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Sunday, 31 March 2013

A New Insanity

My thanks to Spikey Bits, if thanks is quite the best word, for opening my eyes to a new Warhammer perversion to which I was hitherto ignorant: the Warhammer Cosplayer.

Friday, 29 March 2013

Mantic Undead Knights

I a really sold on these Mantic undead models. Finally found where I had hidden my Army Painter wash/varnish for safe keeping and finished these beauties.

The yellow glowing ball appeared briefly in the sky over Kent so I took some photos.

Wednesday, 27 March 2013

Sgt Percie Lambshead MM

A complimentary copy of Bolt Action: Armies of Great Britain arrived this morning. And why, I hear you ask, should you get a complimentary copy?

Well, it goes back to a very agreeable dinner I had with Rick Priestley and John Stallard in Nottingham. We were chatting about WWII and I explained how my father was awarded the MM at Anzio. They asked me to write a short piece for this book, which I duly did. Yo will find it on page 84.

My father's battalion was decimated twice at Anzio. He was in the Cornish Company of the Shropshires because the DCLI, his parent regiment, had been decimated in Tunisia.

It makes one reflect on he courage and duty of my father's generation and all they endured. Could we do that again? Probably, but would we do that again. Now that's a very different proposition. They fought for King and Country. What we would be asked to fight for? Bankers bonuses and the protection of corporate management's offshore tax-free accounts?

As I write this, our loathsome politicians, those not yet in prison, are privatising Search & Rescue. I come from North Cornwall and I have seen the raw courage, skill and duty of the forces helicopter crews who battle out in all weathers to save live.

But in future if you get into trouble you will have to ring the Asian call centre of a foreign company who may get around to doing something about it provided the weather's not too bad and it doesn't affect the bottom line at all. Just have your credit card handy.

I  know, I'm old and cynical but our leaders are responsible for the latter, if not the former.

Monday, 25 March 2013

Greater Love Hath No Woman

From Warlord Games.

Wolf In Shadow Snippet 4: Chapter 3(i) Frankie

Photo Source

The various editions of the A to Z are the Londoner’s bible. The pages
contain a comprehensive index and grid map to every street in the vast
sprawling city. Rhian used it to find a subway under the dual
carriageway and followed its guidance in the maze of streets north of
the tube station. Vernon Road was a cul-de-sac, which ran off a side
road that came off another side road in a sort of spiral. She followed
the roads around, taking the route that a car would have to follow. She
suspected that there would be a shorter footpath somewhere, but the
A to Z did not always see fit to show those.
Vernon Road consisted of rows of four-story terraced houses that
were at least a century old, Edwardian or maybe Victorian. They had
been originally built for the wealthy middle classes. The front door
was up a flight of steps, under which were what had been servants’
quarters. Of course, over the years the properties had all been
converted into small flats and blocks of bedsits. The wealthy middle
classes had long since fled the city and moved out to the rural bliss of
the Home Counties around Greater London.
She scanned the newspaper to remind herself of the exact address
and checked off the numbers on the houses as she walked down the
road. Number three was right at the end; there did not seem to be a
number one. The house was behind a handkerchief-sized, but neatly
cared for, front garden. Three-A was the basement flat. It had its own

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front door at the bottom of a small flight of steps to the side of the
Rhian knocked on an ornate and truly hideous brass knocker
shaped like a lion’s face. After a brief pause the door swung open,
decisively propelled by a tall woman in a long skirt and blouse in
autumn colors. They were cut in an “East European peasant style” that
had been fashionable a couple of years ago. She peered at Rhian
through large strong glasses that completely distorted her eyes. She
looked old to Rhian, almost as old as Gary.
“You must be the girl about the room?” the woman asked in a
middle-class southern English accent.
“Yes,” Rhian replied.
The woman cocked her head on one side, causing light brown
frizzy hair to drift across her face.
“I thought you were Welsh when I spoke to you on the phone,” she
said, looking at Rhian’s dark hair.
Rhian sighed. She had worked hard at losing her Welsh lilt in
exchange for a typical London accent, but everyone still identified her
as from the valleys after only a few words.
“That’s an interesting door knocker,” Rhian said, for want of
anything more intelligent to say.
She felt a strange aversion to the knocker that surprised her. Why
an inanimate object should bother her so was a mystery. Its blank
bronze eyes stared at her as if alive. She almost had a compulsion to
make her excuses and walk away.
“It’s a copy of the 1154 A.D. Norman sanctuary knocker from the
north door of Durham Cathedral,” the woman said, with the pedantic
precision of a scholar.
“I see,” said Rhian, who did not see at all. It was beyond her why
anyone should go to the trouble of fitting such a monstrosity.
“If you rapped on this knocker to request entry and confessed your
crimes, then you were absolved of sin and allowed to go free. Have you
any crimes that you wish to confess?”
“I don’t think so,” Rhian replied, smiling politely.
“Come in anyway,” said the woman.
Rhian’s air of unease evaporated as if an invisible barrier had been
removed, and the woman ushered her into a long corridor with high
ceilings. The knocker was just an inanimate lump of metal moulded

18 John Lambshead
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into an unattractive shape. All the rest was her over active imagination.
Like most London properties, the house was much deeper than
wide, the layout allowing builders to cram in as many properties as
possible along the street.
“My name’s Francisca Appleyard. Everyone but my mother calls
me Frankie.” She held out her hand.
“I’m Rhian Jones.”
Rhian took the woman’s hand, consciously making herself squeeze.
A supervisor had once cruelly told her that she had a handshake like
a dead haddock. It was part of his petty revenge for being turned
“Drop your bags here and I’ll show you around,” Frankie said. She
pushed open the first door on the left. “This is the lounge.”
The room was comfortably furnished with a sofa and a red leather
swivel chair. The furniture looked expensive but was showing signs of
wear. Light came in through a large window, which opened onto the
basement well at the front of the house. Looking up, Rhian could see
the small garden and the street. Net curtains prevented people on the
pavement from looking in, so the window was like a two-way mirror.
A bulky TV set stood in a corner away from the window. It had been
an expensive state-of-the-art device when new but was now obsolete.
Rhian had the impression of declining fortunes, or maybe Frankie had
bought second hand. Bookcases and cupboards lined the walls right up
to the ceiling.
“You would have free access to this room,” Frankie said. “I am the
only other person in the house. This is my bedroom here.”
She pushed open a door to a room at the rear of the house that was
larger than the sitting room. A double bed took pride of place in the
center. This room was lined with shelves carrying books and strange
objets d’art. Rhian was struck by an ornate mask carved from polished
dark wood.
“Nor’ombo chieftain’s death mask,” said Frankie, following Rhian’s
gaze. She clicked her tongue in the middle of the name. Rhian wasn’t
sure whether the woman was making a joke. Rhian put a polite half
smile on her face, as she didn’t want to appear stupid.
Frankie drew back long ceiling-to-floor drapes at the back of the
bedroom to reveal French windows.
“The garden out there is mine as well, and you are welcome to use

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it. I am afraid that the only way in is through my bedroom, but that
shouldn’t be a problem during the day. I like to sit out and read in good
weather, but I advise you not to sunbathe au naturelle. The old boy
upstairs has a pair of binoculars and is a bit of a perv. The bathroom
is over there,” Frankie said pointing to a door on the right. “There is
another door into it from the hall.”
She took Rhian back out into the hall to demonstrate.
“The kitchen is in here,” she opened the door on a modern
kitchenette with wall-mounted storage, “and this is the guest room.”
The spare bedroom door wouldn’t open fully because of the bed in
the way. Frankie had to slide round it, moving further in so that Rhian
could follow.
“It’s a bit small,” Frankie said, defensively, “but it’s warm and cozy,
and you’ve the run of the rest of the flat.”
The room was indeed small; the wardrobe doors couldn’t be fully
opened either because of the bed, but it was warm and freshly
decorated in bright, friendly colors. A window at the end let in natural
light and gave a pleasant view of the garden.
Something strange happened to Rhian in the little room. She saw
the world in color again for the first time in ages as if someone had
switched on a floodlight. No, that was not quite right because she had
recognized colors, distinguishing red from green, but emotionally they
had all been shades of grey. Her world had been shades of grey since
James—she bit down on the emotion—since the terrible night she lost
James. Something about the little room lifted her soul.
“The room is lovely,” said Rhian, genuinely pleased.
“Good! Let’s have a cup of tea and discuss terms,” Frankie said.
Rhian sat on a stool in the kitchen and watched Frankie go through
the English tea ceremony. She used a large china teapot shaped like a
country cottage.
“The rent is three hundred and eighty pounds a calendar month,
about ninety quid a week. Is that okay? It does include everything.”
Frankie said, anxiously, watching Rhian carefully.
Rhian considered. It would be tight, but the bar work would tide
her through until she could find a better job. She smiled at Frankie,
“That will be fine.”
“I’d like one month’s rent in advance as a deposit,” Frankie said.
“Oh!” said Rhian.

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She took out the envelope and counted the money twice. However
she rearranged the notes, she could not make the deposit.
“How much have you got?” said Frankie, sipping her tea.
“Two hundred and ten pounds.”
Frankie sighed. “And you will need something to live on until
payday. Give me ninety quid and we’ll call it quits.”
Rhian handed over a ten and four twenties, and helped herself to
milk. “Have you had many other tenants?” she asked, politely.
“One or two,” said Frankie, evasively. “Sugar? No? Is that how you
keep so slim, dear?”
Frankie shoveled two spoonfuls into her own mug. “I’ve been a bit
unlucky with lodgers,” Frankie admitted. “They tend to move on
“Have you lived here long?” Rhian asked, to fill a gap in the
“My partner and I lived here for some years,” Frankie said.
“Ah,” Rhian said, neutrally.
“Don’t worry, dear. It’s all ancient history now. He announced that
he needed to find himself, so he went on a solo bus tour across North
“Did he find himself?” asked Rhian.
“I don’t know because I haven’t seen him since. According to a
postcard from Nevada, he did find a nineteen-year-old blonde lap
dancer called Suze ‘with an e.’ She thought that his English accent was
Frankie said the last few words through gritted teeth. She looked
at Rhian and blushed.
“Well, maybe it is not quite yet ancient history.” She grinned at
Rhian. “Unfortunately I had resigned from my job at about the same
time to go freelance, so this household went from two reliable salaries to
one slightly dodgy income. So now, Miss Jones, I have need of a tenant.”
Frankie grimaced. “Sorry, what am I doing pouring out my woes
to a stranger? Do you have any personal disasters that you might want
to relate in retaliation?”
Rhian had a flashback. The doctors had warned her about them.
She wasn’t in Frankie’s kitchen any more but on a building site. James
lay still on the ground, head turned showing a terrible gash. His blood
was black in the moonlight.

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She snapped out of it. Frankie gazed at her waiting for an answer.
“No,” Rhian replied quickly. She took another sip from her
mug. “Would your employer not have taken you back, under the
“Probably, but I had already started up and I thought that I would
like to give running my own business a fair try. I was not entirely happy
with my late employer.”
Rhian waited, but Frankie did not elaborate.
“What do you freelance in?” asked Rhian, to keep the conversation
“I’m a consultant,” Frankie said.


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My Point of View By: John Tredy

Since April 4th, I have been watching Yankee Games on TV and in particular watching the Yankees shortstop DiDi Gregorius play shortstop.  Well, needless to say, the young shortstop’s first couple of weeks was less than memorable.  With all the defensive and base running lapses he made in a few short weeks and the fans chanting Derek Jeter’s name, I felt really bad for this young kid. DiDi 2

To add fuel to the fire, the kid the Yankees gave up (Shane Greene) has 3 wins and no losses with the Detroit Tigers and has an ERA  less than one.  So far it looks like a bad trade for Brian Cashman, but it’s only 3 weeks into the season and we have a long way to go before we pass final judgement.  What Yankee fans should be upset about is the fact that the Yankee lineup looks old and it looks like another year of not making the playoffs.  When Alex Rodriguez (40 years old this year) is probably going to be their best hitter, this team is in big trouble.  I know this team needs to get young, but the new owners are more financially conservative and it will take a heck of a lot more time to do this under this regime then when George Steinbrenner was alive and in control.  George’s goal was to win championships every year and he didn’t care how much money was spent doing this.  Now that George is gone, I think fans really appreciate what he meant to the team and to Yankee fans.  In spite of all the media buzz about how bad George Steinbrenner was and all the negative press when he was alive, the truth is he was a great owner and good for baseball.  The Yankees have not had a championship since 2009 and have missed the playoffs (this year will be 3 years in a row) again and again.  They beat the Tigers 3 out of 4 , but this team is not a playoff team. George can’t be happy about what he is witnessing and how the team is being managed.  I just wish Hal Steinbrenner had some of the fire his dad had.

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Chapter 7: Trust, Authority & Search Rankings

If search engines can decide to trust links or social accounts, can they learn to trust web sites? Sure, and many SEOs believe that site trust plays a big role in whether a site will succeed or fail with search engine rankings.

Ta: Are You A Trusted Authority?

Is your site an authority? Is it widely recognized as outstanding in its field, area, business or in some other way? That’s what you’re aiming for. No one knows exactly how search engines calculate authority and, in fact, there are probably multiple “authority” signals that are tracked. The type of links your site receives (lots of quality?) or social references (from respected accounts?) and engagement metrics may all factor in. Negative review might also hurt, as covered below:

  • Google: Now Likely Using Online Merchant Reviews As Ranking Signal

But there’s little doubt that search engines do try to assess an overall authority figure. Just look through the questions that Google told publishers to ask themselves in May 2011, if they were hit by the “Panda” update. Trust, authority, expertise all come up:

  • Impacted By Google’s Panda Update? Google Asks You To Consider This…

Th: How’s Your Site’s History

Since search engines are constantly visiting your web site, they can get a sense of what’s “normal” or how you’ve behaved over time. Are you suddenly linking out to what the search engines euphemistically call “bad neighborhoods?” Are you publishing content about a topic you haven’t typically covered? Such things might raise alarm bells. Then again, sites do change just like people do, and often for the better. Changes aren’t taken in isolation; other factors are also assessed to determine if something worrisome has happened. In the end, a good overall track record may help you. An older, established site may find it can keep cruising along with search success, while a new site may have to “pay its dues,” so to speak, for weeks, months or even longer to gain its own respect.

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Thursday, 21 July 2011

From Ripples to Waves

My latest design in my bird bath range was inspired by the glass nuggets that I've used. They are clear glass, but with a slightly silver effect, and a rainbow sheen, in certain light angles. They reminded me of bubbles. So, as ripples wouldn't create bubbles, I've moved onto waves.

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Sunday, December 28, 2008

Castle St. to Rat Island

I launched from the foot of Castle St. at the Public Water Access (just beneath the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge) and rode the incoming tide ~6 miles to Rat Island with the Geezer and his friend Pete this morning. The temperature was perfect, about 70 F, which burned off the light fog we launched in pretty quickly. There was almost no wind for the first half and conditions were super glassy. We checked a few side creeks that ran into cordgrass marsh and cypress stands that have been killed due to the increasing salinity in the river in the last few decades (due to dredging and blasting the channel for shipping). During our lunch stop just north of Rat Island the wind picked up substantially (sustained 15 mph w/ gusts to 20+) out of the SW, which made for a stiff headwind the entire paddle back. When we got back to town we did a little loop around the battleship, which was neat, and then crossed the river, which was a little hairy due to the opposing wind/tide and boat traffic. There were a lot of turkey vultures, a couple of red-tailed hawks, gulls and terns, pelicans, kingfishers, and an egret/heron or two. When the osprey get back there are several excellent places to sit and watch them in the nest at the top of dead cypress on the edge of the river. Sitting under the battleship gives you a great feeling for the sheer size of those ships. My favorite perspective was sitting under the bow. It's amazing how much stuff is rotting on the edge of the river: boats, old factories, piers, etc.

Wilmington from Castle St. launch

Bow to bow w/ the USS North Carolina

Sunday, December 14, 2008

South River

Aimee and I ran section 9 of the South River with friends today. We couldn't have asked for nicer weather in mid-December, with highs in the lower 60's. There was a little wind, but you'd never know it on the water because of the protection afforded by the forest and banks. This is the same section that we did for the BFE 1 last February, though the water level was roughly double this time, which sped things up and reduced our time on the water to roughly 4 hours including a 30 minute lunch stop. Soup in a thermos, btw, makes an excellent lunch on cool winter paddles. The put-in (on NC Hwy. 41 near 210) was much better than it was in Feb. (due to the higher river level) and the take out (Ennis Bridge Rd Wildlife Ramp) was excellent; shuttle minor. There were a couple of little strainers, but we never had to portage. We saw a young deer swim across after we flushed him out of a canebrake and I saw my first white-breasted nuthatch. There were occasional turkey vultures perched in trees, waiting for a kayaker to go keel up I guess, and red-bellied woodpeckers darting around, but little visible wildlife otherwise. I'm sure we scared plenty off, but that's to be expected with a group of ten. I'd like to do some of these blackwater (it's actually rusty red from the tannin in the leaves, but super-clear) trip with a smaller group for better nature watching. I'd kill to see a bear out there sometime. Still, it was nice to paddle with familiar folks as well as meet a few new people. Thanks to the Geezer for setting this up. The man is an encyclopedia of local knowledge and an adept at picking proper trips for given tide/conditions.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Rainy day (today, not the day pictured). Check out our boats. My Tracer, Aimee's Whistler, parked on the beach at Zeke's Island for lunch in mid-November.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Further Ruminations on Ocean v. Flatwater

I had big plans to paddle today with pals around Eagle's Island in a big loop that starts and ends at the foot of Castle St. in downtown Wilmington. Sadly, however, I'm laid up with sore throat, cough, congestion, and lethargy. So I had to bail on a paddle that I'd been looking forward to, but that's the way it goes. Better to rest up and get healthy than push it and end up in a bad situation.

So, I've been thinking more on being on the open water in a kayak. It's a little funny that I don't feel more comfortable with it, given the amount of time I've spent wave sliding and playing on the edge of our continent. Both times I've been out, I've been struck with a feeling that is something akin to helplessness. The knowledge of one's own skills and the ability to perform self rescues and otherwise deal with dicey situations is important, especially when paddling alone. This is true in the calmest waters, but still so much more so when we venture into the ocean. There is a proverb in Hawaii: Never turn your back on the ocean. I'm not scared of it, but I have a healthy respect for its power. That's part of the allure, I think. She (the ocean) is vast and full of life, and she can be beautiful and placid one moment, and your worst nightmare the next. She's moody and fitful, and willing to humble just as soon as you feel the slightest bit over-confident. A couple of years ago I was surfing a favorite spot in Carolina Beach with a friend. It was mid-July and we were trading thick, glassy, head-high waves at the end of the day with just two other people out. It was idyllic. We watched a big cloud march steadily towards us from the north. It looked like a giant grey burrito in the sky, and it curved in a gentle arc from land to sea. When it finally got to us, I watched a line in the water. On the south side of the line there was no wind; it was calm and peaceful. On the other side, there was a 35 mph gale. It was like walking out of your house into a storm; there was a visible and obvious demarcation that separated the two weather types. With the wind came rain and the sky turned grey and ominous. It took all my strength to paddle in and then fight my board 100 yards up wind to the parking lot. I remember thinking that we'd better get into the cars or we would be struck by lighting. I was running, I thought, literally for my life, because I just knew it would start any second. I'm glad I had that experience, because I can look to that as an example of how quickly things can change, and how I need to stay on my toes out there. Or, to use a nautical phrase, we all need to keep a weather-eye open.

In closing, I offer a little unrelated workplace anecdote. I work in a bicycle shop. Yesterday I approached a middle-aged man and, as I customarily do, asked if he was finding everything OK, and if he had any questions. He assured me that he was fine, and that everything was "explanatory." "Self-explanatory?" I quiped, to which he could merely nod. It's going down in my favorite moments in customer service history.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Into the Wild

I paddled with three friends into the ocean on Thursday. It was my second trip out. It's funny how different it is from paddling in the marsh or on local creeks and rivers. I never feel out of my safety parameters on the other side of the barrier islands, but once you round the end of the jetty holding the inlet open, it's just another world out there. It makes me feel small and helpless, which is both scary and exciting, which is why I wanted to go out there in the first place. I've been keeping my eyes peeled for light wind days with little to no swell. The first time I went out (some 3 months ago) there wasn't much wind, but there was about a 3' swell registering at Frying Pan Shoals and the chop at the mouth of the inlet was pretty substantial. There's so much water moving in several different directions that even with the light wind and relatively small seas, the chop was big enough that my friend and I couldn't see each other at times if there was a wave between us. This most recent day looked promising, with a meager 1' @ 8 second S, and little wind predicted. So I gathered the troops and we met up for the paddle on the backside of WB. As soon as we hit the water it was evident that there was a lot more wind than I expected. We headed up to the inlet and hid behind the southern jetty wall on the paddle out. As soon as we rounded the end (roughly a half mile out) the wind was a major issue. The chop wasn't so large as last time, but there was a consistent 15-20 mph with gusts higher. had the max gust at 27. We headed south into the wind and saw northern gannets and pelicans diving for fish out ahead of us. I'm by far the least experienced paddler in my group, so I was grateful for the companionship and comfortable that we could handle whatever, but I felt on the edge of my skill level also. After about 30 mins of heading into the wind and chop we spun around and made our way back into the safety of the inlet. Following seas feel so much different than taking them in the bow, but I got used to it and even started to play a little and ride the swells. Afterwards we did a run through Hidden Creek to extend the paddle a little. It's amazing how diffent conditions can be with so little geographic seperation between two points. The ocean was a choppy windy mess; the marsh was perfectly glassy and clear. That's what I love about water, it changes all the time. More to come.


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Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Wanting to forget Wanting to remember

It's hard to feel so torn all the time. I so badly don't want to remember anything about this experience it hurts and I wish I could wipe it all from my memory. But I never want to forget Joshua. The way he felt kicking away. The way I felt seeing him on the ultrasound. The way he looked with his blond eye brows and small but there eye lashes. I never want to forget the way his chin dimpled. I want to remember everything about him forever but I wish it didn't hurt so much an that makes me want to forget.

Joshua had perfect formed features. You could already tell what he would have looked like as a newborn. I saw a little of each of the other kids in him. So when I see Landon pout I see Joshua's chin when I see Madalyn smile I see Joshua's lips. When I see Aden sleep I see Joshua shaped eyes. When I see Collin with wet hair and can see his forehead I see Joshua's as well. When I see Haleigh with her white hair I see Joshua's white eye brows too. They are great reminders if him even though we have a lot of pictures of him they are just flat images. Not real my living kids are breathing real reminders so that I don't forget the good I had with him and so that I don't forget the 19 weeks that I got to hold him.

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Sunday, March 23, 2014

How to be Happy on the Riviera 3

The penultimate part of Robert Elson's 1927 book dealing with indoor and outdoor amusements and of course gaming. There is a good description of a Gala dinner which has the authentic 1920s tone:

 "A gala dinner may be ...a more elaborate entertainment indistinguishable from a fête, the room being decorated for the occasion–sometimes in a really artistic manner–and a good programme of show-turns provided. There are sure to be surprises–toys to make noises with, balloons, etc. The peculiarity of surprises is that they are always the same. Occasionally really attractive gifts are distributed, or prizes given in connection with dancing or a tombola (raffle). If you are in an appropriately happy-go-lucky mood, a gala is usually quite enjoyable. It is good to play the fool sometimes, pelting and being pelted by the occupants of neighboring tables with little coloured balls, and trying to hit people at a distance with harmless projectiles. Also, you never know what may come of it. A happily-married lady of my acquaintance first made her existence known to her husband by hitting him on the ear with a flying sausage; he asked her to dance, and the thing was as good as done."

Such goings on would have been vieux jeu by the 1940s. Interestingly many fetes described have gone - The Venetian Fete at Cannes has been replaced by a film festival, car shows and uphill car racing at Monte Carlo has become the Rally, but the Burning of the Boat still goes on and the Battle of Flowers - so all is not lost.

Indoor Amusements

Whether they gamble or not, most of the visitors to the principal places spend a considerable portion of their time after sunset in the local casino. It takes the place of a club, and offers more entertainment. After a fine day one goes there to read the papers and the latest news posted up in the day's telegrams; to have tea, listen to music, and dance or watch the dancers; one makes acquaintances, whom very often one never sees elsewhere, but who may be found regularly in the same place in the hall or reading-room at the same hour. There are, in addition, of course, more formal entertainments–concerts, theatrical performances, variety shows, ballet, etc.

As to the charges for admission, a distinction is usually made between admission to the main hall only, and a card which also admits to the gaming-rooms (salles de jeu); the latter is called carte du cercle so as to comply with the law, gaming being in theory only permissible in clubs.

I have given examples of these charges in the Appendix.

The most popular entertainments are those given at dance-teas, and as I have frequently alluded to them I shall describe a typical item.
The band stops. The couples on the floor, never satiated, clap their hands. The reply is a long roll from the drum–trrh-rh-rh-rh-rh-rh-trrrhh! They filter back to their seats. The floor cleared, the lights go down, and by a signal from a maître d'hôtel the waiters are immobilised. There is a pause.
  The music strikes up, and from somewhere in the region of the service-room a figure emerges into a spot-light manipulated from above. Youthful or not, she is attractively made up and charmingly dressed. A few steps, perhaps a turn or two round the floor, and she is joined by a young man. He may be athletic-looking or slim and boyish, but he is always in evening dress and often made up as if for the stage. They dance, gracefully, fantastically, or gymnastically, according to their bent; in unison, or together. The steps are frequently an elaboration of the latest fad, such as, last season, the charleston or black-bottom; in any case they are intricate enough to bewilder the eye. The culmination usually takes the form throwing the girl up and carrying her around; incidentally the ladies get new ideas as to underclothing. Something like this is the staple of all such entertainments, whether given in the afternoon or evening.
  Next in the favour of visitors I should put music. In opera Monte Carlo ranks first. The resources of the Casino enable it to secure better artists and to produce grand opera in a manner which cannot be achieved elsewhere; it commands the services of a first-class director, M. Gunsbourg, several good conductors, and a really adequate orchestra. First productions are not uncommon, and new works are given each season. In this respect Monte Carlo keeps up its tradition. I should put Cannes second and Nice a bad Third, the programmes and performances at the Municipal Opera House leaving a good deal to be desired. Seats are usually frs. 20 or frs. 40.
  In light opera there is not much difference, the same company usually appearing at different places along the coast; this is also the case as to other kinds of theatrical entertainments–comedy, revue, etc.
  Spectacular shows such as are given by the Paris music-halls, with their carefully-picked nude figurantes, do not come our way, except on the screen.
  Ballet forms an item in the programmes all along the Riviera. M. Diaghilef's company has given two seasons every winter for some years past, one early and one late, the popularity of which shows no signs of diminishing; other companies also appear, some of them quite good, and star-artists in stage-dancing make occasional special visits.
  The ranking as for opera holds good, on the whole, as to concerts. Perhaps more world-known artists may appear in Nice or Cannes, but the opportunities of hearing good music are far more numerous in Monte Carlo, and my impression is that the general level higher.
  As to the cinema, there is nothing to be said – films being the same everywhere – except that as the block-booking system does not obtain in France, it is frequently possible to see new productions before they are shown to the public in England–or even in America. Smoking is usually not allowed. A good seat can usually be obtained for between frs. 5 and frs. I0.
  Hotels and restaurants frequently advertise diners fleuris, gala dinners, and fêtes de nuit. A diner fleuri means nothing but a few extra flowers on the tables, a special menu, and perhaps a couple of exhibition dances. A gala dinner may be anything between this and a much more elaborate entertainment indistinguishable from a fête, the room being decorated for the occasion–sometimes in a really artistic manner–and a good programme of show-turns provided. There are sure to be surprises–toys to make noises with, balloons, etc. The peculiarity of surprises is that they are always the same. Occasionally really attractive gifts are distributed, or prizes given in connection with dancing or a tombola (raffle). If you are in an appropriately happy-go-lucky mood, a gala is usually quite enjoyable. It is good to play the fool sometimes, pelting and being pelted by the occupants of neighbouring tables with little coloured balls, and trying to hit people at a distance with harmless projectiles. Also, you never know what may come of it. A happily-married lady of my acquaintance first made her existence known to her husband by hitting him on the ear with a flying sausage; he asked her to dance, and the thing was as good as done.
  Fêtes generally have some special characteristic. There arrose fêtes, mimosa fêtes, carnation fêtes, Russian fêtes, Chinese or Japanese fêtes, fêtes des Indes, Spanish fêtes with a mock bullfight, Egyptian fêtes; special provincial fêtes–Basque, Breton, Alsatian, Provençal, etc. ; and other varieties according to the scheme of decoration or the character of the entertainment. Sometimes the latter takes the form of a mannequin parade, which I am informed by authority is quite useful when the mannequins promenade the dance floor, so that you can see the display at close quarters, but not much good from a practical point of view when they remain on a platform; or dancing competitions, professional or amateur, the principal interest of the latter being that well-known social figures occasionally compete; even British royalty has been known to relax to that extent on the Riviera.
  The most elaborate entertainments of this kind–galas and fêtes–are at the casinos of Cannes and Monte Carlo, and some of the luxe hotels, especially the Ruhl and the Negresco at Nice. From the artistic point of view I think the palm would go to Cannes; the Christmas, New Year, Carnival, and Easter fêtes at the Restaurant des Ambassadeurs are exceptionally well done, and additional brilliancy is lent by the company. Otherwise Monte Carlo runs it close. Three or four times a season the Atrium is converted into a bower of flowers and lights–perhaps mauve and pink carnations, masses of the purple blossoms of the bougainvillea, festoons of wistaria draping the marble columns, all interspersed with strings of tiny electric globes, mauve and pink and purple and blue, while from the ceiling and the galleries depend more powerful lamps hidden by fantastic silk shades in soft tones of the same colours. The theatre is similarly transformed, and as the double doors between the two are thrown open, there is plenty of space–several hundred people do not make a crowd. But a large proportion of those present will be people who are connected with the hotels and the administrative services; the fashionable world does not support these entertainments Nice beats either; at some of the fêtes at the Ruhl hundreds of performers have appeared in costume shows with gorgeous scenic effects and the Negresco has a special reputation for securing clever and brilliant artistes. There are two drawbacks. The fare provided on these occasions is generally a gastronomic outrage, and trickery is practised in regard to the charges which has frequently been the subject of comment in the Riviera press. The fixed price may be anything from 50 francs for a diner fleuri to 200 francs for a fête; 100 to 150 is usual for galas. But preposterous prices are often charged for normal extras–wine, liqueurs, cigars, even mineral waters; and substantial sums added for the couvert (table money) and the flowers on the table, whereas by long-established custom these are included in a fixed price. Fancy figuring is also done occasionally where 10 per cent. is charged for service, and in regard to the hotel and restaurant tex; the percentages in both cases should be on the amount without either, whereas they may be cumulative. I know of no remedy except to put down the amount less the over-charges, endorsing the bill; it is unpleasant to make a fuss openly on these occasions. As Maria said when Enery knocked the lodger down, it spoils the 'armony of the hevenin'.
  I always reckon that the actual cost will be at least twice the fixed price.
  The principal amusement is dancing, as everywhere, and the opportunities for it are at tea-time and after inner in most of the leading hotels and restaurants, always in casinos, and at some cabarets, which open from four o'clock in the afternoon. Attractions are frequently provided. A popular one is the roulette dance: numbers painted on the floor are reproduced on a hanging wheel which is made to revolve; when it stops the band and the dancers stop, and a prize goes to the couple on the number indicated by a fixed pointer above the wheel. There are also gala teas, with special decorations, and sometimes a special entertainment.
  Fixed prices for dance-teas vary from frs. 10 where there is no entertainment to frs. 25 for gala occasions. The actual cost may be from half as much again to twice as much.
  At most of the hotels and restaurants where dancing is a special feature there are professional dancers, male and female. From what I am told, it would appear that ladies dance a great deal more with professionals when they are on the Riviera than they would do at home–just as many people gamble who would not dream of doing so in England. One reason, no doubt, is that so many are manless, and it is dull watching all the time when you like dancing. Besides, your toes itch. Personally, I see no harm in the practice, though I have heard it condemned by dancing-men, especially of the younger generation. But I have never heard a lone man condemned for dancing with the girl-professionals, some of whom are quite pretty and attractive. The rule as to paying those people, laid down by the maître d'hôtel at one of the leading restaurants, is that if you are invited to dance you need not pay for the first time unless you accept a subsequent invitation: then the proper thing is 10 francs a dance, with a maximum of 50. If you take the initiative and ask a professional to dance, you pay in any case.
  Very often the men run a class, usually elsewhere, and give private lessons for which from 50 to 150 francs an hour is charged according to their standing and popularity. The class charges vary from frs. 100 to frs. 150 for five lessons.
  There are also special dances at casinos and elsewhere. When evening dress is to be worn, these are advertised as bals; when fancy dress, as bals masqués or veglioni. The regulations as to the latter are sometimes rather fussy, but if you wish to go it is well to make yourself acquainted with them, because otherwise you may be refused admission in spite of the fact that you have paid for a ticket. The simplest form of fancy dress is a domino and a loup (mask), the first of which can be hired for about 20 or 30 francs and the latter purchased for a few francs, either at the cloakroom or beforehand at a shop – which is generally cheaper. When dominoes are barred, a suitable fancy dress must be hired or improvised beforehand. Men can manage all right with a sash and couple of scarves–twist one round your head–wearing a tennis-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and ordinary evening trousers. Say you are a Welsh brigand– the maître des cérémonies won't know any better. More ingenuity is necessary for the ladies, because they want to look well; one dodge is to wear something becoming but out of the fashion, such as a fanciful head-dress. Money, of course, will solve all these difficulties; nearly all the departmental stores stock fancy dresses. The regulations sometimes leave only a very narrow range of choice, especially at Nice in connection with the carnival balls. A particular colour is prescribed–white, pink, or blue. This leads to mistakes when everybody is masked. A charming little hand was laid on my arm one night at the Opera–where these dances are held–and a pair of rosy lips, addressing me as Charles, confided that the tall man over there had been following their slim owner about. When I expressed my regret that Fate had denied me the honour of being Charles, the bright dark eyes looked frightened and the lady fled. But perhaps there wasn't any Charles.
  Dances of this kind are generally well attended, except at Monte Carlo, where for some reason they don't go. Cabaret entertainments are generally on the lines already described. Occasionally one may strike a novelty, such as the clever little "negro" troupe which toured along the Riviera last season. As to the cost, if you drop in for an hour or so and limit the quantity of champagne to half a bottle each, you should get off with £1 apiece; but the atmosphere is productive of that just-another bottle-spirit, and I always reckon that it may be twice as much.
  In all the principal places there are dancings–supper-bars with a piano and a tiny floor. In these you are not expected to order champagne, but your company is mostly mixed–or hardly mixed except for yourself.

Outdoor Entertainments and Pastimes

The carnival processions at Nice were revived about forty years ago as a commercial speculation on the part of the town, and whether the visitors ever took part in them or not, they rarely do so now, contenting themselves with watching and occasionally throwing confetti at the crowd of masqueraders and the occupants of the gaudy erections on the lorries. You will enjoy yourself a great deal more if you throw your dignity to the winds, and join the revellers in the Corso. I once lured a distinguished editor and a well-known publicist into this, and they laughed for days after over the recollection of a bunch of lively huzzies mobbing a policeman. It is quite in order to commandeer unoccupied seats in any carriage or motor-car when you need a rest. One of the disadvantages of being on a stand is that it begins to grow chilly about three, and getting away is not easy until nearly an hour later, whereas if you are in the Corso you can wriggle out at almost any side-street. There are a number of these processions on different days, and at night the central part of the town is illuminated and the fun goes on till all hours.
This is also the time for the battles of flowers, in while those on the stands can play a larger part, although again it is much livelier to be really in it–not necessarily an expensive matter if anybody has a motor-car, or a few club together for a carriage. It doesn't matter in the least how many you cram into it–the more the merrier. In the case of the car, you need an innocent to drive; nobody who has ever taken that job will do it again willingly.
Elsewhere, except perhaps at Cannes, the visitors take so little part in these festivities that the show is apt to be rather feeble. But they may be quite enjoyable, given a fine day, especially in the case of the Naval Battle of Flowers at Villfranche when there are warships in the harbour. Some generally happen to arrive a day or two before–perhaps the officers could tell why. Anyhow, they turn out their boats in great style, and as the girls are by no means backward in coming forward, things are sometimes very lively. The officers of the Chasseurs Alpins stationed in the district are generally conspicuous at all these festivities, and as they are very smart men, that helps.
The dog-shows always attract a crowd. Whether most of the people come to see the dogs of the clothes of some of their fair owners, I do not pretend to judge; at Cannes, or even at Monte Carlo, it might be the latter. The general standard of the exhibits is not high, despite a firm conviction to the contrary at the other end of the string; but there are always good Pekinese and Alsatians, also specimens of Continental breeds not commonly known in England. One of the ways of bringing a breed into fashion is to show it on the Riviera.
The motor shows are chiefly interesting for the body-work shown by some of the Italian firms, and the artistic fittings which make the interiors of the high-priced British cars look like a workhouse-room by comparison. Considerable crowds turn out to see the hill-climbing competitions, to which the hairpin bends characteristic of the mountain - roads lend something of the thrill of the bull-ring.
But for the fact that it falls just when most of the visitors are going home, the Horse Show at Nice would be one of the principal events of the season. The dexterity of both the horses and their riders–who are of many nationalities – in negotiating apparently impossible obstacles, is an eye-opener, and it is a melancholy fact that the British cavalry officers do not shine by comparison, any more than they do at Olympia.
As a night spectacle, the Venetian fête at Cannes bears away the palm. The strings of fantastically-decorated and illuminated boats, winding in and out on the dark water of the harbour, with the Mont du Chevalier lit by coloured fires in the background, are extraordinarily beautiful. Next I should put the illuminations and firework exhibitions at Monte Carlo. The configuration of the bay lends itself admirably to such displays, on which a great deal of money is lavished. From the terraces–there are three levels–or the Avenue de Monte Carlo (the road which mounts the hill on the near side of the harbour) several thousand people can obtain a perfect view. The fireworks, which are discharged on the sea-end of the Rock, surpass in artistry anything I ever saw elsewhere; the French have a genius for harmonising colours. The display usually ends in a river of fire which appears to pour itself into the sea, the hues melting into each other. It is an unforgettable sight.
  Some of the annual local celebrations have features of interest for strangers, as when Monaco commemorates her patron saint, Sainte Dévote. The relics, enclosed in a gold casket, are carried in procession from the cathedral on the Rock down the old fortified way which was formerly the only means of access to the town, and thence to the chapel under the railway arch, supposed to be on the spot where the saint landed after being shipwrecked in A.D. 854. Surrounded by a crowd of local notabilities and ecclesiastics in gorgeous vestments, the Bishop of Monaco blesses the sea. In the evening there is a religious ceremony still older in origin. This is the Burning of the Boat, formerly a sacrifice to the god of the sea; it was probably instituted by the Greeks in honour of Poseidon. A specially picturesque feature is the preliminary torchlight procession down the modern road which slants from the top of the Rock at the sea-end to the foot of the fortified way; the effect, seen from the terrace across the harbour, is very striking. Another curious old custom at Monaco is the Procession of the Christ Mort on the eve of Good Friday. The image of the dead Christ–ragged auburn hair resting on a black and silver cushion, a tiny emaciated body in a loincloth, the sickly white face twisted in an agonised grin, the feet bespattered with blood–is carried on a bier from the Chapelle des Pénitents to the cathedral, in the midst of a procession of clergy, figures dressed to represent the three Marys, St. Veronica with the sacred handkerchief, St. Simon the Cyrenean carrying a huge cross, boys bearing emblems on cushions–the crown of thorns, a miniature spear, a sponge stained dark red–and representatives of the religious orders, mostly habited in black, together with lantern-bearers, etc. The cortège is a weird sight as it winds through the narrow streets, across which people at opposite windows could almost shake hands. Many of the window-sills are decorated with flowers, candles, and an image. A silent crowd fills the Place du Palais, and in a loggia in the front of the palace is His Most Serene Highness Prince Louis, surrounded by his family. The Princess lifts up one of the grandchildren to see the dead Saviour, and a murmur goes through the crowd like the rustling of a forest in a gale; the people do not cheer because of the occasion.
  Other local celebrations are of a more cheerful character, such as the Provençal fête at Le Cannet, the one at Vence, and the quaint mediæval festivity at St. Agnès on St. Joseph's day. The first and last are especially worth seeing.
  Comparatively few of the visitors bathe. There is nothing against it; the water is rarely colder than it often is on the English coasts in summer, and there are bathing establishments open at all places of any size. The best time is as soon as the sun is sufficiently high to have warmed the air; later, the wind is more likely to be felt. But the photographs which appear in publicity booklet, and occasionally find their way into the illustrated papers, of a crowd of people bathing–"The Riviera in January"–are either faked, or taken when there is a swimming competition, and the hardy natives, many of whom do bathe all the year round as far as their opportunities permit, turn out in force.
  The most unlikely people walk. Middle-aged men who don't sleep well calm their nerves by long tramps–it really is worth remembering that the air high up and away from the coast has a sedative effect. Women who were dancing all evening, perhaps till the small hours, turn out cheerfully at ten o'clock with lunch-parcels and disappear into the hills, not to return until five or six. It is refreshing to get away from over-civilisation sometimes, to climb a hill-side by a cobbled path with the sun beating on your back–a most effective cure for gout; to fill your lungs with fine thin air; to snuff the smell of the south as you pass the shanties of propriétaires – the hardworking agriculturalists who were the backbone of French prosperity–a smell compounded of warm dust and woodsmoke. The walls of their vineyards are pink with valerian, and you can pick the wild herbs that grow freely beside the path, crush a sprig or two between your fingers for the aromatic savour–rosemary, thyme, marjoram, and lavendar, which the country people call St.-Jean-Pleure. As you mount between the grey-green foliage of the olive-trees on the lower slopes you catch glimpses of the rich verdure of the valleys, brightened by the gold of lemons and oranges, until you emerge on to a pine-dotted ridge gay with yellow broom, and a vista of mountain-peaks spreads before you. You may meet the Rolls-Royce of the country, the patient little donkey, so often looking much better fed and cared for than his owner; and if you venture on a greeting, you will receive a friendly "Buon gior'" in the high singing voice of the mountain-bred. If you don't eat the hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches the head-waiter gave you with a hearty appetite, and feel thankful you are alive to enjoy them up there, you had better have stayed at home.
  Perhaps, if you are well above the sea at the hour of sunset, and the moon is high in the south-east, you may see something you will not quickly forget. For a few minutes after the sun disappears the atmosphere is sometimes blood-red; it is like being in the heart of a ruby; and as the glow fades, the moon turns it into a purple haze:
  "A light that never was on sea or land."

This chapter is intended for those who wish to look on and perhaps play a little occasionally, not for gamblers. You won't be happy if you make a business of it–I can assure you of that; but I can also tell you that the winning of small sums produces a feeling that pleasure absurdly disproportionate to the amount. From the commonsense point of view, it does not matter if you lose a few shillings, or a few pounds if your income permits; but if you win, you will be as pleased as Punch–whether you admit it or not.
In casinos in France only two games are permitted, Boule and Baccara. Boule is a very simple game. A light rubber ball (like a child's ball) is jerked by a croupier into a shallow wooden bowl with a convex centre; in a trough between the centre and the sides there are circular depressions, numbered 1 to 9 (the numbers are always duplicated and often quadruplicated); the ball wanders about until it comes to rest in one of the circular depressions, the number of which is the winning number. Stakes are placed in rectangular spaces with the numbers in them painted on the cloth; you can back a single number or four numbers. Stakes on the winning number are paid at the rate of 7 to 1. Stakes on the group in which it figures at the rate of 1 to 1. The minimum stake is fr. 1, or in some casinos fr. 2, and these sums are staked in money; for larger stakes counters are used, which can be obtained from attendants who may be distinguished by their satchels, or at a cash-desk (caisse), where you change your counters back into money if you win. (This applies to all the games.) Personally, I find Boule a most depressing business to watch; the sight of that ball loafing half-heartedly about the bowl gives me the pip.
Baccarat, also called chemin-de-fer, or "shemmy" for short, is a horse of another colour; the rules permit onlookers to join in only under certain circumstances. In principle, the players who sit take the bank in turn, putting up a certain amount of money. The banker deals four cars from the shoe (a rectangular box with a trap at one end so that only one card can be withdrawn at a time), handing two to the player who has staked most (the punter), and retaining two. Tens and honours are null, other cards count according to their pips; the highest hand is nine–that is, ten or an honour and a nine, or ace and height, etc. If either of them has eight or nine, neither can draw; otherwise both have the option of another card. Nine or the nearest wins. The officiating croupier then either pays the stakes out of the money in the bank, or adds them to it, less the casino's commission of 5 per cent. In the first case, the bank passes; in the second, the banker usually continues to hold it, though if he (or she) has won a number of times, it is often surrendered.
It will be noticed that the players are gambling directly with each other, and it is this sociable element which makes baccarat interesting to watch. Temporary partnerships are formed (they sometimes lead to partnerships of another kind). Amusing incidents arise; when the punter is acting for others who have also staked, he has the responsibility of deciding whether or not to draw when holding five; as a matter of fact, the chances of improving his hand or weakening it are equal; but he is liable to encounter black looks whatever he does, if he loses through it. There are also duels, when one player persists in going banco (staking the full amount in the bank–then no one else can stake). The amount of money which then appears to be changing hands is often an illusion, because if the luck turns the punter wins back all he has staked (less the commission). But sometimes it doesn't, and then the money really passes. I saw a girl at Nice start a bank with 5 louis (16s. 8d.) and take off 9,728 (£1,620); the big player who went gunning for her got it where the chicken got the axe – she won eleven times in succession.
The unit at baccarat is always the louis–a 20-franc gold piece of pre-war days. The courpier announces the amount in the bank accordingly: "Dix louis" (33s.); "Cinquante louis" (£8 5s.); when the figure mounts up, it is convenient to remember that every hundred means £16 ios., every thousand £165.
Onlookers may stake whenever the players sitting round the table don't put up the full amount in the bank; so, if you wish to flutter, put your money down beyond the yellow line in front of them when they are slow in staking theirs.
Baccarat is also played at Monte Carlo, but the games on which the fame of the place grew are trente-et-quarante and roulette. Trente-et-quarante is a simple game except for one complication. Two rows of cards are dealt by a croupier, the first for Black and the second for Red; he ceases to deal in each row as soon as the pips total over 30 (court cards count 10); and the row which totals nearest to 30 wins, 31 being the best possible. The complication is in regard to the two other chances on which the players may stake beside Black and Red–Couleur and Inverse. Couleur is the colour of the first card dealt–that is to say, when the first card is a spade or a club, Couleur for that deal is Black, and if Black wins Couleur also wins; similarly, if the first card dealt is a heart or diamond, Couleur for that deal is Red, and if Red wins Couleur wins. Inverse is simply the reverse of Couleur; when Couleur wins Inverse loses, and vice versa.
The stakes are placed in spaces enclosed by lines painted on the cloth in the usual manner; you can buy a post card anywhere with a diagram showing which is which. The minimum is 2 louis, except at certain tables in the Cercle Privé and at the Sporting Club where it is either 5 or 25. The roulette-wheel, most fascinating and dangerous of all, consists of a fixed concave rim and a convex inner part which revolves, its edge being divided into 37 compartments, numbered 0 to 36; this is set spinning by a croupier, who immediately afterwards flicks a small ivory ball away on the rim in the opposite direction. The ball flies like the imp of mischief that it is, racing perhaps a dozen times round the rim before it falls into the whirling wheel, where it often plays hop-skip-and-jump until it comes to rest in a compartment, the number of which is the winning number.
The possibilities as to staking are too complicated to be described here; it must suffice to say that a number may be backed singly or in combination with one, two, three, five, eleven or seventeen other numbers, and that winning stakes are paid as if there were only 36 numbers on the wheel–i.e. on a single number (en plein) 35 times, on two numbers 17 times, on three 11 times, etc. An hour spent in watching will make it all clear, and from a roulette post card you can learn what to say to the croupier if–as is wisest at first–you give him your stake to put on; this is a common practice, both for new and experienced players, because of the difficulty of placing stakes correctly, especially if you are standing up and there is a crowd round the table. An additional advantage is that if you are successful the croupier rakes up your winnings and hands them to you–he should do so without being asked, and always will on request ("Les cinq louis pour la transversale sont à moi"). Otherwise it is not always easy to retrieve winnings on numbers and groups up to 12; they are counted out by the paying croupier and flung on the cloth somewhere near the stake, and you may not be able to reach them from behind a row of people. Don't forget, when you are paid in this way, that your stake–generally left in position–still belongs to you. Ask for it if you want ("Donnez-moi la mise aussi"), and if your request is not attended to–as may be the case when the croupier is busy placing fresh stakes for others–wait for the result of the next spin. Even if you forget to claim your stake at the time, and only remember it after you have quitted the table, go back and inquire about it. The person to ask is the chef de table, who sits on a high chair behind the croupiers in the middle. He may hand you quite a nice little packet.
  Now, a word of warning. A saga of legends and superstitions and nonsensical beliefs has grown up around roulette. You will hear of systems by means of which so-much can be won daily with a capital of so-much; you will see books in all the stationers' shops with advertisements professing that details are given of similar mirages; you will be told of dodges for staking, such as: "After 35 or 36 you should play the quatre premiers," or "After 23 it is always the treize-dix-huit," etc. You may also think that you have discovered something yourself. The commonest form of this delusion is the wonderful discovery that "It can't go on being black all the time."
  There is not, and there cannot be, any means of securing an advantage as against the bank. The game is a game of chance, with odds slightly against the player. What has happened gives no clue to what is going to happen. Every spin is a separate event, and the possibilities every time are exactly the same. Amuse yourself if you like by playing for such stakes as you can easily afford, but don't bemuse yourself, or allow yourself to be bemused, into the belief that any mode of staking has advantages over any other. If you are fortunate enough to win a fairly substantial sum, spend the money and forget it.
  I never play. I agree with the man from Huddersfield, who said: "I would if it wasn't for yon chap with the rake."

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Monday, July 21, 2014

Radio 9 - Buffalo, NY

After years of creating and performing music with numerous artists, Patsy Silver, Mike Biddlecom, Joey Cristofanilli, and Frank Cristofanilli, decided in 2013 it was the right time to collaborate their own musical talents of hard rock to create the band Radio 9; a hard driving mix of blues and metal.
The Buffalo based band recorded their debut EP, self-titled, Radio 9, at GCR Audio, owned by Robby Takac of the Goo Goo Dolls, with producer Justin Rose. The first single off the album is ‘Mr. Imagination’.
Youtube link
The other notable heavy hitting songs off their debut album are ‘Little Black Book’,
 ‘Lightning Strikes’,
  ‘Run for Cover’
and the rockin’ ballad, “Without You,”
which hints at Patsy’s gospel, blues roots.
Radio 9 has a long and impressive list of talents they respectfully worked with over the years. Lead singer and hard hitting raspy voiced, Patsy Silver, shared the stage with such legendary acts as The Beach Boys, The Beaver Brown Band, Tommy Shaw, Jefferson Starship, Grand Funk Railroad, and sang back-up vocals for the late Lou Rawls. Not only has Patsy fronted Las Vegas based bands, International Fox, who toured the country with standing dates in Las Vegas, Atlantic City, NYC and Lake Tahoe, she has also recorded an album in Nashville for RLA Coastal Records.
Bassist Joey Cristofanilli, performed with Los Angeles based band, Ratt, in which he recorded one song for the Ratt EP, and co-wrote the song “Wanted Man” for the Atlantic release, “Out of the Cellar.” Joey has also recorded two songs with LA based band, Rough Cutt, for the LA’s Hottest Unsigned Bands Compilation album. He also toured and recorded one album with LA based band, Jagwire.
Guitarist Mike Biddlecom played and toured with LA based band, Caustic Cause. Mike also played with Buffalo based band, Vicious Circle, and recorded an EP which was chosen best original rock band. He has three original solo albums, “Mystic Compass,” “Strange Therapy” and “Sonic Battalion”.
Drummer Frank Cristofanilli played with Buffalo based bands, Curtis Loew, Pretty Poison, Actor, and Tyrant. Frank has also recorded an album with the band, Watchers.

4/7/14: Originating the originals
A big thanks to Ed Honeck and David Sherrer for joining us for another fun filled show promoting the Original Blues Reunion. A special thanks to Radio 9 for breaking out their first interview; Mike Biddlecom, Frank Cristofanilli, Joe Cristofanilli and on lead vocals our very own, WNY's very seasoned female vocalist Patsy Silver! Listen for the shout know who you are! Take a listen, and enjoy the show! Click hear to listen to Radio 9 on the Patsy Silver and Dottie Kenney Variety Show

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JSF Central - Articles & Books
JSF Central

 Articles & Books
Articles & Books > Articles
Trinidad in Action, Part 3: Exploring the Table and Tree Components
Posted: January 20, 2012Published: January 20, 2012
Author: Matthias WessendorfPublisher: JSFCentral
In the third installment of the Trinidad series, Matthias Wessendorf takes you on a tour of some of the more useful Trinidad components.

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Archive for February, 2015

Most of His Children?

February 26, 2015 By: Juanita Jean Herownself Category: Uncategorized

Georgia Republican Congressvarmint Barry Loudermilk is on the House Committee on Science, Space, and Technology, so you’d think he might read-up on, you know, science.

Easier said than done.

Headline in the Atlanta-Journal Constitution —

Screen Shot 2015-02-26 at 10.40.40 AM

Loudermilk has three adult children so using high level mathematical skills, I can deduce that he means two of his children were not vaccinated, leaving me to wonder if the other one who got vaccinated was his favorite child or his least favorite child.

Louermilk, of course, homeschooled his kids so they wouldn’t discover that one of them was more beloved than the other ones.

He’s on the House Committee on Science, Space, and Technology, y’all!

Oh Bill, How Entertaining!

February 26, 2015 By: Juanita Jean Herownself Category: Uncategorized

I have to tell you something sad.  Brian Williams goes down but Bill O’Reilly will survive.  And that’s because Bill O’Reilly is a damn bully who casts himself as the victim.  The man is as fake as a $4. wig.

Screen Shot 2015-02-26 at 9.37.57 AMO’Reilly survived a kinky sexual harassment lawsuit in 2004 by settling out of court after threatening his accuser.  It worked then and he assumes that it will work again.  And it probably will.

Mr. O’Reilly’s efforts to refute the claims by Mother Jones and some former CBS News colleagues occurred both on the air and off on Monday. During a phone conversation, he told a reporter for The New York Times that there would be repercussions if he felt any of the reporter’s coverage was inappropriate. “I am coming after you with everything I have,” Mr. O’Reilly said. “You can take it as a threat.”

Bill O’Reilly’s fan base thinks it’s dandy to threaten the New York Times.

I don’t know how seriously I’d take his threat.  On the one hand, O’Reilly came after Barack Obama with everything he has and that amounted to a jar of spit.  On the other hand, he’s three pounds of hate in a two pound bag.  He has no idea how to pull in on the reins and holler whoa.

Good Lord, if Rush Limbaugh can survive with the religious right, Bill O’Reilly could burn a crucifix on live teevee and they’d find a reason to call it liberty.

Y’all, he’s worthless as a three card flush.  He really is.

Holy Crap: Scott Walker is Listening Edition

February 25, 2015 By: Juanita Jean Herownself Category: Uncategorized

Governor Scott Walker made a semi-famous quote that got the attention of the Freedom from Religion Foundation.

I’m still trying to decipher if this is God’s calling. You’ve got to be crazy to want to be president of the United States. You’ve got to be crazy. To look at what it does to a person and a family, you’ve got to be crazy. But you should only do it if you feel that God’s called you to get in there and make a difference.”

The Foundation filed a public information request from Walker’s office for evidence of his communications with the Lord — and his office replied, officially, that it could find none.

I’m shocked, shocked I tell you.

Walker’s campaign slogan:  God Says I’m Crazy!

Thanks to Deb for the heads up.

Not To Be Outdone By Debbie Riddle

February 25, 2015 By: Juanita Jean Herownself Category: Uncategorized

Texas State Representative Donna Campbell is living testimony that Debbie Riddle is not hogging all the lame butt ignorance in the Texas Lege.

The Alamo has been nominated to be included in the United Nation’s list of World Heritage Sites.  There are currently 22 such sites in the United States, including the Grand Canyon, the Statue of Liberty, Independence Hall, Monticello, and the Great Smokey Mountains.   So, it’s kinda an honor to be included.

Unless you’re Donna Campbell, who sees a plot behind including the Alamo.  But, Donna got a pen and wrote a bill to stop this foolishness.

“The intent of this bill, Senate Bill 191, is to prevent vesting any ownership, control, or management of the Alamo to a foreign company or any entity formed under the laws of another country,” Campbell said.

Yep – there will Sharia Law at the Alamo if those United Nations folks notice that the Alamo exists.

campbellThe State of Texas owns the Alamo.  And, ironically enough, it got famous by being invaded by a foreign country and losing.

So, during committee hearing on the bill, Representative Campbell was asked if she knew of any other Heritage sites in the United States.  She admitted that she didn’t.  But that doesn’t matter because ….

“I can tell you anything that starts with the ‘UN’ gives me cause for concern,” Campbell said.

Yeah like unreasonable, uneducated, unbelievable, uncompromising, uncouth …

Thanks to TexasEllen for the heads up.

February 25, 2015 By: Juanita Jean Herownself Category: Uncategorized

Nobody can be born this dumb.  I am certain that it just had to require an operation.

Texas State Representative Debbie Riddle, a woman frighteningly over-concerned with your genitals, filed a bill in the Texas House that says

… anyone over the age of 13 in a public facility of “a gender that is not the same gender as the individual’s gender” should be convicted of a class-A misdemeanor, and spend up to one year in jail and be fined $4,000. Riddle’s proposed law carves out exemptions for custodians, those helping children, or those responding to a medical emergency.

Her goal is to keep transgendered people from peeing.  Anywhere, anytime.

Debbie Riddle: Can You Guess the Gender?

And since it would be easier to teach a mermaid to do the splits than to identity a transgender person with their clothes on, I suspect some sort of nudity check would be involved at the bathroom door.  I can guarantee you this: I am not showing Debbie Riddle my nudity.

Debbie wants to use your DNA to confirm your gender.  I do not know if this would require a DNA testing center outside of every bathroom or if you can just get a DNA ID card for bathroom privileges.

I suspect that Debbie hasn’t thought this out either.

That’s Debbie over there in a helmet.  She had her picture taken when she went to South Texas to hunt for terror babies.  I have no idea what she plans to wear to hunt transgendered people.

Happy Birthday, Bud!

February 24, 2015 By: Juanita Jean Herownself Category: Uncategorized

Our #1 Customer and favorite Democrat of all time, Bud Malone, is turns 92 years old today.

I wish he lived closer so I could go split a Margarita with him.  We’re going to shut down the shop for the rest of the day and ask folks to donate $10. to the striking union workers in Bud’s honor.

Everybody wish this happy warrior a happy birthday!

Love ya, Bud!


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Sunday, 30 November 2008

MAO - Seth Price/Kelley Walker/Continuous Project

Seeing as I'm now obsessed with video! Keeping thinking about this exhibition which was on at Modern Art Oxford when I worked there. This super 8 film by - one of them can't remember of the tumbling like sea - something very imaginary about it thats stayed with me.

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Into The Murky Deep

The sky was overcast, but mercifully, no rain fell. The air temperature at Madrona Park was 53, water temperature of Lake Washington a few degrees higher. Both should have been warmer in mid-June, but we're still waiting for the arrival of spring here in the Northwest, even as the month ticks away to summer solstice. I was at Madrona early Saturday for two triathlon clinics: Transition Prep, followed by Open-Water Swim Clinic. Struggling into my wetsuit was a great warm-up. Sharing my struggle and laughter was Marina, a college friend who just happened to be sitting next to me at the Intro to Triathlon lecture at REI in May. We met in North Hall at Central Washington University in 1988. Twenty-three years- a few lifetimes- later we found each other again. Marina is as beautiful and sassy as ever. Her spirit and determination are contagious- if I can mainline that energy, I'll get through this crazy adventure.

By the time the transition demo lecture concluded and we entered Lake Washington to run through the clinic's "try-a-tri", I was shaking with the chill and with nerves. My breath was shallow and rapid as I doused my face and poured the cold water down the front of my wetsuit. Below the waterline, oily tendrils curled around my ankles and wrists- plantlife straining to reach the light from the murky, green deep.

My group members and I swam back and forth between buoys, the comfort of sand and smooth rocks never far from our white and wrinkled soles. The water inside my wetsuit regulated quickly to my body temperature, providing welcome insulation. I practiced the catch-up drill that has been my physical and mental mantra since entering the swimming pool in February. I forced myself to slow down, to exhale with force, to celebrate the past months' training that allowed me to glide for yards on the force of my stroke. The buoyancy of the wetsuit was a marvel- my strokes felt almost effortless as the wetsuit kept my legs lifted and allowed my feet to become little motors, churning behind me.

But then I'd have to lift my head to sight my direction, someone would jostle me, or I'd have to maneuver around a pair of kicking feet inches from my face, and I'd lose my rhythm. Anxiety would flood my blood and suddenly I was aware of the vegetal muck grasping at my limbs, the cold tea that was slapping my face, the distance to the shore. The thought of facing a half mile in August's Danskin tri, with no lakebed beneath my feet to support me when my courage failed- I simply couldn't fathom it. Even knowing I'd done this once before, in this same lake, without a wetsuit-was no comfort. Thinking ahead to certain failure revved my panic button into high gear.

Then, suddenly, the transition whistle blew. I splashed to shore and ran toward my bike, fighting a wave of dizziness. I remembered to undo the velcro neck closure, unzip my suit, and strip to the waist as I ran across the grass, but once to my bike, I struggled to remain upright as I kicked free of the wetsuit. I nearly collapsed, but remembered advice from the morning's demo: "If you sit down, you'll never get back up." A coach was beside me, yelling "Step on it with your other foot and pull!" Note to self: douse ankles and calves with Suit Juice or spray. Make like a Silpat and slip free from the suit that clings like a leech to your wet skin... Suit off, hands shaking, I crammed my wet feet into socks and shoes. Other note to self: baby powder in socks and shoes, Yankz laces.

Settling onto my bike saddle was like coming home to a waiting martini and dinner on the table after a horrible day at work. I was so happy to be free of the water's chill and my panicked thoughts that I wasn't aware of the squish in my shoes or the damp soaking through from my tri top to my jacket. Powering up a few hills kept the muscles warm and the downhill sweep dried most of the wet. The run portion was anticlimactic; we practiced chi-style running back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the park. First clinic, done. I was tired, hungry, I had to pee. The adrenalin rush had passed through and left me feeling hollow. I had thoughts of bagging the Open Water Clinic that followed this Transition experience, doubting I had the courage to enter the water a second time.

But I did. I yanked and tugged my way back into that a cold, damp wetsuit, swallowed a couple of gel Shotblocks and sipped a cup of hot water as an even larger group gathered for the pre-workout lecture. Once again, I was shaking with cold and fear as I re-entered the water. This time, I joined the designated "terrified of open water" group. But the drills gave me confidence. We went longer each time, passing into deep water. I focused on long, smooth strokes, on power-exhalations, on moving forward no matter what. Again the transition whistle blew, signaling the end of the open water clinic. Finished. I'd made it.

Not so fast. We were corralled to shallow water and there I learned we were going to swim the quarter mile distance, marked off in a triangle by bright yellow buoys. As much as I wanted to dash to the shore and call it a day, I pushed off from solid ground and began my stroke. I got as far as I could, but suddenly my will bottomed out. It wasn't a physical failure or even the cold- my body felt capable of continuing the swim. My mind simply shut down and my limbs refused to remain in motion. A coach caught up with me and a few other swimmers around who were struggling as much as I. She got us through five strokes and then five more, to the safety of a dock. Then we swam to the end of the dock, regrouped, swam around it to the end, then swam to one buoy and one buoy more. Another coach said, as we panted and hung onto a buoy by our fingertips, that he'd never swam a tri distance in his life. He swam from one landmark or buoy to the next, breaking the distance into manageable bites until it was behind him. That tidbit got me back to shore.

I don't know if I can do this. I am registered for the Cottage Lake mini-tri in Woodinville this Saturday. It's an easygoing 1/4 mile swim, 9 mile bike, 1.6 mile run meant to be a tri-for-all, a way to break into the tri experience in a non-competitive, supportive atmosphere. I've got five days to do battle with the demons that press my panic button at the thought submerging my body into the claustrophobic clutch of the cold, bottomless, murky deep.

Those demons followed me yesterday during my run, sniggering on my shoulder and weighing me down so that I felt as if I was dragging lead weights through Lake Washington. I ran 10 miles on sheer spite.  If I can do that, surely I can splash my way to shore on Saturday. There's always the backstroke...


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Motherhood- Careerhood. Nurturing ourselves, our families and our businesses

By Julie Cusmariu – January 21, 2018

Motherhood – careerhood. Nurturing ourselves, our families and our businesses. The latest episode from the series #motherhood #letscreateavillage. Listen/download  the whole conversation here.

Heather Barton , osteopath, athletic therapist and assistant professor and Tinka Markham Piper, Chaos Counsel and founder of Solve My Space were in studio with me here in Montreal and they were magnificent, wise and FUNNY and are two healing forces in this world.

We talked entrepreneurship, motherhood, the importance of having a village, mental, emotional, physical and spiritual self-care and more. And there was a lot of laughing and truth telling about this journey through which we are walking : motherhood as women working, following our passion for herself, her family and her work. ❤

After you take a listen, let me know what you most needed to hear that you did. A truth that resonates with your current experience perhaps? There is lots of wisdom that poured out from the these two women. And it was so much fun.

As a life coach and intuitive, practicing since 2007  I have supported a lot of women moving through the transition of becoming a mother, navigating family, work and maintaining a healthy sense of self and self care. If you are seeking one one one support and championing. Someone to stand in your corner be sure to check out how I can support you. It would be an honour and a pleasure to hear from you.

Julie Cusmariu is a certified life coach, certified mentor coach, and intuitive consultant. She helps leaders and creative individuals trust their intuition to make better decisions, gain clarity, and lead with meaning and purpose. Julie is the host, creator, and producer of ‘Julie in Conversation’ a weekly live podcast with expert guests inspiring individual and global change.
More About Julie

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Sunday, December 20, 2009

Happy Holidays

It snowed for a couple hours this morning, leaving maybe an inch of the white fluffy stuff. Still recovering from a back injury, not yet allowed to shovel, I did go out there with the stiff bristled broom, mobile enough once more (thank goodness) to sweep the sidewalk clear and breathe in the intoxicating clean, cold air.

It was hard to stay focused on my morning writing with so many distractions. House finches, chickadees and juncos finally figured out that the new heated birdbath was installed so they could drink! One of our neighbors made a sled run down their hill with a jump at the end. Every time I looked up an orange or lime green toboggan was sailing off the jump and onto the ice. That same neighbor and his grandsons worked for hours clearing a skating rink out in the middle of the pond. At one point the kids were running through the snow from the snow blower like it was summer and they were running through the sprinkler. All I could think was:

How did we get from July to the end of December so FAST?

I'm not really sure, but my vow to post more often got lost in the rush. Here are a few of the highlights:
  • In late August I attended a poetry workshop, WRITING ON WATER, sponsored by Drury Lane Books in Grand Marais. Minnesota poets, Phebe Hanson and Cary Waterman were perfect workshop leaders. The five days sped by, culminating in a reading at the bookstore. It was a great week; I wrote a lot, made new friends, and came back eager to write and submit my work.
  • Yesterday I received word that two of my poems have been accepted for publication in this year's issue of DUST & FIRE (an anthology of women's voices published at Bemidji State University)! I'm hoping to make it up there for the publication reading and reception at the end of February -- weather permitting. This is, after all, MINNESOTA!
  • My back injury prevented me from going to Chicago the see a production of my book, ESCAPING TORNADO SEASON (directed by Gary Balfantz of Lake Superior State University, Michigan at the National Communication Association Conference in November). This was a major disappointment, as Gary does incredible work and I had so looked forward to meeting the cast and seeing his interpretation of my book. It also meant I didn't get to see my daughter and her family or our dear friends who were at the conference. They did give me full reports on the performance, though!
  • Another very cool thing happened this week -- Mary Ann Dames (friend and writing colleague) created a wild rice pancake recipe inspired by that same book! It's posted on her blog -- I can't wait to try it, it sounds so yummy! (Check it out at: It's nice to know that even though the book is out of print, it's still alive in other ways. And it can still be purchased through online booksellers, or by contacting me.
Not being able to do a lot of the things I usually do over the last couple months gave me a good opportunity to get back on track with my young adult writing. Now I'm working on two of the novels at once and glad that it's the start of "hibernation time" (at least it will be once the holidays are over).


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Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Tuesday Tea Time!

Hello Tuesday Tea Time!

I'm here with many thanks today after a celebratory weekend filled with birthday shenanigans. Growing up birthdays were always made fun for a few reasons. One reason was it was always the start of summer & another was that it always meant good food shared with family & friends. Of course it's always fun to be gifted too. And there was always somebody else with a birthday within days of mine to celebrate too, such as my friends KPK, HG, & 3MD!

Over the years I've had some memorable birthdays. For years my birthday meant my Mammaw would make me whatever kind of pie I wanted. Generally I chose cherry. I was 'kidnapped' more than once by friends & surprised once in Hong Kong. The HK surprise was pulled off so well because I was actually returning to the states a few weeks before my actual birthday, but my friends wanted to celebrate with a cook-out in the park. My birthday has always been an excuse for adventure of new life pieces.

This year we went on a hike, enjoyed a Starbucks treat, took part in the monthly pancake breakfast at our apartment complex, saw Alice in Wonderland: through the looking glass in IMAX 3D (it was excellent), then had dinner at Patisserie Amie. That was all the day before my actual birthday! My actual birthday was filled with a wonderful Sunday morning at work, a quiet afternoon, & a graduation party in the evening.

The biggest surprise this year was when my children's message got hijacked in the best way possible. My message was highlighting church camp & I had just mentioned camp fire songs when I was told they had a song for me. Before I knew how to respond, the entire congregation was singing 'Happy Birthday' to me. I was blown away in the best way possible. Not only did they sound good, they weren't even prompted to do such a thing & it is quite powerful being sung to by roughly 100+ people.

So today as I enjoy my Kombucha Tea (he picked up the right kind this year!), I am thankful for the fun & the memories & the many well wishes from around the world. This year is bound to be a little better & healthier than the last. Farewell to a beautiful Lusty Month of May!

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Tuesday Tea Time!

Good morning Tuesday Tea Time friends!

It's good to be with you today. Last week I could not find the words or energy or focus to join y'all. It was a touch of adventure just to get my own cup of tea to truly begin my day & that happened 2 hours into my morning.

Last week my mind was wondering about the two Amber Alerts on my phone in less than a week. Both babies were found, but what really bothers me is that these alerts have to be sent out ever. Warmer weather does not equal the right to kidnap or steal or give away children or humans of any age.

More recently, in just the past few days I have heard stories of the loss of children in two different ways. No matter the ways in which a child leaves this world, the hard reality is that it is beyond our control. Like the case of the one Amber Alert, we may mess up & make the wrong decision (to leave a child unattended), but more often than not it is not an action of our own. The questions that arise from these instances most often go unanswered.

What brings solace, is the witness of baptism & new life that defies this reality of death. When we acknowledge our lack of power in death, we make room for God's greatness to shine through with the promise of everlasting light. Thanks be to Christ!

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Tuesday Tea Time!

Hello Tuesday Tea Time!

Today in the lusty month of May (have you listened to the wonderful Julie Andrews sing this yet?) we celebrate all the mothers of our lives. Yes, this is in lieu of the observed Mother's Day this past Sunday (in the USA & Germany at least). This was my first Mother's Day as a mom to baby Kaia & my furbaby MG. As women are becoming more empowered to talk about, & act against, the challenges of being a women, with or without children, & the adventures that bring us to our different identities of motherhood, I stand firm in that all who identify as a female have the ability to claim 'mother' as a piece in their life roles.

I shared an article titled 'When You're Not a mom on Mothers Day,' on Facebook the other day, taking no time to write any of my own thoughts or reflections on the article. Throughout the day the article received many comments of people reassuring me of my motherhood & sharing their care for me/women who would still be pregnant if that mysterious day didn't happen as it did 8 weeks ago. The love that continues to be shared is wonderfully overwhelming.

I am a mom. I've been a mom for years, but in a different way. I took care of my cousins children when they were little ones. I even taught the twins to tie their shoes! The twins are now finishing their first year of high school. I was a camp counselor, day camp director, Spoke Folk leader, baby sitter, youth director, pet sitter, & many other roles that taught me to be motherly.

I was never phased much when that one random doctor told me I may never bear children back in the mid 1990s. I honestly just figured if that was true I'd adopt if having my own children was ever part of my calling. I knew that I'd never know what it felt like to be a mom until I had the chance to feel like that. And as I've mentioned, I've had many experiences to feel motherly about, but of course none of that compares to holding my sweet Kaia Gene against my chest while she breathed life for those 93 minutes she had with us (on Pi Day).

I am a mom, madre, mother, mommy, mama. I am beyond thankful for all the moms that have helped me learn how to be motherly. And I am thankful to all the moms who entrusted me with their children & gave me the time to grow as a mothering being. Mother's Day was different this year, but that's alright.

Happy Mothers Day today, the other day, & every day to all the mothering type of people.

And if you still have a spot of tea left, or need a refill, hop on over to Stumbling into Faith for a read on Mother's Day in 2016 written by my dear friend MBR. A "new mom" herself, she reflects on the brokenness of Mother's Day.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Tuesday Tea Time!

It's the first Tuesday Tea Time in the lusty month of May!

May is my favorite month! It is a month of continuous warming weather that brings Spring buds to bloom & a month of many celebrations. It is May, the lusty month of May!

A huge thank you to my friend TS for editing & posting last week's Tuesday Tea Time. You know you've got good people in your life when you text them (yes both TS & AS) at 7am their time, simply to ask for help getting your blog posted, & they willingly jump on board with not a peep about the time difference between your location & their's. I'm sure it was a delightful way to potentially be woken up to on a Monday morning!

This week marks 7 weeks already gone by since baby Kaia Gene graced us with her presence. Every Monday I remember the Monday morning she was born & give thanks for her life, my life, Z's life, & Easter. I then take a deep breath and move on into my day.

Last Monday I was attending a work related retreat & while it is a bit of a retreat, it is also work related & therefore of course there was a guest speaker. This year's speaker was Dr. Ben Stewart of LSTC & he shared his passions regarding creation care & natural burials. It really is fascinating work for the church & world, but all I could think while he was speaking was 'shit! My daughter is in a pearl urn.' There's nothing natural about a pearl urn or the reality that Z & I had to make the decisions we did about our daughter's life. Many parents can relate on a variety of levels to this unfair, but real & natural piece of life.

While life can be unfair at times, there is plenty of life to celebrate. And that is just what we do in this lusty month of May, we celebrate!