My Mains Family Quotes

I really like Matilda and that's not a clever book, is it? It's for children. But she's my favourite main character because she comes from an awful family and likes reading, like I do. Those special powers must've made her life a lot easier, though. She wouldn't be working in a pub at thirty-two.

There was another reason. The main one.” “Reason?” I said stupidly. "Why I married you.” "Which was?” I don’t know what I expected him to say, perhaps some further revelation of his family’s contorted affairs. What he did say was more of a shock, in its way. "Because I wanted you.” He turned from the window to face me. “More than I ever wanted anything in my life,” he added softly.

So often, we're told that women's stories are unimportant. After all, what does it matter what happens in the main room, in the kitchen, or in the bedroom? Who cares about the relationships between mother, daughter, and sister? A baby's illness, the sorrows and pains of childbirth, keeping the family together during war, poverty, or even in the best of days are considered small and insignificant compared with the stories of men, who fight against nature to grow their crops, who wage battles to secure their homelands, who struggle to look inward in search of the perfect man. We're told that men are strong and brave, but I think women know how to endure, accept defeat, and bear physical and mental agony much better than men. The men in my life—my father, Z.G., my husband, my father-in-law, my brother-in-law, and my son—faced, to one degree or another, those great male battles, but their hearts—so fragile—wilted, buckled, crippled, corrupted, broke, or shattered when confronted with the losses women face every day...Our men try to act strong, but it is May, Yen-yen, Joy, and I who must steady them and help them bear their pain, anguish, and shame.

Maybe I was just flattering myself, thinking I'd be worth some sort of risk. Not that I'd wish that on anyone!" he clarified. "I don't mean that. It just...I don't know. Don't you all see everything I'm risking?" "Umm, no. You're here with your family to give you advice, and we all live around your schedule. Everything about your life stays the same, and ours changed overnight. What in the world could you possibly be risking?" Maxon looked shocked. "America, I might have my family, but imagine how embarrassing it is to have your parents watch as you attempt to date for the first time. And not just your parents-the whole country! Worse than that, it's not even a normal style of dating. "And living around my schedule? When I'm not with you all, I'm organizing troops, making laws, perfecting budgets...and all on my own these days, while my father watches me stumble in my own stupidity because I have none of his experience. And then, when I inevitably do things in a way he wouldn't, he goes and corrects my mistakes. And while I'm trying to do all this work, you-the girls, I mean-are all I can think about. I'm excited and terrified by the lot of you!" He was using his hands more than I'd ever seen, whipping them in the air and running them through his hair. "And you think my life isn't changing? What do you think my chances might be of finding a soul mate in the group of you? I'll be lucky if I can just find someone who'll be able to stand me for the rest of our lives. What if I've already sent her home because I was relying on some sort of spark I didn't feel? What if she's waiting to leave me at the first sign of adversity? What if I don't find anyone at all? What do I do then, America?" His speech had started out angered and impassioned, but by the end his questions weren't rhetorical anymore. He really wanted to know: What was he going to do if no one here was even close to being someone he could love? Though that didn't even seem to be his main concern; he was more worried that no one would love him. "Actually, Maxon, I think you will find your soul mate here. Honestly." "Really?" His voice charged with hope at my prediction. "Absolutely." I put a hand on his shoulder. He seemed to be comforted by that touch alone. I wondered how often people simply touched him. "If your life is as upside down as you say it is, then she has to be here somewhere. In my experience, true love is usually the most inconvenient kind.

Stop right there,' I said. 'If we're going to have rules, the main rule is that you never ask me about my private life: not my books, not my TV, not my family, not my friends.' 'I'm interested you put them in that order...

The rulers of your minds indulge in proverbs, but they've forgotten the main one, that love cannot be forced, and they have a deeply rooted habit of liberating people and making them happy, especially those who haven't asked for it. You probably fancy that there's no better place in the world for me than your camp and your company. I probably should even bless you and thank you for my captivity, for your having liberated me from my family, my son, my home, my work, from everything that's dear to me and that I live by.

mates, to my sisters and me, are seen mainly as shadows of the people they're involved with. they move. They're visible in direct sunlight. But because they don't have access to our emotional buttons-- because they can't make us twelve again, or five, and screaming-- they don't really count as players.

One of the richest pleasures I know of is being housebound because of the wild winter weather outside. With your family about you, a good book on your lap, a roaring fire in the stove, and a good hot dinner in prospect - you are richer than a millionaire.

My mother's mouth drops. 'Emmy...don't say those things Emmy. Remember, we don't talk about those things.' 'Yes Mom. I remember. That's why I'm here, looking like this.' An orderly knocks on the door and announces that visiting time is over. My mother and I look at each other awkwardly, and hug. 'I love you,' she says. 'I love you too, Mom.' 'You aren't telling them too much are you?' she asks, afraid. I sign. 'No Mommy, I'm not.' She's visibly relieved. She leaves the room. The orderley comes back and escorts me back into the main room. I just sit and laugh to myself." (after Emmy's suicide attempt) ~ The Finer Points of Becoming Machine

In one way, at least, our lives really are like movies. The main cast consists of your family and friends. The supporting cast is made up of neighbors, co-workers, teachers, and daily acquaintances. There are also bit players: the supermarket checkout girl with the pretty smile, the friendly bartender at the local watering hole, the guys you work out with at the gym three days a week. And there are thousands of extras --those people who flow through every life like water through a sieve, seen once and never again. The teenager browsing a graphic novel at Barnes & Noble, the one you had to slip past (murmuring "Excuse me") in order to get to the magazines. The woman in the next lane at a stoplight, taking a moment to freshen her lipstick. The mother wiping ice cream off her toddler's face in a roadside restaurant where you stopped for a quick bite. The vendor who sold you a bag of peanuts at a baseball game. But sometimes a person who fits none of these categories comes into your life. This is the joker who pops out of the deck at odd intervals over the years, often during a moment of crisis. In the movies this sort of character is known as the fifth business, or the chase agent. When he turns up in a film, you know he's there because the screenwriter put him there. But who is screenwriting our lives? Fate or coincidence? I want to believe it's the latter. I want that with all my heart and soul.

During these years in the small-talk wilderness, I also wondered why Americans valued friendliness with commerce so much. Was handing over cash the sacred rite of American capitalism—and of American life? On a day that I don’t spend money in America, I feel oddly depressed. It’s my main form of social interaction—as it is for millions of Americans who live alone or away from their families.

I stood as she straightened and snaked my arms around her, pulling her close to me, savoring the feel of every delicate curve. For three weeks, I spent my time convincing myself that our breakup was the right choice. But being this close to her, hearing her laugh, listening to her voice, I knew I had been telling myself lies. Her eyes widened when I lowered my head to hers. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We can find a way to make us work.” She tilted her head and licked her lips, whispering through shallow breaths, “You’re not playing fair.” “No, I’m not.” Echo thought too much. I threaded my fingers into her hair and kissed her, leaving her no opportunity to think about what we were doing. I wanted her to feel what I felt. To revel in the pull, the attraction. Dammit, I wanted her to undeniably love me. Her pack hit the floor with a resounding thud and her magical fingers explored my back, neck and head. Echo’s tongue danced manically with mine, hungry and excited. Her muscles stiffened when her mind caught up. I held her tighter to me, refusing to let her leave so easily again. Echo pulled her lips away, but was unable to step back from my body. “We can’t, Noah.” “Why not?” I shook her without meaning to, but if it snapped something into place, I’d shake her again. “Because everything has changed. Because nothing has changed. You have a family to save. I …” She looked away, shaking her head. “I can’t live here anymore. When I leave town, I can sleep. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I did. I understood all too well, as much as I hated it. This was why we ignored each other. When she walked away the first time, my damn heart ruptured and I swore I’d never let it happen again. Like an idiot, here I was setting off explosives. Both of my hands wove into her hair again and clutched at the soft curls. No matter how I tightened my grip, the strands kept falling from my fingers, a shower of water from the sky. I rested my forehead against hers. “I want you to be happy.” “You, too,” she whispered. I let go of her and left the main office. When I first connected with Echo, I’d promised her I would help her find her answers. I was a man of my word and Echo would soon know that.

A dam doesn't try to reason with the water. Its main purpose is to hold it still for a while. When I lecture my kids I'm doing much the same thing. I'm not trying to necessarily reason with them, just hold them still for a short while.

My refusal to remove the book from the library was backed by a majority of the Board of Governors. I wrote back to Mr Malfoy, explaining my decision: So-called pure-blood families maintain their alleged purity by disowning, banishing or lying about Muggles or Muggle-borns on their family trees. They then attempt to foist their hypocrisy upon the rest of us by asking us to ban works dealing with the truths they deny. There is not a witch or wizard in existence whose blood has not mingled with that of Muggles, and I should therefore consider it both illogical and immoral to remove works dealing with the subject from our students' store of knowledge.(4) This exchange marked the beginning of Mr Malfoy's long campaign to have me removed from my post as Headmaster of Hogwarts, and of mine to have him removed from his position as Lord Voldemort's Favourite Death Eater. (4)My response prompted several further letters from Mr Malfoy, but as they consisted mainly of opprobrious remarks on my sanity, parentage and hygiene, their relevance to this commentary is remote.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. (It's not the main point of the poem, but I am the third generation of my family who's never been able to eat a peach without wondering, do I dare and do I dare)

I remembered when I’d told my family I was moving to Belfast, their reactions were the same.  “IRELAND?” I’d laughed.  “Uh, no.  Belfast, Maine.  It’s a twelve month position.

In the main, my mother’s function was to prepare the meals, which she did like an amoeba might, with neither creativity nor taste, but lots of mayonnaise.

PERCY WAS WAITING FOR THEM. He looked mad. He stood at the edge of the glacier, leaning on the staff with the golden eagle, gazing down at the wreckage he’d caused: several hundred acres of newly open water dotted with icebergs and flotsam from the ruined camp. The only remains on the glacier were the main gates, which listed sideways, and a tattered blue banner lying over a pile of snow-bricks. When they ran up to him, Percy said, “Hey,” like they were just meeting for lunch or something. “You’re alive!” Frank marveled. Percy frowned. “The fall? That was nothing. I fell twice that far from the St. Louis Arch.” “You did what?” Hazel asked. “Never mind. The important thing was I didn’t drown.” “So the prophecy was incomplete!” Hazel grinned. “It probably said something like: The son of Neptune will drown a whole bunch of ghosts.” Percy shrugged. He was still looking at Frank like he was miffed. “I got a bone to pick with you, Zhang. You can turn into an eagle? And a bear?” “And an elephant,” Hazel said proudly. “An elephant.” Percy shook his head in disbelief. “That’s your family gift? You can change shape?” Frank shuffled his feet. “Um…yeah. Periclymenus, my ancestor, the Argonaut—he could do that. He passed down the ability.” “And he got that gift from Poseidon,” Percy said. “That’s completely unfair. I can’t turn into animals.” Frank stared at him. “Unfair? You can breathe underwater and blow up glaciers and summon freaking hurricanes—and it’s unfair that I can be an elephant?” Percy considered. “Okay. I guess you got a point. But next time I say you’re totally beast—” “Just shut up,” Frank said. “Please.” Percy cracked a smile.

Like most people, I acquired my initial sense of the era from books and photographs that left me with the impression that the world of then had no color, only gradients of gray and black. My two main protagonists, however, encountered the fl esh-and-blood reality, while also managing the routine obligations of daily life. Every morning they moved through a city hung with immense banners of red, white, and black; they sat at the same outdoor cafés as did the lean, black-suited members of Hitler’s SS, and now and then they caught sight of Hitler himself, a smallish man in a large, open Mer-cedes. But they also walked each day past homes with balconies lush with red geraniums; they shopped in the city’s vast department stores, held tea parties, and breathed deep the spring fragrances of the Tier-garten, Berlin’s main park. They knew Goebbels and Göring as social acquaintances with whom they dined, danced, and joked—until, as their fi rst year reached its end, an event occurred that proved to be one of the most signifi cant in revealing the true character of Hitler and that laid the keystone for the decade to come. For both father and daughter it changed everything.

Bapuji asked me to take paper and pencil and draw a family tree of violence. He wanted me to see how many of our actions are interrelated. This tree was to have two main branches - one for physical violence and one for passive violence. Every day he wanted me to analyze my actions and the actions of people around me and add them as branches on the tree. If I hit someone or threw a rock, I was to add a branch of physical violence. But he wanted me to be equally aware of habits and ways of life that hurt people, so every time I saw or heard about discrimination or oppression, waste or greed, I would draw a branch of passive violence.

The Jews have a saying worth remembering: "Whoever doesn't teach his son some trade or business, teaches him to be a thief." As soon as ever I can, I will make my children apprehensive of the main end for which they are to live; that so they may as soon as may be, begin to live; and their youth not be nothing but vanity. I will show them, that their main end must be, to, acknowledge the great God, and His glorious Christ; and bring others to acknowledge Him: and that they are never wise nor well, but when they are doing so. I will make them able to answer the grand question of why they live; and what is the end of the actions that fill their lives? I will teach them that their Creator and Redeemer is to be obeyed in everything, and everything is to be done in obedience to Him. I will teach them how even their diversions, and their ornaments, and the tasks of their education, must all be to fit them for the further service of Him to whom I have devoted them; and how in these also, His commandments must be the rule of all they do. I will sometimes therefore surprise them with an inquiry, "Child, what is this for? Give me a good account of why you do it?" How comfortably shall I see them walking in the light, if I may bring them wisely to answer this inquiry. -A Father's Resolutions, www.spurgeon.org/~phil/mather/resolvd...

In fact, there was little I now recalled about Little House, save the main character, Laura, and her family, and the occasional cameo from a bear or panther in their woods. But as I returned to my gate, I realized there was something I could remember. At the very end of the book, Laura tells herself, This is now, and feels happy because the now could not be forgotten as it was happening. “Isn’t that wonderful?” my mother said to me after she finished reading it. Her arm was around me, and she squeezed me tight. “This is now, Libby Lou. And it’s all ours.” It was a night like any other, except the flood of bad memories from the following years had not washed it away. And though it was no longer now, it was still ours.

One afternoon in the fall of 2015, while I was writing this book, I was driving in my car and listening to SiriusXM Radio. On the folk music station the Coffee House, a song came on with a verse that directly spoke to me—so much so that I pulled off the road as soon as I could and wrote down the lyrics and the singer’s name. The song was called “The Eye,” and it’s written by the country-folk singer Brandi Carlile and her bandmate Tim Hanseroth and sung by Carlile. I wish it could play every time you open these pages, like a Hallmark birthday card, because it’s become the theme song of this book. The main refrain is: I wrapped your love around me like a chain But I never was afraid that it would die You can dance in a hurricane But only if you’re standing in the eye. I hope that it is clear by now that every day going forward we’re going to be asked to dance in a hurricane, set off by the accelerations in the Market, Mother Nature, and Moore’s law. Some politicians propose to build a wall against this hurricane. That is a fool’s errand. There is only one way to thrive now, and it’s by finding and creating your own eye. The eye of a hurricane moves, along with the storm. It draws energy from it, while creating a sanctuary of stability inside it. It is both dynamic and stable—and so must we be. We can’t escape these accelerations. We have to dive into them, take advantage of their energy and flows where possible, move with them, use them to learn faster, design smarter, and collaborate deeper—all so we can build our own eyes to anchor and propel ourselves and our families confidently forward.

When I heard about the ease with which the Four had been removed, I felt a wave of sadness. How could such a small group of second-rate tyrants ravage 900 million people for so long? But my main feeling was joy. The last tyrants of the Cultural Revolution were finally gone. My rapture was widely shared. Like many of my countrymen, I went out to buy the best liquors for a celebration with my family and friends, only to find the shops out of stock there was so much spontaneous rejoicing. There were official celebrations as well exactly the same kinds of rallies as during the Cultural Revolution, which infuriated me. I was particularly angered by the fact that in my department, the political supervisors and the student officials were now arranging the whole show, with unperturbed self-righteousness. The new leadership was headed by Mao's chosen successor, Hua Guofeng, whose only qualification, I believed, was his mediocrity. One of his first acts was to announce the construction of a huge mausoleum for Mao on Tiananmen Square. I was outraged: hundreds of thousands of people were still homeless after the earthquake in Tangshan, living in temporary shacks on the pavements. With her experience, my mother had immediately seen that a new era was beginning. On the day after Mao's death she had reported for work at her depas'uuent. She had been at home for five years, and now she wanted to put her energy to use again. She was given a job as the number seven deputy director in her department, of which she had been the director before the Cultural Revolution. But she did not mind. To me in my impatient mood, things seemed to go on as before. In January 1977, my university course came to an end. We were given neither examinations nor degrees. Although Mao and the Gang of Four were gone, Mao's rule that we had to return to where we had come from still applied. For me, this meant the machinery factory. The idea that a university education should make a difference to one's job had been condemned by Mao as 'training spiritual aristocrats.

Funnel The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost-new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died. The children honored their separate arts; two became moderately famous, three married and fattened their delicate share of wealth and brilliance. The sixth one was a concert pianist. She had a notable career and wore cropped hair and walked like a man, or so I heard when prying a childhood car into the hushed talk of the straight Maine clan. One died a pinafore child, she stays her five years forever. And here is one that wrote- I sort his odd books and wonder his once alive words and scratch out my short marginal notes and finger my accounts. back from that great-grandfather I have come to tidy a country graveyard for his sake, to chat with the custodian under a yearly sun and touch a ghost sound where it lies awake. I like best to think of that Bunyan man slapping his thighs and trading the yankee sale for one dozen grand pianos. it fit his plan of culture to do it big. On this same scale he built seven arking houses and they still stand. One, five stories up, straight up like a square box, still dominates its coastal edge of land. It is rented cheap in the summer musted air to sneaker-footed families who pad through its rooms and sometimes finger the yellow keys of an old piano that wheezes bells of mildew. Like a shoe factory amid the spruce trees it squats; flat roof and rows of windows spying through the mist. Where those eight children danced their starfished summers, the thirty-six pines sighing, that bearded man walked giant steps and chanced his gifts in numbers. Back from that great-grandfather I have come to puzzle a bending gravestone for his sake, to question this diminishing and feed a minimum of children their careful slice of suburban cake.

I know,” I said, thinking of the slayers my family had lost over the years. “I’ve lost family, too. And even in my short human days I’ve wondered if the pain is worth it. But on those rough days, when it feels like your heart is ripped in half, I want you to know you walk in love—and that will stay with you forever.

As soon as I was old enough to have a feeling about it, I felt like I was alone. No matter how much I loved my family -- and I actually got along better with my family than I think most people do -- I just always felt separate from everybody, and was terribly lonely all the time,' Joss said. 'I wasn't living a life that was particularly different from anybody else's ... It wasn't like I didn't have friends, but .. we, all of us, are alone in our own minds, and I was very much aware of that from the very beginning of my life. Loneliness and aloneness -- which are different things -- are very much, I would say, [among the] main things I focus on in my work.

I am becoming more and more interested in the factor of Greed in human nature, which of course is basic Hunger unsatisfied, that wants to be filled, but somehow just misses the point. In fact, my whole new book† is going to be based on this great Main theme, but nobody will know it because it will be (I hope!) an exciting story of relationships in a French family!

The Sun King had dinner each night alone. He chose from forty dishes, served on gold and silver plate. It took a staggering 498 people to prepare each meal. He was rich because he consumed the work of other people, mainly in the form of their services. He was rich because other people did things for him. At that time, the average French family would have prepared and consumed its own meals as well as paid tax to support his servants in the palace. So it is not hard to conclude that Louis XIV was rich because others were poor. But what about today? Consider that you are an average person, say a woman of 35, living in, for the sake of argument, Paris and earning the median wage, with a working husband and two children. You are far from poor, but in relative terms, you are immeasurably poorer than Louis was. Where he was the richest of the rich in the world’s richest city, you have no servants, no palace, no carriage, no kingdom. As you toil home from work on the crowded Metro, stopping at the shop on the way to buy a ready meal for four, you might be thinking that Louis XIV’s dining arrangements were way beyond your reach. And yet consider this. The cornucopia that greets you as you enter the supermarket dwarfs anything that Louis XIV ever experienced (and it is probably less likely to contain salmonella). You can buy a fresh, frozen, tinned, smoked or pre-prepared meal made with beef, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, prawns, scallops, eggs, potatoes, beans, carrots, cabbage, aubergine, kumquats, celeriac, okra, seven kinds of lettuce, cooked in olive, walnut, sunflower or peanut oil and flavoured with cilantro, turmeric, basil or rosemary … You may have no chefs, but you can decide on a whim to choose between scores of nearby bistros, or Italian, Chinese, Japanese or Indian restaurants, in each of which a team of skilled chefs is waiting to serve your family at less than an hour’s notice. Think of this: never before this generation has the average person been able to afford to have somebody else prepare his meals. You employ no tailor, but you can browse the internet and instantly order from an almost infinite range of excellent, affordable clothes of cotton, silk, linen, wool and nylon made up for you in factories all over Asia. You have no carriage, but you can buy a ticket which will summon the services of a skilled pilot of a budget airline to fly you to one of hundreds of destinations that Louis never dreamed of seeing. You have no woodcutters to bring you logs for the fire, but the operators of gas rigs in Russia are clamouring to bring you clean central heating. You have no wick-trimming footman, but your light switch gives you the instant and brilliant produce of hardworking people at a grid of distant nuclear power stations. You have no runner to send messages, but even now a repairman is climbing a mobile-phone mast somewhere in the world to make sure it is working properly just in case you need to call that cell. You have no private apothecary, but your local pharmacy supplies you with the handiwork of many thousands of chemists, engineers and logistics experts. You have no government ministers, but diligent reporters are even now standing ready to tell you about a film star’s divorce if you will only switch to their channel or log on to their blogs. My point is that you have far, far more than 498 servants at your immediate beck and call. Of course, unlike the Sun King’s servants, these people work for many other people too, but from your perspective what is the difference? That is the magic that exchange and specialisation have wrought for the human species.

Not long after I moved with my family to a small town in New Hampshire I happened upon a path that vanished into a wood on the edge of town. A sign announced that this was no ordinary footpath but the celebrated Appalachian Trail. Running more than 2,100 miles along America’s eastern seaboard, through the serene and beckoning Appalachian Mountains, the AT is the granddaddy of long hikes. From Georgia to Maine,

A few months into our relationship, we had a campout down at my dad’s place. There were a lot of people from church, and we played games and fished into the night. We all gathered around a huge campfire, ate dinner, and sang songs together. Missy was clinging all over me, mainly because she was scared of everything flying in the air or crawling on the ground. It was one of those nights when you feel closer to God and everyone else because of the setting and the ambience--despite the bug activity. That was the first time we said “I love you” to each other. Now, there is still an ongoing debate as to who said it first. I remember clearly that she whispered, “I love you,” and then I responded. She is convinced that I said it first, but she was under the influence of bug paranoia. I believe her condition affected her memory.

I'm like a shark," Janie said. "I need to keep moving or die, which means I need to expand-" she stopped there. Her own father's business was successful mainly because he kept expanding, kept moving onward and upward. The only difference was Dan Westerveld didn't have a spouse who gambled away all available equity in the house and business. But Janie kept that information to herself. Neither her sister nor her parents knew how dire her financial situation was. "What do you mean? And you're kind of struggling as it is." "And that's why I need to expand. I'm just trying to make sure I can sustain my current lifestyle, which is hardly extravagant." "I'll say. I can't believe that beater of a car of yours is still running." "Regular maintenance helps." And prayer, Janie thought. Something she spent a lot of time on these days.

Descending the stairs from her room, I was tempted to go outside and find out if the shivering gut-wrench I’d felt as I came in really meant what I thought it did. But I stayed in the warmth of the house. I felt like I knew something about myself that I hadn’t before, a bit of knowledge so new that if I became a wolf now, I might lose it and not remember it whenever I became Cole again. I wandered down the main stairs, mindful that her father was somewhere in the house’s depths while Isabel stayed up in her tower alone. What would it be like, growing up in a house that looked like this? If I breathed too hard it would knock some decorative bowl off the wall or cause the perfectly arranged dried flowers to weep petals. Sure, my family had been affluent growing up—successful mad scientists generally are—but it never looked like this. Our lives had looked…lived in.

It’s essential to get back to District 12, because the main part of any plan will include my mother and sister, Gale and his family. And Peeta, if I can get him to come with us. I add Haymitch to the list. These are the people I must take with me when I escape into the wild. How I will convince them, where we will go in the dead of winter, what it will take to evade capture are unanswered questions. But at least now I know what I must do.

years, my family had sold the estate around the house, piece by piece, so that the sprawling peach orchard and even the grand front drive had given way to tidy bungalows lining the long road to the main house. Grandma had said it made gossip travel even faster, the way they built houses so close together these days. I always told her that the good citizens of Sugarland, Tennessee, needed no help. Still, I loved the place. And I absolutely despised letting

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

Back then the towering gums marched down to the water and the area was sparsely populated with fibro weekenders - simple cottages and boat sheds - mainly owned by coal miners from the nearby Hunter Valley. My grandfather worked in the mines. He'd lend my family the one room boffy attached to his boasted almost every school holiday, and I have such vivid memories of jumping off his jetty and boiling crabs for dinner and fishing with a line wrapped around a piece of cork and playing in the rock pools and parking about in his tin runabout.

In the songbun system, everyone is ranked among three main groups, based on their supposed loyalty to the regime. The highest is the “core” class made up of honored revolutionaries—peasants, veterans, or relatives of those who fought or died for the North—and those who have demonstrated great loyalty to the Kim family and are part of the apparatus that keeps them in power. Second is the “basic” or “wavering” class, made up of those who once lived in the South or had family there, former merchants, intellectuals, or any ordinary person who might not be trusted to have complete loyalty to the new order. Finally, lowest of all, is the “hostile” class, including former landowners and their descendants, capitalists, former South Korean soldiers, Christians or other religious followers, the families of political prisoners, and any other perceived enemies of the state. It is extremely difficult to move to a higher songbun, but it is very easy to be cast down into the lowest levels through no fault of your own. And as my father and his family found out, once you lose your songbun status, you lose everything else you have achieved along with it.

Here in Tibet live the people my mother taught me to love before I met them. We are family, and love has undetermined aptitude and great hunger. I wander around town with a heavy heart. You can love a place as you love a person and it is especially easy to feel that way here, where man and nature are intertwined deeply. I commit to memory little things: the thin film of dust incited by the ends of chubas dragging on the earth; the gentle contours of the mountains; the steady gaze of a yak; the alacrity with which children submit to authority; the patience of women who sit in the main square with bottles of milk and yogurt for sale; the songs on the streets.

He laughed quietly. 'A family is a strange thing,' he said. 'A family has to exist as its own premise, or else the system won't function. In that sense, my useless legs are kind of a banner that my family rallies around. My legs are the pivot around which things revolve.' He was tapping at the table top again. Not in irritation – merely moving his fingers and quietly contemplating things in his own time zone. One of the main characteristics of this system is that lack gravitates towards greater lack, excess towards greater excess. When Debussy was seeming to get nowhere with an opera he was composing, he put it this way: "I spend my days pursuing nothingness, –

Kevin D. Williamson in a sneering screed published in March 2016 in National Review, a leading conservative journal: The problem isn’t that Americans cannot sustain families, but that they do not wish to. If you spend time in hardscrabble, white upstate New York, or eastern Kentucky, or my own native West Texas, and you take an honest look at the welfare dependency, the drug and alcohol addiction, the family anarchy—which is to say, the whelping of human children with all the respect and wisdom of a stray dog—you will come to an awful realization. It wasn’t Beijing. It wasn’t even Washington, as bad as Washington can be. It wasn’t immigrants from Mexico, excessive and problematic as our current immigration levels are. It wasn’t any of that. Nothing happened to them. There wasn’t some awful disaster. There wasn’t a war or a famine or a plague or a foreign occupation. Even the economic changes of the past few decades do very little to explain the dysfunction and negligence—and the incomprehensible malice—of poor white America. So the gypsum business in Garbutt ain’t what it used to be. There is more to life in the 21st century than wallboard and cheap sentimentality about how the Man closed the factories down. The truth about these dysfunctional, downscale communities is that they deserve to die. Economically, they are negative assets. Morally, they are indefensible. Forget all your cheap theatrical Bruce Springsteen crap. Forget your sanctimony about struggling Rust Belt factory towns and your conspiracy theories about the wily Orientals stealing our jobs. Forget your goddamned gypsum, and, if he has a problem with that, forget Ed Burke, too. The white American underclass is in thrall to a vicious, selfish culture whose main products are misery and used heroin needles. Donald Trump’s speeches make them feel good. So does OxyContin. What they need isn’t analgesics, literal or political. They need real opportunity, which means that they need real change, which means that they need U-Haul. For

My main memory from those early years is of fun and laughter and love – and also a deep connection with Wales. I didn’t realize it at the time – it was all I knew – but speaking Welsh around the dinner table was another bond, both with each other and with our community. The sense of belonging and being surrounded by family love made us very secure. And the simplicity of the way we lived – not in luxury, by any means, but not hankering after things we couldn’t have, or being led astray or feeling we were missing out on anything – was deeply ingrained. It was a very Welsh childhood, and to me completely magical. It was the mould I came from, by which I have always been indelibly marked. It was the making of me.

For many years, a family of ospreys lived in a large nest near my summer home in Maine. Each season, I carefully observed their rituals and habits. In mid-April, the parents would arrive, having spent the winter in South America, and lay eggs. In early June, the eggs hatched. The babies slowly grew, as the father brought fish back to the nest, and in early to mid August were large enough to make their first flight. My wife and I recorded all of these comings and goings with cameras and in a notebook. We wrote down the number of chicks each year, usually one or two but sometimes three. We noted when the chicks first began flapping their wings, usually a couple of weeks before flying from the nest. We memorized the different chirps the parents made for danger, for hunger, for the arrival of food. After several years of cataloguing such data, we felt that we knew these ospreys. We could predict the sounds the birds would make in different situations, their flight patterns, their behavior when a storm was brewing. Reading our “osprey journals” on a winter’s night, we felt a sense of pride and satisfaction. We had carefully studied and documented a small part of the universe. Then, one August afternoon, the two baby ospreys of that season took flight for the first time as I stood on the circular deck of my house watching the nest. All summer long, they had watched me on that deck as I watched them. To them, it must have looked like I was in my nest just as they were in theirs. On this particular afternoon, their maiden flight, they did a loop of my house and then headed straight at me with tremendous speed. My immediate impulse was to run for cover, since they could have ripped me apart with their powerful talons. But something held me to my ground. When they were within twenty feet of me, they suddenly veered upward and away. But before that dazzling and frightening vertical climb, for about half a second we made eye contact. Words cannot convey what was exchanged between us in that instant. It was a look of connectedness, of mutual respect, of recognition that we shared the same land. After they were gone, I found that I was shaking, and in tears. To this day, I do not understand what happened in that half second. But it was one of the most profound moments of my life.

The main entrance reminded me of the Alamo, a place Chris had always loved. His fascination with history seemed to fit perfectly with the place. School kids came regularly to learn about our history, something I knew would appeal to him. It just felt like Chris. Still, I had to be sure. I excused myself and took a walk away from the others, moving down the hill to a spot where I could see the immense flag. “Okay, babe,” I said. “If you can talk to me, tell me what you think. I don’t know.” Bad-ass. The words flew into my head, bypassing my ears. Bad-ass. Bad-ass. Bad-ass. Over and over, I heard those words in my head. It was as if Chris was there, telling me yes, this is where I want to be buried. There were plenty of logical reasons to choose Austin-it’s much closer to the family, and I can be buried next to him when my time comes. But I truly felt that Chris had spoken at that moment to me. Walking back to the family, I felt his arm around me and his gentle lips on my temple. “Okay, babe. Austin.

Main Street is dead, which is no news to the families whose families ran family businesses on Main Street. When I returned...I found that all the local businesses from my childhood had been extirpated by Wal-Mart. If there is one single symbol for the demise of regional American culture, it is this superstore prototype, a huge capitalist boot that stomped the moms and pops, like soft, damp worms, to death. Don’t get me wrong. I love Wal-Mart. There is nothing I like more than to consign a mindless afternoon to those aisles, suspending thought, judgment. It’s like television. But to a documentarian of American culture, Wal-Mart is a nightmare. When it comes to towns, Hope, Alabama, becomes the same as Hope, Wyoming, or, for that matter, Hope, Alaska, and in the end, all that remains of our pioneering aspirations are the confused and self-conscious simulacra of relic culture: Ye Olde Curiosities ‘n’ Copie Shoppe, Deadeye Dick’s Saloon and Karaoke Bar—ingenious hybrids and strange global grafts that are the local businessperson’s only chance of survival in economies of scale.

Recently, I was in New York with most of the Robertson family promoting the season-four premiere of Duck Dynasty. We were staying at the Trump International Hotel, which is a really nice place near Central Park. I was already uncomfortable being in the big city. I don’t like traffic or concrete, and there are a lot of both in New York. After we checked in, we gathered downstairs to go to a Broadway musical show. I know it might seem bizarre for me to be going to a musical, but my very attractive wife can be mightily persuasive, especially when I have nothing else to do. As we were waiting or the others in the lobby, I asked a doorman if there was a nearby bathroom. He gave me directions to the nearest restroom, which included a walk through the hotel restaurant. As I entered the restaurant, a well-dressed staffer offered his assistance. I informed him I was only going to the restroom. But he very nicely continued to offer assistance and took the role of my escort, which I thought was quite courteous and professional. At his direction, we took a quick left turn and walked out of the hotel. Befuddled, I asked him, “Where is the bathroom?” He painted down the street or maybe toward Central Park and said, “Good luck to you, sir. Have a nice day.” I circled back around to the main entrance of the hotel, where I found Missy, who had witnessed the entire episode. “I thought you had to go to the bathroom,” she said. I laughed and told her I had been escorted out of the hotel because of the way I looked. It was no big deal to us, and I laughed about the incident later that night with my family over dinner. I shared the story the next day with Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan on Live! with Kelly and Michael because I thought it was funny. Well, the story went viral and was all over the news and Internet the next few days. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing and various media outlets were trying to contact me. I’d jokingly labeled the incident “facial profiling” because in my mind that’s exactly what it was. People were surprised that it didn’t bother me, but my family and I have endured those kinds of things our entire lives. I figured the hotel employee was only trying to protect other hotel guests. The incident culminated with a call from Donald Trump’s office. They offered an apology for any inconvenience. I assured them that no apology was needed, and I asked them not to punish my courteous escort.

In one sense we are all unique, absolutely one-of-a-kind individual creations; but in a much more profound way, each of us has come about as the result of a "long choosing." This is a phrase from writer Wendell Berry, whose book Remembering describes the main character, Andy Catlett’s, struggle with a sudden bout of amnesia. To those acquainted with Berry’s stories about Port William, Kentucky, Andy is a familiar figure, having grown up in the town’s rich web of family and neighborhood relationships. His disorientation begins during a cross-country plane trip to a scientific conference, where he is caught up in the security lines and body searches now a familiar part of the post-9/11 reality. In this world every stranger in an airport terminal is a potential enemy, someone to be kept at a safe distance. Somehow Andy makes it back to his home in rural Kentucky, but he is rough shape. He has literally forgotten who he is, and wanders about town looking for clues. His memories—and his sense of self—return only when in a confused dream state he sees his ancestors, walking together in an endless line. To Andy they are a "long dance of men and women behind, most of whom he never knew, . . . who, choosing one another, chose him.” In other words Andy Catlett is not a self-made man living in an isolated blip of a town, but he and his home are the sum of hundreds of courtships and conceptions, choices and chances, errors and hopes. We like to imagine that we are unique, absolutely unprecedented. But here is the truth: not just the tilt of our noses or the color of our bodies, but far more intimate characteristics–the shape of our feet or an inner tendency towards joy or sadness–have belonged to other people before we came along to inherit them. We came about because they decided to marry one person and not the other, to have six children instead of three, to move to a city instead of staying on the farm. It is remarkable to think of someone walking down the streets of sixteenth-century Amsterdam with my fingers and kneecaps, my tendency toward melancholy and my aptitude for music. We live within a web of holy obligation. We are connected to people of the world today, and to other invisible people: the unknown number of generations yet to be born. One of the most important things we can do, in the way we care for the earth and in the way we care for our local church life, is to recognize their potential presence. (pp.117-118)

And yeah, put out as I can be with Mama 'bout a lotta things, I gotta admit she gets all the credit for getting me interested in cooking when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper. Gladys never seemed to give a damn about it when we were kids, which I guess is why she and that family of hers nourish themselves today mainly on KFC and Whoppers and junk like that. But me, I couldn't keep my eyes off Mama when she'd fix a mess of short ribs, or cut out perfect rounds of buttermilk biscuit dough with a juice glass, or spread a thick, real shiny caramel icing over her 1-2-3-4 cakes. And I can remember like it was yesterday (must have been about 4 years old at the time) when she first let me help her bake cookies, especially the same jelly treats I still make today and could eat by the dozen if I didn't now have better control. "Honey, start opening those jars on the counter," she said while she creamed butter and sugar with her Sunbeam electric hand mixer in the same wide, chipped bowl she used to make for biscuit dough. Strawberry, peach, and mint- the flavors never varied for Mama's jelly treats, and just the idea of making these cookies with anything but jelly and jam she'd put up herself the year before would have been inconceivable to Mama.

But the actual mail was delivered to the little brick post office on the main drag and distributed to the keyed, ornate boxes inside. My family had one of the lower numbers because we’d inherited our box as it was passed down through the Shepherd line. “So your family is Levan royalty, then?” Moses had teased. “Yes. We Shepherds rule this town,” I replied. “Who has PO Box number 1?” he inquired immediately. “God,” I said, not missing a beat. “And box number 2?” He was laughing as he asked. “Pam Jackman.” “From down the street?” “Yes. She’s like one of the Kennedys.” “She drives the bus, right?” he asked. “Yes. Bus driver is a highly lauded position in our community.” I didn’t even crack a smile. “So boxes 3 and 4?” “They are empty now. They are waiting for the heirs to come of age before they inherit their mailboxes. My son will someday inherit PO Box #5. It will be a proud day for all Shepherds.” “Your son? What if you have a daughter?” His eyes got that flinty look that made my stomach feel swishy. Talking about having children made me think about making babies. With Moses. “She’s going to be the first female bull-rider who wins the national title. She won’t be living in Levan most of the time. Her brothers will have to look after the family name and the Shepherd line . . . and our post office box,” I said, trying not to think about how much I would enjoy making little bull-riders with Moses.

Dear John, I, Lara Jean, hereby make a solemn vow--nay, an unbreakable vow--to return my letter to you, intact and unchanged. Now give me my letter back! Also you’re such a liar. You know very well that plenty of girls liked you in middle school. At sleepovers, girls would be like, are you Team Peter of Team John? Don’t pretend like you didn’t know that, Johnny! And to answer your question--there were five letters. Five meaningful boys in my whole life history. Though, now that I’m writing it down, five sounds like a lot, considering the fact that I’m only sixteen. I wonder how many there’ll have been by the time I’m twenty! There’s this lady at the nursing home I volunteer at, and she’s had so many husbands and lived so many lives. I look at her and I think, she must not have even one regret, because she’s done and seen it all. Did I tell you my older sister Margot’s all the way in Scotland, at St. Andrews? It’s where Prince William and Kate Middleton met. Maybe she’ll meet a prince, too, haha! Where do you want to go to college? Do you know what you want to study? I think I want to stay in state. Virginia has great public schools and it’ll be much cheaper, but I guess the main reason is I’m very close to my family and I don’t want to be too-too far away. I used to think I might want to go to UVA and live at home, but now I’m thinking dorms are the way to go for a true college experience. Don’t forget to send back my letter, Lara Jean

My Little Pony Game Helps You Get A Creator With My Little Pony games, you can enjoy many categories such as Dress Up games, Makeover games, riding games, racing games,...Each game brings you the different sentiments and it depends on your hobby that you can choose the suitable game for your free time. At our website, there are many My Little Pony games with full My Little Pony characters and you can meet them such as Twilight Sparkle, Rarity, Fluttershy, Rainbow Dash, Pinkie Pie and Applejack,,They have the good friendship and relations as well. Now, you will go to our new game called My little pony hairstyle. This is a creator game for you that you can get an opportunity to make new hair for Rainbow Dash. As you know, she has a hairstyle attached to her name. Now, you will help her to change Little about her hairstyle. Not difficult to play this game , you just use your mouse and follow step by step instruction that you can find in this game at our website. I can tell more here to help you play this game easier. In the first game, you will choose a hairstyle in six styles. Then you will choose the color for her hair. You can take one in ten colors in this game such as blue, green, red, purple, yellow, light purple,.. And you mix color as your favorite color. With each my little pony character, you can see the different personality and fashion style. My little pony Rainbow Dash has always the unique hairstyle with the mixing color. This is the creator game because you can show your fashion style about the hair. Besides the dress up game and make up games, we have others games categories such as riding, racing, caring, cooking, fighting,,,All are free here, you can enjoy them at anytime and anywhere. Please recommend our website to your friends as well, you will have the more human counterpart. You will have the good experience, adventure when you come to our website. We provide also descendants games, Elsa games, Daby games, Io games,...It depends on the age, the hobby that you can choose the game in your free time. You can enjoy the life as a child with our games and forget all the worries and stress in your life. I hope that you will like our games as well. My Little Pony Angry is a puzzle game and your task in this game is to use your mouse to drag and drop the pieces and make a complete My Little Pony pictures. In this game, you will get an opportunity to meet again six main My Little Pony such as Applejack, Rainbow Dash, Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, Rarity, and Twilight Sparkle of the cartoon My Little Pony, they are all very aggressive and angry. We think that this way they want to scare off enemies from Ponyville. You know that My Little Pony or Friendship Is Magic has the content that tells about six main My Little Pony and other supporting characters but with My Little Pony, the content focuses primarily on Twilight Sparkle and her friends, they find out the way to rescue Equestria Land. Each My Little Pony game can give you a good lessons about family, friends, relationship...This is a cheap entertainment and designed for everyone. I hope that you can get the perfectime here and we can make the relationship thank to My Little Pony games on our website. Have fun on our site Gamesmylittlepony.com

Missy and I were married on August 10, 1990. To say our marriage got off to a rocky start would be an understatement. My brothers and closest friends took me frog-hunting the night before my wedding for my bachelor party. As we were searching for frogs, my oldest brother, Alan, gave me a lot of advice on marriage in general as we motored along the bayou. The main thing he reminded me of is that God is the architect of marriage. Having a great relationship with our Creator is the best thing you can do for your marriage relationship. Alan gave me an illustration of a triangle with the husband and wife on the bottom corners and God at the top corner. His point was that as each person moves closer to God, they also move closer to each other. I never forgot that and he was right. I was mainly the motorman that night and was filled with anxiety and anticipation of the wedding. As we moved along, we saw two big frogs mating on the riverbank. “Whoa, there you go!” Al shouted. It kind of broke the ice for a conversation about intimacy and sex. Missy and I had not seen each other much in the previous couple of months because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Many times we had to remind each other of our commitment to stay pure and had had many prayers together. We were not perfect, but one of us would always stop things from getting too heated. Eventually, we decided to have only a long-distance relationship via telephone and our face-to-face encounters became limited to church and public gatherings. As our wedding was approaching, Missy and I were both a little bit nervous about having sex for the first time. I think that’s the way it is when you’re both virgins. We were both excited because we’d decided to save ourselves for marriage and our big night was finally here!

When I returned from the restroom and Jase saw how much I was bleeding, he began to grill the doctor with every question imaginable. She remained completely stoic, no matter what he said. Every time he asked her a question, she provided the same measured response: “I will not know until I begin to operate.” She began trying to offer various common medical possibilities for this incident, such as a ruptured cyst and other diagnoses. Jase shot down every explanation with the power and speed he would use to blast a duck out of the sky with a shotgun. He was never disrespectful toward her, but he was intense. Due to the pain I was experiencing, I did not realize exactly what was going on, but I did know I was lying on the bed while the doctor and my husband were in a Western movie standoff on either side of me. These two strong personalities were about to collide, and I was in the direct line of fire! At one point, the telephone in my pre-op room rang. Without saying a word, the doctor picked up the phone, stretched it across my bed, and handed it to Jase, never taking her eyes off his. To say that one could cut the tension in the room with a knife is a complete understatement. I was not happy about Jase’s confrontational manner, but at the same time, I was grateful that he was asking the questions I never thought to ask and telling the doctor exactly how he wanted her to treat me. “Like your own daughter,” he said. Jase clearly communicated that he wanted the doctor to rectify the situation. He went on to tell her, “You better not start taking out a bunch of things that need to be left inside of her. I understand that you have to operate, but do not remove anything that does not have to come out.” She confirmed her understanding of his expectations and left the room. “Jason,” I said, using his full name, “she is my boss.” I hated the thought that he might say something to offend her, something that might make my working for her difficult or awkward in the future. “I don’t care,” Jase said, “my main concern is you. I am about to send you back into that operating room with her, and I want to make sure she knows my expectations are high.

But nothing in my previous work had prepared me for the experience of reinvestigating Cleveland. It is worth — given the passage of time — recalling the basic architecture of the Crisis: 121 children from many different and largely unrelated families had been taken into the care of Cleveland County Council in the three short months of the summer of 1987. (p18) The key to resolving the puzzle of Cleveland was the children. What had actually happened to them? Had they been abused - or had the paediatricians and social workers (as public opinion held) been over-zealous and plain wrong? Curiously — particularly given its high profile, year-long sittings and £5 million cost — this was the one central issue never addressed by the Butler-Sloss judicial testimony and sifting of internal evidence, the inquiry's remit did not require it to answer the main question. Ten years after the crisis, my colleagues and I set about reconstructing the records of the 121 children at its heart to determine exactly what had happened to them... (p19) Eventually, though, we did assemble the data given to the Butler-Sloss Inquiry. This divided into two categories: the confidential material, presented in camera, and the transcripts of public sessions of the hearings. Putting the two together we assembled our own database on the children each identified only by the code-letters assigned to them by Butler-Sloss. When it was finished, this database told a startlingly different story from the public myth. In every case there was some prima fade evidence to suggest the possibility of abuse. Far from the media fiction of parents taking their children to Middlesbrough General Hospital for a tummy ache or a sore thumb and suddenly being presented with a diagnosis of child sexual abuse, the true story was of families known to social services for months or years, histories of physical and sexual abuse of siblings and of prior discussions with parents about these concerns. In several of the cases the children themselves had made detailed disclosures of abuse; many of the pre-verbal children displayed severe emotional or behavioural symptoms consistent with sexual abuse. There were even some families in which a convicted sex offender had moved in with mother and children. (p20)

Easing Your Worries I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? —MATTHEW 6:25     I don’t know how things are in your world, but I can tell you that in Southern California we live in an age of anxiety. My neighbors and I have it much easier than our parents, but we certainly are much uneasier than our parents were. We seem to be anxious about temporal things, more so than past generations. They never worried about whether they were eating at the new vogue eatery, vacationing at the best island hotel with the largest pool, wearing the most prestigious label, or keeping their abs in shape. I watched the previous generation closely; they wanted a home for their families, a car that ran efficiently, and a job that provided for their basic needs. It seems our main concerns and drives today are physical and earth possessed. A large number of people actually believe that if they have the best food, clothing, education, house, and trainer, they have arrived. What else could one want for a perfect life? Our culture actually places more importance on the body and what we do with it than ever before in modern history. Thus we have created a mind set that causes us as women to be more concerned with life’s accommodations along life’s journey than with our final destination. Many women are going through their lives with a vast vacuum on the inside. In fact, the woman that you might sometimes envy because of her finely dressed family and newly remodeled kitchen is probably spending most of her day anxious and unsatisfied. Maybe that woman is you? This thing called life is more important than food, and the body is more important than what we wear. All the tangible distractions don’t satisfy the soul; they have become cheap substitutes for our spiritual wholeness and well-being. Let Christ help you overcome the anxieties of life. • Stop chasing the temporal things of life. Seek the kingdom of God as it is revealed in Jesus. Cast all your cares on Him. • Take your eyes off yourself and focus them on God first. Much of our anxieties are rooted in our self-centeredness. • Spend most of your prayer time praying for others.

Do you believe yourself in love with Deveaux?” He snarled the words. Between gritted teeth, he said, “It’s emblazoned on your pretty face. But you wouldn’t love him if you truly knew him. Your feelings would wither and die.” “What are you talking about?” “He’s lied to you repeatedly.” “Uh-huh. I’ll just take your word for it?” “No, I received my information from the Fool. He was quite worried about his Empress’s safety when you were in Deveaux’s keeping.” “You know I’ll fact-check.” “I expect you to.” “And why would you two be discussing my safety?” “I’ve been up-front about my intentions with you, unlike Deveaux. Did you never wonder about his instant infatuation with you?” “Maybe he had a thing for cheerleaders.” Death shook his head. “No, he targeted you before he ever saw you.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “You were possessed by someone he hated.” He downed another shot. “Jack despised Brand. That was no secret.” “You never asked yourself why?” “Because Brand was rich and seemed to have everything so easy.” “I’m sure that had something to do with it. However, the main reason he hated Brandon Radcliffe”—Death’s eyes had never looked so flat and dark—“was that they shared a father” “You’re saying Brand and Jackson were . . . half brothers?” Only one son had known of their connection. Was this why Jack’s eyes had darted when I’d asked him if he had any secrets? Death was relishing this. “Deveaux coveted all his brother had: the perfect family, the house, the car. The girl. He could never have any of the others—but he could have you. And he did.” “You’re lying.” You can trust me alone, Evie. “Matthew would’ve told me about this.” Death tsked. “Such trust you have in the Fool. How do you think I learned what my armor would do to your powers?” I tottered on my feet. “H-he wouldn’t!” “It’s nothing personal with him, just strategy and scheming.” I’d thought Matthew an innocent, wide-eyed boy. “The Fool knew that I’d kill you if I had no means to control you. In essence, he’s saved your life. So far, at least.” Death continued, “Deveaux didn’t even like you, but he pursued you.” “You don’t know anything!” I cried, though I could hear Jack’s words: Even when I hated you, I wanted you. “One benefit of my endless life? I have quite a grasp on human behavior.” “Maybe he did target me. But his feelings grew from that. You’ll have to do better than this.” “Do better? As you wish, creature.” With an evil grin, he said, “Deveaux killed your mother.

Obviously, I didn’t pursue that girl any longer, and I didn’t think about Missy much after our so-called date, mainly because I didn’t think she was interested in me. But then a few days later, one of our mutual friends from church called me. She told me Missy couldn’t stop thinking about me. I didn’t find out until several months later that the friend also called Missy that night and told her I really liked her! Neither one of us thought much about our fake date, but our friend decided to play matchmaker. The next time I saw Missy was at a youth meeting at the Kelletts’ house. Oddly enough, Missy’s family had lived in the same house for years until Mike and his family bought it. After the meeting I decided to check the credibility of our mutual friend who told me Missy was interested in me. We were outside and Missy was telling me stories of when she used to live there. I led her to the backyard and after she finished a story, I made my move. I turned and planted a juicy lip lock on her, to which she responded enthusiastically. I just wanted to see if she was interested in me and I got the answer. I have to admit I felt a spark or two during the encounter. It was nice! Missy remembers a few more details of our early dating. Missy: During our mock date, I also felt like we had a great time together. However, because we had mutually agreed to go out on this public-relations date, I would have never assumed anything more. I am not an aggressive person, and even though I felt something between us, I would have never made the first move! That’s why, when Jason dropped me off, I just got out of the truck and went inside. He obviously hadn’t asked me out because he thought I was pretty, funny, or interesting. In my mind, this was just business, whether I liked it or not. And I didn’t like it. I was definitely attracted to him, but where I came from and the way I was raised, it was the boy’s responsibility to make the first move. And he didn’t, at least not that night. When my friend called me a few days later and told me that he liked me, I was surprised and thrilled! Little did I know that she’d done the same thing to Jason. The night after our first kiss at our youth minister’s house, I remember trying not to get my hopes up. I knew about his reputation of dating as many girls as possible, and I thought there was a great chance that I would never hear from him again. However, I decided to go outside my comfort zone and give him a call. One of his mom’s friends answered the phone and when I asked to speak to Jason, she told me he was on his way to his girlfriend’s house. I hung up, feeling dejected. About fifteen minutes later, he showed up at my house. I was the girlfriend!

Marcus released the countess as if he had been burned. His first reaction was a piercing relief that Lillian was still alive. However, the relief was followed immediately by the awareness that she was far from safe. In light of St. Vincent’s need of a fortune, it made perfect sense for him to abduct Lillian. Marcus turned from his mother, never wanting to look at her again, unable to bring himself to speak to her. His gaze locked with Simon Hunt’s. Predictably, Hunt was already making rapid calculations. “He’ll take her to Gretna Green, of course,” Hunt murmured, “and they’ll have to travel east to the main road in Hertfordshire. He won’t risk traveling the back ways and getting mired in mud, or having the wheels damaged from broken road. From Hertfordshire it will be approximately forty-five hours to Scotland… and at a speed of ten miles per hour, with occasional stops for fresh relay horses…” “You’ll never overtake them,” the countess cried with a cackling laugh. “I told you I would have my way, Westcliff!” “Oh, shut up, you evil hag!” cried Daisy Bowman impatiently from the doorway, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Lord Westcliff, shall I run to the stables and tell them to saddle a horse?” “Two horses,” Simon Hunt said resolutely. “I’m going with him.” “Which ones—” “Ebony and Yasmin,” Marcus replied. They were his best Arabians, bred for speed over long distance. They were not as lightning-fast as thoroughbreds, but they would endure a punishing pace for hours, traveling at least three times as fast as St. Vincent’s coach. Daisy disappeared in a flash, and Marcus turned to his sister. “See that the countess is gone by the time I return,” he said curtly. “Pack whatever she needs, and get her off the estate.” “Where do you wish me to send her?” Livia asked, pale but composed. “I don’t give a damn, so long as she knows not to return.” Realizing that she was being banished, and most likely exiled, the countess rose from her chair. “I will not be disposed of in this manner! I won’t have it, my lord!” “And tell the countess,” Marcus said to Livia, “that if the slightest harm comes to Miss Bowman, she had better pray that I never find her.” Marcus strode from the room, shoving through a small crowd that had gathered in the hallway. Simon Hunt followed, pausing only to murmur briefly to Annabelle and press a kiss to her forehead. She stared after him with an anxious frown, biting her lip to keep from calling after him. After a lengthy pause, the countess was heard to mutter, “It matters not what becomes of me. I am content in the knowledge that I have prevented him from befouling the family lineage.” Livia turned to give her mother a half-pitying, half-contemptuous glance. “Marcus never fails,” she said softly. “Most of his childhood was spent learning to overcome impossible odds. And now that Marcus has finally found someone worth fighting for… do you really think he would let anything stop him?

The Sun King had dinner each night alone. He chose from forty dishes, served on gold and silver plate. It took a staggering 498 people to prepare each meal. He was rich because he consumed the work of other people, mainly in the form of their services. He was rich because other people did things for him. At that time, the average French family would have prepared and consumed its own meals as well as paid tax to support his servants in the palace. So it is not hard to conclude that Louis XIV was rich because others were poor. But what about today? Consider that you are an average person, say a woman of 35, living in, for the sake of argument, Paris and earning the median wage, with a working husband and two children. You are far from poor, but in relative terms, you are immeasurably poorer than Louis was. Where he was the richest of the rich in the world’s richest city, you have no servants, no palace, no carriage, no kingdom. As you toil home from work on the crowded Metro, stopping at the shop on the way to buy a ready meal for four, you might be thinking that Louis XIV’s dining arrangements were way beyond your reach. And yet consider this. The cornucopia that greets you as you enter the supermarket dwarfs anything that Louis XIV ever experienced (and it is probably less likely to contain salmonella). You can buy a fresh, frozen, tinned, smoked or pre-prepared meal made with beef, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, prawns, scallops, eggs, potatoes, beans, carrots, cabbage, aubergine, kumquats, celeriac, okra, seven kinds of lettuce, cooked in olive, walnut, sunflower or peanut oil and flavoured with cilantro, turmeric, basil or rosemary ... You may have no chefs, but you can decide on a whim to choose between scores of nearby bistros, or Italian, Chinese, Japanese or Indian restaurants, in each of which a team of skilled chefs is waiting to serve your family at less than an hour’s notice. Think of this: never before this generation has the average person been able to afford to have somebody else prepare his meals. You employ no tailor, but you can browse the internet and instantly order from an almost infinite range of excellent, affordable clothes of cotton, silk, linen, wool and nylon made up for you in factories all over Asia. You have no carriage, but you can buy a ticket which will summon the services of a skilled pilot of a budget airline to fly you to one of hundreds of destinations that Louis never dreamed of seeing. You have no woodcutters to bring you logs for the fire, but the operators of gas rigs in Russia are clamouring to bring you clean central heating. You have no wick-trimming footman, but your light switch gives you the instant and brilliant produce of hardworking people at a grid of distant nuclear power stations. You have no runner to send messages, but even now a repairman is climbing a mobile-phone mast somewhere in the world to make sure it is working properly just in case you need to call that cell. You have no private apothecary, but your local pharmacy supplies you with the handiwork of many thousands of chemists, engineers and logistics experts. You have no government ministers, but diligent reporters are even now standing ready to tell you about a film star’s divorce if you will only switch to their channel or log on to their blogs. My point is that you have far, far more than 498 servants at your immediate beck and call. Of course, unlike the Sun King’s servants, these people work for many other people too, but from your perspective what is the difference? That is the magic that exchange and specialisation have wrought for the human species.

What a joy this book is! I love recipe books, but it’s short-lived; I enjoy the pictures for several minutes, read a few pages, and then my eyes glaze over. They are basically books to be used in the kitchen for one recipe at a time. This book, however, is in a different class altogether and designed to be read in its entirety. It’s in its own sui generis category; it has recipes at the end of most of the twenty-one chapters, but it’s a book to be read from cover to cover, yet it could easily be read chapter by chapter, in any order, as they are all self-contained. Every bite-sized chapter is a flowing narrative from a well-stocked brain encompassing Balinese culture, geography and history, while not losing its main focus: food. As you would expect from a scholar with a PhD in history from Columbia University, the subject matter has been meticulously researched, not from books and articles and other people’s work, but from actually being on the ground and in the markets and in the kitchens of Balinese families, where the Balinese themselves learn their culinary skills, hands on, passed down orally, manually and practically from generation to generation. Vivienne Kruger has lived in Bali long enough to get it right. That’s no mean feat, as the subject has not been fully studied before. Yes, there are so-called Balinese recipe books, most, if I’m not mistaken, written by foreigners, and heavily adapted. The dishes have not, until now, been systematically placed in their proper cultural context, which is extremely important for the Balinese, nor has there been any examination of the numerous varieties of each type of recipe, nor have they been given their true Balinese names. This groundbreaking book is a pleasure to read, not just for its fascinating content, which I learnt a lot from, but for the exuberance, enthusiasm and originality of the language. There’s not a dull sentence in the book. You just can’t wait to read the next phrase. There are eye-opening and jaw-dropping passages for the general reader as Kruger describes delicacies from the village of Tengkudak in Tabanan district — grasshoppers, dragonflies, eels and live baby bees — and explains how they are caught and cooked. She does not shy away from controversial subjects, such as eating dog and turtle. Parts of it are not for the faint-hearted, but other parts make you want to go out and join the participants, such as the Nusa Lembongan fishermen, who sail their outriggers at 5.30 a.m. The author quotes Miguel Covarrubias, the great Mexican observer of the 1930s, who wrote “The Island of Bali.” It has inspired all writers since, including myself and my co-author, Ni Wayan Murni, in our book “Secrets of Bali, Fresh Light on the Morning of the World.” There is, however, no bibliography, which I found strange at first. I can only imagine it’s a reflection of how original the subject matter is; there simply are no other sources. Throughout the book Kruger mentions Balinese and Indonesian words and sometimes discusses their derivations. It’s a Herculean task. I was intrigued to read that “satay” comes from the Tamil word for flesh ( sathai ) and that South Indians brought satay to Southeast Asia before Indonesia developed its own tradition. The book is full of interesting tidbits like this. The book contains 47 recipes in all, 11 of which came from Murni’s own restaurant, Murni’s Warung, in Ubud. Mr Dolphin of Warung Dolphin in Lovina also contributed a number of recipes. Kruger adds an introduction to each recipe, with a detailed and usually very personal commentary. I think my favorite, though, is from a village priest (pemangku), I Made Arnila of the Ganesha (Siwa) Temple in Lovina. water. I am sure most will enjoy this book enormously; I certainly did.” Review published in The Jakarta Globe, April 17, 2014. Jonathan Copeland is an author and photographer based in Bali. thejakartaglobe/features/spiritual-journey-culinary-world-bali

at the seat. Instead of blowing his top, he picked me up in his arms and said, "You did it?" I nodded, "Yes I did it!" "But, look son." He tried to explain, "I can't go out with a bottomless pajama — I am a man". I whispered, "And so am I". He just stared, and embraced me. And from that day I got proper pajamas to wear. Dad was a great friend, a very understanding and loving person. Time flies fast — my father's leave was almost over, but the construction work still remained incomplete. He had to go back to Amritsar to resume his duties, and my mother badly needed more money. Two days before his departure he took a loan of Rs. 1,500 from a friend, a Zargar (ornament maker), to somehow finish the construction work, and mortgaged our part of the haveli for this amount. This Rs. 1,500 brought a lot of trouble and hardship to the family as the interest for the loan went on adding. My father resigned his job as a postman and searched for a new clerical job. He did his best to pay off the loan; he but could not. Destiny's smile had changed into a fearsome frown. Soon my little sister Guro was born. While my father slogged in Amritsar to support the family and pay the monthly interest, my mother and grandmother somehow managed to survive. I fell sick, very very sick and the chubby child was soon a bundle of bones. The fair skin was tarnished and looked quite dusky. The handsome Kidar Nath became an ugly urchin. Lack of nourishment also made me a dull boy. The only thought that kept me alive was that my father was my best friend, and that I must stand by my best friend and help him to surmount his difficulties. Having found a tenant for the rebuilt Haveli, we all moved to Amritsar. Across our house lived a shop-keeper known for being a miser. He called a carpenter to fix the main door to his dwelling, because the top of the frame had cracked. A robust argument ensued because the shop-keeper would pay only half a rupee, while the carpenter wanted one. His reason being that an appropriate piece of wood had to be cut to match the area being repaired and then he would have to level the surfaces at a very awkward angle. But the owner was adamant and said, "Just nail the piece of wood, do not level it or do any fancy work, because I shall pay you only half a rupee", as he walked away in a huff.

What led you to visit our church? The question began as an innocent conversation starter. I ask guests questions about themselves and their families. I do my best to get to know them, and to make the conversation about them. But, at some point, my curiosity gets the best of me. Out of the dozens of churches near them, what was the main factor that prompted them to try our church? The answer still surprises me. “We visited the church’s website.” We now hear that response from approximately seven out of ten first-time guests. Guests use Google to search for local churches, and they look at different church websites. They see the church sign driving by, and decided to look up the website. They hear a conversation about the church, and check it out by visiting the website.

My senior year flew by and before I knew it, I was graduating from high school. I was never really fired up about going to the Naval Academy, but that’s easy to say after bombing out on the math part of the entrance exam. Little did I know that eventually, I would become part of the Naval Academy’s “Blue & Gold Program!” In time I would become a Math Teacher and a part of the Naval Academy’s “Blue & Gold Program!” Never mind, I did make it into Maine Maritime Academy at Castine, Maine. My interest in the sea was always merchant ships like the blue ribbon ocean liners and the sea itself. I was never really interested in fighting wars, or in warships for that matter. Perhaps it was that I had lost so many of my family to war that I hated the thought of people killing each other for what they considered a righteous cause. In spite of these feelings, I wound up with over forty years of military service. I knew that I was on the right track and at last my parents were proud of me. I was about to graduate with good grades and was following in the footsteps of “those that go down to the sea in ships.

I had a wonderful book tour of the New England Coast and will write about some of my adventures during the remaining time of this week. The grip of winter refused to let go as I was welcomed to New England, however some of the trees already showed signs of budding. The weather swung between absolutely beautiful crisp sunny days and grim, cloudy skies with low hanging wet fog. Many of the stores and restaurants were still closed, however everyone was looking forward to nicer days ahead. Mainers treated me as the wayward son of Maine that lost his way and wound up in Florida. Since this frequently happens I was usually forgiven and made to feel at home in our countries most northeastern state. I left copies of my books at many libraries and bookstores and although I didn’t intend to sell books I did bring home many orders. Needless to say it didn’t take long before all the samples I had were gone. In my time on the road I distributed over 250 copies of “Salty & Saucy Maine” and 150 copies of “Suppressed I Rise.” I even sold my 2 samples of “The Exciting Story of Cuba” and “Seawater One.” Every one of my business cards went and I freely distributed over 1,000 bookmarks. Lucy flew with Ursula and I to Bradley Airport near Hartford, CT. From there we drove to her son’s home in Duxbury, MA. The next day we visited stores in Hyannis and Plymouth introducing my books. I couldn’t believe how nice the people were since I was now more a salesman than a writer. The following day Ursula and I headed north and Lucy went to Nantucket Island where she has family. For all of us the time was well spent. I drove as far as Bar Harbor meeting people and making new friends. Today I filled a large order and ordered more books. I haven’t figured out if it’s work or fun but it certainly keeps me busy. I hope that I can find the time to finish my next book “Seawater Two.

About three quarters through the program, the head counselor invited me to share my thoughts on the matter. I walked to the front of the group. “I need an open communication connection between us,” I said, as if I were my son. “I would be open, honest, and express my feelings without any concern for judgmental perspectives. There would be complete confidence that I was loved for being me. I’d feel free to discuss my issues, often asking questions, searching for advice and guidance to learn from my father’s past experiences. My family would be loved and appreciated by all of its members. The household rules and contents would be respected. I would strive for success, giving it my best effort to improve on my education and work toward an enjoyable career. Goals would be set to stay motivated, reassessing the long-term goals when the shorter goals are met. My main goal would be to work on a healthy state of mind and body by staying active, striving to do healthy and pleasant activities, without the need of getting high to enjoy them.” When I finished, the head counselor asked Julian for a response. I was proud of his courage to express his opinion and draw attention to himself in front of the group. The boy I knew a few weeks before wouldn’t have been able to stammer through a poorly structured sentence, let alone present his thought processes in an organized manner. Julian began by saying, “I’d be more understanding of my son’s feelings, patient and supportive in whatever he wanted out of life. If he was in trouble, I’d do whatever I could to help him, but be more strict and tough so he wouldn’t get into trouble in the first place. If the rules were broken, there’d be a fair punishment. I would love my son no matter what.” As

I’m not even much of a gardener—my contribution to the family garden consists mainly of compost.

He told me that my little family rocked, however it might look to people from the outside. And he told me to fight for it, no matter what.

Hamlet doesn't fully see that his metaphysical miseries constitute a subliminal symptom of grief; and this was exactly my case. I thought I was sick, I thought I was dying (maybe that is what bereavement actually asks of you). Literature gives us these warnings about the main events, but we don't recognize the warnings until the events have come and gone. Isabel, my senior in the loss of a sibling, told me that you just have to take it, like weather—yes, like sleet in your face.

At the end of the article the author explains that some targets provide such large sources of ego fuel that they may remain in the idealize phase for years, depending on what the sociopath desires out of the relationship. The article calls this “narcissistic supply” and states that all sociopaths are also narcissists. I read the next line: If a target is providing a constant stream of supply, they may be overvalued and idealized by the sociopath for many years. However, when their supply eventually decreases, they will be quickly devalued and discarded. Oh my God. Green card. Restaurant. Wedding. Travel. Reputability. Maine. Money. Family. I was an almost never-ending source of supply for Marco until I had a baby and suddenly, my stock plummeted. I would no longer be feeding his ego if I was taking care of a newborn.

Sorry for the scare," Elinor gently told mothers as she handed out cakes and meat from the baskets. "Thank you for your service," Fergus roared at fathers, handing out oats and salt and candles. "These are my favorite," Merida added, giving the children some of Aileen's ginger biscuits. "They bite you back." Through it all, the triplets kept singing lustily as they threw candies at other boys, and eventually the villagers joined in, too, with the familiar old songs. As the stars shone hard and cold above, Gille Peter and the others put out wood and set the big Christmas bonfire alight at the end of the main street. They'd brought enough timber to burn a bonfire straight through to the late winter dawn, and soon, dozens of people were gathered around it, singing and laughing, voices raised high and joyful, all of it a bulwark against the dark and cold and loneliness and violence. Magic, magic, magic. A very different type of magic than the Cailleach's or Ferdach's. A magic that Merida liked an awful lot. The mundane, generous magic of her family. She liked them an awful lot.

Is Kurt taking you out?" Maisie asked. "It is Valentine's Day." "I wasn't sure when I'd finish my day," Clara said, "so he's making dinner for us.

The impact of these crimes on our family is something that we do not want to discuss with people we don’t know,” Beth told the judge. “Even if I wanted to talk about it, it is impossible to put into words. For me, I lost my sister for all those years and thought it was forever. And we lost my mother forever. And she died not knowing. . . . It is impossible to put into words how much it hurts. “Amanda is not here today. She is strong, beautiful, inside and out, and is doing better every day. She’s not just my only sister, but the best friend I have and the best person I know. She does not want to talk about these things. She has not talked about these things even with me. “The main reason she does not want anyone to talk about these things, or be forced to talk about these things, is because she has a daughter. She would like to be the person who decides what to tell her daughter, when to tell her daughter, and how to tell her daughter certain things.

I finally realized who really ran the show at home; my mom. I just didn't realize how toxic it was until I saw him crumble under her will and joined forces with her when I was violated. I had no idea at the time what this kind of dysfunction was, but I knew it was wrong and unfair treatment. My dad was a decent hard-working man who found himself caught in a web of an extremely controlling wife he loved but who emasculated him. He found her difficult to live with, and so the best way he could try to keep peace in the marriage was to play the role of “go along to get along”. That grew into a whole different branch of coping mechanism; enabling.  Mom was the boss and he accepted it by withdrawing and avoiding the big elephant in the family. His little girl, his only girl, his “little shadow” no longer was his priority; pleasing mom at all cost was the main vein that fed his insufficiency to step into his authority as the head of the home. As time passed, I witnessed repeatedly, that his needs were not a priority and he accepted my mom's behavior no matter how it infected us or the atmosphere of the home. He did all this just to keep her pleased and so he didn't have to hear the constant bickering, even though it was a temporary fix.

MANY YEARS AGO, I had joined the local news desk of a prominent newspaper in Bengaluru, the sleepy south Indian town that became the country’s Silicon Valley. After trying my hand at crime reporting and general business journalism, I developed an interest in tracking technology. Among other things in the mid noughties, I had half a page in the paper to feature new gadgets every week. Nokia, Blackberry, Samsung and a few other companies were regulars on the page. While I was enjoying my work, my salary needed a boost. (The media industry’s decline was just about beginning, and salaries were as poor then as they are today.) Getting out of the rather difficult circumstances that I found myself in, I moved on to the Economic Times to report on technology. The business daily was India’s largest pink paper by circulation, and I worked with some of the best journalists of the time. My job was mainly to write about technology services companies. Soon I got bored with tracking quarterly results and rehearsed statements. This was around 2012, and India’s start-up ecosystem was in its infancy. I quit the paper to join a start-up blog. I didn’t ask for a raise. I was just happy to be able to write about start-ups and their founders. It was something new, and their excitement was infectious. In those days, ‘start-up’ was not a mainstream beat in India. Only niche blogs wrote about them. On the personal front, there were months when I was flat broke. One evening I sold my old Nokia 5800 for ₹300 at a second-hand electronics shop to buy a packet of biryani. That is still the best biryani I’ve ever had. The two years at the start-up blog were also my best two years ever. As start-ups became the buzzword, I went back to the pink paper to write about them. I was able to upgrade my life a little. I moved into a middle-class apartment with my family. I got some furniture and so on. After selling the Nokia phone, I used a feature phone for a few days. But now I had to upgrade my phone. After much research, I zeroed in on a Micromax handset. Micromax, a Gurgaon-based company that began making handsets in 2008, had some smartphones that were affordable on a young journalist’s salary. It was also a leading brand and had some interesting features such as dual SIM and a great touchscreen display. Going from a phone that ran on Symbian (Nokia’s proprietary operating system that failed) to an Android-based phone was like suddenly being

Now, I'm not claiming to have won any intelligence contests lately. I say lately because the last time I actually entered an intelligence contest was like seven years ago. It was pretty easy to sign up. I just had to send this guy two thousand dollars and answer some pretty tough questions from memory. They were mainly about my family history and some of my personal information--- stuff like my social security number and whatnot. I don't like to brag, but I aced it. The guy even sent me a framed certificate that now proudly hangs in the new office I built after we declared bankruptcy due to some random identity theft. You think a fifth grader could do all that? I doubt it. Who are smarter now?

We were going to see where a relationship between us could go, but that still left so many questions unanswered. The most crucial on my mind was whether I could share my past with him. If telling him the truth would remove the main obstacle between us, would it be so terrible to tell him? What would be the worst that would happen? He’d reject me, and I’d be no worse off than if I had walked away on my own. I didn’t like the prospect, but it wasn’t so terrible as it had seemed a week before. Filip was adamant about his feelings for me. The least I could do was trust him with the truth and give him the opportunity to respond without making my own assumptions. I didn’t think he’d outright reject me; that wasn’t the heart of my fear. I worried he’d think I was damaged, and I couldn’t stand for him to coddle me. I didn’t want to see my past reflected in his eyes every time he looked at me.

GAY LOVE SPELLS CASTER IN USA WhatsApp+2349053366074 LESBIANS LOVE SPELLS IN USA. BINDING VOODOO LOVE SPELLS CASTER IN AMERICA, WhatsApp+2349053366074 EFFECTIVE LOST LOVE SPELLS IN USA. INSTANT BLACK MAGIC VOODOO SPELLS THAT WORK FAST, NO SIDE EFFECTS AND IT DOESN’T BACKFIRE, My name is Dr ITSOKWI Spells caster. Call/WhatsApp +2349053366074 Specializing in helping you to achieve your goals. Trusted lost love spells in the world. Love spells that really work, spell to return ex lover with effective results GET BACK LOST LOVER AFTER DIVORCE, get my EX-LOVER back, Instant Divorce Spell, Fertility/Pregnancy Spell, Marriage Spell, Love spells, lost love spells, breakup spells, love spell casters that work,online love spell caster,psychic love spell casters that work, reunite love spell casters that really work,best love spell casters,free voodoo love spell casters,love spell caster that work,voodoo love spells caster protection, reunite us, attraction spells. Get back your lost love. Family disputes. Financial problems. Services:Psychic Readings, love reading, tarot love reading, Love spells, Lost love spells, Get back your lost love, Sangoma, Traditional healer, Court cases, Black Magic Removal, Stop drug addiction, Return missing relatives, Job and work cases,Curse Removal, Remove Black Magic, Hex Removal, Strong Spell, Negative Energy Cleansing, Protection Spell. Looking for an instant revenge solution for someone who made you feel bad? destroyed everything in your life? or someone who did bad to you? Contact DR ITSOKWI SPELLS. WhatsApp +2349053366074 spells to bring back lost love,bring back lost love 24 hours,bring back lost love in 24 hours,bring back lost love prayer in Alabama Alaska Arkansas Arizona California Colorado Connecticut Delaware District Of Columbia Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York North Carolina North Dakota Ohio Oklahoma Oregon Pennsylvania Rhode Island South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas Utah Vermont Virginia Washington State West Virginina, UK, Canada, Iceland,newzeland, England, Bristol E.t.c Call/WhatsApp: +2349053366074 Death Spells That Work Overnight to kill wicked Step-dad / Step mom, Death Revenge Spell on wicked friends, Voodoo Death Spells to kill Enemies, Black Magic Spells To Harm Someone, Black magic death spells on ex-lover, Revenge instant death spells on uncle, Spell to hurt or kill co-workers. Effective spell to Win Court Cases, Spell To Get Charges Dropped, Justice Spell Ritual to get victory over your enemy, money invocation spell, ritual money spells, spell to win lottery jackpot, Powerball, win million dollars on lottery jackpot using Dr ITSOKWI appropriate spells Call or WhatsApp +2349053366074 Email: Dritsokwi777demon@gmail.com

I’d say romance doesn’t do it for you. You aren’t here for flowers and compliments, tender caresses and gentle lovemaking. That’s where the others went wrong. What does that tell me? You appreciate a more nonconventional take on pleasure. Maybe a little pain, but I think mainly, you need a man to fuck you, not make love to you.” My hands reached for the bottom of her dress, slowly lifting it past her hips. “Someone to whisper vile words in your ear while they order you on your knees. Does the thought of that get you wet?

Gnocchi had been Mom’s favorite, so it was frequently the main course at our annual dinner. I didn’t remember things like what she liked to eat or her endearing quirks. At just five years old, my memories of her were primarily based on the stories everyone told at these dinners.

I’m just not good at this, and since there are no other bridesmaids and the moms are busy planning the wedding, I feel much better that you offer this service.” “Of course,” I say. “It’s my absolute pleasure. I love doing this kind of stuff. I love weddings, and I want you and Polly to have the best time. I think sometimes, as we move through the process of a wedding, we forget that it isn’t just about the bride and the groom—well, it mainly is—but it’s also about those last moments you have with your friends before you’re married, or those last moments with your family, and I think those moments should be cherished. Bridal showers and bachelorette parties offer us the opportunities to almost have that last hurrah before everything changes…if that makes sense.” “You know, I never looked at it that way,” Maple says. “You’re completely right.” “And that’s why I’m here, to make sure you enjoy these planning weeks with Polly but also give her a beautiful party celebrating her and Ken.” Maple smiles. “I can see why Polly was excited about hiring you. You put me at ease right away.” “Just doing my job,” I say with a wink. “Now, would you like to discuss the bridal shower?

REVENGE DEATH SPELL CASTER TO KILL WHATSAPP+2349053366074 INSTANT BLACK MAGIC VOODOO SPELLS THAT WORK FAST, NO SIDE EFFECTS AND IT DOESN’T BACKFIRE, My name is Dr ITSOKWI Spells caster. Call/WhatsApp +2349053366074 Specializing in helping you to achieve your goals. Trusted lost love spells in the world. Love spells that really work, spell to return ex lover with effective results GET BACK LOST LOVER AFTER DIVORCE, get my EX-LOVER back, Instant Divorce Spell, Fertility/Pregnancy Spell, Marriage Spell, Love spells, lost love spells, breakup spells, love spell casters that work,online love spell caster,psychic love spell casters that work, reunite love spell casters that really work,best love spell casters,free voodoo love spell casters,love spell caster that work,voodoo love spells caster protection, reunite us, attraction spells. Get back your lost love. Family disputes. Financial problems. Services:Psychic Readings, love reading, tarot love reading, Love spells, Lost love spells, Get back your lost love, Sangoma, Traditional healer, Court cases, Black Magic Removal, Stop drug addiction, Return missing relatives, Job and work cases,Curse Removal, Remove Black Magic, Hex Removal, Strong Spell, Negative Energy Cleansing, Protection Spell. Looking for an instant revenge solution for someone who made you feel bad? destroyed everything in your life? or someone who did bad to you? Contact DR ITSOKWI SPELLS. WhatsApp +2349053366074 spells to bring back lost love,bring back lost love 24 hours,bring back lost love in 24 hours,bring back lost love prayer in Alabama Alaska Arkansas Arizona California Colorado Connecticut Delaware District Of Columbia Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York North Carolina North Dakota Ohio Oklahoma Oregon Pennsylvania Rhode Island South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas Utah Vermont Virginia Washington State West Virginina, UK, Canada, Iceland,newzeland, England, Bristol E.t.c Call/WhatsApp: +2349053366074 Death Spells That Work Overnight to kill wicked Step-dad / Step mom, Death Revenge Spell on wicked friends, Voodoo Death Spells to kill Enemies, Black Magic Spells To Harm Someone, Black magic death spells on ex-lover, Revenge instant death spells on uncle, Spell to hurt or kill co-workers. Effective spell to Win Court Cases, Spell To Get Charges Dropped, Justice Spell Ritual to get victory over your enemy, money invocation spell, ritual money spells, spell to win lottery jackpot, Powerball, win million dollars on lottery jackpot using Dr ITSOKWI appropriate spells Call or WhatsApp +2349053366074 Email: Dritsokwi777demon@gmail.com

INSTANT LOVE SPELLS THAT WORK FAST, NO SIDE EFFECTS AND IT DOESN’T BACKFIRE, My name is Dr ITSOKWI Spells caster. Call/WhatsApp +2349053366074 Specializing in helping you to achieve your goals. Trusted lost love spells in the world. Love spells that really work, spell to return ex lover with effective results GET BACK LOST LOVER AFTER DIVORCE, get my EX-LOVER back, Instant Divorce Spell, Fertility/Pregnancy Spell, Marriage Spell, Love spells, lost love spells, breakup spells, love spell casters that work,online love spell caster,psychic love spell casters that work, reunite love spell casters that really work,best love spell casters,free voodoo love spell casters,love spell caster that work,voodoo love spells caster protection, reunite us, attraction spells. Get back your lost love. Family disputes. Financial problems. Services:Psychic Readings, love reading, tarot love reading, Love spells, Lost love spells, Get back your lost love, Sangoma, Traditional healer, Court cases, Black Magic Removal, Stop drug addiction, Return missing relatives, Job and work cases,Curse Removal, Remove Black Magic, Hex Removal, Strong Spell, Negative Energy Cleansing, Protection Spell. Looking for an instant revenge solution for someone who made you feel bad? destroyed everything in your life? or someone who did bad to you? Contact DR ITSOKWI SPELLS. WhatsApp +2349053366074 spells to bring back lost love,bring back lost love 24 hours,bring back lost love in 24 hours,bring back lost love prayer in Alabama Alaska Arkansas Arizona California Colorado Connecticut Delaware District Of Columbia Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York North Carolina North Dakota Ohio Oklahoma Oregon Pennsylvania Rhode Island South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas Utah Vermont Virginia Washington State West Virginina, UK, Canada, Iceland,newzeland, England, Bristol E.t.c Call/WhatsApp: +2349053366074 Death Spells That Work Overnight to kill wicked Step-dad / Step mom, Death Revenge Spell on wicked friends, Voodoo Death Spells to kill Enemies, Black Magic Spells To Harm Someone, Black magic death spells on ex-lover, Revenge instant death spells on uncle, Spell to hurt or kill co-workers. Effective spell to Win Court Cases, Spell To Get Charges Dropped, Justice Spell Ritual to get victory over your enemy, money invocation spell, ritual money spells, spell to win lottery jackpot, Powerball, win million dollars on lottery jackpot using Dr ITSOKWI appropriate spells Call or WhatsApp +2349053366074 Email: Dritsokwi777demon@gmail.com

You will have to go to your assigned location now. You will not be with your family.” and she pointed towards the door leading deeper into the facility. “Why do this?” “Because we can,” “I love all of you. We’ll be back together soon,” Samuel said, as he walked towards the door, with tears in his eyes. “Love you too, Sweetheart,” answered Vickie, who was crying. “Love you, Dad.” answered the kids, who were also crying. As he walked through the door to the main facility, Samuel prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, please protect my family. Please show President Collins the error of his ways, and please restore the United States to the great nation that it once was. I pray for all the people imprisoned, that they know you as their Lord and Savior. And if it’s near your return, please come quickly. Thy will be done. In your name, amen.

Not yet.” “Have you talked to Andrea’s neighbors to see if they’ve seen him around?” “No. We came here right after the salon.” Russell Morrison considered what he’d been told. “Just because he ran doesn’t mean he’s the one who assaulted Andrea. Neither does anything you’ve learned about him.” “But—” Morrison held up his hands to cut her off. “I’m not saying I think he’s innocent. Hell, he tried to kill an officer, and that doesn’t happen on my watch.” He glanced at Pete. “You sure you’re okay?” “Yeah. Pissed off, but I’m okay.” “Good. You’re the lead on this investigation, but I’m going to put everyone on it.” Pete nodded as they were interrupted by a shout from Fred Burris, one of the officers who’d been in the house. He was approaching them rapidly. “Captain?” he called out. Morrison turned toward him. “Yeah?” “I think we’ve got something,” he announced. “What is it?” “Blood,” he said simply. Henry’s beach house was on Topsail Island, a slit of land half a mile offshore, about forty minutes from Swansboro. Covered by rolling dunes speckled with sawgrass and white sand, the island was popular with families during the summer, though few people lived there year-round. During spring, visitors seemed to have the island all to themselves. Like all homes there, the main floor of the house had been

Question six: * Did you have any boy pals or friends when you were growing up? If not, why is that? Would you have grown up differently if you’d had guy friends? Answers: a) As far as I can remember, my main playmate was my cousin Pinky. Although I remember my mother’s longtime friend and confidant, Yin Yee; her son, Tuck would come to visit and play with Pinky and me, but I was never as close to Tuck as I was to my female cousin. Tuck loved to climb trees and I didn’t really care for those kinds of rugged, outdoorsy endeavors. b) I was extremely protected when growing up due to my wealthy parents’ social status; they were afraid I would be a likely candidate for kidnapping. I was always accompanied by either a family member or hired help before and after school hours. Since I didn’t care for any of the afterschool sporting activities that most of the boys my age seemed to delight in participating in, I preferred to be at home playing with my dolls and with Pinky, my playmate. c) Most likely if I’d had guy friends, the pressure of having to hide my homosexual inklings would be a greater burden than I could have dealt with. I would most likely have been bullied by the ‘straight’ boys like KiWi and his gang of three, or I would have ended up pining for their forbidden sexual gratifications. That would have ended either in disasters or, as it did in the case with KiWi, with unsatisfactory sexual doom. Well, dear Arius, I did my best to satisfy your questionnaires. It has been fun; please keep them coming. Until I hear from you again, best wishes to you and your doggies. Kind regards, Young.

—but not to you. That makes me the only person here who can talk to everybody. How . . . nice. Do tell me about the drains, dear Pym. Don’t tell me they backed up again.” Ekaterin slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of her bolero, leaned her elbow on her chair arm and her chin on her hand, and sat listening with her dark eyebrows crinkling. Pym nodded. “I’m afraid so, Miss Martya. Late last night, Dr. Borgos”—Pym’s lips compressed at the name—“being in a great hurry to return to the search for his missing queen, took two days’ harvest of bug butter—about forty or fifty kilos, we estimated later—which was starting to overflow the hutches on account of Miss Kareen not being there to take care of things properly, and flushed it all down the laboratory drain. Where it encountered some chemical conditions which caused it to . . . set. Like soft plaster. Entirely blocking the main drain, which, in a household with over fifty people in it—all the Viceroy and Vicereine’s staff having arrived yesterday, and my fellow armsmen and their families—caused a pretty immediate and pressing crisis.” Martya had the bad taste to giggle. Pym merely looked prim.

We trapped several smaller females, all around the nine-foot mark. That’s when Steve stepped back and let the all-girl team take over: all the women in camp, zoo workers mainly, myself, and others. We would jump on the croc, help secure the tracking device, and let her go. At one point Steve trapped a female that he could see was small and quiet. He turned to Bindi. “How would you like to jump the head?” Bindi’s eyes lit up. This was what she had been waiting for. Once Steve removed the croc from the trap and secured its jaws, the next step was for the point person to jump the croc’s head. Everybody else on the team followed immediately afterward, pinning the crocodile’s body. “Don’t worry,” I said to Bindi. “I’ll back you up.” Or maybe I was really talking to Steve. He was nervous as he slipped the croc out of its mesh trap. He hovered over the whole operation, knowing that if anything went amiss, he was right there to help. “Ready, and now!” he said. Bindi flung herself on the head of the crocodile. I came in right over her back. The rest of the girls jumped on immediately, and we had our croc secured. “Let’s take a photo with the whole family,” Professor Franklin said. Bindi sat proudly at the crocodile’s head, her hand casually draped over its eyes. Steve was in the middle, holding up the croc’s front legs. Next in line was me. Finally, Robert had the tail. This shot ended up being our 2006 family Christmas card. I look at it now and it makes me laugh out loud. The family that catches crocs together, rocks together. The Irwin family motto. Steve, Bindi, and I are all smiling. But then there is Robert’s oh-so-serious face. He has a top-jaw rope wrapped around his body, with knots throughout. He took his job seriously. He had the rope and was ready as the backup. He was on that croc’s tail. It was all about catching crocs safely, mate. No mucking around here. As we idled back in to camp, Robert said, “Can I please drive the boat?” “Crikey, mate, you are two years old,” Steve said. “I’ll let you drive the boat next year.” But then, quite suddenly and without a word, Steve scooped Robert up and sat him up next to the outboard. He put the tiller in his hand. “Here’s what you do, mate,” Steve said, and he began to explain how to drive the boat. He seemed in a hurry to impart as much wisdom to his son as possible. Robert spent the trip jumping croc tails, driving the boat, and tying knots. Steve created a croc made of sticks and set it on a sandbar. He pulled the boat up next to it, and he, Robert, and Bindi went through all the motions of jumping the stick-croc. “I’m going to say two words,” Robert shouted, imitating his father. “’Go,’ and ‘Now.’ First team off on ‘Go,’ second team off on ‘Now.’” Then he’d yell “Go, now” at the top of his lungs. He and Steve jumped up as if the stick-croc was about to swing around and tear their arms off. “Another croc successfully caught, mate,” Steve said proudly. Robert beamed with pride too. When he got back to Croc One, Robert wrangled his big plush crocodile toy. I listened, incredulous, as my not-yet-three-year-old son muttered the commands of a seasoned croc catcher. He had all the lingo down, verbatim. “Get me a twelve-millimeter rope,” Robert commanded. “I need a second one. Get that top-jaw rope under that tooth, yep, the eye tooth, get it secured. We’ll need a third top-jaw rope for this one. Who’s got a six-millimeter rope? Hand me my Leatherman. Cut that rope here. Get that satellite tracker on.” The stuffed animal thoroughly secured, Robert made as if to brush off his little hands. “Professor Franklin,” he announced in his best grown-up voice, “it’s your croc.

Pretty soon after returning from Everest, I was asked to give a lecture on the Everest expedition to my local sailing club in the Isle of Wight. It would be the first of many lectures that I would eventually give, and would soon become my main source of income after returning from the mountain. Those early talks were pretty ropey, though, by anyone’s standards. That first one went okay, mainly due to the heavy number of family members in the audience. Dad cried, Mum cried, Lara cried. Everyone was proud and happy. The next talk was to a group of soldiers on a course with the SAS. I took one of my old buddies along with me for moral support. Huge Mackenzie-Smith always jokes to this day how, by the time I finished, the entire room had fallen asleep. (They had been up all night on an exercise, I hasten to add--but still--it wasn’t my finest hour.) We had to wake them--one by one. I had a lot to learn about communicating a story if I was to earn any sort of a living by giving talks.

St. Lawrence River May 1705 Temperature 48 degrees They stayed in St. Francis for several days. Mercy was careful not to be around Ebenezer Sheldon again, and careful not to examine the reasons why. Minutes before the Kahnawake Indians stepped into their canoes to paddle home, Mercy spotted the adopted boy walking alone. She darted between buildings to catch his arm. “Forgive me,” she said in English. The language felt awkward and slippery, as though she might say the wrong thing. “I know you’re not supposed to talk to us. But please. I need to know about your adoption.” Annisquam’s look was friendly and his smile was pleasant. “You’re one of the Deerfield captives, aren’t you? I’m from Maine. Caught a few years before you.” She ached to know his English name, but he did not offer it. She must not dishonor whatever he had achieved. If he had become Indian, she must not encroach upon that. “Please, I need to know what happened when you were left alone inside the powwow’s longhouse.” His freckles and his pale red hair were so unlikely above his Indian clothing. “Nothing happened. I just sat there.” Mercy was as disappointed as if he had forgotten his English. “I thought you would have been given answers.” Her voice trembled. “Or been sure.” Annisquam looked at her for a long moment. “Nothing happened. But they did scrub away my past. I was born once more. I was one person when they pushed me under the water and another person when I left the powwow’s. I’m not sure my white blood is gone. I will never forget my family in Maine. But I have set them down.” Mercy’s head rocked with the size of that decision. He set them down. How had he done that? Every captive carried both: both worlds, both languages, both Gods, both families. Listen, listen, listen, the powwows and the chieftains cried. But so many voices spoke. How had Annisquam known which voice told the truth? How had he been sure what to set down and what to keep? “But your parents,” she said. “What would they think? Would they forgive you?” His smile was lopsided and did not last long. “My parents,” he said gently, “are waiting for me.” They stared at each other. “Go with God,” he whispered, and he walked away from her to join the man who had put the wampum belt around his neck and the woman who had washed him in the river.

That goat has been nothing but trouble. And the dratted creature isn’t even picturesque. Goats resemble nothing so much as badly dressed sheep.” “That’s quite unfair,” Beatrix said. “Goats have far more character and intelligence than sheep, who are nothing but followers. I’ve met far too many in London.” “Sheep?” Christopher asked blankly. “My sister is speaking figuratively, Captain Phelan,” Amelia said. “Well, I have met some actual sheep in London,” Beatrix said. “But yes, I was mainly referring to people. They all tell you the same gossip, which is tedious. They adhere to the current fashions and the popular opinions, no matter how silly. And one never improves in their company. One starts falling in line and baaing.” A quiet laugh came from the doorway as Cam Rohan entered the room. “Obviously Hathaways are not sheep. Because I’ve tried to herd the lot of you for years, without any success.” From what Christopher remembered of Rohan, he had worked at a London gaming club for a time, and then had made a fortune in manufacturing investments. Although his devotion to his wife and family was well-known in Stony Cross, Rohan was hardly the image of a staid and respectable patriarch. With his longish dark hair, exotic amber eyes, and the diamond stud flashing in his ear, his Romany heritage was obvious. Approaching Christopher, Rohan exchanged a bow and surveyed him with a friendly gaze. “Captain Phelan. It is good to see you. We were hoping for your safe return.” “Thank you. I hope my presence is not an imposition.” “Not in the least. With Lord Ramsay and his wife still in London, and my brother Merripen and his wife visiting Ireland, it’s been far too peaceful here of late.” Rohan paused, a glitter of amusement entering his eyes. “Fugitive goats notwithstanding.

Since I’m an outdoors type of guy, it didn’t take me long to become frustrated at seminary. I hate being cooped up in a room with no windows (it’s the same problem I currently have with the duck call shop), especially during hunting season! I actually learned how to sleep with my eyes open in some of the more boring lectures. To break up the monotony, I ended up becoming the class clown and troublemaker. I constantly argued with instructors and fellow classmates. My main point of conflict was that I felt sometimes we studied the Bible as a legal document instead of a letter from God. I’m still convinced my point of view was correct, but I did a terrible job of communicating it. In fact, I nearly started several fights with my classmates. Our classes lasted from eight o’clock in the morning to four o’clock in the afternoon, five days a week. During duck season, I got up very early to hunt before going to class, and then I went back to the blind as soon as classes were over. By the end of the school day, I was itching to get out of there! Well, one day this guy asked a question at four P.M. Then he asked a follow-up question after the bell rang. “Hey, why don’t you shut up?” I told him. Well, three guys met me in the parking lot after school. They were trying to rebuke me in a godly way for being rude. I responded with a misuse of Galatians 2:9: “How about I give you my right hand of fellowship?” Fortunately, they overlooked my anger, we resolved our differences in a Christian manner, and there were no fisticuffs.

Since graduating from HMS my greatest satisfaction has unequivocally been my family. My main disappointment is that I have wasted too much time in personal pursuits and been less of an influence for good than I might have been.

Even when she was a girl, the kitchen was a source of pride and power. A separate vestibule off the main room, it cocooned her in glorious aromas. She had proven herself a skillful and painstaking chef, famous in the family for yaprach that tickled the tongue with notes of tomato, lemon and dried sumac. Shmuel and her half brothers teased that Miryam's date-sized yaprach were tiny, like her. Miryam didn't mind the ribbing; she rolled grape leaves at half their usual size precisely so that her family would recognize them as hers, rather than her stepmother's or her aunts'.

had delivered them flawlessly. After showing a quick excerpt from the Declaration of Independence about America pledging its sacred honor to help the victims and their families, the cameras would fade to the presidential seal and that would be it. Though the circumstances were horrible, the press secretary had always hoped he’d be given a chance to write a speech that would be remembered for eternity. He felt pretty confident this was going to be one of those speeches. What he didn’t know was that why it would be so well remembered was still yet to come. As the president came to the end of his remarks, he abandoned his script. “And to the terrorists responsible for this revolting act of cowardice, I say this. America will never stop until we have hunted every last one of you down. We will go to the far corners of the earth, draining every swamp and turning over every rock along the way. And when we find you—and we will find you—we shall use every means at our disposal to visit upon you a death one thousand times more hideous than that which you have delivered to our doorstep today. “America has defeated the greatest evils of the modern world and it will defeat the scourge of radical Islamic fanaticism as well. “Thank you and God bless America.” The red light atop the main camera switched off, but no one spoke. Not even the floor director, whose job it was to inform the president that they were safely off the air. “Am I clear?” asked Rutledge. The irony was not lost upon the director, who replied, “I’d say you were crystal clear, sir.” Knowing it would take several minutes for the technical people to pack up their equipment from the Oval Office, Chuck Anderson asked, “Mr. President, may I have a word, please, in my office?” Pointing at the press secretary, he added, “You too, Geoff.” Once they had gone through the adjoining door and it had closed firmly behind them, the chief of staff said, “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” “We’re not going to hide behind politically correct labels anymore, Chuck.” “I’d say you made that abundantly clear. Along with the fact that the Christian West is now officially

Are we through here? I wish to go" "Go where?" "Anywhere. Away. Back to America, if need be. It's obvious that Charles's faith and trust in his family's desire to care for his baby daughter were unfounded. Neither she nor I are wanted here." "Don't be absurd." She reached for Charlotte's blanket. "I am being practical." "Practicality is not a quality I associate with most females of my acquaintance." "With all due respect to the females of your acquaintance, Your Grace, I was born and raised in the wilderness of Maine. Those who were not practical, resourceful, and hardy did not survive." "Maine? How is it, then, that you ended up in Boston?" "My father died when I was sixteen, mauled by a black bear defending her cub. He had a cousin in Boston, who'd always fancied my mother from afar. After Papa died, he came for Mama and me, married her, and took us both back to Boston. Mama died in '74. You know about my stepfather."  She picked up her cloak, preparing to leave this house and never look back. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I think I've answered enough of your questions and had best be gone. Good night to you." He never moved as she breezed past his desk, Charlotte in her arms. "Don't you wish to know how Lord Gareth fares?" he asked mildly, in an abrupt change of subject. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you gave me no chance to ask." "I should think he'd like to thank you for saving his life." She paused halfway across the room, silently cursing him between her teeth. What tarnal game was he playing now? Without turning, she ground out, "He saved my life, not the other way around." "Not according to Lord Brookhampton.

like Cody and Garrett. I don’t particularly like that their baby could be growing inside Friday, mainly because it makes me jealous as hell, but I like them as people. They’re funny and kind and so obviously in love. They’re going to be good parents. Would it be terrible for me to admit that I hope the insemination didn’t take? It probably would, so I keep that to myself. On the one hand, I am really happy they have a chance at building their family. But on the other, I wish it were my fucking baby inside her. I want to see her get fat and cranky with my child growing in her body. I want to share those moments with her, and I don’t know if I can do that when she’s pregnant with somebody else’s kid. I doubt there are any rules around that, no book I can read to tell me what’s right and wrong. I want to win her, but I don’t know if I can play the game while she’s growing a life.

I like Cody and Garrett. I don’t particularly like that their baby could be growing inside Friday, mainly because it makes me jealous as hell, but I like them as people. They’re funny and kind and so obviously in love. They’re going to be good parents. Would it be terrible for me to admit that I hope the insemination didn’t take? It probably would, so I keep that to myself. On the one hand, I am really happy they have a chance at building their family. But on the other, I wish it were my fucking baby inside her. I want to see her get fat and cranky with my child growing in her body. I want to share those moments with her, and I don’t know if I can do that when she’s pregnant with somebody else’s kid. I doubt there are any rules around that, no book I can read to tell me what’s right and wrong. I want to win her, but I don’t know if I can play the game while she’s growing a life.

I begin by describing the saturation of everyday life by media technologies, for example, how people are meshing multiple devices. I then present some of my own research on the mobile phone’s role in shifting the boundaries between work and home. The main use of the mobile phone turns out to be social, with much value placed on the enhanced ability to microcoordinate the timing of complex family activities. In this way, I argue, mobile phones have become a new tool for intimacy.

The mental picture of Mamaw standing at the stove is one of the most enduring images of my childhood, mainly because she stood at that stove so faithfully.

Camden in the winter of 1954 was a bleak place. It is difficult to see it this way if you’ve only been there in the summer, but most of Maine can be dismal, especially along the coast, during the long nights and short days. Once the colorful leaves have fallen from the majestic maple trees, and the last tourist has gone home, things become grim. So it was, during that cold January day, when I was on the road hoping to get a ride to New Jersey. On the radio, the weather forecasters predicted an overnight blizzard, but here it was only late afternoon and snow was already accumulating on the road. This would be my last opportunity to get home to see my family and friends, before cruising back on down to the Caribbean. I had really hoped to get an earlier start, to get far enough south to miss the brunt of the storm. Maine is known for this kind of weather, and the snowplows and sanders were ready. In fact, I didn’t see many other vehicles on the road any longer. Schools had let out early and most businesses were closed in anticipation of the storm. My last ride dropped me off in Belfast, telling me that he was trying to get as far as Augusta, before State Road 3 became impassable. Standing alongside the two-lane coastal highway with darkness not far off, I was half thinking that I should turn back. My mind was made up for me when I stepped back off the road, making room for a big State DOT dump truck with a huge yellow snowplow. His airbrakes wheezed as he braked, coming to a stop, at the same time lifting his plow to keep from burying me. The driver couldn’t believe that I was out hitchhiking in a blizzard. This kind of weather in Maine is no joke! The driver told me that the year before a body had been found under a snow bank during the spring thaw. Never mind, I was invincible and nothing like that could happen to me, or so I thought. He got me as far as Camden and suggested that I get a room. “This storm is only going to get worse,” he cautioned as I got off. I waved as he drove off. Nevertheless, still hoping that things would improve, I was determined to continue…