#bedroom furniture massachusetts

[rachelgreen071]

What Is the Best Time of Year Is Buy Furniture?

Depending on the sort of furniture you're purchasing, there is an optimum time to buy. The best outdoor furniture discounts take place from the Fourth of July to Labor Day, while inside furniture is more affordable in the winter or summer. Deals on custom furniture have varying time frames.

Here, it would be wise to mention how things have changed somewhat since then. Standard sales trends are being impacted by the economy's transformation and a recovering supply chain. Consumer demand is being tempered by inflation, and many furniture merchants have more than enough inventory. You can be pleasantly pleased by an expanding assortment and even decreased pricing if you're looking to buy furniture.

Winter And Summer Indoor Furnishings by best furniture stores in MA

The business cycle for the furniture sector is typically taking place every other year. Every spring and fall, new indoor furniture types are introduced on the market, so if you want to obtain a good deal, you should start browsing in the months just before the new styles are released.

One must be patient if you can't find the ideal sofa at the ideal price because furniture is an expensive buy. There are nearly always sales in the furniture sector, if the regular advertising you see and hear is any clue. In a few months, if the item you're looking for isn't currently on sale, it might be.

Take your time and you must visit furniture stores in Worcester for effective furniture. This will not only make it easier for you to get the greatest offers and pricing, but it will also help you create a distinctive look for your house.

[everytechever]

IKEA launches Club exp community for the youth

express, explore, experience: Club exp is here! The online community club for the youth by #IKEA. #shopping #community #lifestyle #everytechever

The first-ever youth community club from IKEA is here! Club exp is an online community launching first here in the Philippines. This free club is open for young teens ages 13-20 years old where they can express, explore and experience IKEA like never before. IKEA dubs Club exp their ‘gamified loyalty club’ where members are rewarded for completing missions about their home life, school life, and…

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I feel so bad for this beautiful 1805 home in New Bedford, Massachusetts. It wants to be a home again, b/c it's currently being used as an office. Why is this allowed? I hope someone buys it and puts it back. 6bds, 4ba, reduced from $1.05M to $980, probably b/c of what they did to the kitchen, alone. Let's assess the damage and what has to be done.

Okay, they get points for leaving the original railing and putting a nice runner on the stairs. They left the chandelier and painted the woodwork white. But at least it's original. I could live w/the white. The Exit sign and industrial fire alarm need to go, along w/the water cooler. And, the indoor/outdoor carpeting comes up, too.

The sitting room looks nice- I wonder if they painted the walls a more homey/Victorian color and put some furniture around. Thankfully, they didn't put in neon lights and the fireplace is original.

The fireplace is here. That doesn't look like wainscoting, though, it looks like molding.

They completely eliminated the kitchen, but kept the pantry. So, it needs a whole new kitchen.

I don't know if they put up that wall w/the door.

This is what's behind the wall. It was probably a sun porch.

Maybe this is a dining room. The windows are beautiful.

A staff kitchen upstairs.

Oh, no, they made built-in cubicles. Get the sledgehammer.

This door has a fire safety opener, I guess you can live with that.

Well, the back yard's gone and there's a series of ramps and stairs, plus parking. The lot measures .51 acre.

There appears to be a side yard.

And, they cut the front yard in two to make a large drive with an entrance and an exit. There's a lot to do to make it a home again.

[thatswhatthepoetssay]

Born in Flames |

Tate Langdon x Reader

Word Count: 1,012

synopsis: Can the devil himself find comfort in simple things? Or does he crave something more cynical..

We are born alone and we die alone, but what happens after?

The raindrops were flowing down the car window as houses passed me by in a frenzy of color. My parent’s car pulls at a stop next to the shiny black gates of the famous “Murder House.” The new residence of the Harmon family, the perfect home to start over.

“Alright girls, why don’t you head inside and pick out your bedrooms.” Says Vivian as she starts to gather her belongings.

The wooden floors creaked as Violet and I stepped through the threshold of the mansion. Walking up the grand staircase was like descending into the unknown yet familiar abyss. The smell of vinegar was overpowering to say the least, in an attempt to get away from it I stepped into the first room I could find.

It was a bedroom with cerulean colored walls, two windows next to each other and arcs decorating the ceiling. The room reminded me of my childhood, before my parent’s murder that is.

In 1994 both of my parents got invited to speak at a local high school. I was two years old when I received the news of my parents death. Turns out the day that they were visiting the school, some kid decided to play god. He shot and killed fifteen people that day, two of them being my parents.

Since Vivan knew my parents, she offered to adopt me. After a long plane ride from California to Massachusetts I finally met my step sister, Violet. During our childhood Vi and I got along quite well, but as high school came around we drifted apart.

Now because of Ben I was standing in a house a few blocks away from my family home. Finding out that you are moving to Los Angeles sounds like a dream right? Wrong, it felt more like a waking nightmare, but both Ben and Vivian were sure that this was the place to be.

——————————————————————————

“So, is this the room that you picked?” Questions Violet as she enters the azule bedroom.

“Um yeah I guess so.. it has a nice atmosphere.” I answer while giving the room one last look.

After our short exchange both Violet and I head back downstairs to help our parents with the boxes. The movers arrived shortly after to move in our furniture and the heavier items. Overall the day seemed to be going quite well, peaceful even. That is until one of our neighbors decided to pay us an unexpected visit.

Turns out that said neighbour was a middle aged woman who lived in the house next to ours. She spent most of her visit talking to Vivian, but of course after a while she came around to greet the entire family. After a quick “hello” in Ben’s direction and a brisk conversation with Violet, it was my turn to meet the blonde woman.

“Saving the best for last I see… you must be YN. I’m Constance, I live next door.” Said the blonde as she made her way to where I was standing.

“Yes ma’am that’s me, it’s lovely to meet you.” I tried my best to sound as genuine as possible, but it was hard to deny that Constance gave me the creeps. Something about her just didn’t sit right with me.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes… and so well mannered.” Said Constance as she studied me for a few more moments before moving on. By the time she said her goodbyes to Ben and Vivian, I was already heading up the grand staircase.

——————————————————————————

After a few more hours of unpacking, it was time to head off to bed. I grabbed my pajamas along with some hygiene products and headed off to the bathroom.

The cold water felt so refreshing against my flushed face, the LA heat was definitely no joke. As I continued splashing my face with the cooling liquid, I swear I felt a sudden gust of wind hit my bare legs.

Not bothering to wipe my face with the towel, I moved closer to the air conditioning duct. No matter how close my hand was to the vent, I couldn’t feel any of the frigid air from before. After a while I decided to forget about the incident and try to get some sleep.

My first night in the famous “Murder House” went by quickly and rather peacefully. For the first time in months I could truly say that I got a good night's rest. This was the first night in a long time that I didn’t have any nightmares, it felt as if someone scared them away.

——————————————————————————

The following morning went by in a blurry haze, and before I knew it the time on the clock read four pm. I decided to head downstairs and make myself some chamomile tea. As I was waiting for the tea kettle I heard a light knock on the front door. When I opened it I was expecting to see Constance or maybe the mailman, however both of those guesses were wrong.

It was a boy around my age, if not a bit older, he had blonde curly hair and wore a 90’s style outfit.

“Hello, I’m Tate. I uh live next door.”

“I’m YN, come on in.” I responded as I moved out of the way so that he could get in the house.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Tate commented on the decorations and furniture we put up the day prior.

“Oh um thanks, not to be rude but did you need something?” I questioned as the blonde looked at the picture frames hanging on the walls.

“Yeah actually here to see Ben Harmon.”

“You’re a patient of his?” I asked as my curiosity got the best of me.

Before Tate could answer, Ben came out of his office and introduced himself to the blonde. After a few minutes of small talk, Ben guided Tate towards the office and just like that both of them disappeared behind the closed doors.

——————————————————————————

PS. Im going to be taking a break soon but I will be back here in a few weeks. Requests are open so please feel free to send them! <3

[tahitiwoke]

CHARACTER FOCUS  →  THE D.C. TOWNHOUSE

valued at $3.29 million dollars, located near the senators park on massachusetts ave, most of the furniture came with the house. one bedroom with an ensuite, an office and a spacious walk-in closet; the kitchen and living are a joined diner, with a den snug phil has furnished with a round table bay window sleeper.

[beaumontproctor]

wanted connections; the beekeeper & the candle maker

biography | family history | aesthetic | relationships | wanted plots

PLATONIC. 

childhood friends this connection would have to be either from cardinal hills or the very local area, and between the ages of late 30s to early 40s. they could be from elementary, middle or high school or the children of friend's of his parents.

old friends friends that beau has made in the past during his adult life. they could be from salem, massachusetts when he lived with his uncle, from the summer programme at harvard, from community college in massachusetts, or from his time living in England. did they move to cardinal hills to be close to beau, or was it a happy coincidence?

new friends friends that beau has made recently, maybe they just moved to cardinal hills in the last year or so.

unlikely friends this friendship shouldn't work, but it does. people from the outside don't quite understand why they'd be friends because they're so different, but beau and these friends get along despite their differences.

master & apprentice beau has been looking for someone to pass on the knowledge of beekeeping and candlemaking, just like his uncle did with him. age doesn't matter so long as they're eager to learn and dedicated, although he would prefer those who know of witches so he doesn't have to hide anything. however, ignorant humans are also welcome.

wing-man/wing-woman these two help each other get a date, or a one night stand. they're close enough to know each other's type, and supportive enough to drag enough other out to find them. open to all genders.

drinking buddies beau might be an upstanding member of the community, but he likes a relaxing drink. these are the friends he's made at the bar, and that's the place they mostly see each other.

fake boyfriend ‘for hire’ this connection is open to all genders, beau is happy to pretend he's not only for the guys if it helps get a friend out of a sticky or annoying situation. maybe you need a quick, convenient boyfriend for a wedding, or to make someone jealous? beau is down, honestly, he secretly loves the mischief and the drama.

friends with non-sexy benefits beau is handy in a lot of ways - he can DIY, he's got eggs, vegetables, herbs, goats milk, and spare unsellable products. he can fish, he can forage, he's big and strong for moving furniture. he also has a spare bedroom to crash. he's open to trading instead of money, so maybe there's also some non-sexy benefits for him too.

ROMANTIC.  note; this muse is homosexual and open to age-gap relationships.

first love / high school crush either beau's first love, or just a little crush that didn't go anywhere. lots of potential here. friends to lovers. academic rivals to lovers. this connection would have to be close in age to beau (41-44) and went to high school in cardinal hills.

flirtationship/s the classic tension of 'we flirt with each other fairly obviously but neither of us has ever made a move'. will a move even be made, or will it just stay as harmless, flirty fun?

one night stand/s pretty self-explanatory. beau is single and ready to mingle, but sometimes things are only a one night thing. or could a post experience lead to something more?

one-sided romance / the friend zoned someone caught feelings, and the other didn't feel the same way.

friend/s with sexy benefits  pretty self-explanatory. they hooked up at some point, liked it, deciding to keep hooking up. or, two friends who agreed to help each other out. will they manage to keep it as just sex?

blind date they got set up by mutual friend/s. will it go well, or will it be too awkward? lots of possibilities for how this could go.

ANTAGONISTIC.

former friends turned enemies  a friendship turned sour, and now things between them are messy, mean and messed up.

rivalry & competition a fellow artisan, beekeeper, candle maker, goat herder, etc. and somehow things between them have turned into a competition.

frenemies nice to each other's faces to keep the peace, but actually cannot stand one another. will it eventually bubble to the surface?

negative influence someone beau knows he shouldn't hang out with because they always get him into tricky/messy situations. but despite his grown age, sometimes a situation is too tempting.

fell for the same person & fought over them  this one could work with one of beau's past lovers, or future. this could be a fun, potentially angsty love triangle.

MISC. 

neighbours on good terms anyone in lower cardinal hill who likes beau and occasionally hangs out with him, or comes over to see the bees, gardens or livestock. maybe brings a meal or baked goods to spend time together.

neighbours on bad terms anyone down in lower cardinal hills and beyond who doesn't like beau, for whatever reason. maybe they don't like his personality, the bees, the livestock, the fact he's from a rich, old family, whatever.

have mutual friends not directly friends with beau, but friends with his friends. could be slightly awkward, could be potential for another friendship. maybe they're only aware of each other in passing, or from conversations with their mutual friend.

people & businesses who get supplies anyone who buys from beau, whether it's wholesale for their business, or as an individual customer. beau sells honey, candles, beeswax (both raw and refined), royal jelly, perfect for spellwork and general use, and soap, which is a new product. beau is also a common vendor at local artisanal and farmer's markets.

[archivist-crow]

On this day:

WATER FLOWS

On July 9, 1975, the Frederick family home in Ayersville, Ohio, was being soaked as puddles of water mysteriously appeared on the top of their TV, shelves, album covers, bedroom headboards. Water also appeared in the fireplace, ran down drapes, and flowed out of the piano keys. The water flows occurred silently and without warning; Mrs. Ann Frederick, continually armed with a towel against them, said, "It's hard to catch it forming, which only makes it more mysterious. It happens when you're not looking at a certain place."

The fluid phenomena began earlier that week when the family of four discovered their kitchen floor under water. For six days, the Fredericks lived with little sleep, and many people, dehumidifiers, and fans on hand to help them. Plumbers and other experts searched for an explanation, but found none. One man exclaimed, "I'd open a wooden kitchen cabinet drawer, and there'd be a half a gallon of water in it. I picked up a rug with an 81-inch wet spot... but the floor underneath was dry. It was really eerie!" No leaks were ever found, and all theories were discounted as the ceilings and walls remained dry throughout the phenomena.

In 1873, Lancashire, England, rain showered down inside a home for the elderly, though the ceilings themselves remained dry. In 1955, in Vermont, the Waterman family's furniture was continually covered with moisture while the Watermans sponged thirteen buckets of water off their belongings in two days. A dish of grapes filled with water as it was carried into a room. In 1963, in Massachusetts, the Martin family house had water spurting from walls and ceilings. The phenomenon followed them when they moved. In 1972, in a Sardinai, Italy, hospital, nine-year-old Eugenio Rossi was moved five times as large amounts of water surrounded the floor around his beds.

Text from: Almanac of the Infamous, the Incredible, and the Ignored by Juanita Rose Violins, published by Weiser Books, 2009

[thisischannelab3]

DOWN BY THE WATER BY AL BRUNO III

And now the storm has left the beach deserted, and the ocean crashes and roars against the surf. I am alone and covered with blood. Standing on the slowly retreating waterline, I watch for the first signs of sunrise. I'm waiting. I've been waiting so long.

But Ophelia said she'd be here.

She promised.

*

It had taken four hours of driving to reach Cape Cod. It was me, my mother and father, and my brother Leon, who was a year and a half older than me, the darling daughter. Ordinarily, my father celebrated his son's victories with men-only trips to New York City or Lake George. But since his beloved all-star was heading off to college in the fall, he decided it would be a family affair.

No matter how much I'd tried to weasel out of it, father still made me go. It wasn't because they were worried about me getting into some kind of trouble; it was simply an unspoken rule in the Sweet family that I never got what I wanted.

An hour into the trip, Leon started ragging on me, making snide remarks about my grades, my waistline, and my therapist, then waving his scholarship under my nose. I ignored it for as long as I could, but my Walkman's batteries died as we passed through Sturbridge, Massachusetts, so I decided that would be the perfect time to bring up his DUI. All Hell broke loose in the car; it got so bad that we had to pull over so my father could tell me in no uncertain terms that I was seventeen and I needed to grow up and get my head on straight.

As always, mother tried to be the peacemaker and failed miserably.

The rest of the car ride was icily quiet, except for the music on the radio, but father started to perk up as he got closer to the cabin. He was so proud of the deal he'd gotten.

We turned left on a street called Patti Page Way onto a long dirt driveway. Once we reached the cabin, we understood it hadn't been a deal at all; it had been a robbery. The outside of the cabin was a wreck, with peeling paint, a sagging porch, and a crooked hanging bench. Tiles were missing from the red roof, and the windows were cracked and covered in grime.

It looked like it should have been condemned, not rented out. My mother and I said we should double back and find a hotel, but my father, of course, would have none of it. "It's already paid for! Non-refundable! You're not even giving it a chance. Let's look inside."

The inside of the cabin wasn't nearly as bad, but it was obvious it hadn't been cleaned in a while. There was a layer of dust on the worn-out furniture, and cobwebs adorned the corners of the room. My mother went to the bedrooms to check for bedbugs or worse and returned with a nod of reluctant approval.

"See?" my father said, "It's not so bad, and besides, after you girls clean it up a little..."

"Us girls?" I dropped my bags on the floor. "I thought this was a family vacation."

Leon rolled his eyes, and my father looked ready to turn purple. mother tried to get in the middle, "What she meant was that we didn't come all this way just-"

"Oh, I know what she meant all right." My father looked right over mother and glared at me. I could feel the 'I work all day speech' coming.

He said, ”I work all day so you and your Goddamn mother can have nice things, and all you give me is grief."

"It's not fair," I said.

"Honey, maybe if we worked together..." mother began, but she stopped talking when my father's glare turned her way.

With that, Leon and my father announced they were going to the store to get pizza and beer. But of course, my father couldn't leave without one last barb at me, "Besides, a little work might help you slim down a little."

Leon laughed. ”You hear that Chubbs?”

Face contorted with rage, I stormed out of that rat-hole cabin, shouting, "That's not my name!" If anyone called out after me, I didn't hear. I ran to the beach, determined not to let them see me cry.

I'd never seen the ocean, except for movies and TV.  It was huge, stretching across the horizon. Looking at it made me feel small, but I didn't mind. My science teacher had told me that the oceans were the first things the Earth created. They would probably be the last things to go.There were big ugly seagulls everywhere and tiny, nervous-looking birds that divided most of their time between sifting in the mud and running in terror at the slightest motion. Small shells cracked under my feet. Slipping off my shoes, I waded into the surf, feeling the waves brushing against and around my legs.

As I waded through the water, I saw my reflection. For as long as I can remember, I've despised what I saw staring back at me. My weight, the constant burden I carried, distorted my image, making me appear older than my years. I had battled with it for as long as I could remember, dieting on and off since I was eight years old, yet nothing seemed to make a difference. Two years ago, someone mistook me for Leon's mother, and that was the moment I mostly gave up trying to change. Still, despite my aversion, I could not look away as I watched how the ripples in the water pulled me apart and pieced me back together again.

It was like I was hypnotized. I walked along the water's edge, not glancing up until distant voices startled me. That's when I realized it was twilight, and the ocean had turned a bruised purple color.

When I got back to the cabin, I found my mother nearly in tears, "Where were you? We were worried sick! We almost called the police."

"I'm sorry," I said.

Leon and my father were sitting at the rickety table, a plate of chicken bones in front of each of them. My father stood up and approached me. His breath was sour, and there were shreds of chicken in his teeth. "Are you trying to ruin this vacation?"

"Look, I just-"

"You're miserable and ungrateful, and I won't stand for it," He poked me in the chest, just hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to leave a mark, "You are gonna shape up and fly right? Do you hear me?"

Leon rolled his eyes, "Oh, like she'll ever get in shape."

mother hushed him but let my father continue his performance. He said, "I didn't bring you up here so you could screw around and do whatever you want to do! We are here to vacation as a family!"

"I'm..." the words stung my mouth, "I'm sorry."

He smiled with satisfaction and gestured to the table, "I didn't like the looks of the pizza place, so we got some Kentucky Fried Chicken. I got you a large meal."

He turned to go outside and have a smoke, Leon tagged along after him. mother busied herself cleaning up while I ate all the food my father had brought, hating myself with every bite.

*

Despite being warned we were going on a deep-sea fishing trip, no one was ready for my father shouting and bullying us all awake more than an hour before sunrise. My mother was barely awake, but he was already ordering her and me to make breakfast. I didn't mind helping, but I did mind that Leon didn't have to lift a finger.

One sloppily made breakfast later, we were in the car making our way to the marina. Leon was in the front seat listening to my father's stories about the deep sea fishing expeditions he had gone on as a single man in the Navy. My mother’s gaze shifted down to her lap when he said those had been the best days of his life.

Leon asked about the ship, and my father began to explain the difference between a regular yacht and a sport fishing yacht but suddenly I realized something.

"Dad, we have to go back," I said, "I forgot my jacket."

"So?" He said.

"You said it would be freezing."

"And I said not to forget anything." he shrugged. He actually picked up speed as he maneuvered the car onto the interstate. Ten years ago, he'd told me I was his princess and he would do anything for me.

My mother piped up, "It's not such a bother, is it? We don't want her to catch cold."

"No."

"That's all right," she patted my arm, "We'll just buy you a jacket when we get to the marina. They must have a gift shop around there."

"We are not buying her a goddamn thing," my father said.

"Good thing she's got all that blubber to protect her," Leon said in a stage whisper.

"Ginny, Let me handle this," my father said. "Maybe she wouldn't be such a brat if she had to deal with some consequences once in a while."

"Oh," I said, "like your son had to deal with his consequences? How much did you spend to keep him out of jail?"

The answer was a lot. My father had moved Heaven and Earth to protect Leon and his 'promising future.' It had hurt our family financially and socially, and he had forbidden any of us to talk about it. But at moments like this, I was glad to bring it up; it felt good to remind them that the Boy Wonder had feet of clay.

"God damn it!" He pounded his fist on the steering wheel, "Can you not be a bitch for five minutes?"

"I don't know," My reply was lightning fast, so fast that I didn't realize the words had come from my mouth, "Can you not be a bastard?"

The brakes squealed as my father swerved us onto the shoulder. My mother gasped, and my brother snickered; a line had been crossed, but so many lines had been crossed over the last few years. I barely cared anymore. All I could think to myself was how we used to be a family. What happened to us?

He unbuckled himself and turned around in his seat, "You think you can talk to me like that? All this over a damn coat."

"Yes." I said, "Over a coat!"

"That's it." He said, and I flinched instinctively, "You're grounded."

"Grounded?"

We sped back to the cabin, and with every twist and turn of the wheel, my mother and brother grew more and more worried that my father was going to send us plowing into a tree or a ditch.

Finally, we arrived back at the cabin, and my father slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. Without a word, he shifted into park and turned off the engine. We all sat there in silence, waiting for his next move.

My father turned to face me, "Get out.” He pointed towards the cabin's front door. "Go to your room and stay there until we get back."

I started to speak, but my mother shushed me, "Just do what he says. Please don't make any more trouble."

"We're gonna be late," Leon said.

I sighed and stepped out of the car onto the dusty gravel driveway. My family drove away. They left me behind. The sound of their departure echoed in my ears. I trudged up to the front door, wondering if any of them had spared me a backward glance.

When I was alone in the cabin, I did not go straight to my room; I plopped down on the couch. I had been looking forward to today; I had been so excited at the thought of being out on the ocean so far out on the ocean, that the shore would be just a memory. I had been so excited that I had forgotten my jacket. Now I could see it across the room, slung over the arm of the recliner. The sight of it made me bury my face in my hands. I stayed that way for a long time. Then I went to my temporary bedroom like a good girl and hated myself for it.

With nothing else to do, I napped and listened to my Walkman going through every one of the Police's albums, from Outlandos d'Amour to Synchronicity.

It was just a little while after lunch when the calls began. I answered immediately, thinking it was my parents checking up on me somehow. "Hello?"

I heard a man’s voice ask, "Is she there?” He was weeping. "Who is this?" I asked.

"Who is this?"

"I think you have the wrong number," I said.

“Ophelia is it you?"

I hung up the phone with a grimace, imagining some idiot with a fake number from a bimbo who'd flashed them a polite smile at first or some fake affection at best. Better them than me. I started to go back to my room when the phone rang again. I waited for whoever was on the other line to give up. Ten rings later, I answered. "Hello?"

"Ophelia?" They blubbered.

"That's not my name," I said, "Please stop calling."

"You sound like her."

“I’m not her. I’m nobody.”

The voice became even more desperate and pleading, "I've waited for so long."

I put the receiver back down again.

They called back almost instantly; this time I let the phone ring, put on my Walkman, and cranked the volume all the way up. I tried to let the music transport me to a place far away from the cabin, from that phone call, from my family. ‘Message In A Bottle’ filled my ears and I imagined myself somewhere far far away.

But the ringing persisted. I heard it going on and on in the silence between one song and another. It made me feel uneasy with questions. Finally, inevitably, I ripped off the earphones and picked up the phone again. "Look, I told you already, you have the wrong number," I said.

“I did everything you asked.” The voice on the other end of the line trembled, “I’ve been waiting for so long."

"Please." I pleaded, “stop bothering me."

"I need to see you." He said, "I'm coming to see you now."

"You don't even know-"

"328 Patti Page Way." The stranger started weeping again, "Don't you remember? We walked from the cabin to the beach and held hands at the promontory."

My stomach dropped. I quickly ended the call and retreated back to my room. After a few panicked moments, I put the chair in front of the door. How did they know where I was? I envisioned a local Romeo bewitched by a visiting Juliet. Now Juliet was long gone and Romeo was heartbroken. And where did that leave me?

Alone and defenseless with my family miles away. I hated myself for arguing over a stupid jacket. Was it really worth it? Arguing with people who would never let me win? Why couldn't I just grin and bear it?

The hours dragged on, each minute feeling like an eternity. I was terrified and bored; I didn't dare put my headphones back on, so I listened. Every creak and groan of the cabin seemed to taunt me. My nerves were shot as I waited for something, anything, to happen. Was the caller all talk and no action, or would some maniac break down the front door in search of his lost Ophelia?

A dozen forevers later, I heard the family car pulling up outside. Relief made me feel weak, but I still managed to un-baracade myself from my room and meet them at the door. My family looked sunburnt and exhausted; when I hugged my father, he reeked of salt and sweat, but I didn't care one damn bit. "Looks like someone learned their lesson."

There was a long pause before he reluctantly hugged me back. My mother entered the cabin holding up the bag of fast food she had gotten for me. When my brother passed my field of vision, he gave me a smirk . I didn’t care. I didn't argue; I just didn't want to be alone and afraid anymore.

*

That night, as I scarfed down my burger, I told them about the creep on the phone. My mother was horrified and said I should have called the police; my brother rolled his eyes and said I should have just left the phone off the receiver, and my father told me next time, I should grab a steak knife before I went into hiding. That night, I couldn't sleep well. The sound of the ocean was louder than usual, making me feel restless.

The next morning my mother said she wanted us all to go to the beach as a family. My father agreed with a grunt. Leon asked if he could call his friends from a few days ago and have them meet us there. My parents were fine with that.As soon as my brother was off the phone, we grabbed our cooler, beach chairs, and towels. We walked the short distance to the shore. The ocean was just as beautiful before. Sunlight danced upon the waves, creating a breathtaking display of shimmering light. I wanted to stare but instead helped my family find a spot and set up our little beach camp. My brother Leon, ignoring our mother's protests that we had just arrived, went off in search of his friends. I told my parents I wanted to go for a swim, and my father told me to be careful. My mother looked me over and asked why I wasn't wearing the nice new bathing suit she had gotten for me. I didn't really want to go into the water in shorts and a T-shirt, did I?

I explained that I was wearing the pale pink one-piece bathing suit she had bought me- under my t-shirt and shorts. That led to an argument that was as gentle as it was relentless; my mother won out, and I stripped out of my shorts and t-shirt. My father scowled at me and looked away. The salty breeze whipped at my hair, and as I waded into the cold water. Slowly, I let myself sink into the sea, allowing my body to float on its surface. The vastness of the ocean made my insecurity and anger seem insignificatant.

Looking back to the beach, I saw Leon returning with a small group of new friends: two girls and two guys. They introduced themselves to my parents. Then they stripped out of their street clothes, revealing bathing suits beneath. One of the girls wore a swimsuit exactly like the one from the Christie Brinkley poster. My father did not look away from her. An incoming wave lifted me up and dropped me back down again. When I looked back, they were running into the surf, laughing and splashing each other."

There was no way I wanted to share my part of the ocean with them. So I picked a direction and started to swim, my limbs moving with practiced ease. I had always been a good swimmer, but everything changed when I turned twelve and started to gain weight. Despite being an athletic kid, I began overeating in seventh grade. Our house had always been full of snacks, but suddenly, I couldn’t keep my hands off them. I don’t know what changed, but everyone else seemed to have an opinion about it and each one was worse than the last.

Mindful of the riptides, I kept the beach to my left as I swam. I saw volleyball players, solitary people reading, women sunbathing, children playing, strangers all of them but I knew if they saw me they would snicker and make snide remarks.

After a while, longer than I expected, my muscles began to ache, and fatigue set in. It was time to return to land and rest. Maybe I would walk back or maybe just sit on the sand for a while. In the distance, I  noticed a formation of rocks jutting out from the water's surface. It was wide enough for three people to walk along and stretched all the way back to the beach. As I swam closer, I saw it rose about five feet above the waves. The closer I got, the rougher the ocean became, pushing me towards the rocks. I struggled to maintain control, but the relentless waves made keeping my head above water difficult. Salt water filled my mouth, and I collided with the ugly crag with bruising force.

I floated there for a few minutes, clinging to the rock formation. Finding a sturdy handhold, I began to climb, my tired muscles groaning with effort. Finally, I pushed myself up and lay flat on my back, staring at the sky and the gulls. I concentrated on nothing more than catching my breath.

What would have happened if I had drowned? If the angry tide had smashed me against the rocks with fatal force? Would my family even care? Or would they be relieved? Would they make jokes as they searched for a  Plus-Size coffin?

I shut my eyes tightly and kept them closed until I heard a splashing noise nearby. Then, I sat upright and let my feet dangle over the edge of the rocky outcrop. The water was further below now, and I couldn't help but wonder how much time had passed while I lay there, blind to the world.

There was another splashing sound, and then her body broke the surface of the water below me; I hadn't seen anyone swimming there. Her hair was dark, and her face belonged on the cover of a beauty magazine. She was wearing nothing but a white blouse that was two sizes too large for her. The wet fabric revealed a body like something out of Leon's wet dreams. I wanted to grab one of the loose rocks nearby and drop it on her.

She scaled the jagged rocks with the fluid grace of a seal emerging from the water. Our eyes met, and she flashed a smile. "I didn't see you up there.” Dark hair clung to her skin, droplets of water trailing down her face. “I hope I'm not bothering you.”

I shrugged. "It's a free country." Then, with a hint of sarcasm, I added, "Couldn't afford a swimsuit?”

Her smile turned playful. "I have everything I need."

"I bet you do." The bitterness in my voice surprised me, and a twinge of guilt followed. What had she ever done to deserve that? Attempting to recover, I asked, "Uhm, do you like the beach?”

"I love the ocean," she fiddled with the wet fabric covering her torso, pulling it away from her skin only to have it settle back into place just as translucent as before. I got a strange feeling she was doing it for my benefit. "Unknowable, Uncontrollable. And deeper than any of us could imagine."

"That's pretty poetic."

"You have such serious eyes," She said. "Tell me your name."

I did. Then she moved closer, her face even with mine. Her smile became strange. She leaned in close, I thought she was going to say something, perhaps share a secret, but instead, she kissed me. Electric shocks ran through me. I felt numb. I felt sick. I felt warm all over.

The kiss broke. "Who are you?" I breathed.

Before she dove off the rock pier, she uttered just one word: "Ophelia." The name caught me off guard. I was still in shock from our kiss and didn't even hear the splash when she hit the water.

Scrambling drunkenly to my feet I raced back to my parents, the hot sand of the beach burning my feet, the taste of seawater heavy in my mouth, the cool breeze wafting off the ocean making me shiver. Or maybe it was something else making me shiver. I found my family packing up; my mother asked where I had been, and my father demanded to know what I had been up to. I made an excuse about riptides and losing track of where I was, and they believed it. All the while, Leon and his friends watched me and shared conspiratorial grins. On the walk back to the cabin, the girl in the Christie Brinkley swimsuit said, "Your brother told us all about you."

I was about to say something sarcastic when one of the guys said, “Why are you wearing lipstick?"

That stopped me dead in my tracks. I realized the taste in my mouth that I had taken to be seawater was something else. When I touched my lips with my fingers they came back stained red. When had I bitten my lip?

*

A noise outside the cabin startled me awake. I went to my cracked bedroom window and peered out into the darkness. I didn’t know how late at night it was but sunrise must have been hours away. The noise was like whispering; it wasn’t just one voice but several. Yet, even as that thought occurred, uncertainty crept in—were they really voices? Somehow, I just wasn’t sure. What I was sure of was that, somehow, the sounds were familiar to me, like something out of a dream.

I needed to know what it was. So I quickly threw on the clothes I had worn the day before and quietly made my way to the front door, careful not to wake anyone else in the cabin. There were no stars or moon, just the shadowy outline of low-hanging clouds. As I stepped onto the porch I nearly stumbled over the empty cooler that had been left behind by my parents. There was a sickening moment when I thought I was going to fall flat on my face, but I caught myself on the railing.

The air was warm and thick. Without thinking, I stepped off the porch and began to follow the sound of the whispers that were not whispers. My steps were cautious and shuffling as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Gradually, I  realized I was making my way along the familiar path to the beach.

The ocean was a mirror of the starless sky; I knew it was there only by the salty breeze and the rumbling crash of the waves. The sound of waves was so loud that it drowned out the whispers, but they were still there. I closed my eyes, trading one darkness for another, and tried to orient myself to the sound. I was sure it was somewhere to the east, but before I could follow it, I heard a familiar voice. It was the stranger from the phone, "Ophelia!"

My heart began to pound in my chest; sick with fear, I spun in place, looking for him, but I might as well have had my eyes closed.

"Ophelia!"

A figure emerged from the blackness, the outline of a man shuffling along the shore. His shoulders were hunched. I could imagine the tears running down his face, the gaunt face looking far older than the body that carried it. “You said you’d be here,” he said, his voice fading into the sound of the ocean, “You promised.”

Certain he believed he was alone, I began to back away slowly. I didn't dare run. With every step, I feared he would notice me and, despite my very different shape, mistake me for Ophelia. What was it I'd heard my father say to Leon? Something about every woman being the same in the dark.

The not-quite whispers were closer now. I followed the sound until I found myself where the rocky outcropping that had nearly killed me met the beach.

Fear and curiosity drove me to make my way along the ugly crag; water lapped at my feet, numbing them almost immediately. More, by instinct than anything else, I stopped at the edge of the outcrop. The waves were knee-level now, splashing against me relentlessly, trying to push me back. There was inky blackness all around me.

The whispering chorus stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. Impossibily the sound of the waves also vanished and I stood there unmoving, unseeing and unhearing. It made me remember that when I was a little girl, this is what I had imagined being dead felt like.

"I found you!" The sound of the stranger's voice jolted me. He was close behind me, a fast-approaching shadow. Panicked, I ran blindly and blundered over the side of the rock formation into the dark water.

Cold oblivion consumed me.*

I regained consciousness in a cave lit by unseen candles. Strange symbols adorned the walls, and the air was heavy with the scent of saltwater and decay. As my vision adjusted, I saw slender, ethereal shapes moving in the shadows, tending to something—an ugly silhouette that thrashed and gurgled.

A familiar figure loomed over me. Wet, dark hair and sea-blue eyes filled my vision. Her hand stroked my face, gentle yet firm. "Ophelia," I said.

"You've been asleep for so long." She propped my head up, bringing a clamshell to my lips. The water was salty and stung, but before I could protest, I realized I was naked. My clothes lay spread across the rock floor, slowly drying.

Humiliated, I curled into a ball, trying to cover myself. "Don't look at me!" I whispered.

Ophelia grabbed my wrists and pulled me into a sitting position. "You have nothing to be ashamed of." She was naked, too, her skin gleaming as though she had just left the water. "None of us do."

My heart raced, on the verge of tears. "Where am I?"

"Among friends." She drew me close.

I glanced at the feminine shapes lingering in the shadows; they had drawn closer to the figure at their feet. A sound reminiscent of a fish being scaled echoed in the cave, followed by a familiar sob. It was the man from the phone.

"Who are they?" my voice was barely above a whisper.

"Ophelia"

"I thought you were-” I began.

"We are all Ophelias," she said, her expression darkening, "Born to be martyrs in men's eyes."

I said, "I don't understand."

Ophelia’s mouth became an angry frown, ”We can be daughters, lovers, even angels, but we can never be free from that hateful thing they pretend is love.”

I asked, “Why did you bring me here?”

“Why don’t you stay?”

"You don't even know my name." I breathed, “You don’t know who I am?”

"Do you?" She said with a kiss. She pushed me down onto my back. As her lips moved across my skin, each kiss felt like a cold drop of winter rain. Dizziness washed over me. It was like I was on an elevator that wouldn't stop going up. “Who do you want to be? Are you who others say you are?"

Ophelia started running her nails hard across my chest and belly. I wanted to escape. I never wanted to leave. It was like she was taking me, making me hers. Blood welled up from the cuts and scrapes. She kissed the wounds she had made, one by one, her lips smearing red. The cave was filled with whispered songs that had no words. Her murmuring joined them.

When it was over she held me close.

“I love you,” the voice of the man from the phone said. He sounded like he was drowning, “Isn’t that enough?” He coughed twice and then fell silent.

The candles began to go out one by one, and shadows began to swallow her, trying to snatch her away from me. I kissed her hard on the mouth, losing myself in her. In a matter of seconds, I was lost in darkness.

* It was late in the morning when I awoke. I was lying flat on my back on the crag. The clouds above were a stormy purple, and the rain was coming down hard. I was soaking wet, and my clothes were plastered to my skin. I heard a familiar voice calling my name, but it wasn't one I wanted to hear. I moaned, half with exhaustion, half with anguish. My skin still ached and tingled in the places Ophelia had clawed at me.

With trembling hands, I crawled to the ledge and looked down. The tide had gone out. Fifteen feet below me, Leon was trudging along the surf, wet and miserable, and shouting my name.

"Leon?" I called out. For a hilarious moment, he was utterly bewildered, his square head swiveling back and forth. I called again, "Up here!”

When he finally saw me, he started screaming, "You are in big trouble! Dad is seriously pissed!”

"I just went for a walk.”

"A walk? You've been gone for over a day!" Leon blundered closer until he was directly below me. I could have spit on him if I wanted to.

I scowled down at him, remembering all the times he had disappeared for an entire weekend without a single phone call, only to return to a gentle reprimand from our father instead of a harsh scolding and a slap to the back of the head. I used one of his excuses, "I was with friends."

The expression on his face twisted as if he were looking at something disgusting. "Delores told me she saw you here last night!"

Bile rose up in my throat. "So what?”

"She saw what you were doing! Are you crazy? Why can't you just be normal? What is wrong with—"

A stone the size of a bowling ball crashed down on Leon, crushing his skull. He collapsed face down into the surf, blood clouding the seawater.

I scrambled to my feet to find Ophelia standing near me. "You killed him," I said.

The waves greedily pulled at Leon's body, twisting and bending it like a rag doll only to push it back up the sand again.

I know I should have felt something, but I didn’t. “What am I going to do?’"I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of the rain and the racing of my own thoughts.

“What do you want to do?”

"I want to be with you." The rain pelted us. It was getting cold and dark, but it didn't matter. I felt safe in her arms., "I want to be with you forever."

"Then be with us," she said.

"What about Leon?"

Ophelia chuckled coldly. ”What about him?"

"But the police will find out," I said.

She released me and stepped to the edge of the crag, "In the deep dark," She said, "We are free from judgment."

The downpour had become torrential. Ophelia's words caused me to gaze longingly at the ocean. Each wave crashed against the shore with a powerful roar, sending spray and mist into the air.

She kissed my forehead.

There were no second thoughts, no worries. I turned and started walking back to the cabin. After a few minutes, I turned back to look for Ophelia. Through the storm, I saw four hazy but unmistakably masculine figures standing by Leon's body. Moving clumsily, they lifted his limp form and carried it into the sea.

*

From the moment I stepped into the cabin my father started screaming at me, my mother was silent and glared reporachfully. The stinging sensation of my scratches was intensifying to the point of almost being pleasurable.

Turning away from them, I walked calmly to the kitchenette. Their voices seemed distant as if echoing from the base of a rocky cliff during low tide. Steady-handed, I reached into the kitchen drawer and retrieved a steak knife. My father's insult rang out. "Oh, Jesus Christ! She's going to make a sandwich!"

Ignoring him was easy. Everything he said was familiar. I waited until his temper broke, and he all but ran at me. He violently grabbed my shoulder, yanking me around to face him.

The knife was dull, but my strength proved more than sufficient to slice open his throat. Blood splattered across both our faces. His scream was gurgling and wet, his mouth gaping like a fish. He stumbled backward, clutching at his neck, tripped over his own feet, and collapsed. I stood there, watching as my father spent the final moments of his life weeping.

When it was over, I looked to my mother. She had been standing by watching, just like always. "Angela, please," she cowered at my approach.

I raised the bloody knife above my head, "That's not my name."

*

There was enough kerosene left in the cabin's rusty heater, to start a good fire. I watched the structure burn for a little while. I felt nothing; I hadn't felt anything at all since I left Ophelia's arms. When I was finished I headed for the shore.

And now the storm has left the beach deserted, and the ocean crashes and roars against the surf. I am alone and covered with blood. Standing on the slowly retreating waterline, I watch for the first signs of sunrise. I'm waiting. I've been waiting so long.

But Ophelia said she'd be here.

She promised.

The tingling under my skin was painful. I ripped at my clothes and tore madly at the scabs. They broke open easily. The flesh beneath them was unblemished and gleaming.

I waded out into the cold, crashing water, leaving my shirt, shorts, and long red strips of my flesh behind. In the unknowable depths, I would never be a daughter, a punchline, or a scapegoat. I would be free.

With each footstep, the roar of the waves changed, becoming softer and prayer-like. It sounded like a chorus of voices calling out the name "Ophelia."

Voices so very much like mine.

[tajfranklin]

Finding More Space Rental Apartments in Budget in Franklin

Are you tirelessly searching for spacious yet affordable living spaces in Franklin? Searching for Franklin apartment rentals that provide ample space without draining your wallet can pose a challenge? Some may label it as difficult, while others might argue it's relatively straightforward. Nevertheless, the truth remains that, with a bit of effort, you can certainly uncover the finest and most spacious rental apartments Franklin has to offer.

Franklin apartment rentals offer more space at affordable rates. 

Why Is It Important to Rent Spacious Apartments?

Imagine returning home to a place where you have ample space to move, breathe easily, and unwind without feeling constrained. Large rental flats provide a feeling of well-being in addition to improving your general quality of life. A greater amount of space means more options for how furniture is arranged, unique touches may be added, and flexibility to living spaces

More space allows you to customize your living area to suit your own requirements, whether you're a growing family, a remote worker looking for a home office, or an individual who enjoys open the extra leg room. 

Are All Builders Providing Budget-Friendly Options?

While Franklin boasts various builders, not all of them prioritize affordable and spacious rental options. Only a select few understand the importance of catering to individuals or families on a budget without compromising on space. It's essential to research and identify those builders who prioritize creating homes that are both spacious and economical. This not only requires a keen eye for detail but also a thorough exploration of the available options in the Franklin housing market.

Steps for Discovering Spacious Rental Apartments on a Budget

Begin by utilizing dedicated online platforms for real estate listings in Franklin. Websites and applications offer a thorough overview of available rental apartments, enabling you to refine your search based on size, amenities, and budget.

Collaborate with local real estate agents who possess extensive knowledge of the Franklin area. They can lead you to hidden treasures that may not be prominently showcased online and provide insights into upcoming budget-friendly projects.

Utilize social media and community forums to connect with current residents. Their experiences and recommendations can prove invaluable in uncovering affordable yet roomy rental apartments.

Take the initiative to personally visit some rental apartments to evaluate whether they meet your criteria. This experience helps you in making an informed decision about the best rental space. 

The Right Choice to Call Home

By understanding the significance of spacious living, identifying builders who prioritize affordability, and employing practical steps in your search, you can unveil hidden gems that perfectly balance space and budget. The Franklin apartment rental market has much to offer for those who seek it with a discerning eye and a willingness to explore beyond the conventional avenues.

Whether you are in search of apartments in Boston for rent, apartments for rent in Bellingham, or an apartment for rent in Sharon, MA, Taj Estates is the ideal option for you. Featuring luxurious and spacious two-bedroom apartments with modern amenities in Massachusetts, you can relish your time with family. These apartments distinguish themselves by providing an outstanding 30-50% more floor space than competing options, all at competitive rental rates within market standards.

Source: https://tajfranklin.blogspot.com/2024/01/finding-more-space-rental-apartments-in.html

[rachelgreen071]

How To Select a Fine Living Room Furniture

High-quality living room furniture may help you set the tone for your home's design and styling when you want to create a welcoming, comfortable area. Even after years of continuous usage, high-quality items maintain their attractive looks. As you shop for new furniture for your house, keep in mind this living room furniture buying suggestion.

Investigate the Best Materials

The components of a piece are essential in establishing its quality. Wood or metal are frequently used in the construction of high-quality choices. These options not only provide furniture a stunning appearance, but also lengthen the life of each piece because they are often robust and durable.

Be On The Lookout For Quality Fabrics

A well-made fabric is crucial to a piece's quality level if it has upholstery. The finest textiles for these items ultimately depend on how much wear they will receive as well as the styling, texture, and color preferences you have.

Consider Creating Handmade Items

High-quality living room furniture is frequently paired with handcrafted items. Every step in the creation of handcrafted furniture is carried out by skilled artisans. The attention to detail provided by living room furniture in MA professionals improves each item's condition, from selecting the best materials for the project to adding deft finishing touches only a human hand can produce. Look for specialized patterns and exquisite woodworking features in wood-based pieces when going through your list of essential living room furnishings. Items made of metal frequently have components that can only be manually produced. Handmade items' uniqueness generally increases their value over time.

There is high-quality living room furniture for every price range. Many of the qualities found in more expensive versions are present in more affordable items. If you have a limited budget, focus on finding one high-quality piece, such a sofa or coffee table from a furniture store in Springfield, and center the rest of the room's decor around it. This eclectic aesthetic works especially well for transitional looks.

[sharkslayer06]

How long have humans been human? How many centuries have people had human tendencies? Tendencies like empathy, laughter, and sadness. How long has humanity existed within humans?

I am lucky enough to live in Massachusetts, where history is scattered so densely that half our towns are considered historical sites. It is within these towns that I first had this feeling of pure amazement at the concept of history itself. It was a small town home that had a farmhouse and a chicken coop. The house itself was close to Salem, and was probably older than its famous witch trials. A friend of my family had recently bought the house and was moving into it. I was younger and so I started to look around and explore. I found the kitchen, which had a groove worn into the floor right in front of the sink, where I imagine a colonial mother may have stood as she cleaned. Further down the hallway was the staircase to the second floor. These steps too had grooves in them, from hundreds of years of mothers and fathers and children climbing them to go to bed. And so I went upstairs and explored more. I found the bedrooms, all of them had doors that were far too new to be original, but at the end of the upstairs hallway was a small room. I assumed that it must have been a child's bedroom, and when I entered it was more of the same. A worn down floor, spots where the furniture had left a permanent mark on the wood. And in this bedroom was a closet, a very small one but still a closet. I myself was smaller at the time so I crouched down and opened the small door. I went in and looked around. The space was small, enough to fit some clothing and other items but nothing else. And in the far corner of that closet, carved into a wooden beam with what I assume was a knife or chisel read 3 words. “Jacob’s Hideout, 1772”. This small inscription that was carved by a hand centuries older than my own is what changed my world. A child lived in that house, and slept in that room. A kid like me at the time, had hid in that closet and decided to carve his name and the year he lived into that wood beam. 1772 was 4 years prior to the start of the American Revolution. These 3 words were the only mark still left by a child who lived during the biggest event in American history.

The concept that I find fascinating, more than any other in my life so far, is that no matter when in our history you look, every single name was a human being. They all had the same basic needs and pains as you and me. Alexander the Great still felt tired after a long march with his army. Cleopatra still sat down to drink water on a hot day. Leonardo Davinci drew smiley faces in the margins of his notebook. No matter when or where in human existence you look, every single person was just as human as all of us. A tragedy that I see is that in every historical event the people are boiled into mere names and numbers. Generals who command armies of thousands who fight in battles where thousands more die. And what very few people will ever realize is that every tombstone, no matter how worn and broken, was once just as alive as we are today. Every soldier who died in the American Civil War was a person, someone with a family and a home. They had favorite songs and foods, they had friends and they had enemies. To whittle down something that complicated into a single chapter of a textbook that can never truly do it justice is a tragic loss. But what I feel is lost most when you boil our existence down to its major events is that between all of them, people lived. They all lived and walked and talked and laughed and experienced the same air and the same sun and the same water that we experience today. History is a sort of magic to me, it allows me to see a world so different from my own, yet the people who inhabit it are nearly identical to me. I know that when I stumble when I walk down a dirt path that somewhere in the past somebody probably did the same. When I choke on my own saliva, I can know that some Roman soldier might have done the same by accident. Even though humans can be separated by thousands of years, the throughline that connects us is our inherent humanity. The empathy towards other people, the urge to laugh when someone trips, the urge to cry when someone dies, and the feeling of having to sneeze when it is sunny out are all parts of that humanity. And when I want to learn more about this humanity, I can turn to my grandfather. He himself has many great stories as he was an engineer for the navy, and he helped design and build submarines. But he also has stories far older than him. My grandfather’s own grandfather was born in the 1880s. He was a young man by the time the 20th century began, and he would tell my grandpa stories of his childhood. These were always the stories that captured me. It is a time period in American History that had so much change in it. In the 1890s revolvers and horses were still commonplace among the general public. In 1900 the first cars were still called horseless wagons. And as technology advanced it advanced quicker than ever before. The story that I will always remember is from the end of my great great grandfather's life. He told my grandpa a few months before he died that he cannot believe how far people came from when he was a boy. He said that he still remembers the first planes being talked about for months, as if they were magic. The Wright brothers flew the first plane in 1903. 66 years later in 1969 Niel Armstrong walked on the moon. That was something he said he was still baffled by. He died in 1971 in his 90s. He was a man who saw humanity progress from horses and wagons to spaceships and planes, and my grandfather allowed me to hear his story.

To summarize my entire point, history is a magical thing that I could completely get lost in. It is a window into another world where the places and cultures and technology are completely different yet humans still remain the same. And while I hope that I was able to convey some of my love for the subject in this writing, if not then I have a recommendation. Take a trip somewhere historical. Go to museum and look at something old. An arrowhead, or a statue, or a simple cloth bag. Think that those items were made by a person, the same as you and me, who could never have known that years and years into the future someone else, with the same brain and sane emotions would look at it, an unfathomable amount of time later.

[mariacallous]

(JTA) – There was a small bedroom in my Zeyde’s house on State Road in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, that had no radiator. It was called “the cold room.” It was crammed with furniture: two twin beds and a couple of dressers. On Rosh Hashanah, you would find a large baking dish covered with a dish towel sitting on top of one of those dressers. Take a peek under the towel, and there it was: Fluden.

Fluden is a holiday dessert that resembles a sweet lasagna: layers of prune, orange and pineapple filling between four layers of rolled-out dough, with a crunchy, cinnamon and nutty topping. My aunts would prepare it each year, in a ritual that was just as much a part of the season as tossing stones into the Housatonic River for tashlich, or hearing my zeyde, Rabbi Jacob Axelrod, blow the shofar in his synagogue up the hill, or catching games of the World Series between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The fluden would sit on the dresser and never had to be served, because there was a knife in the dish and you could cut off a slice of the pareve delicacy whenever the spirit moved you. Over the course of the holiday it would gradually shrink, until someone would announce that it was all gone. Fertig.

Never did I see this dish in any bakery, or in anyone else’s home. And yet it was integral to our holiday experience, even more than the teyglach we would sometimes buy from Michelle’s bakery near our home in Plainview, Long Island: little hard balls of cookie dough piled into a pyramid the size of a hat, drenched with honey and nuts and maraschino cherries. This was fun and messy to pick apart. But for flavor and comfort, nothing could beat fluden.

Though my aunts were the bakers, it was my mother, Peggy — their sister-in-law — who preserved the recipe for posterity in written form. Mom later described how she watched and took notes as her mother-in-law, Beile, step by step mixed and rolled the dough, chopped and pulverized the filling and assembled the layers one by one. There were no accurate measures: as my mother recalled, Beile just took pinches of this or that, cups of this or that. The result would be this holiday delicacy that everyone craved.

However, there was a downside to fluden, and it was the reason why it would take a few days for it to disappear. There was a general understanding that you didn’t want to eat too much of it at once. All I need to say here is: prunes.

Just up the street from the house was my zeyde’s synagogue, Ahavath Sholom, where about 100 worshippers could gather. He had been hired as rabbi in 1927, two years after he emigrated from Poland. On the shul’s hard wooden pews were long cushions covered in faded red fabric. There was no mechitzah separating men from women — family legend has it that Beile had ripped it down, since no one had felt responsible to keep it clean and tidy.

I don’t have many memories of my baba, Beile, but certainly she was a great baker. I distinctly recall the oohs and ahhs as her huckleberry pies or little challah rolls were brought to the table, held seemingly way above me and handed around. Baba died before I turned five, of complications from diabetes.

I remember my zeyde only without her. On the holiday, he would lead the service from a small lectern, occasionally slamming his hand down to stop the chattering in the background. The windows in the small sanctuary were always kept shut, as zeyde would refuse to continue the service if he sensed a breeze.

In order to get some air, you would have to “take a break” and walk down the hill past zeyde’s little kosher store. From there you might pass his garden, pass clothesline and the shed that doubled as a sukkah, enter the house via the kitchen, slip through the dining room and into the living room, then make a hard left between the couch and the bookshelf holding zeyde’s “Vilna Shas” Talmud, into the cold room for a bite of fluden.

In 1966, my aunt Edith shared the recipe in the “Mother’s Way Cookbook,” published by the Hebrew Ladies Aid Society of Ahavath Sholom Synagogue and the Hadassah Chapter of Great Barrington. It’s on page 36, between Helen Natelson’s “Speedy Sponge Cake” and Blanche Bradford’s “Spice Cake.” As with other aspects of transplanted European Jewish culture, like the Yiddish language itself, Americanisms crept into the list of ingredients. I am sure there were no cornflakes in my ancestors’ shtetl, Luboml, and no canned pineapple, either.

Many years later, my mother excitedly reported that she had found a recipe for fluden in “The World of Jewish Cooking,” by Gil Marks. Up to then, no Jewish cookbook had completely satisfied her, since she had never found fluden in the index.

But there it was, on page 339: Fluden, Ashkenazic layered pastry. According to Marks, the dish could have various fillings, and was sometimes even made with cheese. The first recorded reference dates back to around the year 1000 C.E., when Rabbi Gershom ben Yehudah of Mainz, Germany, describes an argument between two rabbis about whether one could “eat bread with meat even if it was baked in an oven with a cheese dish called fluden.”

The layers, Marks writes, “were symbolic of both the double portion of manna collected for the Sabbath and the lower and upper layers of dew that protected the manna.” Fruit and nut fillings were most common on Sabbath, he adds. Today, a similar, layered fruit pastry called apfelschalet is served by Jews from the Alsace region. In Hungary, there is a layered desert called flodni, and in parts of Eastern Europe there is a layered strudel called gebleterter kugel.

Fluden is much more than a holiday dessert for me. It is a symbol of generational continuity despite the Holocaust, which ripped a hole in our family history. It connects me to the women who were the carriers of tradition – the doers and the recorders. And, in its glistening, fragrant glory, it is also a key to the door of memory, which opens with a creak of rusty springs and reveals the scene unfolding.

The kitchen, the rolled-up sleeves, the aprons, the rolling pin, the gossip. Zeyde in his slippers and robe shuffling through. The two ovens, both working overtime. Children under foot. The light switch cord hanging down over the table, with its bobbin-like pull. Next to the sink, the window with its filmy curtains, looking out across the yard and vegetable garden, toward the shul.

For us, the dish was a once-a-year treat. I have prepared my baba’s recipe several times, and will try my hand at it again this year, with quite a bit less sugar than suggested. (I inherited the diabetes, too.) My kitchen is just a couple of miles away from where my zeyde and baba’s house once stood. On that spot, there is now a sporting goods shop that my sister likes to call “Zeyde’s Bike and Board.” The older generation is nearly all gone, buried in the Ahavath Sholom cemetery on Blue Hill Road. We have inherited many traditions, keeping some, eschewing others. But in my family, where there is fluden, there will always be followers, ready to cut a slice — a small slice! — for breakfast, lunch or dinner.

Mrs. Axelrod’s Fluden Edith Axelrod Reder Pittsfield, Mass.  Beat together until light and fluffy: 3 eggs 1 c. sugar Pinch of salt Add:  ¾ c. oil 3-4 c. flour sifted with 2 tsp. baking powder 1 tsp. vanilla Pineapple jJuice (from filling) Filling:  Grind together 2 lbs. sour prunes 1 orange 1 lemon, add: # 2 can drained, crushed pineapple Jam and sugar to taste Cinnamon and sugar Chopped nuts Crushed cornflakes Mix the dough and knead into 4 balls. Roll out each ball to fit a 8 x 12 x 2 inch pan. Start with a layer of dough, one of fruit filling, spread a little oil on the fruit. Sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar, cornflake crumbs, chopped nuts. Repeat the layers until the balls of dough are used. Cut the dough into squares before baking. Oven set at 350 degrees for 35-40 minutes.  From “Mother’s Way Cookbook” (Hebrew Ladies Aid Society of Ahavath Sholom Synagogue and the Hadassah Chapter of Great Barrington)

[lenoracarter98]

Fire Safety for Senior Citizens

The Massachusetts Fire Marshal's office reports that older persons are three times as likely than the general population to perish in fires. While older adults made up only 14% of the U.S. population in 2012, they were responsible for 33% of the country's fire fatalities.

Although it is unknown if the senior victims of the incidents in February had functioning fire alarms, the fire marshal's office estimates that more than one-third of seniors who perished in fires in Massachusetts in 2012 did not have smoke detectors installed in their houses.

Here are some fire safety tips from the state fire marshal's office to safeguard you and your loved ones:

Avoid overloading power strips and outlets. In 2012, older folks were the victims of 27% fire deaths and 14% fire injuries due to electrical fires in their homes.

Utilize just one appliance per outlet, especially if it produces heat.

Electrical wires shouldn't be routed below carpets or tangled up with furniture.

Extension cables should only be used briefly; they should not be left in place permanently.

Keep anything that can burn at least three feet away from space heaters.

Make sure to get your electrical system inspected by a certified electrician every 10 years; he might need to make a few minor modifications to maintain the system in line with your home's electrical requirements.

Keep a phone, a whistle, and your glasses close to your bed. You can see better with spectacles, preventing injury when you're attempting to flee. Whistle the fire to the other residents of the house.

Put smoke alarms, or have someone else do it for you, outside each bedroom and on each floor.

Every month, test the smoke detectors, and replace the batteries twice a year. Every ten years, replace your smoke detectors.

Plan a getaway route.

Every second counts in a fire, so it's crucial if you're an older adult to install a fire alarm system using the greatest technology and hard-wired smoke, heat, and carbon monoxide detectors that are monitored by Cove Security.

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Zgallery dining room set

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I was a smoker for years and thought it was pretty expensive and would be awesome to grow my own, but it looked really complicated. Much more than I was willing to get myself into with all the tents and chemicals and crazy stuff you had to do. Plus, I didn’t really know where to put it. I needed to be discreet. Then I found out about the armoire, it’s discrete and looks like furniture and can go in any room including your living room, spare bedroom, regular bedroom, or home office. And it’s basically “water it once a day” protocol. I’ve been growing ever since and love it! #modernstoner #successfulstoner #girlystoner #weedgirls #womenwhosmoke #stonergirl #hightimes #wfayo #fueledbythc #staylifted #getlit #stayelevated #weedmob #smokeweed #mmemberville #bongbabe #stonerchick #dailystoner #sexystoner #prettypothead #bongbae #dailystoner #wfayo #staylit #staylifted #stoned (at Hopedale, Massachusetts) https://www.instagram.com/p/CjQyzKeuW__/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=