及四時簿
這是迄今為止所有出土漢簡中，木簡、墨跡及編繩保存都最完整的一份漢代簡冊。簡冊由四組編繩編連七十七支簡而成。除兩支空白簡，其餘簡上是五份廣地南部按月及四時上報部內破胡燧、澗上燧釜、磑、弩、箭等裝備數量及情況的報告書。這份簡冊不但使我們了解漢代如何編造簡冊，也使我們認識漢代邊塞有那些裝備，又如何檢查裝備。
居延漢簡
居延漢簡是指1930年在內蒙古居延地區的城障、烽燧、關塞遺址發掘出的一萬餘枚漢簡，別稱居延舊簡。之後，於1972年至1982年間，又在居延地區發掘出土兩萬余枚漢簡，依出土地點分別稱作居延新簡，肩水金關漢簡，額濟納漢簡。
中央研究院歷史語言研究所 歷史文物陳列館
Institute of History and Philology, Academia Sinica
Taipei, Taiwan
2023/3/18
hx22985
dans.photo@gmail.com
I remember these garments from when I was a child. My beloved mother, my aunts and all women wore one under their dresses.
They were still in fashion when I was in my 20s.
Now they are vintage items.
Synergies & Shared Goals
I had an inspiring meeting today with Jim Graves MBE and Jim O’Neill of MAST charity in Liverpool.
Our shared aim is to get OAKDALE fully restored, back on the Mersey and preserved for future generations as a floating classroom.
If a good wind is with us, then she’ll return to Runcorn for her restoration, very close to the yard where she was built. The yard closed and ceased trading around the time I was born in 1962 but the remnants of her slips are still there to this day. And, if we can get the permissions, then the overgrowth can be cut back and the surviving archeology revealed as part of the ongoing story. The picture attached looks along the old Belvedere Slips towards Richard Abel's Castlerock shipyard.
There’s a tonne of detail involved in getting a project like this moving and in doing so a small army of volunteers, experts and contacts are needed. MAST are already very well established and award winning at what they do. Part of the reason for their success is down to their constant focus on finding synergies and people/organisations with shared goals. The rest is dogged determination and a nautical ‘weather eye’ on their aim to change lives.
Anyway, suffice to say I’ve come away with the wind still in my own metaphorical sails, assured by MAST’s encouraging signals and grateful that all the work we’ve done to date is moving OAKDALE away from danger and towards an inspiring future, back on the Mersey and the surrounding waterways. The places she was built for all those years ago.
They came for the day. The brochure promised fantastic views - but not all bird watching involves seagulls.
A couple of guys in my dorm wanted official school notes sent to them for bogus classes at the school one evening. The purpose of the slips was so they could have sex with another inmate who also resided in the same dorm, actually only a few bunks from me. These two guys knew Big Al my brother from the street, actually both were old speed freak buddies with Al and we were therefore friendly towards each other. Having acquaintances in the joint is extremely potent and some potentially aggressive situations could be defused just by the mere fact a certain inmate had someone watching his back. Al Harington and Bob McKing were their names, they told me the passes would allow them to have some much needed privacy for sexual purposes and suggested, “why don’t you come along, it’s really great!” I took a pass, still hung up in a homophobic way. I wrote them their pass slips nonetheless for each night they requested. I took a good look at their date when they returned after their encounters. I don’t recall his name, he just looked like another guy to me, young, long blonde hair, blue eyes, nice ass. I remember him giving me the eye when he sat down on his bunk, I turned away feigning disgust my own homophobia preventing me from even thinking about sex with anything but a woman or my hand.
Other guys were openly bisexual, the toughest guy on the floor, Cliff he had a sweet kid, Cliff looked like he might chew your head off if you crossed him he lived to lift weights. He slept next door in the middle dorm along with this black dude named of Sonny. Sonny had an Afro and told everyone he was a tranny out on the street. He worked the strip around Yonge and Dundas, he did have a sort of shimmy as he walked about. Sonny never bothered anyone, never pushed his ideas on people and he was left alone. The outwardly gay people were quickly segregated and put into solitary or their assholes would have been ripped out in no time. It was a very masculine experience for the most part, even if many folk were wearing masks, in those days being in the closet was de rigour and few ventured out.
My card playing buddy Mike Cameo, he would often say in his French accent, “Chuck, we are buddies right? Well you should know Chuck, I go both ways, you know, girls and boys.” With this Cameo would flex his ample arms that he effectively enhanced by wearing his prison issue shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows. He would look you in the eye to check out your reaction, then push his mop of golden hair that reached way down his back off of his forehead and continue to play the game. Cameo was from way up north, somewhere like Kapuskasing, where he got his bisexuality up there mystifies me, but that’s so much like stereotyping the way I had about Rouyn Noranda where I discovered that Toronto was not the centre of the Universe.
Mike and I became good friends, he never made any passes at me and we stayed friends after our sentences were over for a while until he insulted our friend Pee Wee at a house card game Julia and I were having at 2 Mahoney Ave one Sunday evening. I chose sides and I chose Pee Wee as Cameo was just pushing his way into friendships that had existed before the start of time, his youthfulness would have been no match for my longtime friends experience in fights, knives might have flashed, they would have torn the house apart. Mike left the game drove off pretty mad in a cherry red Datsun 280Z never to be heard from again.
He, like many other inmates was a bomb ready to explode. Twenty years later I ran into him at a highway diner on the 115/35 and gave him the dodge. He looked the same, hair hanging down his back like a lion, aggressively engaged in a conversation with another person not unlike himself, I thought perhaps they were club members. I was working a big gig and never mixed work with friends.
Sometime close to the three month date of my little ‘stretch’ the parole board called me in for a meeting to discuss the possibility of early parole being granted to me. A bright looking, intelligent University graduate, not much older than myself asked me a load of sensible questions, I think he had a ‘remorse’ detector hidden in his briefcase. One week later this carrot that had been dangled in front of my face was unceremoniously put to rest in the form of a short note from the Parole Board, ‘parole denied at this time’. For some reason the news hit me like a ton of bricks, you had to hold up though, crying was the natural response but there was no way you would cry, that would be a sign of weakness and loss of control, hold it in, take a deep breath, hold it in, I went back to the dorm, wrote home, gave them the news.
There was a program available at the time for prisoners called the Temporary Absence Program, T.A.P. for short. I applied for the program, filled out a long complicated application form. The purpose of my absence from prison was to attend classes at the University of Windsor which had accepted me in to the second year studies program, again. Copies of my marks were sent to both the school and the T.A.P. committee. Funding was arranged with the Ontario Student Awards Program. Accommodations were to be provided by the Windsor jail from which I was to be released from each morning to attend classes and return to in the evening after classes until the sentence had been served.
Mr. Ewing was both helpful and encouraging in this endeavor. The prison warden called me down to his office and gave me the good news, I had been accepted for the program and they wanted to schedule my transfer to the Windsor facility. Who was I kidding? If anyone was being fooled it was myself. Without a lot of emotion I made the decision to turn down the opportunity. Some of the guys thought I was nuts, crazy not to get out of the O.R., they didn’t know I was fairly comfortable in the joint, my status in the hierarchy was well established, I was after all a millionaire, had lots of new friends, found the system to my liking, I had a routine that suited me.
In truth I was quite anxious about my abilities to remain ‘clean and sober’ if released to a softer setting. I was also anxious about the ‘social’ necessities that would present themselves if I returned to Windsor where I was disgraced as a ‘drug dealer’. Perhaps if I had enrolled at a different school my decision may have differed, in retrospect I should have applied to a different school in a new town. If there was a field of study that I felt devoted to this would also have made a difference, as it was I was just ‘playing the system’, taking advantage of it, not being honest with myself and I had decided that this honesty with myself was important.
A dorm guard took offence to my gambling ways, I suppose an inmate whined about losing their canteen. This particular screw took a run at me, put me in a situation I couldn’t back down from. He asked me do a chore some new kid or an inmate with little status in the dorm was usually assigned to do, carry the laundry or garbage out, there was a pecking order. Screws were for the most part, factory workers who had their grade twelve education, not extremely bright for the most part. At times the term red neck could be used to describe them, hick was often bandied about. I refused to carry out the order and this annoyed the guard who had dark hair piercing eyes and a pencil moustache. To make matters worse I told him to go fuck himself when he repeated his request.
That got him going and he put me on charges which meant you were sent to solitary confinement for a while to cool your jets. I’m quite glad I didn’t take a punch at him as I have my temper and in different circumstances I would have let him have it. In solitary the inmate is brought to his senses quickly. The lack of creature comforts, the likes of books, writing materials, clean clothes, being served cold meals does not take long to affect ones behavior, the hole was not where I wanted to be. The inmate committee sent a representative in to see me and it was necessary for me to apologize to the screw in question after I had been in the hole for three days. This charge was a very minor one in the scope of prison offences and had little bearing on my future, although I did lose a day of my ‘good time’ due to it. The screw and self made a deal to stay out of each others hair.
At this time Big Al my brother Alex was driving by the gaol while on a gig with the Able the Movers crew from our neighbourhood of Mt.Dennis. Somehow he got in to see me, he was half drunk. His visit took place during non visiting hours using the excuse he had to tell me about a family death. I don’t recall which relation had passed, it could have been our Uncle Jim or even my old grandmother. The shame I had prevented me from keeping much contact with the familly relations and those relationships have never healed over to these days. Big Al, he was a case, he put some cash in my property, not much maybe twenty dollars, guess he was feeling guilty for selling my things. I gave him shit for giving my ‘treasures’ away, the wooden statue, the record player, the records, clothes, almost everything.
Another opportunity presented itself. ‘Camp’ was an expression some of the more seasoned veterans of the ‘joint’ would often mention. Actually camp was a small community of prisoners that were wards of the Ontario system who by good behavior lived together at a place called Camp Dufferin which was a little North of Guelph in an area called Mono Mills. I was grinding it out at Guelph, six months at that place wore on you, even with the cushy job at the school, my connections with various outlaws, the paisans I knew from the old St Clair days Pinky and Vinnie, the bikers from the street, many other dealers, the card playing friends, Cameo, McCann.
Cinnors and I were even playing tennis at lunch time, we had private access to the tennis court and would play in mid-afternoon when everyone else was grinding it out. Still I was bored, eventually the warden saw fit to give me the OK to go to camp. It almost never happened as on the day of my transfer the English trained warden called me without any notice down to the administration building. He told me to go and get my locker box which at the time was filled with 154 packs of cigarettes and lots of other goodies. While I was standing at the entrance to his office he walked by and surprised me by lifting the box, fortunately he never asked me to open it or I would have been going to solitary instead of Camp Dufferin. Gambling, though frowned on was a common occurrence.
Camp was like heaven in comparison to the ‘joint’. Cameo and little Ronnie McCann my card playing partners from the dorm were already at Camp Dufferin when I arrived. It must have been in late November as the first snow hadn’t yet fallen. The facility consisted of two modern barracks like dorms with a central area that the guards worked from, a kitchen and a store room. Outside of these prefabricated buildings there were two large barn size storage sheds where the camp vans would be parked along with some sports equipment, as well as the tractor. That tractor was used for hauling inmates on a flat bed trailer into the woods for their shift cutting firewood which the camp sold to other agencies. Each dorm housed about twenty inmates who through their good behavior had earned the right to be there.
On arrival at the camp the warden Mr Adamson, another Anglo Saxon import gave a stern chat to each new inmate, laying down the law about respecting the staff and each other. He pointed out the importance of not running away. There were no locks on the dorm doors, no barbed wire fences surrounding the large hundred acre property. The modern buildings were set in a few hundred yards from the main road. A prisoner with leaving in his mind had only to walk out the doors to freedom. Some did, every now and then, they were quickly found, hitchhiking nearby, or hiding in the forest where after a day of being cold or having the bugs dine on them they came back and were quickly segregated then returned to the O.R in Guelph with an additional six months tacked on to their sentences then a trip to the bad place, maximum security Millbrook.
It truly was wonderful to have a little breathing space. The dorms were modern, each inmate had his own full length locker, a bed and shelving for things as well as a partition between each bunk that provided the necessary privacy if one wanted to do private things. The floors were shiny vinyl tiles and the cleanliness resembled that of a hospital ward without the antiseptic smell. In each dorm there were three long tables where inmates could play cards, chess, checkers, or just chew the fat with the other guys. Between the two dorms there was a community TV room with easy chairs where we could watch TV in the evenings and all day long on weekends if we wished. Harold Ballard had done some prison time around then for embezzling the shareholders at Maple leaf Gardens, I sent him a letter at Maple Leaf Gardens and he quickly responded with a large Leafs calendar to hang in the TV room and a short note.
A fourty seat kitchen served up a much more enjoyable menu than Guelph had done. There were fewer inmates which made this possible. The chef was not a guard but a civilian employee with a big red nose. He was of Dutch decent, he had a good sense of humour his accent brought some relief to the ears. I remember he’d come into the dining area as we were eating enthusiastically and with a genuine grin say, “how’s the food?”
On Wednesday nights folk from the area would come in as volunteers and play euchre with us in the comfortable cafeteria that was more like a restaurant. There were newer round tables to sit at with a reasonable space between them. A shiny stainless steel serving area was spotlessly cleaned at all times. This mingling was part of our transition back into society, the volunteers would bring little cakes and cookies for us to munch on, it was all very formal, in a way, like being at home.
There were AA meetings every Tuesday night for those who thought they needed it, some inmates were obliged to attend as part of their sentence. Every Saturday night we watched a movie on a screen just like we did while in schools. I was the projectionist and McCann was my assistant. The films were B grade a couple of years old, westerns were mostly shown. This was before the advent of Video Rentals. For recreation we played many games, more so when winter set in. We cleared a big area besides the building, the size of a hockey rink, pushed the snow to the sides thereby forming banks and we were given brooms and a 6 inch diameter air filled ball that was easily propelled by hitting it with the broom. Teams consisted of six to a side. All the participants worked up a hell of a sweat chasing the ball around, scoring goals, smashing each other over the head with the brooms, it got quite vicious at times, games would start at 10 AM on Saturdays and Sundays, we’d break for lunch of fries and grilled cheeses and chocolate milk then we’d go out and kill each other some more.
I remember having these bloody warts on my feet, picked them up in Guelph. They are called planters warts. I remember my feet being very sore, nothing the doctors gave me would get rid of them, they were spreading. At camp I wore these cheap black running shoes while playing broom ball, never put socks on, just these cheap runners, within a week the warts were all gone! Where I don’t know I guess they didn’t like the rubber chemicals of the running shoes. Once when I was a young boy, maybe nine or ten, I had a couple of warts on my fingers and my dad gave me two pennies, and said, "those warts will be gone in a week” and they were, it was an Irish folk thing giving a penny on a Sunday to take away a wart.
Cameo, McCan and I worked on the wood cutting crew when we first arrived at the camp within a week of each other. Those two guys were almost my equal at Rummy 500, but I always managed to win. Plenty of other guys still wanted to lose and I took their bets and put them on the payment plan as well. Inmates would get visits and people would slip them dollars which they used to pay me with, this was better than canteen dollars as there was a small black market in this facility as there are in others. Twice weekly visits took place in the meeting room the same one they used for church service and also for AA meetings. It was quite casual, one time Boomer and Herbie dropped in and they left a ‘taste’ which they ‘dropped’ where I specified either in the washroom or on the grounds as I pretty much had the run of the place. By this time Rochdale had closed down and they were sharing a house in the Spadina Road and Eglinton area.
On the wood cutting crew Cameo and I were quickly made the deputies. We were in charge of the crew much like the biker guys Everest and Jingles were at Guelph on the S.W.P. In the forest that adjoined the property we would ride out on the back of a flatbed farm trailer pulled by a guard driving a blue Ford tractor. Another guard trailed behind looking for runaways and stragglers. A Canadian version of a chain gang. Those guards they had it made compared to the work days of the guards back at Guelph. Half of them were retired military guys who already had a nice pension but were to young to retire so they took this gig. They lived in the area which being fifty or sixty miles from T.O. meant house prices were much cheaper. If there was a downside to their gig it had to be the three shifts as we required supervision 24/7. These guards were easier to get close to, a couple of them like this one guy Sinclair you’d probably go have a beer with him at a Tavern. Sinclair used to take a couple of us to the dump on Saturdays in the Camp van and this was a real treat getting out into society, he kept a good eye on us but he never made you feel bad for your crimes. Never talked down to you.
Out in the woods there was a little shack big enough for the dozen or so inmates and guards to warm up in like the old Pearen Park ice rink shack. We used to have a tea at mid morning and mid afternoons in the shack. Cameo and I would manage the shack, start the fire going in the woodstove, get it real toasty, put a big grey steel pot of tea on the stove with sugar and milk that had already been added back in the kitchen and serve up the tea and cookies at break time. The guards they pretty much just kept their mouths quiet, we knew what we had to do. Cameo was an expert at the operation of a chainsaw, four and eight foot logs would be dropped off at the shack. That was the other guards job, along with his crew to cut the felled trees in the forest into manageable lengths. They used the tractor to haul the logs over to Mike and self. Other inmates never got near a chainsaw just Cameo and he taught me how to run one, a skill I still use from time to time.
My job was to split and stack the 16” inch pieces Mike was cutting up. There were no big trees so to speak, most of the wood was a foot in diameter, three whacks with the splitting maul and it was ready to be hauled away. We worked up a good sweat every shift but had plenty of time to horse around. I loved being in the thick forest when it snowed, the evergreens branches getting covered in thick heavy snow which we would pull when the flatbed drove by and cover the other inmates in white, nobody got pissed, it was a pretty mellow atmosphere.
Time was moving along pretty well, Santa Day came and went. The euchre people came and sung some Carols that day, gave us each a little goodie bag with a deck of cards and a chocolate bar inside, the chef served a nice turkey dinner with the trimmings, the guards lightened up a little, let you stay up an hour later, we played sports all day long there wasn’t much time left in the day to get mushy and sentimental about ones circumstances.
Around this time we started to go to the Mansfield Arena to play hockey on Wednesday mornings for an hour and a half. Two teams were picked, one from each dorm. Each side was competitive, for some odd reason I was the best player on the teams, and we all know my skating was never a strongpoint. I guess it was my turn to shine, I could in all honesty skate through the entire team and score at will. This pissed all the players on the other team off and they would chop at my head with their sticks almost beheading me.
One time I checked a rival player, he was a young healthy kid, a good hockey player and he took offence at the clean check, chased me all over the ice wanting to engage me in a fight. I didn't need the hassle from the guards for this and just kept skating around. Both benches poured on the ice it was definitely ‘mob mentality’. Our goalie, Vinnie from St Clair was hanging on to their goalie. Other players had paired off it was a little nutty. Had I dropped the gloves all hell could have broken out. I survived with no detentions or time in the hole, Mr. Adamson the camp commandant who was in the stands later took me aside and complimented me on my good judgment. You have to remember that a lot of these guys didn’t know any other way to solve problems, they’d gone through life fighting. I’d been lucky, had a bit of a taste of civility at catholic schools Our Lady of Victory and St Michaels.
There were inter prison games, the first one was with a team from the Brampton Institution at our arena. That team had a ‘ringer’ like myself and it was a real battle to out skate and out score the other player who was a very slick skater. I played on sheer adrenaline, everyone else pretty well just watched us, I recall it was a close game with no real problems.
The following week we went by bus to Guelph to play the team from the Guelph Reformatory. The game took place around noon at the big Guelph arena where the Junior As played. Each team filed onto the ice. I knew many of the Guelph players from time spent there hanging around with the staff from the phys-ed department which was staffed mostly by dealers. Zorky was on the team as was Bob Levin, big Toronto dealers. In a short time, less than five minutes I had turned my Whirling Dervish act into three quick goals, we were embarrassing the larger, better equipped Home team. I was nuts, insane, I flew from pass to puck, knocked people over, intimidated everyone, scored goals, we were hammering them. Sweat poured from my helmet in the form of steam. Then from nowhere I was blindsided, the Warden of our camp, Mr. Adamson sent word down to the coach to send me to the dressing room for being overly aggressive. The game then ended in a tie, I don’t think I have played a competitive game of hockey since.
Sunlight slips away from monuments in Colorado National Monument, including Independence Monument (l) and the Organ Pipe (r). A pothole on the rim reflects the light shining off lichens (Xanthomendoza trachyphylla as identified by Erin Tripp www.flickr.com/photos/20420156@N06/) around its rim, indicative of its use as a perching spot by birds or small mammals.
Just minutes after departing on their daily chores, the sun broaches the horizon as the Potash Local slips across the promenade of public avenues and through the still-slumbering neighborhoods of Carlsbad, a succession of 14-Ls in the role as town crier, letting the yawners and the snorers and the late sleepers know that day has broken over southeastern New Mexico. Fido and Spot charge the backyard fence, yapping and snarling and defending their turf from rumbling GEVOs, raising the ridge hairs of canine and owner alike, one cursing because the coffee isn’t done brewing yet, and the other pleased that he saved his master once again from certain death or dismemberment.
A whole generation has come of age since the cushions in the wide-vision last bore the weight of trainmen clad in denim overalls, leather work gloves tucked firmly into a hip pocket, chest pocket sporting the latest timetable and operating rules, and banged-up Stanley thermos necessarily hitching a ride to the next crew change.
For the fortunate, this was a scene of everyday occurrence: Youthful exuberance waving from the back seat of old Ford station wagons and Plymouth Valiants as brakemen and conductors passed by in cupolas and bay windows, returning the gesture with equal enthusiasm and a smile.
Before the onset of the Wall Street henchmen and the corporate merger mentality which created a hostile environment for the operating brotherhoods, trainmen were affable, a throwback to the steam days when they were revered and regaled and respected. A man could work toward his pension, and love what he did. Loyalty worked both ways.
But here today, on a cool spring morning, the back streets of Carlsbad are empty, and so is the caboose. There will be no one standing on the steps to hoop up Form 19s as they glide past the Carlsbad depot, and no one to wave at them.
It will tag along faithfully, rolling southeast beside US 285, past irrigated alfalfa fields and pecan orchards before heading out through the deserts of eastern Eddy County, turning north on the wye at Loving and rolling over trackage that was once home to 3-foot gauge outside-frame Baldwin consolidations. It will weave around the creosote-covered dunes, cross the Pecos River for the second time today, and roll along the western margin of United Salt’s massive evaporation lake where, if a strong arm could heave a rock on a heading of 119 degrees for a distance of 9.5 miles, it would land squarely on a marker denoting the December 10th, 1961 detonation of the 3.1 kiloton GNOME device 1,184 feet below the surface of the desert.
All along its way, no one will wave at the old cabin car, except for the irritated motorist who, in his haste to get nowhere fast, might use only a single finger to gesture his displeasure with.
It suffers further indignation not only in the garish graffiti sprayed liberally on its flanks, but also that of having an end-of-train device slid into its rear knuckle, a glad hand attached, and an angle cock opened, all to provide a comforting electronic signal to the engineer indicating that all is well with his train, totally negating the car’s intended purpose.
BN12227 will spend its day as a tourist and a tour guide, seeing familiar faces in the form of Cascade Green PS-2 hoppers still sporting the big BN logo, and ushering them through the labyrinth of trackage in and around the multitude of potash mines that dot the area.
Perhaps, amid cries of “Back four to a joint” crackling over the radio, they might share stories of how it was before Chico showed up with his Warbonnets, and everything changed.
While the glory days indeed are gone, orange-vested brakemen still seek it out for shelter, even if it is only on the platform that they ride.
The end doors on the old hack have been welded shut, the windows plated and grated over, and the generator belt removed, effectively killing the rear marker.
Yet, the smokejack has been left unsealed, an open house invitation to the odd wren or tufted titmouse to fly in, twigs and straw and other such building materials firmly held within their beaks, transforming the stack into a cozy homestead in which to hatch and raise a feathered family.
The Safety Department would be aghast at such violations.
---RAM
Purchased while I was hunting with Olaf on my trip, off of a lady whose brother earned these papers. An older pic I couldn't post while Flickr was giving me issues.
Is it safe to assume a lot of you sissys out there also loved wearing your mothers slips? So feminine, soft and lacy!
I feel so soft, weak feminine with a full slip over my lingerie.
This pattern sews three different petticoats or slips for that extra fullness in your dresses and formals.
Maker & Pattern # McCalls 8715
Copyright Date:1951
Cost of Original Pattern: $ .35
Waist: 24
Hip:33
Pattern Envelope: small tear at bottom, discolored due to age, small creases and rough at corners
Pattern Instructions: included
Pattern Pieces: complete
Proud Member of Etsy CAST Team & Etsy SHE Team
The manager of my neighborhood Radio Shack found these old sales slips while cleaning out his back room, getting ready to close the store.
I wonder if I could develop this into a slip for planting?
Unlike normal potatoes, sweet potatoes are grown from ‘slips’.
These are the long shoots that have been removed from ‘chitted’ sweet potato tubers. ‘Slips’ don’t have roots, although sometimes there are signs of small roots beginning to appear.
The roots will grow once the ‘slip’ has been planted.
Whilst it is possible to grow one's own ‘slips’ from supermarket sweet potatoes, most supermarket varieties are not sufficiently hardy to grow well in the UK so crops are likely to be disappointing. So maybe that's a "No" then!!
‘Georgia Jet’ is considered to be particularly reliable for growing in the UK, according to Thompson & Morgan.
Fabulous parboiled and then roasted with maple syrup and brown or Demerara sugar! I learned this recipe (if you can call it that) from some American friends at their Thanksgiving supper - wonderful!!
Some polyester and several nylon. Just moved them to a bigger draw because I couldn't see what I had, and was actually suprised when I discovered I had ones I'd forgotten about.
OK, kiddies, everyone got the slips from your parents? 'Cuz it's sex education time. We're going to talk about angiosperms, or flowering plants. Those of you whose parents think that what I am about to talk about is dirty may now leave the room.
A flower is a sex organ. It contains both male and female parts. The male organ is called, collectively, the STAMEN. It consists of a supporting FILAMENT with a terminal ANTHER. The anther produces pollen, which in turn produces sperm. The female organ is called the PISTIL. It consists of a supporting STYLE tipped by the STIGMA. At the base of the pistil is the OVARY. Pollen falling on the stigma is conducted down a tube in the pistil to the ovary, which is where babies—I mean seeds—are made.
In the accompanying photographs we see the sex organs of the red Lilium orientalis and the yellow mollis azalea, which is a deciduous rhododendron. In each species we see multiple anthers laden with pollen, and a single stigma.
How does the pollen get from the anther to the stigma? Wind and numerous animals including hummingbirds and insects such as bees, beetles, and butterflies are the primary means of transporting pollen. These POLLINATORS have fine feathers or hairs (cilia) to which the pollen clings until the insect encounters a stigma, which is covered with a sticky exudate to which the pollen clings.
Now, kiddies, we learned in an earlier class why you must not make babies with your brother or sister, which is called "inbreeding." But angiosperms have no defense against inbreeding, or self-pollination, and they do it frequently as pollen from an anther reaches the stigma on the same flower or on another flower on the same plant. But flowers receive sufficient pollen from unrelated individuals (cross-pollination) to counter the worst effects of self-pollination. Flower breeders sometimes prevent cross-pollination and make use of self-pollination to breed plants with desirable characteristics. In the process they produce many plants with undesirable characteristics, and those are destroyed. Plant breeders also use genetic manipulation to produce plants that are sterile so that they can profit from desirable plants; gardeners (or farmers) cannot collect seeds to sow the next year, but must buy them from the breeder.
Vintage slips awaiting embellishment.
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