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Early on a Sunday, after first Mass in Clonegal, my father, instead of taking me home, drives deep into Wexford toward the coast, where my mother's people came from. It is a hot August day, bright, with patches of shade and greenish sudden light along the road. We pass through the village of Shillelagh, where my father lost our red shorthorn in a game of forty-five, and on past the mart in Carnew, where the man who won her sold her not long afterward. My father throws his hat on the passenger seat, winds down the window, and smokes. I shake the plaits out of my hair and lie flat on the back seat, looking up through the rear window. I wonder what it will be like, this place belonging to the Kinsellas. I see a tall woman standing over me, making me drink milk still hot from the cow. I see another, less likely version of her, in an apron, pouring pancake batter into a frying pan, asking would I like another, the way my mother sometimes does when she is in good humor. The man will be her size. He will take me to town on the tractor and buy me red lemonade and crisps. Or he'll make me clean out sheds and pick stones and pull ragweed and docks out of the fields. I wonder if they live in an old farmhouse or a new bungalow, whether they will have an outhouse or an indoor bathroom, with a toilet and running water.
An age, it seems, passes before the car slows and turns in to a tarred, narrow lane, then slams over the metal bars of a cattle grid. On either side, thick hedges are trimmed square. At the end of the lane, there's a white house with trees whose limbs are trailing the ground.
"Da," I say. "The trees."
"What about them?"
"They're sick," I say.
"They're weeping willows," he says, and clears his throat.
On the housefront, tall, shiny windowpanes reflect our coming. I see myself looking out from the back seat, as wild as a tinker's child, with my hair all undone, but my father, at the wheel, looks just like my father. A big, loose hound lets out a few rough, halfhearted barks, then sits on the step and looks back at the doorway, where the man has come out to stand. He has a square body like the men my sisters sometimes draw, but his eyebrows are white, to match his hair. He looks nothing like my mother's people, who are all tall, with long arms, and I wonder if we have not come to the wrong house.
"Dan," he says, and tightens himself. "What way are you?"
"John," Da says.
They stand looking out over the yard for a moment and then they are talking rain: how little rain there is, how the priest in Kilmuckridge prayed for rain this very morning, how a summer like this was never before known. There is a pause, during which my father spits, and then the conversation turns to the price of cattle, the E.E.C., butter mountains, the cost of lime and sheep-dip. I am used to it, this way men have of not talking: they like to kick a divot out of the grass with a boot heel, to slap the roof of a car before it takes off, to sit with their legs wide apart, as though they do not care.
When the woman comes out, she pays no heed to the men. She is even taller than my mother, with the same black hair, but hers is cut tight like a helmet. She's wearing a printed blouse and brown, flared trousers. The car door is opened and I am taken out, and kissed.
"The last time I saw you, you were in the pram," she says, and stands back, expecting an answer.
"The pram's broken."
"What happened at all?"
"My brother used it for a wheelbarrow and the wheel fell off."
She laughs and licks her thumb and wipes something off my face. I can feel her thumb, softer than my mother's, wiping whatever it is away. When she looks at my clothes, I see my thin cotton dress, my dusty sandals through her eyes. Neither one of us knows what to say. A queer, ripe breeze is crossing the yard.
"Come on in, a leanbh."
She leads me into the house. There's a moment of darkness in the hallway; when I hesitate, she hesitates with me. We walk through into the heat of the kitchen, where I am told to sit down, to make myself at home. Under the smell of baking, there's some disinfectant, some bleach. She lifts a rhubarb tart out of the oven and puts it on the bench. Pale-yellow roses are as still as the jar of water they are standing in.
"So how is your mammy keeping?"
"She won a tenner on the prize bonds."
"She did not."
"She did," I say. "We all had jelly and ice cream and she bought a new tube for the bicycle."
I feel, again, the steel teeth of the comb against my scalp earlier that morning, the strength of my mother's hands as she wove my plaits tight, her belly at my back, hard with the next baby. I think of the clean pants she packed in the suitcase, the letter, and what she must have written. Words had passed between my mother and my father:
"How long should they keep her?"
"Can't they keep her as long as they like?"
"Is that what I'll say?"
"Say what you like. Isn't it what you always do."
Now the woman fills an enamel jug with milk.
"Your mother must be busy."
"She's waiting for them to come and cut the hay."
"Have ye not the hay cut?" she says. "Aren't ye late?"
As the men come in from the yard, it grows momentarily dark, then brightens once again when they sit down.
"Well, Missus," Da says, pulling out a chair.
"Dan," she says, in a different voice.
"There's a scorcher of a day."
" 'Tis hot, surely." She turns her back to watch the kettle, waiting.
"Wasn't it a great year for the hay all the same. Never saw the like of it," Da says. "The loft is full to capacity. I nearly split my head on the rafters pitching it in."
I wonder why my father lies about the hay. He is given to lying about things that would be nice, if they were true. Somewhere farther off, someone has started up a chainsaw and it drones on like a big, stinging wasp for a while. I wish I was out there, working. I am unused to sitting still and do not know what to do with my hands. Part of me wants my father to leave me here while another wants him to take me back, to what I know. I am in a spot where I can neither be what I always am nor turn into what I could be.
The kettle rumbles up to the boiling point, its steel lid clapping. Kinsella gets a stack of plates from the cupboard, opens a drawer and takes out knives and forks, teaspoons. He opens a jar of beetroot and puts it on a saucer with a little serving fork, leaves out sandwich spread and salad cream. Already there's a bowl of tomatoes and onions, chopped fine, a fresh loaf, ham, a block of red cheddar.
"And what way is Mary?" the woman says.
"Mary? She's coming near her time."
"I suppose the last babby is getting hardy?"
"Aye," Da says. "He's crawling. It's feeding them that's the trouble. There's no appetite like a child's and, believe you me, this one is no different."
"Ah, don't we all eat in spurts, the same as we grow," the woman says, as though this is something he should know.
"She'll ate but you can work her."
Kinsella looks up at his wife. "There'll be no need for any of that," he says. "The child will have no more to do than help Edna around the house."
"We'll keep the child gladly," the woman echoes. "She's welcome here."
When we sit in at the table, Da tastes the ham and reaches for the beetroot. He doesn't use the serving fork but pitches it onto the plate with his own. It stains the pink ham, bleeds. Tea is poured. There's a patchy silence as we eat, our knives and forks breaking up what's on our plates. After some little scraps of speech, the tart is cut. Cream falls over the hot pastry, into warm pools.
Now that my father has delivered me and eaten his fill, he is anxious to light his fag and get away. Always, it's the same: he never stays in any place long after he's eaten, not like my mother, who would talk until it grew dark and light again. This, at least, is what my father says. I have never known it to happen. With my mother it is all work: us, the butter-making, the dinners, the washing up and getting up and getting ready for Mass and school, weaning calves, and hiring men to plow and harrow the fields, stretching the money and setting the alarm for a time before the sun rises. But this is a different type of house. Here there is room to think. There may even be money to spare.
"I'd better hit the road," Da says.
"What hurry is on you?" Kinsella says.
"The daylight is burning, and I've yet the spuds to spray."
"There's no fear of blight these evenings," the woman says, but she gets up anyway, and goes out the back door with a sharp knife. A silence climbs between the men while she is gone.
"Give this to Mary," she says, coming in. "I'm snowed under with rhubarb, whatever kind of year it is."
My father takes the rhubarb from her, but it is as awkward as the baby in his arms. A stalk falls to the floor and then another. He waits for her to pick them up, to hand them to him. She waits for him to do it himself. In the end, it's Kinsella who stoops. "There now," he says.
Out in the yard, my father throws the rhubarb onto the back seat, gets in behind the wheel, and starts the engine. "Good luck to ye," he says. "I hope this girl will give no trouble." He turns to me. "Try not to fall into the fire, you."
I watch him reverse, turn in to the lane, and drive away. Why did he leave without so much as a goodbye or ever mentioning when he would come back for me?
"What's ailing you, child?" the woman says.
I look at my feet, dirty in my sandals.
Kinsella stands in close. "Whatever it is, tell us. We won't mind."
"Lord God Almighty, didn't he go and forget all about your wee bits and bobs!" the woman says. "No wonder you're in a state. Well, hasn't he a head like a sieve, the same man."
"Not a word about it," Kinsella says. "We'll have you togged out in no time."
When I follow the woman back inside, I want her to say something, to put me at ease. Instead, she clears the table, picks up the sharp knife, and stands at the window, washing the blade under the running tap. She stares at me as she wipes it clean and puts it away.
"Now, girleen," she says. "I think it's nearly time you had a bath."
She takes me upstairs to a bathroom, plugs the drain, and turns the taps on full. "Hands up," she says, and pulls my dress off.
She tests the water and I step in, trusting her, but the water is too hot, and I step back out.
"Get in," she says.
"It's too hot."
"You'll get used to it."
I put one foot through the steam and feel, again, the same rough scald. I keep my foot in the water, and then, when I think I can't stand it any longer, my thinking changes, and I can. The water is deeper than any I have ever bathed in. Our mother bathes us in what little she can, and makes us share. After a while, I lie back and through the steam watch the woman as she scrubs my feet. The dirt under my nails she scrapes out with tweezers. She squeezes shampoo from a plastic bottle, lathers my hair, and rinses the lather off. Then she makes me stand and soaps me all over with a cloth. Her hands are like my mother's hands but there is something else in them, too, something I have never felt before and have no name for. This is a new place, and new words are needed.
"Now your clothes," she says.
"I don't have any clothes."
"Of course you don't." She pauses. "Would some of our old things do you for now?"
"I don't mind."
"Good girl."
She takes me to a bedroom, at the other side of the stairs, and looks through a chest of drawers.
"Maybe these will fit you."
She is holding a pair of old-fashioned trousers and a new plaid shirt. The sleeves and legs are a bit too long but the waist tightens with a canvas belt, to fit me.
"There now," she says.
"Mammy says I have to change my pants every day."
"And what else does your mammy say?"
"She says you can keep me for as long as you like."
She laughs at this and brushes the knots out of my hair, and turns quiet. The windows are open and I see a stretch of lawn, a vegetable garden, edible things growing in rows, spiky yellow dahlias, a crow with something in his beak which he slowly breaks in two and eats.
"Come down to the well with me," she says.
"Does now not suit you?"
Something about the way she says this makes me wonder if it's something that we are not supposed to do.
"Is this a secret?"
"I mean, am I not supposed to tell?"
She turns me around, to face her. I have not really looked into her eyes until now. Her eyes are dark blue, pebbled with other blues. In this light she has a mustache.
"There are no secrets in this house, do you hear?"
I don't want to answer back but feel she wants an answer.
"Do you hear me?"
"It's not 'yeah.' It's 'yes.' What is it?"
"It's yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, there are no secrets in this house."
"Where there's a secret," she says, "there's shame, and shame is something we can do without."
"O.K." I take big breaths so I won't cry.
She puts her arm around me. "You're just too young to understand."
As she says this, I realize that she is just like everyone else, and I wish I was back at home so that the things that I do not understand could be the same as they always are.
Downstairs, she fetches a zinc bucket from the scullery. At first I feel uneasy in the strange clothes, but, walking along, I forget. Kinsella's fields are broad and level, divided with electric fences that she says I must not touch, unless I want a shock. When the wind blows, sections of the longer grass bend over, turning silver. On one strip of land, bony Friesian cows stand all around us, grazing. They have huge bags of milk and long teats. I can hear them pulling the grass up from the roots. Neither one of us talks, the way people sometimes don't, when they are happy. As soon as I have this thought, I realize that its opposite is also true. We climb over a stile and follow a dry path through the grass to a small iron gate, where stone steps run down to a well. The woman leaves the bucket on the grass and comes down with me.
"Look," she says. "There's not a finer well in the parish. Who'd ever know there wasn't so much as a shower since the first of the month?"
I go down steps until I reach the water.
"Taste it," she says.
Hanging above us is a big ladle, a shadow cupped in the steel. I reach up and take it from the nail. She holds the belt of my trousers so I won't fall in.
"It's deep," she says. "Be careful."
I dip the ladle and bring it to my lips. This water is as cool and clean as anything I have ever tasted. I dip it again and lift it level with the sunlight. I drink six measures of water and wish, for now, that this place without shame or secrets could be my home. She takes me back up the steps, then goes down alone. I hear the bucket floating on its side for a moment before it sinks and swallows, making a grateful sound, a glug, before it's pulled out and lifted.
That night, I expect her to make me kneel down but instead she tucks me in and tells me that I can say a few little prayers in my bed, if that is what I ordinarily do. The light of the day is still bright and strong. She is just about to hang a blanket over the curtain rail, to block it out, when she pauses. "Would you rather I left it?"
"Yeah," I say. "Yes."
"Are you afraid of the dark?"
I want to say that I am afraid but am too afraid to say so.
"Never mind," she says. "It doesn't matter. You can use the toilet past our room but there's a chamber pot here, too, if you'd prefer."
"I'll be all right," I say.
"Is your mammy all right?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your mammy. Is she all right?"
"She used to get sick in the mornings but now she doesn't."
"Why isn't the hay in?"
"She hasn't enough to pay the man. She only just paid him for last year."
"God help her." She smooths the sheet across me, sighs. "Do you think she'd be offended if I sent her a few bob?"
"What's 'offended?' "
"Would she mind?"
I think about this for a while. "She wouldn't, but Da would."
"Ah, yes," she says. "Your father."
She kisses me, a plain kiss, then says good night. I sit up when she is gone and look around the room. Trains of every color race across the wallpaper. There are no tracks for these trains, but, here and there, a small boy stands off in the distance, waving. He looks happy, but some part of me feels sorry for every version of him. I roll onto my side and, though I know that she wants neither, wonder if my mother will have a girl or a boy this time. I think of my sisters, who will not yet be in bed. I stay awake for as long as I can, then make myself get up and use the chamber pot, but only a dribble comes out. I go back to bed, more than half afraid, and fall asleep. At some point later in the night—it feels much later—the woman comes in. I grow still and breathe as though I have not wakened. I feel the mattress sinking, the weight of her on the bed. Quietly, she leans over me. "God help you, child. If you were mine, I'd never leave you alone with strangers."
All through the day, I help the woman around the house. She shows me the big white machine that plugs in, a freezer, where what she calls "perishables" can be stored for months without rotting. We make ice cubes, go over every inch of the floors with a hoovering machine, dig new potatoes, make coleslaw and two loaves, and then she takes the clothes in off the line while they are still damp and sets up a board and starts ironing. She does it all without rushing but she never really stops. Kinsella comes in and makes tea for us out of the well water and drinks it standing up, with a handful of Kimberley biscuits, then goes back out. Later, he comes in again, looking for me. "Is the wee girl there?" he calls.
I go to the door.
"Can you run?"
"Are you fast on your feet?" he says.
"Sometimes," I say.
"Well, run down there to the end of the lane, as far as the box, and run back."
"The box?" I say.
"The postbox. You'll see it there. Be as fast as you can."
I take off, racing, to the end of the lane and find the box and get the letters and race back. Kinsella is looking at his watch. "Not bad," he says, "for your first time."
He takes the letters from me. "Do you think there's money in any of these?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, you'd know if there was, surely. The women can smell money. Do you think there's news?"
"I wouldn't know," I say.
"Do you think there's a wedding invitation?"
I want to laugh.
"It wouldn't be yours anyhow," he says. "You're too young to be getting married. Do you think you'll get married?"
"I don't know," I say. "Mammy says I shouldn't take a present off a man."
Kinsella laughs. "She could be right there. Still and all, there's no two men the same. And it'd be a swift man that would catch you, Long Legs. We'll try you again tomorrow and see if we can't improve your time."
"I've to go faster?"
"Oh, aye," he says. "By the time you're ready for home you're to be as fast as a reindeer, so there'll not be a man in the parish will catch you without a long-handled net and a racing bike."
After supper and the nine-o'clock news, when Kinsella is reading his newspaper in the parlor, the woman sits me on her lap and idly strokes my bare feet.
"You have nice long toes," she says. "Nice feet."
She makes me lie down with my head on her lap and, with a hair clip, cleans the wax out of my ears.
"You could have planted a geranium in what was there," she says.
When she takes out the hairbrush, I can hear her counting under her breath to a hundred before she stops and plaits it loosely.
And so the days pass. I keep waiting for something to happen, for the ease I feel to end, but each day follows on much like the one before. We wake early with the sun coming in and have eggs of one kind or another with porridge and toast for breakfast. Kinsella puts on his cap and goes out to the yard to milk the cows, and myself and the woman make a list out loud of the jobs that need to be done: we pull rhubarb, make tarts, paint the skirting boards, take all the bedclothes out of the hot-press, hoover out the spiderwebs, and put all the clothes back in again, make scones, scrub the bathtub, sweep the staircase, polish the furniture, boil onions for onion sauce and put it in containers in the freezer, weed the flower beds, and, when the sun goes down, water things. Then it's a matter of supper and the walk across the fields to the well. Every evening, the television is turned on for the nine-o'clock news and then, after the forecast, I am told that it is time for bed.
One afternoon, while we are topping and tailing gooseberries for jam, Kinsella comes in from the yard and washes and dries his hands and looks at me in a way he has never looked before.
"I think it's past time we got you togged out, girl."
I am wearing a pair of navy-blue trousers and a blue shirt that the woman pulled out of the chest of drawers.
"What's wrong with her?" the woman says.
"Tomorrow's Sunday, and she'll need something more than that for Mass," he says. "I'll not have her going as she went last week."
"Sure, isn't she clean and tidy?"
"You know what I'm talking about, Edna." He sighs. "Why don't you go up and change and I'll run us into Gorey."
The woman keeps on picking the gooseberries from the colander, stretching her hand out, but a little more slowly each time, for the next one. At one point I think she will stop, but she keeps on until she is finished and then she gets up and places the colander on the sink and lets out a sound I've never heard anyone make, and slowly goes upstairs.
Kinsella looks at me and smiles a hard kind of a smile. His eyes are not quite still in his head. It's as though there is a big piece of trouble stretching itself out in the back of his mind. He toes the leg of a chair and looks over at me. "You should wash your hands and face before you go to town," he says. "Didn't your father even bother to teach you that much?"
I freeze in the chair, waiting for something much worse to happen, but Kinsella just stands there, locked in the wash of his own speech. As soon as he turns, I race for the stairs, but when I reach the bathroom the door won't open.
"It's all right," the woman says after a while from inside, and then, shortly afterward, opens it. "Sorry for keeping you." She has been crying but she isn't ashamed. "It'll be nice for you to have some clothes of your own," she says then, wiping her eyes. "And Gorey is a nice town. I don't know why I didn't think of taking you there before now."
Town is a crowded place with a wide main street. Outside the shops, many different things are hanging in the sun. There are plastic nets full of beach balls, blow-up toys, and beds that float. A see-through dolphin looks as though he is shivering in a cold breeze. There are plastic spades and matching buckets, molds for sandcastles, grown men digging ice cream out of tubs with little plastic spoons, a van with a man calling, "Fresh fish!"
Kinsella reaches into his pocket and hands me something. "You'll get a choc-ice out of that."
I open my hand and stare at the pound note.
"Couldn't she buy half a dozen choc-ices out of that," the woman says.
"Ah, what is she for, only for spoiling?" Kinsella says.
"What do you say?" the woman says.
"Thanks," I say. "Thank you."
"Well, stretch it out and spend it well," Kinsella says, laughing.
The woman takes me to the draper's and picks out five cotton dresses and some pants and trousers and a few tops. We go behind a curtain so that I can try them on.
"Isn't she tall?" the assistant says.
"We're all tall," the woman says.
"She's the spit and image of her mammy. I can see it now," the assistant says, and then decides that the lilac dress is the best fit and the most flattering. Mrs. Kinsella agrees. She buys me a printed blouse, too, with short sleeves, blue trousers, and a pair of black leather shoes with a little strap and a buckle, some pants, and white ankle socks. The assistant hands her the docket, and she takes out her purse and pays for it all.
"Well may you wear," the assistant says. "Isn't your mammy good to you?"
I don't know how to answer.
Out in the street, the sun feels strong again, blinding. We meet people the woman knows. Some of them stare at me and ask who I am. One has a new baby in a pushchair. The woman bends down and coos, and he slobbers a little and starts to cry.
"He's making strange," the mother says. "Don't you mind."
We meet a woman with eyes like picks, who asks whose child I am. When she is told, she says, "Ah, isn't she company for you all the same, God help you."
Mrs. Kinsella stiffens, then says, "You must excuse me but this man of mine is waiting, and you know what these men are like."
"Like fecking bulls, they are," the woman says. "Haven't an ounce of patience."
"God forgive me but if I ever run into that woman again it will be too soon," Mrs. Kinsella says, when we have rounded the corner.
Before we go back to the car she leaves me loose in a sweetshop. I take my time choosing what I want.
"You got a right load there," she says, when I come out.
Kinsella has parked in the shade and is sitting with the windows open, reading the newspaper. "Well?" he says. "Did ye get sorted?"
"Aye," she says.
"Grand," he says.
I give him the choc-ice and her the Flake and lie on the back seat eating the wine gums, careful not to choke as we cross over bumps in the road. I listen to all the change rattling around in my pocket, the wind rushing through the car, and the little pieces of speech, scraps of gossip, being shared between them in the front.
When we turn in to the yard, another car is parked outside the door. A woman is on the front step, pacing, with her arms crossed.
"Isn't that Harry Redmond's girl?"
"I don't like the look of this," Kinsella says.
"Oh, John," she says, rushing over. "I'm sorry to trouble you but didn't our Michael pass away and there's not a soul at home. They're all out on the combines and won't be back till God knows what hour, and I've no way of getting word to them. We're rightly stuck. Would you ever come down and give us a hand digging the grave?"
"I don't know that this'll be any place for you but I can't leave you here," the woman says, later the same day. "So get ready and we'll go, in the name of God."
I go upstairs and change into my new dress and my ankle socks and shoes.
"Don't you look nice," she says, when I come down. "John's not always easy but he's hardly ever wrong."
Walking down the road, we pass houses with their doors and windows wide open, long, flapping clotheslines, gravelled entrances to other lanes. Outside a cottage, a black dog with curls all down his back comes out and barks at us, hotly, through the bars of a gate. At the first crossroads, we meet a heifer, who panics and races past us, lost. All through the walk, the wind blows hard and soft and hard again, through the tall, flowering hedges, the high trees. In the fields, the combines are out cutting the wheat, the barley, and the oats, saving the corn, leaving behind long rows of straw. Farther along, we meet two bare-chested men, their eyes so white in faces that are tanned and dusty. The woman stops to greet them and tells them where we are going.
"Well, it must be a relief to the man, to be out of his misery."
"Sure, didn't he reach his three score and ten?" the other says. "What more can any of us hope for?"
We keep on walking, standing in tight to the hedges, the ditches, letting things pass.
"Have you been to a wake before?" the woman asks.
"I don't think so."
"Well, I might as well tell you. There will be a dead man in a coffin and lots of people and some of them might have a little too much taken."
"What will they be taking?"
"Drink," she says.
When we come to the house, several men are leaning against a low wall, smoking. There's a black ribbon on the door, but, when we go in, the kitchen is bright and packed with people who are talking. The woman who asked Kinsella to dig the grave is there, making sandwiches. There are bottles of red and white lemonade and stout, and, in the middle of all this, a big wooden box with a dead old man lying inside it. His hands are joined, as though he had died praying, a string of rosary beads around his fingers. Some of the men are sitting around the coffin, using the part that's closed as a counter on which to rest their glasses. One of these is Kinsella.
"There she is," he says. "Long Legs. Come over here."
He pulls me onto his lap, and gives me a sip from his glass. "Do you like the taste of that?"
He laughs. "Good girl. Don't ever get a taste for it. If you start, you might never stop, and then you'd wind up like the rest of us."
He pours red lemonade into a cup for me. I sit on his lap, drinking it and eating queen cakes out of the biscuit tin and looking at the dead man, hoping that his eyes will open.
The people drift in and out, shaking hands, drinking and eating and looking at the dead man, saying what a lovely corpse he is, and doesn't he look happy now that his agony is over, and who was it who laid him out? They talk of the forecast and the moisture content of corn, of milk quotas and the next general election. I feel myself getting heavy on Kinsella's lap. "Am I getting heavy?"
"Heavy?" he says. "You're like a feather, child. Stay where you are."
I put my head against him but I'm bored and wish there were things to do, other girls who would play.
"She's getting uneasy," I hear the woman say.
"What's ailing her?" another says.
"Ah, it's no place for the child, really," she says. "It's just I didn't like not to come, and I wouldn't leave her behind."
"Sure, I'll take her home with me, Edna. I'm going now. Can't you call in and collect her on your way?"
"Oh," she says. "I don't know should I."
"Mine'd be a bit of company for her. Can't they play away out the back? And that man there won't budge as long as he has her on his knee."
Mrs. Kinsella laughs. I have never really heard her laugh till now.
"Sure, maybe, if you don't mind, Mildred," she says. "What harm is in it? And we'll not be long after you."
"Not a bother," Mildred says.
When we are out on the road, and the goodbyes are said, Mildred strides on into a pace I can just about keep, and as soon as she rounds the bend the questions start. Hardly is one answered before the next is fired: "Which room did they put you into? Did Kinsella give you money? How much? Does she drink at night? Does he? Are they playing cards up there much? Do ye say the Rosary? Does she put butter or margarine in her pastry? Where does the old dog sleep? Is the freezer packed solid? Does she skimp on things or is she allowed to spend? Are the child's clothes still hanging in the wardrobe?"
I answer them all easily, until the last. "The child's clothes?"
"Aye," she says. "If you're sleeping in his room you must surely know. Did you not look?"
"Well, she had clothes I wore for all the time I was here, but we went to Gorey this morning and bought new things."
"This rig-out you're wearing now? God Almighty," she says. "Anybody would think you were going on for a hundred."
"I like it," I say. "They told me it was flattering."
"Flattering, is it? Well. Well," she says. "I suppose it is, after living in the dead's clothes all this time."
"The Kinsellas' young lad, you dope. Did you not know?"
I don't know what to say.
"That must have been some stone they rolled back to find you. Sure, didn't he follow that auld hound of theirs into the slurry tank and drown? That's what they say happened anyhow," she says.
I keep on walking and try not to think about what she has said, even though I can think of little else. The time for the sun to go down is hours from now but the day feels like it is ending. I look at the sky and see the sun, still high, and, far away, a round moon coming out.
"They say John got the gun and took the hound down the field but he hadn't the heart to shoot him, the softhearted fool."
We walk on between the bristling hedges, in which small things seem to rustle and move. Chamomile grows along these ditches, wood sage and mint, plants whose names my mother somehow found the time to teach me. Farther along, the same heifer is still lost, in a different part of the road. Soon we come to the place where the black dog is barking through the gate. "Shut up and get in, you," she says to him.
It's a cottage she lives in, with uneven slabs of concrete outside the front door, overgrown shrubs and red-hot pokers growing tall. Here I must watch my head, my step. When we go in, the place is cluttered and an older woman is smoking at the cooker. There's a baby in a high chair. He lets out a cry when he sees the woman and drops a handful of marrowfat peas over the edge. "Look at you," she says. "The state of you."
I'm not sure if it's the woman or the child she is talking to. She takes off her cardigan and sits down and starts talking about the wake: who was there, the type of sandwiches that were made, the queen cakes, the corpse who was lying up crooked in the coffin and hadn't even been shaved properly, how they had plastic rosary beads for him, the poor fucker.
I don't know whether to sit or stand, to listen or leave, but just as I'm deciding what to do the dog barks and the gate opens and Kinsella comes in, stooping under the doorframe. "Good evening all," he says.
"Ah, John," the woman says. "You weren't long. We're only in the door. Aren't we only in the door, child?"
Kinsella hasn't taken his eyes off me. "Thanks, Mildred. It was good of you to take her home."
"It was nothing," the woman says. "She's a quiet young one, this."
"She says what she has to say, and no more. May there be many like her," he says. "Are you ready to come home, Petal?"
I follow him out to the car, where the woman is waiting. "Were you all right in there?" she says.
I say I was.
"Did she ask you anything?"
"A few things, nothing much."
"What did she ask you?"
"She asked me if you used butter or margarine in your pastry."
"Did she ask you anything else?"
"She asked me was the freezer packed tight."
"There you are," Kinsella says.
"Did she tell you anything?" the woman asks.
I don't know what to say.
"What did she tell you?"
"She told me you had a little boy who followed the dog into the slurry tank and died, and that I wore his clothes to Mass last Sunday."
When we get home, the hound comes out to the car to greet us, and I realize that I've not yet heard either one of them call him by his name. Kinsella sighs and goes off, stumbling a little, to milk. When he comes inside, he says he's not ready for bed. He puts what I realize is the boy's jacket on me.
"What are you doing now?" the woman says.
"I'm taking her as far as the strand."
"You'll be careful with that girl, John Kinsella," she says. "And don't you go without the lamp."
"What need is there for a lamp on a night like tonight?" he says, but he takes it anyhow, as it's handed to him.
There's a big moon shining on the yard, chalking our way onto the lane and along the road. Kinsella takes my hand in his. As he does it, I realize that my father has never once held my hand, and some part of me wants Kinsella to let me go, so that I won't have to think about this. It's a hard feeling but, as we walk along, I settle and let the difference between my life at home and the one I have here be.
When we reach the crossroads, we turn right, down a steep hill. The wind is high and hoarse in the trees, tearing fretfully, making the dry boughs rise and swing. It's sweet to feel the open road falling away under us, knowing that we will, at its end, come to the sea. Kinsella says a few meaningless things along the way, then falls quiet, and time passes without seeming to pass, and then we are in a sandy, open space where people must park their cars. It is full of tire marks and potholes, a rubbish bin that seems not to have been emptied in a long time.
"We're almost there now, Petal."
He leads me up a hill, where tall rushes bend and shake. Then we are standing on the crest of a dark place where the land ends and there is a long strand and water, which I know is deep and stretches all the way to England. Far out, in the darkness, two bright lights are blinking.
Kinsella lets me go and I race down the dune to the place where the black sea hisses up into loud, frothy waves. I run toward them as they back away, and run back, shrieking, when they crash in. Kinsella catches up and takes my shoes off, then his own. We walk along the edge of the sea as it claws at the sand under our bare feet. At one point, he holds me on his shoulders and we go in until the water is up to his knees. Then he walks me back to the tide line, where the dunes begin. Many things have washed up here: plastic bottles, sticks and floats, and, farther on, a stable door whose bolt is broken.
"Some man's horse is loose tonight," Kinsella says. "You know the fishermen sometimes find horses out at sea. A man I know towed a colt in once and the horse lay down for a long time and then got up. And he was perfect.
"Strange things happen," he says. "A strange thing happened to you tonight, but Edna meant no harm. It's too good, she is. She wants to believe in the good in others, and sometimes her way of finding out is to trust them, hoping she'll not be disappointed, but she sometimes is."
I don't know how to answer.
"You don't ever have to say anything," he says. "Always remember that. Many's the man lost much just because he missed a perfect opportunity to say nothing."
He laughs then, a queer, sad laugh.
Everything about the night feels strange: to walk to a sea that's always been there, to see it and feel it and fear it in the half-dark, to listen to this man telling me things—about horses being towed in from the deep, about his wife trusting others so she'll learn whom not to trust—things that I don't fully understand, things that may not even be intended for me.
As we turn to head back along the beach, the moon disappears behind a cloud and we cannot see where we are going. At this point, Kinsella lets out a sigh, stops, and lights the lamp.
"Ah, the women are nearly always right, all the same," he says. "Do you know what the women have a gift for?"
"Eventualities. A good woman can look far down the line and smell what's coming before a man even gets a sniff of it."
He shines the light along the strand to find our footprints and follow them back, but the only prints he can find are mine. "You must have carried me there," he says.
I laugh at the thought of my carrying him, at the impossibility, then realize that it was a joke, and I got it.
When the moon comes out again, he turns the lamp off and we easily find the path we took through the dunes. We stop at the top and he puts my shoes back on and then his own and knots the laces. We turn and look at the water.
"See, there's three lights there now, where there was only two before."
I look out across the sea. There, the two lights are still blinking, but with another, steady light, shining in between.
"Can you see it?" he says.
"I can," I say. "It's there."
And that is when he puts his arms around me and gathers me into them as though I were his.
After a week of rain, on a Thursday, the letter comes. It is not so much a surprise as a shock. Already I have seen the signs: the shampoo for head lice in the chemist's shop, the fine-tooth combs. In the gift gallery there are copybooks stacked high, Biros, rulers, mechanical-drawing sets. In the hardware, the lunchboxes and satchels and hurling sticks are left out front, where the women can see them.
We come home and take soup, dipping our bread, breaking it, slurping a little, now that we know one another. Afterward, I go with Kinsella out to the hay shed, where he makes me promise not to look while he is welding. I am following him around, I realize, but I cannot help it. It is past the time for the post to come but he does not suggest that I fetch it until evening, after the cows are milked and the milking parlor is swept and scrubbed. "I think it's time," he says, washing his boots with the hose.
I get into position, using the front step as a starting block. Kinsella looks at the watch and pulls down his handkerchief as if it was a flag. I race down the yard to the lane, make a tight corner, open the box, get the letters, and race back to the step, knowing that my time was not as fast as yesterday's.
"Nineteen seconds faster than your first run," Kinsella says. "And a two-second improvement on yesterday, despite the heavy ground. It's like the wind, you are." He takes the letters and goes through them, but today, instead of making jokes about what's inside of each, he pauses.
"Is that from Mammy?"
"You know," he says, "I think it could be."
"Do I have to go home?"
"Well, it's addressed to Edna, so why don't we give it in to her and let her read it."
We go into the parlor, where she is sitting with her feet up, looking through a book of knitting patterns. Kinsella slides the letter onto her lap. She opens it and reads it. It's one small sheet with writing on both sides. She puts it down, then picks it up and reads it again.
"Well," she says, "you have a new brother. Nine pounds two ounces. And school starts on Monday. Your mother has asked us to leave you up at the weekend so she can get you togged out and all."
"I have to go back, then?"
"Aye," she says. "But sure didn't you know that?"
I nod.
"You couldn't stay here forever with us two old forgeries."
I stand there and stare at the fire, trying not to cry. I don't so much hear as feel Kinsella leaving the room.
"Don't upset yourself," the woman says. "Come over here."
She shows me pages with knitted jumpers and asks me which pattern I like best, but all the patterns seem to blur together and I just point to one, a blue one, that looks like it might be easy.
"Well, you would pick the hardest one in the book," she says. "I'd better get started on that this week or you'll be too big for it by the time it's knitted."
Now that I know I must go home, I almost want to go. I wake earlier than usual and look out at the wet fields, the dripping trees, the hills, which seem greener than they did when I came. Kinsella hangs around all day, doing things but not really finishing anything. He says that he has no disks for his angle grinder, no welding rods, and he cannot find the vise grip. He says that he got so many jobs done in the long stretch of fine weather that there's little left to do.
We are out looking at the calves, who have been fed. With warm water, Kinsella has made up their milk replacement, which they suck from long rubber teats. They look content lying there in a fresh bed of straw.
"Could ye leave me back this evening?"
"This evening?" Kinsella says.
I nod.
"Any evening suits me," he says. "I'll take you whenever you want, Petal."
I look at the day. It is like any other, with a flat gray sky hanging over the yard and the wet hound on watch outside the front door.
"Well, I had better milk early, so," he says. "Right." And goes on down the yard past me as though I am already gone.
The woman gives me a brown leather bag. "You can keep this old thing," she says. "I never have a use for it."
We fold my clothes and place them inside, along with the Ladybird books we found on the stand at Webb's in Gorey: "The Three Billy Goats Gruff," "The Ugly Duckling," "Snow-White and Rose-Red." I can remember how the lines go, can match my memory of the words with the words that are written there. She gives me a bar of yellow soap and my facecloth, and the hairbrush she bought for me. As we gather all these things together, I remember where we got them, what was said, the days we spent, and how the sun, for most of the time, was shining.
Just then a car pulls into the yard. I am afraid to look, afraid it is my father, but it's a neighboring man. "Edna," he says, in a panic. "Is John about?"
"He's out at the milking," she says. "He should be finishing up now."
He runs across the yard, heavy in his Wellington boots, and minutes later Kinsella sticks his head around the door. "Joe Fortune needs a hand pulling a calf," he says. "Would you ever run out and finish the parlor off? I have the herd out."
"I will, surely," she says.
"I'll be back just as soon as I can."
"Don't I know you will."
She puts on her anorak and I watch her go down the yard. I wonder if I should go out to help but I come to the conclusion that I'd only be in the way. I sit in the armchair and look out to where a watery light is shining off the zinc bucket in the scullery. I could go to the well for water for her tea. It could be the last thing I do.
I put on the boy's jacket, take up the bucket, and walk down the fields. I know the way, could find the well with my eyes closed. When I cross the stile, the path does not look like the same path we followed on that first evening here. The way is muddy now and slippery in places. I trudge on along toward the little iron gate and down the steps. The water is much higher these days. I was on the fifth step that first evening here, but now I stand on the first and see the surface of the water reaching up and just about sucking the edge of the step that's one down from me. I bend with the bucket, letting it float then sink, as the woman does, but when I reach out to lift it another hand just like mine seems to come out of the water and pull me in.
It is not that evening or the following one but the evening after, on the Sunday, that I am taken home. When I come back from the well, soaked to the skin, the woman takes one look at me and turns very still before she gathers me up and takes me inside and makes up my bed again.
The following morning, I do not feel hot, but she keeps me upstairs, bringing me warm drinks with lemon and cloves and honey, aspirin.
" 'Tis nothing but a chill, she has," I hear Kinsella say.
"When I think of what could have happened."
"If you've said that once, you've said it a hundred times."
"Nothing happened, and the girl is grand. And that's the end of it."
I lie there with the hot-water bottle, listening to the rain and looking through my books, making up something slightly different to happen at the end of each, each time.
On Sunday, I am allowed to get up, and we pack everything again, as before. Toward evening, we have supper, and wash and change into our good clothes. The sun has come out, is lingering in long, cool slants, and the yard is dry in places. Sooner than I would like, we are ready and in the car, turning down the lane, going up through Gorey and on, along the narrow roads through Carnew and Shillelagh.
"That's where Da lost the red heifer playing cards," I say.
"Wasn't that some wager?" the woman says.
"It was some loss for him," Kinsella says.
When we get to our lane, the gates are closed and Kinsella gets out to open them, then closes them behind us, and drives on very slowly to the house. I feel, now, that the woman is trying to make up her mind whether she should say something to me, but I don't really have any idea what it is, and she gives me no clue. The car stops in front of the house, the dogs bark, and my sisters race out. I see my mother through the window, with what is now the second youngest in her arms.
Inside, the house feels damp and cold. The lino is tracked over with dirty footprints. Mammy stands there with my little brother, and looks at me. "You've grown," she says.
"Yes," I say.
" 'Yes,' is it?" she says, and raises her eyebrows.
She bids the Kinsellas good evening and tells them to sit down—if they can find a place to sit—and fills the kettle from the bucket under the kitchen table. We move playthings off the car seat under the window, and sit down. Mugs are taken off the dresser, a loaf of bread is sliced, butter and jam left out.
"Oh, I brought you jam," the woman says. "Don't let me forget to give it to you, Mary."
"I made this out of the rhubarb you sent down," Ma says. "That's the last of it."
"I should have brought more," the woman says. "I wasn't thinking."
"Where's the new addition?" Kinsella asks.
"Oh, he's up in the room there. You'll hear him soon enough."
"Is he sleeping through the night for you?"
"On and off," Ma says. "The same child could crow at any hour."
My sisters look at me as though I am an English cousin, coming over to touch my dress, the buckles on my shoes. They seem different, thinner, and have nothing to say. We sit in to the table and eat the bread and drink the tea. When a cry is heard from upstairs, Ma gives my brother to Mrs. Kinsella, and goes up to fetch the baby. He is pink and crying, his fists tight. He looks bigger than the last, stronger.
"Isn't there a fine child, God bless him," Kinsella says.
Ma pours more tea with one hand and sits down and takes her breast out for the baby. Her doing this in front of Kinsella makes me blush. Seeing me blush, Ma gives me a long, deep look.
"No sign of himself?" Kinsella says.
"He went out there earlier, wherever he's gone," Ma says.
A little bit of talk starts up then, little balls of speech they seem to kick uneasily back and forth. Soon after, a car is heard outside. Nothing more is said until my father appears, and throws his hat on the dresser.
"Evening, all," he says.
"Dan," Kinsella says.
"Ah, there's the prodigal child," he says. "You came back to us, did you?"
I say I did.
"Did she give trouble?"
"Trouble?" Kinsella says. "Good as gold, she was, the same girl."
"Is that so?" Da says, sitting down. "Well, isn't that a relief."
"You'll want to sit in," Mrs. Kinsella says, "and get your supper."
"I had a liquid supper," Da says, "down in Parkbridge."
I sneeze then, and reach into my pocket for my handkerchief, and blow my nose.
"Have you caught cold?" Ma asks.
"No," I say, hoarsely.
"You haven't?"
"Nothing happened."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't catch cold," I say.
"I see," she says, giving me another deep look.
"The child's been in bed for the last couple of days," Kinsella says. "Didn't she catch herself a wee chill."
"Aye," Da says. "You couldn't mind them. You know yourself."
"Dan," Ma says, in a steel voice.
Mrs. Kinsella looks uneasy.
"You know, I think it's nearly time that we were making tracks," Kinsella says. "It's a long road home."
"Ah, what's the big hurry?" Ma says.
"No hurry at all, Mary, just the usual. These cows don't give you any opportunity to have a lie-in."
He gets up then and takes my little brother from his wife and gives him to my father. My father takes the child and looks across at the baby suckling. I sneeze and blow my nose again.
"That's a right dose you came home with," Da says.
"It's nothing she hasn't caught before and won't catch again," Ma says. "Sure, isn't it going around?"
"Are you ready for home?" Kinsella asks.
Mrs. Kinsella stands then, and they say their goodbyes. I follow them out to the car with my mother, who still has the baby in her arms. Mrs. Kinsella takes out the cardboard box with the pots of jam. Kinsella lifts a four-stone sack of potatoes out of the boot. "These are floury," he says. "Queens they are, Mary."
My mother thanks them, saying it was a lovely thing they did, to keep me.
"The girl was welcome and is welcome again, anytime," the woman says.
"She's a credit to you, Mary," Kinsella says. "You keep your head in the books," he says to me. "I want to see gold stars on them copybooks next time I come up here." He gives me a kiss then, and the woman hugs me. I watch them getting into the car and closing the doors and I feel a start when the engine turns and the car begins to move away.
"What happened at all?" Ma says, now that the car is gone.
"Nothing," I say.
"Tell me."
"Nothing happened." This is my mother I am speaking to but I have learned enough, grown enough, to know that what happened is not something I need ever mention. It is my perfect opportunity to say nothing.
I hear the car braking on the gravel in the lane, the door opening, and then I am doing what I do best. It's nothing I have to think about. I take off from standing and race on down the lane. My heart feels not so much in my chest as in my hands. I am carrying it along swiftly, as though I have become the messenger for what is going on inside me. Several things flash through my mind: the boy on the wallpaper, the gooseberries, that moment when the bucket pulled me under, the lost heifer, the third light on the water. I think of my summer, of now, of a tomorrow that I can't entirely believe in.
As I am rounding the bend, reaching the point where I daren't look, I see him there, closing the gate, putting the clamp back on. His eyes are down, and he seems to be looking at his hands, at what he is doing. My feet batter on along the rough gravel, the strip of tatty grass in the middle of our lane. There is only one thing I care about now, and my feet are carrying me there. As soon as he sees me, he grows still. By the time I reach him, the gate is open and I am smack against him and lifted into his arms. For a long stretch, he holds me tight. I feel the thumping of my heart, my breaths coming out, then my heart and my breaths settling differently. At a point, which feels much later, a sudden gust blows through the trees and shakes big, fat raindrops over us. My eyes are closed now and I can feel him, the heat of him coming through his good clothes, can smell the soap on his neck. When I finally open my eyes and look over his shoulder, it is my father I see, coming along strong and steady, his walking stick in his hand. I hold on as though I'll drown if I let go, and listen to the woman, who seems, in her throat, to be taking it in turns sobbing and crying, as though she is crying not for one but for two now. I daren't keep my eyes open and yet I do, staring up the lane, past Kinsella's shoulder, seeing what he can't. If some part of me wants with all my heart to get down and tell the woman who has minded me so well that I will never, never tell, something deeper keeps me there in Kinsella's arms, holding on.
"Daddy," I keep calling him, keep warning him. "Daddy." ♦


text:
Oamaru i-SITE Visitor Information Centre
We provide a comprehensive, impartial information and booking service for the Waitaki District and New Zealand for accommodation, activities, attractions and travel bookings.
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The Oamaru i-SITE Visitor Centre is part of New Zealand's official nationwide Visitor Information Network.
There are a huge amount of reasons why you MUST VISIT Oamaru and the Waitaki District. Surrounded by stunning natural beauty and with some of New Zealand's best 19th century architecture, the district offers visitors a welcoming and friendly environment with a huge range of experiences to participate in and ENJOY. Because that is what it is all about – having a break, enjoying our wonderful landscapes, activities and attractions and having fun with family and friends. We look forward to welcoming you to our district.
Physical address
Oamaru i-SITE Visitor Information Centre, 1 Thames Street, Oamaru, Waitaki, New Zealand.
Opening times
- Business hours:
- Monday to Sunday 9.00am-5.00pm
Public Holidays 9.00am-5.00pm
Closed Christmas Day

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Visual Evidence, Damage Estimates, and Timeline Analysis (Appendices D-G) Federal Building and Fire Safety Investigation of the World Trade Center Disaster (NIST NCSTAR 1-5A)
Published: December 01, 2005
William M. Pitts, Kathryn M. Butler, Valentine Junker
This report summarizes the collection and analysis of visual material used for the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) World Trade Center (WTC) Investigation. The task consisted of four major subtasks: 1) identification, collection, data basing, and cataloging of visual material, 2) timing of material incorporated into the NIST visual database, 3) development of fire time lines and additional analyses based on the visual material, and 4) documentation. Procedures used for subtasks 1 and 2 are summarized. Two data bases were assembled containing 6,899 photographs and 6,977 video clips, with 3,279 of the photographs and 2,772 of the videos timed with 3 second or better accuracy. The primary output of the task is a series of Excel data sheets describing individual window observations (fire, smoke, and whether window is open or closed) on the four faces of both towers as a function of time. Fire behaviors are discussed and documented by a large number of images. Additional analyses include initial façade damage and fire behavior due to aircraft impacts, aircraft speeds, and the motion of WTC 2 resulting from the aircraft impact. Unusual fire behaviors are documented for both towers. Several hanging objects (possibly floor slabs) observed inside WTC 2 and their changes with time are described. Other observations, including falling victims, falling streamers, and smoke marks on façade columns, are documented and related to the observed fire behaviors.
Citation: National Construction Safety Team Act Reports (NIST NCSTAR) - 1-5Report Number:
NIST Pub Series: National Construction Safety Team Act Reports (NIST NCSTAR)
Pub Type: NIST Pubs
Download Paper
Created December 01, 2005, Updated February 19, 2017


text:
By Rodericus de Sancta Ella
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AC Milan goaded city rivals Inter by displaying a banner reading "18 titles all on the pitch" as the Rossoneri celebrated their scudetto triumph with a bus tour through the city before a 4-1 win over Cagliari on Saturday.
Milan, who won their first championship since 2004 the previous weekend, delighted thousands of flag-waving fans in the main square by using the sign to remind Inter one of their 18 titles was won in a courtroom in the 2006 match-fixing scandal.
Inter, who went on to win four more titles in a row, finished third that year, but were declared Serie A winners after Juventus were demoted in the Calciopoli affair and second-placed AC Milan had points deducted.
Saturday's other game saw SS Lazio's Brazilian midfielder Hernanes score twice in a 4-2 home win over Genoa to lift his side into the fourth Champions League qualifying spot.
Another round of matches remain in Italy, but the San Siro game meant nothing with Cagliari wallowing in mid-table so a party atmosphere was assured from the off, despite Milan missing out on a double by losing to Palermo in Tuesday's Coppa Italia semi-final.
Bazil's Robinho scored twice in the first half to add a samba rhythm to the festivities, while Gennaro Gattuso, in bother for a foul-mouthed rant against Inter coach and former Milan boss Leonardo the previous weekend, popped up with a rare goal in between.
Andrea Cossu pulled one back for Cagliari, bossed by former Milan hero Roberto Donadoni and the previous employers of Milan coach Massimiliano Allegri, but the celebrations were not to be dampened as a sea of red and black clad fans sang their hearts out.
Clarence Seedorf, one of a number of elder statesmen at Milan whose contracts are up, bagged the fourth after the break, while Filippo Inzaghi received a standing ovation after making his comeback from a knee injury sustained in November.
Milan were awarded the Serie A trophy amid a fanfare after the match, with proud owner Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi in attendance.
"I above all wanted the lads to finish off in style at home, in front of the fans and the club president who came to see his team, and they've done it in the best of ways," Allegri told reporters.
Lazio, who visit struggling Lecce in their final game next weekend, moved to 63 points.
Giuseppe Biava had put the hosts ahead after six minutes, but Rodrigo Palacio soon leveled for mid-table Genoa, only for Tommaso Rocchi and Hernanes with a brace to net for Lazio in the second half. Antonio Floro Flores grabbed a late consolation.
Lazio, who flirted with the drop last term, lost 2-1 at Udinese the previous weekend.
Club president Claudio Lotito was booed by his own fans during the Genoa game amid speculation the Romans may be forced to play European games in Florence next season because of unpaid bills at Rome's Stadio Olimpico.
In yesterday's early kickoff, Bologna's Serie A survival was still in the balance after they drew 1-1 at local rivals Fiorentina.
Bologna have a six-point gap to Sampdoria in the last relegation place, meaning they can still be overtaken by the Genoese.
Alessio Cerci opened the scoring for hosts Fiorentina on 20 minutes, but Gaston Ramirez equalized five minutes into the second period.
Soon after, Ramirez was dismissed for a second booking, leaving Bologna to hold on for more than 35 minutes with a numerical disadvantage.


text:
273 Altezze Drive, Truganina
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Octave 18
Combining modern architectural elements with innovative building materials, the Octave terrace homes represent a new standard in contemporary and affordable Australian design. The simple and balanced composition, bold black window frames and timeless grey colour palette, featuring dark painted architectural cladding, creates a striking urban streetscape.
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273 Altezze Drive
Truganina VIC 3029
Standard Quality Inclusions
Australia's finest products and services used throughout every home we build
Built by quality trades people
Homeowners Warranty Insurance
HIA new home building contract
6 star energy rating on any orientation
Termite protection to all slab penetrations
Engineer's soil report and footing design, contour survey, building permit issued by registered building surveyor and water authority permits
Engineer designed class M concrete waffle slab
Site levelling on blocks with up to 300mm fall over the house area
Connection of services within the property boundaries to underground power, water, sewer up to 1500mm deep, and gas if available based on a 650m² block with a 5500mm front setback
Traditional facade included
Single or double garage with sectional overhead Colorbond door with remote control and two hand sets
Brickwork over most windows and external doors except garage - facade dependant. Some homes will vary - refer to working drawings for details
Integrated concrete slab to outdoor living area. Some homes will vary - refer to working drawings for details
Exposed aggregate driveway, path and porch with a 5500mm setback
22.5˚ roof pitch included in all homes. Some homes will vary - refer to working drawings for details
Solar hot water system with storage tank, two roof mounted collectors and continuous flow mains pressure gas booster
Wide selection of concrete roof tiles (colour on) from builder's category 1 range
Wide selection of concrete roof tiles (colour on) from builder's category 1 range
Metal fascia & barge, quad gutter & rectangular downpipes
Two external garden taps - front & rear
100mm PVC Conduit under driveway
Full painting with quality paint to ceilings, walls, doors, door frames, woodwork, eaves, and meterbox
Stabilised machine graded pine wall frame (superior product used to reduce frame movement and ensure straighter walls) with roof trusses
Timber look laminate flooring to living areas and front entry from builders category 1 range
Carpet to bedrooms and passage from builders category 1 range
Nylon mesh flyscreens to all sliding windows and sliding doors
Vertical or roller blinds to all sliding doors and windows (excluding laundry)
Gas ducted heating, mounted in roof space ducted to living areas and bedrooms, with digital manual thermostat and return air
2400mm high ceilings throughout with 75mm scotia cornice
Walk-in robe with melamine shelf and hanging rail, or built-in robe with hinged or vinyl sliding door, melamine shelf and hanging rail
Linen cupboard with door and four white melamine shelves
One TV point including 5000mm of coaxial cable in roof space
One telephone point
Ample light and double power points
Approved electricity safety switch and circuit breakers to meter box
Hard wired electronic smoke detectors
67mm skirtings and 42mm architraves (single bevelled MDF)
Insulation to walls and ceiling as required to achieve 6 star energy rating. Some homes will vary - refer to working drawings for details
Draught weather seals to all external doors
75mm air cushion doorstops to external and internal doors
Feature front entry door with quality lever handle
Deadlocks to all external doors
Superior quality aluminium sliding doors and windows with locks and energy efficient weather seals to all openings
2040mm high flush panel internal doors
Quality chrome lever passage sets including privacy latch to bathroom, WC, and ensuite WC doors
600mm wide stainless steel electric oven, under bench or wall mounted as per plan
600mm wide stainless steel gas cooktop
600mm wide stainless steel slideout rangehood with overhead cupboards (includes tiling to underside of rangehood)
Deluxe double bowl stainless steel sink with chrome mixer (1 ½ bowl for double storey homes)
Dishwasher provision with cold water supply & single power point
White lined kitchen cupboards with a huge selection of 33mm thick laminated benchtops and cupboards with architectural handles from the builders category 1 range
Laminated kick rail
Overhead cupboards to fridge space
Showers with 2100mm high tiling and tiled shower base
2000mm high semi frameless shower screen with pivot door and clear laminated safety glass
Ceramic tiling to floors and skirtings of ensuite, bathroom, WC and laundry - selected from builder's category 1 range
White acrylic bath
White vitreous china inset basins
Vanities to bathroom & ensuite with laminated benchtops & doors with architectural handles from the builders category 1 range
Polished edge mirror above vanity benchtops to match height of shower screen
Designer chrome mixer tapware to basins, bath and shower with deluxe hand held slide rail
White vitreous china toilet pan & cistern
Chrome towel rail to bathroom and ensuite
Chrome toilet roll holder to WC & ensuite
Exhaust fan to bathroom and ensuite over shower
Translucent glazing to WC with clear glazing to remainder of home/windows
42 litre stainless steel trough and white metal cabinet
Concealed washing machine taps


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Event Navigation
Ukulele Group Lessons – Advanced with Sally Mackay
July 13, 10:30 am - 11:15 am
|Recurring Event (See all)
An event every week that begins at 10:30 am on Saturday, repeating until December 31, 2019
Instructor: Sally Mackay
Price: $15 for 45 minutes
Date(s): Saturdays, 10:30am-11:15am
Description: These are groups of six to fifteen students. We have a lot of fun while learning to play chords, different strumming patterns and picking. We play chord charts, tablature and notes.
Please contact Sally Mackay for more information 386-235-4140.


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Makes 20 pieces or enough to serve 6
There are many ways to stack this snack. One is a grilled or fried Spam slice on a ball of rice, wrapped with roasted seaweed. Another is a sandwich-like layering of rice and Spam, also wrapped with seaweed. This version, from Susumu Ito, uses short-grain Japanese rice, sometimes labeled "sushi rice," and a kind of teriyaki called Mr. Yoshida's Original Gourmet Sweet and Savory cooking sauce. He has a plexiglass mold designed specifically for spam musubi (about $7 at Houserice.com), or use the Spam can as the form. Remove the Spam, with a can opener, carefully snip out and discard the bottom. Smooth any jagged edges with the tip of a knife. Wash in warm soapy water (mind your fingers), and dry with paper towels. To fill, place the can bottom side down.
|cups short-grain Japanese rice
|cups plus 2 tablespoons water
1. In a mesh sieve set in a bowl in the sink, set the rice. With the water running, gently swish your hand in the rice; the water will turn milky. Lift the sieve and shake off the water. Repeat 3 times. Drain and set aside for 20 minutes.
2. In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine the rice and the water with the cover askew. Cook the rice over medium high heat for 10 minutes. Turn the heat to low and continue cooking for 10 minutes more. Remove the rice from the heat, cover, and set aside for 10 minutes.
3. Fluff the rice with a wooden spoon. (Use it warm.)
|Half of a 12-ounce can Spam or Spam Lite
|cup bottled teriyaki sauce
|teaspoon wasabi powder mixed to a paste with 1 teaspoon water
|cup mayonnaise
|sheets nori (roasted seaweed)
|cup red pickled ginger (kizami shoga), drained (available at Asian markets)
|tablespoons Japanese Rice Seasoning (furikake) (available at Asian markets)
1. Pull off the Spam lid and gently slip a knife around the edges and sides to loosen it from the can. Over a plate, shake the can so the block comes out in one piece. With a thin knife, slice the Spam lengthwise into 5 pieces, each ¼ inch. (You will use half the block. Place the remaining Spam in an airtight container and refrigerate to use in other dishes, like fried rice.)
2. In a skillet over medium heat, brown the Spam for 1 minute on each side. Add the teriyaki sauce and cook, turning occasionally, for 2 minutes or until the sauce almost evaporates. Transfer to a plate.
3. Have on hand a bowl of cold water and a ⅓ -cup measure.
4. In another small bowl mix the wasabi paste and mayonnaise.
5. Fold the nori sheets in half horizontally and with scissors cut in half along the fold.
6. Set a half sheet of nori, shiny-side down, horizontally in front of you. Place the musubi mold or Spam can in the middle of the nori in a vertical position. Dip the measure into the water and shake off the excess. Scoop ⅓ cup of rice and make a bed in the bottom of the mold. Dip a spoon into the water and tamp down the rice. Add a slice of Spam, a little wasabi mayonnaise, about 1 teaspoon of pickled ginger, and 1 teaspoon of rice seasoning.
7. Dip the measure into water, shake off, and scoop another ⅓ cup of rice. Spread over the seasonings. With the back of a wet spoon, firmly tamp down the rice. If using a musubi press, dip the flat lid into the water, shake off, and tamp down on the rice.
8. Carefully lift the mold or can off the rice. With a wet finger dab the right edge of the nori. Bring the left side up and over the rice. Bring the right side up to overlap the left side. Lightly press down on the seam. Set the finished musubi on a tray, lightly covered with plastic wrap. Repeat with the remaining nori, rice, Spam, and seasonings.
9. To cut the musubi, wet a paper towel and moisten the edge of a knife (not serrated). Cut the block in half. Wet the knife again and cut each piece in half to make 4 pieces. Continue with the other blocks. Arrange the slices on a platter. Serve with cucumber pickles. Adapted from Susumu Ito


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Ohio Midwestern took a 1-0 lead in the 30th minute when they played a through ball to Kara McClain and caught the Clippers defense out of position. McClain was able to score easily off the breakaway they created. The Clippers held Midwestern for the rest of the first half. In the 50th minute Midwestern caught the Clipper's defense sleeping again playing a through ball to Sydney Kurz who put the ball past the keeper to put Ohio Midwestern ahead 2-0. Kurz put the game away six minutes later when Ohio Midwestern slotted a ball through again to make it 3-0. Kurz went on to score twice more in the last 10 minutes as the Clippers fell to Ohio Midwestern 5-0.
Clippers lose to Ohio Midwestern College in the National Tournament
Nov 03, 2011


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The perils of re-writing another news outlet's work were on full display this week in an article that appeared in the New York Daily News. Based upon a news story broadcast by Buffalo's WGRZ-TV, "Call him 'The God Father': Husband and dad will become Roman Catholic priest -- and take vow of celibacy" reports that a former Episcopal priest who upon his re-ordination as a Catholic priest will begin a "sex-free life", is filled with errors of fact and false assumptions about sacerdotal celibacy. It is not clear at what point the errors entered into the food chain. Perhaps the subject of the story John Cornelius misspoke; perhaps WGRZ-TV misstated the quotes -- or it may have be the fault of the Daily News. Whatever the reason, the only trustworthy fact that I would take away from this story is that former Episcopal priest John Cornelius will be re-ordained as a Roman Catholic priest on 26 Jan 2013.
Beware of everything else.
Let's start with the lede.
John Cornelius will be ordained a Roman Catholic priest this weekend — and with the blessing of his wife they're giving up their sex life. Cornelius, a father of three, will become the first married Roman Catholic priest in New York -- and Sharyl, his wife of 33-years, has agreed to the whole celibacy thing. "We have decided to do that voluntarily," Cornelius told WGRZ-TV. "I have always had friends that are Roman Catholic priests and I appreciate what they've given up to serve God and the priesthood."
The story continues:
Cornelius, 64, is a former Episcopalian priest who converted three years ago to Catholicism. He said his old church had gotten too liberal for him. "There was the ordination of the homosexual priest in New England," he said. "Then it came time for women's ordination. ... It may have been okay for other people, but it was just too much for me."The article reports Fr. Cornelius retired as an Episcopal priest in 2010 and "jumped at the chance after Pope Benedict issued a directive last year aimed at filling the depleted Catholic ranks with converted Episcopalian priests."
It closes with the news that Cornelius will serve a "flock of other former Episcopalians at the Fellowship of Saint Alban" outside Rochester and speaks briefly of his faith journey. Let's pick the low hanging fruit first and work towards the conceptual failures in this story. The chronology offered in the quote by Cornelius is incorrect.
Women priests were authorized in 1976 by the Episcopal Church (though a group had been illicitly ordained earlier). Non-closeted, non-celibate gay/lesbian clergy were first ordained in 1979 in New York city and by the early '90s a number of dioceses were ordaining gay clergy. And the first "gay" Episcopal bishop, the Rt. Rev. V. Gene Robinson, was consecrated in New Hampshire in 2003. The chronology offered by Fr Cornelius is incorrect. And the suggestion that the Catholic Church is free from the controversies surrounding gay or women clergy is not so straight forward.
And no, John Cornelius will not be the first married RC priest in New York.
That honor belongs to Fr. Scott Caton of the Diocese of Rochester who was ordained under the 1980 Pastoral Provision. Fr. Cornelius may be the first priest ordained in New York state for the Ordinariate of the Chair of St Peter.
What is the difference between the pastoral provision and the ordinariate? The first has been around since 1980 and permits certain Protestant clergy who are married to be re-ordained as Catholic clergy. The second was created in 2011 as a home for Anglican communities (clergy and laity) who wish to seek full corporate unity with the Catholic church while retaining some Anglican liturgical forms and their own ecclesial structures. The article does not do justice to these distinctions.
And, is it fair to say the re-ordination of ex-Episcopalians and Lutherans is a tool to fill the "depleted" ranks of the Catholic clergy?
And, is it fair to say that by "giving up their sex life" Fr. Cornelius and his wife have "agreed to the whole celibacy thing"? Can abstinence from sexual relations with a spouse be considered celibacy -- as understood by the Catholic Church? Is a "sex-free life" the definition of sacerdotal celibacy? Or is there a bit more to it than that?
The New Advent dictionary begins its definition of celibacy by writing:
Celibacy is the renunciation of marriage implicitly or explicitly made, for the more perfect observance of chastity, by all those who receive the Sacrament of Orders in any of the higher grades.
Are Fr. Cornelius and his wife practicing celibacy, abstinence or chastity? No questions are asked by the article about clerical celibacy, nor are comments or observations made by knowledgeable sources -- a bishop, theologian, church spokesman, et al. Is this the norm for re-ordained Episcopal clergy? Is this renunciation of the marital state a spiritual discipline, a physical separation -- what is going on here?
I don't know. Do you?


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Testing Services coordinates academic assessment and other testing programs which are offered to Southeast students and members of the community. Testing Services supervises placement testing for new students, exit and placement testing for various University programs, the Credit by Exam program and correspondence testing as well high school outreach programs such as dual enrollment examinations.
The Testing Services office is located in Kent Library 108 and is open Monday through Friday from 8 a.m. to noon and 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Please stop by, call us at (573) 651-2836 or e-mail us at email@example.com if you have any questions.


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From: Canada
Genre: Rock
Aegis Fang is a three piece Blues/Rock band from Vancouver Island, on the west coast of British Columbia, Canada.
Always looking to bring something new to the speaker and the stage with their unique brand of eclectic rock songs and interchanging band positions, this band has built their reputation on bridging the gap between an explosive rock show and a captivating musical experience.
Aegis Fang has captured a modernized classic rock sound with the punching blues riffs and hand clapping, foot stompin…


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- Home
- About
- Collections
- Exhibits
- List of Exhibits
- Brazos Spring Mural
- Carter Creek Nature Trail
- Cotton Farming in the Brazos Valley
- Discovery Room
- Flying Reptiles of the Frithiof Fossil Collection
- Frithiof Fossil Collection
- Ice Age Mammals
- Native American Stone Tools
- Ranching and Chuck Wagon Display
- Rocks: Earth's Majestic Building Blocks
- The Mary Terrell
- The Republic of Texas
- Past Exhibits
- Astronomy's New Messengers
- Bandits & Heroes, Poets & Saints: Popular Art of the Northeast of Brazil
- Bits and Bytes: The Innovation of Home Computers
- Capturing Time: The Story of Early Photography
- Carnaval
- Coney Island: Visions of an American Dreamland
- Crystallography: Where Art & Science Collide
- Educator's Showcase
- Educator's Showcase 2011
- Educator Showcase
- El Camino Real de los Tejas
- Enduring Transformation: The Kazakh People in a Changing World
- Farm Life: A Century of Change for Farm Families and Their Neighbors
- From Earth to the Universe
- Getting to the Core: The JOIDES Resolution
- Grass Roots: African Origins of an American Art
- Horse Power: The Story of Horse-Drawn Vehicles
- House & Home
- Ice Age: Brazos Valley and Beyond
- Inuit: the art of survival
- Lee and Grant
- Legacy - The Astin Family
- Lizards: Nature's Living Art
- Lone Star Lizards
- Monitor & Virginia: Ironclads at War
- Neches Journeys: Land River and People
- Rarámuri: Runners of the Sierra Madre
- Reconstructing the USS Westfield, A Civil War Gunboat
- Road to Discovery: the Parent Child Interface
- Shells: The Elegant Armor of Mollusks
- TARZAN: Myth & Mystery
- Texas: Vanishing Habitats and Species
- Texas Writers and J. Frank Dobie: Texan Legend
- The Bison: American Icon
- The Brazos: Legacy of a Mighty River
- The Brogdon Hotei
- The CADDO: Traditions and Heritage
- The Shogun Age in Japan
- Two Views of Indigenous Bolivia
- VANISHED: German-American Civilian Internment in Texas, 1941-48
- Weaving Magic: The Artistry of the Loom
- Wild Land: Thomas Cole and the Birth of the American Landscape Painting
- Wrapped in Pride: Ghanaian Kente and African American Identity
- Getting Involved
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- Contact
Brazos Valley Shuttle Project
The Brazos Valley Museum of Natural History is involved in a campaign to bring one of the retired shuttle orbiters to the Brazos Valley. The Brazos Valley is currently one of two locations under consideration in the state. The Museum's dream is to display the magnificent shuttle in a new Museum of Science and History; discussions are ongoing as to the location and will be announced later.
Design by Mark Willingham - Texas A&M Department of Architecture - ARCH 606.604
The Brazos Valley is the home of the George Bush Presidential Library and Museum and President George H.W. Bush is "very excited" about the possibility of housing a shuttle in Bryan/College Station. Texas A&M University is a world renowned research university with outstanding science and engineering programs and is a leader in developing and finding practical applications for new technologies. The addition of a research museum in the Brazos Valley would promote multi-disciplinary research and provide a center to enhance science & history literacy for the general public.
The Brazos Valley is also an ideal home for a space shuttle because of its central location. It would place a shuttle centrally in the United States within a comfortable drive for millions of people. A project of this magnitude also creates jobs and opportunities; showcase museums bring in millions of dollars to local economies.
The decision will be made by NASA's Administrator, Charles Bolden. Please check this website and our Facebook page for links on how to send letters of support. For more information, please contact the Museum's Executive Director, Dr. Deborah Cowman, at 979-776-2195 or the Project Director, Zach Cummings at 956-251-3812.
Mission Statement
To acquire one of the three remaining shuttle orbiters for display in a newly constructed museum of science and history located on the Texas A&M Campus next to and in cooperation with the George Bush Presidential Library and Museum.
To educate and inspire future generations, stimulate scientific inquiry, and promote science education.
Use the following links to stay updated on the latest news of this project:
Find BringTheShuttle on Facebook
Send a Letter to Congress to Bring the Shuttle
Museum & BringTheShuttle Featured on NPR Morning Edition
Visit the following link to read the full article on NPR's website, in addition to hearing an interview with Deborah Cowman, the Executive Director for the Brazos Valley Museum of Natural History and Zach Cummings, Development Associate for the Museum:
NASA's Next Mission: Finding Homes For Shuttles
Video from President George Bush
President George Bush asks for your support of the Brazos Valley Shuttle Project in this YouTube video:
President George Bush - Brazos Valley Shuttle Project
Shuttle images courtesy of NASA.


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New Releases
Jack Halpern is the CEO of the CJK Dictionary Institute in Japan, which specializes in the compilation of CJK (Chinese, Japanese, and Korean) and Arabic lexical databases and is one of the world's prime sources of CJK dictionaries. A lexicographer by profession, Halpern spent sixteen years compiling the New Japanese-English Character Dictionary published in the U.S. by NTC/McGraw-Hill in 1994. As a research fellow at Showa Women's University in Tokyo, he was the editor-in-chief of several kanji dictionaries for learners, which have become standard reference works. Halpern has published over twenty books, including The Kodansha Kanji Learner's Dictionary: Revised and Expanded and The Kodansha Kanji Dictionary as well as numerous articles. He has given over 600 public lectures on Japanese language and culture, and presented several dozen papers at international conferences. Jack Halpern has lived in Japan for over 30 years. He was born in Germany and lived in six countries including France, Brazil, and the U.S. An avid polyglot, he has studied fifteen languages (fluent in ten). - See more at: http://www.kodanshausa.com/books/9781568364087/#sthash.OqcK8Jan.dpuf
AJALT, creators of WADAIKO: AN INTRODUCTION TO THE SOUNDS AND RHYTHMS OF JAPANESE, has posted a charming and informative video on YouTube that explains the concept and structure of the book, and offers tips on how to use it most effectively. Check it out at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUYbP_lBgUY
WADAIKO: AN INTRODUCTION TO THE SOUNDS AND RHYTHMS OF JAPANESE presents an innovative classroom approach to learning the language. Now, AJALT, the creators of WADAIKO, have posted a charming and informative video on YouTube, in which the authors discuss the concept and structure of the book, and offer tips on how to use it most effectively.
With many visuals from the book, accompanied by excerpts from the free CD that's attached, they explain that through holistic exposure to its rhythms and sounds, learners will come to understand and appreciate the heart of the Japanese language.
The first part of WADAIKO is filled with fun word-play exercises, tongue-twisters, songs and jingles, and rhymes. Part II is about the Seasons, and features haiku, poems, and traditional songs that celebrate the beauty and variety of Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter in Japan.
If you're looking for an entertaining and interactive way to learn/progress in your Japanese studies, check out the video – and the book!!


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Lucky You: exclusive code for 25% OFF + Free Shipping! Details
Cover for SANDBY Footstool
Gaja Shadow Blue Wool designed by Gabriel A/S
About the product
Cover for IKEA SANDBY footstool - Gaja Shadow Blue. Blue is said to bring down blood pressure and slow respiration and heart rate. That is why it is considered calming, relaxing and serene, and it is often recommended for bedrooms and bathrooms. Be careful, however: a pastel blue that looks pretty on the paint chip can come across as unpleasantly chilly when it is on the walls and furnishings, especially in a room that receives little natural light. If you opt for a light blue as the primary color in a room, balance it with warm hues for the furnishings and fabrics. To encourage relaxation in the social areas ( family rooms, living rooms, large kitchens) consider warmer blues, such as periwinkle, or bright blues, such as cerulean or turquoise. It is often used to make smaller rooms look more airy and larger. Blue is the color of Peace in Feng Shui. The fifth state is blue.
Please note this custom cover is tailored by CoverCouch to fit the IKEA SANDBY footstool model. Footstool is not included and is available at IKEA.
Please note this custom cover is tailored by CoverCouch to fit the IKEA SANDBY footstool model. Footstool is not included and is available at IKEA.
Fabric key facts
- 100% Pure New Wool from New Zealand
- A modern classic
- Anti-slip
- Crepe without stripes
- Wide range of colours
- Environmentally friendly
- Oeko-Tex 100 certified
- Labeled with the Ecolabel Flower
- CoverCouch
About the fabric
Gaja Shadow Blue belongs to the Gaja family - a modern classic for interior design and has been our most popular upholstery fabric in pure wool. Gaja is available in an immense colour range. Wool is naturally resistant to dirt and fire. It is anti-static and it does not burst into flames if you drop an ember, a cigarette or a match. Stains can be removed from wool fabric by lightly brushing. This material is extremely durable and resistant to piling, rubbing and light.
A sample of this fabric was added to your shopping cart
Fabric details
|100% Pure New Wool
|Width, cm
|Weight, g/m2
|Colour fastness to light
|Colour fastness to rubbing
|4-5/4-5 (EN ISO 105x12, wet/dry)
|Abrasion resistance
|50 000 cycles (Martindale EN ISO 12947-2)
|Cigarette and match tests (EN 1021 1&2)
|Dorte Bo Bojesen
|Production / Supplier
|Gabriel A/S
Care instructions
Don't wash. Don't use chlorine bleach. Dry clean. Don't iron.
Facebook comments:
Literally perfection!
Verified Buyer
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Lovely colour and fabric.
Verified Buyer
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The ups was a nightmare they charged me twice for customs
Verified Buyer
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Amazing fabric and fit
Verified Buyer
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Soderhamn covers
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Stocksund cover
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Good value, fits well but not quite up to the standard of the original Ikea cover.


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Artist Lisa Park's performance titled Euonia – a Greek word that can be translated as "beautiful thinking". The title is apt as Park's thought's are central the beauty of her performance. She makes use of an EEG headset which monitors various brainwaves and eye movement. The resulting information is translated into sound directed to one of five speakers. A shallow pan of water sits on each speaker, vibrating and shimmering with each of Park's various thoughts. Park associated each of the five speakers with a different emotion and would recall various memories of people important to her in order to manipulate the speakers. She had hoped to develop the ability, through practice, to end her performance in silence but could not – an outcome perhaps more interesting than she had intended. It may be the brain is much more difficult to quiet than it seems.
Source: http://vimeo.com/65175792


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MANCHESTER — NeighborWorks Southern New Hampshire has raised about two-thirds of its fundraising goal to help pay for the purchase and renovation of the organization's new building downtown.
The organization has raised $530,265 so far as part of its 20th anniversary Capital Campaign fund drive. It hopes to raise a total of $815,000 for its building at 801 Elm St.
The organization purchased the building previously occupied by Rent-A-Center, and moved its operations and home ownership center to the second floor after recently completing renovations. The first floor will be renovated and rented to commercial tenants to provide a stream of income to support the group's work.
Joseph B. Reilly, president and CEO of Centrix Bank, is leading the campaign effort. Others joining the capital campaign are Barry Brensinger of Lavallee Brensinger Architects; Robert Dastin from Sheehan Phinney Bass & Green; Claira P. Monier; Patrick Smith; Arthur Sullivan, principal of Brady Sullivan Properties; and Carol Willoughby from First American Title Insurance Company. Former Executive Councilor and Manchester Mayor Ray Wieczorek is serving as honorary chairman.
Included in the campaign total raised to date is the sale of $300,000 in tax credits awarded to the organization in 2012 from the New Hampshire Community Development Finance Authority.
NeighborWorks Southern New Hampshire offers affordable housing and community development services in 31 communities in southern New Hampshire, including Manchester and Nashua. The organization has provided free home ownership education services to thousands of residents, and helped hundreds of families purchase their first home. More than 900 people live in one of 349 affordable rental apartments created by the organization in Manchester, Nashua, Hooksett and Goffstown.
SOURCE: Union Leader


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Welcome to our site! If you are like us you want to be secure or as secure as you can when using the Internet. Cybersecurity is a hot topic these days and everyone needs to understand what they can do to stay as secure as possible regardless of the device or medium they use to connect to the Internet. Do you use a laptop? A tablet or smart phone? A desktop computer? A game console? If you answered yes to any of these questions then you should learn as much as possible about staying safe. Our book on Cybersecurity is written for the novice and experienced user alike. You can use some or all of the recommendations that are presented in a way that is easy to understand. You do not need a degree in computer science to apply security best practices. Help take a byte out of cyber crime one computer at a time.
Cybersecurity for Everyone: Securing your home or small business network
Cybersecurity for Everyone: Securing your home or small business network was written by
Terence L. Sadler and was published
in the
United States by
Signalman Publishing
in 2015.
The book is available in print and as an e-book through Amazon, Apple iBookStore, and Barns & Noble
in 1974
(ISBN: 978-1-940145-36-5 (Paperback))
(ISBN: 978-1-940145-37-2 (eBook))
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"Cybersecurity for Everyone"
by D. Bolger,
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