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Pamlico softball falls to Southwest Onslow
The Hurricanes stranded 13 runners on base in a 4-3 loss to Southwest Onslow Tuesday in Bayboro.
Morgan Swindell pitched all seven innings and struck out five for the �Canes.
Bri Jones and Gabby Lugo were both 1-for-3, with Lugo delivering an RBI.
Alexis Eastwood was 2-for-4 with a triple and an RBI, while Kelsey Guimbal went 2-for-4 with an RBI.
Pamlico is now 7-9 overall and 2-3 in the Coastal Plains Conference.
The Hurricanes host Havelock Wednesday.
New Bern softball goes down in eight to Laney
It took eight innings for the game between New Bern and Laney to be decided Tuesday.
When the smoke cleared, the Bears were on the wrong side of a 2-1 score.
Mary Lyons was 3-for-3 at the plate and pitched all eight innings for New Bern.
Hannah Colflesh went 1-for-3 and Kelsey Crawford was 1-for-2.
Taylor Niemotka drove in the Bears� lone RBI.
Bears soccer wallops Laney
New Bern girls� soccer team hung five goals on the Laney Buccaneers Tuesday for a 5-0 shutout win.
Ashley Osiecki scored a pair of goals to lead the Bears.
Sierra Bondurant, Rachel Hobbs and Brittany McLawhorn all chipped in with a goal apiece.
Eagle softball beaten by Conley
West Craven�s Mariah Harris threw another complete game Tuesday, only this time in a 2-0 loss to D.H. Conley.
Pamlico baseball edges Southwest Onslow
The Pamlico Hurricanes knocked off the Stallions of Southwest Onslow 4-3 Tuesday to improve to 10-8 overall on the season, and 3-2 in the Coastal Plains Conference.
Shane Hardison went the full seven innings on the mound for Pamlico for the win, and tallied six strikeouts and allowed three runs (two earned).
Jacob Willis went 2-for-3 with a homerun and 2 RBIs.
Cole Bennett also went 2-for-3, while Trent Prescott was 1-for-2 with two runs scored.
Blake Toler was 2-for-3 with a double.


text: Left Navigation Understanding Auto Insurance Required by law across Canada, auto insurance covers the owner/driver, passengers, pedestrians and property affected by a vehicle collision. Once behind the wheel, the possibility of something going very wrong is very real. As a driver, the life and property of your passengers, fellow drivers and pedestrians is in your hands. Whether you're just learning, commute every weekday or enjoy Sunday drives in your classic car, it's important to understand how auto insurance works. Auto Insurance In Your ProvinceBy law, insurance is required for motor vehicles intended to be operated. Know what insurance is necessary and what's optional. Buying Auto InsuranceKnow how insurance premiums are calculated, where to turn for insurance if you are a higher-risk driver and what additional auto insurance coverage is available. Graduated LicensingTo become fully licensed, new drivers must pass all stages of the graduated licensing program. BrandingStolen, flooded or collision-damaged vehicles carry a permanent record – known as a brand – that's linked to its vehicle identification number (VIN). Insurance CrimeTake the time to recognize and report insurance crime. File a police report, submit a tip or make an anonymous call to 1-877-IBC-TIPS (422-8477). The line operates 24 hours a day, seven days a week.TheftIs your vehicle among the top-10 stolen cars? Risk ManagementFrom driving while distracted to lending your car to a family member or friend, know and manage your liability risks. Crisis ManagementStay calm and write everything down. Never admit liability if you have been in a collision. Emergency PreparednessDisaster can strike at any time. An emergency kit in your vehicle can keep you comfortable and even save your life. Insurance 101Life comes with risk. A massive rainstorm can lead to your basement flooding. A car collision can happen at any moment. Your business might be damaged by vandalism. – Thankfully, insurance can give you peace of mind. Useful LinksHow to Buy InsuranceWhen driving a car, buying a home or establishing a business, insurance can give you peace of mind. Learn about the purchasing options available. How Insurance WorksInsurers use a pool of many premiums to pay for the home, auto and business losses of Canadians unfortunate enough to experience a loss. You are covered for losses outlined in your contract only, not for predictable events. How Premiums Are CalculatedWithin reasonable limits, some of which are prescribed by law, your auto, home and/or business insurance premium is calculated to reflect the probability that you will suffer a claimable loss. How To Make An Insurance ClaimTo make a claim after a collision, you must notify your insurer as soon as possible. Your insurer will assign an adjuster to work on your claim and evaluate the total damage.

subset: commoncrawl


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Troop Zero
Pleasant enough but never quite as emotionally gripping as a coming-of-age story about acceptance can be, Troop Zero scores a handful of memorable moments when…
Pleasant enough but never quite as emotionally gripping as a coming-of-age story about acceptance can be, Troop Zero scores a handful of memorable moments when…
This film tells us that the gulf between what we want to know and what we can know may never be illuminated.
Roger Ebert on James Ivory's "Howards End".
"The Ballad of Narayama" is a Japanese film of great beauty and elegant artifice, telling a story of startling cruelty. What a space it opens…
An article about today's noon premiere of a new movie about architect Benjamin Marshall at the Gene Siskel Film Center.
An article about the screening of Horace Jenkins' "Cane River" on Friday, November 1st, at the Academy Film Archive in Los Angeles.
Scout Tafoya's series on underrated films heads into the 2020s with a Tony Scott classic.
Scout Tafoya's video essay series about maligned masterpieces celebrates Steven Soderbergh's Solaris.
Theo Angelopoulos' Landscape in the Mist is a work of art that comes from the feelings, the dreams, the sorrows, and the flashes of life…
Far Flung Correspondent Seongyong Cho pens a letter to Roger about Michael Apted's 63 Up.
A look ahead at 20 films we're excited to see at this year's Sundance Film Festival.
Theo Angelopoulos' Landscape in the Mist is a work of art that comes from the feelings, the dreams, the sorrows, and the flashes of life…
In one of my several reviews of the "Up" documentaries, I referred to the series as the noblest project in cinema history. I am older now and might refrain from such hyperbole. But we are all older now, and this series proves it in a most deeply moving way.
You know the premise. In 1964, British TV produced a film titled "7 Up," which focused on the lives, hopes and expectations of 14 children. They tended to sort out into upper and working classes. One unspoken question was whether the British class system was fading away.
Every seven years since then, the series has revisited as many of the original 14 who have agreed to continue to participate. Now here is the eighth film, "56 Up." Remarkably, all 14 are still alive. Michael Apted, now a major British director, was a researcher on the first film, took over as director with "14 Up," and has continued ever since. These people are all bonded through the continuity of this remarkable idea, although it's clear here that some of the participants consider this form of fame a mixed blessing.
In the U.K., their faces are well known. Consider Tony (no family names are given). As a kid we saw him working as a groom in a racing stable. Later, he had a brief career as a jockey. When that didn't work out, he "started on the Knowledge," which is what London cabbies call the long process of memorizing more or less every street or landmark in London. The rest of his life he has driven a taxi.
"56 Up" edits together footage from the earlier films to retrace the life of each character. We watch Tony as he grows older, gets married, has children, buys a vacation home in Spain, survives the real estate bust and navigates uncertainties in the taxi business. (When times are good for the Arabs, times are even better for cabbies. When the price of oil goes down, so do their fares.)
Tony recalls that one day he picked up the "spaceman" Buzz Aldrin, who was the second man to walk on lunar soil. As he pulled over his cab, a man in the next car handed him a piece of paper and asked for an autograph. Tony passed it back to Aldrin. "Not him!" said the autograph seeker. "You!"
The character I've come to care and worry about the most over the years is Neil, who is … troubled. He was born in Liverpool and filled with life as a kid, but by 21, something had gone wrong. Since then he has moved through a series of oddly assorted jobs, from home construction to politician. He has never married. He has often been homeless or a step away. He's wandered Britain, living on outskirts, usually involved in something vaguely idealistic. Having won local office on the Liberal Democrat ticket, Neil finds his latest occupation is as a canon in his local Anglican church. "I can do most of the jobs of a priest," he says somewhat ruefully.
Something went wrong with Neil. No telling what. How can we account for Sue, who we met with her pals Jackie and Lynn as students in London's working-class East End. Divorced with two children, she found a secretarial job and rose to a top administration post. We see her speaking to a lecture hall filled with students, and admitting how strange that seems to her, having never attended university herself.
"56 Up" revisits all of their lives, including a scientist now at the University of Wisconsin and a man who dropped out of the series and has now dropped back in, admittedly to promote his band. If there is one lesson we can learn from this film, it is that as we grow older, we tend to grow happier and more successful. As nearly as we can tell, all the subjects have grown wiser, more useful, more pleased with the way things are turning out.
I have no idea what that means. From a statistical viewpoint, it may mean nothing. But here they are in 1964, 7 years old, who Michael Apted pays a call on every seven years. It is a mystery, this business of life. I can't think of any under cinematic undertaking that allows us to realize that more deeply. Even Neil, I believe, has found the sort of happiness he is suited for.
The 2020 Oscar nominations.
A review of Netflix's Dracula, from the creators of Sherlock.
A review of the new Netflix crime docuseries about former New England Patriot Aaron Hernandez.
A collection of the reviews given our highest possible grade in 2019.


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|Novi, Mich.
|High School:
|Detroit Country Day
|House Affiliation:
Has recorded one double-double.
Career Highs
Points: 21 vs. Dartmouth (3/6/12)
FG made: 8 vs. Dartmouth (3/6/12)
FG attempts: 13 vs. Dartmouth (3/6/12)
3FG made: 4, twice
3FG attempts: 8 at Penn (2/25/12)
FT made: 4 vs. Penn (2/10/12)
FT attempts: 4, 4 times
Rebounds: 10, twice
Assists: 5 vs. Dartmouth (3/6/12)
Steals: 3 at Yale (2/18/12)
Blocks: 2, 3 times
2011-12 (Junior)
Ranked second in the Ivy League in three-point percentage (40.4), eighth in field-goal percentage (43.8), eighth in three-point field goals made (1.5) and 15th in rebounding (5.5) ... Made her first career start at Iowa (Nov. 12) ... Recorded then career-highs in points (7), rebounds (8), assists (1) and blocks (1) vs. Butler (Nov. 13) ... Tallied five points, five rebounds, one assist and two steals versus Rhode Island (Nov. 22) ... Named to the Ivy League Honor Roll and the CollegeSportsMadnes.com Ivy League Player of the Week Dec. 5 after turning in her first career double-double with career highs in points (10) and rebounds (10) ... Posted eight points and six rebounds at New Hampshire (Dec. 6) ... Netted 11 points on 5-of-7 shooting with five rebounds and two assists vs. Alcorn State (Dec. 9) ... Scored a then career-high 13 points and made three three-pointers at Minnesota (Dec. 10) ... Netted 12 points, seven rebounds and a career-high two blocks against St. John's (Dec. 22) ... Recorded 12 points and eight rebounds in a career-best 36 minutes at Hartford (Dec. 29) ... Tallied 10 points, six rebounds and matched her then career-high of two assists at UMass (Jan. 3) ... Matched her then career-high with 13 points while going 2-of-3 from three and grabbing six rebounds against Yale (Jan. 27) ... Scored 13 points, grabbed eight rebounds and dished out a career-high four assists vs. Penn (Feb. 10) ... Set a new career-high with 15 points on 7-of-8 shooting at Yale (Feb. 18) with a career-best three steals ... Notched 13 points on 4-of-8 shooting from three at Penn (Feb. 25) ... Matched her then career-high with 15 points on 4-of-7 shooting from three and dished out three assists against Cornell (Feb. 3) ... Scored a career-high 21 points on 8-of-13 shooting, including 3-of-6 from three, and dished out a career-best five assists against Dartmouth (March 6) ... Grabbed 10 rebounds and blocked two shots at Hofstra (March 15) ... Tallied 12 points and grabbed seven rebounds in a career-high 37 minutes at Temple (March 17).
2010-11 (Sophomore)
Played in 18 games this season ... Averaged 1.1 rebounds per game through the year ... Made season debut against Hartford (Dec. 3) ... Has appeared in 12 games so far ... Scored a career-high six points that included a 3-for-4 effort from the free throw line at Cornell (Jan. 29).
2009-10 (Freshman)
Saw action is 18 games … Averaged 4.7 minutes per game … Made her collegiate debut against Maine, grabbed a rebound and blocked a shot in the game ... Scored first career points in win over NJIT ... Pulled down a rebound in Ivy League opener at Dartmouth ... Pulled down a career-high four rebounds in nine minutes at Florida State ... Recorded an assist and a rebound in a career-high 16 minutes at Penn ... Scored a career-high three points in win over Penn.
Before Harvard
Four-year letterwinner in basketball and two-year participant in track and field ... A Street & Smith's Sporting News honorable mention All-American selection in 2008 and 2009 ... McDonald's High School All-American nominee in 2009 ... Named to Oakland County top 50 for girls basketball players by MIPrepZone and the Detroit Free Press top 100 in 2008-09 ... Michigan High School State Athletic Association state finalist in the discus in 2007 ... High school won Class B state championship in 2008 and 2009 ... Graduated Magna Cum Laude ... Member of the Community Service Club ... Chaired school blood drive and co-founded team's annual fundraising for HAVEN, domestic violence shelter.
Graduated Magna Cum Laude ... Member of the Community Service Club ... Chaired school blood drive and co-founded team's annual fundraising for HAVEN, domestic violence shelter.


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I am often asked about the advisability and safety of giving immunizations to a child. Many mothers are afraid that the shots could cause autism, mercury poisoning, or serious illness. I know that claims of these consequences have appeared in magazines and other sources of information. As convincing and emotional as they are, these claims are spurious and based on unfounded bad science. The tragic truth is that there are children in our own community suffering and dying from preventable diseases such as Whooping Cough, Measles and Meningitis because of misguided parental decisions not to vaccinate their children.
I give my own grandchildren all of their immunizations on schedule. The newest vaccines, which we now administer to children, are the safest and most effective in medical history. If I feel confident to do this for my own family you should also feel that it is right for your children.
Modern Vaccines are the miracles of our time. Frequent epidemics of Diphtheria swept through every city in the world and left thousands of children dead until the development of the Diphtheria vaccine in the 1940s. Since that time, one by one, many devastating diseases have been conquered by the development of specific vaccines. These vaccines have enabled people to develop immunity without suffering the actual disease.
There are two different types of diseases for which we immunize children
1) Viruses, such as Influenza, Polio, Smallpox, Chickenpox, Measles Mumps and Rubella, Hepatitis A and Hepatitis B. These are only spread by people. If the whole world's population is immunized the disease will be eradicated. This has already been achieved with Smallpox, so immunization is no longer needed. There is a possibility that Measles and Polio may be eradicated in the next twenty years. The incidence of Chickenpox has decreased dramatically over the last ten years since the vaccine was approved. The new vaccine against Hepatitis A has been extremely effective. After over 10 years of seeing over 50 cases a year in my practice, there have been none for one year after the vaccine was approved. I no longer receive letters from school warning of exposure to Hepatitis requiring Gamma Globulin. This virus is still present in the community where I practice and anyone who has not yet been immunized is susceptible. Israel which has a high incidence of this disease has only just started immunizing children with this vaccine.
Most of these viruses remain the same over time so immunity, once achieved is good for a lifetime. The Flu viruses, unfortunately, change their proteins very often so immunity to one strain is not useful the next year when a new Flu comes along.
2) Bacteria such as Diphtheria, Pertussis, Tetanus, Hemophilus Influenza B (HIB), Pneumococcus and Meningococcus. The new vaccine for HIB decreased the number of cases of bacterial meningitis by 90 percent within two years of its incorporation into the regular vaccine schedule. This completely changed my life as a pediatrician since I averaged 6-8 cases of this devastating life-threatening infection before the vaccine became available. The new vaccine against Pneumococcus, released just three years ago has decreased the number of young children admitted to the hospital with bacterial pneumonia by 85 percent. These germs, which can live harmlessly in a healthy child's throat, can become invasive and cause disease. They are not always obviously contagious from one person to another since contact can pick up the germ and not get sick from it. There is little chance of eradicating these diseases.
Despite the fact that millions of lives have been saved by these miraculous vaccines, there has always been a small incidence of serious side effects. The DPT vaccine often caused fever and, rarely, caused convulsions and a shock-like reaction. There was a time in the 1970s when the health service in England stopped giving the vaccine due to an increase in the number of crib deaths. Within one year there were epidemics of Pertussis causing 30 deaths in small children. During that time when no child was immunized, the incidence of crib deaths did not change at all. The vaccine was reinstituted but there were many cases of Pertussis over the next few years until the health service gave catch up doses to the children who had not been immunized.
In the former Soviet Union where the bankrupt governments have not been able to maintain their vaccine programs, there are currently epidemics of Diphtheria and Pertussis.
For fifty years we gave DPT to everyone, knowing that the benefits outweighed the risk. About eight years ago a newer vaccine, DaPT, was approved. This change tamed down the Pertussis component that was the problem. Now the incidence of severe reactions has been reduced to nearly zero. We no longer have to advise the mothers to give Tylenol on the day of the shots to avert high fever.
The Measles Mumps Rubella vaccine, approved in the 1970s has greatly reduced the number of cases of all of these viruses. Measles is a vicious 10-day illness that has a severe cough, high fevers, and a significant risk of brain damage and death. Mumps, which is characterized by painfully enlarged salivary glands, is milder but can affect fertility in boys and can also cause a serious brain infection. Rubella, also called German Measles, has caused the most devastating problems. Unborn babies, infected through their mothers are often born blind, deaf, and brain-damaged. This vaccine has saved millions of lives. The children who receive the MMR will sometimes run a fever, occasionally with a flat rash, about 10 days after the injection. Doses are given at age one and five.
About five years ago, an article was published in England claiming a relationship between Autism and the MMR vaccine. Since that time the researchers who were quoted by the author have issued a retraction, claiming that their statistics were not valid for the conclusions that were made.
The doctor who published this article is currently being prosecuted in England for not disclosing that he was being paid by the lawyers representing a group of parents of autistic children. He was paid to produce evidence that would strengthen their lawsuit against vaccine companies. His work was not valid at all.
Several large studies, costing millions of dollars, were conducted in Europe and Asia and the United States trying to find a relationship between the vaccine and the incidence of Autism. There was no evidence to confirm the claim in any of the studies. Meanwhile, many parents were so frightened that they stopped immunizing their children. In London and Israel where certain groups are refusing to immunize, there is currently an outbreak of Measles with at least one death in this community.
When you stop and think, you will realize that the risk of not giving this vaccine is far greater than the risk of giving it. Also, anyone who doesn't immunize is relying on the rest of the population to protect their child. This is really not fair at all. In order to keep these diseases under control, we must all accept the tiny risk involved.
The fear that the trace amounts of Mercury in one of the vaccines could cause trouble was based on a mistake. The Mercury that causes damage to the nervous system is a totally different compound than the one used to preserve the vaccine. Despite the fact that there was no evidence that there ever was any damage caused by the Mercury, it was removed from all vaccines and there are no vaccines being produced today with Mercury in them.
The big questions about the Varicella (Chickenpox) vaccine are why is it necessary? The answer is that there is a small but significant incidence of death and there are a large number of children admitted to the hospital with serious bone and skin infections complicating Chickenpox. Since the recommendation was issued to give the vaccine to all children the number of children suffering these severe infections has dropped dramatically. The vaccine is only about 85% effective against the chickenpox, but it is 100% effective against severe chickenpox. The children who do get the disease after the vaccine have mild cases.
Is it permanent immunity? In Japan where the vaccine was given for thirty years, the people immunized 30 years ago have the same immunity as the group who had chickenpox at the same time. However, since the incidence of chickenpox is now very low in the United States there is a concern that the natural booster effect from being exposed to chickenpox will be missing. For this reason, a booster dose is now being given at age 4-6.
The incidence of Shingles, (a painful recrudescence of the virus in a region of the skin) seems to be somewhat lower in vaccine recipients.
Polio, a devastating viral infection of the nervous system caused thousands of cases of paralysis every year as the epidemics swept through the cities. OPV, Oral Polio vaccine, which was developed in the 1960s completely stopped the epidemics. This vaccine had a small incidence of causing the disease itself. There were 3 cases in the U.S. per year from the vaccine. In the year 2000, the decision was made to change to the injectable IPV which has no incidence of complications.
Because of the number of vaccines now being given to each child the current practice is to give multiple shots at one time. This has been clearly shown to be safe. It does not increase the incidence of side effects at all when compared to giving only one shot. The newer vaccines are safer because each one only contains a few antigens. The old DPT contained at least 3000 antigens, many of which caused side effects and did not add to the protection. The refined DaPT, IPV, Pneumococcal Vaccine, Hepatitis B and the HIB, when combined, have only about 25 antigens.
The flu vaccine is now recommended for babies 6-23 months as well as children with chronic illnesses. This is because there are often secondary infections such as ear infections and pneumonia after the flu. There is a nasal spray vaccine, Flumist, that is approved for children over 5 years old. I have always advised my patients to immunize the whole family to prevent the Flu. Anyone who has experienced this miserable disease and watched it spread to the entire household knows how important it is to avoid the flu.
There is always some risk in everything we do with our children. We put them on school buses, we cross streets, we drive with them in the car. All of these activities have risks. We don't think about these risks because we believe that G-d conducts the world. We have one obligation to our children. That is to do the best we can to protect them. If we do our best we know that anything that happens is in the hands of G-d. Immunizing children is the right thing for everybody. We have been blessed in this generation with miraculous medical advances. It is our job and privilege, as parents, to make the most of these gifts and be grateful to the One who made them available to us.
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And now for another super cute giveaway, good luck to everyone who enters!
Here are some little words from one of my large sponsors The Cafe Cat
Oh god I love it. Have entered :)
what a lovely necklace! love acorns!
i love autumn because my birthday is in it! and because of all the lovely yellowy red leaves around :)
cause is sò romantic
I'm confused...I thought I was about to leave a comment and then nothing happened but the system told me I had...weird.
PS My sister sponsors you and you live in Bristol - I was living there this year and intend to go back after my next stint in Spain...small world tho!
Ahh I love autumn themed jewellery! Or...autumn themed anything in fact. x
Autumn is my favourite time of year, because I get to wear beautiful coats and woolly dresses, and after walking home from work I can snuggle up with the fire burning and cuddle my cat while listening to the wind outside in the trees.
I love the colors of the trees :)
I love autumn as the the trees change to beautiful shades of rust and earth.
i love autumn because is so romantic ^^
what a beautiful necklace. I think autumn might be my favourite time of year.
This is such a cute necklace! And Autumn is by far my favorite season, I love the crisp air and being able to layer my clothes and wear boots again :)
I love autumn! The scents, colors, acorns, the weather, etc. I love everything about it.
because the fall is only slightly colder than summer.:-) Thanks. Lubka K.
This necklace is absolutely lovely! I have a special place in my heart for acorns and my friends laugh about it but they wouldn't if they saw this :)! I visited a Botanical Garden two days ago and got hit by a falling acorn so I'm hoping that's a sign! I love Autumn because the leaves crunch underfoot, it's time to snuggle up in warm knits and wooly hats against the cooler weather and it's hot chocolate time again :)!
What a cute little necklace! My favorite kind of jewelry - simple but pretty.
Anyway, I love autumn because it's so pretty outside, and the weather usually cooperates so I can really enjoy it.
I love wrapping up in cost jumpers and scarf's and walking through leaves.
cardigans and crunchy leaves!
I love autumn because it's crisp and clear. Plus, apples, apple cider, apple pie, apples...(did I already say that?) And quilts, socks, and snuggly dachshunds.
I love autumnal browns and reds.
I love the smell, the colors, the clothes:) autumn is the best
I love that I can turn off the AC and open the windows.
Love the necklace and love crisp autumn days with crunchy, kickable leaves
Boots and the smell of leaves!
a marie hj saver
I love autumn because of the cute fashion, boots are my favorite!
I love layering sweaters and wearing boots in Autumn! firstname.lastname@example.com
I love autumn because it's a welcome relief from the summer heat. - Judith R.
I love being able to bundle up in sweaters!
I love Autumn because it represents change. The change isn't necessarily revolutionary--aferall, everything that dies or goes to sleep during the winter comes back out in Spring. But it is a wonderful sort of change that is just noticeable enough to make a difference on one's mind and outlook.
I like Autumn because I like to decorate in the fall colors and especially Halloween decorating for the kids.
With all my heart I do love autumn!
lovely necklace,,,autumn i love the cool crisp mornings and the color of the trees
I love autumn because it is the beginning of so many things in my life. My daughters turn a year older. All of the holidays roll around. What is their not to love about it?
because the air is clean and crisp, the heat is gone and there are so many beautiful colors
I love the beautifal colors!
Stephanie Behlen
Falls my favorite time of year because the leaves are changing and the squirrels are gathering acorns for winter & I get to watch them be funny
I love all the great colors!
I like Autumn because of the nicer cooler weather..The leaves changing colors on the trees...The smell of burning leaves...the smell of fireplaces..The excitment of the upcoming Holidays...
Fresh apples!
the clean and fresh air along with the turning of the leaves
I love autumn because I like the weather, the changing color of the leaves, Halloween and my birthday is in October.
I love it because I think out of the four seasons is the one that has the perfect weather, it's not cold or hot, so it's a perfect balance of all four seasons.
I love how the leaves change into all the beautiful colors and then fall to the ground and then all the kids and I can rake them into huge piles and spend the day jumping into them I think my very good friend of 30+ years who has had a really rough year this year would just love this gorgeous necklace at a time where we both are having a time of painful remeberance as we are trying to move forward to a much happier time.
I love the colours of the tree changing
I love autumn because it means the end of our horriable hot weather in Az.
I love autumn, especially for fruit it brings
i like it because the weather is cooler
I love autumn because the air is nice and crisp! It's also a lot cooler so I'm not dying of heat.
Because of the crisp smell in the air and bite of the wind on your nose! Also, cider!
(Nancy Hilderbrand) I love it and I entered
(Nancy Hilderbrand) I love autumn because of the different colored leaves.
The Crisp air and fall colors!
Thanks for the chance.
I love the cooler weather!
I love autumn when the leaves change colour....when I get my woolly scarf out...when I get home and put the kettle on....my favourite season of the year! x
I love the smell and the weather :)
love the changing colours of the leaves
I like the cooler weather
I like the cooler weather
I love the beautiful colours of Autumn!
I love the changing leaves, the pumpkin festivals, and I finally get to enjoy the pumpkins that I grew all summer! :)
I love the changing leaves, the pumpkin festivals, and I finally get to enjoy the pumpkins that I grew all summer! :)
My e-mail:
I love it because it marks the beginning of all my favorite holidays... plus I get to break out my boots! ;)
I love autumn because of the cooler temperatures, changing leaves and crisp apples.
The scarves, weather, cardigans, boots, and colors<3
I love autumn because is romantic season.
I love the clean, crisp air of autumn.
i love the air... the colors... and PUMPKIN FLAVORED EVERYTHING =]
I love the weather in autumn.
I love the smell of the cool air..I love turning off my AC and opening the windows! I love jeans and hoodies!
I love autumn because of its colours and melancholy!:D
Because the air feels so cool and crisp, especially after the horrid summer heat we had.
because the trees leaves change color and new animals come out .
I love the smell of autumn
I like that it isn't as warm in autumn, I get headaches from the heat.
autumn is my favorite. I love the weather (not too hot, not too cold) and I love that Halloween is coming since it's such a fun holiday.
What I love about fall is skirts, tights and boots.
I love watching the trees change colour.
I love the colors of the trees.
alessandra lalla on form
I love everything about autumn - the colours, the smells, the weather, my birthday is in November, the lead up to Christmas, the clothes! Everything!
Janey L
@cupidsbow1414 (twitter)
because its cold :D
Because half of it's about my Mom's , sister's and my birthdays and namedays.
secondly I love the smell of the air!!!
I love the Fall because it means we can enjoy things like cider, soup, hayrides, and of course upcoming Halloween! :)
I love autumn because of the smell and color changing of leaves, the freshness in the air and halloween. firstname.lastname@example.com
I love the Mississippi weather in Autumn. Plus my birthday, my husband's birthday and our anniversary is in Autumn!
i always love the sound of grass & leaves crunching under my feet. Watching the kids play outside all wrapped up in their hats & scarves & making them hot chocolate to warm up when they come in xx
The smells, the flavors, the clothes, the baking, the slight chill that makes you snuggle up with your honey...what's not to love?!
The crisp air, the colors of the leaves, the way new notebooks smell, feeling like you have to enjoy every second of the sun's warmth before winter sets in...
I love the cooler weather.
Autumn brings cooler weather - a welcome relief for a non-heat lover; colourful leaves; an opportunity for canning/preserving as well as cooking hearty soups and casseroles; and hanging linens and clothing on the line in preparation of the snows of winter.
Awesome desserts in Fall - cinnamon ones, pumpkin, gingerbread, apple, yum!!
I live in the south, and I love Autumn because that's when it finally starts to cool down to a comfortable temperature! Plus, I get to wear my tall boots :)
fs4sarah at gmail dot com
Cause I can finally soothe my sunburn
First chance to pull out the winter warmers. Walking in Autumn is so pretty too!
I love the weather :)
I love the last glimpses of a blue sky of a late afternoon, the gorgoeus deeo colours the leaves go, the slight warmth of the sun against the crisp, cool weather.
karen s
twannywun at hotmail dot com
love the leaves and colours!
I love the leaves, the smell of wood smoke, and the little bit of chill in the air.
bookloon at gmail dot com
thanks for posting.
I love Autumn because I love the cooler weather, getting to wear Fall clothes, and I love the Fall scents and colors!
The smells, the foods, the kickstart of the "holiday season"!
Autumn is beautiful trees, cool yet comfortable temps, caramel apples, and squash dishes galore (hey, I like squash).
I love autumn! I like when the leaves turns into a bright orange and I love the weather.
I love jeans and boots and haunted houses
hippopurplemonkey at yahoo dot com
for boots
because I love autumn colours!!!
email: email@example.com
Liked and shared! ^^
Su FACEBOOK sono PATRIZIA GIVEAWAY SCHIAVONE
I love autumn because is romantic. :)
e-mail: floryfrancy[at]inwind[dot]it
I love the fall because it gives me peace of mind, the leaves fall and even though the day are shorter and gray just want to hug with loved ones
I love the fall because the leaves fall and eat chestnuts
I love autumn because of its sunny but chill weatehr and colourful leaves :)
I love the cooler weather. We can go outside without sweating! firstname.lastname@example.com
I love the autumn colours :)
GFC Francesca Scirpoli
Autumn is the promise winter will be here soon, but for now... the sun still shines on. Soon it will sleep a long sleep, dreaming of summer; and the next year, his dream will come true. And so on and on, for all eternity.
love the leaves and colours!
I love the lovely leaves that change colors
cause is sò romantic
The cooler weather
I love halloween!
autumn is my favourite season! i love halloween, i love the colors alla is red orange and yellow!
i plaid on my bed!
ele paradise marchetti
I love the food of this season.
Because of the wind and the crunchy leaves, and pumpkin spice lattes and my birthday is in it. I love it all.
I love autumn colours
Caterina Mariposina
I love autumn's crisp mornings and fresh raspberries.
OMG to freakin cute!!! Gotta win it!
I love EVERYTHING about Autumn!
Fashion: boots, jackets, scarves!
Food: pumpkin spice all the things!
Weather: cool & breezy!
Holidays: Halloween & Thanksgiving!
Autumn is the BEST!!!
I love autumn because Autumn is a gorgeous time of year. Nature gives us a spectacular show of colour and richness to enjoy before we are plunged in to winter.
And last, I love shopping for winter clothes.
I really ♥ autumn colours and weather: bye bye hot days! :3
GFC: Federica
E-MAIL: email@example.com
The clear starry nights!
This necklace may be perfect for autumn, but I think it can be worn year round. Adorable!
Thank you for the giveaway!
I love the crisp sound of fallen leaves <3
I love the changing color of the leaves and the crunching :D My kids and I make sure to crunch through every pile we find when we go on walks together.
I just love the colours...! autumn is sooooo sweet and romantic!
I love autumn for so many things :) the fresh air, the first hot tea with butter bisquits, the Chocolate, the leaves all around like a path to Paradise.. :)
I love autumn! <3
In Florida it means that cooler weather will finally be coming!
I love the temperatures -- cool nights and warm days. Beautiful!
I love the colors, the smells, the feel of the air, and i LOVE thatit is BOOT weather!! :)
There's something about autumn that sets my blood astir...I get itchy feet, and I love it. I also love wearing lots of layers.
I love the colours! Red, brown, yellow...
I love the cosy nights and weekend mornings when you know you can stay in your warm bed away from the cold! xx
i love the leaves and the cooler temps!
I love the smell of the leaves.
cool weather!!
colours :)
email: firstname.lastname@example.com
I feel like Autumn is like a new beginning, in some way.
I love the colors of autumn
I love the changing of the leaves, wearing hand knit socks and scarves and the beginning of the holiday season!
I love the cooler temps and the shorter days of autumn.
love the cool air!
ardy22 at earthlink dot net
I love autumn because it means I might, just might, be able to turn my a/c off.
lisando at hotmail.com
I love that the weather finally cools down and that we can stop using the AC.
I love the changing of the leaves and the cool crisp air.
lauraemerson17 at yahoo dot com


text:
COTR precisava de um novo design de logo e criou um concurso na 99designs.
Um vencedor foi selecionado entre 109 designs enviados por 22 designers freelancers.
We need a logo and identity package that reflects our churchÂ's image, association with television, and our work with people and our community. We are looking for a stand alone logo that will identify us with or without text. In addition we will need to be able to manipulate, edit, change, adjust, etc. all elements of the design.
Topeka First Assembly
for people like you
Desired Color Scheme:
Strong - powerful colors
Desired Style:
We want a very professional, bold, dot-com, corporate look and feel. Please try to limit the use of typical Christian symbols. If you have a good design that includes such symbols that is fine we just want you to think with liberated creativity.
Accepted File Formats:
PSD, JPG, GIF, Vector (.eps or .ai), and RGB
Topeka First Assembly of God is a growing ethnically diverse church with multiple campuses providing a place of connection and belonging to people of from various segments of culture. Presently, we are preparing to overhaul our entire corporate identity and image in preparation for new growth and television market use.
We are preparing to begin a campaign which includes a series of 30-second commercials in our market area. Consequently we want our logo to make a strong and clear statement about who we are.
Presently church attendees range from high-end white collar professionals to low-end blue collar workers from a variety of cultural backgrounds. We anticipate continued growth across every ethnic and social demographic. We want to impress people with the sharpness of our logo, email signature, business cards, and letterhead etc., as indicators of our adequacy and professionalism and deep care for them in our operations, resources, and services.
We are looking for a stand alone logo that will identify us with or without text. In addition we will need to be able to manipulate, edit, change, adjust, etc. all elements of the design. This contest is to create an entirely new and fresh corporate identity.
Final submissions shall include: logo ( in full color, grey scale, and black and white), email signature, business card, post card, letterhead, and 3 multiple event poster designs.
We reserve the right to close the contest without choosing a winner if we do not see any submission that we like.
This contest was originally listed in multiple categories:
- Logo Design
- Stationery Design
Saiba como um concurso de design funciona ou leia mais sobre nossos serviços de design de logo.


text:
Herr Viktor Dück
In der Tütenbeke 28
32339 Espelkamp
Your partner for used bookbinding machinery !
Based on our experence for over 30 years of overhauling and trading with used binding machinery we are now
an internationally recognized company in the graphic arts indrustry.
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The specialisation in bookbinding machines ensures that our customers are always advised by our experenced
and trained employees.
We assure our customers a realistic market price, professional and fast handling when we purchase machines!
We buy machines for stock - independent from having a suitable customer request.
Of course we could also offer exclusive your machine to the market, this could be an advantage for you - using
our worldwide contacts but having only one contract partner.
You are welcome to contact us if this could be of interest for you or you have further questions.
To find the suitable machine for each individual customer is one more of our strong points.
Our mission is to strengthen - together with you - your competitive advantage by providing top quality at an
optimum price performancy ratio.
A young second hand or reconditioned machine could be a good alternative for a new machine.
Our workshop and warehouse with more than 6.000 sqm offer sufficent space to assemble and check even large
We are glad to be your disposal as your professional contact.


text:
Statements on Auditing Procedure
Issued by the Committee on Auditing Procedure, American Institute of Certified Public Accountants 270 Madison Avenue, New York 16, N. Y.
Copyright 1958 by American Institute of Certified Public Accountants
No. 29
October 1958
Scope of the Independent Auditor's Review of Internal Control
1. The purpose of this statement is to clarify previous pronouncements relating to the scope of the independent auditor's review of internal con-trol as it pertains to his examination leading to an expression of opinion on the fairness of financial statements. No attempt is made in this state-ment to consider the scope of reviews of internal control by the indepen-dent auditor for other purposes, such as special engagements involving systems surveys, revisions, etc.
2. The standard short-form report1 includes the following sentence:
"Our examination was made in accordance with generally ac-cepted auditing standards, and accordingly included such tests of the accounting records and such other auditing procedures as we considered necessary in the circumstances."
3. The generally accepted auditing standard relating to internal control is summarized in the standards of field work2 as follows:
"There is to be a proper study and evaluation of the existing internal control as a basis for reliance thereon and for the deter-mination of the resultant extent of the tests to which auditing procedures are to be restricted."
1 Codification of Statements on Auditing Procedure, page 16. 2Generally Accepted Auditing Standards, page 13.


text:
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text:
My mother did not like the heat. I never saw her in a swimsuit or in sudden surrender closing her eyes at the sun. The arrival of spring in Cairo would set her off planning our summer getaways. Once we spent the holidays high up in the Swiss Alps, where my body stiffened at the sight of deep hollow chasms emptied out of the rocky earth. Another time she took us to Nordland, in northern Norway, where the splintered peaks of austere black mountains were reflected sharply in the unmoving waters. We stayed in a wooden cabin that stood alone by the shore and was painted the brown of withered leaves. Around its roof hung a gutter as wide as a human thigh. Here whatever fell from the sky fell in abundance. There was no other man-made structure in sight. Some afternoons, Mother disappeared and I would not let on to Father that my heart was thumping at the base of my ears. I would keep to my room until I heard footsteps on the deck, the kitchen door sliding open. Once I found Mother there with hands stained black-red, a rough globe dyed into the front of her jumper. With eyes as clean as glass, wide, satisfied, she held out a handful of wild berries. They tasted of a ripe sweetness I found hard to attribute to that landscape.
One night, fog gathered thickly, abstracting the licks and sighs of the northern lights. You need adulthood to appreciate such horror. An anxious heat entered my eight-year-old mind and I curled up in bed, hoping Mother would pay me one of her night visits, kiss my forehead, lie beside me.
I woke up several times believing that Naima was there. She was our maid, and had been since before I was born, before my parents left our country and moved to Egypt. In winter, when the sky got dark early and Mother worried about her making the long commute home, Naima would sleep on my bedroom floor. I would watch her lying on her side, facing the skirting board, her leg bent with the tight determination of a tree branch. Her devotion had always seemed muscular, too intense, but now I yearned for it; I wished that she had come with us, or even that I had been left behind with her in Cairo.
In the morning the still world returned: the innocent waters, the ferocious mountains, the pale sky dotted with small, newborn clouds. I found Mother in the kitchen, warming milk, a glass of water on the white marble counter beside her. Not juice, tea, or coffee but water was her morning drink. She took a sip and with her usual insistence on quiet muffled the impact of the glass on the marble with the soft tip of her little finger. Any sudden sound unsettled her. She could conduct an entire day's chores in near-silence.
It should not have been difficult for me to speak, to say the usual "Good morning, Mama," but at times she seemed impenetrable, as if contained within an invisible structure. I sat at the table, where, when the three of us gathered at mealtimes, Mother would occasionally glance at the fourth, empty chair as if it signalled an absence, something lost. She poured the hot milk into a cup for me. A sliver of steam brushed the air then disappeared beside her neck.
"Nuri, habibi," she said, speaking my name the way she often did, with careful affection, "why the long face?"
She took me out onto the deck that stretched above the lake. The air was so brisk it stung my throat. I remembered what she had said to Father in the car when the naked mountains of Nordland first came into view: "Here God decided to be a sculptor; everywhere else he holds back."
"Holds back?" Father had echoed. "You talk about him as if he's a friend of yours."
In those days Father did not believe in God. He often greeted Mother's references to the divine with irritated sarcasm. Perhaps I should not have been surprised when, after Mother died, he now and again voiced a prayer; sarcasm, more often than not, hides a secret fascination.
Was it the romance of wood fires, the discretion of heavy coats that attracted my mother to the northern and unpeopled places of Europe? Or was it the impeccable stillness of a fortnight spent mostly sheltered indoors with the only two people she could lay claim to? I have come to think of all those holidays, no matter where they were, as having taken place in a single country—her country—and of the silences that marked them as her melancholy. There were moments when her unhappiness seemed as elemental as clear water.
After she died, it soon became obvious that what Father had always wanted to do in the two weeks off that he allowed himself every summer was to lie in the sun all day. So the Magda Marina, a small hotel in Agamy Beach, near Alexandria, became the place where he and I spent that fortnight. He seemed to have lost his way with me; widowhood had dispossessed him of any ease that he had once had around his only child. When we sat down to eat he either read the paper or gazed into the distance. Whenever he noticed me looking at him he would fidget or check his watch. As soon as he finished eating, he would light a cigarette and snap his fingers for the bill, not bothering to check whether I had finished, too.
"See you back in the room."
He never did that when Mother was alive.
Instead, when the three of us went to a restaurant, they would sit side by side facing me. If we were all engaged in a conversation, she would direct most of her contributions toward me, as if I were the front wall of a squash court. And when his unease led him to play the entertainer she would monitor, in that discreet way of hers, my reactions to his forced cheerfulness or, if he could bear it no longer, to his silences. With Mother's eyes on me I would watch him observe the other patrons or stare out at the view, which was often of some unremarkable street or square, no doubt daydreaming or plotting his next move in the secret work I never once heard him talk about. At these moments it felt as if he were the boy obliged to share a meal with adults, as if he were the son and I the father.
After Mother passed away, he and I came to resemble two flat-sharing bachelors held together by circumstance or obligation. But then, at the most unexpected moments, a tenderhearted sympathy, raw and sudden, would rise in him, and he would plunge his face into my neck, sniff deeply and kiss, tickling me with his mustache. It would set us off laughing as though everything were all right.
At the Magda Marina, he spent his time sunbathing and reading fat books: one on the Suez Crisis, one a biography of our late king, with his portrait on the cover. Whenever Father acquired a new book on our country—the country my parents had fled, the country I had never seen, yet continued to think of as my own—he would immediately finger the index pages.
"Baba, who are you looking for?" I once asked.
He shook his head and said, "No one."
But later I, too, searched the indexes. It felt like pure imitation. It was not until I encountered my father's name—Kamal Pasha el-Alfi—that I realized what I was looking for. Kamal Pasha, those books said, had been a close adviser to the king and one of the few men who could walk into the royal office without an appointment. Whenever the young monarch was in one of his anxious moods—perhaps suspecting his end to be near—it was Kamal Pasha el-Alfi who was called to ease his fears. In these books my father was also described as an aristocrat who, having been forced into exile by the revolution, had moved "gradually but with radical effect" to the left. I read these things about my father before I could understand what they meant. And if I came to him with my questions he would smoothly deflect them: "It was all so long ago."
I rarely persisted, because I knew that he was being true to Mother's wishes.
"Don't transfer the weight of the past onto your son," she once told him.
"You can't live outside history," he argued. "We have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary."
After a long pause she responded, "Who said anything about shame? It's longing that I want to spare him. Longing and the burden of your hopes."
I recall how sometimes, during the edgeless hours of the afternoon, I would use Mother's hip for a pillow. I would listen to the steady rhythm of her breath, the pages of her book turning. If I fell asleep, the sound would become a lazy breeze rustling a tree, or a broom brushing the earth. I hold the memory of her collarbone. I used to reach for it the way a rock climber would a sturdy ledge. I recall also her hair, strands as thick as strings. I would stretch one across my forehead, or on my tongue, and feel it tighten like a blade. None of this would distract her from her reading. I would watch the wide blossom of her eyes scanning the lines, those same eyes which grew keen whenever I caught her standing behind a heavy curtain in a game of hide-and-seek or when I revealed to her a luminous butterfly I had captured. How quickly her cheeks would redden then. She would speak, a warm whisper, before laughter flexed her throat. She was as close as I ever came to having a sister.
And then there were those cruel, sudden gaps, the clearings where she stood alone, not knowing how to return. How her eyes would wilt, looking at me as if acknowledging someone she half knew. Sometimes at night I would wake up and find her there, studying my face. She would force a smile and depart, quietly closing the door behind her, as if I were not hers. Other times she would lie beside me, our two heads sharing one pillow. Her pale thin fingers, which never seemed to match her strength, were like frozen twigs. She would tuck them between my knees or, if I was lying on my back, slide them behind my lower back, the place that is still hers.
But if I was ill it was Naima who would not leave my bedside. Mother would occasionally come in and stand at the foot of the bed, clearly concerned but awkward, as if she were intruding on a private moment. Once I confronted her about this. I babbled and stuttered, and she held me and said, "I know, it breaks my heart, too. But we mustn't see it this way. We are all lucky. We must count ourselves lucky."
In her last year, her silences grew deeper and more frequent. Some days she did not leave her room. When she called, she called only for Naima, who also called her Mama.
"Of course, Mama"; "Straightaway, Mama."
Naima would often be sent to the pharmacy for aspirin, sleeping pills, painkillers.
So old and persistent did Mother's unhappiness seem that I had never stopped to ask its cause. Nothing is more acceptable than what we are born into.
I remember the last night.
It was late evening. Naima had already changed out of her house galabia and into the hard fabric of her black dress, a veil wrapped tightly around her head, revealing the delicate shape of her skull. The familiar carrier bag hung on her wrist, containing one or two but never more than three pieces of fruit, the round forms pressing against the plastic. At Mother's instruction, every evening Naima had to go to the large fruit bowl that sat at the center of the long dining table and take home those guavas, apricots, or apples which had passed their prime. Naima resisted and would often argue that the fruit was still good. Her resistance baffled me because I knew that on her birthdays Naima's parents were able to give her only an apple or a handful of mulberries.
Now she stood there, silent and hesitant, at Mother's door. She brought her hand up but did not knock.
"When she wakes up," she whispered, "tell her I went home. See you tomorrow."
She must have detected that I did not want her to go, because she stopped and asked, "Did you brush your teeth?"
When I looked up from the sink I saw her in the mirror, standing outside the bathroom, her hands clasped against her waist, like a person in prayer. Her Nubian face looked even darker than usual. I followed her to the door and stood barefoot on the cold marble. She studied her foggy reflection in the long, narrow glass window in the lift door and with nervous hands tucked away stray hairs. She never stopped dreading the long journey home. On the occasions when she spent the night with us, she would carry out her tasks in the house with renewed enthusiasm, insisting on dusting the bookshelves again, cleaning the bathrooms one more time, all the while cracking jokes at which no one laughed. The silences that followed these jokes always turned her cheeks a deep shade of purple.
"Go on now, you will catch a cold."
But I did not move until the lift arrived because, regardless of her words, I knew she welcomed my attachment. There was always some elusive way in which Naima showed that she needed confirmation not so much of my attention as of my loyalty, as if she feared I might, one day, betray her.
I waited for Father and only once dared walk into their room. Mother lay on her side and did not move when I touched her ear. I went to my room and stood on my desk chair facing a photograph that Mother had recently taken of herself. She was the one who had had it framed and had hung it there. Her eyes stared out unflinchingly, but her jawbones were slightly out of focus, as if she was emerging from a cloud. I liked it because her face was nearly life-size. I did not know then why Mother looked better in photographs taken before I was born. I do not mean simply younger but altogether brighter, as if she had just stepped off a carrousel: her hair settling, her eyes anticipating more joy. And in those photographs you could almost hear a kind of joyful music in the background. Then, after I arrived, it all changed. For a long time, before I knew the truth, I thought it was the physical assault of pregnancy that had claimed her cheery disposition.
Occasionally it would reëmerge, this happy outlook, awakened by a memory from the past, as when she told the story of Father slipping and landing on his bottom on one of the steep alleyways in Geneva's Old Town.
"His back white with snow," she said, barely able to speak because of her laughing. "Calling my name as he nearly tripped up the Christmas shoppers."
Father's face changed, a solemn expression suggesting that he might be taking offense, which of course made the whole thing funnier. "I nearly broke my neck," he finally said.
"Yes, but your father has always been an excellent navigator," she said, and they both exploded into laughter.
I do not recall ever being so happy.
I woke up to Father repeating, "Saviour, Saviour," and the sound of his reaching, anxious steps.
I stood in the doorway of my bedroom, my eyes weak against the blazing chandelier in the hall. Other people were there, two men in white. They held the front door open as Father rushed toward them, Mother slack in his arms. Her long, dishevelled hair trembled with every step he took. One of her dangling feet seemed to swing more rapidly than the other. I ran after him, down the stairs. I remembered him once daring me to a race down those stairs, saying that he could descend the three flights faster than it would take me to go down in the lift. When the lift landed on the ground floor, he had pulled the door open, trying not to let his breathlessness show, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction. But now, when he saw me following, he stopped.
His eyes were red. Mother lay silent in his arms, her eyelids hard as shells. I paused for a moment, and the two men in white overtook me.
"Nuri," he shouted, and the two men looked at me. The expressions on their faces are still a source of horror.
I climbed back up, stopping at every landing, looking down the stairwell. Then I stood on our balcony, my hands gripping the cold metal balustrade above my head. I watched him carry her to the ambulance. One of her breasts was almost out of the gray satin nightdress. When the men in white tried to take her, Father shook his head and shouted something. He laid her on the stretcher, straightened and covered her body, caught the fall of her hair, wrapped it like a belt around his fist, and then tucked the bundle beneath her neck. A siren started up. Father walked back into the building, past the still figures of Amm Samir, the building's porter, and his sons. Early light was just breaking, and they, too, must have been startled out of sleep. Somehow they did not seem surprised, as if they expected such a calamity to befall "the Arab family on the third floor." The Nile flowed by strong and indifferent. There was hardly a wind to flutter the bamboo grasses that covered its banks. The leaves of the banana trees hung low, and the heads of the palms seemed as heavy as velvet.
I heard the door of the apartment slam shut.
"Where are they taking her?"
He kneeled before me so his face was level with mine. "She needs to rest. For a while . . . in hospital," he said, and stopped as if to stifle a cough.
"Why? We can take care of her here. Naima and I can take care of her. Why did you let them take her?"
"She will be back soon."
He smelled of cigarettes, of other people. He looked as if he had not slept at all. I followed him into their room. Her form was still stamped into the mattress. Father's side was undisturbed. The room had the air of a place that had witnessed a terrible confrontation, a battle lost.
Father spent most of the subsequent days at the hospital. Never having had to look after me, he was now continuously asking Naima whether his son had eaten or if it was bedtime yet.
"Has he bathed? Make sure he brushes his teeth."
I was suddenly spoken of in the third person. I had become a series of tasks. I could tell that Father was irritated by having to bear such domestic responsibility. And every time I cried for the mother from whom I had never before been separated, he looked at once fearful and impatient.
"Naima," he would call, louder than necessary.
I asked to be taken to the hospital.
"The doctors are doing everything they can. There is nothing more any of us can do."
"Then why do you spend the whole day there?"
I watched his anxious eyes.
Two days later, he took us to visit Mother. At a set of traffic lights, a boy, possibly my age, although his thinness made him look younger, tapped on my window. Around his arm hung necklaces of jasmine. He was wearing a red patterned T-shirt that reminded me of one I used to wear.
Rigid with shyness, Naima asked, "Could we buy some? Madam loves jasmine."
Although Naima did not address Father directly, the question was clearly intended for him. She was often wary around him. She would usually send me to ask whether it was coffee or tea that he wanted, if he was expecting anyone for lunch, or if there was anything else he needed before she left. Father rolled down his window, and the thick heat of the day spilled in. The boy ran to him. Father bought the whole bunch, his eyes lingering on the boy's T-shirt. He handed the jasmines to Naima and rolled up his window. His eyes now were on the rearview mirror, trying to catch a last glimpse of the boy.
Naima fingered the necklaces in her lap.
"You will get them knotted doing that," I said, and immediately regretted it as she looked nervously at the rearview mirror.
"Aren't those the clothes we gave Ibn Ali?" Father asked.
Relieved, Naima looked back. We watched the boy run between the cars and vanish.
"Yes, Pasha," she said. "It looks like the same T-shirt."
Ibn Ali was one of the orphanages Father visited, often taking Naima and me with him, to deliver food or clothes or make a donation. There was also Abd al-Muttalib and Al Sayeda Aisha and Al Ridha.
"Don't let it upset you," Naima told him. "No matter what you do, you can't stop them working."
"But so young," he said.
"Not much younger than I was," she said softly, and after too long a delay.
Naima gripped my hand tightly as we went deeper into the maze of neon-lit corridors. The jasmines were slung neatly around her other arm. The odor of the hospital was so unforgiving that every so often she would bring the cloud of white flowers to her nose. I tugged, and she let me do the same. Father was already a few metres ahead. With every step he took, the leather heels of his shoes were striped by the neon light.
We found Mother lying under a cold blue lamp. The bedcovers were folded beneath her arms, one wrist was encircled by a yellow plastic bracelet, and a constant bleeping hammered the silence.
Naima placed the jasmines at the foot of the bed and covered her face.
"Did I not tell you . . ." Father said, pulling her out of the room.
I was alone with Mother. I wanted to lift the flattened pillows, puff them up. Her skin had turned ashen. Her eyes were shut with an outrageous finality, a moistness lingering where the eyelids met. I thought of touching her, and the impossibility of it frightened me. My mind returned to a distant memory. I was four or maybe five. She was getting ready for a party. I was crouched beneath the chiffonier, beside her feet: black high heels, stockings a color that made her skin look powdered. A thin fluorescent line hovered above where the black suède of the shoe met the stockings. An optical illusion. I traced it, erasing and redrawing the light with my finger. Then she moved. I looked up, smiling, thinking I had tickled her, but she was only leaning closer to the mirror in order to scrutinize the exactness of her lipstick line.
Father was right: there was nothing any of us could do here.
A few days later Father came home from the hospital earlier than usual. He went straight to his room. I stood outside his door for a minute or two, then knocked.
"Not now, Nuri," he said, his voice uneven.
After a few minutes, I heard the sound of running water in his bathroom. I remembered what Mother used to tell him whenever she found him in a bad mood: "Take a cold shower. It's what the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, used to do whenever he received bad news." And I remembered Father shaking his head. But that was when he was in no need of God. When he got out of the shower he called for Naima.
"Shut the door behind you. Where is Nuri?"
"Ustaz Nuri is in his room," she said, even though she saw me standing outside the door and forced a smile before walking in.
He began whispering. A few seconds later I heard her give a short scream. Had he placed a hand on her mouth?
For the rest of that day Naima's fingers trembled.
Her eyes filled with tears when I asked, "Are you all right? Are you ill? Shall I pour you a glass of cola?"
Every hour or so she would come to ask, "Has your father spoken to you yet?"
Father stayed in his room, talking on the telephone.
At sunset he called me in.
"Sit down. Let me see your hand." After a few seconds he said my name, then the words "Mama will not be coming home."
After another pause he spoke again.
"She will never be coming back."
I pulled my hand away. I did not believe him. I insisted that he take me to the hospital.
"She is no longer there."
He restrained me, carried me to my room, and locked the door behind us. Outside, Naima cried, begging to be let in. Father opened the door and with astonishing tenderness pulled her to his chest and kissed her head. He held me, too, and began muttering that from here on life was never going to be the same, that God had felled his only tree and shelter. I searched but could not find a tear in either of his eyes. This should not have surprised me, for I had never seen Father cry.
The following day, seventy-five wooden chairs, the sort most commonly found in Egyptian cafés, with a profile of Nefertiti printed on the seat, arrived. The porter, Amm Samir, and his silent children carried two huge speakers up the stairs. They slid off their slippers at the door, and, their stiff bodies swaying momentarily beneath the weight, placed the speakers, each taller than Father, in the middle of the hall. The angle at which they were left facing each other suggested a quarrel. Then the porter and his children carried every piece of furniture that was in the reception hall into the dining room. Armchairs were capsized over the dining table, and their cushions stuffed beneath. I watched Amm Samir's dark, hard feet sink into the rug. Each toenail curved forward into the thick wool. Each joint was crowned with a little gray stone of skin, and each heel was like the battered end of a club. At what point, I wondered, will his sons' feet look like this? Noticing me, Amm Samir placed a heavy hand on my head and, after a second's hesitation, kneeled down and kissed my forehead. He looked at Father. And Father, choosing to give Amm Samir the approval he requested, said, "Thank you." With lowered heads, the sons followed Amm Samir out.
Urgency and grief had rendered Father, Naima, and me nearly equal. Together we arranged the chairs. And at one point Father asked Naima her opinion.
"Where shall we put the speakers?"
"By the entrance," she said, embarrassed, and when he hesitated she pressed on. "But that is where they are always placed, Pasha."
"Perhaps in your district," he said.
The possibility of a smile brushed both of their faces.
"But it's people's duty to attend, Pasha. It wasn't I who set the custom."
"Enough. Lift," he said, and together they carried the speakers to where she had suggested, placing one at either side of the entrance.
We pushed the chairs against the walls in conspiratorial silence. When we were done, we stood in the middle of the room, and I hoped that there would be something else for us to do, but then Father disappeared into his room, and Naima returned to the kitchen.
The front door was left open. The reception hall began to resemble a waiting room. Not knowing where to go, I sat and counted the chairs, which now stood in a rectangle. The first time I came up with seventy-four. On the second attempt I had seventy-seven. Only the fourth or fifth time around did I get seventy-five. Then I saw our next-door neighbor walk out of the lift. He did a double take. The Koran was not playing yet, so he may have thought we were preparing for a party. But something about me must have suggested bad news. I went to Naima in the kitchen, and the man followed behind me.
"Greetings, Ustaz Midhaat."
"What happened?"
"Madam passed away," Naima told him, and, just as she did, tears appeared in her eyes.
Ustaz Midhaat looked at me now with eyes as wide as coffee cups. I moved behind Naima.
A few minutes later he returned with his whole family. Father came out dressed in a white galabia. He wore a galabia only to bed, and so he looked as if he had wandered out from a dream. He sat beside our neighbor, saying almost nothing, his cheeks covered in stubble. Naima served them unsweetened black coffee and asked me to pass around a plate of almonds. Then Father waved to me to come.
"The Koran, turn on the Koran," he whispered.
By the afternoon more neighbors had arrived, people we hardly knew, and by nightfall the place was packed with silent mourners. I had never seen our house so full yet so quiet. Naima was joined by an army of servants, lent by neighbors, whom she managed with a new authority.
I took the lift up to the roof to escape. The city stretched in all directions. It hummed and clanked like an engine in the night. The streets coiled into knots here and there. Not even the Nile tempered it. If I could I would have erased it, wiped it clean. I have never before or since experienced such a careless desire for violence. Then I felt a presence behind me. Naima, even with her endless duties, had noticed my absence.
In the morning my mother's three siblings, Aunt Souad, Aunt Salwa, and Uncle Fadhil, arrived from our country. I had never met them before, but recognized them from photographs. My aunts kept remarking how brave I was and how unusually long my eyelashes were, and teased me about my Cairene accent, my skin. They said that because I was darker than Father and Mother I was really the son of my great-grandfather, who was, by all accounts, nearly as dark as I am. They tickled my toes, hugged me when I laughed, dug their faces into my neck and inhaled deeply before kissing. At night, they took turns lying beside me, telling stories that usually included a mention of the waterfalls or pomegranates or palm trees of our country. If in the night I went to get a drink of water, one of them would appear behind me, asking whether I was all right.
They sweetened my name to Abu el-Noor, calling it out whenever they saw me daydreaming. The slightest hint of contemplation worried them. If I was in the bathroom for a little longer than usual, I would hear one of my aunts whisper, "Abu el-Noor, habibi, are you all right?"
Father let his beard grow. It surprised me how heavily streaked with gray it was; he was only thirty-nine and the hair on his head was completely black.
Once, Uncle Fadhil embraced him, speaking solemnly and with a hint of urgency. Father eventually began nodding in a resigned sort of way, his eyes still on the ground.
Another time the door of his bedroom was ajar, and I saw him cornered by my two aunts.
"He is unusually aloof for a boy his age," Aunt Salwa was saying.
"Let us take him back. He will grow up among his cousins," Aunt Souad added.
"We will bring him up as our own," Aunt Salwa said. "This way, when the country comes back to us, he can play a role."
After a long pause Father spoke. "I could not do that to Naima. She would never forgive me."
Long ago, when Naima was ill with bilharzia, Father, at Mother's insistence, brought me to visit her. It took about an hour to reach the maze of her neighborhood by car. But, as our driver, Abdu, was keen to tell Father, the journey on public transport took at least an hour and a half.
"Three hours' round trip, Pasha."
Father did not react.
Every time Abdu rolled down his window to ask someone for directions, the pedestrian would lean down and study our faces. Eventually we found Naima's street. It was so narrow that the car could barely fit through.
"Careful," Father said in a near-whisper, while holding on to the handle above his window.
"Don't worry, Pasha," Abdu replied, also in a whisper.
Raw sewage meandered down the middle of the road, passing between the wheels. Father asked Abdu to roll up his window, but by then the stench had already entered the car. Above us clotheslines sagged under the weight of laundry and veiled most of the sky. Every so often Abdu had to press the horn, which sounded like an explosion in the narrow street. People had to find doorways to stand in, and even then we had to pass ever so slowly, almost brushing against their bodies. I watched a buckle, a detail of fabric, the occasional child's face. These people who lined the road stood still and kept their arms by their sides. I was sure that from that angle they could see my bare knees on the beige leather upholstery.
Naima, her seven siblings, and her parents lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a four-story building that was covered in flaking red paint with the words "Coca-Cola" repeated across it. Abdu waited with the car. Children preceded Father and me up the stairs, announcing our arrival and occasionally stopping to look back, giggle, and elbow one another before running up again. On each landing small paper bags sat bulging with rubbish, many of them punctured or torn. Flies the size of bees weaved lazily around them.
"Don't touch," Father said, and I immediately pulled my hand off the railing and placed it in his open palm. He did not let go until we were at the door of the apartment.
Naima's father, who was a security guard at one of the museums, met us on the landing in his uniform. He looked worried. The mother cried when she saw Father, then was ordered by her husband to go and make tea. There was hardly any furniture in the living room. One carpet, the size of a prayer rug, lay in the center of the tiled floor as if concealing an imperfection or some secret passage. Naima lay on a mattress in a corner. I sat beside her. She took hold of my hand. My skin burned in her grip. She neither smiled nor cried, but stared at me with a peculiar gentleness, as if I were a kind of nourishment.
"Nothing, really," the father said. "Her mother spoils her. She's just after attention." Turning toward Naima, he asked loudly, "Aren't you?"
She did not respond.
"She will be up in no time," he told Father, anxiety making him blink his eyes.
"She should take as long as she needs," Father told him. "We only came to wish her well."
The mother returned with a plate and placed it on the rug: crumbled feta and sliced tomato submerged in the pee yellow of cotton oil. She stopped for a moment and looked at Naima and me.
"Isn't that right, Umm Naima?" the father said. "You spoil your daughter."
She waited a few seconds before speaking.
"She loves him like a son," she said to Father.
"Yes," he told her.
Although Naima would not let her eyes leave my face, she had taken note of this exchange. I squeezed her hand. I thought of saying something. Instead, I placed my palm on her cheek. She held it there. I thought perhaps the relative coolness of my skin was a comfort to her. But then tears welled in her eyes.
"Come, girl, don't be afraid," her father said, fear detectable in his voice.
And just as suddenly Naima's tears vanished.
The parents insisted that we eat. Father shook his head. I wished he were better able to conceal the frown on his face. Naima's father handed us loaves of bread. Mine was hard and speckled with flour stones. The mother poured a thick black liquid, and when I asked what it was the father said, "Tea, of course," and I was convinced I had offended him. About two centimetres of the powdered leaf sat in the base of the glass. Father kneeled down, broke a small piece off his loaf, and dipped it in the solitary dish on the floor.
"There, thanks very much."
I bowed all the way down, feeling the blood gather in my head, and kissed Naima's hot forehead.
Uncle Fadhil seemed to have come to Cairo mainly to accompany the women. As a man, he faced the greatest risk of retaliation for visiting his "backward, traitor" relatives. He mostly sat smoking. Whenever I sat next to him he would squeeze my skinny upper arms and say, "Flex."
Three days after they arrived, he told my aunts it was time to go. "Just in case the authorities think we are enjoying ourselves," he said, weariness curling his eyebrows.
Naima and I stood watching Amm Samir and his eldest son, Gamaal, fasten the luggage on the roof rack. We waved when the car pulled away, then went back upstairs. When I was in my room, surrounded by the smell of my aunts, I wept.
Our apartment struggled to resume its original character. Naima moved soundlessly, cleaning the indifferent surfaces, preparing our joyless meals. I felt a tremor whenever I heard the clang of pots in Mother's kitchen. Father seemed awkward and nervous around me. The beard was gone, and now he spent most of his time out or in his room. Naima no longer slept at her home but on the floor in my bedroom. There was an abstract urgency in the air.
The arrival of Hydar and Taleb, old friends of Father's who, after the revolution, had settled in Paris, rescued us. Hydar brought his wife, Nafisa, who raised her voice every time she addressed me.
Father gave up his room to Hydar and Nafisa. When they resisted, he said, "Listen, ask Nuri, I hardly sleep there. I prefer the couch. Honestly."
Then he insisted that Taleb take my bed.
"This man knew you before you were born."
Taleb blushed, nodding.
I slept on the floor, in Naima's place, and she slept in the kitchen.
Mother had not liked having guests, particularly these guests, and this had been a recurring source of disagreement between my parents. But now Father and his friends could stay up drinking whiskey until the early hours. I would hear Taleb getting into bed. I think if he had not tried so hard to be quiet he might have made less noise. His breath would quickly fill the room with the chemical smell of alcohol.
I could not help but feel that Mother's coldness toward Father's old Parisian friends was somehow part of a general unease that marked my parents' relationship to Paris. They almost never talked about their time in that city. And on the rare occasion that Mother did speak about how I came to be born there she would always begin by telling me how Naima came to work for the family. I did not then understand how this detail mattered at all to the story.
She told me how she and Father had gone to Cairo expressly to employ a maid. And how, on the two-day drive back to our country, thirteen-year-old Naima had hardly stopped crying. But every time they had tried to turn back she objected.
"At one point, she began begging us to go on, so we continued."
Perhaps mistaking my silence for disapproval at the maid's young age, Mother said, "I wanted someone young, to get used to our ways, to be like a daughter." Then she stopped and looked at her fingers, and only when she glanced up again did I realize that tears had been gathering in her eyes.
Eighteen months after my parents employed Naima, our king was dragged to the courtyard of the palace and shot in the head. Father was a government minister by this stage and, instead of risking ill treatment, detention, or even death, he decided to flee to France. Naima was the last to step onto the boat, right behind my parents, pulled on board by Abdu the driver. They all stood watching the coast drift away, the smoke rise.
When the boat arrived in Marseilles, Taleb was standing at the dock waiting for them. Was he smiling, was he sucking at the end of a cigarette, did he wave? Mother did not like to talk about Taleb.
"Why? Is he a bad person?"
"No, not at all."
It never seemed like anger that she felt toward him. More like shame. And I think she thought of Paris and the time in Paris in the same way. So I was eager to ask Taleb, to find out what had happened after they arrived.
"Poor Naima could hardly stand," he said. "She had been throwing up the whole way. But your mother was determined. She didn't want to stay in Marseilles. I never understood that. She didn't even want to rest the night. She insisted we go directly to the train station and get on the first train for Paris."
I pictured her marching ahead and imagined Father behind her, glad for her stubbornness, glad that someone at least knew what to do next.
"And how was she on the train?"
"Who? Your mother? Like the Sphinx. I told jokes, but they were obviously bad ones."
"And Naima and Abdu? Did they go back to Egypt?"
Here Taleb looked at me as if I were suddenly standing a long way away. He seemed to consider the distance and whether it was wise to cross it.
"Abdu went back from time to time, but Naima didn't, of course."
"Where did they stay?"
"In Paris."
He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. I thought of how to bring him back.
"Uncle Taleb?"
"How long have you lived in Paris?"
"Since university. Too long."
"Do you like it?"
"What does it matter? It seems to like me."
"Did Mama and Baba stay with you?"
"No, I found them an apartment in the Marais. Not ideal, but close to the hospital. A nice place, but a big step down from what they were used to."
"Not a hotel?"
"Six months is too long for a hotel. And in the end they stayed a year."
"Really?" I said. "I always thought they were there only a couple of months."
"You breathed Parisian air for the first eight months of your life. You will be ruined forever."
I liked Taleb. Unlike Nafisa's, his sympathy was not patronizing. He took me to places I had never been. One afternoon, as I followed him through the arches of Ibn Tulun Mosque, I asked him, "Uncle Taleb?"
"What did my mother die of?"
He stopped and looked at me in that way again but said nothing.
Late one night, he on the bed, I on the floor, the room as black as a well and filling up with the smell of whiskey, Taleb suddenly spoke.
"Some things are hard to swallow," he said.
I recalled a dog in our street that had choked on a chicken bone. It wheezed and coughed and then eventually lay on its side and surrendered, blinking at me.
"You must know, regardless of anything, about her great humanity," he said, the word utterly new to me. I repeated it in my mind—humanity, humanity—so that I could look it up later. "She never ceased to be tender with Naima, who was innocent, of course. Ultimately, everyone is innocent, including your father."
After a long silence, just when I suspected he had fallen asleep, Taleb spoke again.
"You have no idea what he was back home. It's difficult, looking at him now, to believe that he is the same person and that the world is the same world. And he wanted someone to inherit it all."
The following day Taleb, Hydar, and Nafisa flew back to Paris. And although Naima changed the bedsheets, I could still smell Taleb's head on my pillow. I asked Naima to replace it.
"Why?" she said, and pressed the pillow against her face. "It's perfectly clean." ♦


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Here we see a BMW 7 series driver somehow crash right into a raised platform blocking cars from crossing a set railroad tracks when a train is passing. It's a head scratcher, this.
I've watched this video a few times and I still have no clue how the BMW pilot managed such a damaging low-speed crash. Any theories on how the wreck happened are welcome.


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Although the technique that is used to create this bracelet is known commonly as "bead crochet (rope)" it has a different name in Turkey. The Turkish name of this technique is "prison weaving" -or if we want to make a mot-a-mot translation it should be "prison work". Why it is called as "prison work" or "prison weaving"? Because it is very common for prisoners to create their own crafts by using this technique. They mainly use a piece of matress spring as crochet needle and various kinds of beads as well as cotton rope to make their crafts.
The pattern includes 7 beads in each row and one cycle includes
Instead of fishing line, I used cotton rope which makes the bracelet very soft.
The scarf that is used to make the necklace is silk and the color of it is black.
I used very high quality thread to make this bracelet which makes the bracelet.
Total length of the bracelet: 18. cm (7,08 inches)
Width of the bracelet: 0.8 cm (0,31 inches)
Circumference: 9 beads
Item will be shipped either within the same or the following business day that the payment is received. Since your necklace will come from Ankara, Turkey, it takes 14 to 28 days for the package to arrive.
Your bracelet is one of a kind.
Your bracelet will come with gift package.
You can return your bracelet after your purchase. For our return policy please visit our shop's policy page.
If you have any questions or any concerns, please do not hesitate to contact us.
dikmennazli (at) gmail com
Sorulara Cevaplar ve Pratik Bilgiler
Daha fazlası için YouTube.com/NazoDesign


text:
HARRISBURG, Pa. -- The Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection has issued a permit for a new electric power plant that will be supplied at least partly with locally produced natural gas from the Marcellus Shale.
The agency says in a release Wednesday that Moxie Liberty LLC of Vienna, Va. plans to build the plant in Bradford County, about 60 miles west of Scranton.
The proposed plant could be completed in two or three years and will generate 468 megawatts of electricity.
A boom in natural gas production in Pennsylvania has led many utilities to consider shifting away from using coal as the primary fuel.


text:
Safari Magazine | English Edition
Safari Magazine | Gujarati Edition
SAFARI is an innovative monthly that provides the young readers with a wealth of general knowledge. The magazine that covers a remarkable breadth of subjects like natural wonders of the world, animal and plant life, mysteries of the universe, ancient civilization and great inventions and discoveries. Also quizzes and mind games.
With its unique blend of information, SAFARI enhances young readers ability to reason, to visualize, to make intelligent decisions, to solve problems and to think clearly and creatively. It keeps young minds in top shape. It is designed so that adults and youngsters work together and explore the fascinating world we live in. Compared with social studies, languages and math, general knowledge has been given relatively low priority in our education system. SAFARI is doing its bit to restore the equilibrium, because in the talent-driven society of today; knowledge is power.
SAFARI is not a magazine. It is a concept, the kind of which has never existed before.
Books & eBooks


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Genk part company with Been after poor run
Belgian Pro League outfit Genk have parted company with manager Mario Been following a poor run of form.
A 2-0 defeat at home to lowly Waasland-Beveren on Sunday proved to be the final straw, with that reverse marking an eighth loss in Genk's last 10 league games.
That result left the 2011 title winners in sixth position, and they are in danger of slipping out of the play-off spots that decide the Belgian champions.
A statement on the club's website read: "After the defeat at home to Waasland-Beveren on Sunday evening it was clear that the much needed turnaround in the results of the Jupiler Pro League has been absent for too long.
"Genk wishes to thank Mario Been for the many successes. An appointment of a new coach will be made as soon as possible."
The former Feyenoord boss took the reins at Genk in August 2011, and led the club to a Belgian Cup triumph last season.
Assistant managers Pierre Denier and Hans Visser will take temporary charge, starting with the club's second-leg encounter at home to Anzhi Makhachkala in the UEFA Europa League on Thursday, with the tie currently locked at 0-0.


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lamaabed, on 12 December 2011 - 03:56 PM, said:
Without really knowing what you want more specifically you
could take the code that is inside the button area and put it in
the WM_CREATE: section.
As I said I don't really know what you want try to be more specific in future
but the above seems a reasonable course of action.
Best Wishes


text:
Major new features launched to help Geni.com users enrich the World Family Tree and discover unknown relatives
Los Angeles, USA – April 23 2013: Geni.com, the leader in collaborative family history, today announced the release of two major new features, Record Matching and Smart Matching™, which enrich family trees with relevant historical records and help users discover unknown relatives and ancestors, respectively. This will add significant new detail and color to the World Family Tree, a global initiative by Geni.com that shows how everyone in the world is related, and will help members learn more about their shared ancestries.
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Geni.com is the leader in collaborative family history and the home of the World Family Tree, a global initiative showing how everyone is related. The collective research of casual and expert family historians benefits the entire community of people interested in discovering and preserving their family history. The site was founded by David Sacks, co-founder of PayPal and Yammer. For more details, visit www.geni.com.


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Who We Are
The Antelope Valley Community Emergency Response Team (AVCERT) is comprised of community based volunteer citizens who understand their responsibility in preparing for disaster and have increased their ability to safely help themselves, their family and neighbors. CERT members can make a difference through citizen commitment with an emphasis on training, participation, coordination and communication.
- Training in basic life safety and emergency preparedness skills based on the FEMA curriculum, to provide basic care, stabilization and information in the event of a major incident or large scale disaster until emergency responders can arrive on scene.
- Maintaining CERT qualifications through advanced training and refresher classes.
- Following a disaster, providing immediate assistance to victims within their vicinity; organizing neighbors or co-workers who have not had the training; and collecting disaster intelligence that will assist professional responders with prioritization and allocation of resources.
- Supporting emergency responders upon their arrival or with their requests within the scope of your CERT training
- Informing and educating others about disaster preparedness to include assisting public safety agencies and local organizations with preparedness events and participating in community outreach opportunities.
C.E.R.T. Training Day
C.E.R.T. Training At Quartz Hill High School