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patterns > Heather Lynn's Ravelry Store
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Seashell Coasters for the Loom
Seashell Coasters for the Loom is adapted from the needle knit pattern Seashell Coasters by Sybil R, with her permission. This pattern uses short rows and intarsia colorwork to create the fun, summery, seashell shape. (Many thanks, Sybil!)
This pattern can be made on any loom with at least 21 pegs, with any yarn that matches the gauge of the loom being used. The pattern was originally designed for a 3/8" small gauge loom, such as the Knitting Board 10" Loom or All in One. The samples were made with Hobby Lobby I Love This Cotton! and used approximately 30 - 35 yards (15-20 yards of the main color and 10-15 yards of the contrasting color).
What color combinations will you try?
I'm doing a couple "test knits" to fine tune the pattern, and to get some photos of what the variations look like. I'll publish an update when I have all that, but in the meantime:
The extra "tail" should be at peg 1. For the long-tail cast on, cast on from 21 to 1; both the working yarn and the tail will be at peg 1. Purl from 1 to 21 and you're ready to start wedge 1.
However - for a double e-wrap, crochet, etc cast on, cast on from 1 to 21, knit from 21 to 1, purl from 1 to 21, and start wedge 1. (Basically, add a knit row, to get the CC and CCT at opposite ends.)
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Interstitial Living
Chapter 3 of Daniel Behrman's The Man Who Loved Bicycles
The automobile takes fifty-five thousand lives a year in the Unites States alone. How much life does the bicycle give every year everywhere? I do not know, there are no statistics, I can only judge from my own experiences.
Follow the rivers, follow the water. Up the Hudson in Manhattan, you can take Riverside Drive, use the footpath, it is empty. Watch for the squirrels, they scurry up and over the wall separating the footpath from the derelict park. Roll past Grant's Tomb; I once met a girl there, I hadn't seen her in twenty-five years. She was coming in from Scarsdale in a station wagon big enough to be barred from a no-trucking zone. I was riding up from Herald Square on a bicycle in the rain. I had bought what was damn near a diving suit for the trip, it made no difference. The rain squashed down my back and into my shoes. We met on the steps of Grant's Tomb and we sat for an hour in a student Cafeteria on Broadway with our pasts while I fed quarters into a parking meter that was mounting guard on the station wagon with my bicycle locked inside.
Roll past Grant's tomb, past the Claremont Inn and the 125th Street dock of the Hudson River Day Line, past all that is gone, on and up Riverside Drive, over the George Washington Bridge and come out on the Palisades. There is a colony of rabbits on the New Jersey end of the George Washington Bridge. They are waiting there, biding their time, waiting to move into New York
At the end of the bridge, turn right, hang onto the brakes, let 'em squeal, let the wheels go, down you go down the side of the Palisades, the human fly on wheels, and you are on the shores of the broad Hudson, a mile of sun and scum between you and the heights of Manhattan. There is a road along the river, the trees arch over it in summer, it is as civilized as any gemütlich lane in Europe. A sign says cycling is forbidden; pay no attention to it, the police don't. Just roll along the river, go up the river as Henry Hudson did. Don't knock New York, don't kick America; the city is dead, the country has gone to hell, but I don't know another city that size with a state park on the other side of its doorstep, mile after mile of wilderness and rabbits and heaven knows what else. You can take the bike about seven miles up, almost to Alpine. On the way you come across a house that witnessed the Revolutionary War, then the road ends at a marina with wire fences guarding the yachts from river pirates, protecting them from everything except the Hudson swilling at their sides.
I have never gone any farther north, I do not know what lies beyond. I leave it to others to discover.
There are discoveries to be made; these are new trails, they can hardly be discerned on the maps issued by gasoline stations that mostly indicate roads where gasoline can be burned and bought. There might be a way all the way up to Bear Mountain, I don't know, I leave it to Henry Hudson to find it, Hudson on a bicycle like La Salle; Hudson and La Salle, no wonder those river names did not last on automobiles.
For a cyclist the Hudson is a fresh airway into the wilderness. The city's other waterways are too busy working for a living to worry about what they look like. The East River takes on some airs along Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive but loses them pretty quickly around 96th Street. A pedestrian walk starts there; it is a good place to cycle, you won't bother anybody. No one has seen a pedestrian for years along the East River, where they are as rare as fish in the river. Perhaps there is a correlation with the introduction of chlorinated hydrocarbons into the environment (DDT, if you prefer, but scientists like to say chlorinated hydrocarbons, it sounds like a soft drink).
The pedestrian walk leads to a footbridge over to Randall's Island, one of the most deserted places in New York (where The French Connection hid out its heroin ring). The view of the city downtown is well worth the journey, traumatic though it may be. One day, I pedaled along the walk until I got to the footbridge, I walked up a spiral ramp, then wrestled the bike up some steps to the bridge. It is a lift bridge, it could be hoisted out of the way in case a big ship came up the river, perhaps a de-mothballed United States making a profit at last by hauling tourists around Manhattan Island, the latest addition to the Circle Line fleet; 5,000 passengers at $5 a head, the ship could make a trip an hour running at 40 knots, it would be a license to print money. Nobody would see anything, the whole waterfront would have to be rebuilt to solve the problems of loading and unloading, but people put up with worse to ride airplanes where they see even less.
On the Randall's Island side of the footbridge, a track laid out as an idyllic path ran past broken park benches set on the water's edge, right to the foot of one tower of the Triborough Bridge. It was somewhat eerie, riding there after reading what the papers say about crime in New York. Randall's Island is a lonely place, any lurker could have cut me down without a trace, with no one to hear my screams, just the East River stinking by, waiting like a foul-mouthed hyena to gobble up the corpse, to dissolve me as if I had been dropped into battery acid.
But there were no lurkers, Randall's Island runs right off the danger scale. Jane Jacobs has observed that neighborhoods become risky as they empty out. People in the street police the street. When the little stores close to be replaced by supermarkets, there are no more shopkeepers, they do not keep an eye on the street outside as well as on the stock inside. But if you empty the streets of all targets, of all signs of life, then the predators leave for want of prey. That was the case of Randall's Island. I could not imagine a lurker waiting for a venturesome cyclist, loitering there for weeks, months, or years, living on garbage thrown overboard from passing tugs, growing a knee-length beard an, in final desperation, hoisting a signal of distress in the hope that drivers might see it from the Triborough Bridge.
Lovers of wild life overlook Randall's Island and they are wrong. I have never seen bigger or wilder rats in my life than the ones that share the island with its other inhabitants, the patients of a mental hospital. The hospital is fenced off from the idyllic park but I once saw the other side. I had ridden over from Queens on the footpath of the Triborough Bridge and, losing altitude, I landed inside the hospital grounds on Randall's Island. I asked a nurse how to get to the Manhattan footbridge. She advised me strongly against going outside the fence, there was worse than rats there. Yet I had no choice, either I would get to that bridge or I would wander about the hospital grounds as dazed as the other shapes I could see on the island. I found a hole in the fence, I got through, I got the bike through, I almost patted the rats, I was that glad to see them.
Otherwise, the East River is not very frightening. There is the park around the mayor's Gracie Mansion and a hanging promenade over the motor highway leading south. In the 80s and the 90s, there are still two- and three-story houses off the river; there is Yorkville putting up a wall of ethnic identity against nonentity, it succeeds almost as well as Chinatown does. Not quite, though; it is just a little too paunchy from all that wurst and beer. I prefer my East River below 14th Street, that is where I prefer my New York. The bicycle has guided me to all the beautiful cities of Manhattan; the frame houses of Grove Court to the west, the Oriental columns and the pastel walls of the East Village, the inner turnings of Mercer and Greene Streets, Mott and Mulberry. It takes me to places I had never heard of on my native island, Republican Alley and Old Slip. Get there fast while they last, they're coming down.
Brooklyn Bridge isn't falling down, it carries automobiles, it is allowed to stay up. They zoom at your feet when you go over the bridge on the plank path shared by pedestrians and cyclists. I once crossed it in a winter dawn; I have never seen anything like it anywhere, red-pink light like stained glass inside the Gothic arches of Roebling's towers, those stone spires stuck in the bottom of the East River and put to work holding up a bridge. I was caught inside the spun web of the cables. Upstream lay Manhattan Bridge against the redish-pink light, upstream from Manhattan Bridge the power plants were pouring out great clouds of white steam condensing in the cold, they were puffing away at full steam, the last of the tall-stackers, trying to keep Manhattan Island where it is, trying to hold it in the mainstream.
On the other side of the bridge, Jehovah's Witnesses give you the time and the temperature. If they weren't so pious, you would accuse them of lying when they flash 5 degrees at you. It can't be that cold. Yes, it is, the heat that you had stored up overnight is running out, mittens can save your hands but there is nothing you can do about your feet. You are like those European electric radiators that accumulate heat at night on the cheap rates, then trickle it out unplugged all day long. On Brooklyn Bridge, all the heat runs out all at once. You can hardly make it back to City Hall, then over to the diner on Canal Street that stays open every day of the year, New Year's Day included. A glass of tea will warm you hands before it warms your stomach, thereby warming your feet, tingling them back to life for a few more minutes, a few more miles until you are home.
Brooklyn Bridge leads to a number of places. There is bucolic Brooklyn Heights on the other side with the other view of Manhattan, this time with the castles and the cathedrals flattened to a silhouette against the curtain of the World Trade Center. From Brooklyn Heights, the port of New York becomes visible again. Freighters load at the foot of the heights; it would be a good place to stroll or roll if it were not for the infernal six-lane highway plastered against the cliff of the Heights, three lanes at a time. I seldom cross to Brooklyn Heights, I keep it in reserve for the future. Instead I concentrate on the Manhattan side of the bridge, Fulton Fish Market down below, first the aerial view from the bridge roadway, then the market itself at six o'clock in the morning. Around Christmas is a good time to catch the market. The big porters climb up to the tops of open tank trucks to net eels for the Italian and Portuguese trade, the fish-crate fires roar around the pillars of the elevated highway that keeps drivers off the street and keeps the street away from drivers so they can never see it. They do not even know of the existence of Fulton Fish Market, Les Halles and Convent Garden all wrapped up and packaged at their doorstep, they cannot see it, they can only flee it. I push the bike through the market, I warm my rear on a fish-crate fire, a Jewish porter starts a conversation with me. Handcarting fish around the Fulton Market was one of the old trades of the Lower East Side. It is going; when the market is gone, it will be gone. No need to replace the old iron-rimmed carts, they're good for a few more years. You can see some that Stieglitz must have seen with his camera. They are almost big enough to be pulled by a horse, they are still towed by a man over the cobblestone of Front Street.
When the market is gone, the Seaport Museum will take over on Front Street. I like the museum, but it will not be the same. One must be thankful for small blessings, the museum pier is always open. At any hour of the morning, the cyclist can find a snug harbor of silence there after watching helicopters arrive with their high-priced cargoes of commuters to Lower Manhattan, so much more upper than the Lower East Side. On the museum pier, a cyclist can circle slowly in front of a schooner or a square-rigger or the Ambrose Lightship. At lunchtime, he can eat there, too, without worrying about someone walking off with the bicycle, there is a bike-in counter on the pier. Congress has devalued the dollar, but not bicycles. I don't know how much they are worth in New York. I once took one into a shop, I left it in a corner, a salesman told me: "Don't leave it there, it'll grow feet." In Central Park on a Sunday, I saw a racer take his bike into the comfort station with him. I expressed amazement, he knew better; the bike was worth four hundred dollars and he had already lost two outside that comfort station.
There is another pier where a ship sleeps on the Hudson River, a freighter used as a school by the city of New York. The ship's flanks catch the setting sun the way that the towers downtown reach for the sunrise. From the pier, you can see a retired Staten Island ferry. Manhattan seems to rest on its waterfront, where it once worked so hard. The ferry slumbers on the Hudson river, the police in their prowl cars pull up on the walks of the small stretch of park along the East River near the Williamsburg Bridge, sleeping the sleep of the just. The cops bat a sleepy eye when asked for directions, then they go back to their napping. No one is worried by a cyclist. People whose life it is to take the joy out of other lives do not go around on bicycles, such people are too important for that. So the bike is accepted everywhere.
It is even more adept at making friends if the rider happens to be a photographer with a French accent and a fascination for fire engines. In New York the fire engines are like the private garbage trucks, they are great powerful tools, monuments to the high-priced American workingman. They go through the streets like an emperor; no dignitary visiting Paris in a puny Citroën with a motorcycle escort can flatten the city like a Manhattan fire engine. We once caught one down around Houston Street. The crew had stopped to inspect a theater. Two firemen were riding in the back platform; one looked as if he were on a seven-day bat. He had been out on twelve calls on a Saturday night in midwinter. Fatigue slurred his voice and blurred his eyes, he had not shaved in two days. He was glad to see the photographer from France. "You're from France? Why my mother was a hooker on the Champs-Elysées. She worked the right side." He looked at his buddy. "His mother worked the left side." His buddy looked at us. "You know how it is, there's one in every outfit."
We stood in the cold, talking to the firemen who stayed with their engine to prevent a frustrated bicycle thief from making off with it while the rest of the crew inspected the theater. It didn't take long, just time enough for me to botch a picture of the photographer wearing the fireman's hat. Then the driver came out, they all got aboard, the engine shrieked, and off the went, back into the pages of Currier and Ives: THE AMERICAN FIREMAN---Always Ready.
It was in Washington that we made the greatest haul of all these American urban fishing trips. We were in the streets of Georgetown, feasting our eyes and stuffing them on downtown frame houses and trees. A garbage truck came along the street, as it does sooner or later on every street. The cyclist becomes a connoisseur of garbagemen; they must necessarily go through the city more slowly than he does, he has ample time to study them. There are the garbage trucks of Paris with the Africans and Arabs on the back end and the European driver, reading his paper at the wheel. There are the monsters of New York that wrench ten tons at the time off the street. There is the farm tractor hauling a wagon that comes around every other Saturday in Lanloup in Brittany and inevitably stalls in front of the Duvals' café. But I have never seen anything like those Georgetown garbagemen. They belonged in the Olympics; no pro football team could have put on a better passing performance even with presidential play-making. Three men in orange worked the street. They sent great plastic garbage cans arching through the blue sky in mortar trajectories that landed them right into the basket on the rear of the truck. Then back went the cans to the owners' stoops in a series of flat lateral passes. One man on that crew was memorable, he was strong as a lion, graceful as a panther. His secret was the follow-through, you could tell by watching him. The garbage cans flew after the truck with his hands still fanned in their direction, driving them on in their flight with the field of force emanating from his fingers. He wasted no time with the photographer, the truck kept moving, so did he, so did she. She loaded and reloaded, focusing and clicking away at him while those trash cans floated through the air with the greatest of ease. There is nothing demeaning about street cleaning, not when it is a game of skill and strength like polo that only a few can play.
It was our bicycles that caught the Georgetown Redskins at practice; nothing can be hidden from the bicycle in a city. It brought me into the courtyards of Paris, even the one next to my own home where twenty years went by before I found Ossip Zadkin's sculptures tended by his widow in the garden of their house. The bicycle took me to the remote arrondissements of Paris where nothing of note ever happens, where the human species will survive a few more years until concrete overruns its sanctuaries.
I have come to think of the streets of Paris as the oceans that bound a continent. Travel along their shores and you will know the coastline. To know the continent, you must ride the rivers into its innermost fastnesses. So it is with courtyards. Through doorways, one enters another city of town houses and greenery, cobbled lanes and weathered shanties; one, two, three courtyards behind the street, the third level of consciousness. There in the soul of the city are sculptors and upholsterers, locksmiths and printers, the crafts and arts that need bulky equipment and plenty of space. There are fountains and gardens, vegetable farms and châteaux. There are old streets cut off by the façade of a new building on the avenue but running back, back, back into the innards of the block where you can turn around and see that the old street crosses the new avenue and keeps going through the newer buildings on the other side. The courtyards of Paris, I like to think, are its subconscious, where everything is deposited, where all is preserved until the New Parisian comes along with his bulldozers and his hollow bricks to house Eliot's hollow men in co-op coops for battery humans, wiping out all the layers of consciousness, lobotomizing the city, separating it from its memory.
In the courtyards, I found the city that Elliot Paul wrote about in The Last Time I Saw Paris, but not where he found it. His Rue de la Huchette no longer exists as he saw it. The buildings are still there, but they might be in Disneyland, Florida; Mystic, Connecticut; Williamsburg, Virginia. The character is gone, it is replaced by characters, the rich who expensively dress poor, acting out a play that is all the more Living Theater because they do not even know they are actors themselves. Rue de la Huchette has gone through the travail that transforms urban villages everywhere into Greenwich Villages. It would be more honest to tear them down and put glass and ferro-concrete in their stead rather than leave this stage set, freshly painted in trompe l'oeil to look down-and-out, with its smellovision show of stale fat frying in cheap restaurants where the food is dreadful because it is cheap, thereby punishing all the New Parisians, tourists in their own country, who dare sin by stinging on their sacrifices. Adventurers form the far reaches of Auteuil and Westchester rub shoulders in the dives of Rue de la Huchette, providing local color for each other.
I prefer my courtyards where the last time I saw Paris it had not changed a whit since the next-to-the-last time. These are the recesses where humanity holes up, where a way of life survives around a tree, flowerpots at a window, ivy tumbling down the wall. Every courtyard dweller thinks he has a piece of the country to himself in the midst of the infested city. Each thinks his situation is unique because, obviously, he seldom goes out. He need not, has has a full feast for his eyes and his soul. Like the wandering tinkers who once brought the news from one lonely farm to another, I move from courtyard to courtyard on my bicycle. I keep an eye on the stone brow of the city for a new friendly wrinkle that gives away another principality in hiding.
Paris is like Gruyère cheese, more holes than solid matter, almost a Potemkin city that pretends to be a metropolis on its outward side but actually lives as a network of atoms interlinked as in those big molecular models used to teach chemistry. When I began to hunt courtyards, I would pedal off, coast along looking for a doorway, enter when one looked promising, spot some trees on the other side of a wall, wheel around the block, try to get at the trees, climb a flight of stairs for an aerial view, mumble to a concierge that I must have been at the wrong address, brave a dog that suddenly became fierce as soon as it could yap from its own doorway, forget where I was.
At first, I knew only a few courtyards. I was like their inhabitants, I thought them unique. One was behind the city hall near Les Halles. It was a rough lane, cobblestoned, with two bellying medieval buildings arched over it, forming a passage festooned with gas pipes and electric cables. Down at the end, daylight showed where a friend of mine was living in an old stable he had turned into a duplex. The ceilings were low but the house was quite liveable if one went around on all fours. He had been told that the courtyards outside has once been the Court of Miracles where the lame beggars walked and the blind saw in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, making the place at least an ancient as Victor Hugo. So began my miracle of the Courtyards.
The next one I found started with another cobblestoned lane not far from Rue Mouffetard, la Mouff', that street of market stalls, Arabs selling lemons one by one, fruit stands decorated like a feast-day altar in front of the Church of Saint Médard. La Mouff' is dying, slowly choked by the necrosis that seeps down from Place de la Contrescarpe where the cheesy greasy restaurants are taking over along with the pubs imported lock, stock, and Watney's barrel from Olde Englande. An Armenian shoe dealer who sells everything from espadrilles to sabots told me how it worked. A hole-in-the-wall business becomes an antique shop, an art gallery, a bar, all of them busy only in the late afternoon and at night. So, during the day, the street loses people. Shops trying to sell something useful find themselves high and dry, cut off from the sea of humanity in which they once thrived like fish.
I walked into the doorway not far form Rue Mouffetard. It looked promising, a high wooden double gate, a stone placed there as a convenience for those alighting from a horse, I imagine, and the rugged paving stones that have never been changed in these courtyards because they never wear out. Beyond the gates of the buildings, the hidden streets of Paris are paved as they were when Ben Franklin walked the city with that fresh all-embracing curiosity of his. Paris is not foreign to me in its old parts, it has more of my past as an American that many an American city where no era tails beyond its end, where every decade apparently has an automatic self-destruct button, timed to explode like a delayed-action mine---its artifacts, its traces on earth thrown away, destroyed like ten years of calendar pages. I go over the city of Paris again and again on my wheels, stopping, prying; each time I ride over it is like another chisel stroke in a woodcut. There is always room for another line, another miniature image in the great mural of a city that I am putting together in my mind.
I rode into the lane running off Rue du Cardinal Lemoine that leads into Place de la Contrescarpe. Beyond the gate, a row of two-story buildings. An illusion of an inner street, not a bad bag for the courtyard hunter. A tall, full plane tree at the end of the street. I ventured up to it. Always go to the end of the courtyard, it may not be the end. To the right, there may be a gap, a winding around a corner and into another corner, even more of a lull in the storm of a city. This courtyard did not end at the plane tree, nor did it wind. It opened into a blossom of lawn and lilac bushes bounded by two old town houses glorious in crumbling stone, flaking paint, shutters askew.
The place, so a sign said, was a pension de famille. Several times, I went into it, where I could smell the odor of measured portions and old lives running down as they, too, were measured to the last drop. I found no one there until, one day, a glum woman told me the building was coming down to make room for studios (a Paris studio, like a New York studio, is a large room that has been converted into a small room with bath and kitchen so that it can get a large rent).
I took the photographer, who is also a painter, to look at the courtyard during its last days, in that pause when old buildings are left alone, locked and barred with their memories, shut up to shut out the bums, before the bulldozers move in to knock down the ceilings and the floors, leaving only a faint imprint, a painted panel, a few bathroom-wall tiles, the pattern of a staircase on an adjoining wall. As we stood in the yard with our bikes, a little boy walked up, took a lilac from a bush, and went off into the street.
His mother emerged from the house. She was as slender as he was, she had the same open look in her face, she might have been her child projected against a screen so as to give a somewhat larger image. We talked to her; she and her husband had bought the pension de famille and they were going to make a small hotel out of it. Mainly, they wanted a place to live, a base from which they could send their two little boys out from a country house off Rue de Cardinal Lemoine to go to school with lilacs for their teacher. Nothing else would change, there would be no studios, the tattered carpet on the stairs would stay, so would the old corner room with both windows opening full into the embrace of the boughs of the big tree I had seen from the street.
Only the dining room would go, there would be no more old gray heads bowed as if in meditation over soup of leeks, wrapped in concentration while teeth, seldom their own, chomped bread and skinny skeiny beef, scraping clean the sides of little glass bowls to get the last cool acid drop of yogurt from them. The dining room did go, but the smells of that cooking lingered on for weeks.
They were not unpleasant, they talked to the painter as she worked in that corner room embraced by the tree. They talked to her in the intervals when she was left alone by the owners' two small sons who crept upstairs like mice, slithered into her room like snakes, then worked like beavers over the paper, paints, and crayons she dispensed to keep them busy while she went about her business. She worked well in her courtyard; whenever she had enough she charged down the stairs, ran over the grass with her big feet kicking high like a sprinter's, ran out the double gate on Rue du Cardinal Lemoine to a baker for a loaf of bread, to a cafe for two cups of coffee boiling hot. She could have ordered a large coffee but then the second half would not have been as hot as the first.
I used the courtyard myself as an advance camp for my exploration of the twistings and writhings of Paris-off-the-street. I would return with my tales, my addresses jotted in a shirt pocket-sized notebook; I passed my scout's reports to the painter. Then, converted into a photographer, she sallied forth, camera on her back, lens case on her hip, the two of us awheel as we set out to record another image of the countryside-in-Paris, the city of gardens and children and old women that is going down faster than I can write it up, faster than she can put it onto film. That city is still so much bigger than the mites who are destroying it. It will outlast them, I think and I hope; I think and I hope that it will always be able to offer the photographer a new castle, a new bosk that she has not yet seen, a new cranny of the Paris that both of us had once crissed, crossed so unseeingly. I think it will last; I can discover five courtyards in one afternoon, she can take five afternoons to photograph one courtyard.
Once, she entered the life of an old lady on the verge of eviction from the country house she had occupied in the 13th arrondissement for fifty years. The old lady brought up her family and grew her vegetables there all within sight of the elevated Métro line that ducks in and out of the ground like a demented mole as it rings the inner city. When we met her, she was gathering her things together, her meek meager belongings, to make the move to a studio apartment in a high-rise that had been rented for her by her family. It was not that she disliked the idea of moving, she simply could not imagine it. She had no idea of what life is like in the city of Paris if one does not have a house, a tomato patch, a few hens for fresh eggs and, as neighbors, old workmen who come by every day to tend their allotments, turning over the soil, planting vegetables, pruning fruit trees, eating cherries off the branch, all within sight of the Métro.
The old lady used to have many neighbors. The wasteland around her had once been a city of coopers making the big barrels for the Halle aux Vins, the Left Bank wine market that has also died, its site marked by a tombstone of the usual glass, steel, and concrete into which science students have been funneled. I visited that wine market many years before, it wasn't a bad place in those days. There was one small building on stilts for the science students while tank cars full of Beaujolais and Big Red were switched between its legs. I had to do a story on the leading Paris dealer in Beaujolais. Next to the big clean vats in his market shed, I traveled through the litany of villages that make up Beaujolais, saying my beads with him: Saint-Amour, Moulin-à-Vent, Juliénas, Brouilly. The leader spat out the wine we tasted. I didn't. I had to write the story from memory, my notes were deep purple. I walked through the market into the dark cellars where I met an old man bottling his own brand of wine, sticking labels on by hand, truly an anachronism in his comfortable sweet-smelling cellar room under the high vaults that had been built in the days of the first Napoleon. The old man knew he had to go, he did not mind for his own sake; he only thought that he and his kind were more of a help to humanity that (a wave in the direction of the science school's first building) the others with their atomic bomb.
When the wine market went, the city of the coopers was bound to follow. I discovered it only by accident, following my glances into side streets, back alleys, front yards. Nearly all of the coopers' village had been demolished by the time I found it. There were only the houses of the old woman and her family, lone hummocks in the steppe of dust and ruts and weed-grown walls around them. The old woman was eighty but she had the blue eyes of a child, a diaphanous skin that was almost luminous at times, and white hair that covered her fragile head like a delicate veil of thin silk. It was the hair that bothered her, she had just done it, she did not want to pose with a scarf on her head. The photographer agreed; she came back the next day without me but there was not enough light to photograph the old woman in the yard of her house. She went back to the house at least twice more before she was able to get her pictures. Occasionally, I joined her and we prowled in back of the old woman's house, eating a few fresh cherries from a tree that had been left to its own resources in the few weeks of life remaining to it.
Through the orchards and gardens of the 13th arrondissement we roamed until we were met by a powerfully built man and his German shepherd dog, even more powerfully built. He was the watchman; he had been keeping an eye on us from his perch in the attic of a deserted two-story house. We got along well with the watchman because we took him seriously. First intruders, we quickly became his guests. He gave us a conducted tour through a magnificent town house that was coming down in a few days in the name of urban renewal: winter garden, billiard room, butler's pantry with call board, bathrooms upstairs and down, fireplaces, parquet flooring, all to be fed to the wreckers. The watchman was taking care to see that none of this fell into the wrong hands. While we were there, we watched as he and the dog and a friend moved a great mirror that had once looked down from over the fireplace. They heaved it and they hauled it, backing and filling and tacking downstairs through entrances until they reached the watchman's command post in the deserted house that was coming more to resemble a warehouse.
The watchman talked readily. Most people do in the courtyards of Paris. They are not city people fearful of strangers and movement but villagers at home on their own turf, confident and therefore not defensive. He told us everything except his name. He was one of those leftovers from the fall of the French Empire: l'Indochine is gone and so is l'Algérie. There is not too much demand for easy-talking men who swim best in troubled waters. One often meets them as watchmen outside some of the treasures of Paris, where they display the alert wariness, latent strength, and social ease that go with their role as men of the world, professional pacifiers in retirement. They are left with their dogs and their lonely patrols, waiting for the Viet Minh or the fallagas or Abd-el-Krim to turn up in the 13th arrondissement within sight of the Métro.
This arrondissement is my despair; it is here that rural Paris is getting hit the hardest. Since it borders on the Latin Quarter, it allows the promoters to boast that their concrete filing cabinets for carbon-copy humans are "Left Bank residences." I rush at the 13th arrondissement on my bicycle like a man who has been placed before a smörgasbord and told he has only five minutes to eat all he can. I tote the bike through streets that end in steps where, on top of one, I found a parked bicycle with wooden rims on its wheels, wooden mudguards over them. It must have been there for years and years, left perhaps when its front tire went flat during the exodus from Paris in 1940, overlooked by occupiers and liberators alike, moldering peacefully on top of the steps. No one would steal a bicycle with wooden wheels, not even in New York.
Two doors away from the bicycle, I sighted a house with a telltale bust outside in a wall niche, almost a sure sign of a fallen mansion. I entered, I saw tall doors that had once opened into a stable. An old lady came out, the concierge who had been there since 1910. The house had been a hunting lodge for King Henri IV, she told me, and there were rooms upstairs over the entrance where the king could enjoy a little variety in his game. There was also a country pump she had to show me; she pulled away a few flowerpots, pried loose some boards, and there in the wall was the old pump, its long iron handle rusted but recognizable. The old lady did not mind living in the king's hunting lodge now that she had electricity, but she had to wait until the end of the Second World War for that.
Burrowing through Paris, I came across another old woman in the 15th arrondissement who was lighting with gas. I asked her what she did for wicks. She said there was still a shop on Avenue Emile Zola that handled them but she did not know what she would do when they closed. The possibility that her landlord might electrify never crossed her mind. There was no reason why it should have, the building was doomed. It stood in the way of the Paris of the Year 2000 that is going up on this other left Bank flank of the Latin Quarter, edging out factories, rooming houses for Arab factory hands, and more more more gardens, farmhouses, backyard woods.
It was in this disaster area that I wandered one morning, fleeing the dust and the monstrous mixer trucks. I ducked into alleys and lanes, I had no idea where I had landed. And I saw a blacksmith shoeing a donkey. He looked up in irritation when he saw he was being watched, because the animal was skittish, then he went on with his work. He had a leather apron tied around his waist and a leather sling around his neck. He placed the donkey's hoof in the sling. This left his hands free; he took some nails from a pocket in his apron and hammered them home. It was serious business, he had neither the time nor the inclination to chat. He was shoeing the donkeys and the ponies that rot out every day from that unpaved courtyard in the 15th arrondissement to the Luxembourg Gardens and the Camp-de-Mars, where they carry children, some in carts, some on their backs. A country boy leads the animals and reassures the city children, delighted but a little fearful in the presence of beasts almost as rare as the panda, as exotic as the platypus, almost as extinct as the dodo in their city.
I was once riding down Rue de Sèvres, a Left Bank artery in the vein of Carnaby Street, when I pulled up at a red light next to a panel truck with a donkey inside. The driver told me he sold sachets of lavender, bottles of lavender toilet water in the street from a big basket on the donkey's back. The donkey provided an authentic touch of Haute Provence, where the lavender grows. The light changed, the truck moved off slowly. The driver said he was looking for a place to park. I asked him why he did not use the new underground parking lot that had been gouged out below Boucicaut Square, leaving the square with a layer of pallid grass and puny trees trying to grow over the scene of the crime. Oh no, said the lavender-truck driver, the donkey didn't like to go under the ground, he baulked in the darkness where the shoppers parked. He may have been a donkey, he was no ass.
Rue de Sèvres is a good street for courtyard shopping. I go down it at least once a day; it always changes, depending on which gates are open. Two lead to convents and church schools; this is a neighborhood of nunneries and residences for the clergy. When the gates open, it is like looking into a magic Easter egg, an image of flowerbeds, shaded lanes, sleepy provincial old church schools. But the gates seldom open and they do not work automatically when you push the bell button. That is a trick I often use: I see a promising gate, I ring the bell, the doors swing open, I glance inside, take some mental notes, drink in what I can, then shut them softly. On Rue de Sèvres and other Church properties, this will not do. There is always a little grille at the door where one must state one's business. In many Paris convents, it is hard to find someone willing to allow a photographer to photograph the gardens and the henhouses and the sagging verandas. Nuns are well-trained to pass the buck; the ultimate power of decision lies somewhere in the provinces, they tell you with uplifted eyes.
This limits my activities, because nuns control so much of Paris behind the walls; businesslike nuns who run neighborhood dispensaries; wing-hatted nuns who dispense handouts to bums, shuffling respectfully up to the convent door, hobbling on canes, pushing three-wheeled baby carriages loaded with gleaned garbage; lithe nuns in sweatsuits who teach physical education; young Irish nuns who speak French to you with a brogue. They are the vestals of the old city of Paris; they watch their sanctuary being nibble away as the Church sells off properties to the builders. Half a convent goes down so that apartments can go up. The other half stands next to it, the paint of inside rooms on outside walls, old dark walnut doors that now open onto this air. Every time we cycle by, the photographer says she expects to see a nun walk out one of those doors and fly away on the wings of her hat.
Adjoining houses are the best places to spy on convents, so I have been told. One Peeping Tom watches nuns work their vegetable gardens in the 7th arrondissement and tries not to miss the moment of their daily recreation when they relax with a wild game of volleyball. He is not really a Peeping Tom, he designs grandfather-clock-sized pocket watches or arm's-length-thermometers in a shack three courtyards behind Rue du Cherche-Midi that runs back to back to Rue de Sèvres, providing a long swatch of country in the busiest part of the Left Bank, a rural stretch between two traffic-occluded colons, Boulevard Raspail and Boulevard du Montparnasse. I like riding down Rue du Cherche-Midi; cars always use it to beat the jam on Boulevard Raspail, then they get caught behind a moving van standing still on an all-morning job and the street is mine.
On Rue du Cherche-Midi, there are those high old doorways, tall enough to let a carriage through with baggage on the roof, tall enough to let a horse rear, that give away the presence of a mansion in the old aristocratic quarters. From under such a doorway, so a plaque tells me, Rochambeau left to fight alongside the revolutionaries in America. Two courtyards behind, an upholsterer works at his trade in one of those slanty wooden sheds, all splinters and fire hazards, that creak happily behind the frosted façades of Paris. The upholsterer will talk to you; courtyard people talk to the infrequent passerby once you assure them you are there to admire their courtyard and not take it away from them. They can understand this, they bask in your admiration, they show you a secret fountain, a hidden tower, a sculptured pediment. It is a good rule on Rue du Cherche-Midi, Rue de Varenne, Rue de l'Université, Rue de Lille, Rue du Bac, Rue Barbet-de-Jouy to look behind the high doorways. Space opens beyond, a preface of paving stones leading to the steps of a town house, to the half-timbered walls and low gables of a stable where a Rolls is groomed, or even a road that runs up to houses facing a wood, parents lying in hammocks rigged to trees, reading and relaxing, unaware of their kids climbing out the attic window, wooden swords in hand like d'Artagnan, teetering on the edge of the roof gutters, whispering to us on the other side of the wall where we watch silently, with complicity.
Courtyards are rife in these quarters of Paris where nobles built without a car for space, leaving an odd acre of English park below their windows, a wilderness that betrays its presence to the street outside only by the cool breath that comes from the doorway on a hot summer day. In the back streets of these quarters, Rue de Verneuil, Rue Saint-Dominique, Rue Cler, Rue de l'Exposition, Rue du Gros-Caillou, the tradesmen work in courtyards of their own, overlooking more wilderness planted in flowerpots, oil drums, old tires, anything that will keep soil in place on top of cement. On a small street of Rue de Sèveres, a lady has a parasol and a table in the garden behind the little hotel she runs; she sits at the table and writes poetry when the sun and her inspiration are out.
There is also much for the eye to rest on in the working-class parts of Paris where space was laid on lavishly because land values were low. There, the gardens run off bumpy private streets never paved for the motor age, some still with center gutters to take what used to come out of the houses. I know an apartment house with allotment gardens behind it, to each tenant his own garden below. Population densities are high in these streets, but so are amenities for the population. Houses can stretch back a block or so, hidden forever from whatever is happening on the big streets. These little streets are called villas or cités; many were built to provide the most modest possible housing for workmen and artisans who now enjoy air, trees, gardens, grass, solitude, the most royal of privileges in the city of Paris. In the heat of June or July, kids romp naked through the cités and dogs run unafraid.
The situation is gradually being righted; step by step, little by little, these pockets of sanity and humanity are being cleared away, houses knocked down as if they were of cards, trees uprooted so that the soil can sprout high-rise beanstalks. Or even worse, the walls stay up, the roofs stay on, but the insides are gutted, the intestines are torn out to make way for rich stuffing. Such is the urban plight of Paris; the rich can destroy a city far more thoroughly than the poor. They can turn it into a exurb with none of the inconveniences of commuting. The suburban trains and the Métro are the lot of the fugitives chased from the city core. The result is the same as Westport or La Jolla; work is banished, dirty hands are the sign of the pariah unless they belong to maid or plumber. On Sundays, holidays, in July and August, these inner suburbs look as if someone had spread the word the Russians are coming.
It is among the aristocrats and the artisans, Faubourg Saint-Germain and Faubourg Saint-Antoine, that life still edges out death in the courtyards that the bicycle enters and leaves without a trace of its passage. This could be a model of urban planning, a city polka-dotted by the countryside. This could be the Paris of the Year 2000, the Paris of eternity, but the up-and-coming and the here-and-now will have none of it. The doorways of Passy are twice as high as those of Faubourg Saint-Germain, a double-decker bus could get through with everyone standing up; the concierge's lodge is twice as humble, the promise is that of a Versailles or, at the very least, a Fontainebleau behind the gates.
So I go in and there is a frosted glass door at the other end of the entrance. Bad sign that, must be something to hide. Open the door, a yard that looks more like an inch; the used to call it an airshaft in Hell's Kitchen. A monotony of yellowish brick, cheaper than the hewn stone outside, a building whose tenants enjoy neither light nor air, just the address out front. Behind it, more of the same. Those that built here knew the value of a square meter, they did not waste a millimeter, they raised their vertical deserts for the cream of Paris, letting it rise to the top by elevator. In the morning, the desert Bedouins become nomads in their cars, clotting the streets, clogging the air, agreeing only that le progrès has made city life possible.
Chapter 4, The Built-In Breakdown


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Shoebox Bathroom Remodel
This is our big bathroom reveal! We did all the work ourselves except for fixing the plumbing behind the wall and the electricity.
Featured at:
Make it Pretty Monday party at The Dedicated House. http://thededicatedhouse.blogspot.com/2012/11/make-it-pretty-monday-week-22.html
DIY Bathroom Remodel
We learned some new DIY skills, valued
perseverance and patience, and had fun.
Even the window was missing.
Here it is with the glue scrapped with some repaired and new plumbing done by the plumbers behind the new cement board. We kept everything in the same place to save.
With a good eye and some measuring skill, one can design their own bathroom.
Because I did the design, and we did all the work ourselves,we saved thousands!
I like the double curtain rod.
This is a Martha Stewart toilet paper holder.
The main thing to know is DON'T use premixed grout on stone. Thank you to, the pro, visiting the depot at the same time as us.
White beveled, subway tile is inexpensive, but classic.These white, beveled, subway tiles were purchased on sheets at the Home Depot, as well as the glass tiles, which came in packages of four. We sealed the grout so that it will stay nice; touch it up when the water no longer beads.
We could of used a different colored grout, but I have a thing about grout looking dirty.
The shower curtain is from Target.
P.S. We did have a professional finish the tub, and the finish came out amazing. This tub is 70 years old, but it could last another hundred or two. (The price reflects the little extra work it took take off the finish we put on.)


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- 1 large head of cabbage
- 1/2 poundground beef
- 1/2 poundground pork
- 1/2 cup rice
- 1 onion
- 1 carrot
- 2-3 tomatoes
- 2-3 tablespoons tomato paste
- 3 garlic cloves
- 1 sprig parsley
- salt, freshly ground pepper
- Wash cabbage and remove leaves, then soak leaves in boiling water for 1-2 minutes until they are soft.
- Trim thick center vein from the bottom of each leaf.
- Wash and clean carrot, chop into thin strips.
- Sautee carrots and diced onions until tender.
- Wash and finely chop parsley.
- Boil rice to half-readiness -- make sure the rise is still somewhat hard, otherwise it will turn to mush when you boil it again.
- Wash tomatoes, then puree tomatoes in a blender.
- Clean garlic and crush in a garlic press.
- Combine ground meat with rice, onion, carrot, garlic, tomato paste and parsley, add salt and pepper to taste, mix well.
- Place 2-3 tablespoons of meat on each cabbage leaf.
- Fold sides of cabbage over filling, and, starting with the stem end, roll the cabbage into tubes. Press the mixture into the leaves.
- Line the bottom of a pot with cabbage leaves and place the rolled golubtsy inside.
- Boil water, add tomato paste, and pour into pot.
- Cook over a low flame for 45 minutes to an hour. Check for readiness -- cabbage should be soft but not mushy, meat should be cooked through.
- Serve the golubtsy with the sauce they cooked in, and a dollop of sour cream.


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What's happening? What is going wrong?
I don't want to bring blame; it does not help at all.
I want to bring consciousness. Consciousness of where we are and where we are going to. We live complicated moments. We struggle and work for our kids, we face different problems and difficult situations from day to day, but we do our best to solve it all.
The mass media gives us bad news and a lot of it refer to our children; dropout, bullying, lack of motivation, disoriented teenagers, new addictions in addition to already existing ones… Almost all of us know at least one case as that in our friend or family circle.
What is happening? What makes the youth of today be in need of "likes" in the social network in order to feel good? Who is being more deceived? They? Or us, when we just say "all the kids do so"? Who, if not the parents, has to arouse in their teenage girl that she must love herself, that it is worth being happy although somebody does not consider her to be "the most popular girl" in the school?
It is a hard to raise children; it is a long distance race the results of which are not seen in the short run sometimes, and this can cause despondency. At the same time, raising our children is the most important, wonderful and beautiful things in our lives. There is nothing better than spending time with our children. If it is not so…. Is it worth it?
- What legacy do we want to leave them?
- How do we want them to remember us?
- What do we, as parents, do to prevent these situations?
- How do we prepare ourselves for performing the most important role, TO BE PARENTS?
- What do we do to learn to enjoy our kids?
Let's be honest with ourselves. Let's leave excuses. They are hardly to be believed. It has something to do with priorities and commitment.
I admit that I am overweight, but I calm myself down saying such excuses as a lack of time, or some other explanation. But I am lying to myself. It has to do with my priorities and my commitment. Exercise is not my priority. I am more committed to my couch than to the gym. It is not easy to admit it, but I allow it to myself.
However, what happens when we speak about our children? Is it the same? If they are really our top priority… What are we really committed to? What do we do to honour this commitment? Are we being coherent?
I began this article with a wakeup call and i want to finish it with an action call.
What can we as parents do?
We can do a lot, we can do "EVERYTHING".
If we want our children to be brave, empathetic, emotionally balanced, positive, capable, proactive, if we don't want them to be victims of circumstances…we have to understand that we can only do it giving them a good example. We have to be empathetic, capable, positive, proactive and brave parents. Parents, who know how to accept their children, who could give them their own space to be who they are. Parents, who could reinforce, inspire and support them, helping them develop all their skills and capabilities.
We can learn how to grow as persons and give the best of us as parents to our children.
Are you ready to make this commitment?
M. Ángeles Jové
AEIOU Team


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I've got the problem with anomaly korea on my samsung glaxy ace. After choosing a mission game is stoped with black screen and "loading logo". There is only music and this screen, nothing more. What shoud I do? Or mayby my phone is not good enough? (but as far as I know AK is compatible with it)
Thanks in advance for answer


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I decided to treat myself with my first payday so I hit up the MAC counter in Debenhams on the weekend. It was hard not to get swayed into the limited edition collection and buy another slightly different version of So Chaud or Morange. I have far too many orange lipsticks, it's becoming a real problem. With winter approaching faster than I'd like, I decided to go for something totally different this time and see how a purple berry lipstick would work. Turns out it works pretty well. The MAC girl was very sweet and was all flattery telling me my brown/green eyes looked even more green with purple lipstick. Who am I to resist the charms of MAC make up artists?
I ended up buying Rebel, in the tube the lipstick looks pretty much black. I was a little put off at first but once I tried it on I loved it. Rebel comes out as a very warm berry. With a lip liner it looks more vampish for evening time, for daytime you can wear it just dabbed on so it's not so full on. I'm pretty much in love with this lipstick and it might replace my good old Morange for the time being.


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No air movement + LOTS of humidity = Perfect reason to get outside!
This was my preparation:
I keep some of these in the staff room freezer just for urgent days like today! :)
We met on the rug in the classroom to read over what we would be looking for outside. We discussed different things we could find for each treasure and then hoped we could find them!
After I paired everyone up, and we went over our rules, we were off!
Just what she hoped for for "something soft!"
The were so focused on the goal- nobody even messed with those PUDDLES! YAY!
Heading back to share!
A more delicious "treasure!"
We had a wonderful afternoon! Thank you for visiting! :)Happy Teaching,


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Marina (ID: 77830)
Date of birth:March 18, 1996
Height:5' 4" (163 cm)
Weight:116 lb (53 kg)
Hair color:brown
Eyes color:green
Marital status:single
Profession:power system engineer
Occupation:student, model
Education:incomplete higher education
English language:beginners' level
Others foreign languages:No
Seeks partner:25 - 40 years old
Total photos:10
Bikini photos:0
Hobbies and interests:
My hobbies connected with my lifestyle. I am student and most of time I am studying, the rest of it I spend with friends, with favorite books and helping my parents. To help my parents and realize my dreams I am working in modeling. I am fond of tennis, so when have free minute go to train.
About me:
In childhood I didn't dream to be princess as all my friends-ladies and live in caste. I always wanted have someone to care about. I am ready to have family and my aim is find decent partner here. I am very simple lady; I value simple things, like warm smile, kind word, and tender touch of beloved person. I don't wait stars from sky, but wait attention and care. I am ready to changes and will gladly meet decent man.
Looking For Men Type:
I only start my journey in wonderful world of relationships. My heart is waiting for love, true emotions. I am waiting for cheerful, strong, stable and reliable man who is dreaming to meet such wonderful lady as me) and have family, live in small cozy house in country-side with own garden. I know that dreams come true and I am ready sharing all duties with my future husband to realize this dream.
Customer support in Ukraine: +380-67-6290902
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text:
How to add video in eBay listing template [2015]
While you're selling on eBay, there are some products for which images aren't enough for explaining everything in your eBay listing template design and for that reason you need to add (embed) videos in your eBay listings. It is much valuable to add product videos to help you sell more. To add videos in your listing template, you will need to post your video on a video sharing site. Use youtube to add videos in your eBay listing as it's free and eBay supports it.
There are many other reasons to add videos in eBay listing template:
- People are more likely to see videos over text
- It doesn't take a lot of effort to watch a video than reading the list of specifications
- 1 Picture = 1000 Words, 1 Video = Everything
- Videos add personal touch about the product with complete hands-on
Get the right gadget to record HQ videos with proper audio. You can also use a microphone (if needed) which will record audio more clearly and loud enough.
Pretty recently, we found out through the google product support forum that Youtube has removed the Youtube old embed code method. As ebay's policy does not allow Javascript and iFrame, here is a tutorial on how to add video in ebay listing template – update 2015
Step 1: Go to the uploaded Youtube video
Step 2: Go to the Share -> Embed button and click on "Show More"
Step 3: Select the video size in it
Step 4: Check if you want to disable suggested videos when the video finishes
Step 5: Copy the Youtube iFrame code
Step 6: Go to Youtube code converter for eBay site and add the Youtube iFrame code in it
Step 7: Generate the eBay code
If you want to generate responsive/mobile friendly code and make it center aligned then check the respected options highlighted below
You're ready !
When your edited code is ready with the video, paste it in the respective listing and save. Now, you'll be able to see the embedded video in that particular listing.
This way, you can add videos to all the necessary listings according to you.
You can ask about your queries by commenting below. If you are looking to get a custom eBay store design and eBay listing template design, you can email us at [email protected]. Follow us on twitter (@infigicdigital) for more updates.


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We no longer offer this title for sale, this listing is here for reference. Screen Archives still carries a wide selection of Twilight Time titles.
Director Alan Parker's Mississippi Burning (1988) tells the real-life tale of three young Civil Rights workers murdered in deep-South Mississippi, focusing on the FBI agents (the great Gene Hackman and the wonderfully subtle Willem Dafoe) who arrive to investigate the crime. Also starring Frances McDormand and Brad Dourif, the film features a lacerating screenplay by Chris Gerolmo, Oscar®-winning cinematography by Peter Biziou (Richard III) and a score by Trevor Jones, available on this Twilight Time release as an isolated track.
Starring: Gene Hackman, Willem Dafoe, Frances McDormand, Brad Dourif, R. Lee Ermey, Stephen Tobolowsky
Directed By: Alan Parker
Written By: Chris Gerolmo
Score By: Trevor Jones
Language: English
Video: 1080p High Definition / 1.85:1 / Color
Audio: English 2.0 DTS-HD MA
Subtitles: English SDH
Theatrical Release: 1988
Runtime: 127 Minutes
Rating: R
Region Code:Region Free (A/B/C)
Special Features: Isolated Score Track / Audio Commentary with Director Alan Parker / Original Theatrical Trailer
Genre: Drama
Limited Edition of 3,000 Units


text: 'Shakespeare's Theater: A Sourcebook 'brings together in one volume the most significant Elizabethan and Jacobean texts on the morality of the theater. A collection of the most significant Elizabethan and Jacobean texts on the morality of the theater. Includes attacks on the stage by moralists, defences by actors and playwrights, letters by magistrates, mayors and aldermen of London, and extracts from legislation. Demonstrates just how heated debates about the theater became in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. A general introduction and short prefaces to each piece situate the writers and debates in the literary, social, political and religious history of the time. Brings together in one volume texts that would otherwise be hard to locate. Student-friendly - uses modern spelling and includes vocabulary glosses and annotation.


text:
May 2016 marked 25 years service with Warners Group Publications for Distribution whizz kid Natalie Cole. Natalie joined the business in May 1991, fresh faced and long before the days of the internet and mobile phones.
Our congratulations to Natalie, and here's to many more years at the gym, running away from Steve, hill walking, reading and socializing.


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Tonight on the B Side Mikey Show, Tommy T & myself will rip out an old school MOTLEY CRUE show. 8-10 (PST) in Studio 2B LIVE, as we'll try as best as possible, to cover the B Sides. Many cool tracks did hit the radio over the decades, so it's hard to avoid. However the band just ripped the scene for so long, & hats off to one of my favorite 4 /4 drummers, TOMMY LEE! The band was solid, and they had all of the (Metal Maiden) fans simply pack the venue. Great live band with many recognized tracks by folks all over the world, which is a huge accomplishment. So sit back all of you "BLUES LOVIN", "ROCK N ROLLIN", "STONER ROCK", "METAL HEADS," & enjoy. Find me on FB @ Michael S Sojda or @ B Side Mikey Show. REMEMBER > Don't drink & drive! \m/
Podcast: Play in new window | Download (105.1MB)
Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Android | Email | Google Podcasts | Stitcher | TuneIn | Spotify | RSS


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The Group started off in 2017 with SNAPP CV, a 'mobile job board with a difference'. SNAPP was conceived by Natasha Makhijani & Akash (Ash) Daswani whom both had been working in the Recruitment sector for over 25 years between them. Ash realised that there was a huge gap in the market where very few were addressing the missing space of convergence between Recruitment & Software.
The idea was to make applying for a job quick and easy and all as the name suggests in a 'SNAPP!'. As the product is continually being updated with the helpful feedback from its Founders (see various sites) the product journeyed down its product road map. In 2018 SNAPP InView had launched a complete end-to-end Video interviewing platform that would allow Hiring Managers to process applications received from SNAPP or any other means to invite candidates to attend online interviews. In late 2018 it was decided that VidEmploy be
re-branded under the SNAPP CV banner and hence SNAPP InView was born.
With the exciting prospect of offering the complete end-to-end recruitment solution online, increasing hiring recruiting efficiencies and reducing costs, time and people management, the Group was formally created. In July 2019 the Group attained PLC status.
After 3 years in product development SNAPP CV, RESUME & InView were fully tested and operational, Founder Members who were good enough to take the time to test the products, were pleasantly surprised with the UI (design) and ease of use.
The Group has now officially launched with Sales teams being set up Worldwide with a presence in 4 countries and growing, the Brand is now progressing down its journey, with the support of some fantastic people....
Every project needs a team, at the SNAPP CV Group we are so privileged to have the support of some of the best in the industry, from former Apprentices to experienced professionals within a variety of sectors. Not to forget our coders, marketing, sales, tech support, SMT & of course the Founders, every single contributor & contribution has made what SNAPP is today.
Thanks for getting in touch, we'll get back to you ASAP!


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Come out and support Sandhills MOPs at our annual Tag Sale this year on April 11th! You can rent a booth, $35/individual or $40/vendor to sell your things OR come shop the sale! Please email us at, firstname.lastname@example.com, for a registration form!! ***Individual spots still available, vendor spaces are almost full***
Saturday, March 7, 2015
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The driver of a tractor-trailer that struck a car and killed two people Dec.22 on Hwy 49 South in Randolph County is facing additional charges.
Charged with Involuntary Manslaughter
Timothy John McCarty, 36, of Cabarrus County, has been charged with two counts of involuntary manslaughter. He posted an $80,000 bond.
McCarty was originally charged with passing in a no-passing zone. The accident took place around 5 p.m. at the intersection of Hwy 49 and Dunbar Bridge Road.
He is accused of trying to pass several vehicles in a two-lane no-passing zone while coming over the crest of a hill. Three cars were coming in the opposite direction.
The tractor-trailer collided head-on with one of them side-swiped another, authorities said.
Two Killed; One Injured
Danny Ray Perry, 49, and Kelly Perry, 53, were struck in a 1997 Chevy Lumina and both died at the scene.
The couple's grandson, 6-year-old Deacon Cole, was also riding in the car. He was airlifted to Wake Baptist Medical Center and has since been released.


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Cast and Characters, Channel 5, character development, dialogue, effective scripts, English drama, mediacorp, opinions, review scripts, reviews, Singapore TV drama, story arc, tips for scriptwriters, TV reviews, write TV scripts
Summary: Episode 1, the pilot episode of PI – sucks! But first…
Much of the camera work was professional and with great sound track too – well done! In fact, the only thing going for PI were all from the crew.
Catchy opening credits – nice! Cinematic aerial footage – drones at work (?) – Good job and of course the spectacular Singapore skyline gave it an added boost. All in all, excellent – comparable to anything from Hollywood. Great behind-the-camera artists.
Acting was ordinary – quite a disappointment.
Usually, the talents come through, they always do – in spite of the script and direction – but not in PI. The Hush's scripts – at least episodes 1 & 2 that I watched before throwing up my arms – were rubbish, but most of the actors came through alright. There was sustained brilliance in acting.
In PI, all the actors were not bad and only 'okay' – nothing to entice me back to episode 2.
Carl Ng, as Donny Lai, was particularly lagging and I really cannot figure out why. He has the rugged good looks and all, but was simply unable to pull off his character. Were the scriptwriters and director expecting too much, should they have cast a chameleon instead? Is he supposed to be witty? The wit was simply not in the lines and were delivered off-key, so to speak. Was he supposed to be a petty crook – swiping drinks from a convenience store and doing an Ethan Hunt with his pilfering of clothes and all? If he is supposed to be an anti-hero, he is lacking the darkness. I could not invest in his character – could not even dislike Donny Lai. I know I'm not supposed to dislike him – but what is there to like? Give me Inspector Koh from The Hush anytime – at least, it was easy to dislike that character!
I would love to review the script because I think that's where the problems lie – pot-holed.
I'm not going into the story because it had all the hallmarks of MediaCorp's mediocre imprint – in the plot as well as character backstories.
I can provide a detailed breakdown but that will run into pages… Here are a few comments. Click the images below.
It would seem the movies TAKEN and MISSION IMPOSSIBLE | GHOST PROTOCOL had given the scriptwriters some inspiration.
Click the image below for the short video…
Okay, another hyped up Channel 5 drama to skip… better things to do with my time.
At least they still have The Noose and some great documentaries. I caught the first few episodes of Tanglin – long overdue, I know, but it is pretty decent.


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A large open space located within a building, providing light and ventilation to the interior,
often located immediately beyond the main entrance doors, in the lobby.
A glazed atrium can be a magnificent centre piece which opens up the heart of the building.
If you like what you see, why not get in touch with the team today and find out what we can bring to your next project.Contact us


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|Zone (Patch)
|The Temple of Kor-Sha (Rise of Kunark)
|84▲▲▲ Tier 9 Epic x4 , (Approx. HP: 5.5 million)
|Reported Drops
|Melee Attacks
|Spell Attacks
|Poison, Magic
|Special Attacks
|AA Exp
|Status Points
What does this information mean?
One person needs to loot and equip a cryptic device dropped from the Uthtak/Aktar fight. They can then right-click on Atrebe's Statue, and select "Press Glowing Gem on the Cryptic Device" to make Atrebe's Statue attackable.
Maximize Poison & Magic resists
Joust the two AoEs, which increase in damage the closer you are to the mob. Cure immediately with healers or potions when hit with either one.
Sebilisian Sporecloud
- At 0 to 10 meters, 12338-24492 poison damage plus 2903-5763 poison damage every 5 seconds
- At 10 to 15 meters, 7583-11374 poison damage plus 2166-3250 poison damage every 5 seconds
- At 15 to 75 meters, 4875-5958 poison damage plus 1462-1787 poison damage every 5 seconds
- For ACT the spell needs to read "Statue's Sebilisian Sporecloud" and goes off at about the 45 sec. mark
Force of Atrebe
- You will be launched into the air and hurled toward Atrebe's Statue
- At 0 to 10 meters, 7936-23808 magic damage plus 3174-9523 magic damage every 9 seconds
- At 10 to 15 meters, 5079-11851 magic damage plus 1905-4444 magic damage every 9 seconds
- At 15 to 100 meters, 3809-5714 magic damage plus 1693-2540 magic damage every 9 seconds
- For ACT the spell needs to read "Statue's Force of Atrebe" and goes off at about the 40 sec. mark
Force of atrebe actually kicks you in the direction you are facing, so if you face mob it will pull you to him if you face away you will get a standard kb. Resists, fast cures for the dots, jousting and a bit luck (if both aoes go off at same time or very close it is very likely that it kills MT) are the keys to this fight. if healers cannot cure fast enough then bring potions.


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The Dangers of Flashmobbing?
Having woken up at some godawful hour last week, I stuck on a This American Life podcast while trying to doze. It usually helps lull me back into unconsciousness, with Ira Glass reading me a nice story.
But this one grabbed me too much to sleep; it was all about mind games and tales of people screwing with other people's heads.
The main bit was about the NYC pranksters Improv Everywhere, a group of flashmobbers I've been following for a while now. (I use the term prankster cautiously, 'cos the head chap there, Charlie Todd, refers to his capers as 'missions', with the people carrying them out as 'agents'.) If you haven't seen them, I'm sure you've come across something similar. They perform subtle flashmobby acts in public to spice up people's days and shake them out of their reverie.
I love the idea of flashmobs; I generally see them as good innocent fun. But what jabbed me was the reaction from those who'd been the target of the mobs. They hated it.
For one of Improv Everywhere's stunts – 'best gig ever' – they took a tinpot band who no-one had ever heard of and set up a scenario where everyone in the crowd seemed to be their biggest fan. You know the deal – they made band T-shirts and learnt all their lyrics, and generally treated this band like they were the living embodiment of rock and sex onstage.
The band loved it on the night and gave it their all. But when no-one showed up for their next gig, and later when they found out the whole thing had been a piss-take, one described it as like 'a stab in the heart'.
In another flashmob the agents chose some putz in a bar and decided to treat him as if it was his birthday. They all gave him cards, bought him drinks and presents and made him look like the king of the world. But the chap was totally mystified. He was freaked out and twitchy and the episode bugged him for weeks.
So this flashmob thing, which I tend to applaud for its gentle subversion, was in fact making people's lives miserable. Charlie Todd defended his actions by saying that at least they were providing one great night/gig/etc to spice up these guys' crappy lives.
But it didn't sit well. It all seemed rather selfish and self-satisfied. I'm less sure about the whole thing now – it seems a bit more sinister. If anyone's got thoughts on this, I'd love to hear them. I'm pretty new to the whole flashmob sphere, and don't want to blithely start pissing people off.
Filed under: Flashmob, improv | Leave a Comment
Tags: Charlie Todd, flashmobbing, improv, Improv Everywhere, Ira Glass, New York, NPR, podcasts, This American Life
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A radiologist's report should be succinct, accurate, actionable, and easy for ordering providers and patients to understand. This is the message Hanna Zafar, MD, associate professor of radiology at the hospital of the University of Pennsylvania's Perelman School of Medicine, sends to radiologists looking to move the needle on effective patient care.
With patient satisfaction tied to how clearly ordering physicians are able to relay information to patients — and what sense patients can make of their imaging results — radiologists should be moving away from meaningless jargon and antiquated formats. In a recent interview with the Bulletin, Zafar discussed creating reports that can lead to meaningful patient discussions and better healthcare outcomes.
What do you consider an ideal radiology report?
It's a report that combines imaging findings, including pertinent negatives, with relevant patient history to answer clinical questions succinctly and clearly. It should be devoid of voice recognition and grammatical errors. Structured reporting can greatly assist in achieving these goals. The report should also include potential next steps, when warranted.
Why are you advocating for more patient-friendly reports?
My interest in improving communication with patients is a natural extension of my interest in improving communication with ordering providers. The radiology report is our product. Radiologists are, in many respects, inconsistent in how we create that product. We frequently include descriptive prose and terms that may be sensible to other radiologists, but do not make sense to providers and patients. It's almost as if we write reports for one another. Our impressions are often lengthy, listing findings and technical descriptions (e.g., increased T1 signal) without a clear or preferred diagnosis — or guidance on possible next steps. We can do better.
Be clear, brief, and put your nickel down in the impression. While patient preferences vary, most patients want to access radiology reports and receive radiology results from their ordering provider. Given this, reports need to be short and written in plain language, so it becomes useful as a shared decision-making tool for both patients and providers.
What components of a report are helpful to the patient?
Brevity. Patient understanding of radiology reports is inversely correlated with report length. Structured reports with subheadings for organ systems in the findings section make it easier for providers and patients to locate pertinent negative or positive findings. Including images in a report can improve patient understanding. A patient may not understand the terms "rales" or "ronchi" on an office physical exam note. However, they are more likely to understand they have pneumonia when they see a white area in their lung base surrounded by normal black lung tissue.
In addition, including the name and contact information of the interpreting radiologist within a report can make it easier for patients and ordering providers to reach you directly with questions. And no, there is no significant increase in phone calls reported by radiologists who do this. Finally, patients want their results quickly. We need to dictate results in a timely fashion, offer patients an opportunity to review their results with a radiologist if they desire, and decrease the time it takes to post results through online portals.
Should radiologists use the word "normal" in a report?
Radiologists fear the word "normal," I believe, because of medicolegal concerns. If an organ is not normal and you say it is, you have falsely reassured the patient and opened yourself up to a lawsuit. We come up with other terms in lieu of normal, such as "unremarkable." However, an interpretive error that contributes to patient harm is a potential liability, regardless of the language used. If we didn't see an abnormality, it doesn't matter if you said normal, unremarkable, or wrote 30 sentences of prose iterating what you didn't see. I like to use the word "normal" because it is brief and reassuring. A lot of the macros in my practice include the word "unremarkable." There are only so many times in a day I can remove it. What I find amusing is that you literally remarked on something — so it's not unremarkable!
I mentioned earlier that the report is our product. That's true, but it's not our end game. The true measure of a successful radiology report is whether it communicates useful information to the provider and patient — and leads to an educated discussion that includes the radiologist. Even if patients don't understand every word, they should understand the salient points and start to generate questions about how the results relate to the symptoms that lead to the test and possible next steps. We want patients to become more involved in their own healthcare. We want them to understand their results and how to act on them. We can move the needle on this by changing how we write our reports.


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Until now, you've had limited options for storage performance management. You could cobble together vendor-specific monitoring consoles and forget about real-time, consolidated access to performance and usage data for all of the devices in your storage network. Or you could drop a bundle for more comprehensive data storage management software and then spend even more for the small army of consultants required for deployment.
Storage Manager is the only intuitive, web-based application that combines storage monitoring, reporting, alerting, and forecasting across the entire multi-vendor storage stack for DAS, NAS, and SAN systems. Storage Manager unifies the view from all layers in the stack-from the user, all the way through to the disk-making administration more efficient, mitigating risks, and optimizing what you've got to work with.
Now you can easily and affordably gain valuable insight into storage utilization across your entire enterprise, identify the impact of a failure, and trend and forecast for storage capacity planning and business continuity decisions-all from a single pane-of-glass view!
--Combines storage monitoring, reporting, alerting, & forecasting
--Delivers real-time, agentless DAS, NAS, & SAN monitoring & generates policy-based alerts
--Provides comprehensive storage reporting capabilities
--Automates the collection & presentation of storage forecasting data Maps applications & logical connections to the physical infrastructure
--Automates the movement or deletion of unwanted
Back to System/File Managers


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What it is: Pickles and relishes are brined or vinegared, seasoned vegetables with a piquant flavor. Lying somewhere between side dishes and condiments, they're generally used to provide a sharp contrast to mild or fatty foods. Almost any food can be pickled, and in the South most things are, usually in a sweet-sour vinegar mixture.
Pickling has long been a way to preserve and flavor the summer's harvest, and no Southern recipe collection is without its supply of pickle receipts.
Southerners are especially known for relishes such as chow chow and piccalilli. Below the Mason-Dixon line, piccalilli is not the mustardy compound that goes by that term in Great Britain, nor the brilliant green cucumber relish that sometimes goes under that name in Chicago. Both chow chow and piccallili are vegetable mixtures that can include green tomatoes, chayote, peppers, onion, cabbage, green beans and others, mixed with a variety of spices, depending on the cook's preference. The terms are sometimes used interchangeably, though chow chow usually contains cabbage and piccalilli typically has a base of green tomatoes.
Where it comes from: Pickling as a means of preserving and flavoring vegetables date back to prehistoric times. Archeological evidence indicates the ancient Mesopotamians pickled, and pickles are mentioned twice in the Old Testament.
Christopher Columbus brought the pickling process to the New World. Amerigo Vespucci packed pickles before he set out to explore the Americas. Barrels of pickled vegetables on ships kept 15th-century sailors from the ravages of scurvy.
Pickles were being produced commercially in Virginia as early as 1606, and Thomas Jefferson commented, "On a hot day in Virginia, I know nothing more comforting than a fine spiced pickle, brought up trout-like from the sparkling depths of the aromatic jar below the stairs of Aunt Sally's cellar."
What to do with it: Chef Paul Fehribach uses his house-made pickles and relishes as garnishes and ingredients for the Southern-style dishes he creates at Big Jones in Andersonville. While pickles can be canned for shelf-stable storage, Fehribach prefers to make refrigerator pickles that need no further processing and keep for months as long as they're kept chilled. He generously shares his recipes for mirliton chow chow, onion pickle, pickled okra, dill refrigerator pickles and piccalilli (click "continue reading" for the recipes).
Big Jones' Southern-style pickles and relishes
Chef Paul Fehribach
1/2 cup kosher salt
2 quarts water
2 cups matchstick-cut green bell pepper
2 cups matchstick-cut red bell pepper
1 quart shredded green cabbage
1 cup matchstick-cut yellow onion
1 quart peeled, thinly sliced mirliton (chayote)
Pickling liquid:
1 quart white vinegar
1 cup water
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 cup turbinado sugar
1 tablespoon whole allspice, crushed
1 tablespoon celery seed
1 cinnamon stick
1 tablespoon crushed coriander seed
2 tablespoons shredded fresh ginger
1 tablespoon crushed red pepper
Brine the vegetables: Stir the water and salt together until the salt has dissolved salt. Place the vegetables in a container and cover with brine. Cover, label, date and refrigerate for 4 hours or overnight.
Make the pickling liquid: Place all ingredients in a 1-gallon nonreactive stockpot and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer and infuse for 15 minutes. Strain the liquid and return to pot, and return to a boil.
Pickle: In the meantime, drain the vegetables, discard the brine, and place the vegetables in a 1-gallon container with a tight-fitting lid. Carefully pour the boiling brine over the vegetables and cover tightly immediately. Let cool to room temperature (3 hours). Label, date, and refrigerate. The chow chow will be tasty after one day, best after a week, and will keep, tightly covered and refrigerated, up to 6 months. Makes about 3 quarts.
2 cups very thinly sliced red onion
1 jalapeno, sliced very thin
Red wine vinegar
2 teaspoons kosher salt
Combine the onions and jalapeno in a container with a tight-fitting lid. Add vinegar to cover. Stir in the salt and mix all ingredients thoroughly. Cover, label, and refrigerate at least 24 hours. 2 cups.
3 quarts whole okra pods
1/2 cup kosher salt
3 cups water
4 cups white vinegar
1 cup turbinado sugar
10 cloves garlic, smashed
1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns
1 yellow onion, peeled and quartered
2 tablespoons crushed red pepper
1 teaspoon yellow mustard seeds
1 teaspoon brown mustard seeds
2 teaspoons whole cloves
8 bay leaves
Scrub the okra pods well, being careful not to bruise them. Place in a 1-gallon container with a tight-fitting lid.
In a 2-quart, nonreactive saucepan, place the salt, water and vinegar, and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, combine the remaining seasonings and tie up in a square of cheesecloth; add to the container with the okra. Carefully pour the boiling brine over the okra and spices and cover tightly at once. Allow to cool to room temperature (3 hours).
Label and refrigerate. Marinate at least 72 hours before using. The pickles will keep, tightly covered under refrigeration, up to 2 months. 3 quarts.
5 pounds pickling cucumbers
1/2 cup kosher salt
7 cups white vinegar
4 cups water
3/4 cup turbinado sugar
1 tablespoon dill seed
2 tablespoons whole black peppercorns
2 tablespoons crushed red pepper
1 tablespoon allspice berries
1 tablespoon whole cloves
8 bay leaves
1 medium onion, quartered
2 tablespoons coriander seed
8 cloves garlic, smashed
The day before pickling, slice the cucumbers into 3/4-inch-thick half moons, cover with ice water in a 2-gallon container, cover the container with a tight lid, refrigerate, and soak overnight.
Drain the cucumbers and place in a 1-gallon container with a tight-fitting lid. In a 1-gallon nonreactive stockpot, place the salt, vinegar and water, and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, combine the remaining seasonings and tie up in a square of cheesecloth; add to the container with the cucumbers.
Carefully pour the boiling brine over the cucumbers and spices and cover tightly at once. Let cool to room temperature (3 hours). Label, date, and refrigerate. The pickles will be tasty after one day, best after a week, and will keep, tightly covered and refrigerated, up to 6 months. Makes about 1 gallon.
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 pounds green tomatoes, cut in 1/4-inch dice
1/2 cup minced yellow onion
2 green bell peppers, diced small
2 red bell peppers, diced small
2-3/4 cups white vinegar
3/4 cup white vinegar
3 tablespoons kosher salt
1-1/2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon ground allspice
2 cinnamon sticks
1 tablespoon celery seed
1/4 cup whole yellow mustard seed
4 bay leaves
Place the vegetable oil, tomatoes, onion, peppers and 2 cups of the vinegar in a nonreactive 4-quart saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat and simmer for 30 minutes, uncovered, stirring frequently.
Drain and discard the liquid. Turn the vegetables into a 2-quart container with a tight-fitting lid.
Add the remaining vinegar and seasonings to the vegetables and stir well. Do not cook. Cover tightly, label, and refrigerate. Allow to marinate for at least 48 hours before using. The piccalilli will keep, tightly covered under refrigeration, up to 2 months. Makes about 1 quart.
Related posts:
- Eat this! Southern-fried dill pickles, a rising trend
- The Picasso put Chicago in a pickle
- Origins of neon relish and other Chicago hot dog conundrums
- Eat this! Reezy-peezy, a taste of antebellum South Carolina


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Mice Control Services In The Attic
Attics are a favorite living space for mice and rats. Simply because It's dry, warm and a safe haven due to almost no human activity. Giving the rodents free reign to do some damage. The rodent pests love to multiply and nest in the insulation and is a restroom for the pesty pests. Which means it will be full of feces and urine. Diseases from these germ packing pests spread very quickly. Rodents will store food in insulation and will also build runways and tunnels in this favorite spot. The rodents are noisy and at night can be heard in the walls of the attic. If there are sounds of in the attic it's safe to say that this is an indication that there may be a mice infestation. The rodents love the drywall as a fun place to run up down and are excellent noisemakers. At this point if it's determined an infestation is the issue then it is time to consider seeking professional help from a Pest Control company.
Mice can and will cause Damage to the Attic
Damages in the attic can range from the rodents chewing on electrical wires, diseases being spread , soiled insulation emitting airborne germs and nasty smells. As if all of this wasn't enough,the pests can and will make a way down from the attic into the house and especially into the kitchen. Now it's a free-for-all as to what the mice can find to chew on and it could be a variety of things. The rodents are constantly searching for food and nothing is off limits. Once the mice have accessed the kitchen it is straight to the pantry, open cabinets, open garbage cans, spilled liquids, anything edible. Infestations can be in more than one location in the home. It may even spread to outdoor structures. Magnifying the problem of increased damages and costs. The best option is to call in the big guns, a Pest Control eliminator.
Rat control is the solution to some of the most destructive, dirty, and dangerous pests to have in or around your home. Since they are rodents, they must constantly chew or gnaw on hard materials to keep their teeth worn down. This can include almost any part of your home, including wood, metal or plastic pipes, siding, air conditioning duct work, wiring, even concrete! Not only is it destructive, their affinity for wiring insulation can cause a fire hazard. They can breed up to 6 times in a year, producing 5-10 babies each time. Once they take up residence in your home, they can quickly multiply, increasing the damage and danger to you and your property.
Mice control and mice removal experts are professionally trained in rat control.
Rat Control and extermination of rats involves a series of steps in many situations. The first step is rat removal, which usually means trapping all of the rats living in the structure. Rodenticides or poisons are usually not the best way for rat removal of the infestation initially because they often cause you to have dead and decomposing animals in the structure of your home, which can lead to further contamination, terrible odors, and insect problems. A thorough inspection to identify entry points on your home will often reveal a need for exclusion to prevent reentry once the initial rat removal is completed. Because rats can squeeze through very small openings, it is often impossible to fully 'rat proof' a structure. In many cases, we can implement a rat control program to prevent a re-infestation which will include rat control re-treatment if needed.
Very Important facts to remember about How A Mice Infestation occurs
Mice gain entry into a home holes found in walls, cracks in floors and foundations. Homeowners are usually not aware of the entryways until other signs of infestation start appearing. Such as because of the fact that a mouse is capable of getting through holes the size of a quarter. Which means the mice are able to get into the home through gaps in windows or ceilings. The pests have access through sewer lines, unsealed or improperly sealed drain pipes. Gaps in ceilings or doors are easy entryways to access. Other areas would be ceilings, sewer lines and unsealed drain pipes and bathroom fixture drains. The pests can enter homes through drains and watch for holes or cracks around gas lines and plumbing.
Face facts now and call a Pest Control company to Exterminate the Mice Infestation.
It's time to call AMPM Exterminators a professional pest control service that will get rid of the Mice Infestation by using bait stations, traps and direction devices. The perimeter of the home will be inspected for all cracks, openings and holes that will be sealed by a pest control professional. All doors and windows will be checked to close properly. From Attic to the rest of the home all areas of concern will be inspected and the technician will provide all services to complete the job. Contact AMPM Exterminators for a pest control professional. A wise choice of pest control as only the experienced and trained technicians will be provided to fulfill the job.
Media Contact
Company Name: Mice control services of seattle
Contact Person: Doug Bunker
Email: firstname.lastname@example.com
Phone: 2065717580
Address:3213 W Wheeler St. Suite 81
City: Seattle
State: Washington
Country: United States
Website: http://ampmexterminators.com/


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