Safety Briefing Quotes

A strange, warm feeling swirled in my chest, and for a brief moment, when I looked at him, I saw...safety

..sometimes it can get a little… rough. Will you stop bouncing up and down like that.” “You can’t blame a Demon for getting excited. Hurry up and finish the safety briefing so we can get to the fun stuff.

It was too quiet for hope, and then too loud for safety. She thought of the people she had lost, of the affection, the smiles, the belonging she could never again take for granted. It was the end of a life, and as she stood there, shivering in the brief night-time chill, it dawned on her that it was the end of her childhood.

Marsh looked at me sideways, causing a brief stir of familiarity. "You liked the library?" "It was all I could do to keep her from bolting herself inside," Alistair told him. With mock indignation, I protested, "I never even touched a book. I walked through and walked out." "Her eyes were filled with an unnatural light," Alister confided in his cousin. "I feared for my safety.

Running had become her favorite mode of transport. She lived for that brief snap of true flight, both feet in the air at once. Jumping down a half-flight of stairs then catapulting down another. Aerial Aster. Sky Master Aster! Barely Avoiding Disaster Aster! There was less time lost in transport when she ran as fast as she could, no care for her own safety.

Our safety lies, not in making terms with the enemy, but in dwelling alone with our best Friend.

A compulsory safety briefing. Did the organizers know something I didn't? Was it really that unsafe that they had to warn us? Would there be a solicitor present checking that my will was up to date? Was triathlon secretly a government scheme to reduce the population by having those of a less than full mental capacity willing go to their depths in mass suicide disguised as a sporting challenge?

The best antidote to worry is action. If there is an action that will lessen the likelihood of a dreaded outcome occurring, and if that action doesn't cost too much in terms of effort or freedom, then take it. The worry about whether we remembered to close the baby gate at the top of the stairs can be stopped in an instant by checking. Then it isn't a worry anymore; it's just a brief impulse. Almost all of the worry parents feel about keeping their children safe evolves from the conflict between intuition and inaction. Your choices when worrying are clear: take action, have faith, pray, seek comfort, or keep worrying.

The danger wasn’t over. Rolling her around so that she floated on her back, he swam her to shore. A much easier proposition than on the way out. Reaching the safety of the beach, he lifted her in his arms, wrenching her from the steel jaws of the sea that had tried to claim her. He carried her a few feet up the beach and set her down carefully, kneeling beside her. “Flora.” He shook her shoulders gently. “Wake up.” She looked so still. So horribly still. “Flora.” He shook her gently, his chest squeezing painfully. “Please wake up. I need you to wake up.” I need you. Her eyes fluttered again and then—blissfully—opened. And he found himself looking into the achingly familiar fathomless depths. He felt a rush of relief so strong, he could have wept. Instead he kissed her. He knew there wasn’t time, that he had to get her back, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to know that she was alive. His mouth covered hers in a searing kiss, as if he could warm the cold from her lips with the heat of his passion. He kissed her with a raw desperation born of fear. With all the intensity of the emotions she’d exposed inside him. He told her with his lips what he couldn’t admit to himself. In that one brief instant, he told her so much.

I grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had been. It had committed suicide. It had set itself steadfastly towards comfort and ease, a balanced society with security and permanency as its watchword, it had attained its hopes – to come to this at last. Once, life and property must have reached almost absolute safety. The rich had been assured of his wealth and comfort, the toiler assured of his life and work. No doubt in that perfect world there had been no unemployed problem, no social question left unsolved. And a great quiet had followed. ‘It is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is the compensation for change, danger and trouble. An animal perfectly in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is no intelligence where there is no change and no need of change.

Under the seeming disorder of the old city, wherever the old city is working successfully, is a marvelous order for maintaining the safety of the streets and the freedom of the city. It is a complex order. Its essence is intricacy of sidewalk use, bringing with it a constant succession of eyes. This order is all composed of movement and change, and although it is life, not art, we may fancifully call it the art form of the city and liken it to the dance — not to a simple-minded precision dance with everyone kicking up at the same time, twirling in unison and bowing off en masse, but to an intricate ballet in which the individual dancers and ensembles all have distinctive parts which miraculously reinforce each other and compose an orderly whole. The ballet of the good city sidewalk never repeats itself from place to place, and in any once place is always replete with new improvisations. The stretch of Hudson Street where I live is each day the scene of an intricate sidewalk ballet. I make my own first entrance into it a little after eight when I put out my garbage gcan, surely a prosaic occupation, but I enjoy my part, my little clang, as the junior droves of junior high school students walk by the center of the stage dropping candy wrapper. (How do they eat so much candy so early in the morning?) While I sweep up the wrappers I watch the other rituals of the morning: Mr Halpert unlocking the laundry's handcart from its mooring to a cellar door, Joe Cornacchia's son-in-law stacking out the empty crates from the delicatessen, the barber bringing out his sidewalk folding chair, Mr. Goldstein arranging the coils of wire which proclaim the hardware store is open, the wife of the tenement's super intendent depositing her chunky three-year-old with a toy mandolin on the stoop, the vantage point from which he is learning English his mother cannot speak. Now the primary childrren, heading for St. Luke's, dribble through the south; the children from St. Veronica\s cross, heading to the west, and the children from P.S 41, heading toward the east. Two new entrances are made from the wings: well-dressed and even elegant women and men with brief cases emerge from doorways and side streets. Most of these are heading for the bus and subways, but some hover on the curbs, stopping taxis which have miraculously appeared at the right moment, for the taxis are part of a wider morning ritual: having dropped passengers from midtown in the downtown financial district, they are now bringing downtowners up tow midtown. Simultaneously, numbers of women in housedresses have emerged and as they crisscross with one another they pause for quick conversations that sound with laughter or joint indignation, never, it seems, anything in between. It is time for me to hurry to work too, and I exchange my ritual farewell with Mr. Lofaro, the short, thick bodied, white-aproned fruit man who stands outside his doorway a little up the street, his arms folded, his feet planted, looking solid as the earth itself. We nod; we each glance quickly up and down the street, then look back at eachother and smile. We have done this many a morning for more than ten years, and we both know what it means: all is well. The heart of the day ballet I seldom see, because part off the nature of it is that working people who live there, like me, are mostly gone, filling the roles of strangers on other sidewalks. But from days off, I know enough to know that it becomes more and more intricate. Longshoremen who are not working that day gather at the White Horse or the Ideal or the International for beer and conversation. The executives and business lunchers from the industries just to the west throng the Dorgene restaurant and the Lion's Head coffee house; meat market workers and communication scientists fill the bakery lunchroom.

Elite panic in disaster, as identified by the contemporary disaster scholars, is shaped by belief, belief that since human beings at large are bestial and dangerous, the believer must himself or herself act with savagery to ensure individual safety or the safety of his or her interests. The elites that panic are, in times of crisis, the minority, and understanding that could marginalize or even disarm them, literally and psychologically, as well as the media that magnify their message. This would help open the way to create a world more like the brief utopias that flash up in disaster.

Our ancestors, alas, knew it only too well. When they cried to God, ‘Deliver us from famine!’, this is what they had in mind. During the last hundred years, technological, economic and political developments have created an increasingly robust safety net separating humankind from the biological poverty line. Mass famines still strike some areas from time to time, but they are exceptional, and they are almost always caused by human politics rather than by natural catastrophes. There are no longer natural famines in the world; there are only political famines. If people in Syria, Sudan or Somalia starve to death, it is because

Now is the time when we reenter the womb of the world, dreaming the dreams of snow and silence. Waking to the shock of frozen lakes under waning moonlight and the cold sun burning low and blue in the branches of the ice-cased trees, returning from our brief and necessary labors to food and story, to the warmth of firelight in the dark. Around a fire, in the dark, all truths can be told, and heard, in safety. I pulled on my woolen stockings, thick petticoats, my warmest shawl, and went down to poke up the kitchen fire. I stood watching wisps of steam rise from the fragrant cauldron, and felt myself turn inward. The world could go away, and we would heal.

Put your glasses on mate ….. Come down from there, you’re gonna kill yourself …. Well, what does your Method Statement say? …. Right, let’s get you re-inducted. You need a reminder of site rules ….. Where are your outriggers, mate? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Put your glasses on …. Put your glasses on …. Oh, they steam up, do they? I’ve never heard that one before …. Where’s your mask? If you breathe this shit in you’re going to kill yourself. Silicosis is incurable ….. Right STOP! Do not reverse another inch without a banksman ….. Don’t put your glasses on just because you see me walk around the corner. They won’t protect MY eyes …. Hook yourself on, what’s the matter with you? Are all you scaffolders superhuman or something? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! What stops me walking right in there? Where’s your barriers and signage? ….. Oi! I’m getting showered in fucking sparks here. And so is that can of petrol ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the flashback arrestor on this bottle of propane? ….. Hey, pal, stop welding until you’ve sheeted up ….. What are you doing climbing up there? Where’s your supervisor? What did he say about access in this morning’s Safe Start briefing? Nothing? Right, he can sit through another induction tomorrow ….. Where are the retaining pins to the joint clamps in this concrete pump line? SEAMUS! Fucking deal with this, will you? ….Put your glasses on …. Hey! Hey! Come here! Why have you got a nail instead of an ‘R’ clip to the quick-hitch system on your excavator bucket? NO! IT WON’T DO! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? If that bucket falls on someone they’re not going to get up again. And you trust a fucking nail to hold it in position! Take this machine out of service immediately until you’ve got the proper ‘R’ clip! ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the edge protection. Who removed the edge protection? Right, let me phone for a scaffolder ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! Get out from under there! Never, ever stand underneath a suspended load. Even if all the equipment’s been inspected, which it obviously has, you can never trust the crane driver. He can be taken ill suddenly ….. Come here, mate, let’s have a little chat. Why are you working on Fall Arrest? You’re supposed to be working on Fall Restraint (FR ‘restrains’ you going near the perimeter edge of the building, FA ‘arrests’ your fall if, well, if you fall. If you’re hanging off a building we’ve got less than ten minutes to reach you before you start going into toxic shock brought on by suspension trauma. In other words, we need a Rescue Plan, which is why we’d prefer people work on Fall Restraint)

The talk then turned to the topic of risk. The dozen or so regulatory agencies that had to approve the flight test did not share Musk’s love of it. The engineers briefed him on all the safety reviews and requirements they had endured. “Getting the license was existentially soul-sucking,” Juncosa said. Shana Diez and Jake McKenzie provided details. “My fucking brain is hurting,” Musk said, holding his head. “I’m trying to figure out how we get humanity to Mars with all this bullshit.” He processed in silence for two minutes, and when he emerged from his trance, he was philosophical. “This is how civilizations decline. They quit taking risks. And when they quit taking risks, their arteries harden. Every year there are more referees and fewer doers.” That’s why America could no longer build things like high-speed rail or rockets that go to the moon. “When you’ve had success for too long, you lose the desire to take risks.

The Greeks were the first people in the world to play, and they played on a great scale. All over Greece there were games, all sorts of games; athletic contests of every description: races—horse-, boat-, foot-, torch-races; contests in music, where one side out-sung the other; in dancing—on greased skins sometimes to display a nice skill of foot and balance of body; games where men leaped in and out of flying chariots; games so many one grows weary with the list of them. They are embodied in the statues familiar to all, the disc thrower, the charioteer, the wrestling boys, the dancing flute players. The great games—there were four that came at stated seasons—were so important, when one was held, a truce of God was proclaimed so that all Greece might come in safety without fear. There “glorious-limbed youth”—the phrase is Pindar’s, the athlete’s poet—strove for an honor so coveted as hardly anything else in Greece. An Olympic victor—triumphing generals would give place to him. His crown of wild olives was set beside the prize of the tragedian. Splendor attended him, processions, sacrifices, banquets, songs the greatest poets were glad to write. Thucydides, the brief, the severe, the historian of that bitter time, the fall of Athens, pauses, when one of his personages has conquered in the games, to give the fact full place of honor. If we had no other knowledge of what the Greeks were like, if nothing were left of Greek art and literature, the fact that they were in love with play and played magnificently would be proof enough of how they lived and how they looked at life. Wretched people, toiling people, do not play. Nothing like the Greek games is conceivable in Egypt or Mesopotamia. The life of the Egyptian lies spread out in the mural paintings down to the minutest detail. If fun and sport had played any real part they would be there in some form for us to see. But the Egyptian did not play. “Solon, Solon, you Greeks are all children,” said the Egyptian priest to the great Athenian.

Three years ago,' he said quietly, 'I began to have these... dreams. At first, they were glimpses, as if I were staring through someone else's eyes. A crackling hearth in a dark home. A bale of hay in a barn. A warren of rabbits. The images were foggy, like looking through cloudy glass. They were brief- a flash here and there, every few months. I thought nothing of them, until one of the images was of a hand... This beautiful, human hand. Holding a brush. Painting- flowers on a table.' My heart stopped beating. 'And that time, I pushed a thought back. Of the night sky- of the image that brought me joy when I needed it most. Open night sky, stars, and the moon. I didn't know if it was received, but I tried, anyway.' I wasn't sure I was breathing. 'Those dreams- the flashes of that person, that woman... I treasured them. They were a reminder that there was some peace out there in the world, some light. That there was a place, and a person, who had enough safety to paint flowers on a table. They went on for years, until... a year ago. I was sleeping next to Amarantha, and I jolted awake from this dream... this dream that was clearer and brighter, like the fog had been wiped away. She- you were dreaming. I was in your dream, watching as you had a nightmare about some woman slitting your throat, while you were chased by the Bogge... I couldn't reach you, speak to you. But you were seeing our kind. And I realised that the fog had probably been the wall, and that you... you were now in Prythian.

And you know what else they probably pray for every night?” I paused for a moment before saying, “Someone to save them. We could be that someone. We could end this plague. We could save the world. But I can’t do it alone. I’m gonna need your help, specifically the help of our tier 1s and tier 2s.” The crowd started murmuring to each other. “So, that’s what this speech is about—I’m asking for volunteers for this final mission. Now, I know what I’m asking, and I know it’s a lot. I’m basically asking you to risk your lives to help me fight the hardest battle ever. And I can’t guarantee your safety, nor can I guarantee our success… but still, we have to try. For the greater good, we have to try. Because we’ve come too far to give up now. That’s why we’re gonna give this one last mission our best effort. We’re gonna all come together and push hard through the finish line. And with our newly crafted dragon equipment and all the new class upgrades, I believe our chance of success is higher than ever before. So, with that in mind, what say you, my friends? Who’s with me? Who’s gonna help me put an end to the nightly plagues?” There was a brief moment of silence as my final words echoed through the night. But then Devlin spoke up. “I’m with you, Steve! Always.” “Me, too!” yelled Bob. “An epic fight between good and evil?! Can’t miss out on that!” shouted Arthur. “I got your back, bro!” yelled Obsidian Fist. Dozens of more tier 1s and 2s volunteered and made themselves heard. As I watched their hands shot up into the air, I smiled and let out a breath of relief. “Were you worried that there wouldn’t be enough volunteers?” the mayor whispered to me. “Yeah, kinda…” I whispered back. Then he smiled at me. “You’re their general, Steve. They’re not going to let you go off into battle alone… and neither would I.” He shook my hand. “Great speech, by the way. I’ll take it from here.” “Thank you, sir,” I said as I handed him the microphone. The mayor’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Alright, well said. Let’s give it up for General Steve!” Everyone clapped and cheered. “For those of you that volunteered, we’ll be heading out in a day or two. We still need to make preparations for the trip, and Cole still needs to fit the new armor to the golem suits, so all that is going to take some time. I’d suggest you use this time wisely—spend it with family, friends and loved ones. Eat with them, relax with them, be merry and carefree. Because when it is time to go, we’ll be in it to fight the battle of our lives.” The tier 1s and 2s in the crowd nodded.

Throw yourself off that cliff,” Satan says, offering the next temptation. “If God exists, He will surely save you. If you are in fact his Son, God will surely save you.” Why would God not make Himself manifest, to rescue His only begotten Child from hunger and isolation and the presence of great evil? But that establishes no pattern for life. It doesn’t even work as literature. The deus ex machina—the emergence of a divine force that magically rescues the hero from his predicament—is the cheapest trick in the hack writer’s playbook. It makes a mockery of independence, and courage, and destiny, and free will, and responsibility. Furthermore, God is in no wise a safety net for the blind. He’s not someone to be commanded to perform magic tricks, or forced into Self-revelation—not even by His own Son. “Do not put the Lord your God to the test” (Matthew 4:7)—this answer, though rather brief, dispenses with the second temptation. Christ does not casually order or even dare ask God to intervene on his behalf. He refuses to dispense with His responsibility for the events of His own life. He refuses to demand that God prove His presence

a moment later the second of Sverdlov’s men leapt out from behind the truck with his automatic raised. He was about take the shot at Maria, but Cris snapped off two rounds. Both buried themselves in his chest, and he collapsed to the sidewalk in a welter of blood. Bystanders were running, and a woman was screaming. He ignored them, reached the table, and stuck his gun in Sverdlov’s face. "Keep your hands in view, and don't move. Maria, we're leaving. You’ve seen the deal they were about to make with you. All they wanted was to get you here to kill you. Isn't that right, Major?" The Russian didn't reply, but his silence was eloquent. They raced across the street back to the Dodge and leapt inside. Sirens were starting to wail, and they had to get out of the city. He drove away fast and out of town, heading north. “Use your phone. Call March, and tell him we’re heading his way. You’ll be able to ask him about Alexander, and see if he can fix us up somewhere remote to stay. Like before, but not his place, an address with no connection to him, and nowhere near Alexander. They could use him again to reach you.” She made the call. It was brief, and she relayed it to him when she’d finished the call. “March said he’d do what he can to find us a place. Cris, what are you planning?” Her voice sounded different, not frightened, but hollow, empty of hope. He spoke as he weaved through the traffic to get away before someone came after them. The Russians, Chicago PD, U.S. Immigration, and maybe a couple more agencies he wasn’t yet aware of. "We need to go back to where it all started, where these bastards first picked us up. I’ll drive to the floatplane base, and if Warner is still there, I'll get him to fly us back to Vermont. It’s time to get ahead of them and make preparations for when they try again." "Why Vermont?" He frowned; annoyed he’d got it so wrong before. "I made a mistake coming here. I thought we could lose ourselves in the city, but the Russians have the same technical resources as U.S. Law Enforcement. Which means wherever we go, they'll find us. We have to go back to somewhere remote. Where there are no cameras.” “And what then? More shooting, more killing?” It didn’t sound like Maria. More like a frightened girl, frightened for the safety of her son.

I grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had been. It had committed suicide. It had set itself steadfastly towards comfort and ease, a balanced society with security and permanency as its watchword, it had attained its hopes--to come to this at last. Once, life and property must have reached almost absolute safety. The rich had been assured of his wealth and comfort, the toiler assured of his life and work. No doubt in that perfect world there had been no unemployed problem, no social question left unsolved. And a great quiet had followed. 'It is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is the compensation for change, danger, and trouble. An animal perfectly in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is no intelligence where there is no change and no need of change. Only those animals partake of intelligence that have to meet a huge variety of needs and dangers.

People always value others who really listen to them. Quiet, considered and genuine listening is such a gift to give someone, and you will become recognized and loved for this skill. It is always empowering to others if you truly listen well. And don’t listen to reply, but listen to understand. That means don’t always be thinking of your next sentence or your reply while people are talking - rather just listen carefully to understand how they are feeling or what they are imparting. It sounds simple but so few people do this, and it is a big part of why many never reach their full potential in life. You know the expression: empty vessels make the most noise. It is true. The best adventurers and climbers, and the most successful people I know in life, are all great listeners, and they don’t talk too much. They want to weigh every option carefully, and they take time to absorb the information coming at them. It is all too easy not to listen properly and to jump into a perspective or decision without considering the implications - but if you listen diligently, it gives you precious time to assess a situation properly. This has saved my life many times, especially when I have received detailed safety briefings from local rangers before entering the wild. Listen carefully - your life might depend on others’ experience and advice. So make sure you use your ears and your mouth in the correct ratio - and listen twice as much as you talk. It is a firm habit of successful people.

Preparing agendas Agendas serve several purposes. The main ones are keeping the meeting running in the correct sequence and covering the right topics. However, another major role of the agenda is to let the meeting participants know what the meeting will be about and also what it won’t cover. If you are the person putting the agenda together and distributing it you’ll need to work closely with the chair of the meeting to make sure the agenda is correct. You’ll also need to get a list of who to circulate the agenda to, which may include some people who are not going to attend the meeting. Agendas enable attendees to prepare for a meeting and should, therefore, be circulated in good time beforehand. You need to be aware of this for your planning. Remember, the agenda is also your first step to excellent preparation. Styles of agenda As you become more experienced, you can probably draft an agenda for the meeting. Until then, either ask the chairperson for topics or request suggestions from attendees. This draft can then be agreed with the chairperson. The style of agendas can vary enormously. It is usually possible to find the agenda for a previous, similar meeting and use this format for the next meeting. If there are several items on an agenda then number them. If an individual agenda item has more than one part then consider sub-section numbers, 2.1, 2.2, 2.3 etc. Some agendas are very informal; they do not need to mention minutes of previous meetings or any other business. Below is an example of an agenda for an ad hoc meeting. From: A Manager Sent: Friday 23 July 16:47 To: All staff Subject: NEW IT SYSTEM On 30 September, a new IT system is being introduced within the department. Training will be given to all staff as the method of working will be different. In order that we can decide the best way to implement this training, I would like you to attend a brief meeting in my office at 9am on Wednesday 4th September. I expect the meeting to last about half an hour. Please let me know immediately if, for any reason, you are unable to attend. Tip: Always include the day of the week with the date, it helps avoid errors. Here is an example of a more formal agenda: EXPERT WINDOWS HEALTH AND SAFETY COMMITTEE

Twenty-seven years later It wasn’t until 2006 that Norman had the courage to look up the National Transportation Safety Board’s Accident Report for the crash and read the transcription of the pilot’s radio conversation with air traffic control. They had been doomed almost from takeoff. The pilot was using an underpowered plane with insufficient instruments on a rough day. He didn’t get a weather briefing or file a flight plan. He shouldn’t have taken off let alone headed into the storm. Thirty seconds into the flight he seemed lost and he was warned three times by air traffic control not to continue flying as he was. Big Bear airport was at an altitude of 2,100 m (7,000 ft) and was unmanned. Even with the right instruments and a modern plane it would have been all but impossible to land that day. Norman also went back up to the mountain to where Sandra had fallen. He paid his respects and continued up to the site of the crash. He was surprised, but even from that high vantage point he couldn’t see the meadow where he had been rescued. The big ridge blocked it out. So how had he known where to head for that day? Had he sensed the most likely place to find another human being? Was he lucky? Or maybe, just maybe, someone was looking out for him. This story is a brief retelling of the events in Crazy for the Storm by Norman Ollestad, published by HarperPress. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd © 2009 Norman Ollestad.

There is a moment for women – no more cacophonous than a petal falling from a dying flower – when politeness has cost them their life, and they know it. That moment, so brief it would barely register on any clock, stretches long into the coming void. Chloe Martin, stuck in her moment of eternal regret, stared at the foot separating her door from its frame as time stood still. You never knew when it was your turn, she thought. How could her day, her boring, run-of-the-mill day, have come to this? Where were the signs from the universe? Where was the sense of impending doom? It didn’t matter, now, that she always carried a rape alarm in her handbag, and it didn’t matter that she never walked home alone in the dark. It didn’t matter that she always put a lid over her drinks to prevent spiking, or that she never engaged in online dating. Because now she was in the thick of it, facing a shadowy figure at her door who had knocked and cried out for help, and she had rushed there so fast, so worried for the safety of a stranger, that she had failed to engage the chain.

This was a creature that, except for the brief days in safety as a kitten, swatting at her mother’s tail and taking in a new world, had spent every waking moment fighting for life. Like one endless solo expedition, her life was a solitary battle for survival. Each morsel of food won required skill, stealth, and often the risk of injury or death. Stalking the beaches and brush of the long river beneath black thunderheads of the Amazon sky, she had managed to survive through all adversity in one of the most competitive and unforgiving ecosystems on earth.

Moreover, “Long regularly briefed… Roosevelt on his efforts to suppress [Jewish] immigration below the level allowed by existing law. In one diary entry from October 1940, Long mentioned meeting with FDR to discuss ‘the whole subject of immigration, visas, safety of the United States, procedures to be followed,’ and ‘I found that he was 100% in accord with my ideas.’ ” Not until 1944, when Congress got wind of Long’s doings and began to publicly raise concerns, was Long finally demoted and, ultimately, left the State Department.48

Alternatives to time-out Isolating children for a period of time has become a popular discipline strategy advocated by many child psychologists and pediatricians. However, newly adopted toddlers seem to be more upset than helped by time-outs. Time-outs are intended to provide an opportunity for both parents and children to calm down and change their behaviors, but it isn’t effective for children who do not have self-calming strategies. Isolation can be traumatic for a toddler who is struggling with grief and/or attachment, and so perceives time-out as further rejection. If the child becomes angrier or more withdrawn as a result of being timed-out, try another strategy. One alternative is for parents to impose a brief time-out on themselves by temporarily withdrawing their attention from their child. For example, the parent whose child is throwing toys stops playing, looks away, and firmly tells the child, “I can’t continue playing until you stop throwing your toys.” Sitting passively next to the child may be effective, especially if the child previously was engaged in an enjoyable activity with the parent. Another alternative to parent enforced time-outs is self-determined time-outs, where the child is provided the opportunity to withdraw from a conflict voluntarily or at least have some input into the time-out arrangement. The parent could say, “I understand that you got very upset when you had to go to your room yesterday after you hit Sara. Can you think of a different place you would like to go to calm down if you feel like getting in a fight?” If the child suggests going out on the porch, the next time a battle seems to be brewing, Mom or Dad can say, “Do you need to go outside to the porch and calm down before we talk more?” Some children eventually reach the level of self-control where they remove themselves from a volatile situation without encouragement from Mom or Dad. These types of negotiations usually work better with older preschoolers or school-age children than they do with toddlers because of the reasoning skills involved. As an alternative to being timed-out, toddlers also can be timed-in while in the safety of a parent’s lap. Holding allows parents to talk to their child about why she’s being removed from an activity. For example, the toddler who has thrown her truck at the cat could be picked up and held for a few minutes while being told, “I can’t let you throw your toys at Misty. That hurts her, and in our family we don’t hurt animals. We’ll sit here together until you’re able to calm down.” Calming strategies could incorporate music, back rubs, or encouraging the child to breathe slowly. Objects that children are misusing should also be removed. For example, in the situation just discussed, the truck could be timed-out to a high shelf. If parents still decide to physically remove their child for a time-out, it should never be done in a way or place that frightens a toddler. Toddlers who have been frightened in the past by closed doors, dark rooms, or a particular room such as a bathroom should never be subjected to those settings. I know toddlers who, in their terror, have literally trashed the furniture and broken windows when they were locked in their rooms for a time-out. If parents feel a time-out is essential, it should be very brief, and in a location where the child can be supervised.

We had been seen. The thought stayed with me as I disposed of the leftovers—how could it not? I drove with one eye on the rearview mirror, waiting for the blinding burst of blue light to flare at my bumper and the brief harsh whoop! of a siren. But nothing came; not even after I ditched Valentine’s car, climbed into mine, and drove carefully home. Nothing. I was left entirely at liberty, all alone, pursued only by the demons of my imagination. It seemed impossible—someone had seen me at play, as plainly as it was possible to be seen. They had looked at the carefully carved pieces of Valentine, and the happy-weary carver standing above them, and it would not take a differential equation to arrive at a solution to this problem—A plus B equals a seat in Old Sparky for Dexter, and someone had fled with this conclusion in perfect comfort and safety—but they had not called the police? It

December 2 “I have set the LORD always before me: because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved.” Psalm 16:8 THIS is the way to live. With God always before us, we shall have the noblest companionship, the holiest example, the sweetest consolation, and the mightiest influence. This must be a resolute act of the mind, “I have set,” and it must be maintained as a set and settled thing. Always to have an eye to the Lord’s eye, and an ear for the Lord’s voice – this is the right state for the godly man. His God is near him, filling the horizon of his vision, leading the way of his life, and furnishing the theme of his meditation. What vanities we should avoid, what sins we should overcome, what virtues we should exhibit, what joys we should experience, if we did indeed set the Lord always before us! Why not? This is the way to be safe. The Lord being ever in our minds, we come to feel safety and certainty because of his being so near. He is at our right hand to guide and aid us; and hence we are not moved by fear, nor force, nor fraud, nor fickleness. When God stands at a man’s right hand, that man is himself sure to stand. Come on, then, ye foemen of the truth! Rush against me like a furious tempest, if ye will. God upholds me. God abides with me. Whom shall I fear?

I had departed when the doctor came to Cannan’s office to minister to Steldor, and I heard word the following morning that Cannan was removing his son from the Bastion, a decision I thought wise. The number of Cokyrians within the structure had substantially increased since the attempted revolt, and with Rava literally across the hall from where Steldor lay, I worried for his safety. He had not made friends for himself among the enemy officers by his actions. Nor had he endeared himself to me. Although I tried to understand his motivations, I was frustrated with him, especially since his actions had only led to his own pain. I had seen many sides of Steldor during our brief and difficult marriage and was familiar with his bravery, his pride and his tendency to follow his instincts despite what anyone else had to say, but I was through abiding his perniciousness. And the more I thought about his conduct, the more convinced I became that his insolence was as much directed at me as at the Cokyrians. I continued to ask Cannan about Steldor’s condition over the next several days, learning as I did so that the captain had not refrained from sharing his opinion on the incident with his son, but Steldor had yet to hear from me. Perhaps it was presumptuous, but I believed I might be able to make an impression on him when others could not.

Even though I can’t hear or see it from this distance, I know that Katherine and my younger self are currently having a brief, nearly silent squabble over who goes through the window first. I’d promised Kate that I’d get her grandmother back to safety, and I took that promise seriously. On the other hand, I was used to getting my bottom whacked if I argued with my elders. And since Katherine’s expression suggested she might just toss me out the window if I didn’t go willingly, I didn’t hesitate long before following her orders.

The dark came down on All Hallows’ Eve. We went to sleep to the sound of howling wind and pelting rain, and woke on the Feast of All Saints to whiteness and large soft flakes falling down and down in absolute silence. There is no more perfect stillness than the solitude in the heart of a snowstorm. This is the thin time, when the beloved dead draw near. The world turns inward, and the chilling air grows thick with dreams and mystery. The sky goes from a sharp clear cold where a million stars burn bright and close, to the gray-pink cloud that enfolds the earth with the promise of snow. I took one of Bree’s matches from its box and lit it, thrilling to the tiny leap of instant flame, and bent to put it to the kindling. Snow was falling, and winter had come; the season of fire. Candles and hearth fire, that lovely, leaping paradox, that destruction contained but never tamed, held at a safe distance to warm and enchant, but always, still, with that small sense of danger. The smell of roasting pumpkins was thick and sweet in the air. Having ruled the night with fire, the jack-o’-lanterns went now to a more peaceful fate as pies and compost, to join the gentle rest of the earth before renewal. I had turned the earth in my garden the day before, planting the winter seeds to sleep and swell, to dream their buried birth. Now is the time when we reenter the womb of the world, dreaming the dreams of snow and silence. Waking to the shock of frozen lakes under waning moonlight and the cold sun burning low and blue in the branches of the ice-cased trees, returning from our brief and necessary labors to food and story, to the warmth of firelight in the dark. Around a fire, in the dark, all truths can be told, and heard, in safety. I pulled on my woolen stockings, thick petticoats, my warmest shawl, and went down to poke up the kitchen fire. I stood watching wisps of steam rise from the fragrant cauldron, and felt myself turn inward. The world could go away, and we would heal.

Strachey, no doubt hungry for firsthand information about the colony, would have passed the bookseller a few coins, snapped up a copy of Smith’s brief report, and hurried home to read it voraciously as he searched for clues about what he could expect in Virginia. He would have learned of the Indian attacks that started soon after the English landed on the banks of the Chesapeake. He would have read of “such famin and sicknes, that the living were scarce able to bury the dead,” a time when settlers died one or sometimes two or even three at a time until more in the colony were dead than were alive.4 He would have read of all the struggles to survive in the colony’s early days. What he read would naturally enough have made him think carefully about his decision to leave the safety of London for the dangers of Virginia. After all, debtors’ prison in London, though terrible, was better than death in Virginia.

Told you there was a bottle of cheap champagne at the end of the safety-briefing rainbow,” Henry whispers into my ear.

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By 1922, Sweden was the leading exporter of matches, and Swedish Match Corporation made two-thirds of all matches used in the world.11 Matches were Sweden’s pride, and its most important export. In the heady US markets, safety matches were the ideal new investment, and Ivar Kreuger was the perfect messenger. Matches, like cars and radio, were tangible products. They used new technology, and could be exported throughout the world. Antitrust regulators had declared monopolies illegal at home, but, by investing in Swedish Match, Americans could earn profits from a monopoly abroad. Ivar’s sales pitch was compelling. An investor who heard him talk about Swedish Match for more than a few minutes invariably would pull out a checkbook. Nearly every passenger on Berengaria used Swedish matches, and many would have heard of Swedish Match Corporation. By the time Ivar’s henchmen briefed the passengers, they also would have known that Ivar controlled Swedish Match, and that his grand postwar plans were to establish a global match monopoly. By all appearances, he was well on the way.

Taking a moment to be thankful for the things that easily could be, but are not. If we live in a place where there are no bloodthirsty lions walking around on the roads, let's be thankful. If there's no inbound asteroid or other imminent extinction event befallen on us, let's be thankful. If we are mostly free of disease or disorder in ourselves and those around us, let's be thankful. If there's no starvation in our own house or the house of neighbour, let's be thankful. If there's no lifethreatening pollution in our parts of the atmosphere, or water, let's be thankful. If we're not isolated, imprisoned, without any real prospects of a good future, let's be thankful. If we do not live near an active volcano, or within an area prone to earthquakes, super storms or other destabilizing natural phenomenae, let's be thankful. If it's not raining diamonds or acid [as is reality on some cosmic bodies], and if every part of our mighty Earth is habitable and healthy, let's be thankful. And if we collected some parts of tranquility for ourselves, or others, in this otherwise brief life, let's be thankful. It can be difficult to see, without concious effort to remind ourselves, that things are probably pretty good, also. Though, it is no excuse for laziness and inaction with regards to our duties in lending a hand according to the size of our hand, and perhaps with some regard for our own dignity, and to foresight.

before his trip to England, he had bought on account Harper’s Classical Library, which included John Dryden’s translation of the Aeneid. In Mardi, he had mentioned “Virgil my minstrel,” and in White-Jacket, the sight of Jack Chase encouraging the poet Lemsford had put him in mind of the Roman patron “Mecaenas listening to Virgil, with a book of the Aeneid in his hand.” But these pro forma nods toward the Roman poet had been conventionally reverent; it was not until sometime in 1850 that Melville had his true encounter with the Aeneid and found himself recapitulating Virgil’s story of a haunted mariner voyaging out to avenge a grievous loss.* The men of Moby-Dick are Virgilian wanderers. They long for home even as fate calls them away from “safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that’s kind to our mortalities.” Early in the book, one hears echoes of Virgil’s account of the Trojan mariners preparing, after brief respite, to set sail again with ships newly caulked as Queen Dido watches them from a hilltop in Carthage.

I pulsed in a brief electric calm, an almost safety, where my me-ness was a shrug or a long drag of a cigarette, a hot conversation out front, a laugh, a nod. Where I could exist at full volume, where the fact of me wasn't a disruption but an unquestioned, integrated fact of my being.

Every solution of a complex problem, every helpful advance that eases or eliminates a specific harmful or undesirable impact, every innovation promising better performance, higher profits, or improved handling, or increased comfort or safety, has its obverse. Its reach and intensity range from predictable, tolerable, manageable (or simply time-limited) side effects to unforeseen yet potentially serious consequences that are not easy to deal with. Some of them can be eliminated only by abandoning the original solution in favor of a superior (entirely harmless) approach, or, if that is impossible, then at least replacing it with a less offensive, somewhat more acceptable choice.

The first chlorofluorocarbon compound they synthesized was dichlorodifluoromethane (CCl2F2), known as F12 and sold under the proprietary name Freon, whose intermediate was trichlorofluoromethane (CFCl3 known as F11), and although they did not make it, they were aware that they could also produce the overfluorinated alternative, chlorotrifluoromethane (CF3Cl), known as F13. They sniffed F12 and survived the experiment; then they organized a series of guinea pig tests proving the compound’s safety. In April 1930 Midgley introduced Freon at the American Chemical Society meeting in a surprising manner, inhaling a bit of it on stage (nontoxic!) and slowly exhaling it to distinguish a candle flame (nonflammable!). In August 1930 GM and DuPont set up a joint stock company to make and market the compound, and Freon received its US patent (under the generic title Heat transfers) in November 1931.

Ranger will brief your team that they’re to report to Nathan and not your father. If I find out any of them are speaking with your father other than to report your safety, their next assignment will be in a drought-ridden hellishly hot climate in a country with an economy that doesn’t support air conditioning.

I grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had been. It had committed suicide. It had set itself steadfastly towards comfort and ease, a balanced society with security and permanency as its watchword, it had attained its hopes—to come to this at last. Once, life and property must have reached almost absolute safety. The rich had been assured of his wealth and comfort, the toiler assured of his life and work. No doubt in that perfect world there had been no unemployed problem, no social question left unsolved. And a great quiet had followed.

This night, however, she surprised me by getting down on her “poor old knees” (as she always referred to them) beside me and told me to pray with her “for the safety of the British Army in France.” Her own palms were pressed tightly together, and there were tears in her eyes behind her gold-rimmed pince-nez. She usually said her prayers long after I had said mine and gone to bed, and she had so far as I know no relatives in the BEF. It was nothing personal—it was as if the whole nation were, for a brief moment, united in anxious prayer or, for those who did not pray, in silent thought.

Any shoes with heels that high should come with their own safety net. Or a parachute.

Cliff looked around for the woman he’d seen helping the others and saw no sign of her. Swearing, he tore through the wreckage in search of her. An explosion took out more of the ceiling. Rubble rained down on the other side of the pile he dug through. “Come on,” he whispered. “Where are you?” A moan reached his ears, followed by a cough. Leaping toward it, he grabbed slabs of concrete and flooring and tossed them aside, reducing the pile until he found her. Dust coated her like ash, powdering her braid and turning her skin a grayish white. She blinked up at him. Her forehead glistened with blood that oozed from a gash on one side. “It’s okay,” he told her. “I’m here to help. Don’t be afraid.” Her chin dipped in a brief nod. Another explosion hit what was left of the ground floor. Cliff swiftly leaned over to shield her as flaming bits rained down around them. As soon as it stopped, he knelt beside her. “Y-Your eyes are glowing.” “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. I just want to help. Are you injured?” He swept his hands over her in a quick, impersonal search for injuries, concerned by the splotches of blood that marred her clothing. “Th-there’s a woman,” she said. “Sadie. Sh-she’s old. She can’t make it down the stairs.” “I already got her to safety. Are you Emma?” Surprise lit her dark brown eyes as she nodded. “I think your arm is broken, Emma. I need to bind it.” Tearing a strip of cloth from his T-shirt, he wrapped it around a deep gash on her arm. Then he tore another and—preternaturally fast—fashioned a sling. She moaned. “Sorry,” he said, knowing every movement caused her pain. Nodding, she gritted her teeth. Her lips pressed tightly together as he lifted her into his arms, spawning even more pain. “I’m sorry,” he said again as he dashed over to the elevator shaft. She looped her free arm around his neck and looked over his shoulder. Her hold tightened. “Mercenaries,” she whispered in his ear, her warm breath sending a shiver through him. “It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll keep you safe.

The stability and reliability of the CG-LO Led Triproof Light are enhanced by its multifaceted design details and technical means. The following is a brief introduction to its design features The CG-LO Led Triproof Light uses high-quality materials such as steel base and PC cover in the manufacturing process, which have good corrosion resistance and durability, and can be used for a long time in various harsh environments without damage. The Led Triproof Light fully considers the heat dissipation problem in the design, and effectively reduces the temperature of the lamp when it is working through a reasonable heat dissipation structure and material selection. This not only prolongs the service life of the LED light source, but also ensures that the lamp maintains stable light output and performance when it works continuously for a long time. The CG-LO Led Triproof Light is equipped with a stable power management system that can cope with voltage fluctuations and current changes, ensuring that the lamp can work properly in various electrical environments. In addition, the high-quality power driver also provides functions such as overvoltage protection, overcurrent protection and short-circuit protection, further enhancing the reliability of the lamp. The lamp adopts a dual electronic and mechanical protection design. When the lamp cover is opened, it will automatically cut off the power to prevent safety hazards such as electric shock and short circuit. This design not only improves the safety during use, but also facilitates the maintenance and repair of the lamp. CG-LO Led Triproof Lights provide a variety of installation methods such as base, ceiling, and hanging to meet the lighting needs of different workplaces. This flexibility not only improves the applicability of the lamp, but also facilitates the installation and debugging process, thereby ensuring the stability and reliability of the lamp. The design of the lamp takes into account various environmental conditions, such as temperature, humidity, etc. CG-LO Led Triproof Lights can operate stably in the operating and storage temperature range of -20℃ to +50℃. This adaptability ensures the reliability and stability of the lamp in various harsh environments. During the production process, CG-LO Led Triproof Lights undergo strict quality control and performance testing to ensure that every lamp meets the standards. This quality control system not only improves the overall quality of the lamp, but also reduces the failure rate, thereby enhancing the stability and reliability of the lamp. In summary, the stability and reliability of CG-LO Led Triproof Lights are enhanced by multiple aspects of design, such as high-quality material selection, heat dissipation design, power management, safety protection design, various installation methods, environmental adaptability, and strict quality control. These design features together ensure that the lamp can provide stable and reliable lighting effects in various environments.

I’m not surprised that in a time of hideous precarity so many of us would find ourselves tempted by the false grandiosities of certainty. But we must not confuse certainty with safety — in fact, certainty is the end of the imagination and therefore the definition of unsafety. Nor should we confuse unknowing with ignorance. To unknow is to admit limits, to acknowledge that others might have answers you lack, to recognize our exquisite interdependence as people, and best of all to seek within. To dwell in unknowing is to put your phone away and be for a brief moment completely, imperfectly, human. In times like ours unknowing is excellent proof against our society’s inhumanity, against the lizard supremacy of certainty. There is wisdom in the question deferred, the question without an immediate answer. Tolerance and unity, too. And art, as well, if we can tolerate the fact that we are all forever a question without answers, a beautiful unknown, an infinite unknowing.

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