#getting long winded in my ripe old age of 22

[the-space-case]

brokenangelsandpinetrees replied to your post: brokenangelsandpinetrees replied to your post: ...

Yes. This. I agree 100%.

I could go one forever but yes augh

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Monday 16 September 1839 Travel Journal

5

11 35/..

fine morn[in]g and F[ahrenheit] 56° at 5 a.m. off at 6 –

at Lillpero at 7 38/.. – off at 7 58/..

just out of Wiborg [Vyborg] bouldery com[mo]n

i.e. aft[e]r pass[in]g thro’ the suburb w[i]th the

good ch[ur]ch – then fr[om] there for so[me] dist[an]ce

thinned young Scotch fir forest and

a few lit[tle] corn fields and aft[er]w[ar]ds young rocky bouldery young Scotch

fir forest and coarse sandy r[oa]d as yest[erday] – ver[y] few cot[tage]s

b[u]t I slept gr[ea]t p[ar]t of the way look[in]g out ev[er]y now and then –

Lillpero well en[ou]gh lit[tle] lone h[ou]se – Russ[ia]n – we ha[ve]

met sev[era]l lit[tle] waggons load[e]d w[i]th so[me]th[in]g cov[ere]d gen[erall]y

w[i]th matt[in]g – no [servant] ab[ou]t at Wiborg [Vyborg] so ga[ve]

noth[in]g – fr[om] Lillpero to the frontier 86 [w] at 12 k[opek]

=26/64 I shall ha[ve] en[ou]gh Finnish mon[ey] left -  

Lillpero in the forest and forest forw[ar]ds b[u]t yest[erday]

gen[erall]y and today so far the forest less swampy than

 Wiborg [Vyborg] 18 2/3

Hotoka [Kotka] 17

St. P- [Petersburg] 83 2/3

Heslingfors [Helsinki] 300.

 Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

common – r[oa]d good – sandy soil as yest[erday]

b[u]t r[oa]d hard and good – the police declin[e]d search[in]g

carr[ia]ge at W- [Wiborg] [Vyborg] s[ai]d they c[oul]d n[o]t do it – now (9 10/60) 1st

view of sea or lake or wat[e]r s[in]ce leav[in]g Wiborg [Vyborg] – and now nice

woody open count[r]y and farms and cot[tage]s a lit[tle] [?] – pass[e]d a

farm or 2 ab[ov]e 1/2 h[ou]r ago in a break of the forest –

fields – no corn out – good flock of

sheep recently shorn in 1/2 h[ou]r ago saw a pl[an]t of cranberry in

flow[e]r – at the beyond stat[io]n at 9 13/.. h[a]d to turn b[a]ck - alight at our stat[io]n

at Hotoka [Kotka] comf[orta]ble rooms

at 9 1/4 br[eak]f[a]st – beaut[iful]

view fr[om] our br[eak]f[a]st r[oo]m wind[ow]

of the fine wood[e]d fjord – Russ[ia]n – our beard[e]d landlord

ver[y] civ[i]l and good look[in]g – the men m[u]ch bet[ter] look[in]g than the

wom[e]n – br[eak]f[a]st boil[e]d milk and 4 boil[e]d eggs and br[ea]d and butt[e]r

they br[ou]ght us butt[e]r b[u]t we h[a]d our own and br[ea]d spar[e]d of

yest[erday]s’ din[ner] – br[eak]f[a]st at 9 38/.. to 10 5/.. – sev[era]l nice

outbuild[in]gs – off at 10 19/..

thin bouldery young forest and sea

(right) coup[le] of hund[re]d y[ar]ds off

ver[y] beaut[iful] – and at 10 27/.. peep

of the sea n[o]t far off (left) – at 10 33/..

(in 14 min[ute]s) ha[ve] lost sight of sea exc[ept]

our lit[tle] glimpse or 2 soon aft[er]w[ar]ds – and a beaut[iful] peep ag[ai]n of sea (left) –

10 40/.. unpainted hamlet 1 st[ree]t of gable-ends to the r[oa]d perh[aps] 200 y[ar]ds

long – the 1st vil[lage] there ans[werin]g Handb[oo]ks’ descript[io]n p[age] 142 it is in [?]

break of the forest, w[i]th nice clean even lit[tle] corn fields

asleep – till at 11 1/2 ver[y] pict[uresque] vil[lage] irregul[a]r vil[lage] of

Kyröla [Kyrölä] and our good stat[io]n – large good one story wood h[ou]se

 Stolpebod – stolpe, stoop

Baaum (beam) tree

 Hotacka [Kotka]

Lillpero 17 v[ersts]

Kyröla [Kyrölä] 14 v[ersts]

St. P- [Petersburg] 100 2/3 v[ersts]

Viborg [Vyborg] 35 2/3

 SH:7/ML/TR/14/0009

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

yellow (b[u]t old paint[e]d) w[i]th whi[te] wind[ow] frames –

ver[y] nice lit[tle] neat new-look[in]g fresh paint[e]d (yellow w[i]th pea green roof)

ch[ur]ch – and 2 or 3

good h[ou]ses w[i]th red roofs

oldish yel[low] paint

I th[in]k – the rest of the vil[lage] hamlet-like

and unpaint[e]d – by irreg[ula]r I mean that

the mid[dle] of the vil[lage] street swell[e]d out into

a sort of large square cont[ainin]g the ch[ur]ch and good h[ou]ses

ver[y] pret[ty] ab[ou]t here – fine br[oa]d expanse of wood[e]d

islandy wat[e]d left – and extens[ive] view of open

wood[e]d count[r]y – woody birchy and firs along our r[oa]d

capit[a]l r[oa]d – and n[o]t hilly today – this last vil[lage] of

Kyröla [Kyrölä] or Krasnoje Selo [Krasnoe Selo]  the prett[ies]t we ha[ve] seen  

ver[y] nice drive this stage – open birchy Scotch fir forest –

freq[uen]t peeps of the wat[e]r left – nice dry upland forest –

sandy b[u]t r[oa]d good – and mo[re] hilly than bef[ore] – the wat[e]r

left m[u]st be part of the series of lakes fr[om] Viborg [Vyborg]

that join the Ladoga? – plenty of cranberries

al[on]g b[u]t the pret[ty] red birnes n[o]t larg[e]r than our bilberry –

at 1 3/4 at [Pampala] good sm[all] unpaint[e]d lone h[ou]se

in nice dry airy break in the forest

snow plough – a calèche drove up –

just aft[e]r us – off at 1 12/.. – at 1 22/..  

(in 10 min[ute]s) nice peep ov[e]r the forest

up fine wood[e]d extens[ive] count[r]y all ar[ou]nd us [crossed word] –

sev[era]l lit[tle] s[u]ch peeps last stage fr[om] the tops of lit[tle] hills –

sandy b[u]t r[oa]d good – at 2 10/.. (right – near) large pict[uresque]

ch[ur]ch on hill – yel[low] w[i]th dark col[oure]d roof exc[ept] East

end cupola roof red – and unpaint[e]d hamlet at its f[ee]t

 Krasnoje Selo [Krasnoe Selo]                    Hotacka [Kotka]  14

St. P- [Petersburg] 87                                  Pampala 15 1/2

V- [Vyborg] 49 2/3

Helsingfors [Helsinki] 326 2/3

  Kyröla [Kyrölä] 15 2/3

Kivinebb 13

St. P- [Petersburg] 71

 Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

and our stat[io]n (good unpaint[e]d h[ou]se at 2 12/.. might ha[ve] slept

here appar[entl]y ver[y] well) – 2 snow ploughs –

nice hilly wood[e]d op[e]n airy count[r]y all

r[ou]nd ab[ou]t – the vil[lage] nicely plac[e]d on highgr[ou]nd –

off ag[ai]n at 2 1/2 – on ris[in]g the hill, the

count[r]y ver[y] pret[ty] here – fine extens[ive]

view – hamlets and farms scatt[ere]d up and d[o]wn – yel[low] stub[ble] f[iel]ds and green

young rye and good green pasturage – the unpaint[e]d (drab) hamlets and dark pine

wood[e]d hills finely contrast[e]d – b[u]t the hills n[o]t high – mere

rising gr[ou]nds all ar[ou]nd us – all right and left a wide woody plain

pret[ty] well peopl[e]d – no over-flow[in]g populat[io]n anywhere –

in this cold nord – gr[ea]t deal of birch all today –

now at 2 50/.. the wide plain right seems one sheet

of dark pine forest we pass thro’ a lit[tle] unpaint[e]d

scatt[ere]d hamlet or 3 or 4 or a series of scatt[ere]d farms and the villages

num[erou]s hamlet-like appurt[enan]ces – here and ev[er]y where

the wood fences as in S. and N- [South and North] at 3 5/.. cross good

riv[e]r and wood br[idge] and 14 men w[i]th as many one horse

ploughs plough[in]g in one stubble f[iel]d – cattle –

3 lit[tle] corn stacks in a f[iel]d – nice farm[in]g here –

7 nar[row] lines (bet[ween] Stakes or rails or [how] of

so[me]th[in]g like peasholm – plenty of geese here –

abund[an]ce of them at Viborg [Vyborg] in the Baltic near the

2 steams, and on the ramparts and in the st[ree]ts and

ev[er]ywhere – one stage hill this ti[me] and r[oa]d sandy b[u]t good

at 3 23/.. unpaint[e]d scattered hamlet and pret[ty] lit[tle] lake near right

and a bit of sm[all] bould[e]r stone cobble wall fence

the 1st I ha[ve] seen in the north – S.N. [South and North] or here)

 Kiviniebb

Pampala 13 v[ersts]

Raiaioki 12 1/2 v[ersts]

St. P- [Petersburg] 58 v[ersts]

 Geese

 1st cobble st[one]

wall.

 SH:7/ML/TR/14/0010

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

at the stat[io]n at 3 33/.. – on highgr[ou]nd – lone

h[ou]se unpaint[e]d body – red roof

good en[ou]gh look[in]g h[ou]se – m[i]ght sleep

appar[entl]y as well as at many of the

oth[e]r stat[io]ns – the hamlet scatt[ere]d ab[ou]t

at a lit[tle] dist[an]ce – the appurt[enan]ces of the

stat[io]n num[erou]s as us[ua]l and hamlet-like

wide wood[e]d plain right and left and surely it the sea we

just see in the extreme dist[an]ce before us (right) –

off at 3 47/.. ver[y] pret[ty] at 3 52/.. lit[tle] steep desc[en]t on to

wood[e]n br[idge] ov[e]r lit[tle] stream that is perh[aps] the boundary?

steep boulder stones pav[e]d asc[en]t – en[ou]gh for our horses to do to get

us up – and good largeish houses – good all the way fr[om]

Viborg [Vyborg] – pret[ty] and hilly and m[u]ch birch – thin

forest, and pasture and cows – yes! (now 4 3/4) it

is the sea, a long sweep, in the dist[an]ce (right) –

the pavé roughish beg[a]n on this side the bridge at 3 52/..

b[u]t we go on the sides (sandy b[u]t ver[y] fine) now and then

ver[y] m[u]ch – and aft[e]r all the pavé is n[o]t so bad

so far – I w[oul]d rath[e]r risk our carr[ia]ge here than

fr[om] Hamburg to Lubeck, or even in the st[ree]ts of

Stockholm where if the pavé is so[me]th[in]g between the

deep chan[nel]s are terrib[le] – now at 4 5/.. the aft[ernoo]n

is dullish – shall we ha[ve] r[ai]n? now at 4 1/4 fine

wood[e]d count[r]y – range of wood[e]d hill left,

closes in (at perh[aps] 7 or 8 inches Eng[lish]) our plain

at the left  - low birch wood bushes and young Scotch

firs scatt[ere]d here and to the right (in the dist[an]ce)  

 Raiaioki

Kivinebb 12 1/2 v[ersts]

Walkiasari 12 1/2 v[ersts]

St. P- [Petersburg] 45 4/6 v[ersts]

 Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

and to the right in the dist[an]ce the fine sweep of

sea w[i]th a dark line at the b[a]ck of it form[in]g the horizon

lookd[o]wn in front in the dist[an]ce up[on] dark plan

ris[in]g to the horizon – and now 4 25/.. a scatt[ere]d hamlet

unpaint[e]d as us[ua]l – the sea now sweeps 1/2 r[ou]nd us

in the dist[an]ce fr[om] right to en face – we look up[on]

one sheet of forest belt[e]d right and in front by sea –

now towns or vil[lage]s distinguishable – the r[oa]d now

sandy (at 4 1/2) and goodish – the pavé nowhere

prev[ente]d my writ[in]g – at 4 1/2 lose my pen – in tak[in]g

off bon[ne]t m[u]st ha[ve] kick[e]d it out – now at 4 1/2 ver[y]

sandy and heavy –

the birch gen[erall]y green shew[in]g merely a tinge of autumn

here and there – hilly stage – now at 4 55/.. a lit[tle]

town or vil[lage] in sight bef[ore] us (right) w[i]th handso[me]

white, blue-cupolaed, ch[ur]ch – now at 5 first

buckwheat that I ha[ve] obs[erve]d part stand[in]g ripe,

and part cut, ti[e]d up in lit[tle] sheaves, and in stock – and

our road now and for a lit[tle] whi[le] b[a]ck as broad as

3 r[oo]ds (perh[aps] 60 y[ar]ds wide) and we go on the grass or

as well as we can thro’ the sand – and now (5 5/..) a few scatt[ere]d

farmsteads – our r[oa]d this stage the worse we ha[ve] h[a]d in

Denm[ar]k Swed[e]n or Norway, b[u]t still the r[oa]d to Hazelunen

m[u]ch worse in point of sand, and the r[oa]d fr[om] Hamburg to

Lubeck m[u]ch worse in 1833 in point of pavé –

the pavé beg[i]ns ag[ai]n now at 5 10/.. (we h[a]d it fr[om] 3 52/.. to 4 1/2)

b[u]t we keep on the side – on the sand – sev[era]l lit[tle] long nar[row]

stacks w[i]th spruce fir branches laid on the thatch (as obs[erve]d

once before) steep pitch d[o]wn to wood br[idge] x [cross] stream – then ascend to the

town, and at the Station at 5 1/4 at Walkiasari

 SH:7/ML/TR/14/0011

Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

John stopt at the stat[io]n h[ou]se and we h[a]d s[e]nt Gross to

the douane, and g[o]t the bask[e]ts and cloaks out bef[ore] they ca[me] to say the

carr[ia]ge and all m[u]st go to the place – there at 5 25/.. and A- [Ann] and I there 3/4 h[ou]r –

then ca[me] b[a]ck sided our r[oo]m and A- [Ann] made tea – sat ov[e]r it till 8 10/..

then prepared our bed – on[l]y one in the h[ou]se – h[a]d Grotza at

8 3/4, when we h[a]d g[o]t all ready – and then till now (10 p.m.)

ink[e]d ov[e]r the latt[e]r 2/3 of the last p[age] and so far of this –

Jean w[a]s in desp[ai]r at the th[ou]ght of our stay[in]g all night –

s[ai]d if we d[i]d we must sleep up[on] hay for there were

no beds – and in ca[me] a large bundle of nice soft

hay w[hi]ch now lies in the corn[e]r of our r[oo]m – we ha[ve]

spr[ea]d out the one scant[l]y fill[e]d bed (w[i]th flocks I suppo[se])

on sofa and chairs so as to be wide en[ou]gh for us both –

of the 2 pieces  of linen each n[o]t qui[te] clean ab[ou]t 1 1/2 y[ar]d sq[uare] we ha[ve] made

[crossed word] an und[e]r sheet, and shall put our cloaks ov[e]r

us – we ha[ve] the luxury of 4 pillows, and shall do ver[y]

well – we ha[ve] our own br[ea]d and butt[e]r and tea and sug[a]r b[u]t they

br[ou]ght ver[y] fair br[ea]d (wheat) and good butt[e]r, and 4 boil[e]d

eggs and a lit[tle] bowl of milk w[i]th the cream on it for our tea –

the cream made our tea excell[en]t and we sat ov[e]r and enjoy[e]d

it, declar[in]g how well off we were – we h[a]d g[o]t well

thro’ the ordeal of the douane, and congrat[ulate]d ours[elves] on being

in Russia – our b[oo]ks I bel[ieve] were all tak[e]n out of the carr[ia]ge

and look[e]d at; b[u]t, as desir[e]d, I cop[ie]d the list I ha[ve] and the Stockholm [crossed word] date

dat[e]d it Stockholm as really dat[e]d there, and sign[e]d it

= A. [Anne] Lister [sign]                   and then enclos[e]d it an envelope,

‘de Shibden hall’ and as desir[e]d seal[e]d it w[i]th my own seal

my arms, wr[ote] on the back ‘List of the books belonging to Mrs. Lister’

 Sept[embe]r Mon[day] 16

and s[e]nt this by Gross to the Douane to be forward[e]d

to St. Petersburg, I engaging to go w[i]thin six weeks to the

committee of censorship to claim the list – s[ai]d I sh[oul]d

go to Mrs. Wilsons’ – we are thus allow[e]d to ta[ke] all our

b[oo]ks and th[in]gs and go in comf[or]t – How m[u]ch bet[ter] than to the poth[e]r

we sh[oul]d ha[ve] h[a]d if we h[a]d arriv[e]d at St. P- [Petersburg] by the steamer! –

our journ[e]y thro’ Finland h[a]s really been a ver[y]

agreeab[le] and a ver[y] economic[a]l one; and we ha[ve] seen

the count[r]y and the peop[le] – the latt[e]r alw[a]ys civ[i]l and ready to do

their utm[o]st to please, and the form[e]r well-farm[e]d (made

the m[o]st of) and interest[in]g – the r[oa]ds ev[er]ywhere good till

this last stage – and the sand of this noth[in]g to that of Hazelunen

and the for post aft[ernoo]n post pavés of the s[ou]th of Fr[an]ce often qui[te] m[u]ch or more as jolt[in]g and try[in]g to

the springs of a carr[ia]ge then the 43 min[ute]s out 88 min[ute]s

(fr[om] 3 47/.. to 5 1/4) here – this is the 1st ti[me] we ha[ve] fail[e]d

to find good clean beds and sheets at the Stat[io]n houses

and on[l]y once or twice we ha[ve] the peop[le] been w[i]thout

whi[te] (wheat) bread – the lit[tle] steep pitches are too short

to be dang[erou]s – the horses rarely stumble; and a man m[u]st be

a ver[y] bad driv[e]r and totally unaccust[ome]d to this sort of r[oa]ds if

he can[no]t get on comf[ortabl]y ev[e]n w[i]th a heavy Eng[lish] carr[ia]ge like ours ab[ou]t

8 versts an h[ou]r – I nev[e]r obs[erve]d the man or boy (Holcar)

ask for anyth[in]g mo[re] than wh[a]t w[a]s due for the horses

6 kopeks each fr[om] country stat[io]ns and doub[le] that fr[om] towns –

Åbo is a good town – Heslingfors [Helsinki] ver[y] beaut[iful]

cheerful and comf[orta]ble (the Societys’ h[ou]se good hot[e]l) and one

might ha[ve] advantages fr[om] the univers[it]y prof[essor]s (all the

students away – vacance for a fortnight longer) –

Viborg [Vyborg] dull as all fortresses of such sort m[u]st be? b[u]t a good

town and its fjord and situat[io]n beaut[iful] – the cold

SH:7/ML/TR/14/0012

September Monday 16the cold weather is coming – I have had a little chilblain in my right little finger these 2 days or more and Jean has got a little lumbago since Saturday – fine day (tho’ dullish coldish in the morning and dampish in the afternoon) – F56 ¼° now at 10 ¾ pm our 2 rooms have been warmed by a stove; for they were quite comfortably warm on our arrival no pot ath [at] breakfast and we have a tureen for one tonight Raining now at 10 ¾ pm

[xantchaslegacy]

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Multiverse

A quick and dirty rundown of some of the premier MtG planes, ranked by how nice a place they would be to live. Very subjective obviously, and I’d love to hear if people agree/ disagree/ have any strong feelings on the matter at all~ I stuck mostly to planes where I felt enough was known about it to make a tentative judgment call on its general safety/ enjoyability.

Note that for the below list, the criteria is that you are a) a human, who b) is primarily interested in living a long, peaceful life c) ideally with minimal external control by outside powers.

1) Kaladesh

– Periodically corrupt government, but overall a plane which offers lifestyles for urban and rural preferences, has plentiful clean energy, and supports both the arts and the sciences for public benefit.

2) Kylem

– Not many options for a quiet life, judging by the admittedly small sampling of the plane seen so far. Does seem to have a fairly lower fatality rate for all that, and Cloudspire City ranks high on places to visit for a fun time.

3) Eldraine

– Surprisingly benevolent monarchy, even verging on democratic in areas. Dangers of wilds exist, but odds of random monster death are reasonably mitigated compared to other planes. Limited career options for the layperson, though more fields open up if willing to take on the life of a knight.

4) Equilor

– Peaceful but dull, which is basically exactly the criteria for this particular test.

5) Dominaria

– Lots of world to see if you fancy adventure, and a diverse number of places to settle down if you don’t. Options for scholars, warriors, farmers, traders, artists, and writers alike. Currently no pending apocalypse, but the track record is not so good. Death machines just a few layers of dirt down.

6) Alara (Bant)

– Not a bad life to be had, if a bit over-codified. Even life as a warrior is not bad, at least pre-conflux. Peaceful and well-ordered, and passes the criteria for this list, albeit only for a brief period of time.

7) Theros

– Many options re: career path, from farmer to warrior to philosopher to herder. Do have to contend with sudden, violent death from monsters, minotaurs, or gods getting bored, so constantly on edge, probably.

8) Ravnica

– Pretty much the gold standard for variety in life paths. Entertainer, provider, lawyer, doctor, scientist, artist, spy, usurer...the world is your oyster if you’ve got the gumption. Semiapocalyptic events fairly frequent in recent years,  though nothing has stuck. Very few options for the non-urban inclined that don’t involve joining a cult or grafting new parts onto your body.

9) Shandalar

– current status a bit unclear, but a great plane for anyone looking to incorporate casual magic into their day-to-day life. Likely still a ripe target for planeswalker visitors looking to harvest the rich mana therein.

10) Fiora

– Fairly interesting and relatively low-key place to live if you keep your head down and out of the hardcore politicking. Rural living options exist.

11) Plane of Mountains and Seas

– limited information, but seems pretty chill.

12) Bablovia

– here for a good time, not a long time.

13) Alara (Naya)

– Not too bad, if you don’t get stepped on. Mostly jungle living, but if you’re down with that, there are fun adventures to be had.

14) Kamigawa

– Sure, your Daimyo may occasionally invoke the wrath of the sizeable and omnipresent spirit world, casting the whole of the plane into bitter, arcane civil war, but in any other situation you’ve got a fairly diverse and interesting world to live in, and nowadays there’s even a pair of spirits protecting you from extraplanar threats.

15) Lorwyn/Shadowmoor

– Depending on the side of the aurora you find yourself on, you will either want to seek out the elves for sanctuary, or avoid them at all costs. Lorwyn is pleasant enough, if you resign yourself to not seeing any other humans, and are good with extremely rural living. Watch overhead for giants at all times.

16) Alara (Esper)

– Long life options available, if you are good with artifacts™, and cool with swapping out some of your fleshy bits. A wee bit classist.

17) Kephelai

– peaceful and ordered enough, but definitely leaning on the oppressive side of the political spectrum. Not the most fun people to live among, either.

18) Regatha

– Some like it hot; some might not.

19) Muraganda

– The perfect plane for all you paleo diet enthusiasts out there. Living might be a little too bare-bones and dinosaur-filled for the average person.

20) Ixalan

– A few options here, all pretty narrow. Piracy and vampire imperialism both involve a life of violence and in the latter case, a high degree of servitude. Sun empire pretty viable option for humans comfortable with dinosaurs, and, as of the most recent story, going full aztec.

21) Tarkir (Khans)

– A varied lifestyle options to pick from. Very few leisurely ones available, barring a life of deceit and treachery with the Sultai. Inter- and intra-clan conflict more or less unavoidable, but not of a disastrous scale that you’ll find on different planes.

22) Zendikar

– Excellent opportunities for forging your own path in life, and endless options for adventure. Lacking in safe places to settle down and live without sudden death by avalanche/tidal wave/typhoon/ eruption/ sinkhole/ eldritch horror.

23) Mercadia

– Opportunities for rural and urban living, if you are at peace with living in a trash heap/ dust bowl. Forest living is an option if you don’t mind the mercenary raids, but at least others will have your back. Options for piracy as well, though not as flashy as the Ixalan variety. No apocalyptic events to worry about, which puts it head and shoulders above a few other planes on the list.

24) Gargantikar

– See Segovia; this time, it is you who gets stomped. May be ideal for anyone who saw Disney’s jack and the beanstalk and decided life on a giant kitchen table was the life for them.

25) Segovia

– Oh jeez, please be careful where you step. If you could just – we’ve got a lovely hundred acres of pasture for you to take a seat in if you would just take care not to step on OH MY GOD YOU’VE KILLED THEM ALL (Yes, Segovia corrects for scale with planeswalker visitors, but I stand by the joke)

26) Serra’s Realm

– Fairly peaceful in theory, but the oversight is pretty strict, and it’s no good if you’ve got a fear of heights. Very limited time to enjoy living there if floating fields and angels are your jam.

27) Vryn

– Regularly corrupt government, in constant conflict with other major power over contested energy sources, with everyone else placed firmly in the middle of the meat grinder.

28) Innistrad

– You can certainly live long as a vampire or free as a werewolf, but as both are of dubious desirability for the average person, this plane will rank a bit low.

29) Mirrodin (Pre-besieged)

– Prospects for living a quiet life exist, with major caveats regardless of which human society you wind up in. Basically take your pick between constant danger of attack, subservience to another species, living in a place not designed for habitation by any form of life, or some combination of the three.

30) Tarkir (Dragons)

– Much narrower lifestyle options than the khans timeline, and higher odds of dying within your own clan, though which dragon you end up under makes a huge difference in the quality of life. Dromoka and Ojutai probably the best options if your goal is longetivity.

31) Ulgrotha

– Dead/ dying plane, and the management sucks.

32) Rath (pre-overlay)

– Mercadia situation amped up to 11. Oppress or be oppressed, with an uncomfortable middle ground where you will experience both. Also a generally hostile landscape due to nanomachine silly putty.

33) Alara (Jund)

– Spicy Naya. Probably can last a while if you’re quick on your feet, but no one dies of old age here.

34) Amonkhet

– Dead/ dying world, even if it wasn’t host to a horrific logan’s run/ hunger games inspired colonialism. Not so bad short-term, if you want to work on your beach body. At least you have a god looking out for you, unlike...

35) Alara (Grixis)

– The living hunted for their life-force...hellscape of zombies and demons...Grixis fails most of the criteria for the list, but you’ve got a slightly more sporting chance of survival here than with some of the planes further down.

36) New Phyrexia

– NOT GREAT

37) Phyrexia (Nine Spheres)

– Pictured above: the worst place in the multiverse, as a backdrop to the most wonderful person in the multiverse

[sillyshortstories]

Parsley

Summary: This short story is inspired by the original Rapunzel tale by Giambattista Basile. Serafina must embark on many side quests to obtain the witch's parsley, before her pregnant wife Satomi succumbs to scratching her eczema ridden skin!

Cultural context: Birthmarks and cravings. 

“I’m really craving parsley,” Satomi said, longingly staring out the window. 

Serafina immediately rose from her coffin, and stared at her wife in horror. “Which… which parsley?”

Satomi pressed herself against the window, and dragged a hand down it slowly. “The neighbour’s.” 

These words granted Serafina more alertness than 49 cups of coffee. Satomi turned her head, pouting out her lip like a small child. Serafina softly started, “Don’t-”

“Could you,” Satomi started to beg. “Get some for me?”

Serafina stumbled out of her coffin, shaking her head profusely. “Nope. No. Not gonna happen, sorry babe.” 

Satomi whined, “But Serafina-”

“I may be a 240 year old blood-thirsty-vampire, but she’s a 22 year old independent witch of this century. She’ll destroy me and you know it.” Serafina grabbed Satomi’s hands, and pulled her gently. “”Now let’s get away from the window and think of sorbet. You like sorbet! I can go to the corner store and pick you up some of that.” 

Like a switch, Satomi change her demeanor, and leaned into her wife. She slowly and seductively whispered, “I want that parsley.” She breathed into Serafina’s ear. “And my eczema is acting up.”

Serafina quickly pushed and held Satomi at a distance. “You’re lying?” she said softly. 

“You know I’m not.”

Sweat began to form on Serafina’s forehead. She shifted her attention from Satomi to the window, until she gulped down. “You uh,” her voice quivered. “You really want that parsley?” 

Satomi smiled, horns imagined on her head as she planted a kiss on Serafina’s pale lips. “Make sure to get a big bunch,” she requested, and sat back down on the windowsill. “Thanks babe.”

“It was nice knowing you, my love. I’ll die on this quest to get parsley for my beautiful wife,” Serafina performed, allowing a tear to fall from her eye. “Tell our baby that I love them.”

“Hon, you’re immortal.” 

“She’ll break my soul!” Serafina sniffled, then ended her dramatic scene. “Okay, I’m going.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

___

Serafina tiptoed her way around the fence that divided the two properties, and somersaulted on the grass like a secret agent. She did it correctly, only her feet landed and crushed a lavender head. 

“Well, I already fucked up.”

Serafina stood up, dusted off her pants and cloak, and walked right up to the small patch of fresh parsley. She wrapped her hands around the stems of as many as she could, then ripped it out from the Earth. Soil spilled out from beneath it, pulling out multiple carrot-looking roots along with it.

Serafina heard a crack of a twig, fear shook her to the very core as a shadowy figure stepped into her view. The figure was her neighbour Nomi, who held onto the ends of her cloak above her head, giving the illusion of a larger stature in the dark night. However, she was approximately the average size of a pubescent child.  

Nomi squinted her eyes at the lavender patch, releasing her cloak, and croaked, “What did you do to my lavender?”

“It was an acci-”

“Those were to save the bees. What, you don’t like bees now?”

“No, I love those chubby fuckers! It was an accident, really.”

“And this bunch of parsley you ripped out from my garden? I’m guessing that was an accident too.”

“Well, uh, see-”

Nomi snatched the parsley from Serafina’s grasp. “Nice try, but it’ll cost you.”

“How much money do you want?”

“Not money…” Nomi stroked the parsley in her hands. “I’ll let you have the parsley if-” She smirked. “If you give me your first-”

“Not my first child!” Serafina screamed. 

“Goddess no, why would I want to be a mother in this economy? I just want your first murder victim. Their bones, to be precise.”

“I-I haven’t killed anyone. I’ve always lived off of period blood.”

Nomi blinked rapidly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Wow, um, okay? Then just get me Dildar from the graveyard down the street. Aaron’s been hoarding him since I was 7.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want mo-”

“Bones!” Nomi screeched, swinging her cloak over her face, and disappeared into the shadows again. 

___

The fog was thick in the graveyard, the whistling of the wind filling Serafina’s ears. She clutched her cloak and wrapped it around her body as she wandered deeper into the graveyard. Some fog passed through her body, and took the shape of a 10 foot cyclops. 

“I am the grave ghost! Fear me!”

“Hey Aaron.”

“Oh, hey Serafina.” The ghost relaxed and shrunk down to Serafina’s height, in a human form. “Has it been a year already?”

“No, I’m not here to visit my former husband. I’m here for, uh… Dildar, actually.”

Aaron squinted his illuminated eyes, and hovered around Serafina’s body. “Why?”

“Well, uh, see Aaron, I need something from Nomi and-”

“Tell that Gnome that she cannot have his bones.”

Tears welled in Serafina’s eyes. “Come on Aaron, it’s not like I’m asking for your husband’s bones.”

“Dildar was my first love and you know that.” Aaron descended slowly to sit on top of Dildar’s tombstone. He let out a sigh. “We met when I was 20.”

Aaron smiled softly, immersing himself in the soft memories.

Human Aaron was walking his dog when there was an explosion a few houses down. Thick smoke seeped out through the cracks in the window of the small stone house. A young man with singed eyebrows and a coarse beard stumbled out of the front door, and fell on the lawn.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asked, wafting away the smoke around him. 

“I’m fi-fi-fi-fine,” Dildar replied. 

Aaron offered a hand out towards Dildar. “You need some moisturizer, you are looking a little ashy.” 

Dildar burst out into laughter, then smudged some of the black soot from his cheek with the back of his hand.

“We became friends because of that,” ghost Aaron said recalling some more memories. “He sure was an experimental alchemist, and a talented witch.” 

Serafina spoke softly, “You know he would allow his bones to be used after his death.”

“I know that, Nomi just boils my blood.” Aaron floated up from the tombstone and circled around Serafina slowly. “Why are you helping the Gnome anyways?” 

“Satomi is craving parsley and-”

“Say no more,” Aaron interrupted. “I will make a deal with you. I will give you the bones of Dildar if,” he tapped his finger against each other, like he was hatching an evil plan. “You get me Rasmus’ lucky rabbit’s foot.”

“Oh, come on Aaron,” Serafina whined. 

“I cannot give you his bones, Serafina.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll get the rabbit’s foot for you.” Serafina turned and mumbled unpleasant commentary under her breath as she stormed out of the graveyard. 

___

Music was blaring through the open windows. Serafina’s knock was barely audible, but Rasmus swung the door open. 

“Serafina!” Rasmus shouted over the noise. “What’s up? Come in!”

Serafina immersed herself in the chaos, and without hesitation she tried to explain, “I’m going to be straight with you- well, not straight ‘cause i’m not.” She snorted. “But like, to the point, I need- Is that a dancing chicken?!”

“Oh yeah, Ove and Ivalu found her wandering on our front lawn,” Rasmus replied. “She’s pretty talented, huh?”

The chicken was racking up points in Dance Dance Revolution until the very end. The tiny Ivalu, exhausted, toppled over in defeat once the song finished. 

“Y’ain’t shit Ivalu,” Ove shouted at his sister, as he pushed her battered body to the side. 

Like clockwork, Ove and the chicken agreed on a song, and began to dance. But this song, When I Grow Up by The Pussycat Dolls, sent the chicken down memory lane.

Freshly hatched from the egg, the chicken was introduced to music, and with that, the influence to move to the melody. Her mother thought it was cute, the way she would move her feet, and sway her plump behind, but she wanted to be more than cute. She wanted to be the best. She wanted to be famous. 

At the ripe age of 1, she set out on her own. She followed the music, made it to frat parties, and befriended lonely flute players in the woods. 

‘I’ll be famous one day’, she would think as she practiced daily. On her journey, the chicken stumbled upon Rasmus’ front lawn, and danced to the music that poured out of the windows. 

Eventually, she caught the attention of the two children, and as many others had done, they welcomed the talented chicken into their home. However, this time was different. 

Other people, other homes, were not equipped with a game to help her practice. This game offered her a wide selection of tunes and choreography. Upon discovering this game, the chicken silently decided she would stay a while, and practice to achieve her dreams. 

‘I’ll be famous one day,’ she repeated in her head. ‘It is my dance dance resolution.’

Serafina stared in awe as the chicken demolished Ove this round without even breaking a sweat. Not that she could sweat, she’s a chicken after all. 

“Uh.” Serafina cleared her throat, and looked to Rasmus. “Look, I’m really in a rush. My wife needs parsley, but Nomi wants bones, and Aaron wants your lucky rabbit’s foot. Can I give you something in exchange for the foot?”

“Why does Satomi need parsley?”

“You know, pregnant women crave thi-”

“She’s pregnant?!” Rasmus threw his hands in the air, and giggled like a schoolgirl. 

Serafina smiled at his excitement. “Yeah, for a few months now.”

“I had no idea! I assumed hormone replacement therapy would make you infertile.”

“Oh no, I’m not on hormones. It’s hard enough to get my supply of period blood all the way out here, forget estrogen.” Serafina tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “Anyways, Rasmus, I need the lucky rabbit’s foot. What do you want in exchange for it?”

Serafina silently prayed for his request to be money. 

Rasmus placed a finger to his chin and stared at the ceiling as he thought. He animated his thought process by throwing his thinking hand into the air. “Oh! I know! Tamecia has a handwritten cookbook.”

“You want a cookbook?”

“Hey, I’m a single dad living in the middle of the forest. I need to make due with a surplus of wild mushrooms and ramps.”

Serafina sighed. “Fair enough. I’ll be back with the cookbook,” and she went on her not-so-merry-way.

___

She was exactly where Serafina knew she’d be; stuck in a tree. The branches crackled beneath her, and in an instant, Tamecia fell to the ground. 

Tamecia had a white afro as big as her belly, that now housed several branches and withering leaves. 

“Hey,” Serafina dragged out the word in a forced upbeat tone. “Tamecia.” 

“Serafina! Hello darling. Help me up, won’t you?” Tamecia grunted, and stuck her arms out for Serafina to grab. 

Serafina’s veins popped, muscles rippled as she strained to lift Tamecia up, who was putting in no effort herself. 

“There you go. Not too difficult for you, I hope?” Tamecia chuckled to herself, and dusted off her silk nightgown. 

Serafina was still panting as she blurted out, “Can I buy your cookbook?”

A bellow of laughter erupted from Tamecia. “Why would you need a cookbook, dear?”

“I don’t, but Rasmus does, and I need something from him.”

“Ah, Rasmus. Good fellow. Did you see that dancing chicken he has?”

“I had the pleasure of meeting her today. Now how about that cookbook.” Serafina whipped out her wallet from her back pocket. “How much do you want for it?”

“Oh sweetheart, I don’t want money.”

Serafina’s face light up like Diwali. “You don’t? Then can I get it n-”

“Monifa does have an invention I’m interested in.” Serafina immediately deflated as Tamecia continued, “If you can get that for me, dear, then I’ll gladly give you the cookbook.”

Serafina looked like death. “What’s the invention?”

“It’s a potion that gives you stretchy limbs. It’d be very useful for me. You don’t know how often my Kitty gets stuck in trees.”

“No no, I can imagine how often your kite Kitty gets caught in trees. We do live in a forest after all.” Serafina let out a long sigh, and carried herself away from Tamecia, who had begun another attempt at retrieving her pet kite from the tree. 

“So, a stretchy formula,” Serafina mumbled, swaying her lifeless body in the direction of Monifa’s house. 

___

Monifa’s lawn was full of botanical life, but with a clean walkway to the front door. Serafina breathed in the calming lavender, attempting to enjoy nature instead of letting the bitterness brew in her chest. She couldn’t believe Nomi was the only person in the whole village to grow parsley. 

‘It’s okay.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I will get this parsley, as if my life depends on it.’

Just as Serafina put her fist to the door, it swung open. “Hey Serafina,” Monfia said. 

“That was… were you expecting someone or something?” Serafina looked behind her, and searched around for someone else. 

“No.” Monifa leaned against the doorframe. “You were just standing on my porch for a while. Seemed a little out of it. Are you okay?”

Serafina’s voice cracked, and her body fell, as she clutched onto Monifa’s lab coat. “I need parsley.”

“Oh, okay?” Monifa instinctively held onto Serafina, and attempted to pull her up. “How can I help?” 

“I need your limb-stretching formula or whatever it’s called.”

“Stretcher 4.0. I’m sorry, but how does… how does that help you get parsley?”

Serafina pulled herself up with the aid of Monifa, and explained to her they daily events that led to this moment. She pointed to the trees, and danced like the chicken to animate her predicament. 

Monifa attempted to contain her laughter. “Wait wait wait, you’re going through all of this because your wife is craving parsley?”

“My wife has eczema, I can’t just not! Our child will have parsley all over their skin!”

“Actually, that superstition has been disproven for centu-”

“PARSLEY! PARSLEY ON OUR BABY’S BODY!” Serafina threw her hands in the air frantically, then dragged her fingers through her hair, tugging it down. “Now, what do you want in exchange for the stretchy thingy?”

Monifa paused for a moment before pointing behind her. “Do you see a little girl eating brownies back there?”

Serafina peered in, noticing a tray of untouched, steaming brownies, but no sign of anyone else in the bungalow. “Uh, no?”

Monifa adjusted her glasses to sit higher up the bridge of her nose. “Okay, I figured I needed to switch up my meds.” Monfia reached into her pocket, and pulled out a thin vial with a thick iridescent fluid. “Here you go, the stretcher 4.0.”

Serafina took it in her hands, and stared at it bewildered. “That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“Are.. you sure?”

“Yup, that’s all I needed. Oh! One more thing before you go; be sure to unplug your appliances after use, because it can burn out the device and it wastes electricity.”

Serafina switched her gaze from the vial to Monifa, with tears forming in her eyes. She sniffled, “Thank you.”

___

The house was flooded with the burnt orange of dawn light, and Serafina swam in the warmth of it. The parsley in her hands flopped around as she danced to jazz music from the 1920’s, playing softly on the record player.

Even with the missing component of garlic, the scent of tomato sauce transported Serafina to her childhood in Italy.  

She burst into the tiny kitchen to greet Satomi when the record scratched and stopped. 

A pot began to spit out sauce as Satomi stood frozen over the stove, with her eyes fixed on Serafina. Satomi’s hand was still on her neck, which was inflamed and cracked. Slowly, her hand moved down to her side. 

Serafina held the bouquet of parsley out and mumbled, “You’re not still craving this, are you?”

“I, uh,” Satomi stuttered, just as the pot of water began to boil over. 

Satomi hurriedly removed the lid from the pot, and slowly stirred in the pasta, occasionally stealing glances of Serafina. 

Finally, Serafina relaxed into a smile as she watched her wife. She imagined their child looking just like Satomi, with birthmarks in place of her eczema. 

Serafina planted a kiss on Satomi’s cheek. “Our child is going to be so beautiful.”

[occasionallyanauthor]

So This is Love

1,366 words

Taegi modern-day Cinderella AU

Constructive criticism is welcome, but please don’t be super harsh this is my first fic.

So This is Love: Kim Taehyung was effortlessly beautiful and could steal anyone’s man in a heartbeat. One problem: his brothers Seokjin and Namjoon had him deal with the brunt of the housework. Taehyung never leaves the house except to go to the market and search for his prince charming, his knight in shining armor. Little does Taehyung know his prince lives next door.

or: the very, very loosely based cinderella taegi au in which kim taehyung is an idiot and min yoongi is certified boyfriend material.

        Dishes. Taehyung’s worst fear (not really, but they were his least favorite chore). The sink was loaded up high and the dishwasher had broken the day before. Shit. He got to work, mentally rearranging his schedule and eventually deciding his trip to the farmer’s market and grocery store would have to wait until tomorrow, even though he was out of sugar and needed some to complete the icing for his brother Jin’s birthday. Taehyung decided to ask one of his neighbors, but who to ask: the grouchy old couple on the left or the mystery man on the right that he’d only ever seen the day he moved in? Mystery man it is Taehyung decided seeing as it was the safest option. The couple would only bash him for not being married at the ripe old age of 21. How caring. 

     Yoongi’s doorbell rang around 5:00 o’clock on a lazy Saturday night, and he expected none other than the pizza guy at his door. He did not expect to open the door to see the male Aphrodite reincarnate at his door. He also did not expect an energetic pomeranian to be nipping at his toes. “Tannie! Don’t bite the neighbor!” Taehyung scolded, but Yeontan was relentless in his attack so Taehyung settled for holding him instead. “Hello?” Yoongi questioned, slightly shy at the fact that this beautiful man was in front of him while he was wearing a pair of ill-fitting sweatpants and an old university hoodie. “Ah. Hello. Sorry about Yeontan, he gets to hyper sometimes. Uh, I’m from next door and I was wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar and I just feel so-” “Yeah that’s fine. Come in,” Yoongi interrupted before Taehyung could get more flustered than he already was. Poor boy was shaking about as much as a leaf in the wind. 

     Taehyung felt grateful for that as he followed Yoongi to his kitchen and promptly took a seat at the breakfast bar with Yeontan in his arms. “I’m Kim Taehyung by the way, sorry for not introducing myself earlier. And this is my fluffy baby Yeontan. Sorry again about him biting at your toes, I haven’t had the time to teach him any manners.” “No, it’s fine. I’m surprised my dog Holly wasn’t up and at the door the second I opened it. I’m Min Yoongi. Also, may I ask why you need the sugar? You can have it, but I want to know why.” “It’s my brother Seokjin-hyung’s birthday and I ran out of sugar and didn’t have enough for the icing and I didn’t have enough time to go into town.” Yoongi hands Taehyung the sugar and his phone too, with a mumbled “in case you ever need more sugar.” Taehyung smiled at that, not believing that the cute, fair-skinned boy in front of him wanted his number. Taehyung put in his name and number, along with a cake emoji for good measure. Yoongi blushed and saw him out the door. When the doorbell rang about 5 minutes later, Yoongi was hopeful for Taehyung, but alas it was the pizza gut he had waited so long for.

---

     It was a rainy Friday when Taehyung next showed up at Yoongi’s doorstep with Yeontan in tow, claiming that he needed butter. Okay, so he didn’t really need butter but he can’t help coming over, the mystery man is really cute and it’s not like he has the time to go in town and get in on the action. So once in the kitchen, Taehyung tells Yoongi that he doesn’t need butter but just wanted an excuse to come and see him, to which Yoongi just smiles and laughs, his gums on full display. Taehyung’s chest flutters and butterflies erupt in his stomach only to realise that oh no, I have a crush on the not so mystery man. 

     “So,” Yoongi starts, “Why didn’t you just text me?” “It’s not the same.” “Okay, so why not call me?” “It’s still not the same.” “Okay, so how about facetime?” “Hyung!” Taehyung groans, “It’s just not the same.” Yoongi giggles (giggles), and Taehyung thinks that this may be the sweetest torture one could ever endure. 

     They talk for hours, and Yeontan and Holly play together on the floor. Yoongi learns that Taehyung’s birthday is coming up in the next couple of weeks and that Taehyung will be 22 and almost every aspect of Taehyung’s bright, colorful life (Taehyung makes it seem like that, even though all he ever does is be a glorified housewife). Taehyung learns that Yoongi is a composer and songwriter for some of Korea’s finest agencies and that Yoongi’s cheeks are in fact as squishy as they look. 

---

It’s Taehyung’s birthday and Yoongi comes over that morning to find him doing chores. Unacceptable. So, much to Taehyung’s dismay, Yoongi takes his ‘new best friend’ (Taehyung’s words, not his) out to town to have some fun for his birthday. Yoongi makes sure that they stop by the grocery store and get butter and sugar before heading of to the farmer’s market to fill the depleted shelves of the Kim household’s pantry. Yoongi also takes Taehyung clothes shopping because all the boy ever wears are white t-shirts and some old grey sweatpants. Yoongi buys everything before Taehyung can so much get his wallet out, so Taehyung insists on paying for lunch. The two of them meet up with some of Yoongi’s other friends and Taehyung’s old friend. Taehyung was shocked to see his old friend Park Jimin sitting at the table, and introduced Taehyung to Jeon Jeongguk, his boyfriend who also happened to be a friend of Yoongi’s. Yoongi’s other friend Jung Hoseok was there. They ate lunch at a cafe and reminisced of the old times until Taehyung got a phone call from his brother Namjoon asking where he was. Taehyung said he had to leave, but Yoongi insisted on taking him one more place. They ended up in front of a shoe store, where Yoongi bought Taehyung some nice sneakers to wear instead of the same worn-down ones he always wore. 

---

     It was around 7:00 pm that night when Yoongi texted Taehyung asking him to come over, and to ‘wear something nice.’ Taehyung wore his new sneakers (a prized possession of his), a sweater, and some jeans. Taehyung walked to Yoongi’s house and barely opened the door before a chorus of “Surprise!” rang out. Taehyung nearly cried, it was his first birthday party since his parents had died. Yoongi whisked him away and they sat at a table with Jimin, Jeongguk, and Hoseok. They drank until nearly midnight, and Taehyung had realized how late it was. His brothers were going to be pissed with him being out so late, claiming that he was neglecting his duties and disobeying his curfew. Even though he was now 22, his brothers still treated him like a child and never let him go out and do anything by himself. Taehyung saw that the clock had just struck midnight and bolted out the door, losing a shoe in the process. Taehyung returned home a little late, and his brothers decided to punish him by locking him in his room. 

---

     Taehyung swore he was going to die of boredom. He was alone in his room without his phone and without connection to the outside world. Well, he was until there was a yell, a crash, and the sound of footsteps clamoring up the stairs. Taehyung stayed still, afraid he was in yet more trouble. However, Taehyung was nothing but relieved when he saw Yoongi open the door. “Yoongi-hyung! What are you doing here?” “Returning your shoe,” Yoongi said, while slipping it onto Taehyung’s foot. “Y-Yoongi-hyung?” “Taehyung,” Yoongi started, “When you first came to my door asking for sugar I thought ‘I really like this guy.’ Now, Tae, (Taehyung giggled at that nickname) I think I more than like you. Taehyung, I think I love you. Will you be my boyfriend?” Taehyung gasped (only a little bit since he wasn’t that surprised) and leaned down to Yoongi. He whispered a yes, and the two shared a kiss on the floor of his bedrooom.

[twelveswood]

I like to be called: Kristi.... but... I have a lot of nicknames... (it warms my heart when people call me deer, a nickname originally gifted to me by @seraphicrose and has grown as I tend to include “deer” somewhere in most my online handles these days)

My favorite colors are: Purple and Green!

Gender: Female, but gender is made up so!!! (she/her pronouns but like... I don’t really care)

Things you should know about me:

I can be both REALLY SHY or SUPER EXCITABLE!! I genuinely truly love getting to know people and who they are and what their lives are like out outside of IC interactions. Like I really really care about people, and sometimes I struggle to display it because I’m terrified of being annoying. So sometimes I try to “play it cool” as it were, but please know I genuinely am invested in my writing partners and friends as people. Tell me about your day!! Did work suck? Just... yeah, all that stuff.

I have been RPing since the dawn of neopets. I’m a ripe old 30 years, writing is absolutely one of my biggest passions, but I prefer to do it in RP format rather than on my own. I DO do it on my own too, but I’m much more likely to lose steam when I’m doing it alone.

I prefer long paragraph RP, though obviously sometimes replies are just... shorter. Dialogue makes replies run short and that’s ok! I don’t usually do like... in game RP stuff, except with my best friend and that is usually not planned. I like one on one slow going (though I can be a very quick replier..) RP that takes time and can be paused from because I’m super busy and get pulled away a lot.

I have approximately 465465635468565 characters in XIV alone, so many I can’t make more on some data centers.... BUT I’m ALWAYS making more one way or another, so I’m down to talk new OCs!! I love it.

OOC communication is key. If we can’t get to know each other a little as people... I don’t really wanna RP with you LMAO. RP is very special and meaningful to me, and I’d rather do it with friends than vague acquaintances. RP is like... dating. I’d hate to start something only to find out we SUPER do not click later down the line.

Things you should know about my muse:

As said I have A LOT of characters, but there are mostly just three that I’ve RPed as with anyone outside of my main partner; Dreyll, K’jhir, and Tuyasa.

Dreyll can be both THE WoL or just an echo user, either will work for her to fit into whatever works for you. She is, of my characters, my canon WoL though. She’s very happy-go-lucky despite the state things are in up and into 4.5. She’s determined and she will do whatever it takes to save her friends and she never lacks the confidence that she can and will. She is a Viera, raised in Ul’dah by a couple of lalafell. She had a well loved upbringing and as an adult follows the standard story for the WoL more or less, but the gist is that she’s curious about the rest of the world, and where she came from. Happy as she is with her upbringing, you can’t help but be curious when you’re the only one who looks like you in an entire city. She leaves Ul’dah with a sword and shield in had but finds that she has an innate sense for conjury as well as archery, and when traveling to limsa she takes to the arcane as well. Her MAIN classes are PLD/SCH/BRD/WHM. 

K’jhir (Kajh) is NOT a WoL but does have echo. I think most of my characters (including ones not listed) DO have echo capabilities. He had an uncomfortable childhood followed by a straight up abusive adolescents. The only thing that saved him from likely dying like this was possession by an Ascian which, as one might expect, traumatized him further when the Ascian vacated his body. He’s sort of a mess, but he’s learning that life can be okay, he just has to accept that goodness and fight his fears. He’s for the most part quiet and thoughtful, a bit of a foil to Dreyll. While possessed he gains incredible skill with black magic, which terrifies him after the fact. He prefers physical combat and does everything he can to avoid using destructive magic. His main classes are WAR/DRK/SAM/BLM (but this is for special cases)/RDM/AST.... he’s sort of my jack of all trades play-wise.

Tuyasa (Tuya) is NOT a WoL, but is an echo user. I actually created her because I fell in love with Magnai, so her canon world romance is... well, him. But I’m open to RPing her with others separate from that obviously. Not that all RP has to be romance, but just that it’s not a done deal and things can develop how they develop. She is adventurous and inquisitive. A good and genuinely kind person but more likely to make the tough calls than Dreyll would be able to do (Dreyll of course trying to save everyone and not willing to compromise). She’s the daughter of a merchant and a weaver that left the steppe to take on that life. She’s never been and is determined to see her homeland before she winds up taking over the family business. She’s a self taught astrologian and dabbles in daggers. Main classes are just that, AST/NIN.

First language: English

Second language: I know like a collective 15 words in any other language.

HIGHLIGHT: Active RP Blogs

I DON’T HAVE ANY!!! I have some RP blogs but they’re certainly not active. If you wanted to RP I’d say to message me here and get my discord. ♥

Age range: under 13  |  14–17 | 18–22 | 23–25 | 26–29 | 30+ |  70+

Am I okay with NSFW?: yes | no | some nsfw

My favorite/most common thing to rp is: angst | fluff | smut (Within a plot or reason) | crack | action | plots | darker themes

OC friendly?: yes | no | depends

RP blog: does contain ooc posts | doesn’t contain ooc posts | occasionally contains ooc | aesthetic

tagged by: @starcunning

tagging: anybody just cuz idk who has done this one, I’ve had it in my drafts for like. IDK STAR, WHAT LIKE A MONTH? It’s been in here a while. It took me a long time to do this one skdhkgsjhdg

[ohwhoopsok]

7, 8, 9

[blows kisses] mom ❤

7. Will you change anything about the way you interact with other writers?Oh gosh, actually talking to y'all more? Writing is my hyperfixation but I can’t go to my SFW friends and be like “so hey I had this idea about piss drinking aliens…” but AT LEAST ONE you heathens (said lovingly of course) would hear me out. Also, I love hearing about WIPs and talking about WIPs alkfdjaklsd. Also, I feel like I - at the ripe old age of 22 - am the baby of most groups I wind up in. So I have much to learn… or something…

8. Is there a story idea in your mental vault that you’ve never been brave enough to try writing? Is 2018 the year?

aklfjasldk listen the Youtuber Hysterical Literature fic is the plot bunny that has been bouncing off the walls of my mental vault and i’ve been screaming NO at it for almost a year at this point because RPF makes me a little lijaewildfj but… 2018 is the fucking year. 45 is president, shame got no business messing with me.

9. Short term goals… what do you hope to complete this week or in January?Mm– FINISHING BUBBLE’S FIC, IT HAS NO BUSINESS TAKING THIS LONG. That and I guess I should set goals to meet them right? Bubble’s fic, the hysterical lit fic, and (part 1 of?) the Dollhouse… I can’t work on them as much as I’d like, though, dude, I want this trainee off my desk, I– [unrelated whining under cut]

I’m pretty sure I got like 2 days of training, but he’s set up shop and is sticking around and I’m so over it. We have enough in common to chat, but he’s one of those guys that thinks he’s a lot more interesting than he is and needs to Bestow Life Lessons on me? do men not have a “wants to be left alone” radar? you know one day he just up and mentioned how he didn’t understand how the kardashian’s were married because, quote, “I couldn’t even be with a girl who’s kissed that many men, that would be my first question, how many men have you been with?”………….boy if you don’t get the fuck UGH.

I’m getting over the flu and it’s making me whiny but venting that helped wow ok thanks tumblr void for allowing for yelling under cuts lmao

[billvsamerica]

Driving Round the Bend

Nascar, Ford, Route 66, DUIs – just a few of the motorised things America is known for. Many American lives are built around their love of cars, be they muscle, truck, or with 22 inch rims. Your car is a representation of who you are as a person. If you own a Ford, you’re probably a lover of all things American. If you own a Corvette, you’re probably a middle-aged man having a mid-life crisis. And if you own a Honda, like we do, you’re probably Japanese. 

Last year, I married an American with a drag racer for a father. I’ve seen him walking in high heels, and can safely say he’s not the Ru Paul kind. I’m talking mouse-shaped cars with humongous wheels at the back blazing down the track at over 200mph. To say my dad is a comparatively conservative driver would be an understatement. The most exciting moment I’ve ever had with him was when we thought we ran over a rabbit in France. We drew stares and exclamations in French from the passengers in cars alongside us. We thought we were dragging a mangled rabbit’s carcass along in front of us like some sort of satanic ritual. However, we pulled over and found it was just a piece of plastic. That’s it. That’s the whole story. He never breaks the speed limit. In fact, he’s probably at risk of getting pulled over for driving too slow. His favorite car is a safely parked one far away from wherever he is. He is certainly no drag racer.

Stevie C’s sweet ride

Shelby’s dad and his pals used to close huge bridges by parking their trucks across the lanes, so they could whip down the road in their Novas and Camaros, American Graffiti style. My dad used to have a Morris Minor. This lack of love for cars has passed through the genes to me. While Shelby was drag racing in her 1973 Nova, I was failing my driving test with three majors and twenty-six minors. I failed the test four times over in just an hour, only missing out on a fifth time by a couple of minors. Even though I took the test in a geared car (manual to all you Americans), I was a danger to myself and everybody else on the road. I put that part of my life behind me in a little box marked times I have let myself and others down (it’s quite full, but I visit it less nowadays than I used to).

 Shelby’s sweet ride

My next vehicle test came in Taiwan two years later with an attempt to tackle their moped test. Part of the test was driving in a straight line, and that proved very difficult to me. All three times. I was laughed out of the place by groups of Taiwanese kids who were passing the test blindfolded with no hands. So I just drove around illegally, wobbling and weaving around the dangerous, busy streets with a screaming Shelby hanging on to the back.

My sweet ride

As the years went on, I became even more responsible... God knows how (Shelby) and had another crack at my proper, British driving test at the ripe old age of 25. After months of lessons and painstaking hours in the car with my nervous (but committed) father, I passed the test with flying colors (very nearly failed on the last corner). I took full advantage of driving for the few months that remained for me in England, driving around country lanes at the appropriate speed limit, pumping the tunes, and feeling the wind rushing through my hair. That was it, surely. That’s something you never have to do again, right?

I enjoyed a whole year of test-free driving on the American roads until it dawned on me (Shelby) that I needed to do a test to continue my insurance. In England, we’re under the impression that American tests are easy peasy break paddle squeezy. They let kids drive, don’t they? Shelby didn’t even have to do a test. She was 15 when she started driving legally, and she used to drive around the dirt roads by her house when she was just a child. I wasn’t even allowed to drive a remote controlled car until I was 18. Still, it can’t be that hard if a child can do it. But that wasn’t just any child, that was the daughter of a drag racer.

I was starting to get used to stop signs, turning right when the light is red, the big scary interstates, and I now know most of the American swears for when I get road rage. I felt ready. It took us four trips to the DMV before I was able to take my first test. First, I had to get my UK driving license translated. I had to get it translated from English into English at the cost of fifty dollars. By the time that was sorted out, the documents that proved my address had gone out of date which we learned on my next visit. Finally when the stars aligned and the Gods were looking favorably upon me, I was allowed to take my test. After researching the rules of the road at great length, I passed the written test with no problem at all. I was riding high when I got out of there, ready to take on the practical test.

After a few minutes waiting around, an incredibly humorless woman emerged from the tunnels and sewer lair of the DMV. She called my name and we went over to the car. Old faithful – our Honda Civic (Shelby’s). She asked me to turn on the ignition, use the windscreen wipers, flick the indicator, put on the headlights, and turn on the heater. I thought, if it carries on like this I’m a shoe in for a shiny license.

Then, shock, horror! She got in the car and asked me to drive. After successfully driving around for a bit, we turned a corner and I entered the right hand lane, as always. After driving along for a bit, it became apparent that the lane was ending, suddenly. Ceasing to exist. I noticed a car in my side mirror. I thought, surely this man is going to slow down and let me come across, so I started to merge. He didn’t. He drove up alongside me and bleared his horn. Shit. That can’t be good. We drove around for a bit longer for some unknown reason, then returned to the worse place on earth, the DMV, both knowing I had failed. I had nearly caused an accident. She confirmed my failure without cracking a grin, though I know she wanted to.

I left, totally crushed with the fact that I had to go back to the bloody DMV again.

The next time I went back, I was confident that as long as I didn’t cause a terrible accident, I would pass. Got in the car, flicked some nobs (oh cheeky), and we were on the road. We drove around for a bit - flawlessly I might add - and then she asked me to pull over. Reverse up this hill she said. What? I thought. I’d never.. I can’t. Straight lines. They’re not my thing. I started reversing and felt my usual non-straight line coming out. I started to think, not again! Then, she said, do a 3 point turn wherever you can. It was a tiny road, I went off the end of it. I’ve failed, surely. We drove back to the DMV and we went round the back. Park in the space provided. Reverse in. I did it. I forgot to indicate. We pulled up and I thought, well that’s it. She said “Well, you did this wrong, and this, and this..” Oh no. “But you’ve still passed! I was about to question why, but thought I better not. I was on the road again, which is great for me, but maybe not so good for other road users. 

I’ll never ever have to do another driving test again – he said, hopefully.

[seventeen-sexual]

Little random rant time.

I’m honestly so tired of people treating minors like they are mindless children who can’t/won’t/don’t make their own decisions. Yeah, a 17-year-old can be a fucking child but so can a 23-year-old?? Like??? At the ripe old age of 19, aka JUST BARELY AN ADULT I am still very much young minded and dependent and pretty similar to most 17-year-olds out there. Like honestly, your age doesn’t change your life and perception. You know what makes you mature? Experiences. Going to college made me more mature. Graduating and finally leaving high school made me more mature. Deciding to stop letting abusive people manipulate me into continuing relationships and friendships made me more mature. I am not necessarily any smarter or mature or more capable than any 17 or even 16-year-old out there. I have met 15-year-olds that have more intelligence and maturity and life experience than some fucking 30-year-olds I’ve known. The only thing being 18 does is give you legal rights to some parts of your life. 18 is not some magical age where you suddenly should only NOW be held responsible for your actions or decisions. Maybe legally it’s different, but personality and societally, you are no different. For fucks sake you aren’t even a “legal adult” in Japan or Korea until you’re 20. 

Stop acting like minors are infants and should be safeguarded like little fragile glass dolls. And if you ARE going to infantilize and overprotect, overprotect ANY young person. Not just “minors.” An 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 year old shouldn’t be any less protected than a 17 year old, at least in my opinion. Anyone young is still really fucking liable to have shitty stuff happen to them and not be able to handle it. I’m just as uncomfortable at 19 being hit on by an old man as I was at 17. 

Also, give minors a voice. They have a right to be heard, just like any other adult. Your opinion isn’t less because your age is. Do you know how many revolutionary-minded young people there are in this world? So many you’d lose count. We have so many problems that we decide to segregate because of age. Yes, we have our adult age set in law for a reason, but that reason should not be exploited and blown out of proportion. You do not get to shove your personal societal values onto something that is solely based in reasons of legality and logic. 

Okay, sorry if that was super fucking long winded but I needed to get that off my chest. It’s been bothering me. Feel free to ignore the fuck out of this because as per usual it is literally all just my opinion. Probably going to get hate for this. I won’t be surprised. 

-Thursday 

[theconservativebrief]

2018’s wildfires are already proving to be more destructive than last year’s, with the active Carr and Ferguson fires burning more than 200,000 acres and killing eight people in California, as well as wildfires in Oregon and Colorado that have torched more than 250,000 acres collectively. This essay, published during last year’s brutal fire season, tackles many of the same issues as this year’s season.

The mundane days all run together. But those days when I was genuinely unsure if I would make it to the end of my shift intact are the ones that stand out.

I remember fighting a fire on the Angeles National Forest in 2002. Our crew flew onto a ridge in a helicopter. The rotor wash, or wind created by the helicopter blades, flung orange embers into the unburned vegetation — the “green.” Immediately, it started burning.

We jumped out of the helicopter, ran underneath the fire, and started digging. The goal was to quickly create a line free of any vegetation that could burn, called a fireline, which we used to stop fires from growing. Digging fireline is grueling; I often lost myself in the sound of chainsaws and rhythm of my tool hitting the dirt and ignored my physical pain.

Some of us had to run deep into the green and find embers or put out new small fires before they began burning out of control. There were full minutes when I thought, This may be it. We may not make it.

I worked as a wildland firefighter for seven years in the 2000s. And so I’ve been watching the smoky footage on my computer of the fires burning across the West this last month with great unease. Take the La Tuna Fire, which ignited on September 1. It was one of the largest fires Los Angeles has ever seen and burned more than 7,000 acres before it was contained. And it’s the kind of fire that is increasingly common in the age of climate change.

Wildland firefighters are especially attuned to how climate change puts us all at greater risk for destructive fires. We understand how higher temperatures and long-term drought are the perfect conditions for ignition. To us, there’s little controversy that it’s happening, although not everyone believes it’s human caused. I do, and, along with others in the field, I wonder when those in power will take the steps needed to address climate change.

Wildfires currently burning in Northern California have destroyed thousands of acres and homes and resulted in the deaths of 11 people. Counties including Napa and Sonoma have been declared a state of emergency.

It’s been a brutal wildfire season. Last month’s La Tuna Fire in Los Angeles was, I’m sure, one of those fires that seemed uncontainable. In a speech, Ralph Terrazas, the LAFD fire chief, said, “We can handle everything. We have to. We don’t have an option.” He sounded exhausted and less hopeful than his words.

Southern California’s fire season usually lasts in late September and October when hot, strong winds called the Santa Ana blow through the region. I witnessed this. Fires often started on roadsides, ignited by discarded cigarette butts or even a spark from a motorcycle. The La Tuna Fire didn’t bode well for this year’s California fire season, and we’re seeing those effects.

Last month, I spoke with my friend Jesse Moreng, an ex-hotshot — or wildland firefighter — who now works as a multi mission aircraft manager, mapping fires for the firefighters on the ground. When I asked Jesse if he thought this fire season was more severe than most, he said yes, “just in terms of how many places are burning at once.”

The US Fire Service and Department of the Interior reported in September spending more than $2.1 billion on fires this year so far, which is what they spent for the entire fire season in 2015, one of the most devastating fire seasons since 1960. What strikes me most about the report is the predicted length the 2017 fire season. Some predicted containment dates are well into late Autumn. Many of these large fires are under 5 percent contained, with no rain or helpful weather in sight. That’s going to take a lot of resources to stop or contain.

As some fires continue to get worse, air quality will suffer, and more often there may be loss of property and loss of life due to the increasing number of people who live in wooded areas. Most importantly, large fires themselves emit greenhouse gasses, which have been proven to accelerate climate change and burn trees, which are crucial for oxygenating the air. This will inevitably affect the quality of life of most people living in the United States. This isn’t just happening here, but around the world.

As Puerto Rico, Texas, the Caribbean and Florida continue to recover from Hurricanes Maria, Harvey, and Irma, there seems to be an Armageddon-esque dread floating around on the internet. Tubbs and Atlas Fires are carving a path of destruction through Northern California, and 33 active fires burn throughout the state. It will only get worse as the effects of climate change continue.

Climate change will continue to affect fire behavior. According to an article published in PNAS, data from Western North America confirms that human-caused climate change will lead to widespread and more frequent fires. This is because the continual warming trend sets up conditions for a longer burning season — climate change means higher temperatures and more erratic precipitation, which leads to drier fuels ripe for burning.

It’s not hopeless. Although the wildfire news makes it feel as if the end of the world is upon us, it isn’t. Not yet. The USFS motto is “Caring for the land and serving people.” But how can we enforce that when the current administration denies climate change altogether? To keep our forests and air healthy we must be actively educating ourselves and voting for people who will be stewards of the land.

When I was 19, I dropped out of college and a friend suggested I apply at a nearby fire contracting agency in Eugene, Oregon. We were on a fire within two weeks and I loved the job. It was intense and exhausting, but I loved the camaraderie I had with my fellow crew members.

For four years I worked on three different hotshot crews. Hotshots are on the front lines — a crew consists of 18 to 22 members, the bulk of which are seasonal federal employees and the rest permanent government employees.

It’s intensely physical work. The fire season typically lasts May through October, and in a busy season a crew will log over a thousand hours of overtime. On “rolls,” a crew leaves home base for two to three weeks at a time, depending on the fire situation nationally, and will only come home for a couple days before being called out again. Every few years some crews have a slow season, resulting in less pay. Each hotshot gets paid differently due to experience, but most are paid $13 to $17 an hour, plus overtime and hazard pay.

Wildland firefighters are also often looked down upon by city fire departments. We aren’t considered “real” firefighters and seasonals don’t get benefits such as health insurance or retirement that structural firefighters enjoy. A permanent position is not guaranteed and can be hard to find.

In 2002, my crew was called to the Biscuit Fire, historically one of the largest fires in Oregon. It clocked in at over 500,000 acres, or 781 square miles. We spent most of our time fighting the Biscuit Fire using a method called “burning,” using drip torches to burn fuels along old logging roads and new dozer lines. We hoped that when the larger fire reached the burned fuels, it would stop, because there was no more fuel to burn. We spent three weeks fighting the Biscuit Fire. Eventually it crossed the border into California. The fire would not be contained fully for another five months.

Burning, which also can be done using flares or dropping napalm balls from helicopters, is just one method of fighting fire. Another method is fireline, which is when a fire crew or dozer creates a fuel break by removing all vegetation along the edge of the fire so it can burn no further. There’s also the “slurry line” method, where planes and/or helicopters drop fire retardant in a line across the vegetation to slow the burn.

For any of these methods to work, the elements have to be cooperative. Often they aren’t, and firefighters spend weeks implementing these tactics repeatedly, starting over each time they fail. We could only do so much.

Big fires are often unwilling to be contained. One day, while on the Bitterroot Complex, which burned more than 350,000 acres, we were feeling around for embers hiding in roots and stumps when it began to snow. My boss told me stories about how, when the snowy season came, embers would hide for the entire winter underground, only to pop up in the spring and reignite.

Even if we thought we’d have a hard time getting hold of the fire, we worked hard. After the initial frenzy of a new fire, our shifts were pretty regular: 16 hours on the fireline every day. We woke around 5 am and refilled our water, ate, and sharpened our tools in the dark, using the yellow circle of our headlamps. Throughout the day we’d lag and then become reenergized; we’d pour Emergen-C into our mouths, eat crystallized coffee, make tea with the water in our water bottles which was almost always hot.

Sometimes I hated the job; I’d dream of going to a restaurant and eating a steak, taking a shower — something we rarely did while in the field — sleeping in my bed. I wished, sometimes, that I could go swimming in a lake or do other summer activities I often missed out on during fire season. But firefighting was what I knew how to do, so I stayed. I loved working in the woods, where I didn’t have to be part of what I called “real civilization.”

There’s a part of me that misses my days of firefighting. But when I see the ongoing fires in California, Oregon, and Montana, I think about just how intense it was, and how much worse it’s getting every year. There will always be men and women at the forefront of these fires, doing whatever they can to contain the devastating impacts of nature. The politicians in charge of climate change policies need to make these hotshots’ jobs a little easier.

Anastasia Selby grew up in Washington state and spent most of her 20s fighting forest fires. She is now an MFA candidate in fiction at Syracuse University, and looks forward to graduation in 2018, when she can head out West again. Follow her on Twitter here.

First Person is Vox’s home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our submission guidelines, and pitch us at firstperson@vox.com.

Original Source -> I’m a woman who fought wildfires for 7 years. Climate change is absolutely making them worse.

via The Conservative Brief

[cocuzzo]

Ninety-four years old but sturdy as a cement truck, Jim Rogers dissects his hearty plate of bacon, eggs, sausage and toast. To his right is a giant magnifying glass mounted on the kitchen table that he uses to read the Wall Street Journal that’s been delivered to his home in Ramsey, New Jersey for the better part of a century. “We’re not a pioneering people,” Jim jokes, while manhandling a piece of bacon in his mitts. “We haven’t gone too far.” Yet that’s hardly the case. The life of Jim Rogers spans continents and conflicts, his boot prints found in the some of the most pivotal pages of history—even if he’s too modest to admit it. 

A hearty breakfast like this was a rarity when Jim was growing up at the end of the New York City bus line in Queens during the Depression. His family of five lived in a three-bedroom, Spanish-style home that had stucco walls, a flat tile roof, and a small lawn that needed to be mowed. His father bought the home in 1927 for $4,300. Two years later, the stock market crashed and tough times descended upon them and the rest of the country. But the Rogers family had resilience coursing through their veins. Jim’s father, James Andrew Rogers traced his roots back to the Revolutionary War. 

He had been forced to grow up fast when his father died suddenly at the age of forty-five. A policeman, James Florence Rogers had jumped into the East River to save some one’s life. Two weeks later, he came down with pneumonia and died, leaving behind three children and a wife. So it was that at the ripe age of eleven, with his older brother having joined the Navy, Jim’s father dropped out of grammar school and got a job to support his mother and younger sister. 

Despite only having a fifth grade education, he landed a job on Wall Street at the age of fourteen as a runner for Hayden Stone. In those days, when anybody bought a stock or bond, a piece of paper that recorded the transaction was hand-delivered by a runner. Equipped with street smarts and an exquisite memory for names and numbers, Jim’s father learned finance from the ground up and ascended as a prominent man on Wall Street. So much so that when the market crashed nineteen years later and more than thirteen million people lost their jobs, Jim’s father wasn’t one of them. Hayden Stone kept him employed, albeit after cutting his salary in half. Remarkably, he would remain with the same company for more than seventy years, finally retiring at the age of eighty-two. When he returned home after his retirement party, wearing the watch Hayden Stone awarded him for all his years of faithful service, his wife Margaret remarked with a coy smile: “I thought you said you had a steady job?”  

During the Depression, the Rogers clan came together like a clenched fist, teaching young Jim about the intrinsic importance of family. His uncle, Jim Ganley, his mother’s brother, came to live with them for what would amount to a six year stay. As a member of NY State National Guard’s 27th Division, Ganley and his brothers had fought in some of the most significant battles of the Great War, donning gas masks to endure the brutal war of attrition. After the war, when the Depression hit, Ganley was working in a bank and could very well have saved his job. But when he learned that a fellow employee with a family was going to be fired instead of him, Ganley abruptly resigned. He eventually got work in FDR’s Veterans Conservation Core, chopping down trees and clearing forests in the Adirondacks. During the holidays, Ganley returned to Jim’s home where he’d resume his post in his special chair, smoking his pipe, and regaling Jim and his brothers with stories of the war. So enraptured was young Jim Rogers by these stories that he would often take to doodling scenes of American soldiers shooting down Germans with machine gun fire. 

  The oldest of three boys, Jim enjoyed a rather idyllic childhood given the circumstances. He fished for carp in the steams that poured into Jamaica Bay, crabbed in the canals around what is today JFK airport, and chased the coal truck around town in hopes of snagging a hunk of fuel to bring home for the family furnace. Jim’s father eventually got him a job as a gofer at Hayden Stone. It was a menial position, fetching coffee and making mail runs, but it came with one major perk. Hayden Stone picked up the $260 tuition for Jim to attend Saint John’s College in the Bronx. He always wanted to attend Notre Dame, having grown up listening to the Fighting Irish on the radio and idolizing giants the likes of Andy Pilney, Frank Carideo and Marchie Schwartz. Still his enrollment at Saint John’s was a proud moment for the Rogers family. 

The son of a fifth grade dropout pursuing his college degree, in chemistry no less, was the American Dream realized. However, after just a year in college, Jim wanted nothing more than to graduate. There was a bigger test on the horizon. After years watching Hitler aggressively gobble up Europe, the United States had finally entered the war. Suddenly Jim’s childhood doodles of American soldiers fighting the Germans was coming to life, and the pangs of patriotism were almost too much for him to bear. “Everybody was pitching in,” he remembers. “Everybody had something to do. That was the problem. All my buddies had gone before me. My brother was in the Navy. And I was still hanging around carrying books. I felt like a real jerk.” So Jim worked double time at Saint Johns and graduated in just three years. He received his diploma in August of 1943 and enlisted in the navy a month later. 

 In September of 1943, Jim took the rail to Chicago where he started midshipman’s school outside of the city at Northwestern University’s law and dental school. “I was one of those ninety-day wonders,” he says. After month as an apprentice shipman, he spent two months as an apprentice seaman, learning navigation, seamanship and gunnery. Emerging as an officer, Jim requested a position on a destroyer, but ended up being assigned to an amphibious vessel: Landing Craft Infantry, or LCI. Little did he know that the LCI would deliver him into the some of hottest action of the war. 

 Once while he was docked, Jim’s family joined him aboard the LCI for dinner. All of the senior officers were on leave, putting the twenty-year-old in command of the 160-foot vessel, which was docked alongside a destroyer on Pier 42. He and his family were about to sit for dinner, when word came down that the destroyer needed to move. There was just one problem: Jim’s LCI had to clear the way for it—and Jim had never conned the ship. He swallowed hard, told his family to sit tight, and then went to the deck. Orchestrating his skeleton crew of green horns, he successfully maneuvered the vessel out into the North River, allowing the destroyer to pull out before returning to the dock. After the ship was securely tied up, he returned to his family below decks to resume dinner. Although his father, who had served in the Navy in World War I, didn’t say a word, the pride in his chest nearly popped the buttons off his shirt. His son was a real navy man. 

  On February 11, 1943, Jim’s LCI joined a convoy of sixty bound for North Africa. Between Bermuda and Cape Henry in Virginia, a storm kicked up. Winds howled against the gunnels and every time the officer on duty attempted to turn the ship, it would heel and threaten to flip. Jim clung to his bunk as the ship bucked violently and steamed helplessly off course. They soon lost the convoy in the storm. Thankfully, one of the destroyers in the convoy spotted them floating off the fringes of their radar and came to their rescue. They steamed out to them and helped the LCI make the turn and navigate back to the rest of the fleet. But something unexpected happened in the storm. The LCI was carrying 10,000 gallons of drinking water, all of which was contaminated by cement wash during the storm. Despite all their attempts, the water couldn’t be filtered and was ultimately deemed undrinkable. Thus for the rest of their journey, Jim and his fellow crew subsisted on rations of pineapple and tomato juice.

 Steaming nine knots an hour, the convoy covered two hundred miles a day for ten days, until Jim’s LCI broke off with the other eleven LCIs to deliver equipment to a US base in the Azores. They spent a few days of R&R on the Portuguese island before joining a destroyer bound for England. The course took them through a highly active submarine area. “We could hit 15 knots, but a submarine could go faster than us on the surface,” Jim explains. “If a sub came up, it could destroy all our ships with no trouble at all.” The days passed anxiously until Jim and his fellow crew started seeing American P-3Cs buzzing overhead. They arrived in England on March 6, 1944—and that’s when real training began. At one-hundred-sixty-feet long with a 22-foot beam, Jim’s flat-bottomed LCI was unwieldy. The stern slammed against every wave so violently that the deck house had to be continually re-welded to prevent it from ripping right off the deck. 

Their training in England consisted of one central objective: delivering soldiers on to the beach. Timing was everything. Drop the stern anchor 300 yards or so from shore. Motor on to the beach. Get out the ramps. Secure them with guidelines. Unload the troops. Over and over and over. The maneuvers were performed outside the wire, beyond the submarine nets that warded off German subs and E-boats. So while this was technically practice, each day posed real risks of combat. 

 At the end of April, Jim’s LCI loaded the First Division on board to perform a large mock-landing on Slapton Sands Beach. As Jim and his crew executed the maneuvers they’d learn to do with their eyes closed, things suddenly got real. In the distance, explosions dotted the horizon and lit up the sky. The crew looked out with confused terror. They would find out much later that three German E-boats had snuck through the picket line and sank three 300-foot LCIs. Nine hundred American lives were lost.

  On June 5, 1944, Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower wrote to the American armed forces. “Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Forces,” the future president began. “You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.” A day later, Jim Rogers was aboard his LCI steaming towards the beaches of Normady. 

As if aware of the grim events about to unfold, the seas were in a fury, the skies were dark, and the wind howled. Stationed in the con tower, Jim was responsible for relaying the captain’s orders to rest of the crew, particularly to the gunners who were manning the 20mm-caliber machine guns that could shoot over a mile. Their orders were to land on Utah Beach, just west of Omaha, and unload the 90th Division whose mission was to take Cherbourg, a deep water port that would be used for unloading equipment and troops. Six hours earlier, 2,200 British and American bombers unleashed hell upon the beaches, followed by paratroopers from the 101st and the 82nd Airborne. Five hours later, the first wave of LCIs landed on Utah Beach, led by none other than Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. 

 At fifty-six-years-old and with a failing heart, Ted Roosevelt was the oldest man at the D-Day Invasion and the only general officer to personally accompany the first wave of troops onto the beaches. Walking Utah Beach with a cane in one hand and a pistol in the other, Roosevelt realized that heavy winds and strong currents had pushed them more than a mile off course. But instead of correcting their position, Roosevelt radioed his fellow commanders and famously declared, “We’ll start the war from right here.” 

 Aboard Jim’s LCI, sea sickness had stricken the infantrymen and they wanted nothing more than to get off the boat. But as Jim’s captain neared Utah Beach, he stopped short. “Because it was low tide, he was scared of getting hung up on the beach,” Jim remembers. “Sitting there, we’d be sitting ducks.” The thirty-five-year-old captain had never driven the boat up onto the beach before and hadn’t hit it hard enough. Instead, he dropped the stern anchor early and ordered the men to unload. Carrying sixty-pound mortar bases on their backs or heavy bandoliers of machine gun bullets across the chests, the men stepped off the ramp and immediately plunged over the heads in the water. They were too deep. Because the LCI hadn’t nosed up against the shore, a powerful riptide was pulling the bow down the beach, threatening to snap the anchor that had been dropped from the ramp. 

“Skipper, let me straighten on that anchor,” Jim offered. Jim was dying to get his feet on French soil and the anchor gave him his opportunity to do so. “Go ahead,” the captain said. In a flash, Jim climbed out of the con tower and plunged into the 59-degree water. He fished out the 25-pound anchor and hauled it up to be repositioned. Bullets were whizzing into the water around him. 

But as he was about to reset the anchor, he noticed that the soldiers had stopped disembarking from his LCI. The captain had decided they needed to get closer to shore, but he couldn’t leave Jim out there in the water by himself. So the crew lowered a dinghy with two men to scoop up Jim as the captain repositioned the ship closer to shore. What should have been a fifteen-minute landing took the better part of an hour. 

“In the distance, you could hear the guns,” Jim remembers. “There was still a lot of fighting on Omaha Beach and the destroyers were coming in trying to hit the bunkers about a mile away.” After the LCI nosed closer to the beach, the two men rowed Jim along the shores where he dropped the anchor, allowing the rest of the men to unload. In total, 21,000 men would land on Utah Beach that day. They would take Cherbourg later that summer. The Nazis would fall the following May. Sitting in the dinghy, bobbing on the shores of Normady more than 3,500 miles from his home, Jim Rogers was now forever connected with this historic conquest of good over evil. 

In the wake of D-Day, the war would take Jim Rogers far and wide. He’d eventually ship out to the Pacific Theater and walk in the rubble of Nagasaki. Though he has countless memories that defined this time of a young man being exposed to the world through the lens of war, only one story causes his voice to falter. “The trip back from Normady, we pulled up on the dock, and there was a ship coming in, a British trawler coming in, right in front of us, so I went over to look at it,” Jim remembers, now studying the kitchen table as if watching the scene unfold. “It had a bunch of German prisoners in the back. Most of them were wounded. And there was one German guy in a stretcher. And this American soldier who had been wounded—his arm was, you know, really banged up—he went over and lit a cigarette for this German guy.” Emotion suddenly overtakes the old man. “I just couldn’t…couldn’t get over that,” he continues with tears in his eyes. “Here they were shooting at each other just two days before.” He looks up, “You say, what the hell were we fighting for?”

 Amidst the great horrors of World War II, these rare glimmers of humanity seem to have stuck most poignantly with Jim Rogers. They are flames that grew throughout his life, helping him to excel in business, faithfully serve his community, and raise a family. “They’re all better than me,” Jim says of his children and grandchildren. But if you ask Jim’s son or grandson about him, they’ll talk about their patriarch in tones reserved for the holy. Indeed, Jim Rogers belongs to a rarified time that we’re all striving to get back to in some way or another. A time when you did what you said, you lived by your principals, and you gave selflessly for others. A time when men lived like lions. Will there ever be a renaissance in this Greatest Generation or is Jim Rogers one of the last of his pride? Perhaps the best way to ferry their return is to never forget that they existed in the first place.

[kevinscottgardens]

22 to 26 May 2017

This is the last week I am required to submit my weekly diary to the school. I will of course continue my updates here.

I have not heard anything from the Commonwealth War Graves Commission... It looks like I didn’t manage to be called for an interview. I will give them another week or so though; they have been busy with their centenary celebration and winning a silver medal at Chelsea. Nevertheless, the search continues...

It was an eventful week in the decorative nursery. I found a few hoverfly eggs, which is good (the white oblong blobs in top photo); a few groups of caterpillar eggs, which is bad (in the second photo); and lots of nasty aphids, everywhere (the green and brown blobs in the top photo). It turns out the cold snap we had in April was cold enough to kill the predators, however, not cold enough to kill the aphids.

Wednesday we sprayed two chemicals, Movento and Systhane. We did our dry and wet tests with water on Tuesday. We started early Wednesday, 6.30am and we were ready to start mixing and spraying by 7.15am. I only sprayed the Movento, and Ginny and Mark sprayed the Systane. We sprayed for three hours and hope to have killed all the pesky aphids and stopped the powdery mildew. We only sprayed in the polytunnel and glasshouse because of possible wind issues. The photo was taken prior to spraying, hence no gloves and the lid not screwed on, and to prevent contamination of my phone.

Thursday and Friday we moved almost everything from inside to the standing out ground. Most things will be planted within a fortnight, so they need to get used to the harsh reality of the outside world.

Thursday after work, a few of us gathered for a picnic at the very large picnic table in the pinetum. We stayed until sunset and enjoyed a tranquil walk around the gardens. Flow took the photo and Pin was camera shy. In the photo are: Bradley, Alex, me, Kaisha, Tomas, Mark and Janaka.

Our plant ident was postponed to next Friday because Marcello was at Chelsea Flower Show on Friday. Kew won a gold medal for their display State of the World’s Plants. One designer I always enjoy is James Basson, and this year his abandoned Maltese quarry won a gold medal and Best in Show at Chelsea. The Commonwealth War Graves Commission also had their artisan garden at Chelsea this year.

Walking around the gardens this week, I was excited to see the Liriodendron tulipifera blooming gloriously! And in the standing out ground, I quite liked the symmetry of the Osteospermum cv. Each of the yellow spots is a flower.

It’s called a capitulum.

Plant of the week...

Malvaceae Alyogyne huegelii ‘Santa Cruz’

common name(s) - “lilac hibiscus ‘Santa Cruz’”, “Santa Cruz blue hibiscus” synonym(s) - Hybiscus huegelii Endl. IUCN conservation rating - none native to - species is from Western Australia location - Decorative Nursery, accession, 1997-4280, also in area 157.54 leaves - evergreen, hairy, with five lobes, around 50mm long flowers - free flowering, funnel-shaped, lilac or mauve-purple to 100mm across are produced singly from the leaf axils of young shoots from late spring to autumn habit - fast-growing, evergreen shrub starting upright and spreading with age, to 2.5 meters tall and wide habitat - the species favours the sands of coastal shrublands and heath pests - aphids, glasshouse red spider mite, glasshouse whitefly disease - generally disease free hardiness - to 1ºC (H2) soil - requires a well-drained soil, can be grown in sand, loam or clay sun - sheltered, sunny position cultivation - under glass grow in free-draining compost in full light; plants can stand out in the summer. Outdoors grow in any well-drained soil in full sun, provided temperatures do not fall below freezing propagation - root semi-ripe cuttings in late summer nomenclature - Malvaceae - malva - soft, (the name in Pliny), cognate via old English, mealwe, with mallow; Alyogyne - not-loosening-ovary, α-λυω-γυνή (indehiscent) or Greek alytos (united, undivided) and gyne (woman); huegelii - for Baron Karl von Hügel (1794-1870), army officer, diplomat, botanist and explorer who botanized Western Australia, Tasmania and New South Wales from 1833 to 1834 and returned to Vienna with a collection of plants later to be described by Endlicher NB - was one of many plants selected at the University of California Santa Cruz Arboretum from material imported by the late Ray Collett.