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$ 5.10
Sterling Silver Cross Charm with Raised Ridges. This small and delicate Cross Pendant is a perfect First Communion or Confirmation gift! String this delicate charm onto a finished chain for an easy and sweet necklace. This also makes a great addition to any charm bracelet!
Measurements: Length: 23.5mm Width: 10mm Height: 1.5mm
Length includes 5mm jump ring.
All products that are in stock ship within 3 - 5 business days (excluding holidays and weekends) aftr your order has been placed. Once your item has been shipped you will receive an email with your tracking information. Your package should arrive within 5-7 business days. We do not and cannot guarantee shipping timeframes as there can be unforeseen issues outside of our control. Because of this, we only offer refunds for items lost in transit after 60 days from the date of shipment. We are not responsible for lost or stolen items if they have been confirmed delivered by USPS.
We offer free shipping on all orders totaling $75 or more for Domestic Shipping. Depending on your location, you should receive your order within 5 to 7 business days from the date of shipment. Sometimes your package can arrive sooner or later.
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All items are shipped First Class (domestic) Mail with tracking. You also have the option of USPS Priority Mail (2-3 business days for delivery) at an extra charge. Delivery Tracking is available with this shipping method.
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Williamsburg Regional Library collaborations with community partners strengthen the library's ability to fulfill its mission and helps the library meet the needs of all members of the community. The library's partnerships:
- flow out of the library's mission and vision
- are a library-wide strategy
- are centrally coordinated
- are a formal process
DEFINITION OF A PARTNERSHIP: Libraries have collaborative relationships with many community entities. To acknowledge the importance of all library-community relationships, but to differentiate between the levels of library-partner involvement, the Williamsburg Regional Library has defined the term "partnership" to include four types of relationships: glances, dates, engagements, and marriages.
GLANCE: any overture or contact between the library and a community group.
DATE: an agreement between the library and a community partner to accomplish a specific short-term activity or commitment.
ENGAGEMENT: an agreement between the library and a community partner to work together toward a marriage after an initial experimental phase. Engagements are temporal: they either evolve into a marriage, dissolve, or downsize to a date.
MARRIAGE: a formal agreement between the library and a community partner with compatible goals, to share the work, share the risk, and share the results or proceeds. The library and the community partner jointly invest in resources, experience mutual benefits, and share risk, responsibility, authority, and accountability. Marriages are formed for the long-term benefit to the partners.
*Civic Groups
*Nonprofit organizations - local, state, national
*Schools and colleges
*Government agencies - local, state, federal
*Reach new library users
*Reach current library patrons in a new way
*Tap into community assets and strengths
*Gain support for library resources/programs
*Gain valuable feedback
*Create new library resources
From Partnering with Purpose (Libraries Unlimited, 2004)
For more information about the library's partnership program, please contact:
Barry Trott, Special Projects Director, email@example.com, 757.259.7747

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text:
Even in his best days in Medford, running the family clothing store, Altman had always imagined that he would return to Africa, to the Lower River. It had been his Eden, for those four years he had spent in a village called Malabo as a young man. Now, after nearly forty years, he was on his way back. The decades in between seemed almost a digression: the business, the marriage, the children. Altman's Store for Men had closed, the marriage had failed, Altman's children were grown, absent, living their lives. A little over sixty, he was alone again. He had enough money to see him into his old age, yet he wanted more than that. No one needed him in Medford, and he wondered if the people of Malabo might still remember what he had done there.
The Lower River was the southernmost region of the southern province of Malawi, the poorest part of a poor country, home of the Sena people. The Sena were small, slender, delicate, violent only when they were bingeing. A neglected tribe, they were despised by those who didn't know them, were associated with squalor, cruelty, and incompetence. With superstition, too. They lived in a web of beliefs, the Lower River thick with spirits—mfiti—most of them vindictive spectres of the dead, restless in their malevolence. Nothing happened without a reason. A tree fell for a reason, a thatched roof caught fire for a reason—because someone wished it alight. Disease, disfigurement, a bad harvest, a broken bone, a stillborn infant: all were caused by human agency—the witch in the next hut or the next village, or the mfiti representing an avenging soul.
Altman had studied the all-night Nyau dance, which was performed naked, with a fetish mask and drumming. Fluent in the Sena language, he had been one of those volunteer teachers whom the other Americans muttered about with respect tinged with satire, because they never saw him, and no one, not even other Africans, wanted to go to the Lower River. In his first year, village life had seemed a struggle to Altman. The shop at the boma sold Sunlight Soap, Koo ketchup, cooking oil, bottles of Lion Lager, single cigarettes, loose tobacco and tea. But few people had more than a handful of tickeys, the thin gray threepence coins that bought two cigarettes. The market stalls sold vegetables and rice, smoked fish and cassava. Not much of anything, but in the time he lived there Altman had decided that you didn't need any more than that.
After a year, he had understood the inflections of the weather. It was not the stifling, squalid place of its reputation; it was dense and subtle. The heat enlivened him. The smells were of woodsmoke and stagnation and the perfume of the water hyacinths in the river, sweetish with decay, the sun-heated dust like talcum.
Teaching at the primary school that he'd helped to build, Altman had become popular in the district, and when a member of Parliament paid a visit to Nsanje he asked to meet Altman. Altman served as a counsellor, he wrote letters for the villagers, he sent messages, he read letters for those villagers who couldn't read, whispering the words for the sake of privacy. All the languages in the region were written phonetically, so he could convey the meaning even when he had no idea what was written on the torn-out copybook page.
For the Sena people, Altman had been the mzungu, the white man. His term was two years. He had stayed four—a record for Malabo. In this district of small huts and barefoot people and unpaved roads—a world made out of mud—he had been content. The Lower River had become the measure of his happiness. Malabo had remained in his mind in the way that the notion of home might persist in someone else's. When all hope is lost and everything is up the wall, he often thought, reassuring himself, I can always go back.
Malawi, these days, was advertised as a vacation destination, with hotels at the lake in the north and even some game parks. Like many other resort areas in Africa, it was a country where local people starved and the few tourists ate well and were fussed over.
Even before his plane touched down, Altman knew that he had made the right decision. He relaxed, smiling as he looked out the window at the low empty hills, the creases of green in the landscape which marked the foliage along rivers and creeks, the villages made visible by the smoke rising from cooking fires. From the air, the place looked just as he had left it, as a man of twenty-three. Where else could you go on earth and say that?
When the immigration officer asked him his reason for being in the country, Altman spoke the sentence he had rehearsed: "Ndi kupita ku Lower River."
The man said, "What am I hearing?" and reached across his desk to shake Altman's hand. "And myself I have never been there, Father."
Altman took a domestic flight that was leaving later in the day for Blantyre, and stayed the night at the Mount Soche Hotel. He marvelled at the crowded dirty city. Assuming that he would be in Malabo for a week or so, he used his credit card at Barclays Bank to make a cash withdrawal. The clerk, a young man in a shirt and tie, counted the notes twice, squared the pile, and snapped a rubber band around it.
"Be careful, sir," the clerk said, squeezing the fat envelope under the glass window.
Almost as a rebuke, Altman said, "I used to live here. I was here at Independence. The Lower River."
The hotel driver, summoned from the parking lot to the travel desk in the lobby, laughed when Altman said that he wanted to visit Nsanje. Altman had mentioned the district, because the man would never have heard of Malabo. The sunglasses over the driver's smooth jut-jawed face gave him a cricket's profile. He smiled greedily at Altman's watch. Altman knew that his lingering gaze of admiration was like a plea.
"Let's leave at seven."
"Eight will be best. African time. No worry, be happy."
"Seven," Altman said, without a smile, and the man turned deferential—respectful, with a slight jerkiness of fear in his face. "And no smoking in the car."
The farther they got from town the flimsier and more temporary the buildings became, from the solid terraces of shops fronting onto storm drains to tile-roofed bungalows, tin-roofed shacks, and plastered huts thatched with straw, the skeletal sticks of the frames showing through the crumbled mud. And then the road grew worse, just a strip of broken paving in a gully between two slopes in some places. On the hillsides were stumps of trees that had been cut down, forests stripped by people foraging for fuel: the Africa of settlement and people, not of animals.
But beyond Chiromo, in the southern province, nearing the Lower River, where the villages were fewer, he smiled at the disorder, the tall grass, the odor of dust and smoke. It was as it had been—too flat and featureless to photograph, but powerful, his first experience of a world that was ancient in its simplicities.
"You like," the driver said, seeing Altman's face in the rearview mirror.
Then they were throwing up whitish dust, following the course of the river's west bank, heading straight into the sun. By early afternoon, they were passing a row of small shops in Nsanje.
"Keep going," Altman said.
"You said Nsanje. This is the boma."
"The village I want is farther on."
"That is extra charge."
"Stop the car," Altman said. The driver was so rattled that he kept going. "Stop the car—I'll walk."
"It is too far, bwana," the driver said, with that same twitching fear in his face.
"I know where we are," Altman said. "Don't charge me extra."
And down the road two miles, at Magwero, Altman signalled for him to stop, and the driver said, "Iwe," in the familiar form—"You!" Then he saw the men sitting under the tree, heard them call out, and said, "They are waiting for you."
"Yes," Altman said, but he knew better. This was the usual place in Magwero for men to sit, on logs under a mango tree. Seeing a mzungu, they had shouted a greeting.
Out of the car, lighting a cigarette, the driver seemed uneasy, eager to leave. "What time you coming back, bwana?"
The air was so still his smoke clung to his face.
"You can go," Altman said.
A great soft cloud of white dust raised by the departing car closed over it as it rocked in the wheel ruts of the narrow road. Altman found the departure a strange breach of etiquette. The man should have lingered a little, accepted some bananas or a cup of tea, handed out a cigarette or two.
"Welcome, Father," one of the men said, rising from the log.
This man gave his name as Maso, and introduced the man next to him as Magongo. Altman said that he had known their families long ago.
They knew of the mzungu at Malabo, they said. They had heard stories about him.
Altman said, "Maybe it was someone else."
"There was only one mzungu at Malabo!" Magongo said. He called to a boy sitting against a bicycle, holding Altman's duffelbag, and told him to hurry to Malabo. "Tell Manyenga the American is here."
Then Maso led him through the low spreading trees and across the hard-packed dirt of a courtyard that was being swept by a small girl. They sat before a hut and drank milky tea, and as they talked of the rains, the height of the river, their children, Altman looked around and marvelled at the compact village and the sheltering trees, the way the sunlight speckled the ground.
He was dozing when a motorcycle roared into the clearing.
"Manyenga," one of the men said.
The man parked his bike and approached Altman, saying, "The boy on the njinga said, 'The American is here,' and I said, 'I am knowing him. My grandfather was his friend.' Welcome, welcome."
And there raced through Altman a lightness, a slackening in his flesh, of relief, of gratitude. He felt important; they knew him. He wished that someone he knew back in the States could have witnessed this, the tableau of his sitting among the elders in a remote village on the Lower River.
Now the welcome was extended to Manyenga: more tea, some smoke-dried fish, and praise for Altman, the long-ago mzungu of their elders' stories.
"I was a small boy when I first saw you," one of the men said. He was old, toothless, in a tattered shirt, with reddened eyes, his skin shiny and loose like a reptile's.
"I never saw this man before," Manyenga said. "My grandfather, he was the friend."
They talked in this congenial way, in English, until finally Manyenga got up and began to thank the men elaborately, taking their hands in his. Altman knew that it was time to go.
"What do you have in the pipeline?" Manyenga asked.
Altman smiled at the expression. "Nothing special. Just to see Malabo."
"I can arrange, Father."
The duffelbag was tied to the rear carrier of the motorbike, and he swung his leg over and sat behind Manyenga. They travelled under the shade trees the short distance to the main road and then, a few miles south, raising dust, took the turnoff, the back road to Lutwe, which ran parallel to the Mozambique border, a mere footpath in Altman's time. After about eight miles—Altman knew that it was more than a two-hour walk back to the main road—Manyenga slowed the bike and plunged into the bush, not a road, hardly a track, just an opening in the high grass that led to a clearing, a scattering of huts, the big upright baskets on legs which were granaries, the crisscrossed paths that marked the edge of Malabo.
Where the trees were greenest, on the banks of the Nyamihutu, a woman was beating a blue blanket suspended on a line. Near her, a girl swept the smooth earth with a straw broom.
Manyenga pulled up at a hut. He said, "This is your home, Father."
"I can stay only a few days," Altman said.
"You are welcome, Father."
The woman and the girl greeted them by falling to their knees and calling out, and children and older boys from the other huts came running. The villagers gathered, hanging back. He saw that they were afraid of him—some of the older ones were terrified. Their anxious faces made him self-conscious. He wanted to reassure them. He would have handed out money, except that he knew it would create a mob scene. He smiled and, in a chiefly gesture, saluted them.
"My other wife," Manyenga said of a woman wincing at Altman's raised hand. "She was married to my brother."
"And who's this?" Altman asked.
The girl, too shy to speak, twisted her cloth wrapper in her fingers.
"Zizi," Manyenga said, and hearing her name the girl covered her face. "My brother's child. He died some two years ago."
Seeing that the girl had gone shy, one of the small boys ambled near her, limping and chattering. The boy had twisted fingers and sores on his legs and a battered face, flaky patches of scurf where hair was missing from his head. He could have been the victim of a fight, but Altman guessed that he was epileptic, with head wounds from continually falling to the ground—and now Altman saw that he was not a boy at all but a disfigured dwarf, boy-sized, in rags, who could have been any age.
"Moni, moni," Altman said, greeting the dwarf, trying to distract him from teasing the girl. And rummaging in his duffel he found some candy that he'd bought at the hotel in Blantyre. "Mankhwala," he said—medicine.
The dwarf laughed and ate it, licking his fingers, then walked away unsteadily, giggling because the others were laughing at him and calling out an English word.
"What are they saying?"
"His name, Snowdon."
Though the girl did not look up again, Altman could see that she was relieved the dwarf had forgotten her.
"You can stay here, Father," Manyenga said. "The roof is bad"—it was thatch, the bundles loosened—"because we had so many challenges. But it's clean enough. Rest your body. My wife will bring water for your bath. Tonight we will kill a chicken. We can discuss your program."
"My program?"
"Your agenda, Father."
It was Zizi who brought the water in a basin, with a small chip of soap, and after Altman had washed he lay on the string bed and let down the mosquito net that hung like a bridal veil, and listened to the boys' raised voices in the clearing. Where else in the world could you arrive unannounced and be welcomed on sight?
That evening, Altman distributed the presents he'd brought—the watch he gave to Manyenga, a shawl he gave to the senior wife, a pocketknife to the junior wife, some books for the children.
Then the women served the food—the chicken that had been grilling on the fire, and roasted corncobs, a bowl of nsima and stewed greens, a plate of dried fish. "Kachasu," Manyenga said, uncorking a bottle. He poured Altman a glass of banana gin, and they toasted each other.
The children sat a little distance away; some women were standing, holding babies in cloth slings.
While Manyenga was talking, in English and Sena, Altman slipped to the ground, resting his head against his chair. He must have dozed off, because in a sudden dream he heard a word that he recognized: atopa—tired.
He was helped to his feet. Accompanied by someone steering him with lantern light, saying nothing, he tottered to his hut and crawled under the mosquito net into his string bed, his flesh inert, like clay.
He woke before sunrise, as a cock'scrow tore at the silence and the darkness. He could not remember ever having slept so soundly: blind and deaf, a whole night with his mouth open, drawing shallow breaths. He listened to his compact shortwave radio until it was light, and then he walked the length of the village through the scrub. In the courtyards of most of the huts, crouching women fanned the glowing embers of cooking fires. Altman looked into the woven barrels of the granaries and was glad to see that they were full of drying corncobs. He saw the schoolhouse in the distance; he would save it for the afternoon. He continued walking to the road, and past it, to the stream. He saw someone bathing and quickly withdrew—it was Zizi, a dark dripping stick figure. Then he returned to his hut. He shaved with his battery-powered razor and wrote some notes in his journal. He unpacked his duffelbag, sorted his clothes, and hung up the empty bag to keep it away from rats—he saw that there were droppings on the floor from rats nesting in the thatched roof. Then he sat and finished the paperback he'd brought to read.
All this and it was not yet seven- thirty. He smiled, thinking of the day that stretched ahead—the long, over-bright day of village somnolence, supine in its stillness, under trails of woodsmoke and the chirping of birds.
Announcing himself, calling out, "Kodi, kodi!" Manyenga visited after eight and invited Altman to breakfast. Now Altman saw how young he was, still in his twenties, jaunty in a baseball cap and a blue shirt.
"You were going about early," Manyenga said.
Someone had noticed him; now, an hour later, everyone knew.
They were standing before the hut, Manyenga frowning at the roof.
"But the roof must be replaced. I want to get an iron roof for you, but—eh! eh!"
Altman knew that the grunt meant money.
"What about fixing the thatch? There's plenty of grass."
"The people who are making the thatch are all dead. Even the women. Even myself I am not knowing. We are needing an intervention."
Altman smiled at the clumsiness of the request on his first morning. Usually "we are needing" came later. But Altman was not dismayed; he was more at ease knowing that Manyenga was unsubtle.
He said, "We can talk about it."
"I'm going to the boma this morning. Maybe they are having some iron sheets." He mumbled, seeming to search for more words. "It's a big priority."
Manyenga, he knew, had already mentally bought the iron sheets for the roof, kept the change, and perhaps put aside the scraps to sell or trade. It remained only for the transaction to take place, for Altman to hand over the money.
"I have provided this table on the khonde, for your projects"— it was at the corner of the veranda. Altman hadn't noticed it. "You can take your breakfast here. I will find you later, Father."
The girl Zizi brought the basin again, and watched him as he washed his face and brushed his teeth. Then she returned with a plate of steamed nsima, a puddle of oil in the center, and a bowl of vegetables in gravy and some tea. She stood in the shade. He spoke to her but she averted her eyes, perhaps ashamed at his having seen her bathing in the stream.
As he was eating, Altman saw a creeping shadow come to rest: the bruised dwarf, Snowdon, hunkered down by the veranda, rocking on his stumpy feet. He was sad, his ugly face lopsided as though in pain, helplessly small, his wounds bright with infection.
Altman gave him some nsima. He crammed the whole lump into his mouth, crumbs on his fingers and cheeks, and chewed it with his mouth open.
"Snowdon," Altman said.
Hearing his name, the dwarf opened his mouth wide in satisfaction, showing Altman the half-chewed food on his purplish, pitted tongue.
Later in the morning, Altman walked to the maize patch. He picked up a hoe and began chopping the dry earth with it, scraping the weeds away. Two older boys saw him and laughed. He knew why: hoeing was women's work.
Altman, hacking near some dry shucks, startled a snake. Deftly, he pinned its head down with the hoe blade, pressing it, then picked it up, and, as he pinched it just behind its head, it wrapped his arm with the whole coil of its whipping body.
"Kalikukuti," he said. A twig snake, a juvenile, hardly two feet long.
The two boys stepped back, murmuring, "Njoka." Altman stepped out of the maize patch—the boys ran, stamping in the dust. The villagers feared snakes, he knew; encountering a snake at the start of a journey, a Sena traveller returned home. Because of these fears, in his years here Altman had developed an interest, to set himself apart, so that he would be known as something more than a mzungu. He had kept some snakes in baskets, and fed them with lizards and grasshoppers and mice, and he had released them in places where they'd be safe and breed.
In the afternoon, he walked again to the stream, retracing his steps of the morning—perhaps this was the beginning of a routine? All the while, he was followed by small skinny children—a village of children, it seemed, like a settlement in a folktale. One said, "Mankhwala"—medicine—and the rest chimed in. They were asking for candy.
"Tomorrow," Altman said. He repeated it in Sena: "Mawa." Seeing them laughing, he asked if they knew English.
They shyly admitted no.
"Do you go to school?"
"No school!"
He had intended to visit the school that afternoon, but now the light was fading. Night came quickly; he'd see it tomorrow. As he was watching the last long orangey tatters of the sunset, Manyenga called out "Father!" for the evening meal.
Manyenga sat with him and, in a tone meant to reassure him, said, "I have ordered the roof for your hut."
"How much?"
"Very cheap. I am knowing this man. His father remembers you too much. Maybe he was your student. He gave me a good price. He knows we are partnering."
Altman said in Sena, "Lots of money?"
"No, Father. Not at all. One sheet for four thousand kwacha only." That was forty dollars.
"How many sheets do you need?"
Manyenga didn't answer. Altman knew the man was making a complex calculation, thinking of numbers and discarding them. At last he said, "Six," in the local way, sick-ees.
"Say five."
The next day was the same: the walk, the dwarf at breakfast, the riverbank, a nap, another walk, writing notes, then dinner at Manyenga's, more talk of money, and bed. He remembered his first weeks here long ago—the full days of work, the hot nights by lantern light grading students' exercise books—and he grew sad, admiring his younger hopeful self.
"I want to see the school," he said to Manyenga on the third day, seeing him straddling his motorcycle.
"It is finished, Father."
"Maybe I could get it fixed up."
Manyenga considered this, chewing his lips, his face twisting in thought. He propped his bike on the kickstand and walked with Altman beyond the clearing, through the tall grass, to the school. Head-high bushes had grown up around the buildings. The roof of the classroom block was broken—only brittle pieces remaining. Weeds grew in the eaves. The windows, too, were broken. The office was empty, though it showed signs of having been lived in—mats and quilts twisted on the floor, scorch marks on the walls.
"How long has it been like this?"
"I am not knowing," Manyenga said, truly bewildered.
"Didn't you go to school here?"
"I was schooling at Chimombo, near the boma. I completed my school certificate in Blantyre."
"But you've done well. And you're still young."
"Yes, Father."
Altman was thinking of the huts, the bike, the two wives.
"I was a driver for some years," Manyenga said. He mentioned the name of a prominent charity.
Now Altman understood those words he kept using—"agenda," "pipeline," "program." "Why didn't you keep working for them?"
"They were cheeky. They were falsely accusing me. They couldn't cope at all with our customs. Not like you, Father."
Altman said, "Will you help fix the school?"
"I can send some chaps."
This wasn't the answer that Altman was hoping for, but he said, "O.K.," and, looking again at the ruin, he quoted a Sena proverb: "Slowly, slowly makes a bundle."
He was slashing at the weeds with a hacker the next day when four boys arrived, creeping through the tall grass, parting the blades with their outstretched hands. They were no more than fifteen or so, very thin, wearing rags for shirts and tattered trousers.
"The nduna sent us."
So Manyenga was a chief.
"This was a school, long ago," Altman said.
"It is nothing now," one of the boys said.
"But we can fix it. Then Malabo will have a school."
They were watching shyly, silently, but breathing shallowly in a way that showed that they were paying attention.
"Who are your parents? Maybe I knew them."
They didn't reply. They seemed to grow shyer.
"No father, no mother," one said.
"They were sick," another, the tallest boy, said, drawing out the Sena word. He chopped with the flat of his hand. "They died."
"What about relatives?"
"We live down there"—and the boy squinted into the sun.
"How many altogether?"
The boy flashed ten fingers at Altman. "Small and big."
Altman was still holding the hacker, standing among the tall weeds and the overhanging bushes he had slashed.
"Help me," he said.
"We can try," the tall boy said. He took the knife from Altman. Another boy grasped a spare panga from a stump. And they whacked at the weeds, while Altman went through the classrooms to examine the wreckage. He heard the boys muttering and was gladdened by the sound. He smelled snakes, the hot eggy stink of a decayed nest in a corner of the room.
He stripped a narrow tree limb of its twigs, and then poked with it, startling the snake he knew was there, a black-lipped mamba. He prodded it, let it whip and coil, then quickly snatched it, keeping its frothy mouth just above his fist. Then he brought it outside to show the boys, a trophy they'd remember.
"Mamba," he said. "Mbadza."
But the boys were gone, and, not only that, they'd taken the two knives.
"They are useless," Manyenga said later. "I will get the pangas for you." He thought a moment. "Did you give them money?"
Altman said no.
Manyenga relaxed, and smiled. "Ah," he said, as though to convey, "What did you expect?"
Without the boys, Altman went back to the school and slashed at the weeds and tried to tidy the classrooms. Zizi helped with her straw broom; Snowdon watched, flicking at the flies that settled on his sores. Altman knew that Zizi was being offered to him, that all he needed to say was "Go in my hut," and she would obey. She was tall for a Sena girl, with a shaved head and skinny fingers, bony wrists, small breasts, long legs with wide feet. Those feet and the way she sometimes stood reminded him of a waterbird—a heron, perhaps. With stylish clothes she could have passed for the sort of model he'd seen in magazines; she had the starved angularity of high fashion.
Altman kept working at the margins of the school, conspicuously, to attract attention, and perhaps shame others into helping. But no one came, except sometimes a woman looking for firewood, taking the kindling he made.
And then one night he was roused by drumming. The flames of the ceremonial bonfire flickered on his walls. They were doing the Nyau dance—he recognized the syncopation. An image was always carried by the witch doctor, or worn as a mask. He crept out of his hut, keeping himself hidden. The moon was bright enough to see by—perhaps the full moon was the reason for the dance. The dancers and drummers surrounded the witch doctor, whose mask was grotesque and—the long nose, the animal hair, the white skin—quite obviously represented Altman's face.
Hardly seven, and the morning sun slanting through the twiggy trees had filled the clearing at Malabo with unbreathable humidity, like an invisible smothering presence. Squinting into the distance, Altman saw a shimmering spectral blob in the heat, coming closer, resolving itself into two figures, large and small, Manyenga and a burdened girl hurrying behind him.
"Nduna," Altman said.
Manyenga smiled, seeing Altman sitting as usual at his table on the narrow veranda, Zizi squatting on her heels near him, the dwarf crouching a little distance away by a low bush. His stare made Altman self-conscious. The anxiety, the calculation, the reticence approaching fear that he'd noticed in the young man on his arrival were gone. Now Manyenga gazed directly at him, almost in defiance. He said, "But, eh, you are being a chief as well, Father."
Altman saw himself through Manyenga's eyes: an old mzungu, attended by a skinny girl and a dwarf, a portrait of inaction, like a ruined chief on a rickety throne. He'd stopped shaving, his clothes were stained. He had to get away, he realized, if only to Blantyre, to collect his thoughts and decide on his next move. Nothing had gone quite the way he'd imagined it. He had been cheated out of the money for the roofing; he was being overcharged for room and board; no one was interested in the school.
"You were watching us at the Nyau dance," Manyenga said, gesturing to the girl to set down the bowl of porridge and the mug of milky tea she was carrying. It was a breach of etiquette, bordering on taboo, for an outsider to observe the Nyau dance. But Manyenga was nodding, with a slyly satisfied face—a smile that was not a smile. "We were celebrating you," he said. "We were thanking you, Father."
Altman said, in Sena, "A ghost doesn't miss a funeral"—a proverb he'd learned long ago, one he'd often quoted in Medford.
"You are knowing so much, Father."
Altman knew better: they were trying to diminish his power. He said, "I have to go to Blantyre today." He took another breath, because his chest was tight from the heat, the scrutiny of the younger man. "I'll need a lift to the boma."
"As you are wishing, Father," Manyenga said.
"I need to withdraw some money from the bank. I'm almost out of cash."
Instead of looking greedy and grateful, Manyenga frowned, but he lifted his hands in an accommodating gesture, as if to say, "Anything for you."
They left on the motorcycle later in the morning. Altman, sitting behind Manyenga, had his passport and all his important papers with him. Not fifty yards into the journey, even before they had reached the road, Manyenga swerved and screamed, "Njoka!"
Altman twisted around, looking for the snake, lost his balance, and fell, bruising his side. Winded, he lay in the dust, wondering if he had broken any ribs.
"We cannot go," Manyenga said, righting the bike, helping Altman from the ground.
His brow was heavy, his face dark with fear—Altman knew of the prohibition against travelling after a snake has crossed your path. Manyenga's mood had changed from agreeable to anxious.
"I didn't see the snake."
"It was so big, Father! A green mamba," Manyenga said. "We must obey."
Altman was too bruised to argue. He limped back to his hut, and there he sat, wondering how to overcome this man. He suspected that this was a ruse. Realizing that he'd been forced to lie to Manyenga made him uneasy; the lie told him that he was afraid to tell the truth.
He felt in his duffelbag for his pouch of money. He found the envelope and saw that some of it was missing—and he laughed, mocking his own stupidity. That was why Manyenga had reacted the way he had. He knew that Altman had money, that he was lying.
That night the Nyau was danced again. Altman's head throbbed. The thump of the drums echoed in his skull. He had a fever—he knew malaria, the flu-like symptoms, the headache. He found his bottle of chloroquine and, unable to locate his water jug, chewed three tablets and lay in his string bed, the drums beating against his eyes and ears, his sore body, his sore head.
Then days and nights were one: he did not know how long he lay there, shivering with chills, gasping in the heat, his heart fluttering. He heard a wild commotion, screeching, drumming, the ululating of frenzied women. His skin was sensitive to the sheet. Even the slightest brush of the mosquito net caused him discomfort. He suffered most when the sunlight shot through the windows of the hut and caught him on the face, and in the night his teeth chattered; even though he was wrapped in a blanket, he could not get warm.
When, before dawn one day, the fever eased, he saw everything more clearly; the sickness had stripped him of sentiment. He understood the foolishness of his visit. He had come expecting to be welcomed; he had wanted to contribute something to the village again. But no one was interested. The people of Malabo were much worse off now than when he had come before, and more cynical, shrewder, as a result.
In his sickbed, he felt a sense of resolve. He'd made a mistake. As soon as he was feeling better, he'd go home. He saw the danger of being sick in this remote village. His dreams were fractured and irrational; ugly beaked birds figured in them, crowds of noisy people, great heat.
Zizi brought him the tea and bananas he asked for, but it was an effort for him to swallow. It consoled him to see her and the dwarf right outside, their heads silhouetted at the window.
At last he was able to stand, to eat a little porridge.
"I'm going," he said, and was not sure whether he was speaking in Sena or English. "Get the chief."
Manyenga was soon striding across the brightness of the clearing, mopping his head, seeming relieved that Altman had recovered. Altman stood in the shade of the veranda, swaying slightly.
"I need to drink," Altman said. "Bring me a kettle of hot water for tea."
Manyenga, suddenly fierce-faced, ordered Zizi to fetch the kettle. And when she was gone he said, "She likes you too much, Father."
"She's your daughter?" Altman said.
"My brother's child. He died of the eddsi. You know our custom. I had to take my brother's widow as my wife, also his children."
"She's what—fifteen, sixteen?"
"Sixteen-something. When you were sick with the fever, she was so sorry."
"She should be in school."
"The school fees," Manyenga said. "That is the badness."
Then Altman remembered. In a croaky voice, he said, "I heard noise when I was sick. What was the noise?"
"Kufafaniza imfa. A man died. His goods were taken. His house destroyed."
"You erased his death."
"You are so clever, Father. You are knowing so much about our customs, eh-eh."
Altman said, "I have to go home."
"This is your home, Father."
Altman shivered, as he had during the worst of his sickness.
Manyenga said, "I have a very big question to ask you."
"Go ahead," Altman said. "Ask me."
"Not now. At the proper time. We will have a feast tomorrow. Then"—and he smiled and spread his arms, meaning, it seemed, that all would be clear.
Remembering that his stash of money had been raided, Altman went to the school the next day and poked around for another snake. He found a small puff adder and brought it back to his hut. He eased it into a basket, and put his envelope of money into the basket with it, making sure that Zizi and the dwarf saw what he was doing. The snake was not especially venomous, but to the villagers it was deadly.
"Welcome, Father," Manyenga said at the feast that night, showing him to a chair. The other men and boys were seated on the ground, a few on woven mats. A piece of meat turned on a spit, and Manyenga's elder wife was stirring a large tin pot.
Altman picked at the shreds of meat on his plate and listened to Manyenga praise him.
"Now, Father"—and Manyenga called one of the boys over. "This young chap is going to South Africa for work."
"Tsalani bwino," Altman said, as a formal farewell.
"But he is needing ndalama," Manyenga said.
The boy stood straight, bug-eyed with fear in the firelight, a scarecrow in his too-big shirt and torn trousers, his bony wrists pressed against his sides.
Altman nodded, hoping to appear noncommittal, but he knew that they were masterly at discerning the nuances of gesture; even blinks or a way of breathing revealed a state of mind. It was not sorcery; they were illiterate, and so they were hyper-alert in every other sense.
And, because they saw that he had been moved by the sight of the boy standing there, they refilled his glass with kachasu and toasted him. Later, the women sang, clapping their hands, and danced before him, standing in a line. He understood the words—"Our father, our chief, our mzungu in Malabo." Their skin shone with perspiration, and dust clung to it, creating a weird plastery cosmetic. Their growly harmonizing resonated in the pit of his stomach, and he could distinguish Zizi's voice from the others; it stirred something in him—a purring within him that answered her.
On any other night he would have excused himself and crept across the clearing to his hut, but now he was the guest of honor. He called to the boy, motioning him to his side. He gave the boy some money, folded under his fingers.
Everyone saw. Manyenga said, "You are our chief, dear Father."
Now the only thought in his mind was the urgency of leaving. He tore a page from his notebook and wrote a message to the consulate in Blantyre, stating that he was unwell and needed to talk to the consul. He found an envelope. Stepping off the veranda of his hut with the letter in his hand, he heard a whistle.
The clean white envelope, brilliant in the sunlight, had been spotted from forty yards away.
"Kalata," Manyenga said, materializing on the path, asserting himself with the force of his voice. "We will post the kalata for you."
"I can do it."
"The chief does not post letters. His people carry out the workload. They brush the glue on the stamps. Give it, my friend!"
Feeling feeble, Altman handed it over. He knew that it would never be sent.
He had abandoned any idea of improving the village. The school would remain a shell, a nest of snakes. The villagers would subsist; the weaker ones would die. He sat like them, breathing the shade.
One day he said at breakfast, "I'm going to pick some bananas"—using that as an excuse to take a stroll, to feel less trapped. Though he had not spoken to anyone in particular, his words reached Manyenga, who confronted him.
"The chief cannot pick bananas! You must not do so, Father. Your people will fetch them."
So they waited on him, the whole village having been enlisted to help. They were no longer afraid of him. He would rise from his chair on the veranda and as soon as he stepped into the clearing he'd hear a sharp whistle that signalled "He's moving."
He was mocked by the memory of the gratitude he'd felt on the first day. And he saw that he was changed, almost a different man. A residue of malarial blood remained in his veins. Still unsteady on his feet, he sometimes felt just like those toothless elders gabbing under the tree at Magwero. Heat and illness had turned him into someone he hardly knew, and one afternoon, in a voice he hardly recognized, he called out for a drink.
Someone knocked, then he heard Zizi's voice, her soft singsong inquiry, "Kodi?"
She entered, padded to the side table. The mirror shook as she set the basin of water down. Lying on his side, too tired to move, he studied her reflection in the mirror. He spoke to the mirror: "I want to see you."
Bewilderment showed on her girlish face for a moment, then gave way to a half smile, as though she were quietly pleased that he was asking something of her.
"Yes, Father."
She drew in her lips and bit down on them, vexed, her face compressed in thought. Altman made a spiralling gesture with his finger that meant "unwrap."
Zizi hesitated, and then, as though remembering, became calmer, turned away, and unknotted her cloth. She draped it over the chair back and faced him again, her hands clasped below her waist for the sake of modesty.
Still watching her in the mirror, Altman said, "Dance."
She didn't move, though she blinked at the word kutamba, a woman's wild dance, done naked.
"Dance," he said, pleading.
Untwining her fingers, lifting her hands, bending slightly, she parted her legs, then raised her knees, rolling her head—all the time looking aside, meeting his gaze only in the mirror. She had large feet, but she planted them lightly. She had scaly sticklike arms, scaly sticklike legs, tiny breasts, and her eyes gleamed with anxiety.
"Snake," he said. "You're my snake."
Someone must have seen. Soon afterward, the whole village seemed to know what had happened in the hut. But the incident, evidence of his weakness—resentment, boredom, a pang of desperation—had the effect of convincing the village that he meant to stay, that he'd discovered a way of being happy, that at last they'd satisfied him. He found this out when a man with blotches on the whites of his eyes, a relative of Manyenga's (he said brother, but "brother" was a general term), came to him and said he wanted to buy a motorcycle.
"And what will you do for me?" Altman said.
"Zizi will dance for you, sure." The man stared at him, a smile in his spotted eyes.
Altman handed him some money, saying, "I want a ride on your bike to the boma."
"I will give you, Father."
Later that day, Altman set off across the compound with Zizi and the dwarf. He heard the insistent warning whistle, drowning out all other sounds, even the shrillness of the birds. Altman was leading the others in an almost stately way, holding the basket to his chest.
At the creek bank, he stooped and released the snake onto the hot sand. Before the snake could slip away Altman pinned it with a forked stick and let it thrash, whipping a pattern in the sand with its thickened body. And then the villagers saw him loosely swinging the empty basket across the clearing to his hut.
After that, they didn't whistle in the same way when he left his hut. Instead of the shrill note of urgency, it was softer, like birdsong, just a signalling tweet. And whenever he returned, almost without fail, some money was missing from the basket where he'd kept the snake.
That week—the week of the separate raids on his stash of money—he fell ill again. This time it came quickly. It hit him as he was walking through the village, first a dizziness and an aching throat and pain behind his eyes, a buzz in his muscles, and an urgent thirst.
Dehydration, he thought. He sat down on the bare ground and pressed his eyes. He called for water, though he knew that he might be past the point of being able to absorb any liquid.
"Salt," he murmured to Zizi, and remembered the word mchere. But she seemed too bewildered to move.
Women carrying babies in cloth slings on their way home from hoeing weeds in the maize fields stopped and watched him, more out of curiosity than pity, as he clutched his head. They surrounded him, as they would a dog in distress, or any creature dying, and therefore a diversion and not a threat.
The dwarf was near him; Altman saw him creeping close.
"Water," Altman said, and repeated it in Sena.
The dwarf scuttled away on his wounded feet and was soon back, approaching Altman with an enamel cup. But, leaning, he stumbled and lost it. The women laughed and clapped, excited by the spectacle—the slumped man, the patch of dampened dust, the dirty cup, the dwarf on his knees.
Encouraged by the laughter, the dwarf stood and snatched the cup. More people came to see—the orphan boys, some men kicking through the dust with their shirts piled on their heads to keep off the sun. Altman was surrounded by the entire village, it seemed. But only the dwarf dared to come near him, jabbing at Altman with his own walking stick. Altman was helpless to resist, and when he looked up the dwarf was rushing at him, wild-eyed, with a bruised eager face. Altman tumbled into the dust, and a cry went up. The dwarf began kicking him, straining with grunts, to the rejoicing of the crowd.
Altman's tongue was so swollen when he woke that he could barely breathe. He was still clothed, on his string bed in the hut.
"Chief." It was Manyenga, murmuring the word.
Zizi was there, too, creeping toward him with the same kind of enamel cup that the dwarf had offered him. Altman raised himself and drank, expecting water, but it was thick and salty—soup. Throughout the day, he lapped at it; he sensed it easing his throat, seeping into his flesh, his body greedy for the salt.
In the morning, he sat up with a clearer head and pulled out the basket that he'd shoved under his bed. He knew before he opened it that all the money was gone.
The spell of dehydration had made him watchful. He sat for the rest of the day in the shade of his veranda, moving only to slap at flies. As the sun dropped to the level of the trees at the edge of the clearing, he snapped a branch from the tree that overhung his hut and made himself a new stick. Followed by Zizi and the dwarf, he walked along the barrier of elephant grass and crossed the clearing, pushed through the waist-high weeds to the ruined school. By a decaying stump he saw the puff adder, though it was almost indistinguishable from the flakes of old bark, thickened inside a widened cleft of the wood.
He was studying the adder when Manyenga appeared, but warily, keeping his distance, because he understood that Altman, staring hard at something that he could not see, was probably looking at a snake.
"I've been expecting you," Altman said.
"Chief," Manyenga said with a head shake of respect.
"We go to the boma tomorrow."
"I am hoping, Father."
"You know why."
"I am knowing, Father. We are needing."
Now the man was uncertain, clumsy in his politeness, eager to please.
Zizi and the dwarf had dropped back. Manyenga leaned toward Altman and, without pointing, but nodding in a knowing way, he whispered, "She is waiting you."
Although it was dusk, there was still enough light from the reddened sky for Altman to see, at the far edge of the clearing, women holding babies, some old men, the orphan boys, and girls with firewood on their heads. It was the same crowd that had encouraged the dwarf to attack him when he'd fainted, but the mood was different. He had not seen them watching him like this since he'd first arrived in Malabo and had been welcomed with apprehension. In his days of illness and of being thwarted and robbed, he had almost forgotten how fearful they once were.
Manyenga turned and called out in English, "Kill a chicken for the chief!," and then repeated it in his own language.
Altman smiled, and saluted, as he had that first day, but this time without hope. ♦


text: People tend to be very aggressive in their love of the Christopher Nolan-directed Batmans and get pretty easily upset when it's a love that you don't share. "What? You didn't love Batman? How could you have not loved Batman?" they ask in exasperation. Well, thanks to a few adjustments and a perfect impression by Jimmy Fallon, the few of us who aren't crazy about the series finally have our answer: Not enough Pee-wee voices.


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Full access to this web site is reserved for registered members of Columbus Academy. New families are always welcomed. You will find our statement of faith, instructions for paying dues, and our registration form by clicking on "Request Membership" above.
If you would like to meet some CA families and get acquainted with our group before joining, you are welcomed to attend one of CA's events. You may contact Lisa Tatz at email@example.com for information on our upcoming events or for more information about Columbus Academy.
Columbus Academy is a Roman Catholic Home Schooling Support Group with the purpose of encouraging parents as the primary educators of their children. We seek to form friendships, share resources, and learn from one another while remaining faithful to the Magisterium and all the Truths of the Catholic Church.
"The greatest destroyer of love and peace is abortion,
which is war against the child. The mother doesn't learn
to love, but kills to solve her own problems. Any country
that accepts abortion is not teaching its people to love,
but to use any violence to get what they want." Mother Theresa


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Read the original article in the News Times here.
High risk, high reward.
That is often the case for breakaway riders in cycling races. The strategy works under the right conditions, resulting in a small group of riders dueling it out for a win or a solo rider crossing the finish line all alone.
But if a rider goes to the front too early or the chase group is organized in trying to close the gap, that advantage can get swallowed up in a hurry, leaving a rider with little to show in terms of results after some hard riding.
In Eric Sheagley's case at the Montinore Road Race, a cycling event staged on a circuit course in rural Forest Grove on Sunday, going solo paid off.
At the start of the final lap of the men's Category 1/2/3 race, Sheagley seized the lead. Despite having to battle crosswinds by himself over that final 10 kilometers, the 41-year-old Portland resident held his lead for the win.
"I'd hoped that I could hold it, but there were some really strong teams there, and I guess fortunately, they just didn't do anything," said Sheagley, a chemistry instructor at Portland State University. "So it was a lot of luck."
Sunday marked the second annual edition of the Montinore Road Race. All races started at the Montinore Estate vineyard located off of Highway 47 just south of Forest Grove and finished on an uphill stretch of road nearby.
In between the start and finish lines, participants covered anywhere from four to 10 laps of a 10-kilometer course that meandered past nurseries, rural properties, fields of clover and wheat, the L-Bar-T Bison Farm — and plenty of vineyard land, of course.
Much of the course was relatively flat or gently rolling, but on Plumlee Road cyclists had to traverse a short but punchy hill at the end of every lap and then negotiate some tight corners on the descent back down at the start of each ensuing lap.
The Cat 1/2/3 race that Sheagley won was 10 laps of that 10K circuit. Midway through the race, another rider in the field, John Leonard, established a solo breakaway of his own. Unlike Sheagley's, though, Leonard's lead did not hold. After leading for about three laps, Leonard was caught by the field with about 20K to go. He eventually finished 24th.
With Sheagley riding strongly at the front, the rest of the field was left to settle out the places behind him. Cliff Heaberlin fared well as one of the best among the rest by finishing in third place. After Sheagley broke away, Heaberlin said, he was looking out for a couple of teams with multiple riders in the race to try to chase Sheagley down, but they did not organize.
"I wasn't going to risk chasing, because I didn't have any teammates with me, so it was just me," the 32-year-old Heaberlin noted. "I've done that before, when I've gone hard and chased and next thing I know I'm out of energy and guys are flying by me."
Instead, Heaberlin waited until the incline on the final lap to make his move.
"I just got on his wheel and followed," Heaberlin said of one of his competitors. "It's a short climb, but it felt long on the last lap just because a lot of things are happening."
Another rider, Stephen Bedford, eventually passed Heaberlin on the way up, and Heaberlin stayed on his back wheel but could get no closer, so those two riders rounded out the podium in the division.
The women's Category 1/2/3 race also included a sprint for the podium spots, and like Heaberlin, Leia Tyrrell ended up in third place. The 23-year-old Corvallis resident found herself among five riders battling up the final climb of the 80K race, won by Beth Ann Orton. Lelah O'Shaughnessy followed in second.
"Beth definitely got me at the finish," said Tyrrell, the Oregon Bicycle Racing Association Women's Prestige Series Cat 1/2/3 points leader. "She had a nice acceleration."
The race kicked off a busy week of cycling for Tyrrell. On Tuesday, she was scheduled to begin competition in the Cascade Cycling Classic, a six-day stage race that annually draws some top-flight female cyclists to Central Oregon.
The Montinore Road Race also exorcised some demons for Tyrrell, this year's OBRA women's Cat 1/2/3 road race champion. Last year's edition, she noted, was her first mass-start event after returning from a serious cycling accident two springs ago that left her in a coma for 11 days.
Last year, the Montinore event's corners left her intimidated, and after she fell on one, she pulled herself from her race. But she had no such issues this time around.
"I was excited to redo it this year, because I knew this course suits me," Tyrrell observed. "I like this course. I just couldn't handle it last year."
Sunday also was a pretty good day for Clint Ebert, a 53-year-old Forest Grove resident who competed in the masters men 50 and older Cat 1/2/3 division.
"I was happy because last year when I did it, I got dropped on the very first lap going up the hill," he said. "This year was better."
In fact, Ebert, who finished 10th in his division, said through five of eight laps he stuck with the main pack, which included riders in the masters men 35 and older Cat 1/2/3 division.
Paul Zagacki, one of Ebert's bicycleattorney.com teammates, had birthday plans after the race. He turned 42 on Saturday, but put off celebrations for a day so he could race in Forest Grove.
"I'm going to go home, pick up my daughter, take her to the Thorns game, try not to fall asleep at the Thorns game, come home and have a barbecue and try not to fall asleep at the barbecue," the Lake Oswego resident said.
A little birthday fun after some cycling fun.
"I think it's a great event," said Zagacki, 14th in the masters men Cat 1/2/3 division. "The climb's not too hard, steep enough to slow everybody down, but not too long. The downhill after the climb is actually harder than the climb because of the crosswinds and everybody's going hard. The downhill hurt more than the climb."
In addition to Sheagley and Orton, division winners were Adnan Kadir (masters men 35 and older Cat 1/2/3), Luis Valls (masters men 50 and older Cat 1/2/3), Daniel Lincoln (men Cat 4/5), Johnathan Sharp (masters men 35 and older Cat 4/5), Deann Garcia (women Cat 4/5) and Kitt Pratt (women 40 and older).


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Pregnant women protest outside the office of German Chancellor Angela Merkel against man-made toxic chemicals that contaminate unborn babies
Dangerous chemicals threaten our water, air, land and ultimately the health of all living beings. Many are knowingly released into the environment, causing disease, mutation and stunted fertility. Even newborn babies enter the world contaminated with poisonous chemicals inherited from their mothers. The slow accumulation of such substances in the environment, food chain and our bodies is a serious problem. Greenpeace does not oppose the use of chemicals, but is against the release of dangerous ones, especially when there are safer alternatives.
Fortunately, the tide is turning towards the elimination of such substances. In 2007, the world's most progressive chemical legislation entered into force for EU countries. The EU law, called REACH (Registration, Evaluation, and Authorization of Chemicals), requires firms to be more transparent regarding the chemicals they manufacture and use. It is based on a precautionary principle, shifting the burden of proof regarding for safety onto manufacturers and importers, and it provides for restrictions and phasing out of dangerous chemicals.
If properly implemented, REACH will result in the replacement of the most dangerous chemicals with safe/r alternatives. The proof of its effectiveness will be in how well and how quickly phase outs occur, pursuant to commitments to make chemical management safe by 2020. The impacts of REACH stand to be felt in the wider world too, with non-European manufacturers and governments aligning their policies to Europe's. In the coming years, additional dangerous substances will be added to the REACH phase out process.
Brussels - On 1 December 2013, the three neonicotinoid insecticides thiamethoxam (produced by Syngenta), imidacloprid and clothianidin (produced by Bayer), will be subject to a partial two-year ban in the European Union (EU). The insecticides are...
A letter from the Green 10 to Mr Martin Schulz, President of the European Parliament,
Mr Herman Van Rompuy, President of the European Council and
Mr Jose Manuel Barroso, President of the European Commission
Letter on behalf of the Green 10.
This report is a mid-term assessment of the environmental performance of the Barroso II European Commission, covering the period from early 2010 to mid-2012. It is issued by the Green10, a platform of environmental organisations active at EU...
A joint statement by environment and health NGOs on hydraulic fracturing (fracking) for shale gas, shale oil and coal bed methane (CBM) in Europe.
21 - 25 of 93 results.


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Quote:In almost each rank Grade a life time of studies is introduces as seen below.1st Black belt to Second BBTai Chi Ch'uan Yang Tai Chi (64)Pa Kua Chang Classical Pa Kua....... and on and onIt starts Iron Body training at its highest rank level, if you ain't got it by then it ain't gonna do you much go 45-60+.
Quote:No comment about a Kung Fu style that has kata?Kata are japanese, Kung Fu is Chinese.
Artifacts from the Ryukyu Kingdom missing since WWII.
Visit www.ShisaLion.Org
to view pictures
Stun Guns
Self Defense Products-stun guns, pepper spray, tasers
and more
Complete surveillance systems for covert operations
or secure installation security
Asylum Images
Book presents photo tour of the Trans-Allegany Lunatic Asylum. A must if you're going to take a ghost tour!


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Five Signs That Sedation Dentistry is Right For You
As a provider of sedation dentistry, we know how important it is to receive dental care but how difficult it can be for some people to do so. Millions of adults suffer from some sort of dental anxiety. In many cases, this manifests itself as basic discomfort and stress. However, for some people, it prevents them from visiting the dentist altogether. Hollywood movies, horror stories of root canals, and bad childhood experiences all contribute to the fear and eventually it can seem much larger than it is. Our solutions are simple, easy to use, and effective. So if you have anxiety, we encourage you to give us a call.
You might need sedation dentistry if….
1. You have been avoiding going to the dentist. If it has been a few years since you came in for a teeth cleaning, dental exam, or if you have a toothache that you have been ignoring, sedation can help you to get the care that you need. Sedation addresses the anxiety that may be preventing you from scheduling a necessary appointment. By taking a small pill before the visit starts, you can be calm and relaxed.
2. You had a bad experience in the past. If you do not like receiving dental care because a procedure was uncomfortable before or the office you visited was stressful or chaotic, we encourage you to give it another try. Our office is relaxing, our staff is calm, and we can help you to feel entirely relaxed when you are here.
3. You are having significant dental work. If you are simply having your teeth cleaned, you may not need sedation. However, if you are having something like a root canal or a cosmetic procedure like veneers, these appointments take slightly longer. Even patients that are generally comfortable with dental care can become stressed as the appointment goes on. Sedation dentistry is incredibly helpful because it can help you to relax no matter how long your procedure is.
4. You have general anxiety. If you tend to be an anxious or worrisome person, sedation dentistry can help by calming your nerves. Taken before your procedure starts, it can place you into a calm state of mind without altering your ability to move like normal or the ability to respond to questions. Essentially, you will be aware but calm.
5. You are worried about pain. When we give you sedation, it addresses your emotional state. Very often people feel discomfort not because the procedure actually hurts but because they are tense and working it up in their mind. In many cases, our patients do not require any pain medication when they are using sedation. However, if you still want the area to be numbed, we can do that as well.
Our goal is to help you to maintain lifelong oral health and to use the tools necessary to accomplish that goal. Sedation has been incredibly helpful, allowing us to provide anxious patients with the care that they need. If any of the above signs sound like you, call and schedule an appointment with our dental office today.


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Faculty Guidelines for Using Turnitin
How Turnitin May Be Used
Undergraduate School
Undergraduate School faculty may either upload students' work themselves on behalf of their students or else require their students to enroll in a Turnitin class created by the faculty member.
Graduate School
Graduate School faculty should upload students' work themselves on behalf of their students. They should not require their students to enroll in a Turnitin class created by the faculty member. When uploading students' work be sure to use an alias first name and last name, like Student One, Student Two, and so on.
Notice to Students
In all classes, you must notify your students that the Turnitin service may be used. For online courses, the language below will appear by default in the academic policies section of your syllabus. You should also place an announcement in the class announcements section. For face-to-face courses, place the notice in your syllabus and verbally inform students of the service during the first class meeting.
This notice will appear in the academic policies section of your syllabus:
Note: Your instructor may use Turnitin, an educational tool that helps identify and prevent plagiarism from Internet resources, by requiring you to submit assignments electronically. To learn more about the tool and options regarding the storage of your assignments in the Turnitin database go to http://sites.umgc.edu/library/libresources/turnitin.cfm
Student Copyright
The UMUC license with Turnitin also specifies that students retain copyright to their submitted assignments and that the assignments will be stored only for the duration of UMUC's contract with Turnitin and solely for the purpose of using such papers as source material to prevent plagiarism of such papers.
The University has a license agreement with Turnitin, an educational tool that helps prevent or identify plagiarism from Internet resources. The instructor may use the service in the UMUC class by requiring students to submit assignments electronically to Turnitin, by submitting assignments on their behalf, or by providing the option for students to submit their work to Turnitin and check their work for originality. The Turnitin Originality Report will indicate the amount of original text in the students' work and whether all material that was quoted, paraphrased, summarized, or used from another source was cited as appropriate.
If the student or the instructor submits all or part of an assignment to the Turnitin service, Turnitin will ordinarily store that assignment in its database. The assignment will be checked to see if there is any match between that work and other material stored in Turnitin's database. If the student objects to long-term storage of their work in the Turnitin database, the student must let the instructor know no later than two weeks after the start of the class so that the instructor can make appropriate arrangements. The student has three options regarding the assignment being stored in the Turnitin database. One, if the student does nothing then the assignment will be stored in the Turnitin database for the duration of UMUC's contract with Turnitin. Two, the student can ask the instructor to have Turnitin store the assignment only for the duration of the semester or term, then have the assignment deleted from the Turnitin database once the class is over. Three, the student can ask the instructor to change the Turnitin settings so that the assignment is not stored in the Turnitin database at any time.
Faculty who need assistance setting up these options should contact the library directly.
Student Privacy
Student papers are protected by the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act as they are educational records that contain personally identifiable information. If you submit a paper or an excerpt from a paper on behalf of a student for evaluation by Turnitin, use an alias instead of the student's name and ensure that any reference to the organization where the student is employed is removed before submission.
As long as students' papers are stored in the Turnitin database, your name and e-mail address will be associated with your students' papers. If the paper submitted by or on behalf of another student at UMUC or any other institution that utilizes the Turnitin database matches your student's paper, you may be contacted. Faculty are not permitted to release student papers either to other UMUC faculty or faculty from other institutions. If Turnitin requests permission to release a paper, faculty shall deny the request.
Suspected Plagiarism
In a case of suspected plagiarism, faculty should refer to UMUC's Policy 150.25 -Academic Dishonesty and Plagiarism and proceed accordingly. It is also recommended that you inform your Program Director, Department Director, or Assistant Dean. Ensuring the UMUC administration is informed is important.
Originality Reports
When a paper is evaluated, Turnitin provides originality reports which tell you that text in the evaluated project or paper is similar to or identical to text Turnitin has in its database. Faculty must still evaluate the quality of the report independently and determine if the parts identified by Turnitin that are similar or identical, are actually plagiarized text. This is because all matches are shown, even those where students cited properly. As a result, faculty must critique the report they receive, use their best judgment and follow University policy before approaching a student about possible plagiarism.
Similarly, if a paper is reported as "original" by Turnitin, that is not necessarily airtight evidence that the paper is original. Instead, it may mean that the student plagiarized from a work that is not available in the Turnitin database. No database is entirely comprehensive and many sources are not digitally available. Therefore, plagiarism can occur and be undetectable by services such as Turnitin.
Peer-review Capability
The peer review capability allows students to review each other's works. This capability will not be made available to UMUC faculty.
Use of Other Services in Evaluating Student Plagiarism
Use of Internet services to evaluate plagiarism should be conducted only through the license agreement selected and authorized by the University. Please do not submit papers prepared by UMUC students to other plagiarism service providers not approved of by UMUC.


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Bloomberg taught us an important lesson in contingencies this past week. Bloomberg mistakenly reported the death of Apple chairman Steve Jobs and quickly published a 17 page summation of Steve Jobs' life work.
All self-respecting newspapers and media companies have pre-written articles to quickly respond to expected and un-expected events. World leader biographies are all constantly updated should there be a need to quickly publish them.
Contingencies are extremely important in everyday life as well. We buy insurance, save money and have emergency funds but we also need to have a plan b and c ready for tougher or better times. Think about it…
Interesting articles from past week's papers include:
- Dividends Still Make a Difference @ NY Times – Dividend paying stocks still prove to be a more solid investment.
- Still Bleeding @ The Economist – Fannie, Freddie and Lehman ensure August is anything but quiet
From the Carnivals:
Carnival of Twenty Something Finances @ Living Almost Large:
- Introduction to Lazy Portfolios @ Blueprint for Financial Prosperity
- Why I won't save an emergency fund @ I Pick Up Pennies
Carnival of Personal Finance #167 @ Broke Grad Student:
- Financial Tips for Students Entering College. @ Consumerism Commentary
- Famous and Not so Famous Songs and How They Relate to Finance @ The Financial Blogger
More from fellow personal finance bloggers:
- A Simple System To Keep Financial Records @ The Digerati Life
- Reading Greek @ Moment On Money
- 12th Finance Fiesta: Baseball Edition @ Living Almost Large


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People We Love: Omar Tello
Thirty years ago, accountant and orchid aficionado Omar Tello quit his job to fulfill a dream of restoring forest habitat for wild orchids in his native Ecuador. Property was worth more money as pasture than as forest, and Tello was viewed as eccentric for trying to restore an ecosystem rather than raising cattle.
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Today the habitat Tello restored is the Orchid and Botanical Garden in Puyo, home to many species of insects, mammals, and plants, and a conservation model and research resource.
Tello's next goal is convincing local government to make the land a protected forest.
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Join the American Academy of Sleep Medicine and receive a subscription to JCSM with your membership
JCSM Journal Club summarizes new clinical evidence related to Sleep Medicine from a number of journals. It is a recurring feature of the Journal. The editorial staff regularly assesses newly published medical literature related to Sleep Medicine and features papers that are important for Sleep Medicine clinicians.
Commentary on Marcus CL, Moore RH, Rosen CL, Giordani B, et al. for the Childhood Adenotonsillectomy Trial (CHAT). A randomized trial of adenotonsillectomy for childhood sleep apnea. N Engl J Med 2013;368:2366–76.
Question: Compared with watchful waiting, does the treatment of childhood obstructive sleep apnea (OSA) with adenotonsillectomy improve cognitive outcomes, symptoms, behavior, quality of life, and polysomnography findings?
Design: Multicenter, single-blind, randomized, controlled trial conducted at seven academic sleep centers; ClinicalTrials.gov number, NCT00560859.
Allocation: Children were randomly assigned to early adenotonsillectomy (EAT-surgery within 4 weeks after randomization) or a strategy of watchful waiting with supportive care (WWSC). Randomization was performed centrally using a web-based system that required confirmation of eligibility criteria prior to providing the treatment assignment.
Blinding: Single-blind; personnel involved in conducting psychometric evaluations and measuring other study outcomes, as well as study investigators (other than the surgeons), were blinded to randomization assignments, study participants and families were not blinded.
Follow-Up Period: 7 months.
Setting: The study recruited children with symptoms of obstructive sleep apnea syndrome (OSAS) from primary care, otolaryngology, and sleep clinics at 7 academic centers in the United States.
Subjects: 453 children, mean age 6.5 ± 1.4 years, 49% male, were randomized.
Inclusion Criteria: Age between 5 to 9 years, polysomnographic diagnosis of OSAS without prolonged oxyhemoglobin desaturation, and considered to be suitable candidates for adenotonsillectomy. OSAS was defined as an apnea–hypopnea index (AHI) score of 2 or more events per hour or an obstructive apnea index (OAI) score of 1 or more events per hour.
Exclusion Criteria: Children with an AHI score of more than 30 events per hour, an OAI score of more than 20 events per hour, or arterial oxyhemoglobin saturation of less than 90% for ≥ 2% of total sleep time, recurrent tonsillitis, a BMI z score of ≥ 3, and use of medication for attention deficit–hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
Intervention: Participants meeting eligibility criteria were randomized to early adenotonsillectomy or a strategy of watchful waiting with supportive care (WWSC). Children completed in lab polysomnography at baseline and 7 month follow-up. At both time points, caregivers were asked to complete survey instruments evaluating behavior, intellectual functioning, quality of life, symptoms of sleepiness and sleep apnea; teachers were mailed behavioral assessments. Neuropsychological testing was performed during a morning visit, on a separate day from the polysomnogram, to avoid the influence of atypical sleep related to overnight monitoring. Tests were administered by psychometrists, blinded to the polysomnographic results.
Outcomes: The primary outcome was the change in the attention (A) and executive-function (E) score on the Developmental Neuropsychological Assessment (NEPSY).
Secondary outcome measures were: 1) caregiver and teacher ratings of behavior measured by Conners' Rating Scale Revised: Long Version Global Index, comprising Restless–Impulsive and Emotional Lability factor sets and the Behavior Rating Inventory of Executive Function (BRIEF), comprising summary measures of behavioral regulation and metacognition; 2) symptoms of obstructive sleep apnea syndrome, as assessed by the Pediatric Sleep Questionnaire sleep-related breathing disorder scale (PSQ-SRBD); 3) sleepiness, assessed using the Epworth Sleepiness Scale modified for children; 4) global quality of life, evaluated by caregiver-rated total score from the Pediatric Quality of Life Inventory (PedsQL); 5) disease-specific quality of life measure based on the 18-item Obstructive Sleep Apnea assessment tool; 6) generalized intellectual functioning evaluated by the General Conceptual Ability score from the Differential Ability Scales-II (DAS); and 7) polysomnographic indexes.
A study sample size of 400 children, randomized 1:1 between the 2 study arms allowed for detection of an effect size, for the primary endpoint of the NEPSY A/E domain score, of ≥ 0.32 (an effect size estimated from one prior study) with 90% power.
Patient Follow-Up: 464 children were randomized between January 2008 and September 2011, 11 excluded due to lack of follow-up data, 35 were lost to follow-up, and 18 withdrew from the study. Follow-up visits were conducted for 400 children (86%), with 397 children having measurements of attention and executive function on the NEPSY (primary outcome) that could be evaluated. An intention to treat analysis was performed.
Main Results: The baseline attention and executive function score on the NEPSY (primary outcome) was close to the population mean of 100 in both groups. Average scores increased in both groups at 7 month follow-up, but there was no statistically significant difference between the groups in the primary outcome (7.1 ± 13.9 in the early-adenotonsillectomy group and 5.1 ± 13.4 in the watchful-waiting group, p = 0.16). The AHI score improved in both groups, but significantly more so in the early-adenotonsillectomy group (Effect size 0.57, p < 0.001). There were statistically significant improvements in behavioral, quality of life measures, and greater reduction in symptoms in the early adenotonsillectomy group than in the watchful-waiting group.
Neither obesity nor age significantly modified treatment responses for any of the outcomes reported. The relative improvements associated with early-adenotonsillectomy were significantly lower for African American children compared to children of other ethnic/racial backgrounds for the caregiver completed behavioral questionnaires.
There were 15 post-randomization serious adverse events, six of which occurred in children randomized to early adenotonsillectomy and nine in the control group. Eight of the events were associated with peri-operative complications (bleeding, dehydration, and pain). Nine treatment failures were also considered adverse events, occurring in the watchful waiting group; treatment failures were attributed to: increased problems with sleep quality or sleepiness, school behavioral problems, morning headaches, asthma exacerbation, hypertension, and bacterial infections.
Conclusion: Among school age children with obstructive sleep apnea syndrome without prolonged oxygen desaturation, early adenotonsillectomy, as compared with a strategy of watchful waiting with supportive care, did not result in significantly greater improvement in scores on a formal test of attention and executive function after a period of 7 months. However, early adenotonsillectomy was associated with statistically significant improvements in polysomnographic findings, caregiver and teacher reported measures of behavior, quality of life, and sleep apnea symptoms.
Sources of Funding: The study was supported by grants (HL083075, HL083129, UL1 RR024134, and UL1 RR024989) from the National Institutes of Health.
For Correspondence: Dr. Susan Redline at Brigham and Women's Hospital, 221 Longwood Ave., Boston, MA 02115, E-mail: email@example.com.
This elegant study raises several questions for the treating clinician, including:
Which children would benefit from watchful waiting, since there was no significant difference in the primary outcome (attention and executive function) between early adenotonsillectomy and watchful waiting with supportive care after 7 months of treatment?
Are the improved secondary outcomes sufficient to warrant adenotonsillectomy in children who have OSAS?
What are the implications of favoring surgery versus watchful waiting in children who have OSA?
This was a well-designed and rigorously conducted study evaluating multiple outcomes in a large group of otherwise healthy children aged 5-9 years across several academic centers across the United States. Efforts were made to include children from primary care clinics. The methodological rigor involved was impressively executed, with great efforts made towards appropriate screening, standardized testing and measurement, use of quality control measures, and ensuring surgery was also carried out in a standardized fashion among different centers. Factors that could exacerbate OSAS, including allergies and poorly controlled asthma, were assessed as part of the protocol, but did not affect randomization. The children were not tested formally for asthma and allergies, such that some children with either condition could have been randomized to the study, which could affect the severity of OSAS over time. Both groups were provided opportunity to improve sleep quality via good sleep structure and hygiene. However, medication was not included as an intervention or within the run-in period to determine how many children would benefit from medication alone.
Despite the rigorous methodology, there are several factors that must be considered for interpretation of these results. The children studied were those that were able to perform neurocognitive testing; however, OSAS in children starts at a much younger age and whether the timing of the surgery for younger children would result in different outcomes remains to be seen. In addition, for ethical reasons, the study group had very minimal intermittent hypoxemia (oxygen hemoglobin saturation less than 90% for ≥ 2% of the total sleep time). It is possible that the outcomes in children, who have more severe hypoxemia or more recurring desaturations, could have more noticeable changes in executive function to a certain extent; while those with very severe recurrent desaturations may not have any improvement, depending on the duration and severity of the disease. Furthermore, the primary outcome may be impacted by various factors including sleep deprivation, sleep apnea, sleep fragmentation, and genetic endowment to name a few, such that the lack of difference may be mitigated by other non-measurable factors. It is hoped that with randomization these non-measurable factors will also be equally distributed between the two groups. Nevertheless, this study did show significantly greater improvements in behavior, quality of life, and polysomnographic findings, as well as a reduction in symptoms in the children who underwent early adenotonsillectomy versus watchful waiting. A parent and the treating clinician may consider the secondary outcomes worthy enough to consider surgery, at least in some children. What is striking is that 46% of the children in the watchful waiting group did normalize their polysomnographic parameters, despite ongoing behavioral and quality of life impairment, which raises the question – which treatment outcomes should be considered of primary importance? Polysomnographic parameters may be evaluated within the context of clinical picture. In addition, it could be possible that the time at follow-up was too short to show differences in executive function and attention in those children that had watchful waiting versus surgery or that the subtle differences in function are not apparent in the neuropsychological testing. Finally, we eagerly await the data on physiological parameters that were measured within this study to determine if there are other criteria that would help decision making towards surgery versus watchful waiting.
Overall, not many children were treated medically prior to randomization and perhaps a period with medical treatment may also have been a viable option as some children with allergic rhinitis or poorly controlled asthma respond to treatment and the snoring may dissipate. This study suggests that children with OSAS warrant comprehensive evaluation to determine whether surgery is needed; ideally, after a trial of medical management. Additional large studies are needed to evaluate the role of medical management and surgery. If watchful waiting is chosen, the necessity for treatment should be considered after evaluation of neurocognitive and physical effects and potential impact to the child's functioning and quality of life with follow-up. Future studies should also consider economic analyses of either management option. In summary, this study highlights that OSAS is a disease that results in end-organ dysfunction across various domains, such as physical and neurocognitive function. The optimal timing and choice of intervention for children across the developmental trajectory is yet to be determined.
The authors have indicated no financial conflicts of interest.
Witmans M; Shafazand S. Adenotonsillectomy or watchful waiting in the management of childhood obstructive sleep apnea. J Clin Sleep Med 2013;9(11):1225-1227.


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With the holiday season upon us, now is the time to sit back, relax and enjoy the company of your loved ones. Although, if you're the part of the world where snow is common (like myself), you're already sick of the white devil powder that covers everything. Fortunately, we've got more important things to worry about. What's so important, you ask? Well, it's just THE END OF TIME.
Not only the end of time, but also the end of an era. Since the 2005 return of Doctor Who, we've been blessed with two wonderful actors portraying the Doctor, Christopher Eccleston and David Tennant. It's been over 4 years since we said goodbye to Eccleston and now the time is upon us again.
Time to say goodbye to David Tennant.
[Update: This will cover "Doctor Who: The End of Time" (Part 2).]
After such an extremely disappointing first half, it's hard to think that it could get any worse with part 2 of "The End of Time" and for the first 5 minutes into the second half, I started to think that it could. Then, the clouds cleared and Russell T. Davies was able to ever so slightly save himself for being known as the man who both resurrected and ruined Doctor Who.
While the second half was much better than the first, it still wasn't "up to standard" with what Who fans have become accustomed to. I'm not going to lie, this past year hasn't exactly been the best in terms of story, but it would be hard for any fan to deny that since its resurrection, Doctor Who has been top notch in terms of storytelling.
Maybe that's why this overall special failed. In terms of storytelling, I didn't really care about what was going on; Too many new things were introduced at once and they all began to just blend together and I started to ignore them.
The whole "medical fix-it machine," cactus people, super hero Master (flying with his hands), stunt man Doctor (falling through the ceiling), Donna's mind defense system, Time Lord beacon… it was just too much. It seemed as if Davies had thought of a scene, "the Time Lords returning" and was so excited about that idea that he just threw anything down to make it happen.
Still, this might sound like I didn't enjoy the episode at all and that's not the case; I truly enjoyed the episode. The last 20 minutes of the finale were worth sitting through every single special since last Christmas. When it comes down to it, the quality of the entire episode was secondary to what we I really care about: the ending. Somehow, I don't know how, Davies pulled out a brilliant conclusion to this Doctor Who story.
From the moment that the Doctor stated, "it's already started" I was hooked and couldn't stop watching until it was over. With the words of "I'm going to get my reward" and him revisiting all the main characters, Davies got back his glory and I couldn't have been happier about it.
This special is a perfect example why Davies needed to step down as head writer. While most of the episode was rubbish, there was enough brilliance peppered in to keep me watching and the ending of this episode was most certainly brilliant.
A New Doctor
Alright, I know everyone is going to have their thoughts on Matt Smith as the new Doctor, so here are mine: I'm going to wait and see. It's as simple as that.
Yes, I'll admit that his performance at the end was odd, but if you look back to the regeneration that revealed Tennant as the new Doctor, he wasn't exactly winning any awards.
There are a lot of things that tell me this upcoming season is going to be bad, but Steven Moffat has written so many wonderful Doctor Who episodes that I just have to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Don't I?