text:
The Potts girl walked into the café preceded by her reputation so that everyone was obliged to stare. Even Stanton, who had been in Mamarrosa for less than a month, looked her over once more than was strictly necessary. Vasco, stuffed behind the grand Formica counter, served her with pineapple Sumol and unsmiling vigilance. The girl sat on the edge of the pool table, swinging her legs and examining her navel stud. Her hair fell forward, revealing an ugly brown hearing aid, and Stanton averted his eyes.
Conversation spluttered and died, then was just as suddenly resurrected. The old men stood at the bar caressing their Macieiras and coughing up memories. In their black felt fedoras and black waistcoats, red handkerchiefs tied at the neck, they looked to Stanton like postcards from the past, as picturesque as the crooked Portuguese streets, the whitewashed houses, the doors and windows framed gaily in blue and yellow.
A young mother scolded and slapped and kissed her child, the love exhaled as palpable as the smoke from her cigarette.
"Always they are hitting," Dieter said.
Stanton looked away out the open door, at the sun riding high over the far ridged hills. It couldn't be long until noon. Even eleven-thirty was respectable for beer. He waited for Vasco to look his way, but Vasco was keeping watch over the Potts girl. Stanton went up to the counter and nodded to the old men. "O Escritor," they said, as if for the first time. It was a fine joke.
"Yes, sir?" Vasco wiped the counter with commendable vigor, particularly for a man of his girth. Vasco was always wiping. It was a skill he had acquired during his legendary stint as a barman in Provincetown, Cape Cod, the United States of America. He had added his own innovation, though, by using the same unwashed rag for all purposes, shifting ash and dirt from surface to surface.
Stanton ordered two Sagres and was grateful to the Potts girl and her soft white belly for Vasco's preoccupation.
"I was thinking," Dieter said, stroking an eyebrow. "If you make the final payment in cash you can forget about the E.V.A., the tax. Save a lot of money." He shrugged. "If you like, I will come with you now to the bank."
"But the fossa," Stanton said. "It leaks. The work's not finished."
The builder worried tobacco into a paper skin. His fingers were callused and nicotine-stained. "This is a—what do you say?—bad understanding." He had a tall man's slouch even when seated, and his chest, though broad, appeared concave. His hair, dark full curls, was cut into layers, falling almost to his shoulders and brushed to a sickening sheen. Without glancing over, Stanton thought of the Potts girl's mousy strings. "The septic tank is an open system," Dieter went on. "That is what we call this. Solid waste is kept inside. The water passes outside through a filter. No, it is a bad understanding."
"Misunderstanding," Stanton said. "But it isn't. I chose not to have that system, because it was more expensive. I didn't have enough money for that."
Dieter produced a smile. "Lucky man," he said. "You pay for closed but you get open. For you, this is very lucky."
"The damn thing leaks," Stanton said. He knocked a fly away. "And there are no tiles on the bathroom floor."
Dieter shook his head. "The work is good. You don't want to pay, but the work is good." He lit his cigarette and sucked hard. He shook his head and sulked. Then he touched Stanton's arm, changing tactics. "Look," he said, indicating the men at the counter. "Brandy before noon. Impossible in this country to get anything done. In Germany, the workers—they work. Here . . ." He flicked his hair back with an oddly feminine gesture, using the back of his hand. "You see the problems. You suffer, my friend, and I suffer, also."
"So you'll fix it?" Stanton said. "And the tiles. You know none of the internal doors are on?"
"Bastards," Dieter said. "Another drink?"
"Why not?" The day was ruined, anyway. He would go back, tussle briefly with the computer, develop a fever, prescribe an afternoon of research, spend a couple of listless hours with his books, go for a walk to clear his head, and return in time for sundowners. Each stage would develop inevitably into the next, all with equal futility.
There was a sudden commotion at the back of the room. Stanton turned and saw the Potts girl move across the café, something insolent in her walk. Behind the counter Vasco waved his short arms.
"Ladra!" Vasco screamed. "Thief!" He lifted a hatch and squeezed out, the operation hampered by his size.
The girl turned at the door, donned the monstrous pair of sunglasses she was holding, flicked a V sign, and disappeared. Vasco stood panting. His customers—those who had risen—sat down again, clicking their tongues. Vasco trembled his way to the revolving rack by the cigarette machine. He passed a hand over the postcards, comic books, chewing gum, toy guns, and sunglasses, perhaps to divine what else might be missing, perhaps to comfort his remaining stock. It was some time before he grew calm enough to serve beer again.
"But he does not go to the police," Dieter moaned. "In Germany, it would be . . . Ja, ja." He broke off, as if even he had heard it too many times. "Do you know about that family? The Potts? They live one, two kilometres from your house. English neighbors."
Stanton had heard some things. "Not really."
Dieter rolled another cigarette, spilling tobacco over his jeans. "The father is, you know." He tapped the side of his head. "Louco. When they came here, he had money. Maybe drug money, who knows? He asks me to build a swimming pool. They are living in a trailer but he wants a pool. So I bring the diggers and before the pool is finished he says now we build the house. I stop the pool and I start the house, but before the roof is done money has gone. The wife is like . . ." Dieter thought for a while. "What do you call this piece of material for cleaning the plates? A dishcloth, yes, dishcloth. There is a boy, about eleven, twelve," he said quickly, eager to pass on to the main topic, "and, of course, this girl, Ruby. She has left the school, she has nothing to do but make trouble. There was a fight between her and the whores up at the brothel. Know where it is? By the G.N.R. The police look out for the girls. This fight—I heard it was really something—the whores said she ruined their business, giving it away for free." He shifted his knees and bumped the table, then steadied it. "That is the story. Probably it isn't true. But it is the story."
Stanton pictured the girl, her T-shirt cut off below the breasts, her fuck-you walk, the ludicrous stolen sunglasses encrusted with butterflies. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Anemic skin and dimpled knees. Unattractive, uneducated, disabled. That hearing aid was prehistoric. "Poor bitch," he said, and got up.
He went outside to the pickup and pressed his hand against the door panel, where the sun glazed the red metal white. He drove out of the village, past the lines of orange trees that bordered the narrow pavements, past the water pump, where a bent old woman was filling plastic containers, past the small square with garish flower beds and a dark-green frog-plagued pond, and turned right after the traffic light, which was there not to control traffic (of which there was a dearth) but to raise a flag to the future.
At home, he went straight to the computer, in the bedroom. All his furniture had ended up in that room, except for a couple of chairs and a stool, which were on the terrace. In his mind a correlation had grown between the emptiness of the house and the quality of his work, the sparseness of one guaranteeing the fullness of the other. He read over the last few pages on the screen, making deletions and additions and willing himself into the story. He stood up and sat back down. He set his jaw and willed himself submerged. It was hopeless. It was like deciding to commit suicide, then trying to drown with your face in the washbasin.
He closed the computer and resolved to suffer no more interruptions to his mornings. Taking a book, he went to the terrace and looked out over the garden to the cork oaks beyond, the rich earth-red trunks where the bark had been harvested. He sat down and opened the book and was immediately distracted by a lizard flickering in and out of an empty flowerpot. He returned to the book, trudged through half a chapter, then hurled it down into the garden. It was possibly the worst book he had ever tried to read.
Without locking the door to the house, a habit he had forced himself to break, he went down the steps from the terrace and turned out of the garden and continued along past the tender-leafed eucalyptus that said shush-shush and were still and stirred and quieted again. He walked his usual track into the cork-oak woods, which began where the eucalyptus left off, with no sense of excitement, except for the gin that he would pour when he got home. There were pines dotted among the oaks, and he picked up a cone, carried it for a while, then let it drop. The trees spread out, giving way now and then to grass and sheep. The shepherd wore a sheepskin over his shirt, a hole cut for his head and a string tied around the waist to hold it in place. Stanton waved. All day—the man spent all day watching sheep. The thinness of his own endeavor was shaming.
In a clearing where some old trees had been felled and the spring flowers were intense, Stanton paused. There were anemones here, cistus and soapwort and wild geranium. The gorse spurted yellow over the tree stumps.
"You're English," the boy said. Stanton had not noticed him there.
"Hello, compatriot," he said.
The boy grew unsure. He beheaded flowers with his stick.
"We're both English," Stanton clarified.
"Watch this," the boy said, and threw the stick. It arced high and landed a distance off in the scrub.
"Good throw."
"Yeah," the boy said. "Thanks." He smiled and rubbed a hand over his head, which was almost shaved, the scalp showing pinkly through. Lice, Stanton thought. A sneeze of freckles covered the bridge of the boy's nose and strayed to his cheeks. It was a nice face, open and willing.
"You write books," the boy said. "I like your truck."
"I'm heading back," Stanton said.
"Me, too."
They walked together in the rutted track. The boy stamped his feet in the grass to make the crickets jump. His shoes looked as if they might not last the journey home.
"What's your name?" Stanton asked.
"Jay," the boy said. "Jay Potts. We used to have a truck like yours."
"What happened?"
The boy raised his thin arms. "Crashed it."
"Dad or Mum?"
"Me." He left a long pause, and when Stanton did not fill it he went on. "I don't drive on the main roads. Only, you know, on tracks like this, round our house or in the field. Don't know what happened, really. All I know is it ended up smashed on a fig tree, and I had to have one of those neck things for weeks."
Stanton laughed. "What you driving these days, then?"
"Well, me dad had a tractor and he used to let me drive that sometimes, but now he's turned it over in the ditch and we can't get it out. And we've got the Renault 4, but I don't drive that. Don't ask me why."
"Why?" Stanton said.
"I don't know," Jay said. "Don't ask me."
An owl flew across the trees, dipping down and skimming the path. "He's up early," Stanton said. He thought about having orange juice with his evening gin, getting some Vitamin C. They came up to the shepherd, and Stanton wished him a boa noite and the boy spoke Portuguese, his accent so thick that Stanton couldn't understand him. Then they went up the hill toward the house, the eucalyptus coming into view, watery now in the lowering light. The evening lay in prospect, and Stanton began to sag.
"We don't have to keep talking," the boy said. "I'll just walk with you."
A pair of rangy cypress trees marked the entrance to the property. "Funeral trees," Dieter had called them, when he came to give his estimate. They flanked every cemetery, growing tall and fat on the underground deposits. At the garden wall, Jay stood with his hands on his hips. He stared at the ground and kicked his heels in the dust. "Well," Stanton said. Jay looked away as if a difficult issue had been raised. "I might have some Coke in the fridge."
They drank on the terrace and watched the sun slide down the sky. Stanton was surprised to find himself glad of the boy's presence, as if there were something unpleasant he was meant to be doing that he could now put off for a while longer. Jay sipped his drink, making it last. His bare arms were thin but sinewy, blueprinted for muscle. He didn't speak, barely moved, hoping perhaps to be forgotten.
Nothing changed, but everything began to look different. A feeling unfolded in Stanton: the boy was in the way.
Stanton was just about to say something when Jay jumped up. "Best be off," he said. On the steps he turned. "I like your truck."
"You can ride in it one day," Stanton said. "But I'm driving."
He opened a bottle of vinho verde and went to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drank and watched the shadows on the wall. He had been twenty-eight when his first novel was published. If a man is to have success, he thought, it is better for it to come later in life. Not so late that he has too little time to appreciate it. But not so soon that he has too little experience to appreciate it. It was not the first time he had thought this, but it was the first time that day, and that, he considered, was a sort of progress.
Stanton worked. Because he had no curtains, he woke with the sun and, instead of pulling the sheets up over his head, he rose and went to the computer. The days lengthened. Soon, it seemed that he had hardly got to bed before the sun came calling. Still, he rose and would not be beaten. In the afternoons, he reviewed what he had written and held despair at bay with savage cuts and a bottle of the local brandy. Dieter learned to stay away until after five. Sometimes they drank on the terrace; more often they went to the village. Dieter found a woman. Dutch, big-boned, with a disappointed face. "It is ridiculous," she would say, "these Portuguese," tapping two fingers on the table, Dieter nodding along.
The Potts girl haunted the village. She was always on her own. Even when she was with people, she was by herself. Stanton saw her in the bar next to the Casa do Povo, sitting on a table, feet on a chair, pretending not to notice the local lads looking up her skirt. She wore tie-dyed skirts with tasselled fringes wrapped low on her darkening belly, a charm bracelet on each wrist, and always the sunglasses. She never looked too clean. Stanton saw her in the pharmacy, buying Band-Aids, and when he heard her speak it took him a few seconds to understand that it was not just her accent that thickened the words. She turned around and stepped right up to him. She smelled of earth. The sunglasses hid her eyes. There was a little mole right beneath her nose. She spoke to him in English. "You seen enough now?" Congested vowels and macerated diction.
She must lip-read, Stanton thought. "Yes," he said, without making a sound.
For a while, Jay seemed to live in the woods. Stanton had to walk the other way if he wanted to be alone. Then school finished for the summer, and the boy started dropping in at the house. "I'm working," Stanton said.
"I know," Jay said. "I'll just be in the garden."
Stanton did not want him in the garden.
"I'll do some work for you," Jay said. "Clear some weeds or something."
They looked down into the garden, the small orchard of lemons, oranges, and peaches choked with brambles, the oleander collapsing under its own weight, the rest of the ground rubbed red and brown in the heat.
Sometimes Jay hung around climbing the fruit trees or bouncing a ball on the terrace. Other days, Stanton sat with him and talked about football or Spider-Man.
"When I grow up," Jay said with doomed earnestness, "I want to work with animals."
"Vet?" Stanton said, being unkind.
"No," said Jay. "I don't think I'll get all them exams."
Stanton was sorry. "Ah, well. There's lots of ways of working with animals. I bet you're good with animals."
"I've got a puppy. Do you want to come and see it? I take the goats out sometimes, you know, graze them, and I feed the pigs. Me mum feeds the chickens. Don't ask me why."
"Why?" said Stanton.
"I don't know," Jay said, creasing his freckled face. "Don't ask me."
He always left before Stanton told him it was time to go, as if he could sense the clouds gathering. And he said little about his family. It must have been pleasant, Stanton guessed, to take a break from being the Potts boy.
The mother came looking for him one day. Stanton watched the Renault 4 splutter over the gravel and knew it would be her. "I'm Chrissie," she said. "Jay's mum."
"Yes. Harry Stanton."
They stood there. Chrissie held her head to one side as if listening for an announcement. She was so thin she seemed to sway slightly on her feet.
"He's not here, is he?" she said at length.
"No," Stanton said.
Chrissie perched on the stool on the terrace. There was a light sheen of sweat on her upper lip and in the cleft between her breasts, her shirt unbuttoned almost below the bra. "He's been bothering you. I've spoken to him about it." She was, Stanton realized, taking pains with her speech. Talking posh to the writer.
"Not at all. Drink?"
When he came back with the beers, Chrissie was scratching her forearms. They were pitted with scars and traversed with red and purple weals. She tugged her sleeves down. "He's not such a bad kid. But he's got no discipline. I try to tell him. But does he listen?" She sniffed to indicate that he did not. "Did he tell you he's being kept back a year at school?"
"Oh . . . well," Stanton said. "He loves the outdoors. And animals." It occurred to him that if you fed her up and put her in decent clothes she would not be bad-looking. Her mouth was fashionably wide and her cheekbones high. She was perhaps ten years younger than he, mid-thirties. In another setting, with another attitude, she could have been attractive: fey and otherworldly, rather than blown about. What was it that Dieter had called her? A dishcloth. Not the right word, but not a bad try.
"You don't want to end up like your sister, I tell him, but what good does it do?"
"Ruby, isn't it?"
Those arms, though. What would you do with them?
"Ruby," Chrissie said. "You know."
"She'll grow out of it," he said. How banal he'd become.
Chrissie looked at him sharply, then lapsed into self-pity. "I've had a hell of a time with her."
"It's difficult." Stanton was wondering now how to get rid of the woman. "These days, it's difficult."
"You got kids, Harry?"
"No. No kids."
"Just as well," she said. "You being a writer," she added. "Need your peace and quiet, I expect."
"I thought it would be better down here. It has been better," she improvised, "in some ways. Have you met my husband?"
"Ah, not yet," Stanton said. There was a fly crawling down her neckline and onto the curve of her breast. Four months since he'd had sex. There was nothing you could do with those arms.
"He don't . . . he doesn't go out much. You'll have to pay a visit. You know where we are."
He could have walked her to her car then. Instead, he went to get another beer and let her talk. It could have been the sweat gathering in the hollow of her neck. But it was not that. He wanted something from her and it was not sex but something baser. Some day, he knew, he would write about this place.
The next time she appeared at his door, it was morning and she was not interesting. "I'm interrupting," she said, miserable, when he poked his head out.
"He's not here," he told her. She swayed and rubbed her arms and gave off such a general air of hopelessness that Stanton wanted to kick her. "If you see him," she said, and ran down the stairs to her car.
In the evenings, Vasco produced white paper tablecloths and three dishes of the day, which were always piri-piri chicken, pork with clams, and a grilled fish with boiled potatoes. "Mr. Stanton," he said, "what do you think of this war in Iraq? Everyone here is against it, apart from the government, of course." He handed out the menus.
"Terrible business," Stanton said, pretending to study the items.
"Exactly!" Vasco cried. "Exactly. Terrible business, but has to be done. Everyone is saying to me, 'Oh, they make the empire, these Americans.' And I tell them, 'Shut up, what do you know?' Of course they make the empire. United States of America will not be threatened. We had a big empire, too." Vasco turned purple and began to wheeze. It dawned on Stanton that he was laughing. "Five hundred years ago."
Dieter and his Dutch woman had chicken and Stanton had a fish that watched him as he ate it. "I heard," Dieter said, "that Ruby is pregnant."
The Dutch woman said, "Who is the father? She probably doesn't know." She snorted and tapped the table.
An image entered Stanton's mind unbidden: the Dutch woman astride Dieter, tensing her buttocks, shaking her breasts, snorting. The couple spoke briefly together in German. He touched her knee and she stroked his hair, which Stanton found repulsive.
"I think," Stanton said, "that Ruby has an addict for a mother."
"Chrissie? You mean her arms, ja?" Dieter unfolded his legs and stretched out. His crotch bulged.
"Needle marks."
Dieter shrugged. "Maybe. I don't think so."
"What, then?"
"Fleas." He smiled. "Go to the house. Then you see what I mean."
"But the boy doesn't have them," Stanton said. "Or the girl."
"I'll ask you—do you get mosquito bites?"
Stanton said that he didn't, not many.
"Me, they leave alone also. But some people," Dieter raised his beer, "they fall in love with. What I mean is, some people just have bad luck."
The Dutch woman pursed her lips. "There is a reason for everything," she said with false humility. "Even if we do not know it. You say bad luck. Better perhaps to say bad Karma."
On Sunday, he rose early, as usual, but decided to rest. He lay all morning on the kitchen floor, where it was coolest, reading and dozing. In his dream, a dog with orange eyes crept into his bed and closed its jaws around the back of his neck.
He woke with pain shooting from his shoulder down his right arm and was filled with remorse for the wasted day. Rubbing his arm, he went to the sink and accused his reflection of many things. He brushed his teeth, drank a beer, and brushed his teeth again. Then he drove to the village, parked outside Vasco's place, and walked up the narrow streets toward the church. Two cars passed him, Stanton flattening himself against the walls to let them through. When he got to the marketplace, a patch of rough ground bisected by the steeple's shadow, people were still setting up. It was billed as a festa, a fête, but in England it would have been called a car-boot sale.
Some people had tables; others put their wares on a blanket or directly on the ground. An old man sold wood carvings. Another sold herbs grown in sawed-off plastic bottles. The local crafts coöperative displayed rugs and hand-painted tiles. There were piles of secondhand books and comics, glowing jars of honey, and glinting bottles of olive oil. A woman with a gold brooch and silver sandals sat behind her scales weighing out bread and cakes. There were families who had cleared out all their junk and spilled it in front of their cars: a vase, a radiator, old shoes, wooden bowls, lidless teapots, broken furniture, mysterious plastic objects of indeterminate use. These families wandered the market acquiring other, equally useless possessions with which to replace those that they sold. Stanton stopped to watch oranges being squeezed on an old sewing machine that had been converted into a bizarre juicing contraption.
"Now, why is that so fucking beautiful?" The man who had spoken sniffed loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, Stanton saw that the sniff had come too late. A long string of snot fell from the man's nose to the ground. The man turned and offered his hand. "Michael Potts. Everyone calls me China. Call me whatever you like. Who said that thing about a name being like a torch?"
"I'm afraid I don't know," Stanton said, shaking hands. The man, Potts, wore the filthiest pair of jeans he had ever seen.
"Might have been me. Got a spot over there, mate. Come and see us."
Stanton wanted to get back to Vasco's, but Jay got to him first. "Bought anything?" Stanton shook his head.
"I got this." Jay held up a little glass ball filled with colored water. "You hang it on a string and it keeps the flies away."
"Oh," Stanton said. "How does it work?"
"Dunno. Probably doesn't. Look who I found."
Chrissie sat on the open boot of the Renault 4. On a blanket at her feet she had arranged a few pans with broken handles and some rusting agricultural equipment. Her skirt looked like one of Ruby's, swirling patterns in purple and pink. She had better legs than Ruby. "Don't be a pest, Jay."
Stanton picked up a tool, a clipper or shears of some kind with a semicircular aperture. "What's this for?"
"Bullock castrator," Chrissie said. "China wants to ask you something."
China came up with a bag of cakes. He gave it to Jay. "Make yourself sick now, carn' ya?" He had red eyes and blasted cheeks. There was something about the way he stood that made Stanton think he had once carried muscle, though that time had long since passed. Another burned-out case. "Listen, mate. I need a favor. Need to borrow that lovely truck of yours."
There was no way he was going to the Potts house. Stanton sat on the terrace nursing a gin-and-orange and looking at his truck. He didn't mind doing anyone a favor. But he could not get involved. Once he went over there, they would start to assume. A pair of jays danced over the hood and went off squabbling into the woods. He had come to Portugal to work. He had come to be alone. They cared nothing for that, and he—the heat of indignation rising now—did not care to be involved.
He drove over around five o'clock, a bottle of Macieira on the passenger seat. The house was at the end of a track that took senseless sharp turns, twisting first one way, then the other. There was bamboo, and a weeping willow and a false-pepper tree by the first outbuilding. The light was gold through the corks on the hillside. This place could be beautiful.
Stanton passed the wrecked truck. The boy had been lucky. There were several other cars there, carcasses really, brambles growing out of their ribs. He stopped a short distance from the house. The smell was terrible. Beyond the house was a series of trailers and some more outbuildings. A calf wandered up from behind the van and poked its head through the window. It made a tragic noise.
China came out of the house. Stanton climbed down and walked through a cow pie. "Shit."
"Mind yourself."
China led him through the manure.
"There she is," China said, bending into the trench. "Apple of my eye, she was. Cracker."
The air was thick with the smell. Stanton could hardly breathe. "I've brought a rope," he said, and went back to the truck, gagging.
The rest of the family gathered. "Want to hold him?" Jay asked, offering his puppy. "Knew you'd like him."
"Trust you to get in the way." Chrissie had barrettes in her hair. Lipstick—a bad color, too orange.
Ruby sat on an old crate holding her nose.
"Jay," China bellowed. "Get out of the fucking way."
The cow had fallen into the trench behind the house and broken its back. China had dug the trench, he explained, because the house was getting damp. "Drainage, like," he said. The plaster had come away from the house's outside wall, exposing the clay bricks beneath. Stanton wondered about the foundations.
"Fucking council," China said. "They're supposed to come and take it away. You can't leave a fucking dead cow like that. Fucking health hazard."
"How long has she been there?" Even supposing the truck could take the weight and pull the cow out, what then? Was he supposed to take it away with him? Tow it back to his house?
Jay stood at Stanton's elbow, away from his father. "Five days. No, six. Took her a day to die."
"Jay," his mother said in a warning tone, unable to specify a crime.
"Right, that should do it," China said, patting the rope where he had tied it around the cow's neck. "Better back the truck a bit closer."
Stanton looked in the rearview mirror as he started the engine. The Potts family was lined up at the edge of the trench, bathed in syrupy light. Sadness, like a rolling fog, closed in on him. I have to stay away from them, he thought.
China banged on the side of the truck. "Mate," he shouted, as if proposing a pub crawl. "Let's go." Stanton put the engine into first and let the truck creep forward until he felt the resistance. "Let's go. Go!" China called. Stanton moved into second and pressed gently on the accelerator. The truck made a sudden lurch.
"Good fucking God!" China yelled. Chrissie covered her face with her hands. Ruby moved forward with a curious expression, as if smiling through a great amount of pain.
"Christ," Stanton said when he saw what had happened.
"Cool," Jay said. "Look at all the maggots."
China began to laugh. He bent double and held his knees and laughed until he had a coughing fit. The cow's head lay on the ground with the rope around its neck, spilling maggots and a fat black tongue.
"They went flying," Jay said. "Maggot bomb. You should've seen it."
Ruby crouched over the head. She seemed to be speaking to it. Little rolls of fat splayed out under her knees. Abruptly she got up and walked away.
Chrissie vomited into the trench. She wiped the sides of her mouth with the back of her hand, tugged her skirt down. "I don't know about anyone else," she said, patting her hair like a hostess whose guests have arrived a little early, "but I could use a drink."
They sat inside on high-backed leather-padded chairs and drank Stanton's Macieira. Ruby disappeared and Jay played on the floor with the puppy. China smoked a joint and spread himself across his seat like a man preparing to hold court. "I'll tell you something," he said, and tapped ash on the floor. "People look at me and they think"—he made a humming noise—"they think, What a washout. What a sad fucking sack." He held up a hand as if to stay protests. "I know that. I ain't stupid. But I'll tell you something for free. All the things I wanted to do, I gone and done 'em. I never said to meself, 'Hang on, China, what's Auntie Maude going to say?' Fuck Auntie Maude, if you'll pardon the expression." He lifted the puppy on the end of his foot and tossed it gently back toward his son. "All right, some of the things I done are not that clever. Drugs are not clever. But I done 'em because I wanted to, my choice, like. Cleaned me act up now, of course." He leaned across and poured another drink. Chrissie kicked off her sandal and massaged her foot. Her eyes met Stanton's for a moment, then they both looked away.
" 'What does he want all them goats for?' " China went on. "That's what people say. Forty goats I got. You'll see 'em later. They know their way home and Jay'll go and get them if they don't. Won't you, Jay? I had the money, so I got 'em. People don't like that. You see—" He paused to toke hard and keep the smoke held in.
Stanton thought, This is his favorite speech and it has to be savored.
China continued, "If you have a desire, act on it—my personal philosophy of life. How many people do you see what are happy, truly happy?"
Stanton showed his palms.
"No, mate. You don't. You don't see 'em because they're gravediggers. Burying their desires, the whole fucking lot. So fuck Auntie Maude, I say. Fuck the village. Fuck the lot. My personal philosophy. That dog's just pissed on the floor, Chrissie."
"Jay," Chrissie said.
"Run and get the goats, Jay," China said. "I'm going to show our guest around."
There was a pig in the first trailer. A little sink in there and a folding table. The windows had curtains, too, a sophistication the house lacked. The pig was expecting, China explained. He'd had to take her away from her mate, give her a little privacy now. The two other trailers were entirely derelict, but the way China saw it they'd be restored and back on the road one day. Stanton was beginning to itch. He thought of Chrissie's arms. Three sheep stood uncertainly at the edge of a makeshift wooden pen, as if they had forgotten what they were supposed to be doing. The swimming pool had become a landfill, the refuse piled almost to the top. There were two more pigs chained to a pole outside a falling-down outbuilding, performing a porcine Morris dance. "That's it," China said. "The chicken house is up the other end, but you don't need to see that."
"Nice place," Stanton said. "It's got . . ."
"Potential," China said. "Hear that? Jay's back with the goats."
They walked back in time to see Jay run down the slope and through the herd, flapping his arms and grinning. Ruby was there, wearing a cleanish dress and the butterfly sunglasses, though it was nearly dusk. Stanton faced her directly, the others at his back. He was close enough to smell her, but for the stink from the cow and the shit. Her tongue flickered out and touched the mole above her lip. "Are you going somewhere?" Stanton said, silently. She watched his lips. "Yes," she said in her ugly nasal voice. "I'm going."
Chrissie came outside. "One of these days," she said, petulant, "she'll get herself killed." She had a bucket of chicken feed in her hand. "Want to come with me?" Chrissie gestured vaguely at China and Jay moving among the goats, meaning they were occupied.
He walked behind her, watching the way her backside moved beneath the thin fabric of her skirt, the ridges rising and falling on her calves, the red rings of bites around her ankles. His throat began to ache. They passed around the willow to the farthest outbuilding. The sky was turning red. She put the bucket down and took a step back, kicking it over. He kissed her without taking her in his arms. She did not seem surprised. She did not attempt to hold him, but her tongue was active, forceful. Brandy and a sharp tang of vomit. "Over there," he said, and went up to the wall. He turned her around and lifted her skirt and made short work of it. He reached forward briefly and circled her wrists with his hands, the scabs pressed into his palms. She did not cry out or move her hips or even deepen her breath. "Thank you," he said, and zipped up his trousers. Behind them, the chickens pecked the ground. When he went to the truck and untied the rope, the calf stood over the severed head and cried.
Jay came two days later. It was evening already, but Stanton was still writing. "I'm getting behind," he said. "Tell you what, give me a few days—I'll come over and see you."
"Don't matter," Jay said, turning. He wore a Manchester United top. It hung almost to his knees.
Stanton followed him out. "You understand, right?"
"Don't matter."
"It's not that I don't want you to come."
Jay stopped. Without turning, he said, "Yes, it is."
Stanton suppressed a sigh. How had he ended up looking after this boy? "Listen, the reason I came out here . . . Look at me. Jay. Look."
But the boy would not.
Stanton felt the stiffness in his neck. Too many hours in front of the screen. "Actually," he said, "I think I could use a break. How about a Coke?"
"Don't matter," the boy said.
"Will you stop saying that? Stop being a baby and get yourself a drink. It's doesn't, anyway. And it does."
They sat on the terrace steps, not speaking. Jay pulled a long string of gum out of his mouth, wrapped it around a finger, then sucked it back for another chew. He crouched low to watch ants. He turned over a beetle that had got stuck on its back.
"How's the puppy?" Stanton asked.
"He ran away." Jay scratched in the dust with a twig.
"He might come back."
"No," Jay said. "They never do."
Stanton searched for something wise or comforting to say. "Got any spare gum?" he asked.
"No. Tina's having babies soon. She's the pig."
"Great." He wondered if Dieter had been right about Ruby's being pregnant, and if Jay knew. "Jay, don't you have any friends around here? Your own age, I mean."
"At school," Jay said. "Only see them at school, really. Thought you said it's 'doesn't,' anyway."
"What I said . . . never mind."
Jay stood up. "That's me mum's car."
Chrissie had on a floppy straw hat and a long skirt. She's dressed up, Stanton thought.
"I've told you about bothering Harry."
"I invited him."
"Watch this, Mum." Jay ran up to the terrace. "I can walk on my hands now. Been practicing."
"Don't show off, Jay," Chrissie said.
"Look, Mum. See this?"
"All right, Jay. We've all seen it."
"Very good," Stanton said. "Well done."
"Your dad wants you," Chrissie said. "He needs some help."
"With what?"
"How should I know?" Chrissie said, whining. "You best get going."
Jay rubbed his head. "How about you?"
"How about me? You can walk back. I'm on my way to the shops."
"How about you?" Jay said.
"Kids!" She tried a laugh. "I'll be going in a minute. I'm just having a word with Harry first."
Jay stayed where he was.
Stanton smiled and rocked on his heels. Someone had told him once that the children of alcoholics become adept at sensing mood swings, reading body language.
"I'll wait for you at the car," Jay said. "You can give me a lift back to the road."
Chrissie tipped her head to one side. "I could kill him," she said.
"So," Stanton said. "You're going shopping."
Chrissie rubbed her arms. "You bastard," she said softly, getting up.
A forest fire burned for three days on the hills that hid the sea. A firefighter was hurt, only slightly. The newspaper reported sixty-seven dead in the heat wave. Stanton kept a bottle of water on his desk and it grew warm before he had finished a page.
Eventually, he came to a lull. He went out and bought a soccer ball for Jay, a vase for Chrissie, and a bottle of cachaça and a bag of limes to make caipirinhas. He picked up a pair of sunglasses with diamanté studs but put them back again.
"Mate," said China, who had come out of the house at the sound of the truck, "let's have a fucking drink."
He had thought of it as a visit to see Jay, but he realized now that it wasn't.
"Been out all day with the goats," China said. "Something special, like. People don't realize."
Chrissie took the vase without a word. Jay whooped at the sight of the ball, which made Stanton feel bad. Ruby, thankfully, was out. He explained how to make the caipirinhas with lime juice and sugar and plenty of ice, and Chrissie went to the kitchen. She set doilies on the tray, one under each glass.
"Blinding," China said. "Jay, take that fucking ball outside."
"What do you like about them?" Stanton asked. "The goats." He watched China spread out against his chair, the slight tremor in his hand as he brought the glass to his lips. It was China he had come for; some atavistic instinct that China appealed to, a desire to see the demons at work.
"Goats," China said, his voice dragging like a broken exhaust. "You look at 'em long enough, you see the universe. Good and evil, love and war, God and the Devil. Know what I mean?"
"For God's sake," Chrissie said.
"Shut up," China said, not quite shouting. "Who asked you? Where's my lighter? There's one billy . . ." He leaned forward so that Stanton could see the scarlet rims of his eyes. "He don't know when to stop. He's so horny I daren't turn my back on him." He slapped his thigh and hooted. "We think we're that much better than animals, but I'll tell you something for free—you watch 'em long enough you learn a lot. A goat with the horn is like a man with a mission. Made by the same Creator to the same design. Yes, you certainly learn a lot." He lit a joint and passed it to Stanton.
Stanton took a drag and managed not to cough. He passed it to Chrissie and their fingers brushed together.
China got out of his chair. He looked around, picked up a filthy T-shirt, and blew his nose on it. "I'm going to check on Tina. She's a little darling, she is." At the doorway, he looked over his shoulder. "Listen, mate, my home is your home. Anything you want, you take it."
Stanton followed Chrissie into the kitchen. The roof was plastic sheeting over untreated wood beams. There was a puddle of something—it had not rained for weeks—in the middle of the floor. Chrissie put more ice in a plastic bag and smashed it with a hammer. Stanton slipped his arm around from behind and held her wrist. He felt her grip tighten on the hammer before she let it drop. It was over quickly and this time they did not kiss. When they went back to the sitting room, Ruby was there, hugging her knees to her chest.
He was drinking in the bar next door to the Casa do Povo and thinking that it had been a long time since he had driven home not drunk when he noticed her. He ordered a pineapple Sumol and took it over to her table. She had a pink satin handbag with a stain on it and a beaded scarf, which she had placed on the chair opposite, as if reserving the space. Stanton moved her things and sat down.
"Do you mind?" she said, her voice high.
"Not at all," Stanton said.
She turned her head and chewed her lip and then flashed back at him. "If you're going to sit there, I'll have a beer."
"I'd be delighted to buy you one," he said, "when you're eighteen."
"Ha-ha, very funny, my name's Bugs Bunny."
"Good one," Stanton said. "Look, I'll move when your boyfriend gets here. You are meeting your boyfriend, aren't you?" He glanced at her stomach, but there was nothing he could tell from that.
Ruby looked out the window. She reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears. "I know what you're doing," she said. "Deaf doesn't mean stupid."
"I know," Stanton said, speaking the words aloud this time. "I'm sorry." The shame seemed to spread from his anus, which contracted and released and contracted again. "I'm sorry," he said again. She kept her hearing aid turned to him like a steady reproach. "I'll buy you that beer if you like." Nothing. In the pit of his stomach, there was a deep absence. He was sorry for her, and he was sorry for himself.
"Not much to do, is there, in the village? Not at your age."
A light down spread out from the hairline at her ear to the baby fat along her jaw. The mole beneath her nose looked ticklish, like a crumb sticking there. Have it your way, Stanton thought, shaking it all off.
She heard him standing up or saw it out of the corner of her eye. "You can always find something," she said, "if you try hard enough."
"I expect so." He sat down again and wished that he had moved faster.
"Party in Milfontes tonight. Should be good." She did the thing with the tip of her tongue reaching up to the mole.
China came through the door as if he meant to take it off its hinges. He was drunker than usual. His jeans looked as if they would stand on their own. "Mate," he bellowed. "Let's have a fucking drink." He noticed his daughter. "Get yourself home now. It's late."
"It's not," Ruby said. "And don't fucking shout. Showing me up as per usual."
China leaned over the table, hulking his shoulders forward. "Showing you up? Showing you up? You've shown yourself up. A long fucking time ago, my girl."
He sat back, the fight gone out of him. "Ah, well, fuck it. Do what you like."
"I will," Ruby said. She gathered her bag and scarf and went out, everybody watching the swing of her hips.
"I don't mind telling you," China said, when he had lined up the brandies and the beers, "I don't mind telling you that in the old days I'd have knocked her for six. Not my style anymore." He lifted his drink and spilled a little down his chin. "You got to let things be."
Stanton was tired. "Your philosophy of life," he said.
"That's right," China said. It was just about possible to make out the whites of his eyes beneath the web of red veins. "When I was big on control, I was really big on control, know what I mean, and I controlled a patch of Yarmouth, ran nearly over to fucking Cromer, know what I mean, and what I said"—he slammed his glass on the table—"went."
My muse, Stanton thought, stabbed through with resentment. "What brought you here, then?"
China smiled, loose-lipped, slack-jawed. "Mate," he said slowly, as if to comfort a dying man. "Mate. What brought any of us? On the run, ain't we? On the fucking run."
He had taken the truck to the garage to get the clutch looked at. When he got back, Chrissie was waiting for him.
"I'll have to start locking the door," he said.
She had her arms wrapped around her chest, her hip bones were a pair of razor shells, and her pubic hair was surprisingly dark. "I thought we should. At least once. You know, with our clothes off."
"Chrissie," he said, unbuckling, "do you think Ruby saw us?"
She turned on her stomach and spoke into the pillow so that he could not catch the words. He ran his palm down the ridge of her spine and onto the shallow slope of her buttocks. She put her arms behind her back, wrists together. There was a spot of blood on the sheets from her forearm. "Turn over," he said.
She obeyed him, but when he looked into her face there was nothing he could read, except a kind of helpless defiance.
"I don't care," Chrissie said.
"Do you think she saw us?"
"I can't help it," she said, and pulled his head toward her.
She came nearly every day. When she was not there, he sat on the terrace spitting olive pits into an old can or shuffling a deck of cards, or he chopped wood and stacked it in the shed for the winter months, which were not far off. He did no writing.
They got into a rhythm. When he heard her car, he went to the bedroom and lit candles, though the flames disappeared in the sunlight. He liked the way she dozed on her side with her hands between her knees. He liked the way she shivered when he ran his hand down her back. She always sighed as she took off her bra.
"What's the point of these?" she said, blowing out one of the candles.
"It's romantic," he said. "You're supposed to like it."
Whatever pleasure she took she kept largely to herself.
"Run away with me," he said.
She was making the bed. "I've got to get going."
"Venice," he said, catching her around the waist. "Monte Carlo. Rio."
"I've lost my hair clip," she said. "Did you see me put it down?"
He asked about Ruby. "She was," Chrissie said. "But she isn't now. Miscarriage."
"I'm sorry," Stanton said.
"Don't be."
She scratched her arms until they bled.
"What are you doing?" he said. "What are you doing?"
Jay came only once when she was there. Stanton pulled on his trousers and went to the door. "Come back in a couple of hours, can you?" The car, he thought. Jesus. "Your mum came round. She's in the woods. Thought she might find you there."
"Tina," Jay said. He put his hand up to shield his eyes as he looked out toward the oaks.
"She had her litter?"
"Yeah," Jay said. "She's ate 'em, though." For a moment he looked solemn and then he began to giggle. "They'd have been ate in the end, anyway. That's what me dad says."
Chrissie was dressed and sitting at his desk, looking at his computer. "English," she said, "was my best subject at school."
By September, they had run out of steam, got to the end of each other. They both knew it. Still, he had to say something, and it would be a delicate business. He sat on the steps, shuffling cards and waiting.
When she got out of the car, she checked her reflection in the wing mirror. She carried a basket of eggs.
There was a cold rinse in his chest that could have been mistaken for fear.
"Chrissie," he said, "I need to bury myself for a while."
She set down the basket. "They've started laying in that old Citroën."
He took her hand. "Do you see what I'm saying?"
"For some reason," she said, "we're getting a lot of double-yolkers."
She made it easy, really. He was grateful. "You've got your work, Harry," she told him. "Need your peace and quiet. And I've got my husband."
He kissed her on the nose. "I'll still see you," he told her. "We'll have coffee."
"I don't drink coffee," she said.
"Tea, then," he said, "or a beer."
Later, he met Dieter at the café and attempted a discreet celebration. "A bottle of red—the best you have."
Vasco wiped the table and tucked his filthy rag into his belt. "You would like something special? Expensive, yes?"
"O.K.," Stanton said.
"O.K.," Vasco wheezed. "I charge you more."
Dieter's subject was Portuguese bureaucracy, an old favorite. "All these obstacles they put in your way. They do not really want you to work."
Stanton nodded. The work on his own house would never be completed.
"In Germany, they will be fired. The officials are there to help you, and if they do not they will be fired. Pure and simple."
"Pure and simple," Stanton said. "Why don't you go back to Germany? Seems everything would be easier."
Dieter sat up and clutched the arms of his chair. "Germany?" he said. "If I never see that country again so long as I live, so much the better for me. Germany? No. Never."
Vasco came with a bottle of the usual. "Very expensive, this. Very good wine for celebrating. Wait, I bring a glass and make a toast with you. . . . So, what do we toast?"
"Long life," Dieter said, sounding pained.
"Life and liberty," Stanton said, raising a glass.
Ruby looked like a waxwork in the headlights. She stood still when he pulled over and she did not move when he opened the door. "Give you a ride home," he called. "Come on, get in." She got in without a word. She had the sunglasses in her hand. "Good night?" he asked. She leaned her head against the window. Finally she said, "I'm really, really tired."
A little way along the track that led down to the Potts house, she said, "Let me out now. If Dad hears, he'll come looking."
Stanton stopped the car and cut the engine.
Playing it back later—in bed, entombed in the noise of cicadas—he could not recall who had made the first move. She smelled of freshly dug earth and her skin was all goose bumps, and when she came she bit his ear until he cried out and pinched her hard to make her let him go.
He spent two nights at his desk and on the third day slept in his chair and woke with his head lolled back, a demon pain laced at the neck and one hand on the keyboard.
He heard Chrissie's car and the soft click of her sandals on the steps. He heard the sigh of the door handle and the resistance of the lock.
Ruby came the next day and knocked on the door, then the window, and then circled to the back and stood outside the bedroom. He crouched in the bathroom next to the stack of tiles that would never be laid and noticed for the first time the mesh of fine lines in the clear glaze. He watched her leave from the sitting-room window and when she got to the cypress trees she looked back and raised one finger in the air.
The rain came and turned the world to mud. Stanton took his boots off at the door, but still the mud insinuated itself into the house. If it carried on this way, he would be forced to clean the place. The oranges began to drop, but they could not, Stanton discovered, be eaten. The peach trees in the little orchard turned out to be rotten. They sagged beneath the weight of water and split and rested their branches on the ground. At dawn—sometimes he was rising, sometimes going to bed—the eucalyptus drifted ghostlike in the mist. A fox visited every evening, and Stanton began to put out his scraps.
The shepherd moved on without goodbyes. In the woods, Stanton saw hunters with ancient guns. He thought he saw the boy once, but when he got to the place there was no one.
Four more weeks and he had a complete draft. He drove half an hour, the windscreen wipers sticking and dislodging and sticking again, to the nearest big town, where he knew he could buy Glenfiddich. At home, he poured a generous measure. A fire, he thought, would be nice. The wood caught on the third attempt, but it was still damp and the smoke hurt his eyes and made him cough.
He was sick of these four walls. In the last month he'd spoken barely a dozen words.
He thought about Jay. It would be good to see the boy again.
Chrissie. Lovely Chrissie. She wouldn't be angry. Chrissie could hardly complain. They'd said they'd have a beer.
Ruby. Well, Ruby. Ruby would be all right. She'd made the first move, remember. Been around a bit.
How many visitors did they get over there, anyway? Let's have a fucking drink, mate. Yes, let's have a fucking drink.
The whiskey bottle bounced off the passenger seat as he swung a sharp left. He sang an old tune as he pulled up by the chicken shed. You can blow out the candle but you can't put out the fi__re. When he opened the door, he noticed the calf, much bigger now, bandy legs and bloated stomach, standing by the house with rain running from its nose and tail and its hooves in plastic bags. The wind howled through the bamboo and sent a curtain of water off the roof. Chrissie answered the door and backed away from him, and he went in and found that all the Pottses were there and that none were ready with a greeting.
"What kind of man are you?" China spoke quietly. Chrissie stood behind Ruby and stroked her hair. Stanton, needing salvation, tried to smile at Jay, but the boy would not look at him. "What kind of man are you?" That was all. Chrissie did not speak and Ruby did not speak and Jay did not speak and Stanton had no answer. He waited for China to call him every name under the sun, but China did not oblige. Long after all hope had gone, Stanton stood there and waited for something to happen and nothing happened at all.
On the drive back, he swerved to avoid a tractor he hadn't seen coming, the pickup skidded into the verge, and two wheels sank without hesitation into the mud. It was not far to walk. He drank a good measure of whiskey before removing his clothes, and he found that if he just kept up a constant sipping, very evenly spaced, taking very small sips, he could keep all thoughts from his head. The whiskey was warming. If he observed very closely, very carefully, the way it travelled out from the solar plexus along all the major arteries and branched off along each individual vein, he could feel it as a kind of calm radiating out from the core of his being.
He woke in his chair, naked and half frozen, and when he went to boil water he could not feel his toes, and his fingers were too stiff to strike a match. His head hurt. His back was broken; or if not broken, then something worse. When he bent to put his socks on, he nearly cried. He set off to walk up to the telephone box, and on the way he thought about how beautiful the place was and how much he would miss it. The rain had stopped in the night, and the sun played in the treetops, scattering diamonds here and there. It teased purples and scarlets from the plowed-up field and burnished the far-off hills a fine shade of nostalgia. He breathed deeply and it was good to smell the eucalyptus and the pine, and he felt the air making him clean inside. As he came up to the road, he saw an old man in a black felt hat and waistcoat leading a cow along the opposite track, heading for the village at such a slow pace, as if they had all the time in the world, as if arriving were nothing and the journey everything. He raised a hand and the old man raised a hand. They passed each other and Stanton went on his way. ♦


text:
Programs, projects and good ideas are coming together for the next LIFT Tehama, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m., Nov. 14, spread out through several buildings at the Tehama District Fairground.
LIFT Tehama is not just a place for folks to gather information or get referrals, but rather a day for people to make life changes and get connected to essential services that help them move forward.
Recycle the Warmth, Project Homeless Connect and Tehama County Continuum of Care will again join forces to bring help and hope to those in need with a wide array of tangible resources. Birth certificates, deposit assistance and medical checkups will arm participants with anticipation for a better future.
DMV will provide free California IDs, Social Security and other social services will have booths and additional agencies will offer education opportunities, workshops, hot meals, showers and haircuts. There will even be services for pets.
Recycle The Warmth, now in its 28th year will be offering warm blankets, clothes and more. Free transportation will be available by TRAX.
It takes dozens of volunteers to help hundreds of people and more help is needed. Do you have a service that could help ease someone's hardship? How about a willingness to fold clothes or help guide people through the maze of services? Perhaps you have something unique that hasn't been offered yet?
For information about donating or volunteering, call Community Action Agency at 530 527-6159, or send an email to email@example.com. Visit www.facebook.com/LiftTehama.

subset: commoncrawl


text: Palo Alto, CA December 12, 2017. The Ninth Circuit issued a memorandum opinion affirming the settlement mediated by former Chief Judge Vaughn Walker of the Northern District of California. Click on this link for the opinion. The settlement arose out of a shareholder derivative action filed in federal court seeking to impose liability on HP's… Read more »


text:
7 Signs Angels Are Sending You
By Doreen Virtue
When angels help us through life, sometimes they do so in ways that may not be immediately recognizable to us. They often deliver answers, hints, messages, and warnings through signs–signals, or anomalies in life, which let us know that they're with us.
Signs are repetitive, out of the ordinary, personally meaningful, and timed to coincide with your prayers or questions that you've posed to the Divine. There are two steps to experiencing signs from above: (1) believe in them, and (2) notice them. Amazing life transformations occur when we learn to see and use the messages the angels give us in everyday life, in all situations, big or small.
Start clicking through this gallery to see what signs angels are sending you.
Reprinted from "Signs from Above" by Doreen Virtue, with permission of Hay House Publishers. Copyright 2009. All rights reserved. Doreen Virtue, Ph.D., is a fourth-generation clairvoyant and an author of over twenty books on angels including.
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Re-do search in this area
Wilbur D. May Center
Reno, NV
Event Center, Museum/Gallery, Park/Garden
Starting from $1,910 to $4,124 for 50 guests
Combining the natural beauty of wildlife and the Nevada landscape, the Wilbur D. May Center and its surrounding gardens provide many options for your beautiful garden wedding ceremony and reception. The Museum's indoor Garden Court is a lush location for year-round ceremonies and receptions. The ind...
National Automobile Museum
Reno, NV
Event Center, Museum/Gallery
Starting from $2,849 to $5,169 for 50 guests
The National Automobile Museum - one of America's most prestigious automobile museums is also Reno's most unique spot for weddings and receptions. Whether you are looking for a small and intimate gathering or an elegant and grandiose event shared with hundreds, the National Automobile Museum can acc...
Discovery Children's Museum
Las Vegas, NV
Starting from $6,148 to $9,683 for 50 guests
The DISCOVERY Children's Museum is located in Las Vegas, Nevada. The museum is a great space to host your wedding celebration. Discovery is located in the heart of downtown making it easy to get to and perfect for those wedding in a nearby site. The Museum is filled with fun exhibits that charm chil...
Nevada State Railroad Museum
Boulder City, NV
Located in historic Boulder City, the Nevada State Railroad Museum provides an eclectic and truly one-of-a-kind backdrop for your big day! This museum was established after a portion of the Boulder Branch Line -- constructed by the famous Union Pacific Railroad -- was donated to the museum. Provide ...
Nevada Museum of Art
Reno, NV
Museum/Gallery, Mountain, Outdoor, Modern
Starting from $18,170 to $25,541 for 75 guests
The Nevada Museum of Art offers a sophisticated setting for your wedding day. Designed by award-winning architect Will Bruder and inspired by the Black Rock Desert, the Museum's spaces ignite creativity and provide a memorable experience for you and your guests in a truly unique setting. Imagine a g...
The Mob Museum
Las Vegas, NV
Historic/Landmark Building, Museum/Gallery, Vintage/Rustic
Starting from $8,350 to $8,350 for 50 guests
Memorable. Unique. Iconic. The Mob Museum's historic building and interactive exhibits provide the perfect backdrop for whatever you are planning. An elegant cocktail party? An intimate dinner? A breathtaking wedding? We've got you covered. Let our team of experts guide you through the process whil...
Celebrity Cars Event Center
Las Vegas, NV
Event Center, Museum/Gallery
Starting from $5,195 to $8,756 for 50 guests
As seen on Pawn Stars and located conveniently just a few minutes away from the Las Vegas Airport, Celebrity Cars Event Center is the perfect break from wedding tradition! Undoubtedly one of the most unique event spaces you'll ever come across, Celebrity Cars Event Center will host all of your weddi...
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Las Vegas by Wedgewood Weddings
Las Vegas, NV
Banquet Hall/Restaurant, Private Club, Golf Course, Park/Garden, Ballrooms, Outdoor
Starting from $1,440 to $3,619 for 50 guests
Say your vows with the grandeur of Stallion Mountain as your stunning backdrop at Las Vegas by Wedgewood Weddings. This high-end golf club offers a laid back vibe with striking views, stone accents, rolling greens, and the convenience of easy wedding planning. Choose between three diverse ceremo...
Eastside Cannery Casino Hotel
Las Vegas, NV
Hotel/Resort, Event Center, City/Skyline View, Ballrooms, Modern
Starting from $7,435 to $12,417 for 50 guests
Have the quintessential Vegas wedding you have been dreaming in a private setting, away from the noise and distractions of the Las Vegas Strip by celebrating your nuptials at the Eastside Cannery Casino hotel. The retro-themed casino hotel is only a short drive from the Strip. Your guests will have ...
Canyon Gate Country Club
Las Vegas, NV
Private Club, Golf Course, Ballrooms, Modern
Starting from $13,892 to $20,387 for 50 guests
Canyon Gate Country Club understands the importance of this day, and pride ourselves on the ability to host the wedding Las Vegas brides dream of having. This venue can accommodate afternoon and evening wedding ceremonies and receptions as intimate as 20 or as grand as 200 guests. Have your wedding ...
Boomtown Casino Hotel Reno
Verdi, NV
Banquet Hall/Restaurant, Hotel/Resort, Event Center, Ballrooms
Starting from $2,388 to $5,617 for 50 guests
Welcome to Boomtown, an entertaining Hotel and Casino in Reno, Nevada! A one-stop shop for your wedding day where you can go from ceremony to reception with ease. Grand ballrooms transforms into a gorgeous ceremony site with rows of white chairs set atop rich and elegant carpeting. Tall ceilings and...
The Grove
Las Vegas, NV
Event Center, Park/Garden, Ballrooms, Outdoor
Starting from $6,118 to $7,903 for 50 guests
The Grove is a Garden Wedding and Elegant Reception Facility Located in Centennial Hills and is by far the most beautiful setting you will find in Las Vegas. The Grove knows that when it comes to Elegant Weddings and Receptions, there is stiff competition. That's why we strive for excellence in yo...
The Ritz-Carlton Lake Tahoe
Truckee, CA
Hotel/Resort, Park/Garden, Ballrooms, Mountain, Outdoor
Starting from $27,131 to $32,153 for 50 guests
From intimate Lake Tahoe weddings to elaborate ballroom receptions, the luxurious Ritz-Carlton Lake Tahoe provides beautiful spaces for anyone looking to say their "I do's". Surrounded by the magnificent pine trees and clear mountain air of Northern California, there's various spaces perfect for any...
Platinum Hotel & Spa
Las Vegas, NV
Banquet Hall/Restaurant, Hotel/Resort, City/Skyline View, Ballrooms, Outdoor, Modern
Starting from $10,403 to $13,759 for 50 guests
Wake up in Las Vegas for a celebratory weekend you won't forget with your closest family and friends. The Platinum Hotel & Spa is a stylish, comfortable venue conveniently located off of the Strip, while still providing easy access to the city's best attractions. The 17th-floor rooftop terrace provi...
The Pinecone Resort
Zephyr Cove, NV
Park/Garden, Ocean/Waterfront View, Beach, Outdoor
Starting from $4,115 to $5,946 for 50 guests
Marry breathtaking scenery with rustic warmth when you host your big day at The Pinecone Resort. Surrounded by the stunning Sierra Nevada Mountains and nestled among towering pine and aspen trees, the resort features a sprawling manicured lawn terrace and even a pool to satisfy both the picturesque ...
Wolf Run Golf Course
Reno, NV
Golf Course, Park/Garden, Outdoor
Starting from $4,637 to $7,878 for 50 guests
Located at the foot of Mt. Houghton just 20 minutes south of Reno, Wolf Run Golf Club offers a picturesque setting to tie the knot. Your wedding will be unforgettable when hosted at a historic and cozy clubhouse with all the great amenities you've been looking for. Exchange vows before all the peopl...
Renaissance Reno Downtown Hotel
Reno, NV
Banquet Hall/Restaurant, Hotel/Resort, Ocean/Waterfront View, City/Skyline View, Ballrooms, Modern
Starting from $4,051 to $9,599 for 50 guests
Discover the Renaissance Reno Downtown Hotel, Reno's non-gaming, non-smoking, full service Marriott branded hotel. Situated downtown on the Truckee River, we invite you to experience something new in every sip, taste and event you attend. The 6,288 square foot Topaz Room features large arched windo...
The Chateau at Incline Village
Incline Village, NV
Hotel/Resort, Park/Garden, Mountain, Outdoor
Starting from $3,730 to $13,455 for 50 guests
The Chateau at Incline Village has classic Tahoe charm with a modern edge. Expansive mountain and lake views will create a lasting impression for you and your guests on the biggest day of your life. Say your vows on a lush green lawn in an outdoor ceremony you'll never forget. The crisp mountain air...
Northstar California Resort - Zephyr Lod...
Truckee, CA
Hotel/Resort, Mountain, Vintage/Rustic, Outdoor
Starting from $29,484 to $40,528 for 75 guests
For an exceptional wedding venue in Lake Tahoe, the Northstar California Resort is a majestic spot nestled between the north shore of Lake Tahoe and the quaint town of Truckee. Zephyr Lodge is perched at 8,000 feet and is only accessible by gondola cabins and open air chair lifts, featuring panorami...
Black Bear Lodge
South Lake Tahoe, NV
Park/Garden, Plantation, Bed & Breakfast/Inn, Mountain, Vintage/Rustic, Outdoor
Starting from $5,962 to $10,276 for 50 guests
Nestled in the heart of South Lake Tahoe, Black Bear Lodge offers an idyllic setting for an intimate wedding. The rustic lodge features hand hewn logs, river rock gas fireplaces, and beautifully landscaped grounds. Hold your ceremony beneath towering pine trees or say "I do" inside; with stunning ev...
Heavenly Mountain Resort - Lakeview Lodg...
South Lake Tahoe, CA
Hotel/Resort, Outdoor
Starting from $10,056 to $21,370 for 50 guests
Surrounded by your own slice of heaven, the Heavenly Mountain Resort in Lake Tahoe will take your breath away with its stunning views and venues. Overlooking the glistening lake bordered with towering trees and green underbrush, the backdrop of your wedding will leave you and your guests in awe. Off...
Fabrizio Las Vegas
Las Vegas, NV
Banquet Hall/Restaurant, Event Center, Ballrooms
Starting from $5,260 to $15,196 for 50 guests
Fabrizio is centrally located in the valley, residing in the heart of the arts district in downtown Las Vegas. The venue boasts a modern decor with Italian finishes and lavishly adorned crystal chandeliers that playfully light up the ballroom. The unique chandelier fixtures reminiscent of disco ball...
Lakeridge Golf Course
Reno, NV
Golf Course, Park/Garden, City/Skyline View, Outdoor
Starting from $5,893 to $8,942 for 50 guests
LakeRidge Golf Course has been a special place to begin your new life together since opening in 1969. With breathtaking views of Reno and the surrounding mountains, LakeRidge Golf Course is located just 4.5 miles from downtown and is one of Reno's most accessible venues. Designed by famed golf archi...
Red Lion Hotel & Casino
Elko, NV
Hotel/Resort, Ballrooms
Starting from $1,414 to $4,145 for 50 guests
Conveniently located near the Elko Regional Airport, Red Lion Hotel & Casino-Elko is an ideal setting for a wedding in Elko. Whether you're interested in hosting an intimate gathering or a grand ballroom banquet, the event staff is dedicated towards helping you plan the day of your dreams. Offering ...
Angel Park Golf Club
Las Vegas, NV
Golf Course, Mountain, Outdoor
Starting from $5,300 to $11,040 for 50 guests
The venue sets the tone for your wedding – romantic, formal, casual, rustic, trendy, modern, timeless or traditional. Whatever you envision for your special day, Angel Park Golf Club is able to deliver. Angel Park Golf Club offers a grand setting for your romantic wedding ceremony and reception. Dec...


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We were so caught up in being afraid
We lost control and slipped away
But was it worth lashing out?
Did it comfort you with overwhelming doubt?
Look at the mess we made
I know it's hard to not know answers
But I know nobody does
We took our chance/ made our beds
Lets put it to rest before it kills us now
Look at the mess we made
Almost at the point of no return
Is this the path we meant to take?
Swallow your pride or say goodbye
Apologies before it's too late (now)
Look at the mess made
We're falling down
There's no one else around
To pick up the pieces
And put us back where we belong
Now's it up to me and you
There's still a chance to start anew
Who cares who was right or wrong
If in the end we were so far gone?
Look at the mess we made


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Ways To Improve The Look Of Your House?
People are usually concerned about how their houses look. Everyone wants it to look breathtaking and spectacular. There might be times where you feel that it's impossible to do so, but most of the times it's the little details that give off the sophisticated look. There are many things you can pay attention to, it maybe the porch, garden or maybe even the interior. You then start off by working on the porch by getting flower pots which could be hung on it. This would not only make the house look more beautiful, it will also give away the refreshed look because it will be a nice sight to look at.
When it comes to the garden, you could place an outdoor egg chair for people to sit around and spend time. The bushes could be trimmed; the growing weeds could be plucked off. You could also start by growing some new plants in the garden as well. Bird stands could be built in order to attract birds and this would give the entire house a new atmosphere. When it comes to the house as a whole, you could always repaint it both from the outside and the inside to give it an added complexity with the features you were already working on.
The interior could be further looked upon by adding in new furniture's by replacing the old ones. The whole setting does not need to be changed, you might be able to replace a few items which fall out of place and replace it with some new cozy looking items.
You could also work on your bathroom, by adding it new features. You could add a bath tub or check for saunas for sale and add one of them as well. You might not need work on all your bathrooms because it might be quite costly. Therefore, you could always focus on your main bathroom and make it look spectacular. When it comes to the rooms, you could always give every room a theme which would give it added value as well.
There also might be rooms which are not used often, and if you fancy working out then a room could be turned into a mini gym. You could buy a few gym equipment's and place it in that room and if the need of working out arises you could always use the mini gym you built. Having a gym inside the house not only will help you maintain your physique it will also improve the overall look of the house. Therefore, it would not harm to try experimenting and changing things around and it might turn out to be better than you ever expected it to be.


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Last fall I shared a list of some of the new books coming out that I was most looking forward to reading. As is often the case, wanting to read and actually reading are two different things. I was actually able to read most of the books, but still have a few to get to. Some were more impactful than others, with the book, "YOU LOST ME" by David Kinnaman being the stand out of the group and one that I will be mulling over for some time to come. Now that the new year is hear, I thought I would once again share a list a books that I am looking forward to reading and why.
Jim Cymbala, senior pastor of the Brooklyn Tabernacle Church, is one of my favorite authors and it has been a while since his last book. His best selling book, "FRESH WIND FRESH FIRE" had a major impact in the evangelical world at the time that it was released and in my life. How powerful it was to read about a church that made their midweek prayer service the highlight of their ministry and the power of the gospel to return Jim's prodigal daughter to him. This book, "SPIRIT RISING", promises to be a balanced treatment on the Holy Spirit in a world that sometimes rejects the gifts of the spirit as valid for today or overindulges in unbiblical emotional extremism. I have always appreciated Jim's commitment to the word of God, his love for reading widely and especially his appreciation of classic authors who still have much to say to this generation. I look forward to learning what he has to say about the vital role of the third person of the trinity in our lives today.
"THE GOSPEL STORY BIBLE" by Marty Machowski is a highly anticipated new children's storybook Bible by New Growth Press. Marty is the Family Life Pastor at Covenant Fellowship Church, a Sovereign Grace Ministries church in Glen Mills, Pennsylvania. This wonderful new book which I have had a chance to look at is reminiscent of the Jesus Storybook Bible with more content and probably geared to a slightly older child. The illustrations are really captivating and the concept of connecting the story of the gospel to many of the key stories and people of the Old and New Testaments ties the whole book together. By showing how each story ultimately points to Jesus, Marty has written a book that really may answer the question, "Can a Bedtime Story Actually Change Your Life?"
"THE CIRCLE MAKER" by Mark Batterson is one that has just come out and is already making several of the "must read" lists by key evangelical bloggers and magazine writers. Mark is the writer of one of my favorite books, "In A Pit with a Lion on a Snowy Day". He is the pastor of the very innovative National Community Church in Washington D.C. and a great writer. This book promises to challenge my prayer life as he writes about understanding the impossibly big dreams God is calling me to and how I can draw a prayer circle around it. The story begins with Honi, a legendary Jewish figure from 1 BC, whose faith and prayer saved the generation before Jesus by calling upon the God of heaven and earth to provide rain in time of near- fatal drought. Honi drew a circle in the desert sand, took his place, and called upon God to let it rain. And rain it did! As someone who has lots of impossible dreams and needs a kick start to effective prayer in 2012, this promises to be an important book in my life this year.
"WHAT IS THE MISSION OF THE CHURCH?" by Kevin DeYoung and Greg Gilbert is a book that came out last fall and is on my list because I like Kevin's books and because I am curious about the controversy surrounding it. Kevin is one of the prominent new reformed writers that have been making significant inroads in evangelical circles with books like "Why We're Not Emergent: By Two Guys That Should Be" and "Don't Call it a Comeback". This books deals with the tension in the current evangelical church world between the role of the church in social justice and preaching the gospel. This is an issue that has touched the church as far back as the fundamentalist/ modernist controversies of the 1920s and is still a challenge for us today. I am particularly interested in seeing how he deals with the reality of being both proclamational and incarnational in a world that often criticizes the church for being "one big mouth" as Rick Warren has been quoted as saying rather than the body of Christ with many parts and many roles.
"WHY JESUS?" by Ravi Zacharias is coming out at just the right time from my perspective. As our world continues to value tolerance and customized spirituality, many people seem to want to pick and chose what they believe about Jesus. Ravi Zacharias is one of the smartest evangelicals alive today and yet is able to write in such a way that the average person can understand what he is saying. I suspect that what he writes about in this new book will be a challenge to both believers and non believers just like Jesus was himself. Every time I read the gospels, I am astounded at how little I really know about Jesus and how different His message is from what is often presented by those that want to water down what He actually said. I look to forward rediscovering "His Truth" for myself one more time just as I did when I first read "Mere Christianity" and discovered a faith that was worth dying for.
"I AM SECOND" by Doug Bender and Dave Sterret caught my attention from the title alone and incredibly compelling cover art. The book uses compelling real life stories about the dramatic changes that have taken place in people's lives as they have learned to "get off the throne" and put Jesus first in their lives. In a day and age when books like "Your Best Life Now" seem to push us in the direction of thinking that life really is all about us and what we can become, this book should provide a refreshing change of pace. It follows in the recent tradition of books like "Same Kind of Different as Me" and "Radical" in presenting a powerful new narrative for living the Christian life and one that seems far more Biblical from where I sit. The book is supported by a great website www.iamsecond.com that provides videos of the people featured in the book and seeks to launch a new movement of Christians who want to put Jesus first in their lives.
"REAL MARRIAGE" by Mark and Grace Driscoll is one that I debated about including in this list because of the controversy that is currently brewing about their explicit discussion about married sexuality and other topics. Mark is no stranger to controversy and has been known to be outspoken, raw and very direct in his preaching. His church, Mars Hill in Seattle, has grown significantly over the years and has wide influence in a variety of evangelical circles these days including through the The Gospel Coalition. What caught my eye about this book was the way that several reviewers have pointed to Mark and Grace's honesty about their struggles and their emphasis on friendship as a key to the success and sustainability of their marriage over the years. I am always interested in reading books that can strengthen and encourage strong Christian marriages, but I am also wary of books that create this much "buzz" for what are potentially divisive reasons. As with all books, I will read it with the Bible as my filter and my eyes open to discern what the Lord wants me to hear and what I should ignore.
"KEEP YOUR HEAD UP" by Anthony Bradley promises to be an important contribution to the ongoing conversation about the role of the church in the African American community. "The black community is in trouble," writes Bradley. Systemic issues are perpetuating a chronic plague on not only African-American society, but the black church in particular. Continuing the renowned "Cosby Conversation," first started in 2007 by Bill Cosby and Dr. Alvin Poussaint, Bradley has assembled a team of pastors, scholars, and leaders to address specific issues within the black community. Bradley's new book features contributions from himself, Vincent Bacote, Ralph C. Watkins, Eric M. Mason, Anthony Carter, Craig Mitchell, and others. "KEEP YOUR HEAD UP" covers a variety of topics, including victim mentality, hip-hop, masculinity, and the prosperity gospel.
"FAMILY SHEPHERDS" by Voddie Baucham, Jr. is a book that I need to read and one that I suspect will affect me for years to come. As the father of two teenage boys, I am always looking for good books on parenting and family life. What excites me about this book is the premise that it will provide practical guidance on equipping me and the men that read it to be leaders in our homes in a fresh new way. I am sure that I am like many Christian fathers that find it easy to be distracted by the cares and pressures of this world and who desire to be better dads. Hopefully this book will spur me from simply doing research to doing the hard work of leading my family as the shepherd that God calls me to be.
Also read these ebooks:Aleister Crowley - Liber 030 Liber Librae The Book Of The Balances
Lady Galadriel - The New Book Of The Law
Labels: freemasonry lodges freemasonry and satanism aleister crowley necronomicon secret of freemasonry symbols of freemasonry degrees in freemasonry most powerful black magic spells satanic sex rituals


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The AJ's touring Small Projects exhibition has opened at the Architecture Centre in Bristol
The Small Projects Award exhibition, which features all 24 of the projects shortlisted for this year's award has found a new home at the Architecture Centre in Bristol.
The free exhibition, which occupies the recently renovated ground floor space of the Architecture Centre, demonstrates that high quality of architecture can can be achieved on a tight budget. The shortlisted projects, which range from a mobile sauna to a bird hide, were all achieved for less than £250,000.
Unfortunately for the south-west based architecture centre only one project, Mitchell Taylor Workshop's Blundell Avenue, can claim a a local connection. However, with the 2013 Small Projects Awards opening for entries in October maybe this will be rectified in next year's awards.
To coincide with the exhibition the winning and commended practices will each present their work and participate in a discussion, chaired by Keith Bradley, on the relationship between scale and ambition for architects in today's economically challenging times on Tuesday 11 September at the Architecture Centre.
Scale and Ambition, The Architecture Centre, Narrow Quay, Bristol, until Sunday 16 September 2012, Free
Approval for camouflaged house in Bristol
Bristol relaunches architecture centre
Launched: Bristol Retrofit City exhibition
George Ferguson has thrown his hat in the ring in the forthcoming mayoral election in his hometown of Bristol
Tom Russell wins green light for Bristol scout hut
Bristol Royal Infirmary, by Charles Holden (1912)
Scale and Ambition: AJ Small Projects Award hits Bristol
Bristol City tenders workplace design services job
Bristol's Old Vic theatre seeks architect for front of house revamp
Hatcher Prichard bags planning for Bristol free school
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October 1, 2016
Gallery Auction
Decorative Arts; Period & Quality Reproduction Furniture; Paintings & Prints; and Area Rugs and CarpetsView Auction Items Bid Now
◃ Lot 1150 / Chinese Export Rose Mandarin bough pot
Preview Date & TimeTuesday, Sept. 27th through Friday, Sept. 30th
Checkout Date & TimeMonday, Oct. 3rd through Friday, Oct. 7th,
9am - 5pm; Saturday, October 8, 9am - 1pm
LocationAuction to be held in our gallery
908 York Road, Towson, MD 21204
Featured Lots
Lot 1187
Antoine Louis Bayre "Tartre," Mandchou Bronze(French, 1796-1875). Modeled as oriental warrior standing on rock, signed in cast "Bayre," mounted on base with title plate, 21 in. H.
Lot 1417
Louis XVI Walnut Vesalier with Moblier Clocklate 18th century; upper section with flat top with molded cornice and center arch, center compartment with clock enclosed by panel door and flanked by shelving and compartments enclosed by carved panel doors, lower section with four short drawers, side-by-side compartments enclosed by double panel doors, cabriole legs.


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Toronto Bicycle Music Festival
Event Date: Sunday, September 10, 2017 - 12:00 to 19:30
Event Location: Trinity Bellwoods Park Google Maps
Register now for the 8th annual Toronto Music Bicycle Festival on Sunday September 10, 2017 with performances by Hooded Fang, Bernice, Ansley Simpson, Blokoloko and Rambunctious. Bring a blanket and explore our beautiful city's paths and parks with us.
The TBMF is an annual free, family-friendly community event that involves a series of outdoor, pedal-powered concerts in and between Toronto's great parks, and is part of Arts in the Parks free summer programming. Audience members power the portable sound system by pedaling stationary bicycles. Group bike rides between venues are fun and safe while featuring mobile performance acts.
12:00 pm: Meet at Trinity Bellwoods for a pedal-powered kick-off jam with Blokoloko and Rambunctious
1:00 pm: Leisurely ride down Toronto's Pan Am Path with a mobile music performer
2:00 pm: Humber Bay Park West, for performances by Ansley Simpson,Bernice, Ventanas and Hooded Fang!
6:30 pm: Bike ride back downtown
This ride is part of Relay2017.ca which has been made possible by the Toronto Foundation, Ontario Trillium Foundation, the Government of Ontario, Toronto Arts Council, Community Foundations of Canada and the Government of Canada, the Toronto Star, and the Ontario Cultural Attractions Fund. Special thanks to the Friends of the Pan Am Path.


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The House Intelligence Committee released its bombshell FISA memo Friday afternoon, outlining widespread abuse and anti-Trump bias throughout the FBI and the Department of Justice.
The four-page document shows senior FBI agents and Department of Justice officials used the Clinton-financed 'Trump Dossier' as the cornerstone of FISA court orders that allowed them to spy on "at least one" senior Trump associate in the run-up to the 2016 presidential campaign.
After days of Democratic opposition and the bureau's "grave concerns" over releasing the explosive document, President Trump de-classified the material Friday morning, sending it back to the House Intelligence Committee for its release to the American public.
Read the controversial memo below:
[pdf-embedder url="https://hannity.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/memo.pdf"]


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The Road Not Taken
By:Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The literal meaning of this poem by Robert Frost is pretty obvious. A traveler comes to a fork in the road and needs to decide which way to go to continue his journey. After much mental debate, the traveler picks the road "less traveled by."The figurative meaning is not too hidden either. The poem describes the tuogh choices people stand for when traveling the road of life. The words "sorry" and "sigh" make the tone of poem somewhat gloomy. The traveler regrets leaves the possibilities of the road not chosen behind. He realizes he probably won't pass this way again.
i'm kinda seriously like this poem..the way he wrote it make my mind think..


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This site allows you to request a free credit report once every 12 months from each of the nationwide consumer credit reporting companies: Equifax, Experian and TransUnion. Free credit report once a year.
Latest car enthusiast news.
Shop for used cars and trucks.
Complete vehicle history report (small fee required).
Shop for used cars and trucks.
Shop for used cars and trucks.
New and used car buying guide.
Compare cars' gas mileage (MPG), greenhouse gas emissions, air pollution ratings and safety information for new and used cars and trucks.
Crash-test results.
Projected 5-year Ownership cost of new and used vehicles.
Vehicle quality and reliability profiles for new and used vehicles.
Find new and used car trade in and purchase values.
Find new and used car trade in and purchase values.
Reports on traffic safety, laws and regulations, vehicle tests and ratings.
Everything from air bags to radon testing, from first aid resources to window safety in the home is covered. Also includes a sampling of statistics from their annual print publication Accident Facts. Consumer safety information.
From the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, comprehensive crash test results dating back to 1991. Crash test results since 1990.


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moana –
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So do you want prank your friends and your family download Fake Call vaiana add name and phone number maona and get the best fake Fake Call vaiana film features:
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Category: Entertainment
Requirements: 3.2 and up