Lots can happen in a year… pic.twitter.com/MJQw9uUnQI
— James Woods (@RealJamesWoods) October 19, 2017
Every single inhuman thing that is making political hay out of criticizing the President’s phone call needs to know what vile scum they have become.
Kelly: “It stuns me that a member of Congress would have listened in on that conversation. Absolutely stuns me. And I thought at least that was sacred. You know when I was a kid growing up a lot of things were sacred in our country. Women were sacred, looked upon with great honor. That’s obviously not the case anymore as we see from recent cases. Life, the dignity of life, was sacred. Religion, that seems to be gone as well. Gold star families, I think that left in the convention over the summer. I just thought the selfless devotion that brings a man or a woman to die on the battlefield, I just thought that might be sacred.”
Most Americans don’t know what happens when we lose one of soldiers, sailors, airmen, Marines, our Coast Guardsmen in combat. So let me tell you what happens:
Their buddies wrap them up in whatever passes as a shroud, puts them on a helicopter as a routine, and sends them home. Their first stop along the way is when they’re packed in ice, typically at the airhead. And then they’re flown to, usually, Europe where they’re then packed in ice again and flown to Dover Air Force Base, where Dover takes care of the remains, embalms them, meticulously dresses them in their uniform with the medals that they’ve earned, the emblems of their service, and then puts them on another airplane linked up with a casualty officer escort that takes them home.
A very, very good movie to watch, if you haven’t ever seen it, is “Taking Chance,” where this is done in a movie — HBO setting. Chance Phelps was killed under my command right next to me, and it’s worth seeing that if you’ve never seen it.
So that’s the process. While that’s happening, a casualty officer typically goes to the home very early in the morning and waits for the first lights to come on. And then he knocks on the door; typically a mom and dad will answer, a wife. And if there is a wife, this is happening in two different places; if the parents are divorced, three different places. And the casualty officer proceeds to break the heart of a family member and stays with that family until — well, for a long, long time, even after the internment. So that’s what happens.
Who are these young men and women? They are the best 1 percent this country produces. Most of you, as Americans, don’t know them. Many of you don’t know anyone who knows any one of them. But they are the very best this country produces, and they volunteer to protect our country when there’s nothing in our country anymore that seems to suggest that selfless service to the nation is not only appropriate, but required. But that’s all right.
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Brotherhood: I have two younger brothers. My only rule with them is “I leave first.”
You have to ask, Who is building this new world? Because you have to ask in the same way, Who wants this world? The answer is nobody. Nobody wants to live in a place where our public policy is flipped in an instant, like a pancake, because some late night comedian cries. Where science tells people to stop puzzling things out logically and stew in their emotions, if they want to succeed — so that you have to wonder now how the scientists are putting together their science. Where football has become a protest without an actual message, with the game-play as an afterthought. Nobody really wants these things. Nobody.
The Japanese: Nuked too much or not enough? Japan Has A Ninja Certification Test
The Fussy Attack of the Domesticated Conservatives – Kurt Schlichter You know what you won’t find in the major papers or on the mainstream networks, besides timely exposés of Democrat megadonors who are also megaperverts? Conservative columnists who don’t foam at the mouth over Donald Trump and who actually support conservative policies. Instead, you’ll find a bunch of journalistic Jeb!s, because the liberals hiring them know that squishes gonna squish.
Facebook had built analysis tools and offered consulting services to both candidates but apparently only Trump’s newbie team used the analytics Facebook supplied. Hillary’s team decided it did not need help, while Donald’s team took full advantage of it. “The Trump campaign’s digital director, Brad Parscale, says Facebook targeting played a major role in the president’s win last November. Parscale says the campaign accepted help from Facebook employees, which he ‘heard’ the Clinton campaign did not do.” The frontier moved | Belmont Club
8th Oldest Person In U.S. Celebrates 112th Birthday In Cabot “I never drink coffee. I drink milk.”
The Left’s Last Spasm It’s impossible to hide failures so gargantuan as to have left mountainous piles of corpses across the entire landscape of Eurasia. (Every few years the spring thaw in Siberia and the Urals uncovers mass graves, the legacy of the Gulag, sending thousands of mummified, nearly intact corpses drifting down the rivers. This is what Weinstein, Antifa and the rest would wish on us.) The same pattern is occurring at this moment in Venezuela, a wealthy nation reduced first to pauperdom and soon to open massacre.
Communism 4.0 | Hugo Chavez’s economic model which was then called “Socialism of the XXIst Century”. This idea, as introduced by the Mexican sociologist Heinz Dieterich, goes something like this: “We couldn’t get our centrally planned economic model to work last time because we didn’t have enough information, and it was too slow coming in to allow us to be able to plan. But thanks to the computing power of the microchip, we’re sure that this time we can make the algorithm work.” Advance in computation technology means we will receive a corresponding advance in planning capacity. We all know how that went; bonfires of human flesh beside a bread line.
Neoneocon has discovered neo-neocon » Blog Archive Jordan Peterson on leftists: âWell, think again, Sunshine!â “He’s a powerful mind harnessed to a tremendous emotional intensity coupled with an impressive ability to express himself clearly and forcefully.
“Peterson speaks with energy and passion, but he doesn’t often rant (well, not exactly, anyway). However, I think the following short excerpt might qualify as a very fine rant indeed. Does the guy ever even pause to take a breath?”
I couldn’t agree more. This is a fascinating mind and an important speaker of the truth. His channel is here at (3) Jordan B Peterson – YouTube. To get a longer immersion in this remarkable mind you might try starting with about the first half and hour (or more) of his (3) Biblical Series I: Introduction to the Idea of God – YouTube. He’s not a believer, but he is the best non-believer believer you are likely to come across.
More and more I remain both sad and puzzled by the adamantine hatred of all things American and, by extension, Trumpian that persists among even the soft left and the many flabby thinkers streaming along behind them. I am puzzled because they persist in their hatred even when confronted by a growing deluge of facts and a growing collision with reality. It seems to make no difference to these people how many times quick or slow socialism has been implemented and collapsed in failure and suffering and death from Bolshivk Russia up to Venezula. They remain, in some demented sense, “for it.” How can a human mind remain oblivious to history and reality?
My facebook “Timeline” has, over the year since the election, become ground zero for the NoTrumpers to flounce their way through the “Gotcha-Du-Jour.” But perhaps this is changing, or, more likely, they’ve just gone back to the hive to get some fresh orders.
Sadly, my timeline feed this AM is bereft of folks rubbing their hands together about the Trump/Russia story. It has been such a staple of my morning for so long I’m already nostalgic to see it fade way. ” Who was the FBI director when the Russia probe began in 2009? Robert Mueller. Who was running the FBI when the case ended with a whimper and an apparent cover-up? James Comey. How any of these people can participate with a straight face in an investigation into President Trump’s purportedly nefarious (but, as far as we know, nonexistent) relationship with the Russian regime is beyond me.”
As for what is beyond me, how these folks keep their spite up at Defcon 2 levels is in the top 10.
And then I remember this brilliant assessment of the totalitarian mind by Vonnegut.
“I have never seen a more sublime demonstration of the totalitarian mind,a mind which might be linked unto a system of gears where teeth have been filed off at random. Such snaggle-toothed thought machine, driven by a standard or even by a substandard libido, whirls with the jerky, noisy, gaudy pointlessness of a cuckoo clock in Hell.
The boss G-man concluded wrongly that there were no teeth on the gears in the mind of Jones. ‘You’re completely crazy,’ he said.
Jones wasn’t completely crazy. The dismaying thing about classic totalitarian mind is that any given gear, thought mutilated, will have at its circumference unbroken sequences of teeth that are immaculately maintained, that are exquisitely machined.
Hence the cuckoo clock in Hell – keeping perfect time for eight minutes and twenty-three seconds, jumping ahead fourteen minutes, keeping perfect time for six seconds, jumping ahead two seconds, keeping perfect time for two hours and one second, then jumping ahead a year.
The missing teeth, of course, are simple, obvious truths, truths available and comprehensible even to ten-year-olds, in most cases.
The wilful filling off a gear teeth, the wilful doing without certain obvious pieces of information –
That was how a household as contradictory as one composed of Jones, Father Keeley, Vice-Bundesfuehrer Krapptauer, and the Black Fuehrer could exist in relative harmony –
That was how my father-in-law could contain in one mind an indifference toward slave women and love for a a blue vase –
That was how Rudolf Hess, Commandant of Auschwitz, could alternate over the loudspeakers of Auschwitz great music and calls for corpse-carriers –
That was how Nazi Germany sense no important difference between civilization and hydrophobia –
That is the closest I can come to explaining the legions, the nations of lunatics I’ve seen in my time.”
― Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Mother Night
“I put up my hands to protect my head and I jumped from the train.”
What follows from that moment is this most extraordinary tale of loss, survival and regeneration I have heard in many a year.
“My grandmother Lea once told me a story about the woman who lived next door to her in Tel Aviv, of her capture by the Nazis in Belgium and of an unfathomable decision she had to take to save herself…. Tthis woman’s story felt different. Her pain and horror were woven with love, loss, guilt and redemption – and the epilogue was truly extraordinary. “
[Hint: Full Screen and watch it until the last frame.]
UPDATE: Fixed the video. Copies are playing hide and seek on You Tube right now.
Just another fallen angel
Trying to get through the night.
They tell me to always try to do “more,” but never do “too much.” When you are recuperating from coronary arrest and a subsequent two week time-out in the ICU these are difficult quantities to judge. My solution is to try to add more to what I did yesterday. Once around the block today means one and a half times around the block tomorrow. Tedious but true. Never a lot. Always a little more.
Step by step, one by one,
higher and higher….
And sometimes that extra step leads you to a moment of strange revelation; revelation in which you do not know what it means other than that it may mean something; that it must mean something. Maybe something labeled in invisible ink “To Be Revealed Later.” Perhaps this life is just a series of encounters of matter moving randomly in the dark. Perhaps this life is something else entirely; something designed in some subtle way to keep you moving — climbing,
Step by step, rung by rung,
I’m climbing Jacob’s ladder.
Last night I decide to push myself and attend a Richard Thompson concert in the University District. In a fit of optimism after being released from the hospital the previous week I bought two tickets. I didn’t “feel” like going, but I don’t “feel” like doing much of anything. I do it anyway. It’s not really an option.
Step by step, rung by rung,
I’m climbing Jacob’s ladder.
While waiting for Thompson to come on I find I can’t really sit in the chairs comfortably and have to walk randomly about the Neptune theater. I do this every ten minutes or so. On one of these perambulations, for no real reason, I decide to go upstairs to the balcony. Then, for no real reason, I pause for a minute or so examining the CDs, t-shirts, and posters that make up the commercial back-beat of concerts today. Then I amble along the corridor and take the handicapped ramp down towards the main floor where the main entrance is. Outside it is a rainy night.
Then, for no real reason, I pause for a moment and pick up a flyer listing future concerts at the Neptune. That takes about three seconds. I turn to go towards the door to go back to my seat.
At that precise second he comes through the door of the Neptune into the concert….
…. From sometime on the evening of the 13th of October to sometime on the night of what I think was the 22rd of October I have no memory. Ten days are expunged from my life as if they never existed. These were the days in which I was first effectively dead; then the days in which I was, thanks to a team of extraordinary ordinary heroes in the ICU, returned to life itself.
…. he comes through the door of the Neptune into the concert. At that precise second.
I take one look and know the man as well as I know my brother. This man was my “respiratory therapist.” His was the first face I saw on waking from my coma. He was sitting at the end of my bed in the ICU with his chin resting on his hand like Rodin’s Thinker. He was wearing green scrubs and I think he had some broad bands of a Maori tattoo around his biceps. He glanced at me. I think he said, “I’m deciding whether or not we can take that tube out of your lungs now.” Then I drifted back into my drugged haze.
[click to continue…]
As a wildfire closed in and thick smoke clogged the air, the sky an angry red, the sheriff’s deputy told a dispatcher that the road he was on had become “nearly impassable.” Yet, the officer’s job was not yet done. He still had residents to rescue.
In body camera footage released Friday by the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office, the deputy drives around the Mark West Road area of Santa Rosa, California, dodging flames and conducting door-to-door evacuations as the deadly and devastating Tubbs fire began to overwhelm the region in the early part of the week.
“I think it really tells the story of how dangerous and how difficult the event was,” Sonoma Sheriff Robert Giordano said at a press conference, referring to the harrowing footage, according to CBS News. “It’s absolutely human and it’s very real and very honest and transparent.”
At one point in the video, the officer ― identified by CBS as Sgt. Brandon Cutting ― is seen stopping by the house of a woman with a disability and helping a fellow deputy rescue her and her husband.
Cutting shouted “Sheriff’s Office! Sheriff’s Office!” as he rushed from home to home urging people to head for safety, and yelled for drivers to “Go! Go! Go!” He’s also heard coughing, cursing and panting in exertion. As he drives his vehicle, the body cam footage shows how close the encroaching flames got to his car; at several points, orange sparks can be seen raining down on his windshield.
“While it’s only one deputy’s video, it is representative of all the deputies who helped evacuate people that night,” the sheriff’s office said on Facebook of the footage. “While we don’t usually provide bodyworn camera footage, the Sheriff believes this footage is crucial in helping our community understand how dangerous these fires are right now.”
The TV cameras come out, and you’re Cotton Mather, praising the Salem Witch Trials… while at night, you are the witch. Who is the real you? These people are so very confused. Declination
The revelation that Weinstein is a pig is no surprise. Just look at his donations to Democrats, to liberals, to feminists up-and-down the left. It is like listening to Bill Clinton preaching about treating women respectfully or Hillary Clinton, after getting a child rapist off the hook and giggling about it, rebounding to preach about how she deserves to run the country because she is a woman. The Courage of Cowards
SELF AFFIRMATIVE ACTION: Born a slave, James Beckwourth became not only a mountain man but a chief of the Crow Nation
California, Adios! Good. Can’t disagree with a word. So go. Leave. Do it. Get the hell out. Take your tanning salons and Apple Stores and your plastic-surgery casualties and your naked pregnant underwater yoga classes and build your new feudalistic utopia consisting of a thin crust of tech elites who nobly protect their huddled masses of about 900 million Mexican gardeners.
The Kennedy murder again – The Government still supports the lone gunman Oswald theory. Would it release information that contradicts this?
‘Cold creepiness rarely seen’: Hillary seethes when asked about Wikileaks “There’s something wrong with Hillary Clinton. It is not just her constant lying. It is not just that she throws off menacing glares … and seethes thwarted entitlement. Watch closely. Something much darker rides along with it. A cold creepiness rarely seen.”
“This is the best commentary I’ve seen on the gun debate ever. “ And Michael Owen needs to start his own (real) blog:
“No amount of statistics or facts will sway either side in the gun control debate, because they are all looking for simple solutions to complex problems. The facts of those complex problems are uncomfortable and nobody really wants to come to grips with them.
“For example, we don’t really have a single America with a moderately high rate of gun deaths. Instead, we have two Americas, one of which has very high rates of gun ownership but very low murder rates, very comparable to the rest of the First World democracies such as those in western & northern Europe, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Japan, South Korea. The other America has much lower rates of gun ownership but much, much higher murder rates, akin to violent third world countries.
“The tough questions are those like, why do we have these two Americas? But that’s an uncomfortable discussion to have.
“Those on the left favor simple minded restrictions that target first world America, with its high gun ownership but very low murder rate, but don’t address the root causes of third world America’s violence at all.
“Those on the right correctly feel their civil rights are constantly threatened, so they are constantly in a state of “better stock up before they finally ban it” and the guns and ammo fly off the shelves. The left’s constant gun control rhetoric is the greatest thing ever for arms manufacturers.
“Meanwhile, over the past 40 years, while the number of guns in private hands has doubled, the murder rate has dropped by half.
“The left are constantly prattling about “assault weapons” which are almost never used to commit murders (about 1% of gun murders; all rifles combined are around 3%). More murders are committed with baseball bats than “assault rifles”; the vast majority of gun homicides are committed with handguns, but it’s easier to sell restrictions that target “assault weapons”, even though such restrictions, even if 100% effective, would make no detectable change in the murder rate (especially because of substitution effects). They favor ridiculous measures such as bans on “high capacity magazines”, as if magazines weren’t cheap and easily swapped out in a fraction of a second.
“The uncomfortable fact is that roughly 80% of the US homicide rate is associated with the drug trade, and the drug trade is violent because the drug war reserves it for violent criminals.
“We have a system in place where the government subsidizes poverty in urban areas, imposes economic blight in those same areas through heavy taxes and regulations, renders the residents permanently unemployable via the “criminal justice” (sic) system, and creates a lucrative black market in drugs by restricting supply (not to mention increasing demand as people are desperate to escape their circumstances by getting high), meaning the only game in town is often entering the drug trade. The drug trade is violent because those in it have no access to courts to settle disputes. Powerful industries lobby to keep the drug war going; the top spenders are law enforcement unions, the prison industry, big alcohol, tobacco, and pharma.
“Guns are not the proximate cause of gun violence in the US. Childlike magical thinking and simple “fixes” to complex problems will not work. But it is comfortable, and self-righteousness feels so good. So I expect it to continue indefinitely.”
11 Give us this day our daily bread. Matthew 6
In 2008/2009, U.S. farmers grew nearly 2.4 billion bushels of wheat on 63 million acres of land. In the United States, one acre of wheat yields an average of around 40 bushels of wheat. About half of the wheat grown in the United States is used domestically. In 2008, the state of Kansas was the largest wheat producer in the United States with North Dakota a close second. Kansas is number one in flour milling in the United States. Kansas produces enough wheat each year to bake 36 billion loaves of bread and enough to feed everyone in the world, over six billion people, for about 2 weeks. An acre of Kansas wheat produces enough bread to feed nearly 9,000 people for one day.
The Wheat Field
From each one in the hard soil a myriad are spun.
Sheaves of gold on bronze in files beneath the sun.
Is it towards the whiteness of the wafer
The field bends on autumn winds;
Towards the body which is breath not flesh
That the body which is only flesh
Scuffs its hands upon the soil,
And fears at night tomorrow’s toil,
And sees in dreams the shade of musk
The trumpets rising in the dusk?
Or is the seed of wheat enough,
Its own bronze parable of blood,
Enorbing in its nucleus
The architecture of the Ark,
God’s constant covenant of bread?
On the Thirtieth Meridian, at the pivot of the Earth,
A fan spreads out in silted twists
Pinned by five gold inches to the river’s wrist,
And clasped by five white fingers of that marble hand.
Between the river’s rise and fall
Its pulse is felt throughout the land,
Its rhythms mimicked by the priests,
Its regulations drawn on dirt
In circles, trisects, lines and cubes
Of numbers and of wheat,
Of incantations scratched on stone
That from their power we may eat
The bread, for we have tasted of the fruit,
And found it, if not sweet, of use
In surveying tombs and gardens that will suit.
The wilderness yields only flesh
Of fruit, or fowl, or hunted beast.
It cannot give us wheat and bread,
And it is bread that we would eat.
Though our bodies be of infirm flesh,
Our thoughts enslaved to blood and heat;
Though we scan the skies with eyes of beasts,
Still we would walk in fields of wheat,
And from such sheaves deduce the laws
Of war and wealth and God, and pause
To build our towns and temples, paved streets,
And gird the very globe with grids,
And make our maps and take our measures,
And populate the final stars with our myriad
Grown from one, in the harsh soil, our single treasure.
12 Yea, the Lord shall give that which is good; and our land shall yield her increase. Psalm 85
“We held hands,” John said, “and walked out.” They survived six hours in a pool as a wildfire burned their neighborhood to the ground
Gramsci marched right through the institutions and clear off the cliff on the other side with the buildings tumbling after him. After the smash | Belmont Club
“They tear down Confederate monuments and tell me losers don’t deserve trophies, then they want to call it Indigenous People’s Day” — Chateau Heartiste
What do you think such a messy civil war in America would look like? Bubba would be wearing a Ghillie suit, shooting a bolt action rifle, or a modern sporting rifle, and after the shot you will never hear from him again â until the next one. And you’ll never catch him. Police will have to decide what side to take, and if they take the wrong one, they will be dealt with in the middle of the night when they take their dogs out to pee in the backyard. The Captain’s Journal
Society will develop a new kind of servitude which covers the surface of society with a network of complicated rules, through which the most original minds and the most energetic characters cannot penetrate. It does not tyrannise but it compresses, enervates, extinguishes, and stupefies a people, till each nation is reduced to nothing better than a flock of timid and industrious animals, of which the government is the shepherd. — Alexis de Tocqueville
Have the gates of death been opened unto thee? or hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of death? — Job 38 17
When people find out I dropped dead on October 13 of 2011, they often ask me if I saw “the white light.” They are disappointed when I tell them I did not. They’ve come to believe in the light, believe in it in a very literal way. They’ve heard the light is seen and they’d like continuing confirmations of this sighting. My report always, as I said, disappoints. It would seem for some, even though I was dead, I was not dead enough. Still, I was dead and I am sorry to disappoint in not being able to report anything other than a timeless blank between two moments; a dark with no dimension or duration between a light and a light. In fact, there was not even the dark.
The light of life left me in one swift instant much as the light goes out when you flip the switch to “off.” The light of life returned to me in the very next instant as if someone slowly turned up a dimmer switch in a small room.
One moment I was standing on my front porch looking at children running about in the playground across the street. The very next moment I was looking up from my bed at the sound-muffled ceiling of the ICU in Harbor View Hospital in Seattle. A voice like footsteps coming closer down a long hallway was repeating and repeating, “You are in Harbor View Hospital. You’ve had a heart attack. It’s daytime….”
Thus, after being held in a coma for 11 days, I was returned to life.
Thus, tick became tock.
Between those two moments I have no information to report since, to my mind and memory, there are no moments between those two. Not one. They are found side by side in my mind; an enjambment bracketing a caesura. The 11 days between them have no duration at all. In a sense the only clue they provide in their utter nonexistence would be one to the true dimensions of eternity.
Some people seem to think that, with no light to report, my cut-rate resurrection is something rather modest, a common outcome of our enlightened, medically advanced age. Something available to all. They express thanks that the 911 medical crew got to me as fast as it did and knew how to, in effect, jump start my heart. To those I cannot satisfy with a comic book resurrection mine seems only a mundane report on a modern medical technique. They don’t find it miraculous. But that is only because they are deaf, dumb, and blind to the miraculous.
I am not. It was my personal miracle. And a miracle it was. Returned to life by the unfathomable grace of God.
The roots of my miracle go back many years and begin, as so many things do these days, online in a long correspondence that became, in time, a deep and abiding friendship and love. Part of that love entailed that, although we lived in separate towns on separate coasts, we spent some parts of each year visiting. In this particular autumn she was visiting me. She had been due to leave several days earlier but decided — for obscure reasons — to extend her stay another week. And on this particular October 13th she had — for obscure reasons — postponed her regular daily walk and, upon return, postponed her regular post-walk shower. This meant that during the time she would normally be either out of the house or under running water she just happened standing nearby when my heart stopped dead. The result was that she started the 911 response within seconds after I stopped breathing. Because of this the three units dispatched to save me came within minutes, returned me to life, and transported me to the hospital where I spent the next 11 days suspended between a light and a light.
Some seem to feel that miracles only happen in the center of a bright light with a large boom and a loud voice out of a whirlwind; Imax miracles in Surroundsound. Perhaps they do. I’ve no experience with them. My experience has only been with the miracle of a long chain of small events, happenings, and abiding love that have given to me these six years of being alive in the midst of the miracle of creation; creation as it is, both miraculous or mundane.
My formal birthday is the day after Christmas. I’ve never liked the 26th of December. It’s hard to try to have your birthday party on the day after the biggest birthday party of the year.
Today though, it strikes me that I have a new birthday — a ‘rebirthday’ if you will. And that’s what I am going to celebrate for as many years as are left to me, my Rebirthday.
After a long, long string of dry sunny days this day, Friday the 13th of October in the year of our Lord 2017, is dry and sunny. The smoke from the fire that burned up to the borders of my town of Paradise lingers in the air. In previous years I would have grumbled at the smoke. Today I am going out in my back yard and breathe deep the smoke of this world without complaint, and let the light rain down upon me. Because today I know I am both blessed and, as we all are on every day in this mysterious life within the light, reborn as I am every day, reborn within the miracle. As are we all.
“A dear family I know has been fighting for as long as I can remember to adopt 3 of their foster children that attend our school. It’s been hard to watch them fight this emotional battle. My love has grown for this family and I have learned so much from them as they have tried to remain positive despite many set backs. Today my phone rang at my desk and it was my friend Jen telling me things FINALLY had come to an end and the courts were going to let them ADOPT the children!! She asked me if I would be sure to tell her sweet girl when she came to my desk for her daily visit. She knew she would want to know right away because she had been so worried. I don’t think even I could understand myself what that moment would feel like. Our security cameras caught the moment perfectly. I cry as I type this. In 12 years at this job, this is by far my best moment ever!! To tell a little girl that she gets her family forever takes the cake. I can’t even describe that hug…and thank heavens her mom doesn’t mind that I kissed her a million times, and a million more after the film cuts off. A moment needed after waking up to another morning of devastating news on t.v….but a sweet reminder today that life can be and still is beautiful in spite of it all.” ♥️#americanheritageofsouthjordan
“God gave Noah the rainbow sign,
No more water but fire next time.”
After a windstorm and the close passing of a firestorm, Paradise and the Skyway that connects it to the lowlands is now open for business. Connectivity on all levels has been restored. Seeing a bit of a fire like this up close only makes me pray harder for the wellbeing, survival, and rejuvenation of those who have lost everything in this plague of fires afflicting the far west.
[Fires in California make me think of earthquakes and landslides in California. Others think “disaster preparedness.” And talk about the kits we all should have — the “go bags.” I thought about disaster kits in 2003. Here’s how I put it together then. There are some things that should not be “left behind.”]
something went BUMP!
How that bump made us jump!
— The Cat in the Hat
ABOUT QUARTER TO NINE this serene Sunday morning, as I was sitting down and wondering what to write about, the house bumped me. One BUMP with the sound of “Thump!” as if a giant’s fist had given the floor a little love tap. And then… nothing. No rattle of plates and shuddering of books in the shelves. No rising hiss of gas lines pulled open. None of the sounds of panicked birds. Just one BUMP with a thump and then everything goes back to “Condition California Normal.”
Everything except me.
When you’ve recently had a number of homes 400 yards from you just wake up one morning and decided to take a slide down their hill, you tend to become just a wee bit oversensitive to your environment. That solid BUMP had me out of my chair and moving toward the front door with dedication. Once second, I’m sitting. Next second, I’m standing in the middle of the intersection looking up and down the streets. I’m
paying special attention as to whether or not I can see any tall trees swaying on this windless morning. Nope. Nothing. But the birds agreed with me since they had, for once, shut up.
I also found myself standing in the intersection in my pajamas with bare feet. A neighbor dressed in a robe and boxer shorts came out on his third-floor balcony, wallet and keys in his hand.
“You feel that?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. I see you did too.”
“Maybe,” I said, “we should get dressed.”
A new Lexus came up the steep hill behind me heading for the road down from the summit. It stopped for a moment. An old couple was inside. He was driving. She looked resigned and was holding a irritated looking cat.
“You feel that?” he asked.
“Am I standing in the middle of the street in my PJs?”
“We’re going downtown and then out to the valley for the day. Can’t be too careful.”
“Well, that’s true enough. Just don’t linger on the canyon road. You got rock slide zones on both sides.”
“We’re not going through the canyon. We’re going up to Newport along the coast.”
“Well, get through those parts that run along the cliffs quickly.”
“You got that right. Anyway, I’ve got water, food, and shovels in the trunk. You can’t be too careful. These days you can’t be too careful.”
His wife was beginning to roll her eyes and their cat continued to squirm.
“Or too prepared,” I said with a slight edge of sarcasm in my voice.
“No, you can’t,” he said, and gunned the shiny tan Lexus up the hill and out of sight. They were pretty old and frail. I hoped that, if anything happened, they’d be able to get out of their car and to the shovels and water in the trunk.