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Picking up Brad Gooch's biography of Flannery O'Connor, you wonder how he will fill the pages: dead at 39, an adulthood that was confined and constrained by illness, no long list of lovers, no involvement in world-changing events, O'Connor's fiction is clearly more eventful and sensational than her life -but the book is well worth the reading, and not just because it causes one to brood on O'Connor's fiction, and her uncompromising vision - how was the one achieved, and the other acquired?
I prefer biographies written by those with a self-reflected interest in the concerns and reputations of their subject – VS Pritchett on Chekhov, say, or Chesterton and Ackroyd (for good and ill) on Dickens - books where one gets a sense of a fretful and engaged musing on the writer as well the 'shilling life' that 'gives you all the facts.'
I like best those little tomes they used to be called 'Lives': Weidenfeld and Nicolson resurrect the genre from time to time, matching writers with subjects. The best of these biographies reflect back upon the biographer so that Proust, for example, becomes a proto-Edmund White and James Joyce is feminised by Edna O'Brien's fond regard.
At first, you expect Gooch's book to be like so many contemporary biographies – the thoroughness of the research stalling the pace, the narrative halted again and again by a roll call of dates, banal events and a labyrinthine account of the many branches of the family tree. Gooch's biography is along these lines, and you don't get a sense of a strong identification with the subject. You do get a sense of a definite liking, but not any evidence that what pre-occupies O'Connor also engages Gooch in any way that encourages him to explain or investigate his subject deeply - in the way Woolf evidently occupies Hermione Lee or the way Andrew Wilson digs so deeply into Patricia Highsmith's work in Beautiful Shadow - a stunning book that excavates the writer's mind.
Gooch only really approaches anything like a dissection of how O'Connor's faith informs and determines her work towards the end when she welcomes the influence of Teilhard de Chardin, at that time a maverick theologian and, in the book, the only instance where she departs from the Church's teaching.
This is a lack. O'Connor, by her own estimation, is a Catholic writer before she is a female writer or a Southern American writer. Nothing else explains her so fully. She is not a Catholic novelist in the way that Greene or Waugh are. Converts both, they are more playful, more willing to challenge and dispute orthodoxy. Faith in O'Connor is no game - the stake (one's immortal soul) is too high - nor is her religion a resource for symbolism – 'If (the Trinity) is a symbol, to hell with it.' In C20, even for Cradle Catholics, one's faith is often a wavering, battered thing, half-despised, ingrained in one rather than thoroughly understood. Not so, O'Connor.
In fact, she is much closer to Francois Mauriac, but funnier and far tougher. I'd argue that the one work of hers that does not succeed – The Violent Bear it Away – fails as Mauriac's work sometimes did: they both kept trying to pull towards redemption characters whose very energy came from their resistance to God.
Of course, this is the subject of Wild Blood, but in the second novel, the melodrama – and melodrama, so in love with suffering, is deeply Catholic – becomes over-punitive and strained.. With Mauriac, I am thinking particularly of La Fin de La Nuit, the needless sequel to Therese Desqueyroux, the novel in which he met a character finally impervious to redemption.
But Gooch's biography persuades one as it goes along that his is the right approach to O'Connor in this instance. As it's the first biography, he is just laying down the facts and not interpreting them overmuch. Others will follow that, baffled by the faith that explains and complicates them, will more crudely handle issues around O'Connor's sexuality and attitudes towards race, both of which Gooch handles with a temperate insight.
He is most interested in the fiction if and when it exploits or is most clearly occasioned by the life – particularly 'The Enduring Chill' and 'Good Country People' - but this also gives rise to moments of real grace, such as when he outlines and presents her relationship with Karl Langjkaer, and how tenderly he accounts for its effect on O'Connor. Another - not so much a moment as a subdued but still glittering strand - is the subtle and equally tender depiction of Betty Hester - who, as A, was the recipient of so many of O'Connor's best letters in The Habit of Being.
And in his last page Gooch identifies what made O'Connor a great writer. It was not her faith, her spinsterhood, her geography, her health, her times - although each colour her work, determine its thrust, its effect and range – but her industry. Finally, it is the only sure thing that makes a writer. It is, perhaps, the only thing.
Kafka observed that a writer should never leave his desk, but cling to it with his teeth. O'Connor was this truth exemplified:
…full-throated acclaim, and all the interest following, would have been impossible had Flannery not kept her eye...on 'the pinpoint of light' that Mrs Flood kept trying to make out at the end of Wise Blood. As O'Connor took pains to correct the galleys of 'Revelation' the night before her operation in Baldwin County Hospital; or hid under her pillow, at Piedmont, the notebook in which she was scratching out 'Parker's Back'; or worked, back home, making changes to "Judgement Day' on a bedside desk Maryat Lee remembered as 'one of those flimsy tables from Woolworth's', she was intent on 'going home,' closing the circle, making a book, rigging the peacock' tail to unfurl.


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Victorian gilt wedding altar inset with a photograph of an amorous couple. Circa 1900
World War I-period curiosity with original photograph of a nun, cross, photogram and handwritten notations. Circa 1918
Hand painted glass egg with original photograph of a couple. 1880s
Whiskey bottle with portrait of newlyweds set against a die cut pastoral background. 1880s
Photo display made of cigarette wrappers and inset with 4 family portraits. Circa 1970
Reworked period broom adorned with a vintage tintype and fabric by artist Elaine Hunstman. 1880s-1990s
Shadow box with tintypes of the Kimball Family set against contemporary batik fabric. 1880s-1990s
Period Chinese altar piece with hand-tinted portrait of a woman with bound feet. 1890s
© 2014 Daile Kaplan


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Welcome to our website. We are two agents, who together, have more than 50 years in the real estate business in State College. Our extensive experience allows us to offer the highest level of expertise to those wishing to buy or sell real estate in Centre County.
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Quick Search and Map Search are two ways to browse a current database of all the available properties in the area. For a more personalized search, complete the Dream Home Finder form and we will conduct a personalized search for you.
Selling a home is often part of the process of buying a home. Knowing what the home is worth is key to making the right decision when making a move. Although most agents will offer a Free Market Analysis, our experience in the business adds significant value to that analysis.


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The Internet Gems Edit
Maya Ahluwalia
Because it is a dreary, rainy Monday here in New York, I'm rounding up the latest Internet gems that bring nothing but pure joy and laughter.
To quote the great Wendy Williams, I have accumulated a number of "friends in my head". An assortment of celebrities that I believe have the potential to be BFFL's, best friends for life. After seeing Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard turn their trip to Africa into the most perfect interpretation of the Toto classic, these two have just made the top of the list.Read More


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Head banger
17 October 08
On Friday night, Aisha jumped off the yellow swing as it spun around and banged her forehead into the corner of the wall, splitting it open.
We still have an enormous band-aid on the cut, so we're not sure how well it's healing. David was concerned about the possibility of a facial scar. "This is a young lady's future," he said as he applied the sticking plaster.


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Patrick Tevlin Music
Patrick Tevlin Bio
Patrick Tevlin - Trumpet, Vocal
Patrick Tevlin's hot New Orleans-style trumpet leads The Happy Pals New Orleans Party Orchestra, New Orleans Rhythm, The Magnolia Brass Band and other groups performing in the Toronto area and around the world.
Tevlin's groups have recorded often, always to rave reviews, such as "This is New Orleans jazz at its best." (JazzReview.com, USA). Working in the studio, Tevlin has appeared on many other artists' recordings as well. He has toured extensively in Europe, and been featured as a guest artist with groups in France and the UK.
On his first trip to New Orleans, in 1978, Patrick met trumpet great Kid Thomas Valentine and promptly fell in love with the New Orleans style. He lives in Toronto, but his soul lives in New Orleans.
Contact: patrick(at)tevlin.ca
High-res photos (right-click to download)
Book a live band from Patrick Tevlin Music
Spark up an event for your family, friends or clients with live party music!
bookings [at] Tevlin.ca


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Died 4 July 1990 in Onawa, Iowa, aged 64 years
Interment: Whiting City Cemetery, Whiting, Iowa
FORTY YEARS AGO DON was described in our Howitzer: "From the Middle West came this Iowa State lad with curly hair and a ready smile that made him everybody's friend. Slipping easily into cadet life, he applied himself to academics with good results. Never too busy to help the goats, he still found time to pursue his interests in numerous activities. Don's perserverance and diligence assure his success in future endeavors."
Truly a prophetic assessment, missing only a few other important characteristics: a permanent twinkle in his eyes, a deep and ingrained modesty and a sincere concem for others. From early life until his passing, he was a model friend, husband, father, neighbor and citizen.
Upon arrival at Beast Barracks, he shared a secret with several of our class ‑ he had been to "tin school," Kemper Military School. Revelation of this to the Beast Detail or any intimation of prior military training usually resulted in additional harassment. Don kept his secret and, with his usual calm, made it through with relative ease. He enjoyed his four years at the Academy, his education, the expansion and exposure to new friends, new social opportunities and experiences. Throughout our Cadetship he remained devoted to his bride-to-be Mary "Frant." He was an easy person to like and one who, in a very quiet way, extended his friendship to most everyone he met. These characteristics of his youth were maintained throughout his life. Good humor, thoroughness, competence and sincerity were his attributes, and he had them in unusual abundance.
Following graduation and his marriage in June to Mary Frant, Don was assigned to the 10th Field Artillery Battalion, 3rd Division, which shortly went to Korea. Reports on his performance by fellow soldiers were that he was calm, thorough and very competent. The Army recognized his worth by awarding him the Silver and Bronze Stars.
However, the call of the Midwest proved greater than the peacetime call to arms, and in 1954 Don and Mary Frant settled in Onawa, Iowa, where they raised a wonderful, close‑knit, loving family of two sons, three daughters and six grandchildren. Don was successful in many areas of agri‑business, grain, cattle and banking and was involved in his community and a variety of civic organizations.
What more could be said than "Well Done; Be Thou At Peace."


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My apologies!!! It looks like I have abandoned this blog but I haven't!!! Life just got in the way! I had school then my laptop broke and I lost all the pictures I had taken and transferred over... Then school started again... (ఠ్ఠ ˓̭ ఠ్ఠ) Sorry for not posting for so long!!!
Enough with the sob story...
Today I am doing a post on Etude's Sun Blind Cushion. Etude House Global had a contest on Facebook and I was one of the lucky winners!! I chose the Sun Blind Cushion as I don't wear makeup too often and needed sunscreen. ೕ(•̀ᴗ•́) They sent the package via EMS and I got it within a week or so.. (Given how Canada Post is with the strike talk and the mentioning of people's EMS packages being lost on reddit, I am surprised I got it this fast.) I was also surprised that I got a Play 101 pencil and a new 0.2mm mask!
One of the reasons I chose the Sun Blind Cushion is because it's a sunscreen in a cushion form! I don't know why but that appeals to me so much! ¡¡¡( •̀ ᴗ •́ )و!!! Another reason is because it has a nautical theme to it.. I am a sucker for those.. ^__^
|The box is so colourful!
|I don't know if you can see, but it states there is only 14g of product in the cushion. This is only 0.5g more than the A'Pieu Air-Fit cushion.
Water, Zinc Oxide (CI 7947), Cyclopentasloxane, Ethylhexyl, Methoxyonnamate, Prpoanediol, Titanium Oxide (a 7789), Phenyl Trimethicone, PEG-10 Dimethicone, Cyclohexasloxane, Dimethicone, Butylene Glycol Dicaprylate/Cicaprate, Lauryl PEG-9 Polydimethylsloxyethyl dimethicone, Nacinamide, Vinyl Dimethicone/methicone Slsesquoxane Crosspolymer, Trisloxane, Aloe Barbadensis Leaf Extract, Hamameus Virginana (Witch Hazel) Leaf Extract, Anthemis Nobius FLower Extract, Calendula Officinalis Flower Extract, Disteardimonium Hectorite, Lechitin, Butylene Glycol, Sodium Cholride, Stearic Acid, Acrylates/Ethylhexyl Acrlate/Dimethicone Methacryleate Copolymer, Aluminum Hydroxide, Ethylhexylglycerin, Ethylhexyl Palmitate, Isostearic Acid, Ispropyl Palmitate, Trethoxycaprylyslane, Polyglyceryl-3 Polyricnoleate, Polyhydronxystearic Acid, Disodium EDTA, Phenoxyethanol, Fragrance
|It's SOOOO CUTE!!!!
As soon as I saw the box I knew it is a much thinner cushion than a regular cushion. I have it next to my Isa Knox cushion. (I was going to do a post about it until I lost all the photos.. I will eventually do up one. But let's just say it's a pretty good one!) You can see that it's just slightly wider than the Isa Knox and about half the height as Isa Knox. I kind of like how thin it is. It doesn't feel like a cushion at all.
Oh one thing! It doesn't have a spring to open the cushion, which is what most of the cushions have. Instead, it's like a mirror, you have to physically pry it open. I find that the easiest way to open it is to have my finger nail under the lip and push up.
However, the inside is same as any other cushion. Puff, housing for the puff and housing for the cushion itself. The cushion part does pop out from the case so you can replace it with a fresh one.
The sunscreen itself... Hmmm.. (^~^;)ゞ Well, a little dab gets a lot of sunscreen... It looks thick but it spreads nicely. It goes on kind of matte so there's no worry about having a shiny face and it blends nicely... There is no whitecast, none that I can see anyways. I can't even tell where I have swatched the sunscreen until I touch it and feel it is slightly more moisturized than the other areas.
|I swatched some sunscreen on here too, but like I said, I really can't tell where it is since it blends in nicely.
This was a surprise item in the package! This is my first Play 101 pencil! I actually really like the colour of this pencil. It's a really nice shimmery bronze colour. When I am swatching it, it glides on smoothly and well pigmented in my opinion. If I let it dry, it does not budget at all.
I quite like this. Can't wait to try it on my hooded eye and see how it stands up against oil from my eyelids. I am tempted to buy the Play 101 in black and a shimmery white. o(^▽^)o
|Top is me trying to "blend/smudge" it before it's dried, and bottom is letting it dry without touching it.
I can't tell what "flavour" this mask is supposed to be but IT"S SO CUTE!!!! It's got Etti the cat!!! From the colour, I am guessing it's Hyaluronic Acid. I actually for the full range of the 0.2mm masks when it was on sale so I will be reviewing those masks.. Soon... I hope... (⌒_⌒;)
Thanks again Etude House Global for sending the products!


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Hannah Miley Portrait Commission
With Hannah Miley doing so incredibly well in the Commonwealth games currently taking place in Glasgow lets look back at a portrait commission carried out within the school by local painter and Gray's graduate Stuart Allan.
Stuart was commissioned to paint a portrait of Olympic Swimmer and RGU sports scholar Hannah Miley. Stuart who Graduated from Gray's back in 2004 was invited back by Keith Grant the head of painting to take on the commission.
"it initially came out of the blue… I literally jumped at the chance to do it"
Stuart continued his practice once he graduated from Gray's painting around other commitments but maintaining a regular amount of commissioned portraits and personal work. His work of the last few years have mainly focused on the head so this painting was a return to larger scale paintings of the whole figure. The portrait was a joy to work on and once we decided on what pose to develop for the painting it didn't take too long for the final piece to take shape. "I love working on portraits of those who inspire me and projects like these are a great way to recognise the achievements of the subject and bring them together with an artist."
The Completed Painting
Robert Gordon University (RGU) commissioned Stuart to produce the portrait to mark Hannah's success in the pool. The painting, measuring almost two metres square, captures Hannah poised to dive into a swimming pool. It was unveiled on Friday, October 4 at the reception of RGU: SPORT, where it will remains on display, in front of invited guests from the north-east's sporting, arts and business communities.
Professor Ferdinand von Prondzynski introducing the painting.
Hannah, who graduated with a bachelor's degree in Applied Sports and Exercise Science from RGU this summer, combined the project with preparations to defend her gold medal in the 400m individual medley at next year's Commonwealth Games in Glasgow. She said: "It was a lot of fun working with Stuart on the project, he's done a fantastic job and the portrait is incredibly life-like. Seeing how the painting developed has been a fascinating experience and I couldn't be happier with the result. I still train at RGU: SPORT and to see it each time I come in will give me a great lift as I continue to improve my performance in the pool." Hannah, who studied at RGU's School of Health Sciences, was also an RGU: SPORT Scholar and benefitted from a tailor-made package of support from the university which allowed her to combine her studies with the demands of training and competing against the best swimmers in the world. She said: "The scholarship scheme was very helpful and meant I could cover the costs of attending university, allowing me to focus completely on studying and my training. It's been a huge boost to my preparations for the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow where I hope to defend my title and win more gold for Scotland."
Stuart Presented Miley with drawings he made whilst producing the painting.
Local and national media were in attendance to hear Miley's responce to the painting.
Professor Ferdinand von Prondzynski, the Principal of RGU, said: "We're proud to honour Hannah with this wonderful portrait which will be displayed at RGU: SPORT to mark her achievements. It takes an artist of significant talent to create a stunning portrait like this and I'm sure a lot of people will be keen to see it when they visit our state-of-the-art sports facilities." He added: "Hannah has been a fantastic champion of the university and we look forward to continuing that relationship now she has graduated. Hannah is still a familiar face at Garthdee as she trains on campus and we hope that the success she continues to enjoy will inspire other promising athletes to apply for sport scholarship support at the university so we can help them to reach their potential."


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Decatur, GA
September, 2010
Mourners circle a gravesite and huddle in clusters beneath their black umbrellas. An ancient oak looms over them, its gnarled limbs backlit by a glowering sky. It is the perfect day for a funeral in the perfect historic cemetery in Decatur, Georgia.
The man stands alone on a hilltop, too far away to see details. His dark eyes scan the Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, and Lexuses lining the narrow road to the gravesite, then snap back to the scene playing out before him. He cups his hands, lights a cigarette, and squints against the cold drizzle blown horizontal by the wind. The smoke fills his lungs, drifts to his head and releases the tension in his body. God is good. The full lips curve slightly.
Yes, infidels, it is fitting that you mourn. This is only the beginning.
Chapter One
Ramallah, West Bank of Israel
July, 2010
The afternoon sun slanted across the marketplace. Kamal Nasser did not want to be there. He was deaf to the familiar sounds of vendors hawking their wares, children shouting at play, and cars clattering and honking through the narrow streets. He ignored the smells of baking bread, rotting vegetables, urine, and spices. A brass pot of cardamom-laced Turkish coffee sat in front of him. An ancient olive tree stretched knotty limbs to provide welcome shade over the table. Still, beads of sweat were forming on the crest of his upper lip. Kamal did not want to be here sitting across from this man.
He introduced himself as Al Ustadh, a term of respect for teacher or professor. Kamal did not know the man's name and had no desire to learn it. He watched in silence as The Teacher, being careful not to disturb the sediment at the bottom of the pot, poured two small cups of steaming coffee. His brown hands were graceful with long tapering fingers. The two men raised their cups at the same time, "Alhumdulillah (praise God)," they saluted.
Smiling, The Teacher proffered a pack of Marlboro Lights. Kamal's hands shook as he pulled a cigarette from the pack. The man struck a match and cupped it with his left hand. Hesitating a moment, Kamal leaned forward towards the flame. The man across from him nodded and smiled again, but his eyes were flat and dead as the darkest pit of hell. American cigarettes were a luxury, but Kamal tasted only ashes. He cursed himself for being a fool. But it was too late.
"So, tell me about your brother in America, the doctor." Settling back in his chair, The Teacher steepled his fingers and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
Chapter Two
Decatur, GA
August, 2010
"Sameeee! The party is starting." Karen's voice, bouncing off yellow plaster walls and aged oak floors, echoed down the long hallway.
Dr. Sami Nasser grunted as he completed a paragraph on the report he was typing and clicked 'Save'. He was excited about the new Global Health Fellowship program with the Centers for Disease Control (CDC). As a neurologist and researcher at Emory University, he welcomed the opportunity to work with leading epidemiologists on global medical concerns. Working on priority health conditions in conjunction with CDC staff, students would spend six to twelve weeks in a developing country. He wished he'd had the opportunity when he was a medical student.
"I've become soft," Sami thought. Leaning back, he stretched the stiff muscles in his shoulders as he scanned the study. Cherry paneling gleamed on the walls, and books nestled in the built-in shelves across from him. A well-worn section of medical volumes and journals dominated, but was flanked by philosophy, history, literature, and a significant number of books in Arabic. The jewel-colored Bijar, thick and luxuriant, rested beneath his feet. Called the Iron rug of Persia, the densely packed pile produced a cushioned effect that was matched by few other rugs. This was his room, his sanctum sanctorum, and it was a far cry from a field tent in the third world.
Rising from his chair, he collected a pile of papers and dumped them in a desk drawer. Leaving the solitude of his study, Sami followed party sounds to the kitchen. He paused at the entrance to watch his wife rummaging through the junk drawer. Her tight black jeans presented a nice rear view.
"It's about time!" Karen exclaimed as she turned to see him framed in the doorway. "Honey do you have any matches?" She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
Smiling, he pulled a battered Zippo out of his pocket and waved it in front of her nose. Shaking her head, Karen held out her hand. "Why do you carry this thing around? You haven't smoked for years."
Sami raised his dark brows and shrugged. "Habit. Now where is my beautiful birthday girl?"
"I'm here Daddy!" Five-year old Mira Nasser was balanced on her knees, bouncing in her chair. "Wait till you see the cake mommy bought!" Flanking his daughter was a ring of giggling, pastel-clad little girls. Sunlight from the bay window speckled the wall behind them. With her black hair and creamy skin, Mira looked like a princess from the Arabian Nights.
A ripple of "ooooohs" made its way around the table as Karen set the cake down in front of her daughter. Sami grimaced at the lavender tinged frosting and the pink and yellow Barbie adorning the center of the cake.
"Everybody be quiet now," Mira commanded. "My daddy is going to sing Happy Birthday to me in Arabic."
Sami took a seat across from his daughter. His eyes never left her face as he sang.
Sena helwa ya jamila,
Sena helwa ya jamila,
The flickering candle flames reflected in her huge brown eyes.
Sena helwa ya Mira,
Sena helwa ya jamila.
"Now make a wish and blow out the candles, baby," said Karen.
"But what should I wish for?" Mira asked, turning a pleading gaze on her parents.
"Wish for anything in the whole world, habibti," her father answered. The little girl closed her eyes and scrunched up her face. Then taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and blew out the five purple-striped candles.
Scooping ice cream at the kitchen counter, Sami watched his wife pass along slices of cake, while she sorted out who wanted strawberry ice cream and who wanted vanilla. The volume was rising as Karen sought to fairly distribute icing flowers and chunks of Barbie. A little redhead was clamoring for chocolate.
"I told you there is no chocolate," piped Mira. "Everything has to be pink and purple because those are my favorite colors and today is my birthday."
Sami smiled. The pink and purple streamers and balloons did indeed overwhelm the muted earth tones of the kitchen. Mira sounded just like his mother, her namesake. His daughter was not about to put up with any crap. He vowed she would never have to if he could help it.
"Girls, you need to eat your ice cream before it melts." Karen had turned on her teacher voice. "No swimming until everyone finishes her cake." This brought a fresh round of squeals as little mouths were crammed with sugar and cream.
"I'm done," chirped the redhead, pushing away her plate and sliding out of her chair. "Me too! Me too!" Chairs scraped across the tile floor, and eight little bodies scrambled towards the back stairs.
Karen dropped the bowl she was washing in the sink. "Girls? Girls! Listen to me! I want each one of you to wash your hands in the bathroom before you touch anything. Understand? You can change into your suits in Mira's room."
She smiled at the chorus of "Yes ma'ams!" and rolled her eyes, as she pictured the destruction of her powder room. After dumping the last of the soggy paper plates in the trash, Sami came up behind his wife and circled her waist with his hands. "You are a good mother," he said in her ear.
"You're a good father." She leaned back against his solid frame so that her head rested just under his chin, and he could smell her hair. "Mira was very proud of you today. So was I."
"Hmph! Wish our neighbors were so accommodating." Karen felt him stiffen and drop his hands from her hips.
"Sami don't. Not today." She turned to face him and put a soapy hand to his cheek. "You're being too sensitive. Like my dad said, the world is different now."
"Really? How many children did you invite to Mira's party? Twelve? Thirteen?"
"You don't know for sure why the others didn't come."
"Give it up Karen. We both know why they didn't come. For the same reason the old fart next door runs back in his house when I say good morning." Sami leaned over the sink and glowered through the window at the neighboring yard. "Thinks I'm going to plant a bomb up his shriveled ass."
"Shhhh! The kids are coming down." Karen's lips twitched but she tried to look disapproving. "That is not very charitable."
Sami smiled. "I'll leave charity to you Christians."
Mira burst into the room clad in a pink dotted two-piece swimsuit with a ruffle around the bottom. She'd picked up on the last part of her parents' conversation. "Papa and Nana are Christians, aren't they?"
"Yes sweetie, they are," Karen answered.
"Are they coming tonight for dinner?" Am I really getting another birthday cake?"
"Yes they are, and yes you are. I'm starting a grown-up cake right now." Karen plopped a dab of flour on her daughter's upturned nose.
"Mommy!" the little girl giggled and rubbed at the white smudge. "Now I'll have to wash it off in the pool."
"You wait until an adult is with you," Karen warned, looking over Mira's head at her husband. "Can you honey? Just till I finish in the kitchen."
"Karen I've got reports to finish," Sami complained, but his daughter had already grabbed his arm and was jumping up and down.
"Yes Daddy, please! Please! You can throw us in the water!" Two dark pigtails bobbed up and down, brushing her tanned shoulders. A few wispy curls escaped to frame the small upturned face. Her cheekbones were already prominent, like her mother's.
Sami sighed, allowing his daughter to drag him through the French doors to the backyard pool. "You owe me for this," he called over his shoulder. "I intend to collect later."
Karen raised a suggestive eyebrow. She watched them through the window. The yard was resplendent with the last breath of summer. The swimming pool shimmered like an aquamarine set in a nest of impatiens and ferns. Several huge magnolias served as a backdrop, their dusky leaves set off by a final showing of snowy blooms. A tangle of honeysuckle crept across the lattice covering the terrace. High-pitched whoops and shrieks cut through the humid air as the little girls splashed and swam, and Sami tried in vain to keep dry.
Karen smiled. She was a lucky woman, and she knew it.
Chapter Three
Running fingers through his thick black hair, Sami closed his eyes, opened them and refocused on the computer screen in front of him. He scanned the article sent to him by Moussa Hayek, a friend and epidemiologist from the CDC. It touted the newly appointed director as the first woman to be appointed to the position. She was praised as a champion of global warming research, and rumors abounded that she planned to reduce the focus on bioterrorism.
Sami was appalled by the political pandering. Ideologies of any kind should not influence science. Unfortunately, the real world intervened. The usual suspects aligned themselves with their parties and expressed outrage at supposedly watered-down or trumped-up research— as if they could recognize a scientific study if it slapped them in the face. Politics, as usual, trumped everything.
He wondered how this might affect his own fellowship program. Brooding over the far reaching tentacles of political correctness, he contemplated a decanter of single malt on the shelf in his study. The glow from his desk lamp glittered on the vessel's crystal facets and ignited the amber liquid within.
His attention was diverted when his office phone rang. He glanced at the Caller ID which displayed "Out of Area", and this annoyed him. He pushed the speaker phone button and prepared himself for some telemarketer's screed.
"As-salaamu aleikum (Peace be with you)." The voice reverberated in the silence of the incubated room. Its accent was Egyptian. The disembodied caller continued in formal Arabic. "I bring greetings from your family and your homeland. A messenger awaits you. You will be contacted soon, Inshallah (If God wills)."
Sami snatched up the receiver but heard only the distinctive click of disconnection. He recorded all calls on his work phone, so he could refer back to details, if needed. Now he jabbed the button to replay the call. He listened intently and then played the call again.
Was this a prank? His instincts told him no. He wondered if he had been randomly selected or if his family back in Ramallah was involved. Up until now, they had remained apolitical to his knowledge. As educated Muslims living in the occupied territory, the luxury of remaining neutral was possibly no longer an option. He feared this during his last visit home two years ago.
Prior to that, Sami had not been home since 2001. The change during those seven years was phenomenal. Astonished by the Western-style coffee shops and bars, he noticed the English slang peppering Arabic conversations. Men and women chatted openly, some sipping beer despite the Islamic prohibition on alcohol. The upscale restaurants and nightclubs attracted Americans, Israelis, and Europeans. Sprouting embassies reinforced the feeling that Ramallah would become the internationally recognized capital of Palestine.
But factions existed that resented the abandoning of Jerusalem in favor of Ramallah. They accused the Palestinian Authority, formed in 1994 to govern parts of the West Bank and Gaza Strip, of being in collusion with Israel. Despite the booming economic and cultural growth, an undercurrent of violence was always present, as if the city existed in a bubble that could burst at any moment.
His parents had enjoyed a visit to the United States when Mira was a baby, and Sami had pressed them to emigrate. They refused, and he understood their feelings though he feared for them. He feared even more for his younger brother, Kamal. Dropping his face into his hands, Sami thought of his parents.
Chapter Four
Ramallah, West Bank of Israel
Nabil Nasser married his bride Amira late in life. They met at Birzeit College, later to become Birzeit University, where both were teachers. Photos of Nabil taken in his youth showed him as tall and strikingly handsome, looking much like Sami. But the photos did not show his club foot, which marked him as tainted in a culture that viewed physical affliction as a sign of Allah's displeasure.
Barred from most physical games and the camaraderie of boys his age, Nabil poured all his energy into his studies and music. He excelled at math and was a natural musician playing both the violin and the Middle Eastern lute called an oud. Though a bachelor, he was much in demand for local weddings where he sang the old folk songs in a pure and vibrant voice as his nimble fingers plucked out melodies in their complex rhythmic structure.
Nabil's father owned several shops in Ramallah. A successful businessman, he valued education and innovation. Fortunately Nabil's elder brother followed in his father's footsteps which left Nabil free to pursue a doctorate degree in statistics. He found his calling as a professor. His music and his duties at the college dominated his life and compensated for his physical affliction.
At Birzeit, his colleagues viewed the middle-aged statistics professor as an aloof, almost stern man. Amira found him attractive with his fine features and thick dark hair sprinkled with gray. But she had never seen him smile, until one evening when she watched him perform at a cousin's wedding. Years later, she often related the story to her sons—outside of their father's hearing, of course.
Amira was small, dark and wiry with flashing black eyes that dominated her otherwise unremarkable face. The youngest of four sisters, she was the most inquisitive and intelligent. Amira's father was a successful merchant though his grandmother, Salima, was born a Bedouin. As a child, she roamed the borders of Jordan with her tribe, but over the years the members became increasingly settled in the villages and cities. In her old age, she was taken in by her grandson, Suliman, who was the son of her eldest son and Amira's father.
From the first, Amira and her great grandmother formed a bond that spanned the generations. When not in school, the little girl spent her free hours at the old woman's side. She delighted in tending to her grandmother's needs, doling out medications and reciting from her lesson books. Amira's parents and sisters were mystified but relieved that Site (grandmother) was cared for so cheerfully. All felt it was their duty, but for Amira it was her pleasure.
Site's face had been burned brown from eight decades under the desert sun and was dry as a withered leaf. But the blue tribal tattoos still showed in the wrinkles on her upper lip and on her forehead. A film marred her once beautiful eyes, and she appeared to gaze into some far off world, especially when her great-grand daughter sat at her feet and listened with rapt attention to stories of the desert. She wanted the child to understand her heritage which blazed with tales of courage and honor and was peopled with beautiful women and fierce warriors. It was a dying world that could only live on in the children and their children.
When she finished high school, Amira begged her father to let her study at the prestigious Birzeit College. Teachers invited to their home for tea and sweets broached the subject but were quickly discharged by the head of the household. Two of Amira's sisters were already married, and Suliman was adamantly opposed to the idea of his daughter attending a school with men. Only after months of Site haranguing him to the point of distraction, did he throw up his hands and agree, adding a stern warning of dire consequences should his name be dishonored.
Three months after entering the University, Amira's beloved Site died in her sleep. The girl was inconsolable and withdrew into her studies. Fiercely determined to excel as a tribute to her great-grandmother, she shut out all frivolous past times and acquaintances. Her reputation as a scholar with a quick tongue warded off male suitors, as did her direct attitude. Amira saved her smiles and mischief for her nephews and nieces whom she adored, and she became universally known as Amti.
Amira was thirty-three when she attended the wedding that would change her life. She sat back in the shadows of an arbor and watched the young people dance while the old women clapped and trilled in the ancient Bedouin way. Her eyes locked on the face of one man transfigured with joy, as his long fingers cajoled the heavenly notes from his instrument. She could hardly believe this was the man who would look down and barely nod when he shuffled past her in the hallway at the University. Sitting on the dais, he was whole and beautiful and perfect. His voice spiraled up into the black night sky and then descended to pierce Amira's heart.
After the initial awkward and shy conversations, the two people slowly opened their hearts. During stolen hours on their breaks at the University, they shared their dreams. They spoke of the plans to develop a four-year program leading to bachelor's degrees in arts and sciences. Nabil described the new campus that was slated to be built on the outskirts of the town of Birzeit and the Board of Trustees that would be formed to ensure the continuity of the school. Amira urged him to run for the board. Always shy in the presence of the opposite sex, Nabil forgot his inhibitions and basked in the glow of this remarkable woman's encouragement.
The prospect of marriage had never entered Nabil's mind, but he slowly came to realize that this special friendship could not continue without causing harm to Amira's reputation. She, in turn, lived for the snatches of time spent with him. Finally, Nabil hinted at approaching her father and was astounded when Amira agreed at once.
Carefully broaching the subject with her mother, Johara, Amira anticipated objections. She was surprised and pleased to find an immediate ally. "It is not fitting for a woman to be alone, and you will soon be too old to marry," her mother warned.
Enlisting the help of her three married daughters, Johara created a formidable cabal to confront her husband. Suliman argued and ranted and threatened. Then, as with Amira's education, he finally capitulated and agreed to receive "The Cripple" as he called him.
Nabil brought gifts of sweets and flowers for the house, American cigarettes for her father, and a gift box which he handed to her mother. He sat ramrod straight in the wicker chair across from Suliman and made all the correct thanksgivings and blessings before sipping his Turkish coffee. Amira watched the vein in his temple throb, the only sign of his racing heart. After an interminable amount of time, Suliman smiled and gave his blessing.
He found Nabil to be serious, polite and likable though he hated to admit it. His family was respectable and when seated, he was an attractive, if not handsome man. His daughter was well past her prime, and searching his conscience, Suliman could find no shame or dishonor in the pairing. Allah would be merciful, he thought as he motioned to his wife to give the small package wrapped in blue paper to Amira. She felt all eyes on her as she opened it, and then held up a thin beaten gold chain. Johara helped clasp it around her daughter's neck. Amira would never take it off.
Chapter Five
Decatur, GA
Karen cracked Sami's office door open and poked her head inside. "Knock, knock," she said. "Haven't you burned the midnight oil enough for one day?" Entering the office, she came around behind him. Dropping her hands to his shoulders, she began kneading the bunched up muscles.
"You are so tense," she admonished, "Relax." He obeyed willingly, closing his eyes and groaning softly. His body relaxed though his mind was still reeling.
"Did I hear your phone ring?" she asked, her hands doing wonderful things to the back of his neck.
"Mmm, telemarketer. Don't know how they get this number." He hated lying to her but couldn't think of a way to describe the call he just received, especially since he had no details yet.
"When are you coming to bed?" she asked, removing one hand to stifle a yawn.
"Soon," he replied, patting the hand that remained on his shoulder. "You go ahead, I won't be long." He looked up as she bent to kiss him. A curtain of hair fell across her cheek. She had changed into light cotton pajamas covered by a flowered robe. She smelled clean, like soap and shampoo.
"You work too hard," said Karen, her hand rubbing across the beginning of nighttime stubble on his cheek. "If you come before I fall asleep, I'll give you a back scratch."
"You're too good to me," he confessed.
"You're right," Karen agreed, and turned to pad across the room, her terrycloth mules slapping gently on the floorboards. She paused in the doorway and turned to give him a smile and a mischievous wink. She left the door open.
Sami considered calling his parents' home in Ramallah, but it would be 3:00 am. He didn't want to alarm them. Turning over every possible scenario, as his rational mind told him to do, Sami could find no explanation. What could this mysterious Egyptian possibly want with him? Needing time to harness his emotions, he waited almost an hour before retiring. Karen knew him too well not to be suspicious.
He used the small half-bath, off his den, to wash before going upstairs. Creeping along the hallway, Sami winced at the creaking floorboards. Pausing at his daughter's room, he cracked open the door. The lavender walls were less garish in the glow of the nightlight. His daughter lay sleeping amidst a sea of pink and white ruffles. Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, her face turned away from him. Easing the door shut, he moved on down the hall to the master bedroom.
Karen was asleep, curled on her side like a child. In the dark, Sami shrugged out of his clothes and slipped into bed beside her. He listened to her even breathing, bracing himself for a hesitation, or a murmur. But she slept on in innocence. He was relieved. For now he would keep his foreboding to himself and wait for the promised messenger before deciding a course of action. He had no choice.
* * *
The summons came sooner than expected. Sami was seated in his study as the night before. Staring at the computer screen, he willed himself to concentrate on the unfinished report he was editing. The jangling phone startled him, even though he had been expecting it. The caller ID displayed 'Out of Area' and he snatched up the cordless receiver. Silence. But a palpable presence on the other end.
"Dr. Sami Nasser?" The voice was younger, less cultured than the Egyptian's. The accent was Palestinian or Jordanian.
"What do you want?" Sami demanded.
"To meet with you. We need to talk."
"Has this anything to do with my brother?"
Silence again.
"Answer me or I will hang up."
"He is well, Inshallah, and sends you his love. We must meet in person, Doctor. Shall I come to your home?"
Bile rose in Sami's throat. "There is a coffee shop called Java House on East Lake Drive. Do you know it?"
"I will find it. Shall we say tomorrow at noon?"
Sami scrolled through his calendar. "That is not a good time," he replied. "I can be there at two o'clock. How will I know you?"
"I will find you," came the response. "Ma'a as-salaamah."
Come to his home?
Sami fought to keep his temper. He vowed that whatever game these people were playing would end tomorrow. He had finally contacted his parent's home in Ramallah that morning. His mother was delighted to hear from him and asked many questions about her granddaughter. His father sounded distant and old.
Guilt stabbed at Sami's heart, as it always did when he spoke with his father. As the eldest son, he knew it was his duty to be with his parents, and he was not. He knew they were proud of him, but it was not enough to compensate for the loss.
Kamal lived in the family home now and was a good son. He had married two years ago when Sami and Karen were visiting, and his wife had recently borne her first child, a boy. The two brothers had discussed Sami's vocation several times, and Kamal assured him it was not wrong to follow his calling. Each man has a destiny and must decide which path to take.
When Sami asked to speak with Kamal, there was a pause. "He has been away from home for a time," replied Amira. "You know he is on the board with the university now and is required to travel. Do you wish to speak to his wife?" she continued. "She knows more than I."
"No," replied Sami. If Kamal's wife did indeed know anything, she would not speak of it over the phone. "Give everyone my love and I will call again soon. Ma'a as-salaamah emmi."
Chapter Six
Ramallah, West Bank of Israel
After two years of marriage, Sami's birth came as a surprise and a blessing to Nabil and Amira. The little boy had his father's beauty, his mother's wit, and the intelligence of both parents. Sami was named after his paternal grandfather, as was the custom. The name translated to sublime, and he was doted on by the entire extended family. Three years later, when another son was born, the couple gave thanks to Allah's beneficence for the double blessing, and the boy was named Kamal for perfection.
Nabil and Amira were practicing Muslims who raised their boys to be inquisitive. Nabil demanded a "striving for perfection" in all tasks which he considered to be the ultimate tribute to Allah. He saw no dichotomy between religion and science. Indeed, he viewed all superstition as offensive and liked to point out that it was Muslims who pioneered mathematics and science when the West wallowed in ignorance.
Sami loved and admired his father, but at times, chafed under his strict rule. When Nabil vetoed his son's appointment to a soccer team, Amira deferred to Nabil's judgment, but the spark in her eyes caused her husband to reconsider his decision. Nabil had little respect for games or physical pursuits, perhaps because he had been barred from them all his life. Sami was sternly warned that his studies could not suffer. And they did not. As elder brothers do, he eased the path for Kamal.
As long as the boys did well in school, Nabil grudgingly allowed them to attend the local cinema as a treat. Below the flickering screen, the brothers slouched, side by side, in the smoke-filled theater. Munching on sunflower seeds, they spit the shells on the floor.
Films fell into three groups, each possessing its own charm. The first consisted of Indian films from Bollywood. Kamal enjoyed the exaggerated antics of the heroes. He cheered and hooted, with the rest of the audience, during the contrived fight scenes and car chases. Music dominated the movies, interspersed with simple dialogue translated into subtitles in Arabic and Hebrew—often with hilarious results. Less interested in the plot, both boys enjoyed ogling the dusky and voluptuous heroines as they warbled in high pitched voices and danced in bejeweled saris that swirled across the screen.
The old black and white movies, filmed in Egypt during the forties and fifties, made up the second group. Sami was mesmerized by the music icons that influenced his father. Farid Al Atrash had died the year before Sami was born, but audiences still thrilled to his unique voice, high and mellow in his youth, deep and rich as he aged. The boys never tired of hearing Farid's mawals, the slow improvisations of a few poetic lines that often lasted up to 15 minutes. It reminded Sami of Nabil, who was known for his mawals when he played at local weddings.
The storylines in these films were melodramatic and inevitably about unrequited love. Sami's favorite actor was the handsome and charismatic Abdul Halim Hafez, whom his father regarded as the greatest male musician in the Arab world. Sami hugged himself as he sat in the dark, enthralled by the young singer who exuded such passion with his powerful voice it earned him the titles of Nightingale and King of Romance.
Sami pictured his father as a young man and considered him as handsome and talented as the actors on the screen. When Sami voiced this opinion during an evening meal, Nabil responded gruffly.
"The cinema fills your head with foolishness!" he had grumbled. But Amira smiled.
The music touched Sami's soul, but it was the beautiful Egyptian actress, Faten Hamama, who stole his heart the first time he saw her in Angel of Mercy. She was fifteen when the movie was made and became the epitome of female perfection that Sami carried in his heart. Well past childhood, the image would remain.
The third group included American movies. The westerns were, by far, the most popular among young boys. The actors seldom sang, but they rode horses, drove cattle, and shot villains. Like the Bedouin, they were warriors with a code of honor. The landscapes were vast with wide skies and soaring mountains.
Sami and Kamal vowed to go to America one day where they would live on a ranch and become cowboys.
* * *
The Israeli Civil Administration (CA) was established in 1981 and put in charge of tax collection and land expropriation. This included olive groves that Arab villagers had tended for generations. Jewish settlements sprouted up and prevented the expansion of Ramallah and virtually cut it off from the surrounding villages. Over the next six years, as resentment and unrest grew in the town, residents were jailed or deported to neighboring countries for their membership in the Palestinian Liberation Organization.
In 1987, when the First Intifada broke out, Sami was twelve. Many Ramallah residents were among the early joiners. Bulletins were distributed weekly on the streets with a schedule of the daily protests, strikes, and actions against Israeli patrols in the city.
Walking home from school one afternoon, Sami and Kamal found themselves caught up in a demonstration. The street ahead roiled with a sea of surging bodies. Black smoke seethed from a pile of burning tires, and the boys covered their noses and mouths to keep from choking. Sami put a protective arm around his nine-year-old brother who clung to him.
Searching the streets for an escape, Sami spotted the father of a schoolmate. He watched as the man lit a rag stuffed into a bottle of liquid and then tossed it at a group of Israeli soldiers. The Molotov cocktail was deflected by a riot shield and exploded in the crowd. Men and boys scrambled to avoid the fire; the unlucky ones screaming and flapping their arms to douse the flames. The Israelis, outfitted in their formidable gear, responded with a volley of rubber bullets and tear gas. The world had gone mad.
Through the smoke, Sami spotted a narrow alley the brothers had sometimes used as a shortcut. Grabbing Kamal by the collar, he half-dragged him to safety. They both collapsed against the rough stone walls of the house on the corner.
"I dropped my school books," said Kamal, tears rolling down his smooth brown cheeks.
"Me too," said Sami. "Don't worry, I'll get us home."
Kamal nodded, "I know."


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Rightly called as 'Canada's Cultural Capital,' Montreal boasts of a rich heritage and a unique cultural diversity where tradition beautifully complements the cosmopolitan in every aspect of life. One of the best ways to explore this city is going on a walking tour to discover examples of classic architecture alongside modern skyscrapers and futuristic constructions. A Montreal tour gives tourists the opportunity to explore Parc Jean-Drapeau, known for its beautiful green spaces and a majestic outdoor performance venue; enjoy a scintillating live performance at the iconic Rialto Theatre or indulge in ice skating or water sports in one of the many recreational centres. Old Montreal, which houses a number of historical buildings and museums, offer a detailed insight into the glorious past of this place. Located at the corner of Saint Sulpice Street, the Notre Dame Basilica is one of the finest architectural marvels of Old Montreal. A very interesting place for tourists to visit in Montreal is Biosphere, Environment Museum- a modern architectural masterpiece that serves as a venue for displays and exhibitions on environmental awareness and related issues. The city offers a variety of outdoor activities round the year and also hosts a good selection of unique cultural festivals, as well. Travellers can book an affordable and exciting travel package from MakeMyTrip to discover the attractions of this city conveniently.


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Stolen in August 2004:
– A CLASSIC PERIOD 3rd phase CHIEF BLANKET having raveled cochineal dyed red (small specks of white appear in the red weft threads), indigo, natural white and brown
– A complete plains INDIAN GERMAN-SILVER necklace with colored beads and rocker engraved concho and tweezer pendant
– Two large man's CLASSIC PERIOD silver ingot cuff bracelets – one withtwo CERRILLOS turquoise stones, the other with three CERRILLOS turquoise stone
– An unusual CLASSIC PERIOD woman's bracelet with five turquoise stones (two blue and three green) set with extremely rare curled silver bezels.
– An EARLY PUEBLO boy's size plain silver square shaped bangle with hands at the terminals.
– Three EARLY silver SPOONS each with unusual die stamping and design – one with a stamped design of a figure of an Indian wearing a feather headdress and holding a spear in the spoon bowl with a frog with a small turquoise set at the handle end; one that was over-sized with intricate deep stamp work (no pictures available)
Stolen May 2012:
- Two Silver bracelets with stamping and repousse work.
If you have information about any of these items, please contact Jack Cassin at email@example.com
There is a $20,000 reward for information leading to the return of the 3rd Phase Chief's Blanket.


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It's simply not a matter of if you will experience identity theft, it's when.
Constantly, we hear of or experience occurences of stolen personal information resulting in identity fraud, credit card fraud, tax fraud, medical fraud, the list goes on. If it has not already affected your life, it will. And be ready for a rude awakening when you find yourself a victim. The burden is on you. Think you'll just need to make a phone call or two, think again. In some cases, just set aside a few years of your life and you may have some of the time, energy, and effort covered that you will find is necessary to try and restore your name.
The burden is not with the criminal and not with the entities who allow the theft to occur, it rests solely on you.
I do not under any circumstance have any amount of sympathy when an entity declares that they have been hacked.
The news is always followed-up with that they are doing "all they can do". What does that mean? What this really means is that they didn't think it would happen to them, or they didn't want to spend the money to put safeguards in place to protect you, and now they are doing "all they can do".
In the latest hacking case health insurer Anthem says hackers infiltrated their computer network and the hackers were successful in accessing personal information, including social security numbers.
Anthem has now hired an internet company to improve its defenses.
Isn't it a little late for that?
Here you are a health insurer who not only holds personal information, but also included in that access to some or all of your customer's medical history.
This is inexcusable. The mindset that they too are victims is wrong. They clearly were not doing all they could do, because now after the fact they have reached out to "improve their defenses" and "identify potential gaps".
Anthem, as well as other entities, is gambling that this will not happen and it does, daily. And, even if they thought this might occur, what is the worst that could happen? They would not be stuck cleaning-up the mess-no, that is left to you, and they would come out looking like victims of the crime, when clearly they are not.
Anthem is no stranger to this, in 2013 the company agreed to pay $1.7 million to resolve federal allegations of security weaknesses. And even with this most recent occurrence admitted the stolen information was not encrypted in their database.
As for praising them for their rapid response to the hack, we need to start praising companies for their pro-active response instead of praising entities that operate bad business at our expense.


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Spanish Resources
Our resources tailored to new Latino fathers began when St. Joseph's Hospital in Denver, under Chuck Ault's direction, started conducting Boot Camp in Spanish in a local church. With the help of a grant from the Annie E. Casey Foundation, we were able to expand the Spanish program across our network. We worked with MOMS Orange County, located in Santa Ana, California, which provides extensive support to new Latino moms, to develop a workshop for their partners under the direction of Alejandro Moreno, a member of our Board of Directors. He also translated our popular Lessons from the Frontlines booklet and Coaches/Coordinator Manual into Spanish and directed the development of a video in Spanish to support the program.
- Excèlsior, Orange County, California's Spanish-language weekly newspaper, covers Boot Camp for New Dad's Spanish program
- For information on implementing the Boot Camp for New Dads Workshop geared
to Spanish Speaking fathers click here.