#St. Joseph's Hall

[bikinikillarchives]

kathleen hanna at St. Joseph’s Hall, Washington, DC, October 19, 1991. by Alice Wheeler. more from this show here!

[virtie333]

For it is love that I desire, not sacrifice,/ and knowledge of God rather than holocausts. (Hos 6:6)

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1916 – Approximately 1,000 copies of The Proclamation of the Irish Republic are printed in Liberty Hall in a print office set up by James Connolly.

The proclamation would be read by Pádraig Pearse outside the General Post Office on Sackville Street (now called O’Connell Street) on Monday 24th April. The proclamation was printed secretly on an old and poorly maintained Wharfedale Stop Cylinder Press in the printing office that had been set up by James Connolly in the basement in the original Liberty Hall in Beresford Place, Dublin. All seven…

[archinform]

Adam N. Schuster Residence, St. Joseph MO

An 1880s residence in the Hall Street Historic District

Built: 1881

Architect: Edmond J. Eckel (Eckel and Mann)

Address: 703 Hall Street, St. Joseph MO 64501

Growing up in St. Joseph, Missouri, in the 1960s and 70s, my main source of fascination was the city's historic architecture. A major gateway to the West during the 1800s, the town once rivaled larger cities in importance, and great fortunes were amassed there in the wholesale, outfitting, and mercantile industries.

The fortunes accumulated by "Old St. Joseph" were notoriously never invested in the city's growth; they were put into bank accounts where they preserved the power and influence of the Men Who Made St. Joseph the City Worth While (the title of a local history), while making the city a hermetically sealed place where nothing changed, and no outside influence or investment could penetrate.

It was a strange atmosphere in which to grow up, in a town where time stood still, and a conservative, repressive, and airless atmosphere prevailed.

On my many bike rides around the city as a teenager, my favorite areas were Museum Hill, just north of the downtown area, and the Hall Street historic district, just to the west. These areas displayed an opulence and a sense of past glory that hinted at St. Joseph's glorious past, yet a past that stood still, transfixed in a time warp from the turn of the 20th century.

Thanks to injections of cash, some of these mansions have been not just preserved but restored to their once-grand glory. The Adam N. Schuster house, pictured below in views from the Historic American Buildings Survey (Library of Congress) is one such mansion, a building that captured and held my interest from my teen years onward. Variously operated as a B&B and private residence, the mansion has survived into the 2020s in a good state of preservation.

In about 1985, when Linda Farber, its then owner, disposed of the property, I attended an estate sale in the house over a period of two or three weekends. Among my purchases were a painted folding screen, a pair of cast brass Chinese candelabra, a signed fan photograph by movie actress Norma Talmadge , a Royal Rudolstadt porcelain ewer, and an oil portrait of an unknown woman. These items were all disposed of years later before my move to China to begin a new life as a teacher.

The Schuster Mansion remains the most well-known local historic residence, along with the Wyeth-Tootle Mansion on Museum Hill, for many years the site of the St. Joseph Museum, and now a combination museum / events center.

Below are photographs from the HABS survey of 703 Hall Street, along with a video about the house from a Kansas City TV channel. The interiors are quite striking, and hopefully the houses' current furnishings are in keeping with its grand past.

Schuster Residence, St. Joseph MO

Credit: I_Dig_Doug's photos on Flickr

Facade, from the HABS archive

HABS image

Tower and ornamental roof trim

Video: Schuster mansion, KC By Design

Description of the house from the HABS Report

Toni M. Prawl's 1994 dissertation on architect Edmond Jacques Eckel [E.J. Eckel (1845-1934): The Education of a Beaux-Arts Architect and His Practice in Missouri] confirms Eckel and Mann (formed 1880) as responsible for the Schuster residence's design. Of interest is the mention of Stigers and Boettner as builders. Eckel had been in partnership with Francis R. Boettner until 1979, after Lewis Snell Stigers had supposedly retired. I will need to do some fact checking on this chronology.

The following photographs are from the HABS report, Library of Congress collection.

Stained glass windows in the main entrance doors

Southwest room (parlor), first floor, showing two layers of decorative ceiling treatments

Second floor bedroom and upper stairway hall

Central bath and stair hall ceiling decoration

Schuster (1881) vs. Wyeth-Tootle (1879) mansions: Two Victorian Italianates, symmetrical and regular, with projecting porches and bay windows. They differ only in the heavier cornice and prominent roof on the Schuster, and the extra attic story on the Wyeth-Tootle, not to mention the asymmetrically-placed tower at the left, an influence of castles on the Rhine.

Here are some screencaps from the video above:

Entrance hall and stairway; the Library to the right of the entrance doors, main floor

Interestingly, I haven't located any interior photographs of the Schuster residence online, other than the HABS images. Other Hall Street interiors have been illustrated on sites such as Zillow, but not this one. If anyone knows of such images, please contact me.

[barringtons-wedding-cars]

One of our Imperial Viscount Landaulette wedding cars outside St Joseph's church in Blundellsands. Guests had a London red bus to take them to Knowsley Hall

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is insane. The 1885 Shakespeare Chateau Inn Bed & Breakfast in St. Joseph, MO is for sale. The 8bd, 10ba 9,850 sq ft business is turn key and comes fully furnished. It also comes with a carriage house that's a blank slate b/c the walls have been stripped to the studs, ready for rehab. Priced at $3m. You have to see this.

Can you believe this entrance hall? Is it too much? Too dark? Too creepy? Don't forget, all of the furnishings are included.

The carvings on this fireplace. Isn't this crazy?

Look at the carved creature on the stair railing.

I guess that the guests sign in here.

There doesn't seem to be a sitting room- all the reception rooms have tables, probably to accommodate the breakfasts.

This room may be an actual dining room.

This one has some seating and a desk. Love the wallpaper.

Going up the magnificent stairs to the bedrooms- incredible stained glass windows.

Look at that railing. It's massive.

Guests can sit in this area.

Or, they can sit in the alcoves of their rooms.

This room has the bath right next to the bed.

This one has a separate ensuite.

Very nice. This place is impeccable.

Wow, look at those dressers and the desk. All of these pieces come with the house.

These are the back service stairs.

This actually looks like it may be the owner's apt.

It has a bedroom and a kitchenette.

It would make sense, b/c these stairs right outside the door to their quarters, come straight down to the kitchen.

Of course, it's a commercial grade kitchen.

And, then here're the stairs to the very cool basement.

Isn't this fabulous. I wonder if this is for the guests or the owners.

And, look at this- they have a whole potting room to maintain all of the plants around the house.

The is the stripped down carriage house behind the main house.

So, it will be up to the buyer to do the rest of the rehab.

The gardens are so pretty in summer.

Here, you can see the main house and carriage house in the back on the 1.24 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/809-Hall-St-Saint-Joseph-MO-64501/110497127_zpid/

[dvesinthewind]

Dream of You | Gladiator/ST Crossover

During final season, you drag Eddie along with you to gather information on a particular Ancient Roman art piece. Unexpectedly, the experience hurls you past the line between real life and fantasy.

A/N: WC 3.3K I got the inspiration from a book I'm currently reading; A Witch in Time by Constance Sayers. Much like all of my works, this is entirely self-indulgence. Though I am a history geek, there may be some historical inconsistencies. I am aware the real Emperor Geta did not look anything like Joseph Quinn. Nevertheless, enjoy ;)

Warnings: eddie munson x f!reader x emperor geta, mentions of passing out, head injury, switching of time periods, blood, mentions of death typical to the period, wounds, fluff, angst

Hawkins, Indiana. 1986

A sharp pain swiped across your forehead as you rubbed your temples. The bridge of your nose left heavy from the frames resting upon them. Glaring at the exhibit in front of you, what stared back was an article of clothing, or what was left of it, from the Roman Empire. The garment was plain and ravished of its original pigment, yet it stood powerfully inside the glass casing. In fabulous shape for its age, the item was described to be feminine. It was completely unfamiliar and a stark difference from the fashion you were clad in currently. Nevertheless, you felt a wave of nostalgia for something that was never yours.

Your hand skimmed over the stitching of your jacket, leaving your fingertips curious if the soft material would survive such turmoil. It was then that you imagined yourself in the garment, standing on uneven ground in a bustling empire. You imagined the fluorescent lighting beaming down on you as the harsh Roman sun, penetrating your skin sweetly during the summer months. Eyes finding your own reflection in the glass pane, the silhouette of the mannequin merged with the outline of your own shape. Completely submersed, you neglected to see the figure approaching from behind. A swift hand found its way to your waist, a chin tucking along the cave of your shoulder.

"Might I say, you'd look fantastic in that? Whatever it is."

You spun on your heels to face the culprit. Smirking infamously, your boyfriend peered right back at you.

You scoffed. "You don't even know what it is."

"Does anyone?"

Brows raising playfully, you responded. "Arguably, yes." Your final paper was supposed to consist of research on a particular piece of ancient art and its function during the time period. Eddie didn't care for school like you did, and though the assignment was dreadful, it filled some of that insatiable hunger for knowledge everlastingly persisting in your brain. So, as long as Eddie was able to stick by your side, he was happy to comply with educational activities.

"Is this what you were looking for?" He asks. His face contorts into slight shock, as if he were disappointed in the garment's lack of personality. Your head bobs up and down in response. The two of you stand side by side, viewing the exhibit before you. Eddie's leather jacket and combat boots were yet another stark comparison, and it leaves you wondering what he might've looked like centuries ago.

Bemusement settles into the gap between his brows, eyes skimming the description behind the glass; a small panel inscribed with such little detail, for it's all that is known of this article. Eddie allows his weight to shift onto his opposite foot, expressing what you interpreted as impatience. His leather garments squeak with every uncomfortable shift, prompting a frown to settle along your lips. "I'm sorry this is so boring to you." You stated, avoiding eye contact even through the glass.

The brunet shifted towards you quickly, and in the corner of your eye, you could see his immediate apologetic pout. "No, no, I'm not bored at all. It's just that there's something I want you to see."

Eddie has you clinging onto his bicep as he weaves through the museum halls, as if something is drawing him to a particular exhibit. Concentration swallows his brown irises. Each stride has you quickening your own steps, leaving your heeled shoes clacking in competition with muted conversations. Your boyfriend loses the determination in his broad shoulders, noticeably loosening as his gaze settles on a near statue. Breathlessly, Eddie laughs. A tint of pink rushes over his pale complexion. "Now, I want you to know I don't see it at all."

"What are you talking about, Eddie?"

As you approach the marbled statue, a chill settles deep inside of your spine. It's uncanny. The hair sticks up on the back of your neck, almost as if it's prying itself off. You know he's scanning your reaction, yet your mouth cannot change from its position fixed agape.

"One of the workers approached me, told me I resemble—"

"Eddie," you choke out. "It's uncanny." You can't put a finger on why it's making you speechless, yet the sculpture is terrifyingly familiar. The feeling is intimate, like being reminded of a memory from when you were a child—you never remember the picture clearly until someone paints it for you. Emperor Publius Septimius Geta, it inscribed. Yet, it should've had your boyfriend's name instead. As the peculiarity of it somewhat haunted you, everything that happened in Hawkins was way more concerning. You never believed in the mythical, but as the marble statue stared back at you, you pondered the existence of reincarnation.

"Sweetheart, you're fucking with me, right?" But any protest was left hanging lifeless on the tip of your tongue. Mouth dryly agape in disbelief, you examined the sculpture of the late Roman emperor. How had you not seen this before?

Each detail, from the bridge of his nose to the curvature of his brow, mirrored those of Eddie's. His tousled curls were much shorter than your boyfriend's, yet your own fingers tingled with nostalgia. You could feel the curled strands slipping off the pads of your fingertips and bouncing back against the head of hair. Eddie rambled on about his spoken ancestry, denying any possibility of relation.

"This isn't the craziest part, though." Eddie reveals, excitedly. Grabbing your limp hand, he drags you to the following display. Something resembling a cruel joke, the painting before you delicately expressed Geta and Wife, in which the woman beside the Emperor was adorned with a complexion identical to yours. Age had swept greedily over patches of the canvas, but her features were undeniably yours. Staring back at you with identical irises and jewels resting on her bare neck, the woman somewhat mocked you.

Eddie rubs the back of his neck as he takes in your shellshocked state. An uncomfortable chuckle leaves his lips. "Kinda creepy, right?" You can't respond. Your heartbeat rattles against your temples. "I guess we found our celebrity doppelgängers." Eddie laughs once again, and had you not been so focused, you would've felt the warmth trickle from your nostril, splashing onto your black shoes like a drop of rain. "Honey, you're bleeding." The brunet brings your chin into his hand and hisses at your noticeable decrease in temperature. The color drains from your face, dragging your vision along with it. It spills onto the ground, beside the splatter of your blood.

"I don't feel well." The words leave your lips successfully, but you are unable to hear them for yourself. The symphony of ringing against your eardrums mutes any plea for assistance. Eddie's frantic expression is the last thing you see before your body hits the hard surface of the linoleum.

Rome, Italy. 209 A.D.

An inconsistent breeze brushes against your skin. Eyes closed, you imagine the ceiling fan clattering above your head. Envisioning Eddie's bedroom fan as it rotates, brushing cool air that trickles down to your position on his bed. The surface beneath your back is somewhat harsher than you remember it to be, however. You don't inhale subtle breaths of your boyfriend's cologne; instead, the ground beneath you begins to dig into your delicate skin. The warm air engulfing you prompted confusion. How long had you been out? Expecting such memorable scenery, you slowly adjust to prying yourself from slumber. Expecting the inevitable darkness that was Eddie's shaded room, you instead peel your eyes open to see a handful of leaves being thrust into your face. Each stroke pushing fresh air into you, as coos are heard around your fragile silhouette. Several pairs of eyes grow in size as they watch you gain consciousness. Frozen on the apparent concrete, the whites of your own eyes swelled. The person fanning you paused quickly, and a feminine gasp left their lips.

"Augusta! You are okay. I must gather your husband." The woman all but jumps from her crouched position and runs out of the small box-like room. Her native tongue is far different than yours, yet your fluency in understanding is just as bizarre. Surveying the crowd of oddly dressed people and their pitiful glances, you soon realize the humor at hand. You must be dreaming of Ancient Rome. Your heartbeat thumps against your temples, rattling loud enough to deafen any surrounding clatter. Gentle hands find the crevice of your elbow and lift you from your fallen state. Only then do you get a glimpse of the exact state you're truly in. Oh, my God, you beg breathlessly. Knees buckling like they had in the museum, you're caught by the same strong arms. Moving for you, the individual places you into a sturdy chair, where you can successfully overlook the Colosseum's promising views in their glory.

A man, paler than a vampire, tilts his head sideways, peering at your delicate state with faux sympathy. Thin lines become of his blue eyes, and a condescending smirk spreads across his sick face. "Brother, it appears your wife has seemingly lost it. Perhaps in such a fugue state, she will choose a new husband." He snickers. Brother? The acknowledgment of your situation only worsens the nausea menacing in the back of your throat. Had this truly been a dream, why did it make an example of all of your senses? If you had truly concussed yourself at the museum, why were you living and breathing in a flourishing ancient empire? The golden wreath situated on the infected one's head beamed pridefully in the Roman sun. His confidence was as repulsive as his appearance.

"Shut up, Caracalla!"

"She cannot handle it; you shouldn't have brought her here again." Caracalla spits. Turning to face your defender, your gut churns as if one had tampered with the very water several women were pouring down your dry throat—maids of some sort, you assumed. Servants that worked for the familiar man sitting directly next to you. His large brown eyes plead as he examines your body language. Those same freezing goosebumps mumbled threats against your clothed spine. You couldn't help but gasp as you caught his gaze.

"Eddie?" You know it isn't him, yet you couldn't hold the name back from leaving your agape lips. Suddenly, your lips felt overwhelmingly dry against your complexion, as if the very name spilled venom over your already split pout.

The man raises a hand, caressing your temple. A streak of blood paints his fingertips. Yet, he doesn't react to it like he does the fallen gladiators. This drop seems to offend him. You watch as his thick brows furrow in frustration, and he barks at a nearby servant. "I should never have brought you here. Either the persistent heat is flustering you, or the series of deaths in the arena." The same brows lift in anticipation. He is demanding. You've learned that rather quickly.

"Perhaps both." The Emperor's shoulders loosen slightly at your small smile. Studying your husband, you are seeing him for what he has never been before. In the flesh, Geta is cruelly pale. It is apparent he is decorated for the occasion, as his eyelids are messily black as if a toddler broke into their mother's makeup. Tousles of yellow curls flush against his head—a color you'd never expect your beloved to cherish. Familiar with seeing Eddie clad in an ocean of black, Emperor Geta is confidently donned in an array of vibrance and a parade of wealth. You supposed you were as well, as the tired eyes of the patrons sitting beneath you reminded you of your apparent status. Your status?

Conflicted in what was real and what was fantasy, you found yourself absorbing the sweet Roman air. It was better than you had envisioned in the museum. The clang of clashing swords mirrored the golden bangles decorating your wrists, clattering in their own fashion as you nonchalantly caressed your cheek. Your gaze avoided the violence raging before you. It was one thing to read about it and another to see it for yourself. Your gaze was not the only one paying no mind to the excitement. Reluctantly, turning to face the man beside you reminded you of your own boyfriend centuries into the future. Geta’s face was scrunched in skepticism, as if your thoughts were being whispered to him while you conjured them. The fine lines in his forehead mirrored those of Eddie's. The way he studied every inch of your being for maltreatment, injury, and inflicted imperfections was inherently familiar, just as it was romantic. It was extraordinary how different, yet similar, both men were.

Geta stretched out a gentle hand, where you met him with your own. The calluses imbedded into the plush of his parched flesh could not be the result of vigorous guitar playing but the executions of an emperor.

His attention to you was cut short by the demands of a cacophonous arena, ravenous for a gladiatorial victor. Concert venues you’d attended had nothing on the boisterous Colosseum crowd. The starving eyes of vengeful spectators met your seemingly naive ones. Children just the same age as Will Byers when he was taken scream piercingly for the Emperors to choose the inevitable fate of the loser. Spits of sours amongst miscellaneous objects hurled into the dirt-like stage. And as Geta arrogantly signifies approval for the unfortunate’s execution, your quick feet exit the secluded box—leaving you exempt from watching the gladiator’s life seep back into the earth.

Back in the palace, you'd somewhat begun to adjust to life in a different time period. It helped that with each step you took, someone was almost walking for you. Every corner you rounded, an anticipated item of decor greeted you pleasantly. This was your home after all, and it began to not feel so paranormal. Admitting to yourself that you were the historical wife of an emperor was a different feat altogether.

Finding yourself in the very bedroom you and the Emperor shared, you sat quietly in your desk chair. The mirror before you presented the makeup delicately added to your complexion. Paler than usual, you did not resemble the illness your brother-in-law wore pompously. Hair swept up into a neat updo, the skin of your neck was exposed. Goosebumps gathered along your shoulders as the bedroom door whisked open. Standing rather awkwardly, Geta once again resembled the man you loved in Hawkins. His shy demeanor struck you as peculiar. As he approached your sitting silhouette, a gentle kiss was felt on the side of your neck. "Something is different about you."

Heat settles into the pit of your stomach, finding yourself somewhat starved as his lips left behind a burn on your skin. Wanting more, you reply. "Admittedly, I am a bit scattered today."

Geta crouches down to your level, grabbing your hands in the process. How does this work exactly? Is it a vivid dream you'll be reluctant to wake from, or an alternate reality? His pleading eyes prompt guilt into your gut. "Darling, allow me to jog your memory." He says, though it resembles more of a beg. Effortlessly, your husband leads you across the grand palace. With each step echoing on the polished floor, Geta waves off the entourage of guards following suit. It is just the two of you standing under the beaming sun now, surrounded by a garden larger than the town of Hawkins itself. Still adorned in his attire from the Colosseum, Geta glows under the warm lighting. His yellow hair absorbs the glare, illuminating proudly in response. It is there that Geta embodies a God. Every inch of his entirety soaks in the golden brilliance. From the prominent bridge of his nose to the rise and fall of his armored chest, you admire him shamelessly.

"It is as if you do not recognize me." He admits. "As if this is your first time seeing me."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Geta shakes his head profusely, a frown etching on his pale face. He steps before you then, blocking the beaming sun from heating you any further. You are reminded that in this life, he controls your well-being. Yet, as his hand cups your cooling face, the Emperor is not your ruler, or your God, but your equal. "Your silence wounds me. Please, confide in me."

It is your turn to bob your head sideways in objection. A pitiful laugh escapes your stained lips. "You will think I am mentally disturbed."

The blond tilts your chin for easier access, dipping his head to caress his lips to yours. Embracing his kiss pleasantly, you bring a hand to the back of his neck—almost in desperation for the moment to never fully conclude. Against your mouth, Geta whispers. "I wish nothing but to bring life back to yours."

The man held you whilst waiting for your confession, yet you couldn't shake the concern that if you confessed, you'd be sent forward in time. Had you revealed the truth of your origin, would you wake up from this fantasy you had grown to adore? Eddie was presumably waiting for you in the 80s, where your life expectancy was much longer. Geta would die in a few years at the hands of his own brother, meaning your life would likely be cut short as well.

"I am not from this time. I'm from 1986." The statement felt as ridiculous to hear aloud as it did in the comfort of your head. Geta's gaze never left yours, but as if he could get any paler, any semblance of color drained right from his face. You imagined it seeping into the ground, just as the gladiator's had. Panic began to brew.

"I'm not understanding. You're from years into the future?"

"Yes, at least this version of me."

His lingering hand leaves your cheek, once again staining it with heat as it departs. Your husband runs the newly free hand over his hair, tousling the curls into a mess. "But you're here? You are my wife. We are married."

"I'm not exactly sure. It feels as if I'm dreaming. I suppose both things are true at once."

Geta nods in what appears to be acceptance. Whether or not he understands is unclear, but as he grabs a rose from the bush behind him, he appears to be in solitude. Fumbling with the green stem, you watch as uncertainty settles in his brown eyes. There are a million things he could ask you, compromising things that could change the outcome of the future and many series of events. The curiosities congregate at the front of his brain, pulling the infamous furrow between his brows. Yet, he won't ask. Instead, he brings his grip onto your clothed waist, pulling you into his firm body. The sun beats down on the two of you, though its embrace is nothing compared to the Emperor's. Geta tucks strands of hair behind your ear and offers you the white flower. "If this much is true," he begins. "I shall love you in every lifetime."

Geta presses his lips onto yours once more, and by the time you open your eyes again, you are back to where you started.

Seemingly in the museum once more, Eddie holds your head in his hands, as if it would roll off if he lessened his grip. He searches your face vigorously, brows pinched in desperation. He brings your limp hand to his lips and presses them to your skin. His long hair tickles you gently, yet you hiss as you feel a sting along your fingertip. Glancing down, you find a minuscule hole poked into the plush of your hand. Blood pours from the wound leisurely, as if plucked from the grasp of a rose's thorn.

[vicvinegarandhughhoney]

Dennis Reynolds is AUTISTIC!!!!

(At least, I headcanon him as such).

Here's why:

Sensory issues:

If you've watched the show, you probably already know what I mean, but Dennis really struggles to deal with sensory input. When there's a loud noise, he often covers his ears- like in Family Fight:

or he gets frustrated, lashing out at diners for being too loud (The Gang Dines Out), getting annoyed at Frank for chewing gum too loud.

It's worth noting that later on in this episode, Dennis can hear Frank chewing gum from the other room. He's clearly hypersensitive, and perhaps this even goes to explaining a little bit why his room is soundproofed? Could it be that rather than not wanting people to hear what's going on inside, he's desperate to block the noise coming from outside?? (this was suggested by @kod-lyoko , and I LOVE IT).

There are SO many examples of Dennis plugging his ears (often when the others don't react in such a strong way):

There are way too many examples to list here, and too many images I could give (the above were taken from @dennisboobs ' gif set) but hopefully you get the impression.

Social issues:

I feel like this one is pretty self-evident, but I find deconstructing the things Dennis does super fun, so I'm going to explain anyway: Dennis does NOT know how relationships work. There are a great deal of factors at play to cause this (I would argue that his early experiences in life definitely moulded his view in an unhelpful way) but the systematic way he looks at interactions REEKS of autism to me.

The DENNIS system is hardly peak autism representation (it's certainly not the bright and bubbly stuff people often talk about), but the fact that he has a system for romantic/sexual interactions, both for men AND women, feels super autistic-coded. He quite literally has a script which he follows to make interactions easier, one which he sticks to rigidly. And if anybody tries to implement this carefully thought out system incorrectly? Well, he'll let you know (e.g in The Dennis System episode where he blows up at Mac and Charlie for not getting it right at the fair).

He masks his social deficits well, but sometimes things don't go to plan. Sometimes, the girl on the cruise ship runs away, and Dennis announces that 'that's not supposed to happen'.

He comes off as creepy, but that's not his intention. He doesn't understand the way he's perceived by others in general- he thinks he's the King of St Joseph's, not realising he was actually an outcast all along. Just like a lot of autistic people, he didn't understand that he was on the fringes of society until it was thrust in his face, and that hurt.

Speech:

While Dennis often appears to speak pretty normally, there are a few occasions where his frustration causes this mask of normality to slip.

In The Gang Finds a Dumpster Baby, Dennis is caught off guard by the hipster's reading of him, and immediately goes back to Frank and Charlie, parroting almost the same words he heard right back to them, despite not seeming to understand them at all (perhaps a form of echolalia?).

"I'm out here trying to make a difference, and you're over here rummaging around in the trash like a couple of narcs! Okay, you can't just come down here with your mainline cashmere, mousse... quaff... hairspray, and start being like, a suburban tool!"

It's also worth noting that even the poetic way he speaks when he's angry could be a trait ?? As a recently diagnosed autistic person, in my report they spoke about how I used 'idiosyncratic' language (basically, peculiar language lol), and listed terms like 'connoisseur', which I guess were deemed pretty formal for casual conversation.

And it got me thinking, who else do we know who uses VERY idiosyncratic language? Dennis. Reynolds.

"The thunder of my vengeance will echo through these halls, like the gust of a thousand winds"

"Begone, vile man, begone from me!... I am untethered and my rage knows no bounds!"

"You didn't tell me there was to be pollen!"

Etc... etc...

The way he repeats 'savages, idiots!' during his rage at the frat bros feels very autism coded to me. Repetition of certain words and phrases is common!

Heightened emotions:

Again, something that I didn't know until I myself was diagnosed is that for a lot of autistic people, we spend most of the time at a pretty 'flat' emotional state, but when we do experience emotions, we experience them intensely. Frustration turns into anger, sadness turns into despair, happiness turns into ecstasy- it's why some autistic people might be misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder!

This, of course, fits well with the way Dennis experiences emotions. He spends a lot of the time believing he doesn't have any at all, and when he does feel something, it's overwhelming.

"And I have feelings! Of course I have feelings, I have big feelings, okay? And it hurts."

These lines hit hard regardless of the extra weight you put on them, but when you see them through the lens of autism, through the lens of a lifetime of misunderstanding and overstimulation, it makes them hit even harder.

It hurts him to feel. His emotions are so strong that they're painful, and he's never been taught how to deal with them, because nobody even knew he had them in the first place.

Stimming:

Finally, I think Dennis stims. A lot. If you search up 'Dennis Reynolds autistic' on this very site, you'll find gifsets and videos illustrating this.

He has a few very common ones, like tugging on his earlobe when he's anxious, playing with his fingers, etc, but if you pay attention to him even when he's in the background of scenes, you'll pick up on a lot. Dennis is constantly moving, and while you could suggest this is simply a result of Glenn's ADHD, I'd argue that some of these stims happen so frequently in Sunny specifically, that there's no way they're coincidental.

Glenn makes a lot of very specific acting and directorial choices in Sunny, so why dismiss these as choices too?

That's all I can be bothered to type up now, but here's my case for Autistic!Dennis ! Of course, he's a complex character so there's always room for different interpretations...

but as an autistic person, I hereby claim him as One Of Us™.

[star-clip]

But She Only Exists in The Dark Of My Room

A/N: Yandere!priest's introduction!! This character is inspired by a short manga I read called "My shrine was destroyed by a psychopath". Also, this story takes place in the 1920's, so, I hope you'll enjoy!!

Summary: The peace and tranquility that comes with being a spirit is not one you expected. You'd thought you'd feel lonely and empty, but you don't. That doesn't stop a certain priest from "saving you" from your supposed torment.

CW: Yandere, religious themes, mentions of ritual sacrifice

Word count: 2.3k (proofread)

There's a few things you don't understand, besides the obvious such as complex math or the meaning of life. You don't understand the importance of gender roles, the significance of over exaggerated luxury, and most of all, why some people can't heed the warnings they've been given.

You could swear up and down that this was the 20th person to come to your abandoned little academy in search of the rumored spirit haunting the halls, only to run out at the first sign of something supernatural.

Just a flicker of the lights or a sudden drop in temperature and they don't stay around long enough to come up with a reasonable explanation for what happened.

It's even worse when it's young men trying to impress a date with their bravery. It never ends well. Your face always cringes in second-hand embarrassment.

These people don't even come for the ghost anymore. They just want to brag to their friends about how they spent a whole night at the infamous St. Joseph's Academy! However moronic it may be.

You would never purposely try to harm anyone who comes in, but that still doesn't make it alright for people to come waltzing in, especially when they do think there's a vengeful spirit looming over and waiting to tear them apart as soon as they step foot inside amidst. Have they no survival instinct?

If someone didn't know any better, they'd assume you disliked the constant visits, and honestly speaking, they would be right.

Spirits and ghosts have two stereotypes: they're either malevolent and aggressive, or lonely and dejected. Although that may be a popular theme, it's not always true. Some fit into neither category. Like you.

You're not exactly evil, but you're also not rushing to be within someone's company. You prefer to spend your afterlife in solitude, quiet. Ever since you died, you realized just how much time you wasted with people you don't like out of fear of being alone. But when you look back on it now, you can't help but roll your eyes.

This innate fear of being alone is what led to your downfall. Hanging out with people who were just using you for a quick laugh or taking advantage of your anxieties. Forcing you onto that table, tied up and gagged, unable to even scream as they recite incantations.

A joke, they said. It was never meant to go that far, they pleaded. But it was too late. Next thing you know, you're staring down at your lifeless body as it lays in a bloody pool of it's own creation.

It's nearly impossible to cover up an incident like that, so it was no surprise that your academy was closed down shortly after. Not that it mattered to you anyway. Not any more.

You looked at this as an opportunity. A chance to experience true relaxation without interruption.

But alas, all good things must come to an end.

It was only a matter of time before panic filled the town. Of course those kids wouldn't keep their mouth's shut. What started off as a harmless local legend quickly became the root of everyone's nightmares. The reason they all look over their shoulder's when they're out.

What happens if this restless spirit grows stronger? What if they choose to take vengeance on the town and it's people? How would we stop them if they choose to wreak havoc?

Their concerns, no matter how incorrect, did not go unnoticed by the church. As the caretakers of this town, it's their job to dispel any fear the folk here may have.

They sent someone, a priest. One of the most trusted men in not only the church, but the community as a whole. They told the people to rest easy tonight, for the church was going to end this ghost tale once and for all.

You heard the door open. Sighing in exasperation. Don't those kids ever give up? You thought to yourself as you made your way to the main entrance. Although you didn't really care much about who exactly it was, you always checked to make sure they weren't here to cause any real trouble.

The sight that greets you is... unexpected.

A man, a priest, with long black hair. He wasn't young, maybe mid to late thirties. His jawline was sharp, low cheekbones that decorated his tan skin. Handsome. You thought. But then you looked into his eyes.

A shiver ran down your spine. You didn't even know that was possible for a ghost anymore. They were dark. Black eyes don't exist. They're biologically impossible. But there's no other way to define them. No other colors that are quite right. It's like a void.

You feel hypnotized, stuck in a trance. You're quick to look away from his eyes. You take a few steps closer to him, curious as to why he's decided to pay a visit to the town's supposed cursed building.

You scan over him. From his feet all the way to his shoulders. He was taller than you by a few inches. Enough to make you tilt your head to look at him, but not enough to make your neck sore from looking at him.

His eyes shot down, and yours followed suit. His gaze was now fixed on his hand where a brown rosary sat tightly in his grip. His other hand kept a book, a bible tucked in closely to him.

You circled him in suspicion. From who he was to how he was acting, you knew what he was here for. He was going to perform an exorcism, wasn't he?

Your eyes narrowed in caution. Normally, you wouldn't go out of your way to harm or even interact with any of the people who came. But you'd read one too many books in your day about spirits screaming in agony as their souls are forcibly removed from this earth.

The man brought his hands up, as if to speak a prayer, clasped tightly together, rosary in the middle and the bible tucked under his armpit.

You have to think of something. Quick. It's not the 'moving on' part that scares you, but the process. You don't want to experience pain like that ever again.

You try to push the man away but lo and behold, you're not strong enough to interact with anything tangible. Maybe you should have put in the practice long before.

He starts speaking in a different language. You recognize some words. It's Latin. His eyes were kept shut as he spoke without so much as a stutter or a stumble in his voice. You don't give up, you keep trying. Picking and pushing the man to no avail.

Your mind repeats the words "Don't let him finish. Whatever you do, do not let him finish." like a mantra. The anxiety of not knowing whether he's close to being finished, just in the middle, or no where near makes your metaphorical heart race.

You almost scream in surprise (you opt for a gasp instead) when you feel something, someone, stop you. Two large, rough hands grasp your wrists, effectively stopping you. Your eyes trails along the long black sleeves that cover them until they land on the priest.

With your eyes wide, you stare back into his own.

There's something sinister in the way he looks at you. Something dark. It contrasts the warm smile painted across his face. But that's not your main focus or concern.

How is he holding you? Touching you? How does he even see you? Better yet, why are you still here?

He's a priest in a haunted building, and he recited some sort of Latin verses. An exorcism, right? So, how come you still stood before him, unchanged?

You're lulled out of your confused daze by a gentle tug on your wrists, bringing them closer to him. "There you are~" His tone was sweet. Too sweet. It was sickening. A feeling of unease stirred up in the pit of your stomach.

You arms pulled back, attempting to escape his grip. But it only tightened. You tried again and again, each time with more force than the last. All pointless in the end as his hold stood strong. The sadistically sweet look he has never falters throughout your struggle. Every time you'd look back at him, it's like he didn't even blink. Maybe a few times, but not as much as a normal human would.

"What are you doing?" After a few minutes, you finally decide to speak up in a shaky tone. At this point, your gaze was fixed onto him, as if that would ground him in place.

His already unsettling smile morphed into a grin at the sound of your voice. "I'm keeping you." He paused for a second. "With me." He brings your hands closer to his heart. He spoke as if what he said made total sense, but it only made your confusion grow.

He must have seen the furrow of your brows, and the crease on your forehead because he opened his mouth once again to clarify.

"You're bound to me now, my beloved~" He brought one of your hands up to his lips, kissing your palm and nuzzling into your hand.

Fear, confusion, and irritation. Those were the emotions you were feeling at that moment. Fear from what this supposedly holy man had in mind, confusion over what he meant by his words, and irritation at the way he touched you as if you belonged to him.

You had so many questions you had to ask. You didn't know which one to ask first. You stuttered, opening and closing your mouth as you scrambled your thoughts into one.

"How can you see me? A-And touch me?" You ask hesitantly. He lets out a small, light chuckle. Is he laughing at you?

"Did you not hear the incantation I spoke earlier? What did you think it was?" You ran through your memory of just a few minutes ago. "That was a..." You trail off, hoping he would complete your sentence and give you the answer. "-A binding spell, beloved."

That haunting smile is still there. He speaks as if this is normal. Something logical that everyone knows of.

Without waiting for your input, he continues, "This one specifically is used to bind the soul of a spirit to the user. Of course, this means the spirit can't stray too far from their person, or disobey a direct order from them."

Your hand comes up to your mouth, muffling the huffs and pants that threaten to spill. This can't be right. Incantations, spells... There's no such thing. But then again, before you died, you didn't believe in ghosts.

Ghosts can't cry. It's biologically impossible. But that doesn't mean they can't still express their sadness and fears through similar means.

Both hands now came together, overlapping on your mouth as you breathed heavily. You felt like your knees were just seconds away from giving out completely, causing you to stumble a little as you tried to step away from him.

"No... No, no, no, no..." This can't be happening, you thought. The man's gaze seemed to soften when he noticed your fright. He placed a comforting hand on your cheek. "Oh, beloved. Don't be afraid. I would never harm you."

You wanted to scream. To push him away, bite his damn hand off to get it away from you. But you couldn't. He had cursed you. This man you had never met before, had never even known existed, cursed you.

The hand that was on your cheek went towards your wrist, moving it away from your face down to your side, holding it with his own so gently you almost forgot who's hand it was. He does the same with your other hand.

"We're going to be so happy together. You won't have to be alone anymore," His face came closer to yours, his lips hovering dangerously close over yours "And neither will I."

This man is insane. How did he even come to that conclusion?

He entwines his harm with yours, now standing at your side "Let's get you out of this wretched old building now.' You try to keep your feet firmly planted on the ground, but as if they had a mind of their own, they moved along with him outside of the building.

"Oh, how rude of me" The psychopath next to you said through a chuckle "I haven't even properly introduced myself yet, have I?"

If you were being honest, you weren't interested in his name. It won't make a difference in your predicament anyway.

"Father Deimos." You could hear his voice, you know these are words, but it just came out as noise to you. Like the information was being forcefully shoved into your ear and interpreted into your mind.

Did he even know your name?

"Oh, my beloved Y/N. I can't believe I finally have you~" He pulled you closer to his side, resting his cheek on the side of your head as you walked.

Question answered.

You walked with him through some woods. Your school was a bit distant from the town. You wish you could say you were being dragged to god knows where, but your feet followed him without so much of a fuss.

You're bound.

You didn't even understand the implications of that.

He mentioned before that you'll basically be by his side forever, that you'll obey his every command, but to what extent? Will you able to have your own thoughts? Your own feelings? Will you be allowed to hate him in the safe space that is your mind?

You feel dizzy, disoriented. You didn't even think that was possible anymore. But this man has showed you many things you thought impossible.

And now, you're bound to him. Forever his. To command, to play with, to let rot away or torture.

A tight grip settles on your arm, a reminder.

The choice was his. Not yours.

[virtie333]

The Lord is with you when you are with him, and if you seek him he will be present to you. (2 Chr 15:2)

[radiojamming]

Hey guys! We're looking at another severe weather outbreak tomorrow evening/night and it's shaping up to potentially get nasty. Like, bad enough that storm chasers I know are already either leaving for southern Kansas and northern Oklahoma, or backing out entirely because they're worried about what's going to happen. Last time, the post I made got a little bit of traction, so I thought I'd go for it again on the off chance that it's helpful at all.

Here are the following regions currently set to be impacted, according to today's (5/24) outlook from the Storm Prediction Center:

MODERATE (MDT): Oklahoma City, OK; Tulsa, OK; Wichita, KS; Norman, OK; Lawton, OK

ENHANCED (ENH): Kansas City, MO; Overland Park, KS; Kansas City, KS; Topeka, KS; Olathe, KS

SLIGHT (SLGT): Lincoln, NE; Springfield, MO; Abilene, TX; St. Joseph, MO; Fayetteville, AR

MARGINAL (MRGL): Dallas, TX; Columbus, OH; Fort Worth, TX; Cleveland, OH; Omaha, NE

The SPC will update this forecast tomorrow (5/25) morning and will monitor it throughout the day and make changes if need be.

Here are my tips (as well as @fruitsmother's great advice!) from the outbreak two weeks ago.

Another great resource for right-to-the-minute weather updates is Ryan Hall, who will more than likely livestream tomorrow and is great about providing watches and warnings as they come in and giving advice about what to do. He also runs a 501(c)(3) non-profit The Y'All Squad that provides assistance and relief in areas hit by severe weather events.

Just to hit some key points for this forecast and reiterate the biggest pieces of advice:

These storms are forecasted to produce damaging winds, large hail, and potentially strong or violent tornadoes. These storms may hit during the night, meaning there will be low visibility. Do not just rely on sight to monitor the weather; rotation may occur right above you and not all tornadoes are immediately visible. Listen to NOAA weather radio, news stations, or any other resource you may have.

If the weather gets bad, go to a basement or the lowest level of a building. If the building doesn't have a basement, go to the most interior room (usually a bathroom or closet) with no windows. If in a bathroom, consider bringing in couch cushions, pillows, or a mattress to cover yourself in case of falling debris.

Stay away from windows, especially with the potential for high winds and hail. Do not open your windows (see: common tornado myths).

DO NOT GO OUTSIDE TO WATCH. Even if there isn't a tornado, flying debris and huge pieces of hail falling at incredible speeds are a real issue! If you've never gotten clocked in the head with an ice chunk, now is not the time to find out how it feels!

If you haven't already done so, now is the best time to consider your severe weather plan and set up your safe place. Some items you might want to have on hand are things like flashlights or lanterns, extra batteries, phone chargers, food, water, clothing, blankets, several days' worth of medicine if needed, and a first aid kit. If you have pets, it might be best to put pet carriers, extra food, water, leashes, or anything else you may need in this area as well.

Review some basic first aid skills and tips.

If you're on the road, do not go up under an overpass. This is very '90s advice and has been proven either ineffective or outright dangerous. Go into a ditch and try to get yourself as low as possible.

In the worst case scenario of a tornado or other destructive event (microbursts, derechos, etc.), be a help, not a hindrance! Don't clog roadways; allow emergency personnel to get where they need to go!

Just as well, this is not a day for amateur storm chasers. Chaser convergence has been a real problem this year and as we've learned (unfortunately) in the past, tornadoes don't always follow their usual rules, which can put even the most seasoned chaser in danger. This is going to be a great day to watch Pecos Hank or Skip Talbot videos while being as safe as possible.

I'll keep you guys updated as the models from the SPC change or if anything else comes up. Mostly, stay safe!

[scotianostra]

January 4th 2011 saw Scotland lose one of it’s most talented singer/songwriters when Gerry Rafferty passed away.

Gerry Rafferty came across as a shy, introverted performer, he did little publicity and promotion for his music, preferring to place himself inside the recording studios, and letting the songs speak for themselves.

His introverted ways even went as far as to preferring art work for his albums depriving fans of photos of himself, although ‘Night Owl’ did feature some pics of Gerry in the studio on the LP’s sleeve. He was unlike any 'pop’ artist of the time, Rod Stewart, Elton John, Billy Joel and Paul McCartney were singers whose images were front and centre of their music and fame. Gerry struggled with fame and with alcoholism and depression and the increasingly erratic behaviour they spawned. Perhaps his upbringing didn’t help.

Rafferty was born in Paisley, an unwanted third son. His father, Joseph, was an Irish-born miner. His mother, Mary Skeffington, whose name would provide a Rafferty song title, dragged young Gerry round the streets on Saturday nights so that they would not be at home when his father came back drunk. They would wait outside, in all weathers, until he had fallen asleep, to avoid a beating. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d leave,” Mary told Gerry. Joseph died in 1963, when Gerry was 16.

Alcohol often played a part in Gerry’s songwriting, “One Drink Down”, “Baker Street”, and “Night Owl” at the time of writing these his marriage was struggling, it eventually ended in divorce in 1990 but they had been apart for some time, his ex-wife Carla said: “There was no hope. I would never have left him if there’d been a glimmer of a chance of him recovering.”

In July 2008 while staying in the five-star Westbury Hotel in Mayfair he began a four-day drinking session that left his room extensively damaged. Speaking to The Independent newspaper later, the hotel’s director commented: “It was such a shame. In person, Mr Rafferty was a really nice man, he kept himself to himself and didn’t bother the other guests but he was clearly on a downward spiral. He was in self-destruct mode.”

Conflicting reports and statements from his solicitors included a stay in St Thomas’ Hospital suffering from a chronic liver condition, brought on by heavy drinking, a newspaper reported that the hospital said he had left the hospital leaving all his belongings there and he had been reported missing, this proved to be false and the truth was he was moving from one London hotel to another. During this time, he met Enzina Fuschini, an Italian artist living in Dorset. Rafferty and Fuschini rented a large home together in Upton, near Poole, Fuschini claims she cared for the singer during 2009 and tried to help him overcome his alcoholism, and that he proposed to her at the Ritz Hotel in Paris on Christmas Eve that year.

In November 2010, Rafferty was admitted to the Royal Bournemouth Hospital where he was put on a life-support machine and treated for multiple organ failure. After being taken off life support, Rafferty rallied for a short time, and doctors thought that he might recover. Rafferty died of liver failure at the home of his daughter Martha in Stroud, Gloucestershire, on 4 January 2011.

A requiem mass was held in St Mirins Cathedral in Paisley on January 21st, attended by many politicians, and musical friends through the years, people from all over the world came to Paisley and listened to the mass, a spontaneous round of applause rung out as his coffin was driven away to the towns Woodside Crematorium, Gerry’s ashes were taken to the Holy Island of Iona and scattered, a sad loss to Scotland.

The following year Barbara Dickson Jack Bruce and the Proclaimers joined others along with the Rafferty Family for a tribute performance held Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow.

[john-laurens]

The Wealth of the Kinloch Family

Because the Kinlochs are not as widely known as the Laurenses, Rutledges, and other southern elite families of the 18th century, the extent of their wealth may not be readily apparent. In this post, I'll provide context for the level of wealth possessed by the Kinlochs, focusing primarily on Francis Kinloch Sr. (1720-1767) and his two sons Francis Jr. (1755-1826) and Cleland. tl;dr: The Kinlochs were obscenely wealthy due to the use of slave labor, and Francis Jr. was bad at managing his finances.

To begin, it is helpful to understand a bit of the Kinloch family history. I have a post here that discusses the hereditary titles held by members of the extended Kinloch family. While Francis Sr. was not in possession of such a title, he was closely related to a family of high social status in their ancestral home of Scotland. Francis Sr. would marry Anne Isabella Cleland, the only daughter of another prominent South Carolinian family with Scottish ancestry. Their union - including the merging of their extensive properties - is described in Africans in the Old South: Mapping Exceptional Lives across the Atlantic World by Randy J. Sparks (p. 24):

John Cleland, a native of Scotland and a relative of William Cleveland, moved to South Carolina in 1735 with his wife, Mary Perry, who had inherited considerable property in the colony, including the site of Georgetown. Cleland quickly rose to prominence and became a member of the Royal Council in 1740 and served until his death in 1760. The couple's only daughter, Anne Isabella, married the only surviving son of James Kinloch, another prominent South Carolinian, a native of Scotland, and member of the Royal Council from 1720 to 1757. That union made the couple almost unimaginably rich; both Anne and Francis inherited vast properties, and they owned a number of the Lowcountry's finest rice plantations including the Rice Hope, Kensington, Rosemont, Willow Bank, Winyah, Weehaw, and Boone Hall plantations and property in Charleston.

Francis Sr. went on to become one of the foremost indigo planters in the colonies. In The Papers of Henry Laurens collection (TPHL), there are several references to Henry Laurens working with Francis Sr. on planting indigo and deferring to Francis's expertise:

"The Barrel of Indigo Seed is directed to Francis Kinloch, Esquire. (Footnote: Francis Kinloch died at Rice Hope plantation on the Santee on June 2, 1767. He was so successful as an indigo planter that the London Daily Advertiser, Aug. 18, 1767, noted his death by quoting from the Gazette, June 15, that he was 'one of the most considerable and successful Indico planters in this province.'" - Henry Laurens to Peter Horlbeck, April 18, 1765 (TPHL vol. 4) "I send you by Sam two Hoes contrived by Mr. John Cuthberth & therefore called Cuthberth's Hoes which I find are getting much into Vogue for Clay & hard new Land. Mr. Kinloch assures me that they are abundantly better than narrow Hoes and almost equal to a plough. Try these & if they answer the character given of them I shall get some more of the sort." - Henry Laurens to John Smith, February 27, 1766 (TPHL vol. 5) "I want Iron work for an Indigo Pump Machine which one Mr. Dicky is going to build for me at Mepkin, & am told by him that nobody can serve me so well as Mr. Kinloch's Smith near George Town who is used to such work." - Henry Laurens to Joseph Brown, May 10, 1766 (TPHL vol. 5) "I do think that Money may be made on that [St. Johns] River by Lumber & Shingles of Cypress & my expectations of Rice are very sanguine but the success of Mr. Kinloch, Mr. Gray, & your self will confirm or blast them." - Henry Laurens to William Bartram, September 17, 1766 (TPHL vol. 5) "I return Your Excellency many thanks for the offer of £2,000 Sterling in Bills of Exchange upon loan. If we were flush in the African Trade such a proposition would be extremely agreeable & I could dispose of the Money to advantage at present I have no occasion to borrow. But I shall look about & if I can find such hands as Mr. Kinloch would not have refused I shall recommend them to Your Excellency." - Henry Laurens to James Grant, January 28, 1768 (TPHL vol. 5)

A summary of Francis Sr.'s wealth at the time of his death is given in The History of Georgetown County, South Carolina by George C. Rogers, Jr. (5th printing, pp. 100-101):

At the time of his death in 1767 his personal estate was valued at £133,131.5.6 currency, which included 338 slaves and a mansion house in Charleston. His home in Charleston was filled with marble tables, glass lanthorns, and mahogany furniture. There were twenty-one table cloths, twelve pair pillow cases, five "pavillions" (mosquito nets), two flower china vases worth £40, prints worth £70, and in his stables a £600 chariot, a £150 phaeton, and £60 chair, besides plate on his sideboard valued at £1,148.14. ... He died at Rice Hope on June 2, 1767, "one of the most considerable and successful Indico planters in this province."

Based on this currency converter from The National Archives of the United Kingdom, £133,131.5.6 in the 1760s would be worth approximately £13,640,936.64 in 2017. I am not sure if this accurately reflects the inflation/exchange rates for pounds in the American colonies, but it gives a general idea of the wealth possessed by the Kinloch family. It should be noted that the Kinlochs' ability to attain such an obscene level of wealth was due to their use of slave labor across their many plantations. While Francis Sr. is credited as being perhaps the most successful indigo planter in the colonies, the true credit should be attributed to the enslaved people who actively planted, tended, and harvested this crop.

For the remainder of this post, much of the information will be taken from documents I accessed from the "Kinloch family history and genealogy research files" in the South Carolina Historical Society archives. Any quoted sections attributed to Anne Kinloch or a Kinloch descendant are from this collection. Letters between Francis Jr. and Johannes von Müller are transcribed from the microfilm held by the American Philosophical Society. I will note additional sources when used.

The will of Francis Sr. stipulated that the Kensington and Weehaw plantations would go to his sons Francis Jr. and Cleland. His daughter Mary Esther would "receive 1,000 English guineas if she would sign away her share in the plantations … She would also receive an annuity of £150 S.C. currency plus the rent from two tenements in Charleston" (footnote #2 for the letter from Henry Laurens to John Hopton dated February 23, 1771, TPHL vol. 7). The estate of Francis Sr. would not be fully divided among the sons until 1784 when Francis Jr. and Cleland were both of age and were both back in South Carolina after receiving their educations in Europe. Francis Jr. received Kensington while Cleland received Weehaw.

While abroad in Europe, Francis Jr. and his family would make several references to their finances. In a March 10, 1776 letter to her son Francis Jr., Anne Cleland Kinloch noted that her son Cleland "was so obliging as to send you [Francis Jr.] a £1000 pounds Ster, from Philadelphia, & a thousand in indigo from hence, you must be frugall my dear, as I dont know when you'll get any more, unless it can be sent by way of France or Holland to you, which is at present both uncertain, & unsafe." In a letter to Johannes von Müller dated August 3, 1777, Francis Jr. wrote that he was "Born to a fortune as ample as was necessary to render me independent, for upon moderate Computation My Brother & I would have been worth a thousand a year each, I find myself reduced to thank a Merchant for allowing me what I can just live upon for one year." In a later letter to Müller (February 21, 1778), Francis Jr. wrote, "My merchant who like Mr Boone sticks to me in these times of universal distress, has promised me two hundred Pounds more, but adds, nor do I wonder at it, that it will be out of his power to supply me with any more, so that I must make my two hundred pounds last as long as possible, & return to Carolina at the end of it should Nothing happen in the Mean time." While the ongoing American Revolutionary War impacted the security of their income and their ability to safely send money across the Atlantic Ocean, the Kinloch family was certainly not wanting for money, as evidenced by the fact that Francis Jr. was able to receive £1,000 and additional saleable indigo from his family and several hundred pounds from his merchant. Based on the currency converter linked above, £1,000 in the 1770s would be worth approximately £87,255.30 in 2017.

Like his father before him, Francis Jr. (and the rest of his family) relied on slave labor to make their fortune. Müller noted in a 1775 letter to his sister that "One of these Kinlochs [Francis Jr.] now commands 1200 negroes." This number is in contrast to the 338 slaves noted to be owned by Francis Sr. at the time of his death (see above). It is possible that Müller had an incorrect number for the number of slaves owned by Francis Jr. and his family, or it is possible that the 338 number referred to the number of slaves present at only one plantation. Francis Jr. also discussed with Müller, both while they lived together in Geneva and in their written correspondence, his plans for managing his slaves and plantations: "You used to laugh at me in our Walks at Genthod, when I amused myself with sketching [out] plans for the [regulation] of my Negroes in Carolina, but alas, my Muller, my ambition has now no other resource, for as to the Law, I execrate, & detest it, & as to the more pleasant walks of ambition, my ill fortune, or if you please, my pride & indolence have cut me off from them, happy alone in not having been deluded for any considerable time._" (November 13, 1777).

The Kinlochs were flush with blood money, and Francis Jr. lived lavishly and with little financial discretion. A Kinloch descendant who gathered biographical information on Francis Jr. noted that "He being the eldest Son was brought up to expensive habits and ran through all his property." Throughout his letters to Müller, Francis Jr. made several references to his spending habits, which often focused on sex workers and other pleasures:

"Though not œconomical, I am far from extravagant, & yet my money does not hold out._" - Francis Kinloch Jr. to Johannes von Müller, July 10, 1777 "I hate London from my soul in summer time, & then ones chastity is in danger at every step._ I am acquainted with a sweet, pretty girl, with black eyes, & a sensible look; but it Cost Me as much to pass one night with her, as it would to purchase all the Maidenheads that remain Within 30 miles of Berne_" - Francis Kinloch Jr. to Johannes von Müller, September 5, 1777 "You ask, I see it by your countenance, what I have done with 830* Pounds, spent since I have been in England, Why faith! I should be puzzled to give You a good account of it, All I can say is that my expectations, & my ignorance made Me less œconomical at first, that I have been obliged to have Clothes made, that Magninac [Francis’s valet] & Wit [Francis’s dog] have run away with near fifty Pounds between them, that Coming fresh from Italy it was some time before I could reconcile Myself to the Changes in my manner of life, & to crown all, that this town abounds With the Prettyest women in the World, Who are to be had for money; nor am I, You Know, insensible. Whilst I lived With You, & my Mind Was perpetually taken up, I was satisfied With the fortuitous enjoyment of a Savoyard girl, or a not-ugly beggar Woman_ But far different has been the case here_" - Francis Kinloch Jr. to Johannes von Müller, February 2, 1778 *This number could potentially be 330, but either way, this is a very large sum of money. £330 in the 1770s would be worth approximately £28,794.25 in 2017, and £830 in the 1770s would be worth approximately £76,784.66 in 2017. "There is no living Cheap in this Place of temptations" - Francis Kinloch Jr. to Johannes von Müller, February 21, 1778 "Who Knows, but What, if I had enjoyed my estate from my coming of age, I might have contracted a habitude of debauchery & expense, which would have made me more Miserable than it is in the Power of fortune to do." - Francis Kinloch Jr. to Johannes von Müller, February 21, 1778

It is interesting that Francis Jr. believed his lifestyle to be "not extravagant" and that he had avoided living a life "of debauchery & expense" despite the hundreds to thousands of pounds he was spending each year.

Finances and the security of his estate played a large part in Francis Jr. deciding to return to America and take up arms against England. In a letter to Müller dated November 13, 1777, Francis Jr. acknowledged that accepting a position in the English civil service would likely have resulted in his estate being confiscated: "Suppose L[ord] N[orth] had had it in his power to gratify my ambition with some residency abroad; the most it could have been worth to Me would have been 8 or 9 hundred a Year, now see What the Consequences would have been_ The Americans have too many spies in England for this matter to have remained a Secret in Carolina, where it would have been Known in two or three months, & I have not the least doubt but what my estate would have immediately confiscated, an irreparable loss, as My Negroes who form the most valuable part would soon be scattered over the whole province." Francis Jr.'s lack of participation in the war could also have been taken as a loyalist stance and thus could have resulted in his property being confiscated. Francis Jr.'s property was also subject to additional taxation if he did not return to America, as "a South Carolina act passed March 28, 1778 ... included a provision to double tax all absentees who had reached the age of twenty-one" (footnote #5 for the letter from Henry Laurens to John Laurens dated September 17, 1778, TPHL vol. 14). Francis Jr. had turned 21 in 1776 and would have been subject to this tax. However, Francis Jr. sailed for America in April 1778, so it is unclear if he knew about the implementation of this act. He would arrive in America in September 1778 and would serve as an aide to various officers in the American military.

Francis Jr.'s fears of property confiscation and/or taxation were not unfounded. Cleland remained abroad during the war and did not return until 1783. Cleland's property was amerced, as described in The History of Georgetown County, South Carolina by George C. Rogers, Jr. (5th printing, pp. 160-161):

"The Kinlochs did suffer for their failure to embrace the patriot cause with sufficient fervor. But even they only suffered in that Cleland Kinloch was amerced 12 percent of his estate; he did not lose his plantations. Francis and Cleland Kinloch had been in school in England and Switzerland* when the Revolution broke out. Their estates were administered for them by Thomas Boone, former Royal Governor of South Carolina. Francis returned home in the summer of 1778, was elected to the Continental Congress, and took up arms on the patriot side; Cleland did not. After Cleland's estate had been amerced, Francis petitioned the Senate of South Carolina in his brother's behalf, explaining that his brother had been sent by the executor of his father's will to England at an early age for his education." *While Francis was educated in England and Switzerland, Cleland was educated in England, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany.

Despite this setback, Cleland appears to have been a better businessman than his brother. According to a descendant, Cleland pursued an education in the Low Countries of Europe with a desire for "mercantile life & learning business and languages." In a letter to Francis Jr. dated March 10, 1776, Anne Cleland Kinloch wrote that Cleland "intends to be a merchant. Your Sister is highly pleased with the notion and says he shall bring up all her sons, Cleland you know was ever the most saving of the two & seems not to have lost the industrious spirit he ever had." A descendant described Cleland's success in cultivating his plantation:

Cleland was an able and efficient man, of fine judgment & charming disposition and manners, and his life in Scotland & the Low Countries had made him business like and œconomical besides. Having received Wehaw plantation, and his portion of his fathers estate and negroes, he proceeded to improve and enlarge the plantation (long cultivated and partly watered under the system of large reservoirs) over the river swamp, and islands, and extend the cultivation under the new tidal system. And he erected there, on Mr. Lucas' plans, one of the first improved rice mills in Carolina, and operated by tidal water power, like the tide mills of Bourdeaux & Holland. His education & residence in the Low Countries facilitated this and he became an extensive and successful planter and made Wehaw on[e] of the finest & best managed plantations in the Country. Note: "Some of these machines (Rice Mills) have been lately improved by Mr. Lucas, his Son, & Mr Cleland Kinloch, of Georgetown, to such an extent that from the beating out of the grain to the packing it in barrels for market the whole & every part is particularly the same impelling power" (Ramsey Hist: S. Carolina 11. p. 257? 207). He also extended the employment of animal power, using many oxen, and draugh[t] animals and in 1784 and afterwards added to Wehaw large tracts of pine forest lands, which increased the place to about 5000 acres. Also when opportunity allowed he improved the grounds by planting trees and establishing gardens under the supervision of the new Scotch gardiner sent from Gilmerton.

In contrast, Francis Jr. struggled with his finances and the management of his property throughout his life. Francis Jr.'s granddaughter Sarah Lewis Simons Lesesne wrote that "Grandpapa from Carelessness about Receipts and expenditures[,] Security debts and dishonest agents, found himself when over 70 compelled to give up his old Family home adorned with beautiful trees of his own planting and resign himself to comparative poverty." "Kinloch of South Carolina" by H. D. Bull (The South Carolina Historical and Genealogical Magazine, vol. 46, no. 2, p. 67) describes that, after Francis Jr. and his family returned from a multi-year trip to Europe in the early 1800s, "he found himself much reduced in fortune and was obliged to part with all of his property except Kensington. There he made his home until 1824 when the place was sold to Henry August Middleton for the sum of $40,000 which finally enabled him to discharge his debts." Henry August Middleton was married to Harriett Kinloch, the daughter of Cleland and therefore Francis Jr.'s niece. After this, Francis Jr. seems to have lived with his daughter Anne Cleland Kinloch Simons and her family in Charleston. Anne's daughter Sarah recalled her grandfather "with no taste for luxury in any form, with the simplest tastes and habits, a small bed in the corner of the Library his peculiar choice, a bowl of gruel often his breakfast." This description provides a stark contrast to the extravagance of Francis Jr.'s youth. Francis Jr. died in 1826, and his funeral was held at his daughter Anne's house.

[fnatweety]

Constitutional Attorney KrisAnne Hall writes:

America’s greatness? Simple—it was established in personal liberty, secured by a limited and defined Constitutional Republic.

But that truth was buried around 1830 when federal supremacists enlisted Joseph Story to rewrite the Constitution—not by amendment, but by poisoning legal education with federal and judicial supremacy nonsense. Had we stuck with St. George Tucker and Joseph Wilson, we’d be far better off.

The real tragedy? Most lawyers and judges don’t even realize America was rewritten—stolen—through post-Constitution indoctrination. Worse, they were the weapon used to bludgeon liberty to death.

The only way back? Restore accurate teaching of our Constitutional Republic as a contract, bound by contract law’s meeting of the minds. The Constitution isn’t up for “interpretation,” and the courts were never meant to be the ruling oligarchy.

You can find her on X and on the web at https://www.krisannehall.com

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I can't believe that this phenomenal 1888 Victorian in St. Joseph, MO is less than $1m. 4bds, 4ba, 5,062 sq ft, $765k.

The woodwork is incredible and it looks like they used Bradbury & Bradbury wallpaper. These Victorian homes that have the sitting area for waiting guests in the main hallway are pretty cool.

Sunny regular sitting room off to the side has a wonderful fireplace and stained glass. There're also window seats, pocket doors, and leaded glass.

Elegant dining room. The floors in this home are incredible. All of the woodwork is perfectly preserved and the fireplace surrounds have such colorful mosaic tiles.

Look at the rounded wall and window. This leather table looks like a gaming table- would be great for a puzzle. Beautiful fireplace, too.

Glimpse of the stunning vintage 1/2 bath shows several original features.

The kitchen remodel is good, b/c it matches the original wood, but the counter seating around the island throws it off a little.

Coming up the stunning stairs- arches, wood ceiling, carved railings, and a stained glass window.

Wainscoting along the hall to the bedrooms.

The primary bedroom is so beautiful.

And, look at this- a balcony.

This ensuite bath is utterly incredible. The wood, marble, and reproduction fixtures are just superb.

Look at the rounded closet.

Linen closet in the hall.

The black and gold look lovely in this bedroom.

Wait. I recognize this absinthe holder in the home office. I posted this home before. I can't believe it didn't sell, especially for the price. It's a steal.

I also recognize the guest bedroom and bath with the mini sauna. I don't think I could even fit in that thing.

Nice garage. Look at the little door on the end.

The yard is large enough to put in a pool, patio, etc.

The home has beautiful carvings outside.

Lots of trees make the 1.57 acre lot very private.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/631-Hall-St-Saint-Joseph-MO-64501/110497130_zpid/

[black-arcana]

GARBAGE Announces Summer/Fall 2025 North American Tour

Influential alternative rock band GARBAGE will embark on a 31-city tour across North America this fall in support of their anticipated eighth studio LP, "Let All That We Imagine Be The Light". "Happy Endings" will see stops at New York's Brooklyn Paramount, Washington D.C.'s The Anthem, San Francisco's The Warfield and more. Tickets will go on sale April 4.

For over thirty years, GARBAGE's powerful live show has captivated audiences and continues to inspire worldwide adoration. "Happy Endings" marks GARBAGE's first extensive headline tour in the U.S. in almost ten years.

"Let All That We Imagine Be The Light", set for release May 30, is the follow-up to 2021's critically acclaimed "No Gods No Masters", praised in The New York Times as a "thrumming mix of goth and orchestral pop." According to singer Shirley Manson, the new album was forged out of the need to find an uplifting thread amidst the swell of chaos and extraordinary upheaval in the world.

GARBAGE consists of all four original band members: Manson, Duke Erikson, Steve Marker and Butch Vig. Over the 30 years since their inception in 1995, they have sold over 20 million albums. Their unique sound, songwriting and electric live performances have cultivated global admiration, chart success and critical acclaim. They are considered one of the most influential bands of their generation.

"Happy Endings" tour dates:

September 3 - Orlando, FL - Hard Rock Café September 5 - Pompano Beach, FL - Pompano Beach Amphitheatre September 6 - St Petersburg, FL - Jannus Live September 8 - Atlanta, GA - The Eastern September 10 - Nashville, TN - The Pinnacle September 12 - Cleveland, OH - Agora Theatre September 13 - Detroit, MI - Masonic Cathedral Theatre September 16 - Philadelphia, PA - Franklin Music Hall September 17 - Washington, DC - The Anthem September 18 - Boston, MA - Roadrunner September 20 - Brooklyn, NY - Brooklyn Paramount September 23 - Pittsburgh, PA - Stage AE September 24 - Toronto, ON - History September 29 - Chicago, IL - The Salt Shed September 30 - Newport, KY - MegaCorp Pavilion October 1 - Columbus, OH - KEMBA Live! October 3 - Madison, WI - The Sylvee October 4 - Minneapolis, MN - First Avenue October 6 - Kansas City, MO - Midland Theatre October 7 - Dallas, TX - The Bomb Factory October 12 - Denver, CO - The Mission Ballroom October 15 - Seattle, WA - Paramount Theatre October 18 - Spokane, WA - Knitting Factory Spokane October 20 - Vancouver, BC - Orpheum October 21 - Portland, OR - McMenamins Crystal Ballroom October 23 - Saratoga, CA - The Mountain Winery October 24 - San Francisco, CA - The Warfield October 26 - Reno, NV - Silver Legacy Resort Casino October 29 - Salt Lake City, UT - Rockwell at The Complex October 31 - Las Vegas, NV - The Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas - The Chelsea November 2 - Phoenix, AZ - The Van Buren

"Let All That We Imagine Be The Light" is unmistakably GARBAGE. All the hallmarks and signatures for which they are known are present here. Big angular guitars, precise, propulsive beats and cinematic soundscapes all lurk beneath Shirley Manson's unmistakable voice, her lyrics bristling with attitude. This is the sound of a group at the peak of their creative powers — characteristically harnessing sonic juxtapositions and moods to create an album that thrums equally with both light and shade.

Butch Vig says: "We used a lot of analogue synths and sound design on the album, as they seemed to fit the dystopian vibes we were all experiencing. We started recording the album with a clean slate, although given what's happening in the U.S. and the rest of the world, it's inevitable that the madness starts to infiltrate the songs. But we definitely wanted the record to have some hope, some light, to convey the feeling that people have the power."

Photo credit: Joseph Cultice