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15/52: On the phone
Some days at the office are so busy you can't choose just one photo....so here's all of them.
Ruttenbai "Ruttie" Petit ("The Flower of Bombay") after marriage Maryam Jinnah (February 20, 1900 - February 15, 1929), was the second wife of Muhammad Ali Jinnah - an important figure in the Indian Independence Movement and later founder of Pakistan. She was the only daughter of Sir Dinshaw Petit, who in turn, was the son of Dinshaw Maneckji Petit, founder of the first cotton mills in India. The Petits were textile magnates and one of Bombay's wealthiest Parsi families.
"Ruttie" as she was affectionately called, was bright, gifted and graceful. Although she was 16 the year she met Mohammad Ali Jinnah, she was intellectually much more mature than other girls her age. She had diverse interests ranging from romantic poetry to politics. With her maiden aunt she attended all public meetings held in Bombay and was familiar with the movement for swaraj (home-rule). She was a fierce supporter of India for Indians and many years later when asked about rumours of Jinnah's possible knighthood and whether she would like to be Lady Jinnah, she snapped that she would rather be separated from her husband than take on an English title.
In the summer of 1916, Jinnah was invited to escape the Bombay heat at the summer home of his client and friend Sir Dinshaw. There, in Darjeeling, Jinnah was enchanted with Ruttie's precocious intelligence and beauty, and she in turn was enamoured by J, as she called him.
Jinnah approached Sir Dinshaw with a seemingly abstract question about his views on inter-communal marriages. Sir Dinshaw emphatically expressed his opinion that it would be an ideal solution to inter-communal antagonism. Jinnah could not have hoped for a more favourable response, and immediately asked his friend for his daughter's hand in marriage.
M. C. Chagla, who was assisting Jinnah at his chambers in those days, recalled later, "Sir Dinshaw was taken aback. He had not realized that his remarks might have serious personal repercussions. He was most indignant, and refused to countenance any such idea which appeared to him absurd and fantastic."
Jinnah pleaded his case, but to no avail. Not only was this the end of the friendship between the two men, but Sir Dinshaw forbade Ruttie to meet Jinnah as long as she lived under his roof. As she was still a minor, the law was on his side but Ruttie and Jinnah met in secret anyway, and decided to wait out the two years until she attained the age of maturity.
Shortly after her eighteenth birthday, Rattanbai converted to Islam and adopted the name Mariam. Two months later, on April 19, 1918, they were married at his house South Court in Bombay. The wedding ring which Jinnah gave Ruttie was a present from the Raja of Mahmudabad. The Raja and a few close friends of Jinnah were the only guests at the wedding, and later the couple spent part of their honeymoon at the Mahmudabad palace in Nainital. The rest of their honeymoon was spent at the Maidens Hotel, a magnificent property just beyond the Red Fort.
Ruttie and Jinnah made a head-turning couple. Her long hair would be decked in fresh flowers, and she wore vibrant silk and headbands lavish with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. And Jinnah in those days was the epitome of elegance in suits custom-made for him in London. According to most sources, the couple could not have been happier in those early years of their marriage. The only blot on their joy was Ruttie's ostracism from her family. Sir Dinshaw mourned Ruttie socially even after his granddaughter Dina was born.
By mid-1922, Jinnah was facing political isolation as he devoted every spare moment to be the voice of moderation in a nation torn by Hindu-Muslim antipathy. The increasingly late hours and the ever-increasing distance between them left Ruttie isolated.
In September 1922, she packed her bags and took her daughter to London. The echoes of her loneliness are apparent in a letter which she sent to her friend Kanji, thanking him for the bouquet of roses he had sent as a bon voyage gift; It will always give me pleasure to hear from you, so if you have a superfluous moment on your hands you know where to find me if I don't lose myself. And just one thing more, go and see Jinnah and tell me how he is, he has a habit of overworking himself and now that I am not there to tease and bother him he will be worse than ever.
Upon her return to India, Ruttie tried to see more of her husband but he was too busy campaigning for elections as an independent for the general Bombay seats. Ruttie withdrew into a world of spirits, séances and mysticism. Although she tried to interest Jinnah in the metaphysical, he had little time to devote to the whims of a wife half his age.
In 1925, Jinnah was appointed to a subcommittee to study the possibility of establishing a military college like Sandhurst in India. For this purpose he was to undertake a five-month tour of Europe and North America. Jinnah decided to take Ruttie with him - on what he hoped would be a second honeymoon. Instead the trip simply magnified the growing personal gulf between them. By 1927, Ruttie and Jinnah had virtually separated, and the move of the Muslim League's office to Delhi was just the final blow to a relationship that was already, in essence, over.
Ruttie's health deteriorated rapidly in the years after they returned from their final trip together. But she kept her interest in her pets and her close friends. Even as a frail, weakened woman, Ruttie attempted to remain in touch with those around her, going so far as to travel in bedroom slippers even though her feet were swollen and painful. Later she decided to live alone.
Ruttie lived at the Taj Hotel in Bombay, almost a recluse as she became more and more bed-ridden. Kanji continued to be her constant companion. By February 18, 1929 she had become so weak that all she could manage to say to him was a request to look after her cats. Two days later, Ruttie Petit Jinnah died. It was her 29th birthday. She was buried on February 22 in Khoja Isna Ashari Cemetery, Mazgaon, Bombay according to Muslim rites. Jinnah sat like a statue throughout the funeral but when asked to throw earth on the grave, he broke down and wept.
Later, Chagla said, "That was the only time when I found Jinnah betraying some shadow of human weakness. It's not a well publicised fact that as a young student in England it had been one of Jinnah's dreams to play Romeo at The Globe. It is a strange twist of fate that a love story that started like a fairy tale ended as a haunting tragedy to rival any of Shakespeare's dramas."
Watercolor, 23x18 cm.
My temporary studio is one end of an unused dining room table. After hardly touching brush to paper for a week, I was a little out of practice, and feel that I overworked parts of this, but I decided to post it anyway.
Explore #122
A Peach Cobbler I made today. Recipe below.
.Yield: serves 6 to 8
Time: 1 hour
8 peaches, peeled and sliced, about 6 to 8 cups
1/4 cup bourbon
3/4 cup sugar, plus more for dusting
2 tablespoons corn starch
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 1/2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
16 tablespoons (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter
3/4 cup heavy cream, plus more for brushing
1 quart of vanilla bean ice cream
Heat the oven to 375 degrees F. In a large bowl add the peaches, bourbon, 1/4-cup sugar, cornstarch, and cinnamon and mix well to coat the peaches evenly.
Prepare the dumplings. Into a bowl sift together the flour, 1/2-cup sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut 12 tablespoons (1 1/2-sticks) butter into small pieces. Add it to the flour mixture and cut it in with a pastry blender or your hands until the mixture looks like coarse breadcrumbs. Pour in the cream and mix just until the dough comes together. Don’t overwork; the dough should be slightly sticky but manageable.
In a10-inch cast iron skillet over medium-low heat melt the remaining 4 tablespoons butter. Add the peaches and cook gently until heated through, about 5 minutes. Drop the dough by tablespoonfuls over the warm peaches. There can be gaps, the dough will puff up and spread out as it bakes. Brush the top with some heavy cream and sprinkle with some sugar and a little extra cinnamon. Bake in the oven on a tray to catch any drips. Cook for 40 to 45 minutes until the top is browned and the fruit is bubbling.
Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream.
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The Vancouver Beavers were a Class-B minor league baseball team based in Vancouver, British Columbia that played on and off from 1908 to 1922. The team played in the Northwestern League, Pacific Coast International League, Northwest International League and Western International League. From 1913 on, they played their home games at Athletic Park.
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Si ? / Irv / Irving Jensen
Position: Outfielder / Pitcher
Bats: Unknown • Throws: Left
Height: 5' 11" / Weight - 165 lbs
Born: March 28, 1881 in Millcreek, UT
Died: December 30, 1952 (Aged 71) in Salt Lake City, UT
Full Name: Erven Leslie Jensen
(Idaho State Journal from Pocatello, Idaho - January 1, 1953) Erven Jensen, one of the most ardent baseball supporters In the area. Jensen died late Tuesday, in the Salt Lake Veterans Hospital after a long Illness. He was 71. A native of Utah, Jensen broke into organized baseball as a pitcher near the turn of the century while working on the West Coast. He began as a pitcher for Oakland. In 1905, he was signed by Clark Griffith's Highlanders, then In the major leagues, but was turned over to a farm team because his knuckle ball was loo easy to detect.
Link to his minor league stats - www.baseball-reference.com/register/player.fcgi?id=jensen...
Link to his minor league stats from 1906 - www.baseball-reference.com/register/player.fcgi?id=jensen...
(San Francisco Call, 17 April 1903) - Jensen, the left-hander from Salt Lake, did the slab trick for the visitors (Butte Miners). Just like most of the southpaws on the new grounds, he was real cream cheese for the native talent. They began to do a few things to Mr. Jensen early In the battle, and never for a moment did they let up on him. He seemed to have big curves and wonderful speed, but still the home batters fell upon his assortment and tent it all over the lot. San Francisco won the game against Butte 9-4.
(Sporting Life - 28 May 1904) - With Salt Lake City - John A. Ward, Erven Jensen.
(The Salt Lake Tribune, June 09, 1906) - Jensen Goes to Pocatello - Irving Jensen, who pitched a winning game for the Tailors last Saturday and again yesterday leaves for Pocatello today. Sunday he will twirl for tho Soda Springs team, which plays tho Pocatello aggregation for a $100 side bet. Victory for the Soda Springs team is said to mean a good piece of money for Jensen. After the game Jensen will return and resume his work with the locals.
(The Salt Lake Tribune, July 13, 1906) - CRACK TWIRLER FOR DUBEI CALLED EAST - Irving Jensen, a Utah Boy, Will Pitch for New York Americans. LEFT THURSDAY NIGHT FOR THE METROPOLIS - That He Will Make Good Is Beyond Question His Friends Congratulate Him. Irving Jensen, the crack twirler of the Dubei Tailors leaves for the East today to join the pitching staff of the New York Americans. Yesterday he was wired transportation by Manager Clark Griffith, with Instructions to come at once. While the members of the local aggregation feel keenly the loss of Jensen, they are proud to have one of their number picked out as being worthy of a try-out for one of the fastest teams in the country.
Is Big Promotion. - The entire affair, reads like a novel. Jensen never dreamed of such a thing a week ago, no less did his teammates. To have a brush leaguer, a man pitching in a league which is not even considered big enough for protection, thus picked out and called from the bottom round of the ladder to the very top Is a rare occurrence. Generally a man works his way up gradually and seldom breaks Into the major leagues until he has reached the top round in the minor organizations.
Minor Leagues Anxious. - Now that Jensen has received this
offer from the New York Americans, the minor league managers, who were formerly dickering with him, are falling over each other to get tho local boy cinched. Spokane is hot after him and so is Pueblo. Jensen, however, has wisely refrained from entering Into any definite signed agreement with the managers of these teams and consequently is free to accept the New York offer.
Born and Raised Here. - Jensen is a Utah boy, born and raised within tho confines of the Bee Hive State. Here he first broke into the game. He has received the experience and practice which has developed him to his present standard of efficiency. But never In his life has he pitched the ball that he has during the past season. Even when tried out by San Francisco, Butte and Salt Lake he did not pitch the ball that he has for the Tailors. He lacked the control, the judgment, the ability to pull steadily out of a hole which he now exhibits. He has speed and curves as long as your arm. On this score he will not meet with his greatest difficulty in making good.
Beware of Shaky Feeling. - The greatest difficulty Jensen will
meet with is the task of suddenly adapting himself to the jump he is making. He does not himself yet realize the great step that he Is taking. When he does fully sense it probably he will experience that shaky feeling in the knees which has been the downfall of so many other young aspirants. But his team mates hope that when his great test does come that he will hold his courage and fight out the game, determined on victory, Jensen feels confident. It is a good frame of mind to be in. If he climbs into the big league securely he will be the first Utahn to have achieved the honors, and naturally all the fans In the State will feel proud In the fact.
Discovered by Henry Joseph. - The story of how Jensen first broke Into the pitching game is rather amusing. Harry Joseph was the man who discovered him. It was about the time the fever was at Its height here over the P. N. league. Jensen was a street car conductor. While riding on the car Joseph fell Into a conversation with him. Jensen told Harry that he could pitch and Harry Insisted Jensen be given a try-out on the Salt Lake team. Irving was not in shape and he flunked out. His record at this time showed little that would indicate future greatness. In fact, it sometimes happened that Jensen was knocked like all other players are at some time or other. But Harry could never get it out of his head that Jensen was a great pitcher. On this score his friends had all kinds of amusement with him. But today it will be Harry's turn to say: "I told you so."
(The Salt Lake Tribune, July 27, 1906) - LOOKS GOOD FOR JENSEN. Is Successfully Passing Preliminary Tests for Entrance to Big League. - Irving Jensen, the crack Dubei Tailor twirler who recently went East to join the New York Americans, has been farmed out to the Hudson team of the New York State league. In his first game, pitched a few days ago, ho pitched a strike-out game, much to the delight of Manager Clark Griffith of the New York team. Manager Griffith has also taken occasion to give Jensen a workout in his own presence. Griffith, although manager, is a good ball player and a twirler of no mean ability. Working against the same men Jensen scored eight strike-outs to Griffith's two. The fact that Jensen has been farmed out to the Hudson team does not mean that Griffith will not use him or that the Utah boy is to be sidetracked. This is the test method Griffith applies to all his new men. He is hard after the American pennant and he cannot afford to try new men In positions where they might lose a game until they have proved their worth. Jensen seems to be proving his worth, and before long he will probably be placed on the rubber for his initial trial with the big leaguers.
(San Francisco Call, 6 September 1906) - JENSEN GOES TO SPOKANE. - CINCINNATI, Sept 5 — The National Baseball Commission in a decision handed down today awarded player Jensen, now with the New York American League Club, to the Spokane Club. The Spokane Club contended that Jensen accepted terms and transportation from it and then joined the New York Club. The New York Club did not submit any evidence in the case.
(The Spokane Press, September 05, 1908) - JENSEN CLEAR OUT - After winning 13 out of the first 15 games he pitched, Irv. Jensen lost 16 straight and has been released on pay for the rest of the season. Overwork and worry caused the southpaw's slump. He is losing weight rapidly and is so weak he may be forced to take to bed.
(The Spokane Press, September 10, 1908) - Irv. Jensen, after a short rest, is back In the game again, and yesterday, although his pitching was not remarkable, he won over Aberdeen, 2 to 1. The Indians got only four hits off big Gus Thompson, but bunched them in the second inning and got the tallies.
(The Salt Lake Herald-Republican, March 18, 1910) - JENSEN TO VANCOUVER - Irving Jensen the local boy who has made good in the box with the Spokane club of the Northwestern league for the past three years leaves next week to join the Vancouver club. Jensen received a better offer from the Canadian club and accepted it.
(The Yakima Herald, April 20, 1910) - Sidewheeler Trotted Out.
Irving Jensen, the only southpaw on the Squad, was trotted out on the mound by the Vancouver manager to give the slugging Beavers a trial of a sidewheeler. Jensen was in great form and the sluggers had their troubles locating his curve ball. However. Brown figures that the Beavers are not going to be bothered by sidewheelers this year. In as much as there is only two of the left-handed hitters that are troubled by southpaws, Adams and Capron, and Swain can be used in place of Adams, the Beavers are well fortified against the slabsters with the southern delivery.
(Morning Oregonian, May 13, 1910) - TACOMA SHUTS OUT VANCOUVER - Jensen Strikes Out 1 1 Men, but Poor Support Loses Game. VANCOUVER, B. C. May 12. Tacoma won a loosely played game today. Jensen pitched a good game for Vancouver, striking out 11 men, but his support was poor. Tacoma bunched hits in the latter part of the game, driving in the winning run after having been shut out for seven innings. Score: Tacoma 2 - Vancouver - 0.
(The Tacoma times., July 10, 1911) - Portland gets Jensen from Vancouver and Seattle gets Ort from Portland.
(Sporting Life - 9 March 1912) - President Dick Cooley, of the Salt Lake (Union Association) Club, has signed southpaw pitcher Erven L. Jensen; late of the Northwestern League; and pitcher J. E. Lewis, late of Oakland, California.
(Morning Oregonian, May 28, 1912) - Erven Jensen, former Portland slabster, now with the Union Association, once carried around in his mouth a $900 diamond belonging to Harry Ostdick, of the Indians. Ostdick and Jensen were in an altercation last season at Seattle and words led to blows. Ostdick punched the pitcher In the mouth and after the combatants were separated, discovered that his three-carat stone had been separated from a ring in the melee. He went on a hunt for the "rock," but in the meantime Jensen plucked the $900 beauty out of his mouth, where It had lodged after a tooth had plucked it from its original mooring.
Jack Fitzgerald
Position: Pitcher
Bats: right • Throws: right
Height - 5' 9"
Weight - 185 lbs (from his 1942 U.S., World War II Draft Registration Card)
Born: March 8, 1881 in Sacramento, California
Died: December 2, 1947 at age 66 in Sacramento
Full Name: John Patrick Fitzgerald
Nicknames - Fitz, Jawn, Fireman
Link to his minor league stats - www.baseball-reference.com/register/player.fcgi?id=fitzge...
Link to - Sacramento Senators and Solons - Player Rosters 1903 - 1933 - www.sacramentosolons.com/
On the 27 April 1909 Jack Fitzgerald, the pitcher on the Stockton team who has played here since the season opened, left to join the Sacramento Pacific Coast league team.
"Daily Capital Journal" (Salem, Oregon) - newspaper - April 27, 1909 - PITCHER FITZGERALD ABANDONS STOCKTON SACRAMENTO. Cal., April 27. 1909 - Pitcher Jack Fitzgerald is today a member of Charlie Graham's Senators of the Coast league. Fitzgerald has been Stockton's mainstay in the box during tho current outlaw season and his deflection will be felt sorrowfully. With the addition of Fitzgerald to his pitching staff, Graham has a bunch of twirlers he believes to be second to none In the league. It Is rumored here that Ed Walters, owner of the Oakland Coast league team, Is trying to Induce Danny Shay to forsake Stockton and assume the managerial duties called with tho Oakland team. Shay, It is said, has announced that he will remain in Stockton.
(Morning Oregonian, October 27, 1909) - PITCHER FELLS DETECTIVE - Fitzgerald Knocks Down Kripp When He Draws Gun. SACRAMENTO, Cal., Oct. 26. (Special) Jack Fitzgerald, pitcher on the Sacramento Coast League team, worsted Police Detective Fred Kripp, brother of Ed. Kripp, California sportsman and baseball manager, early this morning when the officer, while intoxicated, drew his gun and held It in the ballplayer's face with threats to kill him. The trouble resulted from Kripp's taking offense at Fitzgerald's jibes about a local political fight. When Kripp whipped a gun in Fitzgerald's face, the latter floored the officer with a blow to the face. Bystanders pulled Fitzgerald away and picked up the gun. Kripp is likely to lose his position on the police department.
"The San Francisco Call", - newspaper - October 28, 1909 - SUSPENDS - DETECTIVE WHO FOUGHT PITCHER - Sacramento Chief Charges Officer With Drunkeness - SACRAMENTO. Oct. 27.—City Detective Krlpp, who was worsted in a fight with Jack Fitzgerald, pitcher of the Sacramento ball team, was suspended from the department by Chief of Police Sullivan today for drunkenness while on duty. Kripp drew a gun on Fitzgerald while both were engaged In a heated argument. Chief Sullivan, is investigating the case and Krlpp's dismissal Is likely to follow.
(Sacramento Union, 7 April 1910) - ANGELS ARE DUCK SOUP FOR “FITZ” - ‘‘Jawn” Hits His Gait While Dillon’s Boys Look Askance - In a pitchers’ duel, lasting eleven innings, Jack Fitzgerald of the Senators triumphed over Tozer of the Angels yesterday afternoon and in an eleven-inning game brought home a victory by a score of 2 to 1. “Fitz’ had everything. "Jawn” was very careful with his passes, allowing nary a one, and in addition forced three of the Angels to whiff.
"The San Francisco Call", - newspaper - April 29, 1910 - Pitcher Jack Fitzgerald Suspended • SACRAMENTO, April28, 1910.—For falling to report at Recreation Park; San Francisco, last Sunday. Pitcher Jack Fitzgerald of the Sacramento Coasters has been given a blue envelope with a string on it by Manager Charles Graham. A fine of six days' pay was inflicted and Fitzgerald was suspended indefinitely. Graham says he is through with banking on Fitzgerald staying on the water wagon.
"The San Francisco Call", - newspaper - August 09, 1910 - Jack Fitzgerald Suspended By Senator Chiefs - SACRAMENTO, Aug. 8—Jack Fitzgerald, pitcher on the Senators staff, has again broken the training rules and Manager Charles Graham has suspended him indefinitely. Graham will try to trade him for another man.
Fitzgerald is best remembered for one September Sunday in 1911 when he pitched against the Portland club. The game went 24 innings. He allowed just 10 hits and one run, and the game ended in a 1 -1 tie because of darkness. (see newspaper story below)
"University Missourian", newspaper (Columbia, MO) - September 14, 1911 - TIE AFTER 24 INNINGS. - Sacramento and Portland Finally Abandoned Struggle 1 to 1. SACRAMENTO. Cali. - One of the most remarkable games in the history of baseball was played here Sunday when Portland and Sacramento battled for twenty-four innings, one to one tie. The game was to have been the first of a double header. Portland scored its run in the fourth inning on two hits, Sacramento tying it up in the sixth on two hits. Thereafter, no more runs were made and the umpire finally called the game after It had been in progress three hours and forty minutes. One of the remarkable features was the fact that each team used only one pitcher. Jack Fitzgerald twirled for Sacramento, allowing only ten hits. Seven of these were made in the first nine innings. Elmer Koestner, the Portland pitcher, allowed only twelve hits. Excepting in the fourth and sixth innings, when the runs were made, neither team was able to get more than one hit in any one inning. Fitzgerald fanned fourteen batters and Koestner eleven.
(Mariposa Gazette, 16 September 1911) - A Record Breaking Ball Game. Sacramento. —Baseball history was made Sunday afternoon when the Beavers and Senators for 24 innings tried to down each other and then had to give it up with the score standing one to one, because of from 1:30 o'clock to 5:15 the battle was waged by "Jawn" Fitzgerald and Koestner and when Umpire McGreevy finally called it quits 3000 fans took their first long breath since the sixth inning.
(Sacramento Union, 11 June 1912) - The pitching staff is going along in good shape. Last year, it will be remembered that Jawn Fltzgerald showed no class in the early part of the season, but one day he landed on the ball for a home run out at Buffalo Park and from that time on none of the clubs could touch him. Last Sunday Jawn got his annual home run and the superstitious ones are now for the belief that Fits is due to turn around and pitch some wonderful games. Let's hope so.
(Sacramento Union, 24 August 1912) - Jawn Fitzgerald's Pitching Arm Is Broken By Drive Off Butcher's Bat - VETERAN SLABSTER OUT OF GAME FOR REST OF SEASON - Special to the Union. PORTLAND (Ore.), Aug. 23.—‘Jawn’ Fitzgerald, the Sacramento pitcher who is admitted by every Coast leaguer to be the worst hardluck victim of the season, reached the climax of his ill-fated career of 1912 today when a cannonball drive off Hank Butcher’s bat in the eighth inning broke his throwing arm near the elbow. Fitzgerald was immediately placed under a doctor's care, but the veteran twirler will probably be out for the rest of the season, and his effectiveness as a pitcher may suffer even after this year.
(The Sunday Oregonian, September 08, 1912) - FITZGERALD IS DAZZLING - Sacramento "Has-Been" Comes Back and Holds Beavers to 8 Hits and Wins 10 to 0 Game in His Old-Time Fashion - SACRAMENTO, Sept. 7. (Special.) - Old "Jawn" Fitzgerald came back into his own today and pitched one of those games that helped to make him famous last season. From the first inning until the last Fitz was invincible, and he led the Senators to a 10 to 0 victory over the Beavers. Fitzgerald fanned 10 Portland batsmen. In the first inning he retired two by the air line route, in the second one and in the third inning he fanned three. In only three Innings did he permit more than three batsmen to face him. Two of these occasions came when a hit was scored, the third on a walk, the only walk Fits gave through-out the entire session. On one other occasion a hit was lined out, but a nappy double play kept the limit down to three.
(Sacramento Union, 22 April 1913) - John Fitzgerald Signs With Trolley Team - Well Known Twirler Will Try to Come Back and Climb the Ladder Again, John Fitzgerald, for many years one of the leading twirlers of the Coast league and well known in the baseball circles of the West, was signed yesterday by Manager Frank Bacon of the Brooke Realtys in the Trolley league “Jawn” will go to work immediately and promises to lead the local boys to victory and pennant, Fitzgerald was dropped from the local Coast league team this year after a bad season last year. Although he has been many years in the game, he is not yet willng to be counted with the downs and outs. He thinks that he will be able to come back by working faithfully two or three years in the smaller leagues. Fitz has had several offers from the Northwestern league, but refused to accept them on account of the salary question.
(Sacramento Union, 4 June 1913) - JAWN FITZGERALD TO PITCH FOR VICTORIA CLUB IN NORTHWEST - Jawn Fltzgerald, veteran pitcher of Sacramento, who was turned loose last winter by the local Coast league club and who has since been pitching a winning brand of ball with the Brooke Realty team of the Trolley league, has left for other climes in his fight to show the real comeback stuff. Fitzgerald left last night for Victoria to take a place on the pitching staff of the Victoria club of the Northwestern league. Fitz was to have pitched for the Brookes against the Trolley league leaders in Chico next Sunday, when a special train will be run from Sacramento to take in the battle for first place. Fitz has an old grudge against the Chicoites which he wanted to settle next Sunday, but the Victoria job gives him a chance to show his old-time form and break back into organized ball and he sacrificed his grudge to his meal ticket.
(The Sunday Oregonian, June 22, 1913) - In 1906 Pueblo, Colo., in the Western League, gave Melchoir eating money and the following season he was traded to San Francisco, in the Pacific Coast League, for Pitcher Fitzgerald, now with Victoria. - so this Fitzgerald is indeed "Jack Fitzgerald" - Link to his 1913 Victoria stats - www.baseball-reference.com/register/player.fcgi?id=fitzge...
(The Sunday Oregonian, July 06, 1913) - Fitzgerald Holds Tacoma to 4 Hits - White Bees Bat Freely. TACOMA, Wash., July 5. (Special.) Victoria shut the Tigers out today, 8 to 0, through the masterful pitching of Fitzgerald and the inability of the Tacoma batsmen to hit. Boice, who started for Tacoma, was yanked in the middle of the third and Belford took his plate, but was unable to stop the Bees.
(The Sunday Oregonian, October 05, 1913) - JACK FITZGERALD MAY RETIRE - Erstwhile Pacific Coast Pitcher Returns to Oakland. OAKLAND, CaL. Oct. 4. (Special) - Jack Fitzgerald, a pitching star of the Pacific Coast for the past 16 years, is figuring on retiring. Jack has just returned from the Northwest, where he pitched for a club (Victoria) in the Northwestern League until his bread-earner weakened. Last season Our Jawn was a heaver for the Senators, and he did not make much of a showing. This was a big surprise, as he had one of the greatest years of his career the previous
season, when he was one of the best pitchers In the league. Fitzgerald has been umpiring around quite a bit. And he is a fair indicator man and is figuring on striking President Baum for a job. It has been whispered about that he might become one of the Sacramento's "best" by joining the ranks of the police force. Anyway, Fitz Is home again and glad to be able to answer "present" to his old-time pals.
(Sacramento Union, 26 December 1918) - “Jawn” Fitzgerald Back From Dixie - Lieutenant John Fitzgerald, the oldtime Sacramento ball player, returned to the city yesterday noon, after 18 months service at Camp Jackson, South Carolina. At the time the armistice was signed the regiment with which Fitzgerald was connected was already makings preparations for active service overseas. “Jawn," as he is familiarly known among his cronies here, looks to be in the best of condition and ten years younger. The erstwhile slab artist says he has not had a ball in his hands since he left Sacramento more than a year ago. He has not yet made any definite plans for the future, although he says he will stick to civilian life, having been granted his discharge from the army.
(Sacramento Union, 5 March 1922) - Jawn Pitches Better Brand Than Bob Cat - Today, from the archive of Sacramento baseball greatness, we are reprinting, not an East vs West game, but a wonderful 24 inning record I to 1 contest staged between Portland and Sacramento, with Jack Fitzgerald and Elmer Koestner opposing each other on the mound at Buffalo Park. Jack Fitzgerald, still living here in Sacramento, had been consistently turning in good games for the few weeks previous to his great duel against “Bob Cat” Koestner, and began his career as a professional baseball player as a member of Mike Fisher’s pitching staff of the Senators of 1903. Jack moved with the franchise to Tacoma in 1905 and returned with that same franchise to this city a few years later. Jawn was an overhand pitcher with a corking good drop curve, was almost always in there fighting to win, and was much above the average twirler in the matter of mixing gray matter Info the art of bending ’em over. He was possessed of an peculiar style of delivery which gave one the impression that his arm was being overworked, but I don’t believe I ever heard Jack complain of having a sore arm. Most certainly never during the time we were members of the same team. JACK WAS BEST.
After baseball Jack Fitzgerald earned his living as a hotel clerk in Sacramento.
The sheep in the local area have started lambing over the last week or so. Here is one overworked mother with triplets!
alcuni giorni sono peggiori di altri
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much better large size and on black - molto meglio in grande e su sfondo nero
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Grazie a tutti gli amici di flickr per i gentili commenti e le visite.
Scusate, sono molto stanco e molto impegnato col lavoro; mi riconnetterò appena possibile;
dimenticavo: mia figlia Maddalena, la principessa.
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thanks to all my flickr friends for your kind visits and comments.
I’m sorry: so tired and busy with overwork; I’ll catch up ASAP.
I've forgotten to introduce you my daughter Maddalena, the princess.
Robert 1563-1612 1st Earl of Salisbury of Theobalds & Hatfield in the clothes and decorations his effigy wears on his monument at Hatfield. www.flickr.com/gp/52219527@N00/673WDR www.flickr.com/gp/52219527@N00/JoqEqD
He was the son of William Cecil, 1st Baron Burghley 1520–1598 flic.kr/p/Avr7FC Secretary of State. and 2nd wife Mildred flic.kr/p/hFPSjs daughter of Sir Anthony Cooke of Gidea Hall Romford by Anne flic.kr/p/dtCW61 daughter of Sir William Fitzwilliam of Gains Park, Essex and Milton Northants (sister of Anne wife of Sir NIcholas Bacon)
Educated at Cambridge, he was groomed by his father at court to assist and eventually take over his role as trusted advisor of Elizabeth l, becoming Secretary of State in 1590, and leading minister on his death in 1598. Stunted in growth, Elizabeth called him her pygmy. For many years he was in contact with King James of Scotland facilitating the smooth transfer of the Stuarts to the english throne.
He m 1589 Elizabeth 1597 daughter of William Brooke, 10th Baron Cobham and 2nd wife Frances Newton www.flickr.com/gp/52219527@N00/yn9346
Children
1. William Cecil, 2nd Earl of Salisbury 1591 –1668 a man of little mental aptitude "who never spoke of anything but hunting and hawking" m 1608 Catherine 1633 daughter of Admiral Thomas Howard 1st Earl of Suffolk 1626 by 2nd wife Katherine coheiress of Sir Henry Knyvet of Charlton flic.kr/p/pLCUus and Widow of Richard son of Robert 2nd Baron Rich www.flickr.com/gp/52219527@N00/5mya6K younger brother of the Robert 1st Earl of Warwick flic.kr/p/dzqxKT
In poor health, and worn out by years of overwork Robert took the waters at Bath in 1612, starting on the journey home, he died at Malborough "in great pain and even greater wretchedness of mind"
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Cecil,_1st_Earl_of_Salisbury
Photo with thanks - copyright John Myers CCL
Last Tuesday, I was having a bit of a meltdown. Actually, I've been having a bit of a meltdown ever since I came back from Yosemite to realize that everyone I work with is unhappy, overworked and stressed out. We are misery. Oh, but we're too good to admit it so we grumble softly and soldier on. Well, the others are, at any rate. You know, I don't mind the emergencies. I don't mind the problems I'm never sure how to solve but that I somehow figure out how to solve. I mind the constant panic mode that everyone seems to work under. I mind the unreal expectations and the too much on my plate that never seems to let up and never seems to be enough. I mind doing great work and having to do it again 3 or 4 times because no one really knows what they're doing or what they really want.
But I digress. Last Tuesday, I was so stressed out, I got short of breath. So I got in the car to go for a quick spin through the Marin Headlands which, if I stay in the car, is about 30 minutes round trip. Sometimes I listen to instrumental music, sometimes not. It's usually very peaceful and always beautiful. On the way up, the fog was racing through the Gate like some primordial phantom of romance. It's always amazing to see that big red bridge get almost completely devoured by fog. Or marine layer, if you prefer (thanks Go Bunny!). Instead of turning back around, I kept driving, out to Rodeo Beach. Leaving the sunshine and cell service behind, I got the tripod out of the trunk (thanks mom), dug the pinhole out of my bag (thanks Bosslady) and wandered about a bit on the beach. I was even stopped by some young folks who were excited about the pinhole and told me about non-silver processes that I should try out. When they asked if I had a website, I said "No, but I have a flickr page..." they lost interest and wished me well. I returned the kind wishes and promptly went about shooting off a roll and a bit of film before getting back in the car and returning to work. Total time taken: 50 minutes
Lessons learned: Always wear the correct shoes, always keep a tripod in the car and always take a camera and a few rolls of film in your bag.
Looking Out
Martin Beek:
The paintings, drawings and digital works that form my contribution to this exhibition result from my residency at Camp Walden, Michigan during this summer. With the exception of the Simon’s Wood series of iPad drawings (no. 14), all the work was conceived, painted and drawn in the USA. It has come from a relatively small area of woodland no more than one hundred metres from my cabin studio.
In 2013 I exhibited my ‘plein air’ oils of rural locations in Ipsden and Longworth in a show called ‘The Pace of Nature’. These smaller paintings were a direct response to places that I had come to know well. Each work reflected the changing weather conditions that characterise the British climate; they were about the immediate moment. I did not retouch any of them in the studio.
In Looking Out my approach has slightly altered in that, whilst each work results from many hours’ direct work outside, certain passages and responses to the forest were repainted or reworked under studio conditions as a result of further consideration. This series was also painted as a body of work with several being developed simultaneously, rather than each being a record of a particular day.
Possibly the most difficult thing to do as a painter is not to mimic someone else’s paintings or style. I therefore find that my unique choice of location, which has no immediate association with other artists, is a really helpful move as it gives me a clearer sense of vision. Walden fulfils that for me, as it has done for many years.
This is the first time that I have exhibited in the UK a complete series of American works painted in situ. With the opportunity to spend seven or more hours painting each day, without having to travel any distance, I seem to find I can paint more fluently and the sense of involvement is all the deeper. America during the summer months, with its extreme heat and strong light and shadows, injects a kind of excitement into my work that I don’t often achieve in Britain. I find drawing trees both challenging and rewarding, not at all predictable if one is serious about the task. Here in the heart of the forest new opportunities present themselves. I suppose one of the ‘rules’ of modern painting, if such exist, is to think about the surface and not go for illusionistic tropes. So, as with all my work since 2012, I’ve made it quite specific in its intentions, without labouring or overworking. This results in an effort to create a lively surface.
The paintings are considerably larger than the 150 works of ‘The Pace of Nature’ series. The larger scale involves different approaches, and a lot more physical movement in order to judge the effect of distance and overall optical colour mixtures and relationships.
The acrylic paintings (‘Woodnotes’ I–III) were influenced by my iPad drawings, utilising the possibilities of multiple layers of line and overlapping colour. These works pull away from their motif and are a more personal statement about the forest and capture a fleeting sensation. They are characterised by loose areas of random marks against areas of control, held in the geometry created by the pine trees.
Formally, the works stress verticality and height, looking out and upwards, strong contrasts and spatial division. It was also rewarding to make a number of large charcoal drawings (nos. 11–13) to convey strong areas of light and shade.
Each morning began with an iPad drawing, some of which form Walden Suite (no. 2), a response to the daily variations of light and colour. The iPad drawings echo the Simon’s Wood piece (no. 14) which I began in January 2016 and finished just before my June departure for USA.
Despite the limited space, the new police station is packed with all the necessary features for its daily operation. The Command Center for Operation and Response Team (CCORT) stands in the city under sand blue, black and grey major colors, getting rid of the usual bright blue palette.
Giving way to the vehicular entries, the reception is moved to the first floor led by a wide staircase which becomes a welcoming and prominent feature along the street. Above it are the detention section, interview rooms, and one record room.
Going further up will be the main office for the officers, accompanied with pantry and the female restroom. Half of the area is a double volume space to receive more daylight through the big window. There’s also a meeting room which can be used as a war room if needed.
Above them will be the laboratory and equipment room, where evidence can be analyzed and where weapons and tools are stored. There are also the male restroom and one meeting room. Speaking of the restrooms, both of them have shower in case the overworked officers need to take a break.
Finally you will reach the top floor where the director’s office and flight control room are located. One can also reach the rooftop which is an Orca pad. The parking receiver is usually closed, and extends out upon Orca landing. The charging equipment sits on the side. Seldom do we see an Orca here actually since it’s usually parked for charging and equipment check.
Now, VCPD (V City Police Department) has a solid base for daily operations, providing all the services and support to the citizens in the town!
Despite the limited space, the new police station is packed with all the necessary features for its daily operation. The Command Center for Operation and Response Team (CCORT) stands in the city under sand blue, black and grey major colors, getting rid of the usual bright blue palette.
Giving way to the vehicular entries, the reception is moved to the first floor led by a wide staircase which becomes a welcoming and prominent feature along the street. Above it are the detention section, interview rooms, and one record room.
Going further up will be the main office for the officers, accompanied with pantry and the female restroom. Half of the area is a double volume space to receive more daylight through the big window. There’s also a meeting room which can be used as a war room if needed.
Above them will be the laboratory and equipment room, where evidence can be analyzed and where weapons and tools are stored. There are also the male restroom and one meeting room. Speaking of the restrooms, both of them have shower in case the overworked officers need to take a break.
Finally you will reach the top floor where the director’s office and flight control room are located. One can also reach the rooftop which is an Orca pad. The parking receiver is usually closed, and extends out upon Orca landing. The charging equipment sits on the side. Seldom do we see an Orca here actually since it’s usually parked for charging and equipment check.
Now, VCPD (V City Police Department) has a solid base for daily operations, providing all the services and support to the citizens in the town!
I decided to create a second English Garden painting and this is the first layer ... then it all went wrong and the more I tried to improve it the worse it got!! Wish I had left it at this fresh first layer of acrylic inks. Ah well, it teaches us NOT TO FIDDLE as it just makes the work look laboured and overworked and mine is in the bin!
Despite the limited space, the new police station is packed with all the necessary features for its daily operation. The Command Center for Operation and Response Team (CCORT) stands in the city under sand blue, black and grey major colors, getting rid of the usual bright blue palette.
Giving way to the vehicular entries, the reception is moved to the first floor led by a wide staircase which becomes a welcoming and prominent feature along the street. Above it are the detention section, interview rooms, and one record room.
Going further up will be the main office for the officers, accompanied with pantry and the female restroom. Half of the area is a double volume space to receive more daylight through the big window. There’s also a meeting room which can be used as a war room if needed.
Above them will be the laboratory and equipment room, where evidence can be analyzed and where weapons and tools are stored. There are also the male restroom and one meeting room. Speaking of the restrooms, both of them have shower in case the overworked officers need to take a break.
Finally you will reach the top floor where the director’s office and flight control room are located. One can also reach the rooftop which is an Orca pad. The parking receiver is usually closed, and extends out upon Orca landing. The charging equipment sits on the side. Seldom do we see an Orca here actually since it’s usually parked for charging and equipment check.
Now, VCPD (V City Police Department) has a solid base for daily operations, providing all the services and support to the citizens in the town!
Trying to recreate an old Weird Tales/Pulp story book cover... and probably completely overworked it to death with the effects. Note to brain; less is more!
Day 38 of 365 (Year Four)
After all the teams I was rooting for in the playoffs lost (Ravens, Vikings, Cardinals, etc.) I initially wasn't real excited about the Super Bowl this year. The two teams that made it to the big game weren't on the list of my favorite teams. I'm not a Colts fan (most here in Baltimore aren't) and I am (or rather was) more or less indifferent in my feelings about the Saints.
As the Super Bowl drew nearer, however, I found myself pulling for the Saints. Part of it was my dislike for the Colts, a lot of it was all the predictions I heard favoring the Colts, and a little bit of it was just wanting to see the guy in this photo get a Karmic bitch slap.
By the time Super Bowl Sunday arrived I was 100% behind the Saints. The first quarter of the game made me worry, and the first half of the game wasn't the most thrilling football I've ever seen, but the second half more than made up for that. The onside kick, the interception, getting the two points and watching the Colts start to crumble with the missed field goal, the failed touchdown attempt and again the interception all made the second half a lot more exciting of a game for me. The game was in now way a sure thing until the two minute warning and the Colt's final failed drive for a touchdown.
As much as I don't like the Colts, though, I gotta hand it to Payton Manning, he is one hell of a quarterback. I'm just glad the Saint's defense was up to the challenge of competing against a QB of his caliber.
Then there is, of course, the matter of the commercials. I have to say I wasn't as blown away this year by the commercials that ran during the Super Bowl this year. There were a handful that I did really like though, and a few that I absolutely hated. For anyone that is interested, here is my breakdown (there are a lot of them so feel free to scroll past if you don't care):
Bud Light: Light House: Stupid
Snickers: Betty White: Watching Betty White and Fish get tackled is a WIN in my book
Tebow and Mom: Irritating, but I did like Jimmy Kimmel's rebuttal to the ad.
Hyundai: New Car: Forgettable
Boost Mobile: Super Bowl Shuffle: Stupid
Doritos: Dog Gets Revenge: WIN
Doritos: Play Nice (the one with the kid): WIN
Bud Light: Observatory: Stupid
Coke: Simpsons: Simpsons + Anything is a WIN for me
Go Daddy: OK, am I the only one who is tired of this particular running gag? Enough already. I just find them irritating now. There were a few different Go Daddy ads during the Super Bowl, but I'm gonna lump them all together here and just say irritating and stupid for all of them.
Doritos: Miracle (the dude in the coffin): my least favorite of the four Doritos commercials that ran, but still a WIN
Bud Light: Voice Box: The MOST irritating and annoying commercial of the night. What the hell is Bud Light thinking?
Monster.com: Beavers: mildly amusing, but forgettable
Bridgestone: Bachelor Party: WIN
Sketchers: Shape Up: I don't even remember this one
Cars.com: Growing Up: Pointless
Budweiser: Body Bridge: Apparently Budweirser and Bud Light use a different advertising group. A WIN for Budweiser
Late Show: Leno, Oprah, Letterman: Funny, but I question using Leno to promote anything. I'm with COCO!
CareerBuilder.com: Casual Friday: Mildly amusing, but not one I'd like to see again.
Hyundai: Brett Favre: Another forgettable one, but Favre was funny
Bud LIght: Survivor (more like LOST): The best of the Bud Light commercials, but still not that great
Dove: Are You A Man: Not terrible, but nothing special
NFL.com: All the NFL.com commercials were pretty forgettable
Dodge Charger: Man's Last Stand: Just like the Dove commercial, not terrible, but nothing special
Teleflora.com: Rude Flowers: forgettable
Papa John: Better Pizza: Just more of the same from Papa John. Every time I see a commercial with Papa John in it, he just irks me for some reason, but then I'm not a fan of Papa John Pizza and I always wonder why he won't get a better paint job on his car. It is just so dated.
Dr Pepper: Little Kiss: Funny, but I must have missed something. I didn't get the reason for the midgets. I'm gonna have to go back and re-watch that one.
Universal Orlando: Harry Potter: I want to go, but the commercial wasn't anything special
FloTV: I'm lumping all the FloTV commercials together because they were all pretty much the same. . .forgettable
Intel: Lunchroom: Poor robot. I wanted to like this one, but it really didn't inspire or awe me.
Motorola: Megan Fox: I never thought anything with Megan Fox in it would bore me like this did
VW: Punching Game: WIN with a bonus WIN for Stevie Wonder. How does he do that?
Denny's: Grand Slam and Denny's: Overworked Chickens: The Chicken in Space earned them the WIN. The whole inferred "In Space No One Can Hear You Scream" pushed the Denny's spots into the WIN column. They should have quit while they were ahead though. The Birthday one towards the end of the Super Bowl was just more of the same and not nearly as entertaining as the first two.
Michelob Ultra: Lance Armstrong: Forgettable
HomeAway.com: Hotels: Forgettable
Bridgestone: Future Car: This one just barely squeaked into the WIN column. "I said your LIFE, not your WIFE!"
KGB: Sumo Wrestling: mildly entertaining, but predictable
Coke: Sleepwalking: I thought it was clever, but Savanah really didn't get this one. She kept telling me the guy wasn't being safe. It is dangerous to walk through a herd of elephants like that.
E-Trade: Jealous Girlfriend: This one gets a WIN for the milkaholic tramp baby at the end.
Google: Parisian Love: Clever
Kia Sorento: Joy Ride: I hate sock monkeys. I dislike all of their commercials with these four toy characters.
Round Up: Extended Control: Forgettable
Select 55: Lightest Beer: Forgettable
Vizio: Beyonce: Visually cool, but in the end forgettable
Emerald Nuts and Pop Secret: WIN for sheer silliness
Anheuser Busch: Clydesdale Friend: The Budweiser Clydesdales, always a WIN
Honda Accord: Cross Tour: Another one that was visually interesting, but in the end forgettable
Audi: Green Police: amusing
Taco Bell: Five Buck Box: Ummm, yeah, weird and forgettable. I would have rather seen a new chihuahua spokesdog
Doritos: Weight Room: WIN. Whoever Doritos is using to make their commercials deserves a raise.
Bud Light: Book Club: Another dumb Bud Light commercial, although I did like the final lines. "So, do you like little women?" "Yeah, I'm not too picky" That made me giggle
Hundai: New Sonata: forgettable
E-Trade: Take Charge: Probably one of the least entertaining out of all of the E-Trade Baby commercials ever. Maybe the gag is getting old, even though I liked the Jealous Girlfriend one.
There were a few more that ran after the Super Bowl during the trophy ceremony, but none that really blew me away and I skipped all the movie ads and the EA Dante's Inferno commercials. There really wasn't anything noteworthy about them. All in all, it wasn't the best year for the commercials compared with past years. At least the game got entertaining in the second half.
More recent faves from contacts whose work I admire: 1. Overworked and no TV!, 2. Sunrise at Bryce Canyon, 3. God's away on business., 4. AmericanaVintage_0105, 5. Canadian Legion Branch No. 91, 6. Untitled, 7. Show Me The Money, 8. ~~ moments in the moor ~~, 9. Gunlock Falls, 10. Hungry House , 11. Alone on the Hill, 12. I can see the wind II, 13. Réminiscence estivale
This bee, hard at work, had burrowed into a flower, perhaps a gardenia. She's probably dead by now, of old age, or overwork, but she was doing what bees are supposed to do -- collecting food for the hive, including the queen. A purpose-driven life.
Here's another photo of the same bee, on the same flower, on the same day.
Thanks for looking! Isn't God a great artist?
Blue Line was another of the Doncaster area independents to terminate at Christ Church in the town. Although it doesn't look it, this must have been a rather warm July 1979 day as all the skylights are open or would that be just to release the heat from the overworked Ford engine! It is seen loading for Goole. This was another of the South Yorkshire independents that passed to SYPTE and as the same with T. Severn, Dunscroft, this was in 03/1979 but all vehicles remained licensed to Blue Line along with the associated Reliance until 08/1980. It was new to Blue Line in 05/1975.
The film was an Agfa Colourslide.
I would request, as with all my photos, that they are not copied or downloaded in any way, shape or form. © Peter Steel 1979.
Despite the limited space, the new police station is packed with all the necessary features for its daily operation. The Command Center for Operation and Response Team (CCORT) stands in the city under sand blue, black and grey major colors, getting rid of the usual bright blue palette.
Giving way to the vehicular entries, the reception is moved to the first floor led by a wide staircase which becomes a welcoming and prominent feature along the street. Above it are the detention section, interview rooms, and one record room.
Going further up will be the main office for the officers, accompanied with pantry and the female restroom. Half of the area is a double volume space to receive more daylight through the big window. There’s also a meeting room which can be used as a war room if needed.
Above them will be the laboratory and equipment room, where evidence can be analyzed and where weapons and tools are stored. There are also the male restroom and one meeting room. Speaking of the restrooms, both of them have shower in case the overworked officers need to take a break.
Finally you will reach the top floor where the director’s office and flight control room are located. One can also reach the rooftop which is an Orca pad. The parking receiver is usually closed, and extends out upon Orca landing. The charging equipment sits on the side. Seldom do we see an Orca here actually since it’s usually parked for charging and equipment check.
Now, VCPD (V City Police Department) has a solid base for daily operations, providing all the services and support to the citizens in the town!
It was the end of the summer in 1918 in Philadelphia, a city of a million and a half people.
World War I, "the war to end all wars," was drawing to a close as the British crossed the Hindenburg Line. At the University of Pennsylvania, drilling, uniforms, and war courses were the order of the day for 2,240 students of draft age who had been inducted into the Students' Army Training Corps (SATC), a federal program designed to prepare young men as officers. Penn's dormitories and fraternity houses served as barracks. By order of Major Charles T. Griffith, the officer in charge of the program, the University's daily newspaper, The Pennsylvanian, had been placed under military authority and served as the official bulletin of the SATC.
www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2004/10/041007081335.htm
In Philadelphia, it was business as usual. People were flocking to the long-running British musical Chu Chin Chow at the Shubert Theater, Jerome Kern's Leave It to Jane at the Chestnut Street Opera House, and John Philip Sousa's Liberty Loan concert at Willow Grove Park. Everyone was sure it was just a matter of time until "the boys came home." No one was paying much attention to the account of an unusual sickness reported earlier in the year by a Spanish wire service to Reuter's London headquarters: "A strange form of disease of epidemic character has appeared in Madrid."
Within a short time, eight million Spaniards were ill with what was to be named the "Spanish influenza." Fueled by troop movements, it spread like wildfire across Europe, the Mideast, and Asia. By the summer of 1918, the "Spanish Lady" had reached American soil. In 120 days, more than half of the world's population would fall victim to the influenza pandemic, and nearly 22 million would die of complications.
The disease began with a cough, then increasing pain behind the eyes and ears. Body temperature, heart rate, and respiration escalated rapidly. In the worst cases, pneumonia quickly followed. The two diseases inflamed and irritated the lungs until they filled with liquid, suffocating the patients and causing their bodies to turn a cyanotic blue-black.
In Pennsylvania, the influenza epidemic began almost unnoticed in the middle of September. First a few cases, and then the numbers began to rise rapidly. Worried state health authorities decided to add influenza to the list of reportable diseases. Their concern increased when 75,000 cases were reported statewide. The worst was still ahead.
Philadelphia was about to become the American city with the highest death toll in one of the three worst epidemics in recorded history.
Philadelphia newspapers and The Pennsylvanian chronicled the passage of the "Spanish Lady" day-by-day through city and campus.
Philadelphia, October 4: 636 new cases, 139 deaths.
Dr. A.A. Cairns, acting president of the Philadelphia Board of Health, is frantic: more new cases every day, and the city's death toll is mounting. How can the disease be stopped when no one even knows why it is spreading? The state has already closed all the vaudeville and picture houses, theaters, and saloons in Pennsylvania. Cairns decides to close all schools and churches in the city...
Philadelphia businessmen are up in arms about the epidemic. More cases mean more employee absences and fewer customers. It is no longer business as usual, but business if possible. In desperation, the Bell Telephone Company runs the following full-page notice in the newspapers:
Telephone Service Faces A Crisis
The situation is one which the public must meet squarely -- 800 operators -- 27% of our force -- are now absent due to the influenza. It is every person's duty to the community to cut out every call that is not absolutely necessary that the essential needs of the government, doctors and nurses may be cared for.
Worried Philadelphians, wearing gauze influenza masks over their noses and mouths, quickly cross to the other side of the street if a passerby chances to cough or sneeze.
Weeping women in West Manayunk block the car of Dr. Joseph Schlotterer, who is making a house call, and permit him to leave only after he treats 57 neighborhood children.
Frantic shoppers strip pharmacy shelves bare. The press of customers is so great that the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy and Temple University suspend classes so that pharmacy students can help fill prescriptions. Most are for whiskey, which, now that saloons are closed, is available only in drugstores. Rather than wait to become a statistic, people turn to home remedies: goose-grease poultices, sulfur fumes, onion syrup, chloride of lime.
Snake-oil artists hawk their useless potions in newspaper ads:
Use Oil of Hyomei. Bathe your breathing organs with antiseptic balsam.
Munyon's Paw Paw Pills for influenza insurance.
Sick with influenza? Use Ely's Cream Balm. No more snuffling. No struggling for breath.
To prevent further spread of the epidemic among Penn students, most of whom are in the SATC, the Board of Health cancels a football rally and a campus Liberty Loan rally featuring screen actor William S. Hart.
Major Griffith, in charge of the SATC at Penn, warns that campus residents who fail to keep their windows open will be severely punished. The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania is quarantined, and no visitors are permitted.
The SATC commandeers two of the University's largest fraternity houses -- Delta Psi and Phi Kappa Psi -- and fits them out as emergency hospitals. Due to the shortage of physicians, third- and fourth-year Penn medical students volunteer to take care of the patients.
Panic is beginning the grip the city.
Philadelphia, October 6: 788 new cases, 171 deaths.
The Philadelphia Inquirer derides the closing of public places:
What are the authorities trying to do? Scare everyone to death? What is to be gained by shutting up well-ventilated churches and theaters and letting people press into trolley cars?
What then should a man do to prevent panic and fear? Live a clean life. Do not even discuss influenza... Worry is useless. Talk of cheerful things instead of disease.
The Inquirer heeds its own admonitions and relegates all further news of the epidemic to its back pages. In the other city newspapers, the flu is still page-one news.
The war continues in Europe. General Pershing's forces advance three miles but, across the Atlantic, the epidemic is stalling the homefront war effort. To boost the case for the Fourth Liberty Bond Loan, the Evening Bulletin prints an anonymous article that claims the Spanish influenza began in the German trenches. Whether an artful propaganda piece or mere speculation, the report stirs bitter feelings against the "beastly Huns." The sale of Liberty Bonds skyrockets.
At Penn, the Board of Health puts the Houston Hall poolroom under indefinite quarantine and fumigates all dormitories. The Christian Association calls for student volunteers to help in the current emergency.
Philadelphia, October 8: 1,481 new cases, 250 deaths.
The shortage of doctors and nurses, 75 percent of whom had been called to military duty, is acute. The director of the Philadelphia Hospital pleads for volunteers to relieve nurses who have collapsed from overwork.
In many families, both parents are ill and unable to care for their children. Their cries for help often go unheeded, as many neighbors fear entering a house where there is influenza. Others, without thought of their own safety, tend the ill, care for the children, and comfort the dying. Roman Catholic Archbishop Dennis Dougherty gives permission to 1,000 Sisters of Saint Joseph to work in private residences caring for the sick.
hiladelphia, October 10: 5,531 new cases, 361 deaths.
Philadelphia hospitals are filled to overflowing. Hospital beds are set up in the Armory. The Medico-Chirurgical Hospital, closed to make room for the construction of the new Benjamin Franklin Parkway, is reopened. The University of Pennsylvania, together with Jefferson College and Hahnemann Medical College, recruits 300 fourth-year medical students to aid overworked physicians.
Isaac Starr, M'20, is assigned to the Medico-Chirurgical Hospital. With only a single lecture about influenza to guide him, he finds there is little he can do, other than get the dead out of the way for the living. He never sees the faces of his fellow workers. They are gowned and masked like himself.
The Philadelphia Public Ledger uses the epidemic as a stick in its long-running battle with State Senator Edwin H. Vare and his political machine. A front-page article claims that Vare holds the street-cleaning contracts for South Philadelphia, where mortality is heaviest. Besieged by outraged residents, the Bureau of Street Cleaning agrees to sprinkle the streets with disinfectant.
Red Cross volunteers meet to make influenza masks and sew shrouds for the mounting numbers of dead. The daily death notices fill an entire page: seven columns of small print with a repetitious litany: "...of pneumonia, age 21" "...of influenza, age 26." The toll is heaviest among young adults.
Philadelphia, October 11: 4,013 new cases, 517 deaths.
Local businessmen voluntarily close their shops and distribute food and supplies to suffering families. One department store -- Lit Brothers -- donates two delivery trucks to serve as ambulances. Another -- Strawbridge and Clothier -- uses its telephone-order line to field calls for help: Call Filbert 100. If the response is 'Strawbridge and Clothier,' ask for 'Influenza.'
Penn students join with off-duty policemen to relieve the shortage of hospital stretcher-bearers, carrying in the living only to exchange them for the dead. Other Penn student-volunteers at the University Settlement House help in the dispensary and operate a soup kitchen for children whose parents are too ill to feed them.
After 12 Penn dental students are stricken, the University closes the Dental School, noting that "working over patients' mouths subjects the men to the danger of contracting the disease."
Philadelphia, October 14: 4,302 new cases, 557 deaths.
A new health menace threatens: the dead are not being buried fast enough.
More than 500 corpses are awaiting burial, some for more than a week. The Office of the Coroner cannot keep up with the demand for death certificates. Cold-storage plants are used as temporary morgues, and the J.G. Brill Company, manufacturers of trolley cars, donates 200 packing crates to be used as coffins. Prisoners from the House of Correction team up with seminarians from St. Charles Seminary to dig graves, as the cemeteries cannot keep up with the demand.
To deal with the problem of hundreds of unburied corpses, volunteers drive horse-drawn carts through the city streets, calling people to bring out the dead. Wagonloads of bodies, each tagged for identification, are buried at Potter's Field at Second and Luzerne Streets, where the Bureau of Highways is digging trenches for graves. Only the promise that bodies can be reinterred when the epidemic abates persuades grieving relatives to give up their loved ones to the "dead wagons."
Fifty students from Penn's Dental School volunteer to work in city hospitals to relieve exhausted medical staffs. The Board of Health bans all public meetings on campus and shuts down the pool. University officials receive word that Arthur T. Eissing, W'18, class president, has died of pneumonia at Camp Dick, Texas, after contracting influenza while in Philadelphia.
Philadelphia, October 16: 2,280 new cases, 650 deaths.
The heavy death toll attracts human vultures. Some cemeteries raise burial fees to $15 and tell families they will have to dig the graves themselves. Several undertakers increase the price of their services by 500 percent.
Unscrupulous pharmacists inflate the price of cheap whiskey -- usually the only treatment prescribed for influenza -- to $52 a gallon. Enterprising barkeeps defy the Board of Health ban on saloons with back-door sales. One saloon owner argues with the Vice Squad that he is only looking after the health of his regular customers.
The ferries are jammed with people anxious to get to Camden, where the bars are still open. The daily mass exodus causes Dr. Henry Davis, chief of the Camden Board of Health, to close the city's saloons "in the interest of public health. Thousands of the lowest people of Philadelphia came over the river and created great disorder. They were the vilest men and women that have visited Camden."
At Penn, the Wharton Evening School of Finance and Accounting finally opens after several postponements. Photo sessions for new students in the College and the Towne Scientific School are canceled due to illness of the photographers. K.B. Crawford, a senior medical student who contracted the flu while working at the Emergency Red Cross Hospital, dies of complications from the disease.
The Flu of 1918 (continued)
Philadelphia, October 17: 1,686 new cases, 711 deaths.
The city's hospitals are placed under police supervision, with patrol cars serving as ambulances. The Red Cross Home Service, besieged by servicemen overseas for information about their families, frequently sends no reply. The families do not wish them to know their loved ones have died.
Countless deeds of charity help rescue the forgotten members of society -- the destitute, the orphaned, the retarded, and the friendless. Sisters of the Holy Child comfort and care for youngsters in a West Philadelphia home for "backward children" after all the staff have fled. Emergency Aid members visit shabby boarding houses where hundreds lie ill with no one to assist them and arrange for their care.
A man who sneezed is forcibly ejected from a trolley by his fellow passengers.
Little girls jump rope to a grim new rhyme:
I had a little bird
And its name was Enza
I opened the door
And in-flew-Enza.
At Penn, football games with Swarthmore and the Marines are canceled. The Christian Association issues an urgent call for more student volunteers.
Philadelphia, October 20: 1,334 new cases, 606 deaths.
Philadelphians note the latest count in reported cases. Is the epidemic waning?
Dr. Franklin Royer, acting Pennsylvania Commissioner of Health, says no: "For a five-year period, the state's daily average death rate in October from influenza,la grippe, and pneumonia combined is less than 30. Yet Philadelphia continues to report hundreds of deaths daily."
Dr. J. Solis-Cohen says yes: "The progress of the influenza epidemic should be noted from the number of new cases and not from the number of deaths."
Dr. Solis-Cohen is right.
As quickly as the epidemic had come, it left.
Churches reopened on October 27 in Philadelphia. Schools, theaters, vaudeville houses, and bars followed in quick succession.
Penn's Dental School reopened. Delta Psi house and Phi Kappa Psi house, used as emergency hospitals, became a barracks and a naval officers' mess hall, respectively. Penn student volunteers returned to their studies.
The passage of the "Spanish Lady" through the streets of Philadelphia left in its wake 12,191 reported deaths and 47,094 reported cases in four weeks and a business community crippled by revenue-losses in the millions. Among Penn's 5,000 students, there had been four deaths and 312 cases reported.
World War I killed 15 million people in four years; the Spanish flu killed perhaps twice that number worldwide in six months. It killed more Americans than all combat deaths of this century combined. No other disease has killed so many so fast. Yet the collective amnesia regarding the pandemic is astonishing. Today most Americans know more about the Black Death of medieval times than they do about the 1918 flu.
One question still haunts medical science: Where did the virus come from and where did it go after 1918? Some believe that a mild hog flu virus combined with an equally mild Pfeiffer bacillus in a synergetic process, producing a killer that injured human lungs beyond their capacity to recover -- but no one knows for certain.
Eileen A. Lynch is a writer and editor. She was formerly a research specialist in epidemiology at Penn and later a senior writer in Development Communications. This account is based primarily on contemporary newspaper accounts of the epidemic's progress in the city and on the Penn campus.
A little different, but I think I like it. I've looked at it too long so I'm not sure. lol. I've given up on fancy poses for Miss Abigail. Her little body just wants to curl up into a ball, so we're gonna let her be HER and just go with it. Sweet baby girl. 3 weeks old.
Happy Slider's Sunday....I've probably overworked this photo but, once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. lol...The vintage suitcase just seemed to scream for some vintage processing.
Nikon D5000, 35mm
==Slabside Penitentiary==
9000 miles away from Gotham City, in the middle of Antarctica, lies the most remote prison on Earth. Nicknamed The Slab, Slabside Penitentiary is a sprawling, concrete supermax designed to hold the most volatile, the most powerful and the most persuasive metahumans on Earth. However, contrary to its longstanding reputation, its security has been lacking as of late. Once Arkham City fell, the prison became the de facto facility for housing costumed criminals of all classes and levels of notoriety. Like a curse, it also inherited all of Arkham’s past problems. Six months ago, the mercenary Deathstroke breached the prison and released Onomatopoeia to silence former Gotham Mayor Marion Grange. Onomatopoeia succeeded in silencing Grange, and himself, when he blew the two of them apart with an explosive vest during a confrontation with Drury Walker. Four months later, Walker returned to Slabside to recruit one of its more peculiar inmates for a time-crossing mission. It didn’t end well. Walker got cold feet, and his prospective partner got a full-body cast, courtesy of Zoom. Then, less than twelve hours ago, Kite-Man entered Slabside alone, to secure The Riddler’s assistance in an impending assault on Arkham.
That brings us to now: an isolated inmate lies dormant in his hospital bed; his face submerged under a mass of white bandages. A plastic analogue clock hung above him, steadily ticking on. A half-full cup of water sat on his bedside table, alongside a disorganised stack of pills, tablets and other medicines. A chart was affixed to the end of the bed with the name ‘David Clinton’ scrawled on it in the typical, messy handwriting of a prison doctor. Closed eyelids scrunched tighter, as though the inmate was suffering particularly potent night terrors.
He was about to be.
The faintest hum of a teleport echoed down the hallway, ignored by the overworked, underpaid skeleton crew on this floor. Black boots glided silently along the ground, edging closer towards the bed whilst the inmate slept on. A black gauntlet took hold of the plastic cup, then splashed its contents into the inmate’s face, jolting him awake. Blue eyes slammed open suddenly, then relaxed at the sight of the intruder. Another man would have flinched at the shrouded, grim silhouette of The Batman at the foot of their bed; many so-called ‘tough guys’ would have screamed. Instead, the inmate took a tissue out of the bedside box and, unfazed, began mopping up the water.
“What time is it?” an ethereal voice escaped the white wrappings.
“You would know better than me,” The Batman replied. “Wouldn’t you?”
The inmate uttered a single, mirthless “hah!” as his electric blue eyes narrowed. The damp tissue scrunched up into a ball in his grip. “It’s late; that much I know. Too late for a Gothamite, even one with hours as irregular as yours... Which means this must be urgent.”
The Batman’s silence betrayed him. There was a shuffling sound as he reached into his belt pouch and unearthed a crinkled envelope. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, holding it aloft.
“A get well soon card? You needn't have bothered. I haven't the room on my dresser.”
“No,” he said flatly, handing over the envelope. Clinton’s bandaged face shifted; the playful coyness had disappeared. Bruce shivered slightly. His bandaged visage dredged up unpleasant memories.
Clinton stroked the paper, with each gentle caress of his finger, he identified possibilities that ought not to be; pathways opened that should have remained shut. Temporal discrepancies, written in ink. “This letter is an anomaly. It is the one anomaly. It shouldn't exist.”
“And yet it does,” Batman stated.
“And yet… it does.”
“Chronos, I know Walker took your belt. I need to know when he travelled to; the exact date, to the minute, if possible. I need to know if this note is legitimate. I need to know if it's from who it says it’s from.”
“Why?”
“Because if it is... if it is, it might just save his life.”
“And if it isn't?”
Batman bowed his head, concealing the emotion behind his eyes. “It will drive him deeper into despair. That I know for a fact.”
“There's just one problem, Batman. Why would I care what happens to Walker?” Clinton asked, propping the letter between two bottles of aspirin. He took a steady sip of cold water, then sank into his pillow. “He burned my utopia, a version of him, at least, and his continued meddling placed me in this bed. I certainly don't care if anything good happens. Allow me this hypothetical: let’s say I claim it’s legitimate, knowing that it’s not. You offer him a false promise, one too many, and you will crush his heart forever. Or, I say it's illegitimate, again, knowing that it’s not, and you deny him his salvation… He does, as the Killer Moth does, and you lose him all the same. Do you see what I'm getting at?”
Batman was silent for a moment, then his words returned, calmer than before. “Palmer tells me you can see the future. What am I thinking right now?” he inquired.
Clinton frowned. “You're-”
“Wondering if I can push that bed out the window before the guards show, yes,” the slightest smile flashed across The Batman’s shadowed features. “And now, you and Walker's futures are intertwined. Now, it's your future you're gambling.”
Chronos took another sip of water, remoistening his cracked lips. “Then let's not waste any more time,” he relented, gently tugging the letter free from the envelope. He read to himself, scoffing at the scribed sentimentality within. Batman watched closely, then his eyes widened.
Blood.
Blood dripped onto the bedcovers, staining them red. His eyes darted towards Clinton; still injured, but his cuts sealed, then at the letter itself. The paper was bleeding. One splotch of blood after another manifested on the page and trickled downwards. It was as if the note itself was wounded. Quickly, he moved to intercept, cutting short Clinton’s investigation.
“Stop! What are you doing? Put it back!” he ordered.
Clinton relented. With a flick of his wrist, the paper returned to its original state. The blood vanished as though it had never been drawn, with nary a spot on Clinton nor his bedsheets. “I’m sorry,” he apologised “It just... slipped out.”
“What was that?” Batman asked, snatching the letter back, then returning it to his utility belt.
“The future,” Clinton explained. “Another gift of mine, courtesy of prolonged exposure to the temporal void. My clairvoyancy extends to the material world. I can accelerate a timeline with a touch; I can ripen fruit, prove bread, dry paint and grow trees... I can follow the path of the physical from birth till death with but a stroke of my finger. Time has its ways of speaking to us, you know, but only I know its language.”
Batman shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then answer me this,” Clinton took another sip. “Where did I get the water?”
Batman stared at the cup in Clinton’s grasp, replenished with no jug in sight. Then without warning, and with speed atypical for a man hospitalised, Clinton lunged forward, gripping his forearm.
“Now,” he smiled. “What was it you said about a window?”
Bruce winced. Dark patches formed under his batsuit. Blood from wounds since healed seeped through the Kevlar armour, and he stumbled back.
“I told you; time is my tapestry. Mine to read and mine to weave.”
Freed from Clinton’s touch, the patches rescinded. The suit dried. And both men understood each other at last.
“I have to go,” Bruce said briskly, more shaken than he let on, then he turned towards the exit.
“We all have to go, Batman,” Clinton said quietly. “And some of us sooner than others.”
~-~
Drury stood in Ted Carson’s empty cell, staring at his abandoned helm, untouched since his last dance with the Reverse-Flash. His fingers followed the arc of blood across the walls; the blows still fresh in his mind, his wounds still sore. He knelt down, then picked up the battered helmet, wiping a smear of blood- his own -off its forehead. He put it over his head, then arose anew as the Killer Moth.
==Arkham North: Courtyard==
Gar had taken Krill aside for a private conservation; the discussion was tense, but it appeared that they had an accord. As Krill departed, he patted Simon on the back. “You did good, lad,” he smirked affirmatively.
“Krill,” Gar said with some urgency.
“Aye-aye, keep your- scalp on,” Krill snapped back. “Back in ten. See you outside the mansion, yeah?” Gar nodded back, a surly expression on his face, then the Polka Dot Man opened a purple portal and stepped through the vortex.
Blake and Sharpe seemed to be arguing for some time, Bridget observed. The subject of their present disagreement was Lord Manga. The metal mogul was in mourning; his robot companion, L-Ron, lay swaddled in his magenta cape like a newborn baby. Blake was shaking his head, making various uncooperative gestures: Sharpe meanwhile had emptied his pockets to illustrate, quite flamboyantly, his own inability to provide financial compensation. After taking turns poking at their respective injuries, Blake grumbled and the two approached Lord Manga in lockstep. Sharpe took point, his inside-out pockets flapping against his thighs like elephant ears, handing Manga a wad of what had been Blake’s cash. “Hey, dude, sorry ‘bout the Gonk, this ought to pay for a good repairman.”
“Your doodles are touching, human, but I fail to see the significance of this aged female.”
“That’s- That’s George Washington dude. It’s dough. Moolah. Green.”
“Paper?” Manga asked, his volume on the verge of reaching unreasonable levels. “You pay in paper? Your currency is tree-trimmings? Pulp?”
Blake and Sharpe had no answer for him. Manga’s fist clenched around the bills, then he raised his head to the heavens and exhaled a puff of pink steam through a small slit in his helm. “Damn this backwater mud ball.”
A nearby cacophony of squeaks caught Bridget's ear, then she turned around. “The hell-”
A pack of plump rats had swarmed Flannegan’s body, crowding around him and clamping their tiny jaws around his clothing to get a grip of him. Together, the rats moved Flannegan along the ground in the direction of the maintenance hatch from which he had he had joined the battle. More still crawled under his legs and head, keep them from hitting against the ground.
“Hey, what are you-?” Bridget asked, moving between them and the maintenance hatch to cut them off. She reached out her hand and the lead rat snapped. Reproachful, Bridget clutched her fingers in her other hand, then stood aside, allowing the rats safe passage to the below. A hand rested on her shoulder and she turned back.
“Let them go,” Needham advised.
“I was just trying to-” Bridget started.
“I know what you were trying to do. But maybe- shit -maybe they know better than you or me.”
Bridget looked back; the strongest of the rat pack had coalesced, working together to keep the hatch raised, then the rest of the rats carried Flannegan down to his watery resting place. “I don't understand this world,” Bridget said, wiping her eyes. “Any of it.”
“And you think I do?” Needham asked. “Rats and robots and Reverse-Flashes from the future?”
“Nice alliteration.”
“Thanks. The point is, we face it all together. Good and bad.”
==The Bowman Estate==
Bowman’s bedroom was bathed in a purple glow as a circular portal opened and a man in white emerged. His pimpled brow furrowed; he had been told he would be extracting five people, not three. But the haggard expressions on the survivors’ faces told him everything he needed to know.
Jenna’s back straightened. “What did you do?” she asked, her tone immediately accusatorial. “Where’s McCulloch?”
“Gone,” Krill said casually, rolling his shoulders. “Poor bloke fell to pieces, so I’m told. It turns out he boasts a lot more than a glass jaw.”
Jenna grabbed the bedside lamp, holding it close against her chest.
“Easy, luv,” Krill raised his palms. “I’m on the side of the angels tonight. Think of it as a Chrimbo miracle.”
“You should know I’m not feeling very festive. Might have something to do with the blood on my overalls,” Jenna stated.
“And a crappy new year to you too. Look on the bright side, yeah? You fared better than Tockman. He looks like the subject of a burger bukkake.”
Tockman mumbled something in German rendered inaudible by the hands used to cover his face; Mayo, ducked under the bed sheet, so as to avoid implicating himself. “Your highness,” Krill bowed, one hand on his gut. “That a pickle in your pants or you just happy to see me?”
Mayo scrunched his face, then reached under the covers. “It’s a pickle.”
~-~
Drury’s journey to the mansion had been uneventful; eerily so. By the time he reached the door to Arkham’s- Joker’s -office, he was already dripping blood; reopened wounds from past battles fought. The Outcasts had left their mark on Drury’s skin. A trio of glass shards he couldn’t pick out dug into his shoulder blade; the remnants of a one-way mirror obliterated by the snap of Zoom’s fingers. His left hand twitched; blood seeping through to stain his lilac gloves; cuts created when he drove his fist through Sims’ lens to bludgeon the man beneath the mask. His puffed-up face rubbed against the lining of his helm; swelling caused by a brick wall and Thawne’s swift evasion. The worst wounds were Carson’s; a needle-thin scar down his face from a wrist-mounted laser; cracked ribs from several punches and a tumble down a Christmas tree; his leg, as bad as it ever was. To say nothing of the psychological damage wrought by Spellbinder’s games.
Drury removed his helmet, placing an unencumbered ear against the wooden door to confirm Joker’s presence. Listening closely, he was met with the faint sound of ABBA’s ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)’ pulsing through the door. Taking the lyrics as confirmation that Joker was here, and that he was calling to him like a swarm of Swedish sirens, he put his helmet back on and took a step back.
Drury’s boot kicked at the door. It didn’t give. At the second kick, a voice rang out.
“Who’s there?”
Drury stepped back again, rolling his shoulders, then took a run up, putting his body weight into a shoulder barge that, at last, knocked the door open. As he took a single step into the bloodstained, graffitied office, the glow of the coming dawn creeped through the windows; bars of radiant sunbeams lit up the stained glass, giving unearned divinity to the Joker’s abode. He was sat behind Arkham’s desk, scribbling something down with some vigour. As Drury peered closer, it became obvious that he was filling out a colouring book.
“No, no, no, that won’t do at all! Go back outside and do it properly!” Joker shook his head churlishly, tossing a rainbow’s worth of coloured pencils off the desk. “No? Let me demonstrate!” he chastised him, violently chapping the desk with his knuckles. “Knock. Knock. Who's there? Wu. Wu who? Woohoo, now we can really get this party started!”
Drury said nothing.
“Oh! Where are my manners... Welcome to the ABBA-toir, Drubert!” Joker cackled merrily, switching moods as quickly as flicking a light switch. “Sorry about the soundtrack; Doctor Arkham keeps terrible, heh, records. Probably explains the weekly exodus of patients.” He was wearing a striped, orange cape over his usual purple suit, and he did a small twirl to model it.
“How d’you like the new threads? I saw it hanging up in the cutest little crematorium in the East End, and well, I thought of you. Well, your wife. And your father-in-law. Also, Tigress. And Bronze Tiger.”
…
“Velvet Tiger.”
“It’s a tiger-print cape. Make of that what you will.”
Drury pressed his hand down on the record; it scratched, slowed, then stopped entirely. Joker’s green eyes glinted. “Oh, turn that frown upside down sourpuss! I made fruitcake!” he announced, gesturing to a catering table full of festive foods.
“Well, it’s stollen,” he admitted with a sly smile.
“Do you know what you did?” Walker asked.
“Sure! I put together some damn good television,” Joker answered, sliding back into his seat. “I wrote theatrical dynamite! And! I gave you the closure most can only dream of! The chance to face your insecurities and punch ‘em in their glass jaws! And I did it all so that you would stop moping about the past and look to the future! Our future! They told me Arkham couldn’t cure a common cold! Amazing what a change in regime and the right equipment can accomplish! And if Batsy doesn’t want to play with us then we'll drop our pantaloons and play with each other. What do you say, BFFN (Best friend for now)?”
“What do I say?” Drury asked through gritted teeth.
“Yes, preferably!” Joker prodded. “After all, we have so much in common!”
“Don’t give me that line, I’ve used that line. We’re nothing alike,” Drury spat venomously.
“Of course we are! We have all the same friends, enemies, profession… Don’t get me started on our interests; musical theatre, killing Carson, an affinity for purple (and brooding men in tights…)” Joker’s eyes twinkled with malicious nostalgia. “And boy, do we like a barbeque! Or should that be Garbeque? Why, we go together like hydrochloric acid and a veterinarian! We go together like a poisoned pretzel and a famished Bavarian!” he sang. “So! Come on, pardner! What do you say?”
‘What would he say?’ Drury pondered. He looked to the floor, his indignant, loathful expression hidden by his mask. Then finally, he spoke, with a voice unlike his own. “If someone told you to run, you'd run, right?” he wondered. “Because that'd be the smart thing to do.”
His neck jerked up, a layer of polycarbonate the only thing shielding his eyes from Joker’s. “I don't want you to be smart.”
“So, when I say run, you do me a favour, alright, and stay right there. Exactly there. So that when I beat you, when your brains are play-doh on my fists, I can tell them, honestly, truthfully, that I told you to leave. That I gave you an out and you didn’t take it.”
“Let's try that now, yeah? Joker?”
“Run.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Beaming broadly with porcelain teeth and shark-like eyes, Joker reached for the gun in his drawer; a long-barrelled six shooter. Drury fired first; cocoon gunk bound Joker’s hand to the drawer. Coldly, Drury walked towards the desk, one steady step after another. “Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” Joker cast his eyes down at the sticky, off-white binding. “Why, we haven’t even had dessert- urk!”
Drury gripped the back of Joker’s head and slammed his face against the table; there was a crunch of broken cartilage as his nose made first contact with the oak tabletop.
“Shut up.”
Joker’s free hand shot up, jamming a coloured pencil into Drury’s neck. Drury recoiled; Joker slipped his glove and grabbed his gun. Drury caught the barrel and pointed it up into the roof. Bang. Bang. Chunks of white plaster rained down from the ceiling. He held Joker’s hand against the wall with his right, and punched him in the gut with his left, forcing him to drop the firearm. Drury didn’t get the chance to use it himself. Joker squeezed his lapel flower, squirting acid. The acid splattered across Drury’s mask; he removed it; using it as a shield against the next drizzle of acid, then he cracked it across Joker’s face. Joker giggled, taking an exaggerated step backwards, wobbling like a Bop Bag. He reached for the purple rotary on his desk, but Drury reached it first. He wrapped the phone cord around Joker's throat and bashed his head against the desk.
“Heh. I know- I know what you’re thinking.” Joker croaked, as the cord dug into his neck.
“Doubt it.”
“But- ha! -the last time I owned a Kord-less telephone, I was viciously set upon by The Blue Beetle!”
Joker snipped the chord with a razor tipped playing card, then elbowed Drury in the ribs, creating distance.
“He’s always bugging me, that one. Heh.”
A royal flush pierced Drury’s side. He winced, as he pulled an ace from his abdomen. His arm tanked the next barrage of playing cards. His flexi-wings moved to shield Drury; fortunately, Gar had packed the prototype. A dyed halibut clobbered Drury in the face. Stollen bounced off Joker’s head. Drury stuck the bread knife into Joker’s thigh then dragged downwards, slicing his leg open. Joker stamped on Drury’s foot, and in his pain, released the knife. Joker yanked the blade out of his thigh and started swinging it at Drury; the first frenzied slash sliced apart his forearm, as Drury attempted to shield his face. On the next swing, Drury caught the knife by its blade, blood trickled down his wrist as he wrestled it from Joker’s grip. With his other hand, Joker squeezed his boutonniere. Drury relinquished the knife, throwing his still bleeding hand up to shield himself, as the flower sprayed acid across his palm. Teeth bared, Drury launched his fist into Joker’s face; Joker at last dropping the knife; then ripped the flower off his lapel. The acid, still spewing from the flower’s centre, melded glove and hand.
With his unscathed hand, Drury grabbed the scruff of Joker’s collar and forced him through the stain glass window, then dragged his face over the newly, twice-stained shards. White skin peeled away like wallpaper, leaving thick strips of red muscle exposed across the clown’s face. With each new wound, Joker only laughed. “Yes!” he cackled. “Yes! What’s next? What’s next? Twist my arm? Pull my finger? Purple my nurple?”
Joker caught a fallen shard of green glass, then plunged it into Drury’s side; Drury lumbered back, then a spring-loaded boxing glove struck him in the gut; sending him flying into a nine-foot Christmas Tree. Grenades dangled from the branches in place of baubles, and so, Drury took the nearest one, unpinned it, and launched it at Joker. Joker dodged, and the grenade ripped apart the floorboards.
Both men slid along the collapsing floor; as did the revolver and a dozen uneaten appetisers; landing on the floor below. Joker stirred, sitting cross-legged on the dust-drowned ground, wooden splinters down his backside. His eyes scanned the darkness, but he saw no sign of his playmate. Just as he got to his feet, Drury came from behind, wrapping his striped cape around his fist, and pulled, choking Joker. A joyful tear ran down Joker’s cheek. He cut the edge of the cape off with a switchblade, then cast the torn cape aside completely before Drury could again exploit it. Then, reading Drury’s questioning expression, Joker flicked his jacket open, revealing a kitchen’s worth of blades fastened within its inner lining.
Their breather lasted five seconds only, then they returned to bloody battle.
The knife nicked Drury’s mouth, leaving the crude beginners of a red smile along his left cheek. “Och, hoots, mon! Have ye no heard of a Glasgae smile?” Joker teased, delivering his taunt in an equally crude Scottish accent.
Drury tackled Joker, pulling his jacket down over his shoulders. “Oh Drury-!” Joker giggled with a put-on sultry voice, tickling his abs with his finger. Drury was unmoved, with one hand he pinned Joker to the ground and with the other, reached into the jacket, securing a butcher’s cleaver from Joker's assorted armaments. Like beheading a chicken, he swung the cleaver down, and the Joker’s severed hand bounced off the ground. A fountain of blood gushed out Joker’s wrist.
Fake blood.
Joker’s hand popped out of his sleeve unscathed, waving his palm at Drury; Drury dodged the sparking joybuzzer, grabbing hold of Joker’s forearm and yanking downwards; the bone snapped like uncooked linguini. If it pained Joker, he never let on. His other hand reached up, painting a crimson smile on Drury’s face with his blood. Drury spat out the blood in revulsion. He recoiled, stepping back from Joker, his head spinning. He scrubbed his face with his hand, but that only seemed to spread the blood further. He could feel the bile rising in his throat. He could see Joker’s perverse, pervasive grin, even with his eyes scrunched shut.
Then a click filled Drury’s ear.
Joker had found the gun.
“Hee,” Joker tittered, waving the gun around carelessly, exercising an impressive lack of trigger discipline. “Do you know what happens once a character’s fulfilled their arc? When they’ve done everything they needed to, everything they could do? Y’know what happens then? They kill ‘im off. Heh.”
But before Joker could fire, if, indeed, he was ever even going to, Drury’s pack boosted him forwards, tackling him through the window. Shards scraped along their backs, shedding clothes from skin, and skin from bone, as they rocketed through the glass. Looking past Joker, Drury could see them gathered on the grounds below; his Misfits, his family, everyone who’d come to bring him home. Distracted but for a moment, Joker seized his chance and rammed his final knife into Drury’s wingpack. The two dropped like a pair of stones; Drury’s descent slowed by his wings catching the wind. Joker fell hard and fast, but whether kept conscious by adrenaline or just rotten luck, he rolled onto his back and began giggling with glee. “Again! Again!” he cheered, slapping his knee in delight.
Drury pounced, wrapping his hands around Joker’s throat. “I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque...” Joker rasped between gasps.
“Why did I ever show you mercy?” Drury hissed, his hands clamping tighter around his windpipe.
“Beats... me...” Joker began. “Must've been your bleeding heart!”
Joker shot his arm forward, stabbing Drury in the abdomen. Drury yelped in pain, releasing his grip on his throat. “Ooh and speaking of bleeding hearts!” Joker chuckled, shuffling back along the ground on his knees. “Stop me… Stop me if you’ve heard this one before… A woman walks into a sword-”
Drury’s fist struck Joker’s face; a mass of white and red flew out of his mouth, then chattered about on the floor. False teeth. “Ow... Ow. You hit your mother with that hand?” Joker exhaled from his nose. His face had fallen. Literally. His cheeks were sunken, and his nose drooped downwards. His mouth was a red maw lined with teeth broken long ago. “Shee, I’ve had a lot of shetbacksh, a lot of loshes… But I alwaysh… alwaysh…” Joker clicked his jaw back into place, “Found time to shmiiiiiiiiiiiile!”
“Oh, the waysh he ushed to hit me…” Joker rasped, running his tongue across his shattered teeth and bloodied gums. “Jusht like you hit me…” he giggled, his shrill laughter descending into a gross, phlegm-filled gurgle.
“Stop laughing!” Drury demanded.
“Shtop laughing? Shtop-? It’sh like you don’t even know me! Heh. But we can fix that, Drury.”
“Yeah, we can.”
Slowly, Drury walked back to the scene of their crash, finding Joker’s revolver resting on a pillow of green grass. He closed his eyes, in silent remembrance. He remembered his sons and daughter, strapped to those chairs. He remembered dozens- hundreds -of faces inhumanly stretched into deathly grins. He remembered Harley, black and blue and black again. He remembered the cops, torn asunder by shrapnel from Zoom’s snap. He remembered Spellbinder. Sims. Crane. Thawne. All of Joker’s allies and their marks on him, skin deep and deeper.
Then he remembered the photos.
He remembered the young woman with hair like fire and the temper to match.
He remembered Barbara Gordon.
And his decision was easy.
He scooped up the gun, then scattered the bullets, leaving just one in the chamber. He spun the chamber a single time, then began the return journey.
“Shay,” Joker craned his neck forward, watching as Drury trudged back towards him, gun in hand. “Anyone ever tell you that it’sh bad form to shteal a gag-”
Drury struck Joker with the side of the gun, and then aimed it squarely between the clown’s eyes. “Hey,” he said. Coldly. Dispassionately. “Anyone here familiar with Russian Roulette?”
“Walker!”
Drury turned. The Batman was perched on a small formation of rocks; his black cape flapped in the wind, his white eyes offered sympathies that would never be enough. Joker stared down the barrel, frowned, then looked past Drury to the shadow behind. “You know, I think I’ve broken my toy.”
Drury stared at Bruce blankly. The gun stayed level. “Where. The. Hell. Have you been?”
“Walker, don’t,” Bruce pleaded.
“Aw, c’mon “Killer,” time to earn your shtripey tightsh. I double dare ya!” Joker giggled
Drury scoffed. Bruce either didn’t understand or didn’t want to. But Drury remembered. He remembered every horrid thing Joker had ever done, and his mind was already made up. His finger curled around the trigger, and he pulled it back.
Click.
Nothing.
So, Drury spun the barrel again. Spin. Click. Spin. Click. His breathing was heavier; his eyes grew redder. He stepped back, held the gun out at arm’s length, spun the barrel a final time, and;
A red flag flapped out of the barrel. Drury watched the bang flag twisting in the wind, eyes bulging. He chuckled. He laughed. Then his laughter turned into a horrible scream of anguish. A guttural, hopeless, caterwaul. He tossed the gun away, disgusted. The useless thing bounced across the cold ground, and he buried his face in his hands, screaming into the black.
“Hey… Hey…” Joker whispered softly, stroking his elbow. “It’sh okay. Thish happensh to lotsh of guysh your age.”
Bruce stepped forward. “Drury... Drury, it’s OK.”
“It’s not OK!” Drury screamed. “It’s not! He made her a weapon, Bats. He took my memories, and he built me a prison. Don’t you get it? My memories were all I had left; my comfort in the dark, a respite from the present, and he stole them from me. Corrupted them. Corrupted her.”
Bruce looked down, his cowl’s brow hiding his eyes. “I know,” he said softly. He reached behind his cape, then presented a crinkled envelope.
Drury ripped it out of his hands, scoffing. “Don’t tell me you’re handing out Christmas cards now, because- because-” And then his heart skipped a beat.
“That’s… That’s Miranda’s handwriting. What is this?” he asked with wet eyes. Bruce motioned downwards, imploring him to read on. As Drury torn the envelope open, tears wet the paper, blotching the ink.
Drury, I am writing this letter on October 5th, 2019. I am placing it under your trophy cabinet, in the hope that you won’t find it until you need it the most.
I can’t stop thinking about what you said the other day. How you acted. All that talk of giving up. Giving in. Despite the odds we’re facing, all those impossible odds… It's never been in your nature to give in. But I know the pressure you’re under; Twag risen from the grave, the Misfits trapped in Arkham. Maybe with everything else going on, you hadn’t taken your medication. I know sometimes it's easy not to.
But. About an hour after you left, I called up the airport, wanting to make sure you’d got on the plane in time.
They told me you’d left Gotham two hours ago.
Believe me, I was confused as hell. Timings didn’t match up; how could you be in this cave with me, and on a plane to DC at the same time?
Unless it wasn’t you.
An imposter? A Clayface, maybe? God knows there’s a dozen kicking about. No. I’d know.
No.
No, I know you, Drury Walker. I know the difference between you and a pile of mud. But there was something off about you. The unkempt beard, when you’d trimmed that morning. The missing cologne. You know, the one you wear because you reckon you smell like Hugh Jackman’s pillow. Odd strands of red hair, when you go to extreme lengths to dye them. Bruises, where you hadn’t had them. So many contradictions. Making so little sense. And the eyes… Your eyes were missing that twinkle, that sparkle I’ve always loved. Like the light had faded. Snuffed out like a candle by the wind. In some respects, you weren’t my Drury, in others, you were completely. How? Then I remembered what Simon told us. How he came back. Why he left.
Time Travel.
But the only reason you’d time travel is if something went wrong. And I think, if things went wrong, well, are going to go wrong, I think you might need some help. So, get help, Drury. If not for yourself, then do it for me. Let those who care in. Stop apologising for what’s been and done and start living in the present. Don’t let this world change you, don’t let it harden you. Pessimism was never your colour. Besides, that’s what I’m here for, and if not me, then Gar, or Len. And my father’s always been happy to intrude upon the sentimental with grim reality. Cynics like us are a dime a dozen, but you aren’t.
I pray this is not the last time you hear my words, but if it is; if it has to be; know that I will love you, always.
Your Tiger Lily, Miranda.”
“Those are her words, Drury,” Bruce spoke. “Not Billings’, not Crane’s. Hers. That means something.”
“Why?” Drury asked Batman, his face wet, his hands trembling.
Bruce paused. “Because a few years ago, I was where you are now. Without hope. I was directionless. Aimless. Afraid, of what was to come. Grief-stricken, by what I had lost. But a friend of mine gave me a letter too. An impossible message encouraging me to be better. To keep fighting. And I want that for you too. Whatever happens now. Whatever you do next. I want you to fight. Like she would have wanted you to.”
The others were beginning to arrive now; they’d followed the smoke trail from Drury’s crash, and tracked him here, to this dirt road behind the mansion. “Drury,” Norbert shook his head, yellow eyes pleading with him. “Don’t let them cage you.”
“Like they could hold me,” Drury croaked. The brothers beamed at each other, like two young boys sharing a joke that was just their own. Smiling like they were the only ones there.
Bruce nodded to Drury. It was over.
It was- Over.
Drury didn’t hear what happened next; a metallic ringing drowned out the panicked yelling all around him. He looked down at his stomach; blood was gushing out from a hollow in his gut, wetting his costume, turning it from purple to burgundy. “Huh,” he started, placing his hand on his wound to try and plug it.
“Daddy!” Kitten shrieked; Gaige put an arm in front of her, holding her back.
Drury could just make out a blurry, scruffy figure emerge from the trees, lumbering forward in blind exuberance. “I did it!” he could hear Ted Carson yell. “I finally did it!”
Over… Drury was stumbling, he couldn’t keep upright, he couldn’t- Over.
The next bullet, meant for Joker, was deflected by Bruce’s gauntlet, as he ran to catch Drury.
“Oh, Batshy, I knew you cared!” Joker slurred.
“Shut up!” Bruce barked.
“Dad, no!” Bridget screamed, as Gar pushed her aside, and threw Carson to the ground, punching him, screeching at him. Gar didn’t glance at the fire, he wasn’t swayed by the crackling of flames, nor the smell of smoke. He could only see red.
“Fight this Walker, fight this,” Bruce was whispering, cradling Drury in his arms. The letter crumpled into a crimson ball in Drury’s bloodied fist.
“Done fighting...” Drury whispered. “Was never that good at it.”
Bruce shook his head. “You undersell yourself… Hang in there, OK? A short time ago, you asked me a question. Do you remember? You asked me whether we had ever been friends. I didn’t have an answer then. I do now.”
“The truth is no, we weren’t friends, but I wish that we were.”
“I-”
“Don’t speak,” Bruce urged, smiling as best as he could, under the circumstances.
“Don’t speak, don’t bleed out… so bossy,” Drury laughed weakly.
A violet vortex opened; Jenna’s slow walk turned into a sprint as soon as she caught sight of Gar, Carson at his mercy.
“Gar-! Gar, stop!” Chuck was saying, as he attempted to pull him off of Carson. Feral, Gar punched his arm, his broken one; Chuck recoiled, leaving Gar unencumbered. A dozen hard, fast punches rearranged Carson’s grinning face. A red web latched onto Gar’s shoulder, pulling him back. Gar yanked the web forwards, dragging Needham with it.
“Gar!”
Gar swung around, to be met with Jenna’s face. He panted; his chest rose and fell. Then his face wobbled. Tears fell down his face. And suddenly, he hugged Jenna, burying his face in her chest. Hesitant at first, Jenna placed her arm around his back and held him tight.
“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Joey stuttered. “We stopped Carson. We stopped him.”
“I did it-!” Carson wheezed, coughing up blood. On the ground, Joker was cackling. As she rose to her feet, Bridget could feel ten synthetic fingers pointed at her back. Then, Phillip Reardon turned away, a trail of saltwater trickling down his cheeks.
Until now, Simon had been standing there motionless, shell-shocked. But he now knew what he had to do. What Wally had told him to do what now seemed like a lifetime ago.
Run.
“No, Simon, wait!” Wally yelled. “You’re not-”
Simon ignored Wally’s warnings. He ignored the cries of those around him. He snatched his father from The Batman’s arms, and he ran. Across Arkham. Across the bridge into the city. He raced through the streets of Gotham, leaping over cars and past pedestrians, aware that every second he delayed was a second his dad did not have. At last, he arrived at Gotham General.
“Where did you-?” the receptionist looked up, stunned.
“My dad-” Simon blubbed, offering his father to the receptionist in desperation. The lobby was swarming with people; families, mostly, of victims of the GCPD attack. “He got shot. Please, he’s bleeding out.”
“Sir, I need you to calm down.”
“Can’t. I can’t. Please, help my dad.”
“Sir, I’m so sorry, but we don’t have any-”
It took Simon precious seconds to scan the hospital for an empty bed; the receptionist was right. Zoom’s attack had insured it would be hours before his dad could be examined. Simon kept running; his dad’s limbs dangled over his arms limply. Slack. Simon raced to the next hospital. Then the next. But this was holiday season in Gotham City, and all the beds were full. His speed was dissipating, he knew that. The streets were no longer out of focus, the people were blurs no longer, and he could feel a stitch forming in his side. He ignored that. Until he could run no more. His knees buckled, and father and son fell down together in a Gotham alley.
“Simon-” Drury wheezed.
“Don’t speak, you can’t speak. You’ve already lost a lot of blood. But I can fix that. I can call someone. You just have to hang in there, dad. Just don’t leave me,” Simon pleaded.
“Simon- Simon, it's OK,” Drury raised his hand.
“It's not OK, it's not!” Simon punched the ground, and sparks shot up. “I- I- can defibrillate you, see? I can help you, save you.”
“No saving me, kiddo. You knew that. Wish I'd known that.”
“But- but- he can't- he can't win,” Simon stammered. “Carson can't win.”
“He has to,” Drury smiled. “He has. Don't you see, I broke the cycle. I cleaned the slate. This is how it must be. No one else dies. From now on, no one else dies.”
“You will.”
“So what? You think I fear death?”
“No.” Simon sat back. “I fear you don't. I fear you haven't in a very long time.”
“You got me,” Drury leaned forward, wincing as he did. “You need to listen now, Simon, because this next bit... it's going to be hard. But I know you can handle it. You can tell Kitten; you can tell Axel. Tell Cammy, when he's old enough. That's it. Tell no one else; not even Gar. Especially not Gar. Promise me.”
Drury whispered his last request into his son’s ear. Simon’s eyes widened, and his grip on his dad’s hand tightened.
“Dad, I don't- I don't know if I can.”
“Dad?”
The alleyway shone with golden light, as a yellow portal tore through the polluted air, and a man in white emerged.
“You? How did you-?”
Krill bypassed Simon, picking a tiny tracking dot off his shoulder. He knelt down, and scooped Drury up in his arms, then turned around without a single word of condolence.
“What- what are you doing with him?” Simon asked meekly.
Krill didn't respond.
“What are you doing with him?!” Simon screamed. That got Krill’s attention.
Krill paused. “You want to leave him here, on a bed of grime and piss, be my guest.”
~-~
The atmosphere in Arkham was subdued. It had been mere minutes since Simon sped away with Drury. He had still been alive, then. Alive, but barely. The residents of Arkham; Simon’s siblings, his uncles, everyone that had sacrificed so much in such a short time waited his return with bated breath. Finally, the portal opened; Krill came first, Drury hanging limply over his arms. Simon trailed behind, his eyes puffy. Kitten wailed. Axel cried. Doctor Polaris floated above them in silence, his arms folded. Leonard Fiasco watched from the window, glad, at least, that no one could see him sniffle.
In the end, it only took one bullet.
The Ulysses S. Grant Memorial is a presidential memorial in Washington, D.C., honoring American Civil War general and 18th United States President Ulysses S. Grant. It sits at the base of Capitol Hill (Union Square, the Mall, 1st Street, between Pennsylvania Avenue and Maryland Avenue), below the west front of the United States Capitol. Its sculpture of Grant on horseback faces west, overlooking the Capitol Reflecting Pool and facing toward the Lincoln Memorial, which honors Grant's wartime president, Abraham Lincoln. Grant's statue rests on a pedestal decorated with bronze reliefs of the infantry; flanking pedestals hold statues of protective lions and bronze representations of the Union cavalry and artillery. The Grant and Lincoln memorials define the eastern and western ends, respectively, of the National Mall.
The drive to erect a monument to Grant was begun in the 1890s by the Society of the Army of the Tennessee.
Work on the memorial was begun in 1902 as the largest ever commissioned by Congress at the time, was created by sculptor Henry Merwin Shrady and architect Edward Pearce Casey. Sculptor Edmond Amateis assisted Shrady as the monument neared completion in 1921. Shrady spent 20 years of his life working on the memorial and died, stressed and overworked, two weeks before its dedication in 1922.
The sculptures were cast in bronze at the Roman Bronze Works in New York. Construction on the site of the memorial began in 1909 when the marble superstructure and the four bronze lions were installed. The Artillery Group was installed in 1912, the Cavalry Group in 1916, and the bronze equestrian statue of Grant in 1920. The memorial was dedicated on the 100th anniversary of Grant's birth, April 27, 1922. Shrady having died, the infantry panels on the base of Grant's pedestal were completed by sculptor Sherry Fry based on Shrady's sketches and installed in 1924. The Grant Memorial composes the center of a three-part sculptural group including the James A. Garfield Monument to the south and the Peace Monument to the north.
During 2015 and 2016 a cleaning and restoration program was carried out on the memorial. This included the replacement of 60 elements of the work, such as swords and scabbards, that had gone missing or been stolen over the years. The layer of green corrosion on the memorial's bronze was removed to return it to its original brown color.
I feel this is a good stopping point before I overwork this painting. No brush is used. Just my fingers, pieces of papers and a stick are utilized to glide paint in some areas but most is accomplished by pouring and tilting. Your feedback is always welcome!
I love thimbleberries and the way the great bright green leaves always seem to grow in between the dark northern woods and the roadside. The berries are good too! We don't have these plants in Mid Michigan so it was good to see them when I was in the Upper Peninsula, even if I was too early for the berries.
I'm not very happy with the results; I overworked the background with too much French Ultramarine which gave it a matte finish and I lost control of the leaves. Still it was fun to do and gave me some good ideas for future paintings.
The galilee can be a bit of a hardscrabble place. The horse was skinny, but showed no signs of overwork or abuse.
Ok, today was one of those..."Stop the ride, I want to get off kind of days"...a "find me a winning lottery ticket and get me the heck out of here" kind of days... a "let's go cry in the stockroom" kind of day. Yeah, in the wonderful world of underpaid, overworked retail employees, we have a lot of those days. Today was one. I know we all need sunshine, warmth, and a day at the beach. I know I do. But, Good God...I'm not sure what those customers today needed except maybe to have been removed from the store. Ugh! Is there a full moon or something? Thankfully, I made it out alive, didn't cry til I got to my car and I have tomorrow and Thursday off. God help the rest of the associates.
a hundred and thirty nine
And send me to sleep...
Conference kinda makes everyone mentally tired, but at least they don't overwork us. I always am reminded how it's important to both work hard and play hard at the same time.
This is one of the few times I tell myself that I'm not quite done with corporate life...
What did I tell you about the room??? (yes, it's one of those with a see-through bathroom)
The 4-8-2 Mountain - type loco you see here was originally cobbled together from my 2-6-0 Mogul and a lot of extra parts. This is version three of the engine, and features a revised boiler inspired by set 79111. (Constitution Train Chase) This loco has a fictional backstory:
This 4-8-2 (4 leading, 8 drivers, and 2 trailing wheels) Mountain – type locomotive numbered 6437 was built in the mid 1930's by Baldwin Locomotive Works. The type 6437 belongs to was designed for both freight duty and passenger traffic and as such were not streamlined, thus cutting the top speed down to about 95 MPH. The Emerald Express, pulled by a overworked 2-6-0 since 1917, was upgraded with 4-8-2 number 6437 in 1936 when another coach was added to the train, and was painted a dark green to match the heavy-weight rolling stock.
The NSU Ro80 was a relative revolution at the time of its introduction. With smooth, aerodynamic styling and a rotary engine, NSU’s Ro 80 made big promises. Years later, one man decided he’d create the convertible that was missing from the Ro 80 lineup. Let’s check out this one-of-two NSU.
NSU continued its development of rotary power, and shortly after the Spider the company introduced the considerably more modern Ro 80. NSU was at the end of its independence around the time the new sedan debuted; two years later, the company merged with the Auto Union. And that organization subsequently merged with, and was crushed by, VW-Audi. The Ro 80 was then the first and last modern NSU sedan.
Introduced in 1967, the Ro 80 was marketed to wealthy customers as an executive sedan. Available in four-door format only, smooth styling covered a bevy of advanced technology. Ro 80 was front-wheel drive, powered by a 113-horsepower Wankel engine of 995 cc displacement. A single transmission greeted buyers: the ever-obscure semi-automatic. Three manual speeds with synchromesh were operated by an automatic clutch. That meant a traditional gear lever shifted by the driver, who touched a knob on the lever to activate the vacuum-operated clutch.
All the advanced tech was great, but unfortunately NSU was not prepared for the issues which came along with its rotary engine design. The free-revving Wankel was overworked by zealous drivers, and after 1971 an audible warning was installed to let customers know when their engine was operating in the danger zone. Even if not stretched to the max, early engines had build quality and reliability issues. Many failed and required a rebuild before 35,000 miles. The problem was the motor’s rotor tip seals, which had to be redesigned to prevent internal leaks.
NSU’s engineers worked quickly, solving most of the Ro 80’s bugs by 1970. But by then dealer and consumer pressure had lead to a longer warranty on all cars, and it hurt the company’s reputation and wallet. No matter, as the Auto Union had taken hold and NSU was not long for the world. The Ro 80 continued in production at Neckarsulm through 1977. After that point, NSU was finished, and the factory was converted to Audi production.
The muse for the Lego model shown here lived the first 15 years of its life as a standard sedan before it transformed at the hands of an Ro 80 specialist mechanic. Said mechanic desired a convertible NSU, and set to work in 1990 turning a four-door sedan into a two-door cabriolet. Another Ro 80 collector saw the drop-top and thought it an excellent idea. He hired the mechanic to build another in 1991.
[Edited text from: www.thetruthaboutcars.com/2020/01/rare-rides-a-1974-nsu-r...]
Having fun with a small fog generator.
For Flickr Friday's, "I'm Only Human." I'm sure we all feel like this after a hard day's work, at some point or another.
Bari was an early settlement and passed under Roman rule in the 3rd century BC. It developed strategic significance as the point of junction between the coast road and the Via Traiana and as a port for eastward trade. The first bishop of Bari was Gervasius who is known from the Council of Sardica in 347.
After the decline of the Roman Empire, the town was devasted and taken by Alaric´s Visigothic troops, then was under Lombardian rule, before the Byzantines took over. In 755 it was conquered by Pepin the Short (Charlemagne´s father) and from 847 on it was an Islamic Emirate. The Byzantine fleet returned in 871 and since 885 Bari was the residence of the local Byzantine governor.
Following a three-year siege, Bari was captured by Robert Guiscard in 1071. After the relics of Saint Nicholas, which were brought from Myra in Lycia, arrived in Bari, the Basilica di San Nicola was founded in 1087. This attracted pilgrims, whose encouragement and care became central to the economy of Bari.
After the murder of archbishop Griso in 1117 a civil war broke our and the control was seized by Grimoald Alferanites, a native Lombard, in opposition to the Normans. He later did homage to Roger II of Sicily, but rebelled and was defeated in 1132.
The Castello Normanno-Svevo (aka "Castello di Bari") was probably built around 1132 by Norman King Roger II. When in 1155 the Baresi rebelled against the Normans, the castle got destroyed, so as a retaliatory action, William I of Sicily (aka "William the Wicked") had the city destroyed except for the cathedral and the Basilica of St. Nicola.
Bari recovered and had its heydays under Frederick II. When he returned from his crusade after 1229, the city gates were locked so he had to use force to gain entry. Therefore, he probably had the fort built in 1233 to keep the city in check. On the other hand, he granted the city generous trade privileges and left it the leading role in the region.
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The most important day in Bari´s medieval history was May 09. 1087. At that day seamen sailed into the harbour, carrying the remains of Saint Nicholas. They had stolen (or recovered) them from the saint’s original shrine in Myra, and following the legend, the saint, passing by the city on his way to Rome, had chosen Bari as his burial place.
The cathedral was constructed as a shrine. The crypt got consecrated already in 1089 in presence of Pope Urban II.
The Basilica di San Nicola, built between 1087 and 1197, clearly influenced the Romanesque style in Southern Italy. It still is a place of pilgrimage for Catholic and Orthodox Christians. Frederick II called the basilica "nostra specialis capella" and for the House of Anjou it was a "basilica palatina".
The oldest (and maybe most important) part of the Basilica is the crypt, erected within only two years from 1087 and 1089.
There are 28 columns with 28 capitals, that all differ. Probably due to the short times, here are reused antique, Byzantine, Lombardic and even overworked capitals from unknown places.