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I just solve the problem for a busy shift at the hospital!
One for acute transfers, one for codes and traumas, one for staffing, one for complains, one for doing rounding one for PR..... cool!
Wait a minute....oh man! I need another clone..... darn...
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¡Acabo de resolver el problema para los atareados turnos del hospital!
Uno para la transferencia de pacientes graves, uno para los códigos y traumas, uno para Personal, uno para quejas, uno para pasar visita y uno para Relaciones Publicas…..¡Perfecto!
¡Pero espera…… se necesitan seis… necesito otro clon!
ODC2 - Photoshop terms. This could be several, but I think Multiply and Layers are most appropriate. I had so many ideas for this subject, but I thought I needed to practice these.
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I forgot that I had one more from Pekin. I'd missed this place on the several times I was here in the past.
For more of my kind of Holiday fun-
New Christmas joke!!
When four of Santa's elves got sick, the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as the regular ones, and Santa began to feel the Pre-Christmas pressure.
Then Mrs Claus told Santa her Mother was coming to visit, which stressed Santa even more. When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two others had jumped the fence and were out, Heaven knows where?
Then when he began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked, the toy bag fell to the ground and all the toys were scattered.
Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered the elves had drunk all the cider and hidden the liquor. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider jug, and it broke into hundreds of little glass pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of the broom.
Just then the doorbell rang, and an irritated Santa marched to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big Christmas tree. The angel said very cheerfully "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?"
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree. Not a lot of people know this.
Week 8/52 "MULTIPLY"
You only live once, so do everything twice and multiply it.
( a late multiply entry)
Some religion salesmen were handing these out at Lexington Market here in Baltimore a few months after the attacks.
The weird thing for me is that this was pretty much the view I had from my boss' office in NYC that day.
Seeing the Second Plane Hit:
I’d tried to vote in the primary election that morning. I can’t remember if it was mayoral or something else. They couldn’t find my name at the polling place even though I’d received the little yellow card in the mail with that address on it. I was steamed; I went straight to work and up to my cubicle and called the election board to complain, ending my cranky voice-mail message with, “What is this, Florida!?!”
It was probably around 7:30 now, and I went back downstairs and outside for my morning glazed donut, diet soda (never really been a hot caffeine person), and cigarette breakfast (ahh, how I miss them still) near the water at the South Street Seaport. In the three months since I’d started at Prudential, it was always calming for me to start the mornings this way, getting to see the sun's gleam on the water, the sightseeing boaters preparing for their day, and the seafood houses already in the middle of theirs.
At 8:00 I went up to officially start my work day, checking emails and voicemails, taking care of a few things that had come over the department fax late from the night before. It was a while later that a manager, John, another early starter, came out of his office and said, “Come see this. The World Trade Center is on fire.”
It’s hard to say how many city blocks we were from the Towers. The streets at the south end of Manhattan wind so much; my best guess is that our building, 1 NY Plaza was about a mile away. In that building, our department was on the 35th floor. So, when I walked into John’s office, facing the towers, what I saw was surreal; there were flames for sure (no sign of the plane), but what I remember most was the endless stream of paper raining down outside from the upper floors, not yet touching the streets which meant whatever had happened must have just.
Though John was the first to see the flames, he hadn't seen the cause, and, as other coworkers started arriving, we all started speculating, with one of those weather/traffic copters getting the most votes. Nobody mentioned terrorism.
I called my roommate who at this time was working as a receptionist at my old company (a job I’d had a few years back) and told him the news. "The World Trade Center is on fire," I said.
“What,” he said.
“The World Trade Center is on fire.”
“What?”
“The. World. Trade. Center. Is. On. Fire.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Well, stop saying ‘what,’ then,” I said.
When he was finally convinced that I was not joking we speculated more.
“Well, how many times have we seen those little planes coming down over the skyline, coming so close,” he said, “it was bound to happen eventually.”
“Oh, geez the subway’s gonna be a mess. Ya think they’ll let us out early?” Yes, friends, I actually said that, and, no, I am not in the least proud of it. My only defenses are that I certainly was not thinking about death and suffering at the time and that I’d lived through the other attack on the WTC, the one in 1993, which, in my world lacked catastrophic devastation. We had a cousin who broke a foot in that one, but that was it.
“Yeah, I think they’ll probably let you out early,” he said, and I hung up, promising to fill him in on any other news.
By the time I made a quick call to family in Baltimore to let them know that they might hear something about the Trade Center on the news but that I was safe, my boss had come in and she said that, sure, I could watch things from her office while she went to get coffee. She had a great office with a great view, window covering an entire wall, and I just watched. Watched a building burn in an otherwise picture perfect blue sky. Watched the endless confetti cascading down like what I’d pictured from the old ticker-tape parades. Watched a few white fluffy clouds, seemingly oblivious in the distance.
Watched as yet another plane came zooming across the skyline.
This is where it gets hard to keep writing. Seeing the second plane hit…Remembering seeing the second plane hit still gives me a jolt to the spine. Seeing the second plane hit admits there might just be “evil” in the world, because seeing the second plane hit meant the first could not have been an accident. Seeing the second plane hit meant, temporarily at least, knowing there was a before and an after to that moment. Example: "the last time I laughed so hard I cried before 9/11 was during an old SCTV rerun two nights earlier where Andrea Martin was sending up a vintage Connie Francis album commercial. She sang, ‘I’ve lost my hearing and sight in one eye’ and 'I'm so unhappy are you unhappy too' as an announcer boasted, 'She depressed an entire generation.' That there was some funny shit, and I could use that laughter now, after."
For days after, seeing the second plane hit replayed constantly in my mind, not even making it to my subconscious until months later, really, when I was miles away, back in Baltimore. It was then that I finally had a nightmare about it, stolen, ironically from the opening to that old “Airplane” movie comedy. Instead of the tail of the plane moving through the clouds, however, in my dream, it was an entire big shiny plane heading toward the second tower in the big blue sky, but still to the "Jaws" theme, of course. In the dream, and in my memories since, I’ve wanted to be able to just reach through my boss’ office window and pluck the plane from the air, as if it were a toy one. But, well….
So the second plane hits with an explosion that I see but don’t hear through the thick layers of skyscraper window glass; I’m hearing coworkers in other offices scream instead.
“Gotta go,” I say, as my boss comes back with her coffee, and I do, right past my cube, saying nothing to anyone else, not bothering to log off and turn off my computer, bee-lining straight to the elevator before someone has the chance to tell me I can’t use it. Not too proud of that instinct to flee, either, but there it is. I’m guessing that the two other elevator passengers must have also seen the plane hit. She was shaking and crying and every time the elevator stopped on a floor, he ran out quickly to see if someone was really waiting and hurriedly returned, pressing the “door close” button as fast as he could. Down and out we scurried where we would mill about while the rest of the people in the building filtered down, indeed by the stairs. Madeleine, who was no fan of aerobic excercise at the time, was not thrilled with the walk, and Pam, upon coming outside asked if it was o.k. to smoke.
I said, “They just blew up the World Trade Center, Pam. Of course you can smoke!” And she and I probably smoked five or six cigarettes in a row waiting for word that we could go home. What was concerning me, in my paranoid state, was that, with the second plane coming roughly twenty minutes after the first, we could be due for another soon, and I just wanted out of there. Finally, we were given the o.k. to leave, and by this time we knew we were walking.
On the way, I found out about the Pentagon being attacked too and freaked again, (in a slightly jaded way this time), because I had family working in that area. Phones, however, were not an option as cells couldn’t get a signal, and the few pay phones one could find had lines at least twenty people deep. So, I just walked, and again I have to say, “surreal.” Surreal to see so many pedestrians, even as crowded as New York usually was. Surreal to see so many cars just abandoned. Surreal to see armed military personnel on the streets of Manhattan. Surreal to see a basketball game and rope-skipping at a schoolyard as if nothing had just happened blocks away.
And jarring to hear but not see, what one hoped, were our fighter planes overhead.
Taking a meandering journey through Chinatown I finally made my way to my roommate’s workplace where all hell was breaking loose. One of his company’s clients was American Express which had its offices very close to the WTC. Once the towers had collapsed (luckily I didn’t have to see that), the structure of the AmEx office building was also in question, and my roommate was frantically trying to find out if any of his coworkers were there for meetings. Still in a daze I stayed and helped him a little; but then I just went home, or rather, to my little neighborhood dive bar where others were already sobbing. Just didn’t want to be alone at that point.
The next days and nights are blurs what with all of the self-medicating and constant news-watching - how truly awful it was to see those that chose to jump.
Our offices and so many others downtown had to remain closed while soot and debris were removed. The burnt rubber smell, however, traveled uptown and lingered for a week. Flowers were everywhere and the posters of the missing went up and multiplied. With Manhattan in virtual lockdown, and because we had a police precinct (potential terrorist target it seems) on our block, we had to show i.d. and proof that we lived on our street before being let on. The Friday after, my roommate and I went to 1984, a retro club, to try and dance some of the depression away, but, rightly so, out of respect, it did not open.
This story ends slightly comically with the HR-sponsored grief session our company held the next Tuesday, when we were first allowed back to work. The first thing the counselors asked was, “how many of you saw either plane hit or either building collapse?” Everyone raised his hand and the counselors looked at each other as if they were in trouble.
Later, they warned against self-medication, “You want to stay away from alcohol, caffeine, nicotine and any illicit substances.” This got the biggest laugh because with a week off, paid no less, and with what we had seen stuck in our minds, all quite a few of us had done was self-medicate, one way or another.
Finally, just as the counselors were about to offer helpful suggestions on how to deal with the stress of the events, someone knocked on the door. Unfortunately, the entire building had to be evacuated due to a fire in the cafeteria. And poor Madeleine had to walk down those flights of stairs again.
And the cold I had became the flu.
Though her office wasn’t near the site - I checked later - I still think about that election worker and the nasty voice-mail message I left for her comparing New York to Florida. How wrong I was about that and how not-so great to know that it was either one of the last things she heard before, or one of the first things she heard after, her 9/11.
multiple ways of representing multiplying a binomial including two kinds of computation, & area model.
...Is there one, two or more?...
Andrew Mills © 2009
-Multiplying...-
Subject: Fireplace in derelict house
Model: Stephen.James
Photographer: Andrew
A fun bit of multiple exposure
Nikon D40X
my first upload in 3 months..sorry my senior year has been chaos so far. this is a project we were assigned in photography. i personally love it.
St Andrew, Tottington, Norfolk
This church is within the Norfolk Battle Trainingf Area. Access to this zone by members of the public is forbidden.
Tottington: All around, the wind ruffles the waves of coarse grass. Oblivious sheep wander slowly, their new lambs skittering in their wake. As we approach the church up what was, sixty years ago, the village high street, I see a handsome buck deer standing among reeds beyond the trackside. He doesn't flinch. Here, a row of council houses still stands, refurbished as a northern Irish village during the time of the conflict there, but the Norfolk clunch cottages have otherwise gone back to ground, melting down as the decades pass. Here and there, a chimney stands defiantly, but that is all.
St Andrew stands at what would have been the top of the village, and the mound to the east is the old Rectory. To the south was the village pub. The roofs of the church are curious; they are not tiles at all, but blast-proof sheets installed to protect the building. These accentuate the lowness of the pretty Victorian clerestory, but otherwise the tower and nave put me in mind of neighbouring Thompson, outside the battle area.
On this bright spring day the church is full of light. The roof tiles are stored inside, awaiting reuse, and also here are the medieval benches, their dusty ends rounded with animals. After the evacuation here, they were taken to nearby Rockland, where they were altered to fit one of the churches there. Now returned, they are too small for this wide open space, and so they sit here, awaiting an uncertain future.
The chancel seems small after this wideness. The Victorian decalogue boards still stand where the altar once was. This must have been a busy place in medieval times, because as well as the elegant sedilia and piscina in the chancel, there is a dropped-sill sedilia at the eastern end of the south aisle, and a pretty little piscina in an angle at the eastern end of the north aisle.
In the floor are 18th century ledger memorials to Knopwoods and Farrers; wall memorials remember Duffields and Hares. High above, patient faces stare from the corbels of the arcades. Silence. Time passes.
Outside are more silent attendants, Leggates and Suttons, Boughens and Oldfields. And there are surprises. One, a headstone for a member of the famous Guinness family; their country estate was a few miles to the south of here at Elveden. Charlotte Guinness died while on a visit to the Rectory here in 1924. She was 75 years old. And in the south-east corner of the graveyard, daffodils fly in the spring breeze above the last resting place of Lucilla Reeve. This remarkable woman lived at Bagmore Farm on the edge of the village, and continued to tear a living from the harsh Breckland soil even after the military takeover. She killed herself on Remembrance Day 1950, and was buried here on the edge of the graveyard.
After the war, the Tottington war memorial was moved to neighbouring Thompson, on a road that led once to the now-lost village. You can still see it there to this day. Arthur Mee came here to Tottington in the 1930s when there were still people living here. In his flowery way, he recalled something that is now often forgotten. Tottington was the home village of Abbot Sampson, who made the Abbey of St Edmundsbury one of the most powerful in Europe, and is remembered still today as the symbol of the Greene King brewery.
The Norfolk Battle Training Area: On Ordnance Survey maps the Norfolk Battle Training Area appears as a patch of white mist, like a ghost among the green forests and winding Norfolk lanes. Roads that enter the zone become tracks and multiply, as if this is still the 19th century, and the land is still measured by walking across it rather driving through it. Leaving the area, the tracks disappear or merge into busy modern roads. For a moment, they had been lost in time.
But the lanes must travel through the time warp alone, for this strange area of Breckland (God knows, a curious enough landscape in itself) has been used by the British Army for the last sixty years as a battle training area. As this involves the firing of live ammunition, nobody lives in the zone, and the six former villages there have been able to softly and silently vanish. The soft Norfolk clunch out of which many of the buildings were made has melted into the ground, leaving mounds of flint, chimney stacks and the occasional cellar. Some buildings have been demolished, others adapted for training purposes. Plaques mark the locations of formerly significant buildings: the pubs, the schools, the post offices, the village halls. Very little remains, with the singular exception of the churches.
All six villages had churches. Those at Buckenham Tofts and Sturton were abandoned in the years after the Reformation, and by the 18th century very little remained. The lost graveyard of St Andrew, Buckenham Tofts, was rediscovered when the pleasure gardens for the Hall were laid out in the early years of the 20th century. The site of St Mary, Sturton, was marked until recent years by an area of flint beside the Hall.
The other four villages, Langford, Stanford, Tottington and West Tofts, all had working churches when the zone was evacuated in 1944. St Andrew Tottington is a typical East Anglian church, rebuilt from the wealth of this area in the 14th and 15th centuries with the addition of aisles and a clerestory. All Saints Stanford is typically East Anglian in a different way, with a round tower and a high nave hunched against it. Both were heavily restored by the Victorians, Stanford excessively so, in a naive but enthusiastic manner by the Rector of the time.
St Andrew at Langford is lovely, a soft little towerless Norman church with an extraordinary baroque monument in the chancel. St Mary West Tofts is the real surprise; a small medieval chuch transformed by Augustus Welby Pugin into a vast Gothic palace of worship. If it was outside the training area it would be much better known.
The Ministry of Defence are good custodians of the buildings. They ensure the soundness and integrity of the exteriors, while the insides remain the responsibility of the Anglican Diocese of Norwich. This is a result of the settlement made in the 1940s, and it must be said that the Ministry has fulfilled its obligations with more enthusiasm than the Diocese. They protect the graveyards from incursion with high fences, and have recently replaced the roofs at Stanford and Tottington with blastproof panels in the style of pantiles.
Only one of the churches has been returned to use in recent years, St Mary at West Tofts, but this has been mainly due to the interest and energy of individuals, some from the training area staff, rather than than any official policy of the Diocese. St Andrew at Langford could conceivably be used again if needed, but Stanford and Tottington churches are too far within the live firing zone for the public ever to be allowed access again. Sixty years leaves a lot of unexploded ammunition.
As keen as they are on protecting the buildings, the Ministry are not happy with photographs and accounts of them appearing on websites like this one, for several reasons.
Firstly, the training area staff are simply not equipped to cope with the sheer volume of interest generated in the lost villages and their churches by books, articles and published photographs. Access to the churches is only possible for a severely limited time slot each year and under special circumstances; you must assume that if you apply to visit the churches as a result of seeing them on this website then you will not be given permission to do so.
Secondly, according to the original settlement, priority must be given to those with a connection to the villages, particularly those wanting to visit graves of family members. If someone makes a request to visit a grave, or to be buried in the zone themselves, which is still possible, then the authenticity of their claim must be investigated. This takes time, and websites like this one increase the volume of false claims.
Thirdly, there is still a sensitivity about the way in which the area was evacuated in 1944. The villagers gave up their homes at a time of great national significance, because the zone was needed for training for the Battle of Normandy, which eventually led to the end of the war in Europe. They did so willingly, and there was cheering at the public meeting at which the evacuation was announced. Some articles have argued that the sacrifice of the villagers was betrayed.
I'm not convinced that this is the case. There was an assumption that the residents would be allowed back at the end of the war, but in truth the villages they had left behind were hardly worth returning to. Few of the villagers were landowners. Many of the buildings were tied cottages belonging to the Walsingham estate; few had running water, and there was no electricity. The land was poor farming land, and the residents had struggled to make a living. Most families were rehoused locally in better accommodation, and there were decent jobs on the land and in the factories and shops of Thetford, Swaffham and Watton.
And it is easy to forget now that the war disrupted the lives of everyone in Britain, not just those in the zone. At a time when the State controlled people's lives in a way we would find wholly alien and unacceptable today, much of Britain was changed forever. Here in East Anglia it was the end of an old, unmechanised order, and Norfolk and Suffolk would never be the same again.
While you would expect people to feel an emotional attachment to the place they were born, in truth few of the villagers would have wanted to return to the old life. There are regular reunions of former residents within the training area, but these are happy occasions, not sad ones. Generally, the former villagers do not wish they had been allowed to return; they were so much better off elsewhere.
And now, it is an absurdity to think that the villages will ever be restored to their previous use, because they no longer exist, and there is no longer any reason for them to exist. Norfolk has many lost villages, not just here in the training area; what makes the zone special is that the pre-war pattern of country lanes, hedgerows and copses survives here, an extraordinarily valuable treasure. The Ministry maintains not just the churches, but the entire zone as a conservation area. The idea of this area being repopulated with executive commuter villages for Thetford and Swaffham is a horrifying one.
Instead, the wind ripples the Breckland grasses; the deer, the sheep and the rabbits lead their uncomplicated lives. The incursions of armour are slight and temporary in this great vastness. The pattern of the past survives in a way that is lost elsewhere, in an England which has been redeveloped and rebuilt by generation after generation. Here, emptied of people now, untouched by the complications of civilisation, the past lingers on; and there is also the memory of the past, the ghosts and dreams of the old times, the lives once led now but names on the stones in the graveyards. Let this stand. For in those days, Tottington and West Tofts were sizeable villages; but Stanford was tiny, and Langford barely existed. The churches were always out in the fields, and they remain there; the high-hedged lanes still weave nearby, and the silence of that earlier age still engulfs them. Let them remain so.