#this is not to say to put your head in the sand about palestine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

loviingpedri · 4 months ago

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tripling the fun - jude and jobe bellingham

part 2 -> part 1 here

prompt: jude fulfills everyone’s dreams.

jude x fem!reader.

jobe & reader platonic soulmates

warnings: grammar issues, cursing, arguments (happy ending), jealous jude, all characters are fictional (except jude, jobe, and their parents)

click to help palestine

credits to owners for all images

salt air, and the rust on your door.

flower in your hair, feet in the sand, salty air entering through your nose.

joining the annual vacation with the bellingham family and your sweet parents, life felt as ease.

at least, for you.

jude was rapidly tapping his feet on the wood bedroom floor. hands in his hair, anxiety filling up his thoughts. jobe was seriously getting concerned.

“mate, you have two days. everything is gonna be okay.” sitting next to him on the bed, jobe put his hand on jude’s shoulder to get his nerves to calm down.

“i’m overthinking it now. what if she says no? what if she only sees me as a brother? am i being delusional?” he could feel his heart racing, and it wasn’t even the day.

jude was planning to ask you out. he felt like no other person who wasn't blood related to him could understand him, deeper and personally better than you. noticing over the past few years, he noticed his rising feelings for you. getting overexcited by the mention of you two hanging out. his cheeks heat up as the thought of you popping into his head. his resistance of trying not to pull you into a deep hug.

jobe, trying to comfort him to the best of his ability, was getting concerned. “jude, you seriously need to calm down. y/n is one of my favorite people in the entire world. have you ever seen her talk to anyone else? i mean seriously, her whole life involves us.”

“you’re not helping,” jude stands up from the bed, heading his way outside for a bit of fresh air. “i need a breather.”

walking across the sand to gather his thoughts, he saw a familiar figure in the distance.

admiring how your hair flowed in the air, perfectly shaped and painted nails coming into contact with the golden sand. your lashes slowly moving up and down as you blinked. he couldn’t grasp the idea of losing you.

“hey jude, what’s going on?” almost standing up, he quickly sat down beside you. “is anyone asking for me?”

shaking his head, “nah, everything is fine. i just needed to take a walk.”

noticing his body language, and how his eyebrows moved when he talked, something was wrong. “you seem tense. is there anything you wanna talk about? what’s on your mind?” you scooted closer to him, touching shoulders.

jude cleared his throat, a lump forming. “there’s nothing wrong. i just wanted to see the sunset. beautiful waves isn’t it?”

“definitely. i wish i could spend all day here.” resting your head on his shoulder, he began to control his breathing and heart rate. struggling to make a next move, he moved his arm to push you closer by your shoulder.

little did you know, your mother and denise were standing from the balcony, watching you two embrace each other’s comfort.

jobe holding his youngest nephew, who was pointing at the future couple, seeing what the future could bring.

----------the next morning--------------

"hey little one." jude picked up his niece and spun around.

"i found your stash of flowers. they look really pretty. are they for me?" catching a small glimpse of the gap of her teeth, jude couldn't help but laugh at the question.

"i would like to say yes, but they're for a really special girl. are you ready to go swim at the beach?"

a frown formed on her lips, "yeah, i guess so. i can't wait to build a giant sand castle that i can live there forever." she threw her arms up high in excitement.

"i don't know about forever, but i'm sure it's gonna be great."

a knock was heard on the door. the air felt colder as tension fell.

"hey jude, we're about to go." you gave him a warm smile, as he stood there in silence. he put the princess down as he went to go sat down on his bed.

he picked up his phone, texting jobe,

i'll be at the beach later, got to get my things together.

he took a deep breath. and for the next 30 minutes, he was trying to form the perfect plan. going out to the balcony to look for a special spot to set up a dinner. noticing splashes that seem far more intense.

getting a better view, he noticed you and jobe. jobe was hugging you from behind and throwing you into the waves. shared laughter echoing throughout the beach. he couldn't lie, the inside of the palm of his hands were sweating and getting white from the grip of the wood. he didn't wanna admit he was getting jealous of his own brother, but the timing was nowhere near perfect for things like this to happen. he has seen moments like this between you two, but it felt different. his head began pounding. he grabbed his towel and ran out to hopefully score a remarkable moment with you

smiles appeared on everyone's faces as he walked through the burning hot sand.

"jude, you're here!" you yelled as sounds of waves crashing and seagulls talking. he waved at you while he gave his mom his belongings for safe keeping.

joining you and jobe in the water, he felt off. in his imagination, jude felt like a mood-killer. the laughter died down, the sun no longer reflected off your skin. he felt like he caused something wrong.

clearing the air, jobe did little small splashes throughout the trio. jude stared at the smile that was on your face after jobe's actions. he felt anger race through his blood. impulsive thinking, he pushed the water right into jobe's face. jobe dodging the salt water in his eyes, he was confused on jude's sudden gesture. you ignored what just happened, because siblings can be siblings.

actions speaking more than words, jude became more aggressive. walking more towards to shore for safety, jude wasn't just playing around. he gave a jude a small but rough push to jobe, making him slip and fall into the water.

"jude, what the fuck." his eyebrows narrowed watching you trying to help jobe to his balance. you weren't sure what was going on, but awkwardness was following all three of you.

jobe cleared his throat, "do you know what we're having for dinner?"

"i think our dads are grilling tonight." jobe nodded as you played with the salt water. without any explanation, jude walked back to get the towel from his mom, and walked back to the house. jobe and you made eye contact in confusion, but just brushed it off.

walking to the shore, the three little children were playing with the sand. classic sand castle with wet sand circling it. picking up the baby boy, giving him a small kiss on his forehead, you could really see jude’s face written all over him.

“y/n, you should sit. the sand is cool under the umbrella.” jobe patted a spot next to him under the shade. sitting the baby down on your lap and hugging his tiny body, he pointed at the sand in jobe’s bucket.

“are you going to help build our castle?” the little princess with her pink hat was desperately trying to scoop a decent amount of sand in her flimsy shovel. jobe nodded his head, but we all know he loses the sand castle contest every year.

“y/n, guess what.” the girl said with a bright smile.

“what?” you smiled back, but more in confusion.

“jude has flowers in his room. i asked if they were for me, he said no. he said it was for someone special though.”

your lips made a small gap. you were shocked at the fact. jobe held in his breath. he was looking back and forth in panic.

“did you know jude was talking to someone, jobe?” he looked at you with slightly wider eyes.

frantically shaking his head, “no, of course not.” he looked at his mom for some help.

“did you know?” you asked denise.

she shrugged it off with a “no darling.” as she was playing it off. you were playing with the baby’s soft curls as your mind wandered off.

—————————

“hey jude, how are you?” walking into his room and sitting down on the desk chair as he sat on the bed, scrolling through social media.

with an unexpected surprise, jude sat up. “i’m doing fine, how are you? you look like you got a nice tan.”

a slight giggle coming out, “yeah, it’s pretty nice. i just wanted to ask you about something.”

“about?”

“our lovely niece told me you bought flowers for someone,” jude instantly looked at you in your eyes. has his secret been busted? “i was just wondering who they were for. usually when you start talking to someone, jobe and i know.”

“oh, it’s nothing really. i bought them just because.”

“just because? you can’t be serious. have you met someone at the beach?” you got up from the chair and sat next to his legs on the edge of the bed.

“seriously y/n. they’re not for anyone. it wouldn’t be any of your business anyway.”

“excuse me?”

“why are you always in my business? i feel like you and jobe are spying on everything i do. and you try to get me to speak about everything. just leave me alone.”

“what the hell are you on about? we’ve never invaded your privacy. if you felt this way, you could’ve said something a long time ago.”

standing up in anger, you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. everyone told everyone updates on their life, this wasn’t a secret tradition. surprisingly, jude would be the one sharing most of his life updates.

“you know what, you always take jobe’s side too. i feel left out every time. when i come around, you and him stop laughing and it gets all silent. i feel like i’m the bad guy.”

“jude, you’ve been acting fucking mental lately. i don’t know why you’re being like this, but you need to fix it. i asked a simple question, not a whole lecture from you.”

tears formed in your eyes as you went to leave the room.

“yeah, go run to jobe like you always do.” was the last thing you heard before slamming the door with a loud bam following it.

jobe was waiting outside the door, hearing everything. breaking down in his arms, you thought this vacation would be different.

----------the next morning--------------

the smell of syrup, eggs, and other breakfast goodies was lurking around the beach house.

not a word from jude after the argument. it wasn’t any surprise that everyone in the place heard what was happening. mark, jude and jobe’s dad, made sure to cook butterfly pancakes to try and cheer you up. something he loved doing for you since you were a child.

sitting down with a plate of eggs and toast, he placed the pancake in front of you with a little whipped cream in the middle. giving you a gentle pat on the back, you thanked him quietly. jobe sat down next to you, not wasting a chance to dig in.

all of a sudden, the hairs on your arms rose due to the coldness. awkwardness cooling down the food as jude walked into the room. jobe cleared his throat as he glanced at you before looking down. you continued to try and eat, even though he made you lose your appetite.

“morning.” jude said to his mom as he gave her a little peck on her forehead.

quick change of events as jude sat on the other side of you. it was normal of course, jude, you, and jobe. it was just unexpected that he pretended nothing happened.

everyone ate in awkward silence. except jude, humming and dancing as he ate. his mom looked at him in concern.

“what?” he questioned her, as she quickly shook her head no. “being awfully quiet this morning, what did i miss?” everyone looked at him in confusion.

“nothing, just eat.”

he threw his arms up, “hey, i’m not making this awkward. you guys are.” he got up and started washing his plate and fork.

he was right, we were the ones being awkward. it didn’t change the fact that you didn’t get an apology though. finishing up your breakfast, you forced yourself to approach him with your dirty dishes. putting it into the sink, you stood behind him, waiting for him to be done.

he slightly whispered to you, “it’s fine, i got it.” you nodded at him while you went to the balcony for a summer breeze. soon, your mother and denise joined you.

after a few hours of talking, you got a text from jude. reading,

hey, can we talk later? meet me at the beach in 2 hours.

you tried not to question it. yet, the thought lingered. jude always apologizes straight away after an argument. what made it different now? giving the message a thumbs up, you continued talking with the ladies.

“hey y/n, did jude text you?” denise asked you.

“yeah, he did. he told me to meet him in 2 hours at the beach, but that was about an hour ago.”

“oh honey, you should probably change then.” your mom chimed in.

“what’s wrong with what i’m wearing?”

“wearing pajama pants in hot sand is not very fabulous.” the two moms laughed as they rushed to put something together in your room.

after playing dress up through your suitcase, it was finally time to go. the sun was starting to set, the orange hitting the water perfectly. walking down the creaking wooden stairs, you weren’t sure to expect.

looking to your right, you hands flew on your mouth. a table surrounded with roses, forming a heart shape, was lit with a candle. standing there at the table was jude, with a bouquet of flowers. he looked very nervous.

walking up to him, you really admired the detail. you both started laughing at the sudden seriousness in the friendship.

“are you kidding me? this is surreal.” you hugged him and kissed him on his cheek.

“do you forgive me? is this too much? i didn’t know if the flowers were too much. i also didn’t know if you wanted sand in between your toes as you ate. i mean, i could literally get on my knees and beg for forgiveness. please, forgive me.” cutting him off, you placed a finger on his lips.

“of course i do. i could never stay mad at my best friend.”

“uh. ouch. i was actually going to ask you something. y/n, would you be my girlfriend.”

your mouth formed an ‘o’ shaped. he started tapping his feet in stress.

“i don’t see why i shouldn’t be.” dropping the flowers quickly on the seat, he hugged you.

in history of hugs throughout your friendship, this one was the best one. it marked a new beginning.

a new beginning of love.

to one of my lovely supporters - @judesthighveins

#football x reader #football fanfic #football imagine #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x reader #jobe bellingham x yn #jobe bellingham x you #jobe bellingham one shot #jobe bellingham fanfic #jobe bellingham imagine #jobe bellingham x reader #jobe bellingham #real madrid #sunderland afc

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crappy-writings · 3 months ago

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Keeper of Shadows

Wanda MaximoffxReader // Series

Series Summary: An odd series of fatal attacks in Upstate New York piques your interest, especially when they seem to be related to the strange powers you received when you were 10 years old. By some stroke of luck or misfortune, the Avengers too are investigating the case, and you are their number one suspect. In a temporary alliance, you work together to discover why people are dying, unraveling a line of love, secrets, and betrayal.

*Image is not mine, credit to the creator

Chapter 1: The Agent, The Witch, and The Sword

(Chapter) Summary: With a strange rise of murders in the outskirts of New York, Natasha and Wanda are sent to investigate. While scouting the scene, they meet a rather curious figure, one they have not determined if they are friend or foe.

Trigger Warnings: descriptive murder details, crime scene details, guns, blood, injuries, cannon typical violence, I think that's it

Word Count: 3,714

A/N: This has been on the backburner for about 2 years, I think, and only now got around to writing it. Like, there’s a whole 10 page doc about this idea. I don't know if its any good but hopefully it makes sense.

Also, there’s a line here that feels topical and I wanna say Free Palestine.

Chapter 2 →

KoS Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Reblogged Fics

Wanda’s room at the Avengers Compound still felt rather… uncomfortable. She had spent months trying to find authentic Sokovian trinkets, crafts and cultural items to remind her of home, but they were hard to come by out here in the states. She filled it with other things, generic room decor like blue candles, and blue shaded lamps, a small hourglass with red sand, and a globe that she had added red push pins to, marking the places she had been to. A guitar with a stand and sheet music laid beside her bed.

She has a pin board that hangs over her desk, salvaged photographs of her family reminding her of a life short lived. One was a family photo, her mother carrying a four-year-old Pietro while her father carried a four-year-old Wanda, bright goofy smiles over the children’s face. Another, an image of her mother holding a baby Wanda and baby Pietro, as well as a photograph of a young Pietro, a mess of toys and household objects scattered about.

She hoped that keeping mementos of home would bring her comfort. Instead, it brought waves of bittersweetness and nostalgia. Although there was comfort in home, she was also reminded that she would never return there. There was nowhere to return to. Where once stood a war-torn yet proud country remained a pile of ash, and rubble, and death.

She sighs deeply, dropping her clothes in her hamper, having had swapped it out for a somewhat loose fitting, black, repurposed S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. She finished adjusting the standard issue gauntlets and belt, before sitting down on her bed to put on her boots. A soft knocking came from the door.

“Come in,” Wanda’s accented voice calls out as she laces up her boots. “You ready?” Natasha asks as she poked her head through the door.

“Yeah,” she replies as she stands from her bed.

“Alright then, let’s go, Hill’s contact is waiting for us,” the red-headed assassin says as Wanda approaches her. Natasha also wore a similarly fitting S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, except she wore her own customized gauntlets and belt, along with her usual weapons.

“Why exactly did we get called in by the FBI?” the brunette asked as both women walked through the corridors of the Compound.

“Well, one of Hill’s old contacts called in a favor. They’re working a case that seems to be… more aligned with our type of work,” Natasha says cryptically. “You mean aliens, godly beings, Hydra experiments and genocidal robots?” Wanda asks at an attempt at humor.

“Yep, just about sums it up,” Natasha gives her a small smirk as they walk towards the garage.

“Is there anything we know about the case?” Wanda asks as both Avengers approach Natasha’s Black-colored Corvette.

“There’s been a series of murders at one of the national forests. Fourth body was found about three hours ago. Here’s the file,” Natasha opened the driver’s side door, and handed Wanda a yellow file folder as she sat in the passenger’s seat.

“Since when do we investigate murders?” Wanda asks curiously as she takes the file from Natasha’s hand.

“You’ll understand once you read the file,” she sighs as she begins to drive out of the Compound.

The file details a series of gruesome attacks, most of them having taken place just a few miles away from the Finger Lakes National Forest, the investigation being led by Special Agent Gregory Miller. All of them had happened in the span of the last four months, each body was found approximately 25 miles away from each other. The file included the postmortem reports of three victims, detailing blackened scratches and long cuts throughout the victim’s entire body, as well as odd, swirl-patterned burn marks along the upper body. Bruises circled the victims’ necks and one of the victims had a sprained ankle, believed to have occurred as they attempted to run from their attacker. The file included forensic photographs of the victims, much to Wanda’s discomfort.

Interviews with the victims’ kin all described them to be acting angry and erratic, before leaving without notification. No victim was known to take any illegal substances, nor were they diagnosed with any ailments that could potentially cause their sudden change in behavior.

Forensics reports that the attacks seem to be almost animalistic. The blackened nature of the wounds was not due to decay and were not consistent with regular burns. They did not exactly understand what it was. The official determined cause of death for all the victims was strangulation.

Lastly, the report included newspaper clippings describing the attacks to the general public:

Bear attacks or murder? Odd series of fatal attacks in Upstate New York confound authorities

Concerns among citizens of the Upstate area rise as another body is found near the Finger Lakes National Forest.

The body of Elijah Brown, a 46-year-old accountant from the Upstate area, was found 10 miles away from the outskirts of the National Forest. This is the third victim to be found in the area.

Local law enforcement informed investigators that the injuries and cause of death for the three victims are consistent with bear attacks. Citizens voiced their concerns over the wild creatures making their way to residences and potentially hurting them, their loved ones or neighbors.

Despite this, private sources indicate that authorities are considering it may be due to a new potential serial killer, despite the allegations of the deaths being caused by bear attacks. All three bodies have been found within approximately 25 miles away of each other, all within a four-month time period.

When confronted with the allegation that it may instead be a serial killer, officer Davis stated, “We are currently waiting on the coroner's report of the victim to determine whether this was a tragic accident or a potential murder. Our investigation team is waiting on these results before determining what is going on.”

Investigators learned from the victim’s son that Mr. Brown was not known for hiking or hunting, putting into question why he had been out in the forest in the first place.

As the community waits for answers, Park officials and The U.S. Fish and Wildlife department advises hikers to remain on clearly marked paths when out and to wear bright or reflective clothing, and hunters are urged to take every necessary safety precaution, including staying in designated hunting areas, avoid refuge areas, and to make sure your certifications are up to date.

“This is…” Wanda interrupts the comfortable silence they had been riding in the last 30 minutes.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, her lips pressed tightly.

“I can see why he called in the favor,” Wanda comments as she closes the file, “do they have any leads?”

“Don’t think so, they would’ve included it in the file,” Natasha answers with a slight shake of her head. Wanda watched as they zipped through a winding road, a lush, autumn-colored forest stretching both in front and behind them. Up ahead, she notices a large “Finger Lakes National Forest” sign, along with other road signs nearby.

“Do you have any idea what it could be?” Wanda presses tentatively.

“Honestly? No. I’ve never seen anything like this,” the Widow replies.

Wanda hummed in acknowledgement. Both women carried on a pleasant conversation, talking about Wanda’s training progress before settling into a comfortable silence as they approached their destination.

Natasha begins to drive off the main road, following a marked-out path into the forest. The car hit a few bumps as they drove through the beaten path. “I should've taken one of Tony’s cars,” Natasha muttered, earning a silent laugh from Wanda.

After about five more minutes, both Avengers saw the FBI trucks, agents spread throughout the forest in front of them. Natasha pulled up behind one of the trucks, leaving a generous amount of space between them.

“Here, put this on,” Natasha tosses Wanda a navy-blue jacket with yellow letters spelling “FBI” in the back as they get out of the car. “Hill’s contact wants us to blend in as best we can when we get here. Doesn’t want the public finding out that they had to call in the Avengers.” “And the S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform?” Wanda questions as she puts on the jacket.

“Won’t stand out as much among the other uniforms, and Tony isn’t really funding clothes for missions. We make due with what we’ve got,” explained Natasha as they leave the car and head towards the crime scene.

Bright yellow police tape was wrapped around the trees surrounding the victim. Evidence markers were scarce, whatever evidence of who or what did this was near non-existent. People in white hazard suits investigated the body, taking samples and photographic evidence of the area and victim. Outside the police tape, some agents checked the perimeter, others were working away on laptops. Other forensic investigators seemed to be preparing to transport the body.

Natasha spotted Hill’s contact, a tall, brown-haired man with pale skin and a lean build. His hair was combed back, he wore black framed glasses, and he wore a large jacket, similar to the ones Natasha and Wanda had on. “Perfect timing. Special Agent Gregory Miller, thank you for offering your help,” the man introduced himself with a pressed smile, extending a warm hand to both women, “forensics is finishing up their investigation and sending the data to base as we speak.”

The man subtly cocks his head to the side and lets out a short chuckle. “What’s so funny?” Natasha asks, cocking an eyebrow at Gregory.

“No, no, it’s just,” he gestured to the Avengers’ uniforms, “if S.H.I.E.L.D. was still around, this case would’ve been taken off our hands a while ago.”

“Based on the information you sent us, definitely,” Natasha agrees.

“Yeah, well, anyways, this is James Gutierrez, age 34. A group of hunters went off the designated hunting area and found him. Wounds are consistent with what we’ve seen on the other three victims. Burns, bruises, scratches, all of it. We’ll still need to wait for the coroner’s report to establish the cause of death, but it will most likely be strangulation, just like the rest.”

Wanda was supposed to be listening to what Gregory was saying, but she was not. He repeated everything that had been in the file and although he was discussing the details of the fourth victim, they had still not gleaned any new information.

Wanda looked around the scene as Gregory continued to talk. She saw the forensics team discuss something between them, and a few were putting away some equipment. A different forensics team was preparing to bag and transport the body. Other agents stood outside the bright yellow tape, discussing things Wanda could not hear from this distance, while others seemed to continue to verify the perimeter.

There was one agent that caught her eye, though. She could not see any distinguishing features from this distance, but she noticed they wore a black hat and jacket, printed with big white letters spelling “FBI.” She tilted her head to the side curiously as she observed the figure that simply stood there, alone.

The figure seemed to be observing the crime scene, before pulling out a notebook from inside their jacket and writing something down.

“Who’s that agent, the one in the hat?” Wanda asks out loud, interrupting Gregory from his monologue. “I’m sorry, what?” he asks, his eyes landing on Wanda.

“The agent up there. Their uniform is black and white, not blue and yellow,” Wanda explains.

Natasha follows Wanda’s gaze and clocks the figure immediately.

The figure approached the yellow tape but did not pass it. They subtly craned their neck, observing the victim, before writing something down again.

“That’s the incorrect uniform,” Gregory says, furrowing his brow.

The figure looks up and accidentally makes eye contact with Wanda. A sudden rush of cold runs up Wanda’s spine, making her shiver involuntarily. They stare for a few moments, their head subtly cocking to the side in curiosity.

Until something pulls the figure’s attention away as they suddenly look off to their right. Wanda follows their gaze but sees nothing.

No, not nothing. The trees to the figure’s right were oddly distorted, moving from side to side in small, short waves. Best Wanda could describe it would be that it resembled heat waves radiating off hot pavements and cars. Wanda furrowed her brow in both confusion and curiosity.

But in the blink of an eye, the distortion disappears, the trees standing still behind the crime scene.

“That’s not one of my agents,” Gregory states.

Wanda watches as the figure quickly puts away their notebook and begins to back away, their eyes never straying from whatever they saw to their right. They turn around and begin to hike up the small hill in front of them. Wanda saw out of the corner of her eye as Gregory reached for his communicator.

“Wanda, go from the right, I’ll take the left,” Natasha commands easily as she begins trailing the suspect.

Wanda nodded as she began running, circling around the right side of the yellow tape. The figure was already up the hill by the time they began their pursuit. Wanda found it odd, though, as the figure did not seem to be running away from them. Their faces gave away no signal of being caught, instead, they had looked at her in curiosity. Their focus was entirely placed on something beside them, beside the crime scene. They did not seem to be running towards something either.

No, they seemed to be leading something away.

Natasha and Wanda ran as quickly as they could, doing their best to avoid tripping over tree roots and rocks, the loud crunch of dead leaves sounding off with every quick step. The figure was fast, maintaining a good distance away from Natasha and her. That was before the stranger came to a sliding stop, staring at something in front of them. They stood quickly and backed up a few steps, their head raised as they stared at something slightly above them.

Wanda herself began to slow down as she watched the figure do a subtle hand motion, followed by a bright light. A white light flashed in the figure’s hand, a sword magically appearing in their grip. The same cold shiver settled at the base of Wanda’s spine.

The figure swiftly raises the sword as if to block themselves from something. She watched as the sword was met with brute strength, making it swing to the side forcefully. The figure backed up once more, before throwing an uncoordinated strike at something Wanda could not see.

Wanda tried focusing on whatever the figure was fighting, and suddenly the odd distortion, similar to the one at the crime scene, reemerged. The distortion was large, seeming to be at least three feet taller than the stranger they were pursuing. It moved swiftly, as it seemed to take a swipe at the stranger that stood in front of it, but the figure jumped out of the way just in time.

A low, bellowing sound resonated through the trees, but it sounded faint and far away. Wanda turned her head towards Natasha, “did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Natasha looked at Wanda with furrowed brows.

“There was this sound, and there’s something, over there,” Wanda stammers through her words as she turns back to watch the figure. They swing their sword again, and this time, it looks like it made contact with the odd distortion.

“I don’t see anything,” Natasha replied, giving Wanda a confused look.

Wanda continued staring as the distortion seemed to rise and come crashing down over the figure.

They yelled as it fell on top of them, knocking them onto the ground forcefully, their weapon falling out of their grip and their hat falling off their head. Whatever was on top of them had them pinned down as they were struggling to get up. They placed their feet firmly on the ground, attempting to squirm out of the distortion's hold to no avail. They begin kicking up into the air, as if hoping to get the mostly invisible creature off of them.

Wanda hears as Natasha takes out her gun and sees her point it forwards. Her finger hovered over the trigger but did not shoot.

The figure suddenly screamed in pain, but Wanda could not exactly see what was happening. She watches as they struggle to reach for their sword, the weapon a few inches away from their fingers. The figure still kicked their feet up onto the air, but the distortion would not budge from place.

Another faint, bellowing noise was heard, followed by the figure’s pained groan. Wanda’s irises flash a dark red color as she extends her hand out, urging the sword to fly into the stranger’s hand.

The figure’s head turns towards the sword, before gripping it tight and stabbing it into the air above them and twisting the blade. The figure kicked up into the air once more with a forceful yell, digging their weapon deeper into the creature’s presumed wound.

Wanda hears the creature roar again, this time louder and clearer than the other times. For a split second, Wanda swears she saw something. An inky black mass that almost resembled a giant canine, but as quickly as she saw it, it disappeared. She almost assumes she imagined it.

The distortion seemed to bob upwards, no longer pinning down the stranger. They crawled backwards quickly, sword still in hand.

“Shoot,” Wanda said suddenly, glancing between Natasha and the odd display in front of them.

“Shoot what? I can’t see anything,” Natasha said, a mixture of confusion and frustration subtly ringing in her voice.

“Straight forwards, about 5 feet over the suspect,” Wanda instructs, her eyes staring sharply at the scene before her. Natasha shot off two bullets and Wanda watched as the bullets disappeared into thin air. “Hit,” Wanda reports.

The figure jumped up to their feet, not looking back at the two Avengers that stood a couple of feet behind them. They slashed their sword twice into the distortion, and Wanda can only assume that they hit it.

The distortion moved and Wanda saw as it was about to come down on the stranger once more. They swung their sword upwards, the blade facing up to defend themselves from whatever was about to hit them.

The creature made an impact with the sword, the force strong enough to make the figure scream and buckle under the pressure. The same bellowing sound came again, this one louder than the one before. “Shoot, two feet above the suspect’s head,” Wanda commands, watching as the figure rightens themselves and backs up a few steps.

Natasha aims and takes a few seconds before shooting, taking the necessary precautions to not hit their only potential lead.

She shoots off three more bullets, and Wanda sees as they ricochet off of the distorted creature. The stranger then charges, sword at the ready and seems to stab at the creature. They yell as they try digging the sword in deeper, and then forcefully drags the blade to the side. The figure did not stop until the blade no longer felt any resistance and cut freely through the air. A low, guttural sound reverberated through the forest and the distortion suddenly fell with a hard thud, the figure swiftly moving out of the way before impact.

The two Avengers watched as the figure breathed heavily, staring off into nothing. After a few moments, they groaned loudly, their free hand flying over to their shoulder, their sword in their other hand. Wanda could see as crimson began seeping through the stranger’s fingers. They turned and stared down at where Wanda last saw the distortion on the ground and nudged it with their foot.

Oddly enough, Wanda could no longer see it, the ground and the trees of the forest remaining as still as ever.

The figure continued to stare down at the ground, lowering their sword, the tip of the blade touching the dirt and leaves of the forest floor. With a sudden flash of white light, the figure drops the sword into the ground, the blade no longer visible. For the third time, a familiar cold shiver ripped through Wanda’s body.

The figure slowly turns and makes eye contact with Wanda and Natasha, fatigue evident in their face. They continued to breathe heavily as they stared. Without breaking eye contact, they extended their free hand off to the side and made a subtle circular motion. Once again, a bright flash appeared and both Avengers watched as the figure took one step to the side and dropped entirely from their view.

Natasha and Wanda looked at each other, before running up to where they last saw the stranger. Natasha bent down to the ground, running her hand over where the figure had been last, trying to find some explanation of how the stranger disappeared.

Wanda, in turn, approached where she last remembered seeing the distorted figure. She reached out and her hand came in contact with something. She startles and backs away slightly, not having expected to feel anything.

She shakes her head, throwing away the nervousness and hesitation, before feeling around again. She feels it again, an odd, slimy, sticky texture that makes her grimace. “Natasha, there’s something here,” Wanda announces as she retracts her hand from the invisible creature.

“What is it?” Natasha asks as she approaches the young brunette. “I-I don’t know, it’s sticky,” Wanda replies, cringing as she rubs her thumb over the rest of her fingers, still feeling the gross texture on her hand. She forcefully waves her hand downwards, trying to get any of the excess goop off of her hand.

“Today keeps getting stranger and stranger,” Natasha mutters, her brows furrowed together, having reached out with her index and middle finger to touch the invisible creature herself.

“They left their hat behind,” Wanda comments as she notices the piece of clothing laying on the ground.

“We’re gonna need forensics over here,” Natasha announces as she backs away from it.

“And find that person with the sword,” Wanda adds.

“I know just the right person who can help us with that,” Natasha replied as she pulled out a phone and made a call.

Chapter 2 →

#marvel #marvel fanfic #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff fic #wanda maximoff #keeper of shadows

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tomkeirblyth · 1 year ago

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If I were to do a post calling out every individual celebrities for spreading misinformation and/or misinterpretation of what is happening rn I’d be here all day and still wouldn’t get through half of them. So instead this post is a call out post for all of them. I am frustrated and disappointed in privileged people who get to have fancy lives who suddenly want to act as though their day job is activism, while they just copy each other and spread misinformation from one another. The way they have millions of followers and choose to influence that following with takes that lack actual knowledge and are blindly taking a stance because “I need to post about it or I’ll look bad”

Most of them never cared about the civilians who have been hurting and targeted for years on end, it’s not a glamorous issue when you can’t equate a group to having similarities to people who live in the United States. You can’t openly support Islamic people as a politician or a celebrity and these celebs have made that clear. As a non celeb my support of the Jewish faith and people is unwavered, but I also have in my heart the capabilities to support the freedom of (mostly) Islamic people who historically have never had support from western counties, media, or celebrities.

Celebrities equating this issue as if you don’t support Israel you support terrorism. If you don’t support Israel you are antisemitic. Neither of those are true and I need them to stop acting as though *that* is the hill they want to die on.

The issue is that they understandably don’t want civilians caught in a crossfire of war or terrorism. Well guess what? Most people agree with that. Most people who want Palestine free aren’t sitting around eating popcorn to the thought of Israeli people being hurt. That bullshit narrative needs to be wiped clean and any celebrity or politician pushing that narrative has rocks for brains. The issue is that all of these privileged people who sit in their nice homes and have never once cared about anything outside of their bubble for more than the duration of headlines, have never actually taken a moment to think about standing up for oppressed people unless it’s people they can find a reason to relate to. If it’s not happening in their own backyard then they don’t want to care about it. It’s not worth their time to actually shed light on what is happening because as long as people know they hate violence and want peace, they can check that off their list and put their heads back in the sand.

One day soon they’ll stop posting about it and they’ll resume their day to day lives. They won’t be cancelled. They won’t lose anything except perhaps some respect from those of us who are severely disappointed right now. They’ll go back to life and Palestinian people will continue to die and none of them will say a word. Just like they haven’t in years. Some people can’t escape that this is reality just by putting their phones down.

Stop taking your moral cues from people who have a short capacity for care.

Standing for Palestinian freedom is not standing for terrorism. It’s not standing against Jewish people. It’s acknowledging that none of this would be happening if Israel would let these people have their freedom. That is the bottom line.

#it’s almost 5am if I worded any of this incorrectly I will look at it again at a reasonable hour #goodnight

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is-the-owl-video-cute · 6 months ago

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your take on biden is correct and valid and I am in no way going to try and tell you he's not a piece of shit. however. I don't believe the solution to "they're both shitheads I don't want either of them in office" is to refuse to vote or to vote for a third party that doesn't have a chance of winning.

I hate having to choose too but there is no way this situation will improve with trump in office. I choose to believe we have a chance of making a difference if we put enough pressure on the biden administration and the only way we get there is by keeping him in office. however much I hate that concept.

”if we just put enough pressure on genocide joe maybe he’ll just stop committing genocide and stop encouraging police brutality on protestors. Maybe he’ll just stop lying about hamas and be nice :(“ do you hear yourself?

It’s an ELECTION YEAR, the time we have THE MOST leverage against him and he still doesn’t care. He made a few empty threats to stop funding the genocide and then just quietly approved more funds to be sent to help the IDF.

Picking the lesser of two evils really doesn’t work when you have two wannabe Hitlers running. You can’t say “well MAYBE Biden will sign in some environmental protections to distract from him committing genocide” as though that’s any reason to vote for him.

There is no lesser of two evils when both options staunchly support the same genocide.

“No you can’t vote third party what if trump wins :(“ then congrats, it’ll be exactly the same as what we’re dealing with now. “Every vote counts” brother in Christ there is quite literally no way in gods green earth Biden is winning this election. Sorry, but he’s not. ~60% of Americans want an end to the genocide, and neither candidate wants to even humor that idea. Biden is too much of a lunatic to even pick a centrist take, he wants Palestine gone because it is more profitable for Israel to control that region. He’s not changing his mind if he hasn’t been smart enough to pull his head out of the sand already. At least with trump we’re probably going to see more of him wasting his term arguing and throwing a fit that he isn’t allowed to be a dictator and get impeached AGAIN. There’s at least the threat of trump getting some consequence, Biden is never going to.

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mugiwara-lucy · 3 months ago

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Listen, it’s not about letting Trump win, it’s about letting the Democratic Party know that they still have to earn your vote in order to affect their policy and their current stance on Palestine. Once they’re elected you can’t make them earn your vote anymore, so it’s important to hold that over their head before the elections.

Also, Kamala Harris is NOT “pro-Palestine” as long as she keeps repeating the “Israel has a right to defend itself” truism, and as along as she continues to talk of a ceasefire without doing anything to enforce it. This is not simply a matter of opinion or stance in the matter, the current United States government is a perpetrator of the violence and they need to be addressed as such.

Part of the reason why drawing a line on the sand with this issue is so important is that American liberalism has a history of elevating their own rights as worthy of pursuit while disregarding the way they themselves are complicit in the erosion of those said rights abroad. Leaders of the Civil Rights movement and the Black Panthers back in the sixties and seventies understood, for example, openly challenged and fought the Democrat Vietnam policy because they understood the hypocrisy of letting their rights come at the expense of people dying elsewhere.

“Vote blue no matter who” mentality creates complacency in officials seeking to be elected, it tells them they do not have to earn your vote. Living in a democracy is about making your voice heard and organizing accordingly, so please stop disparaging any efforts made to effectively challenge current policy and use that democratic power for an actual change.

First of all, I'd like to say thank you for being more respectful to me that some of these other Anons.

I will admit I lost my patience on them but when you've been getting harassed for months, it gets to you.

Now look, if we lived in a parallel universe where Project 2025 wasn't a thing and the person running against Kamala was an idiot like RFK Jr who doesn't seem to want to be a dictator, I'd probably agree more with the Non-Voting stance you all want to take although I'd never do it since I want to exercise my right to vote whenever I can but the reality is we don't. We have an unapologetic, lying, hateful evil RAPIST running for president. And I'm not sure if you're American or not but there's some people who downplay just how HORRIFIC his term was and the lasting ramifications of it. Here's the main consequences of him being in office:

Roe v Wade, Affirmative Action and the Chevron was overturned (stuff which was 50 years old that got lost after EIGHT YEARS).

I'm sorry but i am NOT INTERESTED in seeing what's next to go because of a Supreme Court Justice that he appointed. Especially since there'll be vacancies in the next couple of years and if he appoints MORE YOUNGER MAGA TYPE justices, the Supreme Court will be locked hard right for AT LEAST THIRTY YEARS.

Do you KNOW what will happen to this country at that point??

Now Trump has said when he gets back into office he wants to "restrict" the First Amendment:

And one of his Supreme Court dickriders Clarence Thomas was talking about getting rid of Loving V Virginia (the law that made Interracial dating LEGAL):

So that's why I'm putting as MUCH of my effort into making sure Trump does NOT get back into office as much as I can. It's not that I don't care about Palestine (quite the contrary actually) but if we DON'T HAVE OUR RIGHTS HOW CAN WE HELP ANYONE ELSE?? I ask this and get crickets in response.

And Kamala IS Pro-Palestine. Don't forget this:

And having her in office is WAY BETTER for Palestine that this clown that NOT ONLY SAID THIS:

And LITERALLY TRIED to SABOTAGE Kamala's chances at winning the election by conspiring with Natanyahu to HAVE NO ceasefires made:

Which I'd like to point out is in violation of the LOGAN ACT since normal people can NOT interfere in domestic affairs in other countries.

To say they're the similar is uninformed ignorance at best or just willful lying at worse.

They're NOWHERE in the SAME BALLPARK.

It's not disparaging your efforts as it is just saying if we don't get Kamala, we get the rapist back in office who has talked NUMEROUS TIMES about a third term so I wouldn't be surprised if the ONLY way he leaves is in a bodybag.

(ASSUMING THE MILITARY STEPS IN AND DEALS WITH THEM AS THEY HAVE A MANDATE).

#anonymous #asks #replies #again i appreciate the respect but i disagree #trump getting back in helps NO ONE

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fiercynn · 8 months ago

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this is both disingenuous and incredibly cruel given that bisan called for a global strike for palestine ON APRIL 1ST SPECIFICALLY. and you're getting mad at people who weren't even asking people to stop booping but were asking for the bare minimum of, like, at least reblogging information about it ALONGSIDE the fucking boops? seriously?????

i'm a lifelong activist and organizer, i've burned out before so i know what it looks like, and people absolutely do need to take breaks and take care of themselves. if you truly care about what you so callously put as "the problems" but want people to not destroy themselves in their efforts to fight for change, you know what you could do that would be actually helpful? provide resources on self-care (which is rooted in black feminist thought, and is not version that has been coopted by capitalism and white supremacy) and self-love and community care. here are some that i've found super meaningful:

caring for ourselves as political warfare and self love as a liberatory practice for the future by adrienne maree brown

communities of care, organizations for liberation and a round-up and re-frame of the community care conversation by yashna maya padamsee

the joyful intersections of disability justice, care, and pleasure and for badass disability justice, working-class and poor-led models of sustainable hustling for liberation, by leah lakshmi piepzna-samarasinha

those are literally just a handful of links i happen to have saved; definitely also explore more work by these authors (including their books!) and others they link to - alexis pauline gumbs's work also comes to mind.

you know what none of that tells you to do? "distract" yourself from genocide and injustice. because trying to distract yourself from such horrifying and infuriating things requires a violent dislocation of yourself from your own emotions. practicing radical self-care and community care are about finding things that help keep you grounded and surviving to fight another day, while still holding all the overwhelming things you are feeling, because those feelings are appropriate and understandable reactions to genocide and injustice! trying to deny them is just going to create more harm to yourself! personally, reading poetry – particularly by palestinian, black, indigenous, and decolonial poets – has been one of the things that helps me breathe, without forcing myself to bury my head in the sand. (if anyone wants poetry recommendations, feel free to jump into my asks.)

i'm not saying this is easy. there are days where i shut down. but you know what i don't do? lecture people who are already hurting because they and their people are being genocided on why i deserve a break, when they are just trying to raise attention to what they are going through!

like seriously. if you truly feel like you are doing what you can to fight genocide and injustice, and that the boop-fest was something you needed as a break, then fine, those posts weren't for you! but can you not conceive of there being anyone who might have needed a reminder, might have not known that there was a global strike, might have needed to see all the horrific things that israel did on april 1st itself, to galvanize them into action?

i saw people that i trust and respect engaging in the boops on april 1st alongside other things they were posting, including palestinian folks. the boops themselves weren't the problem! the problem was that tumblr was entirely taken over by boop memes on a day that was supposed to be a global strike, including by many people i have never seen post about the genocides in palestine and sudan and the democratic republic of congo.

and yet your reaction is not to decide that those posts weren't for you and just move on, but to condescend to people who have been constantly screaming into the void about how they and their people are being genocided and minimize their suffering???? wow.

Ok now that the boops are gone and i can be grumpy again

"yeah the boops are fun but don't let them distract you from--" PLEASE let them distract you. Please take one goddamn day off from thinking about the world's problems. And if you can't figure out how to do that, for the love of god don't insist that everyone else be stuck in "I'm not allowed to be happy about anything ever" hell with you

If you insist that everyone be focusing on "the problems" at all times that is at best performative and at worst actively harmful to the cause you're trying to support. Taking real action uses up energy, often times a LOT of it. Insisting that no one ever takes a break means insisting that no one ever take time to rest and begin to gather more energy for another actual action. Being "on" all the time isn't your duty, it's an impossibility.

Take a fucking break. And remind everyone that they need to take breaks too.

#people are so fucking cruel it somehow still astounds me #can you not have a smidgen of empathy for the pain that it takes to write posts like that and to scream into the void every fucking day #i'm so sorry you weren't allowed to be “grumpy” while seeing those posts that must have been so hard for you #also the amount of times i have now had to type the word boop is actively making me hate it ugh

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papirouge · 1 year ago

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The USA along with several western countries are some of the biggest provider for Israel. It's totally legitimate for the tax payers of those countries to care about where their money goes, especially if it's to fund a war. You guys would realize that if you were actual grown adult paying taxes and not a silly kid living in your parent house with a fandom blog, but I digress...

Don't you find funny that people pull out this "that's not of our business" only when it's about the Palestine-Gaza conflict??

Where were those people during the Russia/Ukraine war? China deporting Uighurs ? Fukushima? How any of that what Western countries business? Did they make those idiotic tag under posts talking about them??

Was this Western countries (who had no direct link to those events) business to go so hard covering those things? or do you eventually agree that since with live in a globalized world, business abroad is eventually everyone's business because of economic/political/ecological ties??

We've been living in a society of spectacle for DECADES, but NOW is the moment you clutch your pearls to complain about news treating world event like reality show?? Have you been living under a rock????

"YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS CONFLICT" ah yes, and putting your head in the sand and acting like it didn't happen will for sure help to understand #BIGBRAINQUEEEN. God gave us a brain for a reason. I swear you guys are so freaking sheltered and never learn how to handle intellectual challenge you are literally acting like lack of knowledge was a relevant excuse for lack of intellectual curiosity. Stick to fandom blog and shut up forever about whatever actual people with a brain should say or talk about.

#papi watch

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samuraisharkie · 2 years ago

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I’m gonna be honest I’m seeing the top gun posts and I want to reblog them but I am just. Too goddamn tired for this exceptional bullshit rn. I cannot fucking believe y’all are “fandomizing” racist military propaganda. they’re not allies. you people realize that right? i don’t care what gay subtext they put in their movies. they don’t care about you and they are actively working to erase your freedom to be who you are, and ur encouraging it bc you care more about ur fake worlds than the real one. one day ur gonna pull ur head out of the computer once and for all and go ‘this is horrible! when did it get this bad! how can we fix it?’ but it will be too fucking late for you because you willfully pushed reality away to waste time actively encouraging the destruction of people’s lives. i don’t want t see any of y’all campaigning for overseas countries or even against the police while you’re defending this sort of movie. because clearly your allyship is only words and nothing more. you don’t care about anything but your white fantasies and daydreams where you never have to worry about anyone other than yourself. if I see one of you morons talking about “acab” or how much damage america has done in Iran and Palestine, I’m going to make it my life goal to make you regret it, bc your words are empty. 90% of you think being queer or what have you makes you automatically immune to being bigots and that you don’t have to do shit in terms of reparations or activism, but it’s the exact opposite. you people stick your head in the sand, close your ears and scream, and hold your breath until you pass out instead of confront the fact that some media is made only for the purpose of propaganda and harm of marginalized peoples, no matter how many queer couples are in it. like top gun, like first kill, like our flag means death, like the umbrella academy, and so on. you people are the reason why our oppressors are bolder than ever. you will walk willingly into their open maw and shut down all those trying to stop you, and you’ll make sure you take as many down with you as possible. I can’t wish enough suffering upon you for the betrayal you lay on those trying to stop the destruction, because unlike you, instead of shrugging our shoulders and going ‘eh, the world is on fire anyways, I’m looking out for number one’, there are those who care about the world and the people in it, the world that makes it possible for you to continue living ignorant and selfish, who want to continue living in this world and helping others live together to because even if we can’t reverse the damage of the fire, as long as we’re still standing we can put it out and help the wounds heal. there are those of us that care about real people, not your military bigots who you only pretend to hate when another gruesome massacre manages to come to the surface of the public consciousness. I’m tired of you people betraying every supposed ideal you say you fight for the moment you have the opportunity to smother yourself in more mindless and harmful indulgence. It would be one thing if you even admitted the media you consumed was harmful, but you won’t even do that. You can’t even do that. Because that would mean acknowledging the real world and the real people who are affected by your ignorance and that’s just “not fun”. I wish all of you the violent fear and pain you afford others with your willful ignorance and vitriol.

#long post #top gun #I’m sure this is a whole lot of nothing. I’m tired and I didn’t mean to go this long #but I’m just so sick of this. you people will never fucking learn. and you wonder why we still have to fight to exist.#I don’t even know if I said any of this properly #I’ll probably delete it later I’m just so frustrated #yeah it is that deep. you guys are just racist and bigoted traitors.#this sounds like a straw man argument were there not numerous examples of the ‘you’ I address here #yeah I’m putting this in the tag I hope it ruins y’all’s day.#if you try to fight me over this I’m screenshotting your name and message and publicly humiliating you and then blocking you btw #there’s nothing you can say that will ever defend your atrocious behavior

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militant-holy-knight · 5 years ago

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Constantine IX’s Final Speech

“Most noble leader, illustrious tribunes, generals, most courageous fellow soldiers and all loyal honest citizens! You know well that the hour has come: the enemy of our faith wishes to oppress us even more closely by sea and land with all his engines and skill to attack us with the entire strength of this siege force, as a snake about to spew its venom; he is in a hurry to devour us, like a savage lion. For this reason I am imploring you to fight like men with brave souls, as you have done from the beginning up to this day, against the enemy of our faith. I hand over to you my glorious, famous, respected, noble city, the shining Queen of cities, our homeland. You know well, my brothers, that we have four obligations in common, which force us to prefer death over survival: first our faith and piety; second our homeland; third, the emperor anointed by the Lord and fourth; our relatives and friends.

Well, my brothers, if we must fight for one of these obligations, we will be even more liable under the command strength of all four; as you can clearly understand. If God grants victory to the impious because of my own sins, we will endanger our lives for our holy faith, which Christ gave us with his own blood. This is most important of all. Even if one gains the entire world but loses his soul in the process, what will it benefit! Second, we will be deprived of such famous homeland and of our liberty. Third, our empire, renowned in the past but presently humbled, low and exhausted, will be ruled by a tyrant and an impious man. Fourth, we will be separated from our dearest children, wives and relatives.

This wretch of a Sultan has besieged our city up to now for fifty seven days with all his engines and strength; he has relaxed the blockade neither day nor night, but, by the grace of Christ, our Lord, who sees all things, the enemy has often been repelled, up to now, from our walls with shame and dishonor. Yet now too, my brothers, feel no cowardice, even if small parts of our fortifications have collapsed from the explosions and engine missiles, as you can see, we made all possible, necessary repairs. We are placing all hope in the irresistible glory of God. Some have faith in armament, others in cavalry, might and numbers but we believe in the name of our Lord, our God and Savior, and second, in our arms and strength granted to us by divine power.

I know the countless hordes of the impious will advance against us, according to their custom, violently, confidently and with great courage and force in order to overwhelm and wear out our few defenders with hardship. They attempt to frighten us with loud yells and innumerable battle cries. But you are all familiar with their chattering and I need say no more about it. For a long time they will continue so and will also release over us countless rocks, all sorts of arrows and missiles, like the sand of the sea. But I hope that such things will not harm us; I see, greatly rejoice, and nourish with hopes in my mind that even if we are few, you are all experienced and seasoned warriors- courageous, brave, and well prepared. Protect your heads with shields in combat and battle. Keep your right hand, armed with the sword, extended in front of you at all times. Your helmets, breastplates and suits of armor are fully sufficient together with your other weapons and will prove very effective in battle. Our enemies have no and use no such weapons. You are protected inside the walls, while they will advance without cover and with toil.

For these reasons, my fellow soldiers, prepare yourselves, be firm, and remain valiant, for the pity of God, Take your example from the few elephants of the Carthaginians and how they dispersed the numerous cavalry of the Romans with their noise and appearance. If one dumb beast put another to flight, we, the masters of horses and animals, can surely even do better against our advancing enemies, since they are dumb animals, worse even than pigs. Present your shield, swords, arrows, and spears to them, imagining that you are a hunting party after wild boars, so that the impious may learn that they are dealing not with dumb animals but with their lords and masters, the descendants of the Greeks and the Romans.

You are well aware that this irreligious Sultan, the enemy of our holy faith, violated for no good reason the peace treaty we had with him and disregarded his numerous oaths without a second thought. Suddenly, he appeared and built his castle in the straights of Asomatosso he might be able to inflict daily harm on us. Then he put our farms, gardens, parks, and houses to the torch, while he killed and enslaved as many of our Christian brothers as he found; he broke the treaty of friendship. He befriended the inhabitants of Galata, the wretches rejoice over this, as they are unaware of the parable of the Farmer’s son who was roasting snails and said, “Oh stupid creature,” etc. Well my brothers, since he started the siege and the blockade, every day he opens his fathomless mouth and is seeking an opportunity to devour us and this city, which thrice-blessed Constantine the Great founded and dedicated to the all holy most chaste Mother of God, our lady, Mary the eternal virgin. She became the Queen of Cities, the shield and aid of our homeland, the shelter of Christians, the hope and joy of all wishes to destroy this city, which was once proud and blooming like a rose of the field.

I can tell you that this city mastered the entire universe; She placed beneath her feet Pontus, Armenia, Paphlagonia, The Amazonian lands, Cappadocia, Galatia, Media, Georgian Colchis, Bosphoros, Albania, Syria, Cilicia, Mesopotamia, Phoenicia, Palestine, Arabia, Judea, Bactria, Scythia, Macedonia, Thessaly, Hellas, Boeotia, Locris, Aetolia, Arcarnania, Achaea, the Peloponnese, Epirus, Illyria, Lykhnites, the Adriatic, Italy, Tuscany, the Celts, and Galatian Celts, Spain up to Cadiz, Libya, Mauritania, Ethiopia, Beledes, Scude, Numidia, Africa and Egypt.

Now he wants to enslave her and throw the yoke upon the Mistress of Cities, our holy churches, where the Holy Trinity was worshipped, where the Holy Ghost was glorified in hymns, where angels were heard praising in chant the deity of and the incarnation of God’s word, he wants to turn into shrines of his blasphemy, shrines of the mad and false Prophet Muhammed, as well as into stables for his horses and camels. Consider then, my brothers and comrades in arms, how the commemoration of our death, our memory, fame and freedom can be rendered eternal."

#RIP #history #Christianity

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xhxhxhx · 7 years ago

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I first met Orde Wingate in James Barr’s A Line in the Sand (Bloomsbury, 2011), where he’s introduced as a “young, well-connected and faintly unhinged army officer” who had just been assigned to Palestine:

He admired the Jews’ industry (a Jew was ‘worth twenty, thirty or even a hundred’ Arabs, he believed) and he instinctively sympathised with their predicament because he had been an outsider all his life. The son of Plymouth Brethren, he had been ostracised at boarding school where, as a day-boy who disliked team sports, he acquired the nickname ‘Stinker’. It was only after he scraped into officer training that he realised he could turn his unsettling, cadaverous looks to his advantage – when he was challenged to run the gauntlet of his fellow cadets naked, Wingate walked up to each in turn and dared them to strike him, and thus made it through untouched. ‘He had fiery, searching, unsmiling eyes – extraordinary deep-set eyes that penetrated into your inner being in such a way that you could not conceal the slightest of your facial movements or say a single superfluous word,�� said David Hacohen, the man who had built Tegart’s fence. ‘He was fanatical,’ recalled the man who had shared an office with him in Jerusalem. ‘I liked him very much. I got on very well with him. But I must admit he was a fanatic.’

He requested permission to set up ‘Special Night Squads’ with British soldiers and Jewish auxiliaries to police the rebellious Arabs:

Fit, working in silence and trained in ambush tactics, they would try ‘to persuade the gangs that, in their predatory raids, there is every chance of their running into a Government gang which is determined to destroy them, not by an exchange of shots at a distance, but by bodily assault with bayonet and bomb’.

Wingate did not think it would take long to persuade the Arab gang-leaders to stay in at night. ‘In person they are feeble and their whole theory of war is to cut and run. Like all ignorant and primitive people they are especially liable to panic.’ Once the threat of the gangs had gone, the villagers would have no excuse for silence. At that point, Wingate argued, the British could more reasonably put the villages under pressure, because non-cooperation could only imply complicity with the gangs.

In 1938, the first Special Night Squads were set up. One of the Jewish recruits was the young Moshe Dayan, who thought Wingate -- who was now teaching himself Hebrew using the Bible -- rather strange:

[Dayan] was both inspired and intimidated by Wingate, who initially addressed his recruits in broken Hebrew, revolver in one hand, Bible in the other. ‘After a while we asked him to switch to English,’ said Dayan, ‘since we had difficulty in following his strange Hebrew accent and could understand only the recognisable biblical quotations in our language.’

In June 1938, the Squads began their raids, and Wingate went with them:

He struck one member of his squad across the face with a stick when the man failed to shoot an Arab horseman silhouetted against the skyline. On another occasion he interrogated one of four captured Arabs by choking him with a handful of grit and sand he had scooped up from the ground. When his prisoner still refused to talk, he turned to one of the Jewish recruits. ‘Shoot this man,’ he ordered, but the recruit hesitated. ‘Did you hear? Shoot him.’ The recruit did as he was told. Wingate turned to the three surviving detainees. ‘Now speak!’ he bellowed. Back at camp, Wingate’s men were bemused by his behaviour. He would sit in his tent naked, reading the Bible and scrubbing himself with a brush, or eating a raw onion as if it were an apple.

After a failed attack on an Arab gang in July 1938 -- Wingate had set up ambushes around the wrong village -- the Squads were disbanded. At this point, Wingate disappears from Barr’s narrative. He does not reappear.

Today, however, Wingate returned to me, in Artemis Cooper’s Cairo in the War (Hamish Hamilton, 1989):

In the summer of 1941, a remarkable soldier mounted a campaign against the formidable bureaucracy of GHQ, a campaign that nearly culminated in his own death. The imperfect instrument of a severe Puritan God, who had marked him for great things, Charles Orde Wingate had first come to Wavell’s attention in Palestine in 1936. The latter thought him brilliant but dangerous, with his passionate Zionist opinions which echoed the thunder of the Old Testament; and, like all fanatics, Wingate was short on both tact and humour.

In 1940, to increase pressure on the Italians in Abyssinia, Wavell asked Orde Wingate to organise assistance to the supporters of Haile Selassie. From a base in Khartoum, Wingate managed to form his unit, with little help from an obstinate and sluggish military administration. He was a difficult man whose eccentricities were famous: he carried an alarm clock rather than a watch so as to time appointments, and instead of taking baths to keep clean he brushed himself all over with a hairbrush.

By January 1941, his mixed band of Sudanese, Ethiopian and British troops named ‘Gideon Force’ was ready; and, accompanied by Haile Selassie, they crossed the frontier into Abyssinia. As Gideon Force made its way over the mountains, Italian garrisons fell and patriots flocked to the Emperor. It was a brilliant military operation, which enabled Haile Selassie to return to Addis Ababa in triumph at the head of his troops.

[Wingate had wanted to call his Palestinian Special Night Squads ‘Gideon Force’ too -- he even set himself up in Ein Harod, where Gideon had picked the three hundred men who would scatter the Midianites -- but the higher-ups hadn’t allowed it.]

Apart from the addition of a bar to the DSO he had won in Palestine, the congratulations of Wingate’s superiors were brief. In Harar, he was told that Gideon Force was to be disbanded. He appeared to take the news calmly, and said he would return to Cairo to lobby for permission to raise a Jewish army in Palestine.

In June 1941, GHQ was still recovering from the three defeats of Cyrenaica, Greece and Crete. No one had time for the guerilla hero of Abyssinia. He was ordered to revert to the rank of major; and, when he tried to get the allowances due to his volunteer soldiers in Gideon Force, he was informed that this was not possible because the claims had not been submitted at the correct time. The final straw was to be told that, because his men fought behind enemy lines, they did not qualify as ‘a unit in the field’.

What happened next was gracefully passed over by Wavell, when he came to write up Wingate’s life for the Dictionary of National Biography; but the incident is described at length in Christopher Sykes’s book. Sykes was well-placed to find out about it, for one of those involved in the story was his old boss Colonel Thornhill, for whom he had worked in SOE. Thornhill was an amiable, indiscreet man who was often to be found propping up the bar in Shepheard’s or the Continental, and who had been so disastrously involved in the Aziz el Masri affair.

Wingate took a room in the Continental Hotel. There he wrote a blistering report on the treatment of Gideon Force, and how it had been hampered and obstructed by those he chose to call the ‘military apes’. It did not make him any friends at GHQ, and Wavell – though he sided with Wingate on the subject of allowances – was heard to say that the report might almost justify placing him under arrest for insubordination.

Wingate was now seriously ill with malaria, but would not see an army doctor for fear of being relegated to a staff job. However, he did manage to visit a local doctor, who prescribed a drug called atabrine to reduce his temperature. He over-dosed himself liberally which inflamed his nerves, already ragged from brooding alone in his room. In the struggles he had had to set up Gideon Force, and the way the military administration had dealt with it, he saw a plot to absorb Ethiopia into the British Empire. It was too late to do anything. He had failed himself, his men, the Emperor Haile Selassie, and God.

On the afternoon of 4 July Wingate’s temperature stood at 104° and he had run out of pills. He made his way out of the hotel in an effort to find the doctor and get some more atabrine, but so feverish was he that he could not remember the way, and thought he was going mad. He went back to the Continental, and decided to kill himself. On the way to his room, Wingate met the floor steward who brought him his food; and rather than arouse the man’s suspicions, he closed but did not lock the door to his room. He had already stabbed his throat once with his hunting knife when he staggered back to the door, locked it, and then returned to the bathroom to try again. He plunged the knife into what he hoped was the jugular, and then collapsed on the floor.

As luck would have it, the next door room was occupied by the inquisitive Colonel Thornhill. Having heard a number of very strange noises coming through the wall, Thornhill knocked on Wingate’s door. There was no answer. Thornhill alerted the manager. With the master key they got in, and Wingate was rushed to the 15th Scottish Hospital. He was operated on immediately and, thanks to Thornhill and the surgeon’s skill, his life was saved.

The story provoked mixed reactions at GHQ; but as one brigadier put it, whether he was court-martialled or put in a lunatic asylum the career of the troublesome Major Wingate was over. Major Simonds, who had been part of Gideon Force, visited Wingate in hospital and asked the reason for his attempted suicide. The reply was: ‘I did it to call attention to our wrongs.’

There was a verandah at the end of the ward and, as Wingate became stronger, he walked up and down it of an evening. Once, he heard a woman call him by name from the private wing. It was Pistol-Packing Mary Newall, whose No. 11 Convoy was soon to be amalgamated into the ATS. She was in hospital with duodenal ulcers.

In her straightforward, no-nonsense way, she told him that there had been a suicide in her own family; and that if he wanted to talk, he should talk to her. From then on Orde Wingate spent many hours sitting with Mrs Newall, talking and reading his Bible aloud. ‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ said Wingate, as he finished reading the Book of Job. ‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Newall. ‘I’ve been asleep for the last half hour.’ Since she had many visitors, Wingate began to meet people again. His spirits lightened, and he began to feel that God had forgiven him. One visitor was rather taken aback, however, when Wingate remarked that anyone who wanted to slit their own throat should have a hot bath first, otherwise – as he had found – the muscles would be too tense to cut.

What a character! What a lunatic!

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theattainer · 4 years ago

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Acres of Diamonds

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Acres of Diamonds

This is Russell Conwell’s famous “Acres of Diamonds” speech—and the inspiration for the university’s mission.

I am astonished that so many people should care to hear this story over again. Indeed, this lecture has become a study in psychology; it often breaks all rules of oratory, departs from the precepts of rhetoric, and yet remains the most popular of any lecture I have delivered in the fifty-seven years of my public life. I have sometimes studied for a year upon a lecture and made careful research, and then presented the lecture just once—never delivered it again. I put too much work on it. But this had no work on it—thrown together perfectly at random, spoken offhand without any special preparation, and it succeeds when the thing we study, work over, adjust to a plan, is an entire failure.

The “Acres of Diamonds” which I have mentioned through so many years are to be found in this city, and you are to find them. Many have found them. And what man has done, man can do. I could not find anything better to illustrate my thought than a story I have told over and over again, and which is now found in books in nearly every library.

In 1870 we went down the Tigris River. We hired a guide at Bagdad to show us Persepolis, Nineveh and Babylon, and the ancient countries of Assyria as far as the Arabian Gulf. He was well acquainted with the land, but he was one of those guides who love to entertain their patrons; he was like a barber that tells you many stories in order to keep your mind off the scratching and the scraping. He told me so many stories that I grew tired of his telling them and I refused to listen—looked away whenever he commenced; that made the guide quite angry.

I remember that toward evening he took his Turkish cap off his head and swung it around in the air. The gesture I did not understand and I did not dare look at him for fear I should become the victim of another story. But, although I am not a woman, I did look, and the instant I turned my eyes upon that worthy guide he was off again. Said he, “I will tell you a story now which I reserve for my particular friends!” So then, counting myself a particular friend, I listened, and I have always been glad I did.

He said there once lived not far from the River Indus an ancient Persian by the name of Al Hafed. He said that Al Hafed owned a very large farm with orchards, grain fields and gardens. He was a contented and wealthy man—contented because he was wealthy, and wealthy because he was contented. One day there visited this old farmer one of those ancient Buddhist priests, and he sat down by Al Hafed’s fire and told that old farmer how this world of ours was made.

He said that this world was once a mere bank of fog, which is scientifically true, and he said that the Almighty thrust his finger into the bank of fog and then began slowly to move his finger around and gradually to increase the speed of his finger until at last he whirled that bank of fog into a solid ball of fire, and it went rolling through the universe, burning its way through other cosmic banks of fog, until it condensed the moisture without, and fell in floods of rain upon the heated surface and cooled the outward crust. Then the internal flames burst through the cooling crust and threw up the mountains and made the hills and the valleys of this wonderful world of ours. If this internal melted mass burst out and cooled very quickly it became granite; that which cooled less quickly became silver; and less quickly, gold; and after gold, diamonds were made. Said the old priest, “A diamond is a congealed drop of sunlight.”

This is a scientific truth also. You all know that a diamond is pure carbon, actually deposited sunlight—and he said another thing I would not forget: he declared that a diamond is the last and highest of God’s mineral creations, as a woman is the last and highest of God’s animal creations. I suppose that is the reason why the two have such a liking for each other. And the old priest told Al Hafed that if he had a handful of diamonds he could purchase a whole country, and with a mine of diamonds he could place his children upon thrones through the influence of their great wealth.

Al Hafed heard all about diamonds and how much they were worth, and went to his bed that night a poor man—not that he had lost anything, but poor because he was discontented and discontented because he thought he was poor. He said: “I want a mine of diamonds!” So he lay awake all night, and early in the morning sought out the priest.

Now I know from experience that a priest when awakened early in the morning is cross. He awoke that priest out of his dreams and said to him, “Will you tell me where I can find diamonds?” The priest said, “Diamonds? What do you want with diamonds?” “I want to be immensely rich,” said Al Hafed, “but I don’t know where to go.” “Well,” said the priest, “if you will find a river that runs over white sand between high mountains, in those sands you will always see diamonds.” “Do you really believe that there is such a river?” “Plenty of them, plenty of them; all you have to do is just go and find them, then you have them.” Al Hafed said, “I will go.” So he sold his farm, collected his money at interest, left his family in charge of a neighbor, and away he went in search of diamonds.

He began very properly, to my mind, at the Mountains of the Moon. Afterwards he went around into Palestine, then wandered on into Europe, and at last, when his money was all spent, and he was in rags, wretchedness and poverty, he stood on the shore of that bay in Barcelona, Spain, when a tidal wave came rolling in through the Pillars of Hercules and the poor, afflicted, suffering man could not resist the awful temptation to cast himself into that incoming tide, and he sank beneath its foaming crest, never to rise in this life again.

When that old guide had told me that very sad story, he stopped the camel I was riding and went back to fix the baggage on one of the other camels, and I remember thinking to myself, “Why did he reserve that for his particular friends?” There seemed to be no beginning, middle or end—nothing to it. That was the first story I ever heard told or read in which the hero was killed in the first chapter. I had but one chapter of that story and the hero was dead.

When the guide came back and took up the halter of my camel again, he went right on with the same story. He said that Al Hafed’s successor led his camel out into the garden to drink, and as that camel put its nose down into the clear water of the garden brook Al Hafed’s successor noticed a curious flash of light from the sands of the shallow stream, and reaching in he pulled out a black stone having an eye of light that reflected all the colors of the rainbow, and he took that curious pebble into the house and left it on the mantel, then went on his way and forgot all about it.

A few days after that, this same old priest who told Al Hafed how diamonds were made, came in to visit his successor, when he saw that flash of light from the mantel. He rushed up and said, “Here is a diamond—here is a diamond! Has Al Hafed returned?” “No, no; Al Hafed has not returned and that is not a diamond; that is nothing but a stone; we found it right out here in our garden.” “But I know a diamond when I see it,” said he; “that is a diamond!”

Then together they rushed to the garden and stirred up the white sands with their fingers and found others more beautiful, more valuable diamonds than the first, and thus, said the guide to me, were discovered the diamond mines of Golconda, the most magnificent diamond mines in all the history of mankind, exceeding the Kimberley in its value. The great Kohinoor diamond in England’s crown jewels and the largest crown diamond on earth in Russia’s crown jewels, which I had often hoped she would have to sell before they had peace with Japan, came from that mine, and when the old guide had called my attention to that wonderful discovery he took his Turkish cap off his head again and swung it around in the air to call my attention to the moral.

Those Arab guides have a moral to each story, though the stories are not always moral. He said had Al Hafed remained at home and dug in his own cellar or in his own garden, instead of wretchedness, starvation, poverty and death—a strange land, he would have had “acres of diamonds”—for every acre, yes, every shovelful of that old farm afterwards revealed the gems which since have decorated the crowns of monarchs. When he had given the moral to his story, I saw why he had reserved this story for his “particular friends.” I didn’t tell him I could see it; I was not going to tell that old Arab that I could see it. For it was that mean old Arab’s way of going around such a thing, like a lawyer, and saying indirectly what he did not dare say directly, that there was a certain young man that day traveling down the Tigris River that might better be at home in America. I didn’t tell him I could see it.

I told him his story reminded me of one, and I told it to him quick. I told him about that man out in California, who, in 1847, owned a ranch out there. He read that gold had been discovered in Southern California, and he sold his ranch to Colonel Sutter and started off to hunt for gold. Colonel Sutter put a mill on the little stream in that farm and one day his little girl brought some wet sand from the raceway of the mill into the house and placed it before the fire to dry, and as that sand was falling through the little girl’s fingers a visitor saw the first shining scales of real gold that were ever discovered in California; and the man who wanted the gold had sold his ranch and gone away, never to return.

I delivered this lecture two years ago in California, in the city that stands near that farm, and they told me that the mine is not exhausted yet, and that a one-third owner of that farm has been getting during these recent years twenty dollars of gold every fifteen minutes of his life, sleeping or waking. Why, you and I would enjoy an income like that!

But the best illustration that I have now of this thought was found here in Pennsylvania. There was a man living in Pennsylvania who owned a farm here and he did what I should do if I had a farm in Pennsylvania—he sold it. But before he sold it he concluded to secure employment collecting coal oil for his cousin in Canada. They first discovered coal oil there. So this farmer in Pennsylvania decided that he would apply for a position with his cousin in Canada. Now, you see, the farmer was not altogether a foolish man. He did not leave his farm until he had something else to do.

Of all the simpletons the stars shine on there is none more foolish than a man who leaves one job before he has obtained another. And that has especial reference to gentlemen of my profession, and has no reference to a man seeking a porce. So I say this old farmer did not leave one job until he had obtained another. He wrote to Canada, but his cousin replied that he could not engage him because he did not know anything about the oil business. “Well, then,” said he, “I will understand it.” So he set himself at the study of the whole subject. He began at the second day of the creation, he studied the subject from the primitive vegetation to the coal oil stage, until he knew all about it. Then he wrote to his cousin and said, “Now I understand the oil business.” And his cousin replied to him, “All right, then, come on.”

That man, by the record of the country, sold his farm for eight hundred and thirty-three dollars—even money, “no cents.” He had scarcely gone from that farm before the man who purchased it went out to arrange for watering the cattle and he found that the previous owner had arranged the matter very nicely. There is a stream running down the hillside there, and the previous owner had gone out and put a plank across that stream at an angle, extending across the brook and down edgewise a few inches under the surface of the water. The purpose of the plank across that brook was to throw over to the other bank a dreadful-looking scum through which the cattle would not put their noses to drink above the plank, although they would drink the water on one side below it.

Thus that man who had gone to Canada had been himself damming back for twenty-three years a flow of coal oil which the State Geologist of Pennsylvania declared officially, as early as 1870, was then worth to our state a hundred millions of dollars. The city of Titusville now stands on that farm and those Pleasantville wells flow on, and that farmer who had studied all about the formation of oil since the second day of God’s creation clear down to the present time, sold that farm for $833, no cents—again I say, “no sense.”

But I need another illustration, and I found that in Massachusetts, and I am sorry I did, because that is my old state. This young man I mention went out of the state to study—went down to Yale College and studied mines and mining. They paid him fifteen dollars a week during his last year for training students who were behind their classes in mineralogy, out of hours, of course, while pursuing his own studies. But when he graduated they raised his pay from fifteen dollars to forty-five dollars and offered him a professorship. Then he went straight home to his mother and said, “Mother, I won’t work for forty-five dollars a week. What is forty-five dollars a week for a man with a brain like mine! Mother, let’s go out to California and stake out gold claims and be immensely rich.” “Now,” said his mother, “it is just as well to be happy as it is to be rich.”

But as he was the only son he had his way—they always do; and they sold out in Massachusetts and went to Wisconsin, where he went into the employ of the Superior Copper Mining Company, and he was lost from sight in the employ of that company at fifteen dollars a week again. He was also to have an interest in any mines that he should discover for that company. But I do not believe that he has ever discovered a mine—I do not know anything about it, but I do not believe he has. I know he had scarcely gone from the old homestead before the farmer who had bought the homestead went out to dig potatoes, and he was bringing them in a large basket through the front gateway, the ends of the stone wall came so near together at the gate that the basket hugged very tight. So he set the basket on the ground and pulled, first on one side and then on the other side.

Our farms in Massachusetts are mostly stone walls, and the farmers have to be economical with their gateways in order to have some place to put the stones. That basket hugged so tight there that as he was hauling it through he noticed in the upper stone next the gate a block of native silver, eight inches square; and this professor of mines and mining and mineralogy, who would not work for forty-five dollars a week, when he sold that homestead in Massachusetts, sat right on that stone to make the bargain. He was brought up there; he had gone back and forth by that piece of silver, rubbed it with his sleeve, and it seemed to say, “Come now, now, now, here is a hundred thousand dollars. Why not take me? ” But he would not take it. There was no silver in Newburyport; it was all away off—well, I don’t know where; he didn’t, but somewhere else—and he was a professor of mineralogy.

I do not know of anything I would enjoy better than to take the whole time tonight telling of blunders like that I have heard professors make. Yet I wish I knew what that man is doing out there in Wisconsin. I can imagine him out there, as he sits by his fireside, and he is saying to his friends. “Do you know that man Conwell that lives in Philadelphia?” “Oh, yes, I have heard of him.” “And do you know that man Jones that lives in that city?” “Yes, I have heard of him.” And then he begins to laugh and laugh and says to his friends, “They have done the same thing I did, precisely.” And that spoils the whole joke, because you and I have done it.

Ninety out of every hundred people here have made that mistake this very day. I say you ought to be rich; you have no right to be poor. To live in Philadelphia and not be rich is a misfortune, and it is doubly a misfortune, because you could have been rich just as well as be poor. Philadelphia furnishes so many opportunities. You ought to be rich. But persons with certain religious prejudice will ask, “How can you spend your time advising the rising generation to give their time to getting money—dollars and cents—the commercial spirit?”

Yet I must say that you ought to spend time getting rich. You and I know there are some things more valuable than money; of course, we do. Ah, yes! By a heart made unspeakably sad by a grave on which the autumn leaves now fall, I know there are some things higher and grander and sublimer than money. Well does the man know, who has suffered, that there are some things sweeter and holier and more sacred than gold. Nevertheless, the man of common sense also knows that there is not any one of those things that is not greatly enhanced by the use of money. Money is power.

Love is the grandest thing on God’s earth, but fortunate the lover who has plenty of money. Money is power: money has powers; and for a man to say, “I do not want money,” is to say, “I do not wish to do any good to my fellowmen.” It is absurd thus to talk. It is absurd to disconnect them. This is a wonderfully great life, and you ought to spend your time getting money, because of the power there is in money. And yet this religious prejudice is so great that some people think it is a great honor to be one of God’s poor. I am looking in the faces of people who think just that way.

I heard a man once say in a prayer-meeting that he was thankful that he was one of God’s poor, and then I silently wondered what his wife would say to that speech, as she took in washing to support the man while he sat and smoked on the veranda. I don’t want to see any more of that kind of God’s poor. Now, when a man could have been rich just as well, and he is now weak because he is poor, he has done some great wrong; he has been untruthful to himself; he has been unkind to his fellowmen. We ought to get rich if we can by honorable and Christian methods, and these are the only methods that sweep us quickly toward the goal of riches.

I remember, not many years ago, a young theological student who came into my office and said to me that he thought it was his duty to come in and “labor with me.” I asked him what had happened, and he said: “I feel it is my duty to come in and speak to you, sir, and say that the Holy Scriptures declare that money is the root of all evil.” I asked him where he found that saying, and he said he found it in the Bible. I asked him whether he had made a new Bible, and he said, no, he had not gotten a new Bible, that it was in the old Bible. “Well,” I said, “if it is in my Bible, I never saw it. Will you please get the textbook and let me see it?”

He left the room and soon came stalking in with his Bible open, with all the bigoted pride of the narrow sectarian, who founds his creed on some misinterpretation of Scripture, and he puts the Bible down on the table before me and fairly squealed into my ear, “There it is. You can read it for yourself.” I said to him, “Young man, you will learn, when you get a little older, that you cannot trust another denomination to read the Bible for you.” I said, “Now, you belong to another denomination. Please read it to me, and remember that you are taught in a school where emphasis is exegesis.” So he took the Bible and read it: “The love of money is the root of all evil.” Then he had it right.

The Great Book has come back into the esteem and love of the people, and into the respect of the greatest minds of earth, and now you can quote it and rest your life and your death on it without more fear. So, when he quoted right from the Scriptures he quoted the truth. “The love of money is the root of all evil.” Oh, that is it. It is the worship of the means instead of the end. Though you cannot reach the end without the means. When a man makes an idol of the money instead of the purposes for which it may be used, when he squeezes the dollar until the eagle squeals, then it is made the root of all evil. Think, if you only had the money, what you could do for your wife, your child, and for your home and your city. Think how soon you could endow the Temple College yonder if you only had the money and the disposition to give it; and yet, my friend, people say you and I should not spend the time getting rich. How inconsistent the whole thing is. We ought to be rich, because money has power.

I think the best thing for me to do is to illustrate this, for if I say you ought to get rich, I ought, at least, to suggest how it is done. We get a prejudice against rich men because of the lies that are told about them. The lies that are told about Mr. Rockefeller because he has two hundred million dollars—so many believe them; yet how false is the representation of that man to the world. How little we can tell what is true nowadays when newspapers try to sell their papers entirely on some sensation! The way they lie about the rich men is something terrible, and I do not know that there is anything to illustrate this better than what the newspapers now say about the city of Philadelphia.

A young man came to me the other day and said, “If Mr. Rockefeller, as you think, is a good man, why is it that everybody says so much against him?” It is because he has gotten ahead of us; that is the whole of it—just gotten ahead of us. Why is it Mr. Carnegie is criticized so sharply by an envious world! Because he has gotten more than we have. If a man knows more than I know, don’t I incline to criticize somewhat his learning? Let a man stand in a pulpit and preach to thousands, and if I have fifteen people in my church, and they’re all asleep, don’t I criticize him? We always do that to the man who gets ahead of us. Why, the man you are criticizing has one hundred millions, and you have fifty cents, and both of you have just what you are worth.

One of the richest men in this country came into my home and sat down in my parlor and said: “Did you see all those lies about my family in the papers?” “Certainly I did; I knew they were lies when I saw them.” “Why do they lie about me the way they do?” “Well,” I said to him, “if you will give me your check for one hundred millions, I will take all the lies along with it.” “Well,” said he, “I don’t see any sense in their thus talking about my family and myself. Conwell, tell me frankly, what do you think the American people think of me?” “Well,” said I, “they think you are the blackest hearted villain that ever trod the soil!” “But what can I do about it?” There is nothing he can do about it, and yet he is one of the sweetest Christian men I ever knew. If you get a hundred millions you will have the lies; you will be lied about, and you can judge your success in any line by the lies that are told about you. I say that you ought to be rich.

But there are ever coming to me young men who say, “I would like to go into business, but I cannot.” “Why not?” “Because I have no capital to begin on.” Capital, capital to begin on! What! young man! Living in Philadelphia and looking at this wealthy generation, all of whom began as poor boys, and you want capital to begin on? It is fortunate for you that you have no capital. I am glad you have no money. I pity a rich man’s son. A rich man’s son in these days of ours occupies a very difficult position. They are to be pitied. A rich man’s son cannot know the very best things in human life. He cannot. The statistics of Massachusetts show us that not one out of seventeen rich men’s sons ever die rich. They are raised in luxury, they die in poverty. Even if a rich man’s son retains his father’s money, even then he cannot know the best things of life.

A young man in our college yonder asked me to formulate for him what I thought was the happiest hour in a man’s history, and I studied it long and came back convinced that the happiest hour that any man ever sees in any earthly matter is when a young man takes his bride over the threshold of the door, for the first time, of the house he himself has earned and built, when he turns to his bride and with an eloquence greater than any language of mine, he sayeth to his wife, “My loved one, I earned this home myself; I earned it all. It is all mine, and I pide it with thee.” That is the grandest moment a human heart may ever see. But a rich man’s son cannot know that. He goes into a finer mansion, it may be, but he is obliged to go through the house and say, “Mother gave me this, mother gave me that, my mother gave me that, my mother gave me that,” until his wife wishes she had married his mother.

Oh, I pity a rich man’s son. I do. Until he gets so far along in his dudeism that he gets his arms up like that and can’t get them down. Didn’t you ever see any of them astray at Atlantic City? I saw one of these scarecrows once and I never tire thinking about it. I was at Niagara Falls lecturing, and after the lecture I went to the hotel, and when I went up to the desk there stood there a millionaire’s son from New York. He was an indescribable specimen of anthropologic potency. He carried a goldheaded cane under his arm—more in its head than he had in his. I do not believe I could describe the young man if I should try. But still I must say that he wore an eye-glass he could not see through; patent leather shoes he could not walk in, and pants he could not sit down in—dressed like a grasshopper!

Well, this human cricket came up to the clerk’s desk just as I came in. He adjusted his unseeing eye-glass in this wise and lisped to the clerk, because it’s “Hinglish, you know,” to lisp: “Thir, thir, will you have the kindness to fuhnish me with thome papah and thome envelopehs!” The clerk measured that man quick, and he pulled out a drawer and took some envelopes and paper and cast them across the counter and turned away to his books.

You should have seen that specimen of humanity when the paper and envelopes came across the counter—he whose wants had always been anticipated by servants. He adjusted his unseeing eye-glass and he yelled after that clerk: “Come back here, thir, come right back here. Now, thir, will you order a thervant to take that papah and thothe envelopehs and carry them to yondah dethk.” Oh, the poor, miserable, contemptible American monkey! He couldn’t carry paper and envelopes twenty feet. I suppose he could not get his arms down. I have no pity for such travesties of human nature. If you have no capital, I am glad of it. You don’t need capital; you need common sense, not copper cents.

A. T. Stewart, the great princely merchant of New York, the richest man in America in his time, was a poor boy; he had a dollar and a half and went into the mercantile business. But he lost eighty-seven and a half cents of his first dollar and a half because he bought some needles and thread and buttons to sell, which people didn’t want.

Are you poor? It is because you are not wanted and are left on your own hands. There was the great lesson. Apply it whichever way you will it comes to every single person’s life, young or old. He did not know what people needed, and consequently bought something they didn’t want, and had the goods left on his hands a dead loss. A. T. Stewart learned there the great lesson of his mercantile life and said “I will never buy anything more until I first learn what the people want; then I’ll make the purchase.” He went around to the doors and asked them what they did want, and when he found out what they wanted, he invested his sixty-two and a half cents and began to supply a “known demand.” I care not what your profession or occupation in life may be; I care not whether you are a lawyer, a doctor, a housekeeper, teacher or whatever else, the principle is precisely the same. We must know what the world needs first and then invest ourselves to supply that need, and success is almost certain.

A. T. Stewart went on until he was worth forty millions. “Well,” you will say, “a man can do that in New York, but cannot do it here in Philadelphia.” The statistics very carefully gathered in New York in 1889 showed one hundred and seven millionaires in the city worth over ten millions apiece. It was remarkable and people think they must go there to get rich. Out of that one hundred and seven millionaires only seven of them made their money in New York, and the others moved to New York after their fortunes were made, and sixty-seven out of the remaining hundred made their fortunes in towns of less than six thousand people, and the richest man in the country at that time lived in a town of thirty-five hundred inhabitants, and always lived there and never moved away. It is not so much where you are as what you are. But at the same time if the largeness of the city comes into the problem, then remember it is the smaller city that furnishes the great opportunity to make the millions of money.

The best illustration that I can give is in reference to John Jacob Astor, who was a poor boy and who made all the money of the Astor family. He made more than his successors have ever earned, and yet he once held a mortgage on a millinery store in New York, and because the people could not make enough money to pay the interest and the rent, he foreclosed the mortgage and took possession of the store and went into partnership with the man who had failed. He kept the same stock, did not give them a dollar of capital, and he left them alone and he went out and sat down upon a bench in the park.

Out there on that bench in the park he had the most important, and, to my mind, the pleasantest part of that partnership business. He was watching the ladies as they went by; and where is the man that wouldn’t get rich at that business? But when John Jacob Astor saw a lady pass, with her shoulders back and her head up, as if she did not care if the whole world looked on her, he studied her bonnet; and before that bonnet was out of sight he knew the shape of the frame and the color of the trimmings, the curl of the—something on a bonnet. Sometimes I try to describe a woman’s bonnet, but it is of little use, for it would be out of style tomorrow night.

So John Jacob Astor went to the store and said: “Now, put in the show window just such a bonnet as I describe to you because,” said he, “I have just seen a lady who likes just such a bonnet. Do not make up any more till I come back.” And he went out again and sat on that bench in the park, and another lady of a different form and complexion passed him with a bonnet of different shape and color, of course. “Now,” said he, “put such a bonnet as that in the show window.”

He didn’t fill his show window with hats and bonnets which drive people away and then sit in the back of the store and bawl because the people go somewhere else to trade. He didn’t put a hat or bonnet in that show window the like of which he had not seen before it was made up.

In our city especially, there are great opportunities for manufacturing, and the time has come when the line is drawn very sharply between the stockholders of the factory and their employees. Now, friends, there has also come a discouraging gloom upon this country and the laboring men are beginning to feel that they are being held down by a crust over their heads through which they find it impossible to break, and the aristocratic moneyowner-himself is so far above that he will never descend to their assistance. That is the thought that is in the minds of our people. But, friends, never in the history of our country was there an opportunity so great for the poor man to get rich as there is now and in the city of Philadelphia. The very fact that they get discouraged is what prevents them from getting rich. That is all there is to it. The road is open, and let us keep it open between the poor and the rich.

I know that the labor unions have two great problems to contend with, and there is only one way to solve them. The labor unions are doing as much to prevent its solving as are capitalists today, and there are positively two sides to it. The labor union has two difficulties; the first one is that it began to make a labor scale for all classes on a par, and they scale down a man that can earn five dollars a day to two and a half a day, in order to level up to him an imbecile that cannot earn fifty cents a day. That is one of the most dangerous and discouraging things for the working man. He cannot get the results of his work if he do better work or higher work or work longer; that is a dangerous thing, and in order to get every laboring man free and every American equal to every other American, let the laboring man ask what he is worth and get it—not let any capitalist say to him: “You shall work for me for half of what you are worth”; nor let any labor organization say: “You shall work for the capitalist for half your worth.”

Be a man, be independent, and then shall the laboring man find the road ever open from poverty to wealth.

The other difficulty that the labor union has to consider, and this problem they have to solve themselves, is the kind of orators who come and talk to them about the oppressive rich. I can in my dreams recite the oration I have heard again and again under such circumstances. My life has been with the laboring man. I am a laboring man myself. I have often, in their assemblies, heard the speech of the man who has been invited to address the labor union. The man gets up before the assembled company of honest laboring men and he begins by saying: “Oh, ye honest, industrious laboring men, who have furnished all the capital of the world, who have built all the palaces and constructed all the railroads and covered the ocean with her steamships. Oh, you laboring men! You are nothing but slaves; you are ground down in the dust by the capitalist who is gloating over you as he enjoys his beautiful estates and as he has his banks filled with gold, and every dollar he owns is coined out of the heart’s blood of the honest laboring man.” Now, that is a lie, and you know it is a lie; and yet that is the kind of speech that they are hearing all the time, representing the capitalists as wicked and the laboring man so enslaved.

Why, how wrong it is! Let the man who loves his flag and believes in American principles endeavor with all his soul to bring the capitalists and the laboring man together until they stand side by side, and arm in arm, and work for the common good of humanity.

He is an enemy to his country who sets capital against labor or labor against capital.

Suppose I were to go down through this audience and ask you to introduce me to the great inventors who live here in Philadelphia. “The inventors of Philadelphia,” you would say, “why, we don’t have any in Philadelphia. It is too slow to invent anything.” But you do have just as great inventors, and they are here in this audience, as ever invented a machine. But the probability is that the greatest inventor to benefit the world with his discovery is some person, perhaps some lady, who thinks she could not invent anything.

Did you ever study the history of invention and see how strange it was that the man who made the greatest discovery did it without any previous idea that he was an inventor? Who are the great inventors? They are persons with plain, straightforward common sense, who saw a need in the world and immediately applied themselves to supply that need. If you want to invent anything, don’t try to find it in the wheels in your head nor the wheels in your machine, but first find out what the people need, and then apply yourself to that need, and this leads to invention on the part of people you would not dream of before. The great inventors are simply great men; the greater the man the more simple the man; and the more simple a machine, the more valuable it is.

Did you ever know a really great man? His ways are so simple, so common, so plain, that you think any one could do what he is doing. So it is with the great men the world over. If you know a really great man, a neighbor of yours, you can go right up to him and say, “How are you, Jim, good morning, Sam.” Of course you can, for they are always so simple.

When I wrote the life of General Garfield, one of his neighbors took me to his back door, and shouted, “Jim, Jim, Jim!” and very soon “Jim” came to the door and General Garfield let me in—one of the grandest men of our century. The great men of the world are ever so. I was down in Virginia and went up to an educational institution and was directed to a man who was setting out a tree. I approached him and said, “Do you think it would be possible for me to see General Robert E. Lee, the President of the University?” He said, “Sir, I am General Lee.” Of course, when you meet such a man, so noble a man as that, you will find him a simple, plain man. Greatness is always just so modest and great inventions are simple.

I asked a class in school once who were the great inventors, and a little girl popped up and said, “Columbus.” Well, now, she was not so far wrong. Columbus bought a farm and he carried on that farm just as I carried on my father’s farm. He took a hoe and went out and sat down on a rock. But Columbus, as he sat upon that shore and looked out upon the ocean, noticed that the ships, as they sailed away, sank deeper into the sea the farther they went. And since that time some other “Spanish ships” have sunk into the sea. But as Columbus noticed that the tops of the masts dropped down out of sight, he said: “That is the way it is with this hoe handle; if you go around this hoe handle, the farther off you go the farther down you go. I can sail around to the East Indies.” How plain it all was. How simple the mind—majestic like the simplicity of a mountain in its greatness. Who are the great inventors? They are ever the simple, plain, everyday people who see the need and set about to supply it.

I was once lecturing in North Carolina, and the cashier of the bank sat directly behind a lady who wore a very large hat. I said to that audience, “Your wealth is too near to you; you are looking right over it.” He whispered to his friend, “Well, then, my wealth is in that hat.” A little later, as he wrote me, I said, “Wherever there is a human need there is a greater fortune than a mine can furnish.” He caught my thought, and he drew up his plan for a better hat pin than was in the hat before him and the pin is now being manufactured. He was offered fifty-two thousand dollars for his patent. That man made his fortune before he got out of that hall. This is the whole question: Do you see a need?”

I remember well a man up in my native hills, a poor man, who for twenty years was helped by the town in his poverty, who owned a widespreading maple tree that covered the poor man’s cottage like a benediction from on high. I remember that tree, for in the spring—there were some roguish boys around that neighborhood when I was young—in the spring of the year the man would put a bucket there and the spouts to catch the maple sap, and I remember where that bucket was; and when I was young the boys were, oh, so mean, that they went to that tree before that man had gotten out of bed in the morning, and after he had gone to bed at night, and drank up that sweet sap, I could swear they did it.

He didn’t make a great deal of maple sugar from that tree. But one day he made the sugar so white and crystalline that the visitor did not believe it was maple sugar; thought maple sugar must be red or black. He said to the old man: “Why don’t you make it that way and sell it for confectionery?” The old man caught his thought and invented the “rock maple crystal,” and before that patent expired he had ninety thousand dollars and had built a beautiful palace on the site of that tree. After forty years owning that tree he awoke to find it had fortunes of money indeed in it. And many of us are right by the tree that has a fortune for us, and we own it, possess it, do what we will with it, but we do not learn its value because we do not see the human need, and in these discoveries and inventions that is one of the most romantic things of life. I have received letters from all over the country and from England, where I have lectured, saying that they have discovered this and that, and one man out in Ohio took me through his great factories last spring, and said that they cost him $680,000, and, said he, “I was not worth a cent in the world when I heard your lecture ‘Acres of Diamonds’; but I made up my mind to stop right here and make my fortune here, and here it is.” He showed me through his unmortgaged possessions. And this is a continual experience now as I travel through the country, after these many years. I mention this incident, not to boast, but to show you that you can do the same if you will.

Who are the great inventors? I remember a good illustration in a man who used to live in East Brookfield, Mass. He was a shoemaker, and he was out of work and he sat around the house until his wife told him “to go out doors.” And he did what every husband is compelled by law to do—he obeyed his wife. And he went out and sat down on an ash barrel in his back yard. Think of it! Stranded on an ash barrel and the enemy in possession of the house! As he sat on that ash barrel, he looked down into that little brook which ran through that back yard into the meadows, and he saw a little trout go flashing up the stream and hiding under the bank. I do not suppose he thought of Tennyson’s beautiful poem:

“Chatter, chatter as I flow,

To join the brimming river,

Men may come, and men

may go, But I go on forever.”

But as this man looked into the brook, he leaped off that ash barrel and managed to catch the trout with his fingers, and sent it to Worcester. They wrote back that they would give a five dollar bill for another such trout as that, not that it was worth that much, but they wished to help the poor man. So this shoemaker and his wife, now perfectly united, that five dollar bill in prospect, went out to get another trout. They went up the stream to its source and down to the brimming river, but not another trout could they find in the whole stream; and so they came home disconsolate and went to the minister. The minister didn’t know how trout grew, but he pointed the way. Said he, “Get Seth Green’s book, and that will give you the information you want.”

They did so, and found all about the culture of trout. They found that a trout lays thirty-six hundred eggs every year and every trout gains a quarter of a pound every year, so that in four years a little trout will furnish four tons per annum to sell to the market at fifty cents a pound. When they found that, they said they didn’t believe any such story as that, but if they could get five dollars apiece they could make something. And right in that same back yard with the coal sifter up stream and window screen down the stream, they began the culture of trout. They afterwards moved to the Hudson, and since then he has become the authority in the United States upon the raising of fish, and he has been next to the highest on the United States Fish Commission in Washington. My lesson is that man’s wealth was out here in his back yard for twenty years, but he didn’t see it until his wife drove him out with a mop stick.

I remember meeting personally a poor carpenter of Hingham, Massachusetts, who was out of work and in poverty. His wife also drove him out of doors. He sat down on the shore and whittled a soaked shingle into a wooden chain. His children quarreled over it in the evening, and while he was whittling a second one, a neighbor came along and said, “Why don’t you whittle toys if you can carve like that?” He said, “I don’t know what to make!”

There is the whole thing. His neighbor said to him: “Why don’t you ask your own children?” Said he, “What is the use of doing that? My children are different from other people’s children.” I used to see people like that when I taught school. The next morning when his boy came down the stairway, he said, “Sam, what do you want for a toy?” “I want a wheelbarrow.” When his little girl came down, he asked her what she wanted, and she said, “I want a little doll’s wash-stand, a little doll’s carriage, a little doll’s umbrella,” and went on with a whole lot of things that would have taken his lifetime to supply. He consulted his own children right there in his own house and began to whittle out toys to please them.

He began with his jack-knife, and made those unpainted Hingham toys. He is the richest man in the entire New England States, if Mr. Lawson is to be trusted in his statement concerning such things, and yet that man’s fortune was made by consulting his own children in his own house. You don’t need to go out of your own house to find out what to invent or what to make. I always talk too long on this subject. I would like to meet the great men who are here tonight. The great men! We don’t have any great men in Philadelphia. Great men! You say that they all come from London, or San Francisco, or Rome, or Manayunk, or anywhere else but there—anywhere else but Philadelphia—and yet, in fact, there are just as great men in Philadelphia as in any city of its size. There are great men and women in this audience.

Great men, I have said, are very simple men. Just as many great men here as are to be found anywhere. The greatest error in judging great men is that we think that they always hold an office. The world knows nothing of its greatest men. Who are the great men of the world? The young man and young woman may well ask the question. It is not necessary that they should hold an office, and yet that is the popular idea. That is the idea we teach now in our high schools and common schools, that the great men of the world are those who hold some high office, and unless we change that very soon and do away with that prejudice, we are going to change to an empire. There is no question about it. We must teach that men are great only on their intrinsic value, and not on the position they may incidentally happen to occupy. And yet, don’t blame the young men saying that they are going to be great when they get into some official position.

I ask this audience again who of you are going to be great? Says a young man: “I am going to be great.” “When are you going to be great?” “When I am elected to some political office.” Won’t you learn the lesson, young man; that it is prima facie evidence of littleness to hold public office under our form of government? Think of it. This is a government of the people, and by the people, and for the people, and not for the officeholder, and if the people in this country rule as they always should rule, an officeholder is only the servant of the people, and the Bible says that “the servant cannot be greater than his master.”

The Bible says that “he that is sent cannot be greater than he who sent him.” In this country the people are the masters, and the officeholders can never be greater than the people; they should be honest servants of the people, but they are not our greatest men. Young man, remember that you never heard of a great man holding any political office in this country unless he took that office at an expense to himself. It is a loss to every great man to take a public office in our country. Bear this in mind, young man, that you cannot be made great by a political election.

Another young man says, “I am going to be a great man in Philadelphia some time.” “Is that so? When are you going to be great?” “When there comes another war! When we get into difficulty with Mexico, or England, or Russia, or Japan, or with Spain again over Cuba, or with New Jersey, I will march up to the cannon’s mouth, and amid the glistening bayonets I will tear down their flag from its staff, and I will come home with stars on my shoulders, and hold every office in the gift of the government, and I will be great.” “No, you won’t! No, you won’t; that is no evidence of true greatness, young man.” But don’t blame that young man for thinking that way; that is the way he is taught in the high school. That is the way history is taught in college. He is taught that the men who held the office did all the fighting.

I remember we had a Peace Jubilee here in Philadelphia soon after the Spanish War. Perhaps some of these visitors think we should not have had it until now in Philadelphia, and as the great procession was going up Broad Street I was told that the tally-ho coach stopped right in front of my house, and on the coach was Hobson, and all the people threw up their hats and swung their handkerchiefs, and shouted “Hurrah for Hobson!” I would have yelled too, because he deserves much more of his country that he has ever received. But suppose I go into the high school tomorrow and ask, “Boys, who sunk the Merrimac?” If they answer me “Hobson,” they tell me seven-eighths of a lie—seven- eighths of a lie, because there were eight men who sunk the Merrimac. The other seven men, by virtue of their position, were continually exposed to the Spanish fire while Hobson, as an officer, might reasonably be behind the smoke-stack.

Why, my friends, in this intelligent audience gathered here tonight I do not believe I could find a single person that can name the other seven men who were with Hobson. Why do we teach history in that way? We ought to teach that however humble the station a man may occupy, if he does his full duty in his place, he is just as much entitled to the American people’s honor as is a king upon a throne. We do teach it as a mother did her little boy in New York when he said, “Mamma, what great building is that?” “That is General Grant’s tomb.” “Who was General Grant?” “He was the man who put down the rebellion.” Is that the way to teach history?

Do you think we would have gained a victory if it had depended on General Grant alone. Oh, no. Then why is there a tomb on the Hudson at all? Why, not simply because General Grant was personally a great man himself, but that tomb is there because he was a representative man and represented two hundred thousand men who went down to death for this nation and many of them as great as General Grant. That is why that beautiful tomb stands on the heights over the Hudson.

I remember an incident that will illustrate this, the only one that I can give tonight. I am ashamed of it, but I don’t dare leave it out. I close my eyes now; I look back through the years to 1863; I can see my native town in the Berkshire Hills, I can see that cattle-show ground filled with people; I can see the church there and the town hall crowded, and hear bands playing, and see flags flying and handkerchiefs streaming—well do I recall at this moment that day.

The people had turned out to receive a company of soldiers, and that company came marching up on the Common. They had served out one term in the Civil War and had reenlisted, and they were being received by their native townsmen. I was but a boy, but I was captain of that company, puffed out with pride on that day—why, a cambric needle would have burst me all to pieces.

As I marched on the Common at the head of my company, there was not a man more proud than I. We marched into the town hall and then they seated my soldiers down in the center of the house and I took my place down on the front seat, and then the town officers filed through the great throng of people, who stood close and packed in that little hall. They came up on the platform, formed a half circle around it, and the mayor of the town, the “chairman of the selectmen” in New England, took his seat in the middle of that half circle.

He was an old man, his hair was gray; he never held an office before in his life. He thought that an office was all he needed to be a truly great man, and when he came up he adjusted his powerful spectacles and glanced calmly around the audience with amazing dignity. Suddenly his eyes fell upon me, and then the good old man came right forward and invited me to come up on the stand with the town officers. Invited me up on the stand! No town officer ever took notice of me before I went to war. Now, I should not say that. One town officer was there who advised the teachers to “whale” me, but I mean no “honorable mention.”

So I was invited up on the stand with the town officers. I took my seat and let my sword fall on the floor, and folded my arms across my breast and waited to be received. Napoleon the Fifth! Pride goeth before destruction and a fall. When I had gotten my seat and all became silent through the hall, the chairman of the selectmen arose and came forward with great dignity to the table, and we all supposed he would introduce the Congregational minister, who was the only orator in the town, and who would give the oration to the returning soldiers.

But, friends, you should have seen the surprise that ran over that audience when they discovered that this old farmer was going to deliver that oration himself. He had never made a speech in his life before, but he fell into the same error that others have fallen into, he seemed to think that the office would make him an orator. So he had written out a speech and walked up and down the pasture until he had learned it by heart and frightened the cattle, and he brought that manuscript with him, and, taking it from his pocket, he spread it carefully upon the table. Then he adjusted his spectacles to be sure that he might see it, and walked far back on the platform and then stepped forward like this. He must have studied the subject much, for he assumed an elocutionary attitude; he rested heavily upon his left heel, slightly advanced the right foot, threw back his shoulders, opened the organs of speech, and advanced his right hand at an angle of forty-five.

As he stood in this elocutionary attitude this is just the way that speech went, this is it precisely. Some of my friends have asked me if I do not exaggerate it, but I could not exaggerate it. Impossible! This is the way it went; although I am not here for the story but the lesson that is back of it:

“Fellow citizens.” As soon as he heard his voice, his hand began to shake like that, his knees began to tremble, and then he shook all over. He coughed and choked and finally came around to look at his manuscript. Then he began again: “Fellow citizens: We—are—we are—we are—we are—We are very happy—we are very happy—we are very happy—to welcome back to their native town these soldiers who have fought and bled—and come back again to their native town. We are especially—we are especially—we are especially—we are especially pleased to see with us today this young hero (that meant me~this young hero who in imagination (friends, remember, he said ‘imagination,’ for if he had not said that, I would not be egotistical enough to refer to it) this young hero who, in imagination, we have seen leading his troops—leading—we have seen leading—we have seen leading his troops on to the deadly breach. We have seen his shining—his shining—we have seen his shining—we have seen his shining—his shining sword—flashing in the sunlight as he shouted to his troops, ‘Come on!”‘

Oh dear, dear, dear, dear! How little that good, old man knew about war. If he had known anything about war, he ought to have known what any soldier in this audience knows is true, that it is next to a crime for an officer of infantry ever in time of danger to go ahead of his men. I, with my shining sword flashing in the sunlight, shouting to my troops: “Come on.” I never did it. Do you suppose I would go ahead of my men to be shot in the front by the enemy and in the back by my own men? That is no place for an officer. The place for the officer is behind the private soldier in actual fighting.

How often, as a staff officer, I rode down the line when the rebel cry and yell was coming out of the woods, sweeping along over the fields, and shouted, “Officers to the rear! Officers to the rear!” and then every officer goes behind the line of battle, and the higher the officer rank, the farther behind he goes. Not because he is any the less brave, but because the laws of war require that to be done. If the general came up on the front line and were killed you would lose your battle anyhow, because he has the plan of the battle in his brain, and must be kept in comparative safety.

I, with my “shining sword flashing in the sunlight.” Ah! There sat in the hall that day men who had given that boy their last hardtack, who had carried him on their backs through deep rivers. But some were not there; they had gone down to death for their country. The speaker mentioned them, but they were but little noticed, and yet they had gone down to death for their country, gone down for a cause they believed was right and still believe was right, though I grant to the other side the same that I ask for myself. Yet these men who had actually died for their country were little noticed, and the hero of the hour was this boy.

Why was he the hero? Simply because that man fell into the same foolishness. This boy was an officer, and those were only private soldiers. I learned a lesson that I will never forget. Greatness consists not in holding some office; greatness really consists in doing some great deed with little means, in the accomplishment of vast purposes from the private ranks of life, that is true greatness.

He who can give to this people better streets, better homes, better schools, better churches, more religion, more of happiness, more of God, he that can be a blessing to the community in which he lives tonight will be great anywhere, but he who cannot be a blessing where he now lives will never be great anywhere on the face of God’s earth. “We live in deeds, not years, in feeling, not in figures on a dial; in thoughts, not breaths; we should count time by heart throbs, in the cause of right.” Bailey says: “He most lives who thinks most.”

If you forget everything I have said to you, do not forget this, because it contains more in two lines than all I have said. Bailey says: “He most lives who thinks most, who feels the noblest, and who acts the best.”

What do you think?

#All #Happiness

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mariposakitten · 11 months ago

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Listen, I get it, it absolutely fucking SUCKS that in a two-party, first-past-the-gate system it's almost impossible to hold a politician accountable for their fuck-ups. It SUCKS DONKEY BALLS that they don't have to do anything more than being marginally better than the other guy; that they can betray us and all we stand for, that they can do evil in our name, and still be assured of our vote.

It is wrong. It's unfair. It's a shitty fucking system. I am ANGRY about it, on a bone-deep level; there SHOULD be consequences! If you fuck up as badly as the Democratic Party has fucked up, there should be some fucking repercussions! You shouldn't be allowed to keep on winning when all the people you represent hate what you're doing!

But this is the system that currently exists. This is how it works. Pretending otherwise is burying your head in the sand.

It is deeply naive to pretend that not voting for Biden will do anything, fucking anything, other than putting a Republican in power. Trump, or (more frightening) someone who thinks like Trump but with a braincell. It is deeply naive to think that any of the issues we're angry about would not get 10x worse with a Republican in charge.

And I understand. I'm angry about Palestine. I'm more than angry. There's a video: a little girl, maybe a year or two younger than my daughter, weeping inconsolably because she found the decapitated head of her best friend. I think about that video every fucking day, it is seared into my soul. I don’t believe in hell, but I believe whoever is in charge ought to invent one for every single person who's had a hand in letting this happen. Biden is on that list. There is no forgiveness in my heart for that man. I am so furious I can barely think straight.

Barely.

Because I have to think straight. Because lashing out in pain and grief and anger is not actually going to make things better. Because the cold hard facts are that Trump or his surrogates would be, at best, just as bad for Palestine; more likely, they would be even worse. While also doing more harm to more people, at home and abroad.

Find me a viable alternative, someone who actually has a snowball's chance in hell of winning, and I'd JOYFULLY vote for them. But the key word there is "viable." In our current system, that is... unlikely.

"So change the system!" No shit, Sherlock! Of course we have to change the fucking system! But if it could be done overnight, it would already be done. Anyone wanting to do a complete overhaul of US electoral politics needs to come to terms with the fact that they're playing the VERY LONG game. And in the meantime, the world continues to turn. Elections continue to happen. The outcomes continue to matter. And if there isn't a realistic option that will make things better, you vote for the option that will do less harm. That will ultimately kill fewer people.

Don't talk to me about morals. If your morals say that you have to sacrifice people's lives to keep your own hands clean (which is what, at this point in time, refusing to vote for Biden would IN PRACTICE do), then your morala fucking suck.

sorry but i want to hit every american talking about not wanting to vote democrat anymore with hammers. lol

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thomasgmcelwain · 6 years ago

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Genesis 26

1 There was a famine in the land,

Besides the first that hit the sand

Of Palestine when Abraham

Walked on its soil. It was no scam

That Isaac went to Gerar where

Abimelech was reigning there

King of the Philistines. 2 Then YHWH

Appeared to him and said "Do you

Not go down to Egypt, but live

In the land which I truly give

To you. 3 "Live in this land, and I

Shall be with you and bless you by

Descendants to whom I shall give

All of these lands, a place to live,

And so perform the oath I swore

To Father Abraham before.

4 "And I will multiply your seed

Like stars of heaven, and I indeed

Shall give to your descendants all

These lands, and in your seed all nations

Shall be blessed because in his stations

5 "Abraham heard My voice and call,

Kept My charge, My every command,

My statutes, and My laws on hand."

Your charge, the Decalogue, contains three things:

Commandments telling what to do for kings

And common folk, and statutes telling how

To find forgiveness for the guilty brow,

And finally laws that describe the way

That humans must conceive You to forestay

The errors of philosopher and priest.

Thus wisdom of all things from great to least

Is found in that soon charge known from the time

That Adam stepped out of Edenic clime,

And Noah wandered safely from the ark,

And Enoch whirled apace like morning lark.

So Abraham too kept eternal charge,

Though folk of faith neglect it by and large.

6 So Isaac lived in Gerar. 7 And

The men of the place asked first-hand

About his wife. And he said "She

Is my sister." The reason he

Said so was fear to say, "She is

My wife," because the thought was his,

"Lest the men of the place kill me

For Rebekah, because that she

Is beautiful to look at." 8 Now

It happened, when he had somehow

Been there a while, Abimelech

King of the Philistines on deck

Looked through a window, and he saw,

And there was Isaac, with his paw

Showing endearment to his wife,

Rebekah, secret of his life

And helpmeet. 9 Then Abimelech

Called Isaac to him for a speck

And said "Quite certainly she's your

Wife. So how could you say before,

'She is my sister'?" Isaac said

To him, "I had it in my head

'Lest I die on account of her.'"

10 Abimelech said "My dear sir,

What is this you have done to us?

One of the people might soon thus

Have lain with your wife, and you would

Have brought guilt on us." 11 So for good

Abimelech charged all his folk

And said "Who gives this man a poke

Or touches his wife surely must

Be put to death and bite the dust."

Taqiyya was established, it is true,

Since Abraham was threatened by a few

Egyptian courtiers who thought Sarah fair

And might make fine addition anywhere

The house of women raised a cloistered tower,

And latticed windows shaded tree and flower.

So Isaac too kept up the noble trait

And used it when he entered stranger's gate.

How many since have, without thought of threat,

Lied to no purpose greater than to get

A bit of gold or fame! Let Abraham

And Isaac both correct the anagram.

The law says not to make one's witness false.

True faith's a march and battle, not a waltz.

12 Then Isaac sowed in that land, and

Reaped in the same year at his hand

A hundredfold, and YHWH blessed him.

13 The man began to prosper limb

By limb, and still prospered until

He prospered and he had his fill

14 Of fine possessions both of flocks

And herds and servants in their hocks.

So the Philistines envied him.

15 The Philistines filled to the brim

The wells his father's servants dug

In Abraham's his father's fug,

And they had filled them all with earth.

16 Abimelech said to Isaac,

"Away from us, and go, be quick,

For you are mightier than we."

17 Then Isaac heard their prayer and plea.

Departed from there and pitched tent

In Gerar's valley where he went

To live. 18 And Isaac dug again

The wells of water which the men

Had dug in days of Abraham

His father, for Philistine dam

Had stopped them up after the death

Of Abraham. In the same breath

He called them by the names which were

The ones his father would confer.

19 Also Isaac's servants dug in

The valley, and found well to win

Of running water there. 20 But then

Gerar's herdsmen with Isaac's men

Quarrelled and said "The water's ours"

Since quarrelling was in their powers.

So he called the well Esek, since

They quarrelled but did not convince.

21 Then they dug there another well,

They quarrelled over that a spell.

So he called its name Sitnah. 22 And

He moved from there and out of hand

He dug another well, and they

Did not quarrel for it that day.

So he called it Rehoboth, since

As he had said "We need not wince

For now YHWH has made room for us,

And we'll also be prosperous

In the land." 23 Then he went from there

To Beersheba. 24 And YHWH came where

He was the same night and said "I

Am your father Abraham's God,

Do not fear, I'm with you and I

Will bless you and will multiply

Your descendants upon the sod

For My servant Abraham's sake."

25 So he built an altar to make

A place to call on YHWH's name there,

And there he stopped to pitch his tent.

His servants dug the well they meant.

With neither promise nor a blessing here,

(Is this not faith in You, Beloved, I rear?)

I lay a floor of sacrifice and call

On Your name, though I am a soul too small

To claim a heritage, a well or tent.

You are enough for me in what You meant

By saying You would bless the holy seed.

I follow and hold to that simple creed.

Just bless and multiply the one You will,

As long as I can come and there be still

Upon the sacrificial floor where You

Are present in the whispered word of Huu.

My sowing and my harvest prosper where

Your lovely voice stays trembling on the air.

26 Abimelech came from Gerar

To him with Ahuzzath, a star

One of his friends, and Phichol who

Was commander of his army.

27 And Isaac said to them, "Why do

You come to me, since you hate me

And have sent me away from you?"

28 But they said "We have surely seen

That YHWH is with you. So we mean

To say 'Let there now be an oath

Between you and us, between both,

And let us make a pact with you,

29 'That you will do us no harm too,

Since we have not touched you, and since

We've done nothing to make you wince

But only good and sent you out

In peace. You are without a doubt

The blessed of YHWH.'" 30 So he made them

A feast after their stratagem,

And they ate and drank, 31 then arose

Early that morning so's to close

The deal and swear an oath with each

And one another without breech,

And so they left him then in peace.

32 It happened on the same day that

Isaac's servants came where he's at

To tell him of the well's increase,

How they had dug it and they'd found

The water coming from the ground.

33 So he called it Shebah. Therefore

It's still Beersheba evermore.

Beersheba stands in Negev to this day,

A place where Jew and Arab still hold sway,

And still hope that the promises are true

That Isaac's seed might thrive and yet renew

The peace once sworn to king and flock and well.

The market place continues, where they sell

The needful and the luscious, while the sky

Is like the sky was when Isaac passed by.

I seek beyond the timid oaths of men

That last while spear and arm rattle again

The well, the springing well, that rushed out in

Reward for dusty work and flight from sin.

In You, Beloved, I find that well of life

That once and always ends all human strife.

The second explanation of the name

Of Beersheba now enters in the game.

I guess for some this is the proof and sure

That Scripture is a compilation pure

And outright merely human in its scope.

Two explanations are proof there’s no hope

You speak to any by Your word or less

By mountain thunder or the wind’s caress.

If every day becomes a revelation

Of new blessings and pacts in explanation,

It does not mean that all before has failed.

The wilderness is heavenly city veiled.

Each day renews both veiling and the spark

Of light that penetrates the human dark.

34 When Esau was forty years old,

He took as wives Judith the bold

Daughter of Beeri the Hittite,

And Basemath also Hittite,

The daughter of Elon. 35 And they

Were grief of mind in their own way

To Isaac and Rebekah who

Wished only kinfolk for their due.

#The Beloved and I

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infinitewatchlistt-blog · 7 years ago

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Some Mother’s Failson: AJ Soprano and the Millennial Condition

In upper- and upper-middle class American culture, receiving a new car on your sixteenth birthday is a cherished rite of passage. Countless episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, a seminal work of the early 2000s (known in some online circles as the "McBling" era), feature an eager, bouncing teen rejoicing as her parents hand off the keys to a new convertible or SUV. Mom and Dad grin as they point out all the great safety features of the new car, while daughter or son caress the leather interiors and fantasize about how great the car will look in the parking lot of their school or the background of their MySpace pics. For thousands of teens growing up before the recession, their first car was a material signifier of both adult responsibility and enviable status. Fictional teenager AJ Soprano, from David Chase's masterpiece HBO series, is no exception.

For some participants of "weird Twitter", meme groups, and other obsessive online media-consumption communities, AJ Soprano has become a symbol for the beloved "failson" - a millennial who is pitiable and ironically hilarious for his constant inability to make anything of himself. Though many AJ fans were likely too young to watch The Sopranos when it initially aired, the show's continued popularity and presence on streaming services has led many young people (self included) to revisit the show. Those in the millennial age group - commonly recognized as those born between 1981 and 1997 - are likely to recognize many of the material goods that occupy AJ's adolescence: Mario Kart, metal posters, skate apparel, a personal computer kept in the bedroom (perfect for shirtless message board posting). These are items cherished by those who, unable to fit in with the more socially-adept "cool kids" (ie. those featured on shows like My Super Sweet Sixteen), retreated into a more insular world of teenage angst and video games. But AJ was not just any awkward mid-2000s teenager: he was the son of a wealthy mobster, and thanks to that, he will receive a car.

In the season five episode "All Happy Families", Tony interrupts one of AJ's belabored tutoring sessions to present him with a brand new Nissan Xterra SUV. AJ's face lights up when he sees the car, while his father tells him about "sensors in the seatbelts" and Nissan's "triple-safety philosophy". Though he notes that SUVs are less environmentally friendly, AJ is as pleased as any disaffected teen can be; but his expression changes when Tony tells him that the car will stay in the garage until he can bring his grades up to a "C". It's an attempt on Tony's part to motivate his son, but AJ immediately expresses annoyance at his parents, irritated that the gift has a catch. As in other episodes of the Sopranos, Tony and Carmela attempt to set standards for AJ, but in their materially-obsessed lives, their hopes for his success can only be expressed through expensive goods. By giving AJ a car dependent only on his continued studying and eventual attainment of good grades, Tony provides a physical representation of the gap between AJ's current self and what his parents expect him to be.

It's no wonder, then, that after the car catches fire in the series finale "Made in America", AJ tells his therapist that he feels "cleansed" by watching it explode. On a subconscious level, AJ is able to recognize the chasm of expectation that the car represents. Just moments before the car was destroyed, he was making out with a beautiful young model and listening to Bob Dylan's "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding), claiming to finally "get" Dylan's music. AJ was experiencing a sense of pleasure and accomplishment at having matured in a way that had nothing to do with his parents' vision of his future. Though it was accidental, setting the car on fire was a both a dumb mistake and a youthful "fuck you!", allowing the real AJ to stick it to the imagined one that hangs over each of his failures.

This imagined AJ heavily influenced his family's view of him, but it also had an overpowering effect on how AJ saw himself. Like many teenagers, AJ strived for adulthood, sneaking into clubs, doing drugs, and trying to shrug off his parents at every turn. But AJ didn't completely reject the nuclear family he was born into: the ideal of the strong, mature head of household - someone like AJ's father - led him to pursue Blanca, a young single mother he met at one of Tony's construction sites. Blanca and her three-year-old son Hector were a ready-made family unit, practically an adult male starter pack. When AJ and Blanca start dating, he immediately jumps into the idea of caring and providing for them. Early in the relationship, he attempts to scare off men making noise outside Blanca's apartment because that's what Hector's father used to do. He takes Hector to the Puerto Rican day parade, keeps a baby seat in the back of his Nissan, and invites them to all Sopranos family functions, much to his mother's barely suppressed chagrin. AJ is so enamored with the idea of settling down with Blanca that he proposes to her, presenting a diamond ring of McBling-appropriate bigness. Blanca is unsure, and though AJ tries to convince her by saying that he'll soon be night manager at the pizzeria where he works, she ultimately declines the engagement and breaks off the relationship. This sends AJ into a deep depression, one that culminates in a suicide attempt and hospitalization. Though his father and sister try to give him perspective and insist that he'll recover from the heartbreak, AJ's failure to build a family and achieve this benchmark of male adulthood devastates him. The viewer (and AJ's more mature loved ones) is able to recognize that AJ did not put in the time and effort a nuclear family typically requires. As with the relationship between the SUV and AJ's academic performance, AJ has put the cart before the horse, and thus failed again to meet the standard provided for him.

Cognitive dissonance is the fuel that keeps the Soprano crime family running. Throughout the series, characters are constantly embroiled in petty arguments or obsessed with minor slights while downplaying the violence, death, and destruction that keeps their pockets lined. Though AJ does not participate in his father's "business", he is aware of it, often seeing news reports and internet articles about the mob's crimes. Instead of turning his burgeoning moral consciousness on the Sopranos family's actions, he fixates on other political concerns: the environment, the Israel-Palestine conflict, factory farming. Millennials recognize AJ becoming "woke" and may guiltily relate to the scenes of AJ sitting at the dinner table, claiming the steak his mother cooked with sprayed with pesticides and insisting that his father read the newspaper. AJ is so divorced from the real tragedy in his life that, just weeks after losing his cousin, he snottily tells Tony to "just bury his head in the sand" regarding the injustices of the world. As the privileged son of a well-to-do family, AJ's political concerns are linked more to his youth and his depression than to any real relationship to these struggles - it seems unlikely that he would care so much about the plight of displaced Palestinians if he had a good job and stable relationship.

Thinking that you're the only person who really understands the world is a classic symptom of youth, and AJ is a perfect symbol of perpetual adolescence. Though he's able to spend thousands of dollars on Cristal at the club, his life is largely a monotony of 9:00 AM cartoons, afternoons working at Blockbuster, and “lincoln log sandwiches” prepared by his mother. Robert Iler's round, wide-eyed face always looks thirteen-years-old, even after AJ grows a hideous chinstrap beard. His continued presence in his childhood home and constant in-and-out of academic institutions prevents him - and the viewer - from establishing a clear timeline for his life; in later seasons, I have little sense of how old AJ is from episode to episode. It's difficult to imagine him ever fully extricating himself from the comfortable life that his parents provided for him. Though the viewer sees the ways in which AJ is forced to grow and change, the series suggests that he - like every other character, and like all of us - will always be stuck in the same framework he was raised with. The last scene of AJ's story (diner scene not included) shows him leaving his job at Little Carmine's film company - a gig that his father got for him - in a new BMW M3, driving to pick up his hot model girlfriend. He tells a friend over the phone that, compared to the old SUV, the new car's environmental impact is "not that bad". The girlfriend gets in the car, and they drive off to one of David Chase's pitch-perfect music cues, as the Noisettes sing to "scratch your name into the fabric of this world."

AJ would be 31-years-old in 2017. When his father was that age, he already had a wife and two children. He had a clear career path and a strong foundation for the rest of his life - a foundation built on bodies buried in backyard, but a foundation nonetheless. We cannot know for certain what AJ Soprano’s life is like ten years after the events of the series finale - David Chase, in the handful of post-finale interviews where he isn’t frustratingly coy, hasn’t given indication about where AJ’s life may have lead. The viewer may speculate that, having seen his father die right in front of him, AJ decided to avenge him. It’s possible that he managed to continue his father's legacy as Don, running the Bada Bing stripclub and ruling New Jersey with an iron fist. For this viewer, it's difficult to really imagine sweet, sensitive AJ, the “happy little boy” Carmela remembered him as, the prodigal son whose father tried desperately to steer him away from a life of crime, following in the family tradition. The perpetual adolescent can never truly progress into the realm of adulthood he so long imaged. Here's a more likely scenario: AJ Soprano, 31-years-old, living with roommates, or a live-in girlfriend, piecing together a life working for Little Carmine’s production company, blowing thousands of dollars on today’s fashionable equivalent of Cristal (high-end mezcal? Humboldt County kush?), and still, always, sensing that great chasm, knowing that he can never progress to being the man his father was, or return to the child he used to be.

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the-record-obituaries · 8 years ago

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Feb. 15, 2017: Columns

‘Eat the money stuff...’

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

Some time ago I wrote a piece about children and restaurants, and, for lack of a better way to put it, wasting food.

One part concerned trips I used to take to Myrtle Beach with my children and our favorite eatery called Steer's, where the feature was a 50-foot all you can eat food bar. My admonition to the kids was to stick to the last four feet of the bar where the crab legs and shrimp resided, reminding them in no uncertain terms that I could find Jell-O and macaroni and cheese at home — for far less than $20 a head (and this was years ago).

I would also mention to them how many times my daddy the preacher reminded me to not “...let your eyes get bigger than your stomach” when I was a kid, because I would surely clean my plate before leaving the table.Well, this column must have been read by a lot of folks with kids, because it sure seemed to resonate with many — all with their own story.

Several people saw me out to eat and asked me if I had eaten all the “money stuff” on my plate, a reference to my way of making sure if something got left on the plate, at least it wasn't the steak or shrimp or — well, you get the idea. Another thing that reminded me a bit of myself was told to me by several parents who said they would make it clear to their children they were at the beach with sand and surf, and that the hotel's swimming pool was virtually off limits.

One guy said he told them “There is a swimming pool at the YMCA and the Country Club and several other places at home. No ocean, however.”I always loved any opportunity to play in the sand and hauled enough shovels and hoes to the coast to build a sand castle realtors would envy. As the day wound down, we would all often stand on the balcony and watch the inevitable destruction of our work by the tide, vowing to beat it the next day.In general it was a fun column to write and a fun one to talk about.

I guess my favorite conversation was that Saturday at Woodhaven Restaurant. There is a couple who we see virtually every Saturday morning there, and, when I sat down we began to talk about the column. The lady spoke about babysitting her grandchildren and how their eyes sometimes did get bigger than their stomach, but, being a grandma, I got the feeling she was pretty easy on them. I got particularly amused when she said she sat down to eat with them and one of the boys wouldn't eat a bite — claimed he had a blister in his lip. I told her that kid should be glad he was with grandma; if my Pa had been there, the blister might have been on my bottom.

But the most memorable story came from her husband. We had talked back and forth about everything from our parents dealing with hard times, to children just being children. As our conversation was ending, he told how his own mother dealt with the not cleaning ones plate issue. His mother cooked on a wood stove and, like most of her day, was a wonderful cook. A kid being a kid, however, sometimes he didn't want to eat everything he had put on his plate.This was apparently no big deal to his mother — she would take his plate without a word, carefully placing it in the warming closet atop the wood stove — and faithfully bringing it back out at the next meal. That's right, he had to finish that meal before he got the next one.Way to go, Momma Another wonderful lesson learned.

The best person I know

By LAURA WELBORN

I recently got to fill in as “Grammie” for Ty Sink and if anyone knows this child he is truly one special kid- and he likes everyone so I get included in the masses. I decided I wanted to have him write Valentine cards and put on them why he loved his parents, grandparents … When he got to his Grammie he wrote (unsolicited) “you are the best person I know, Love Ty”. I thought what a huge compliment that was from a seven year old child. How often would anyone say that to me? (never so far). How do we aspire to be not only a good person but the best person someone knows? I always thought of saints as people too good to ever aspire to, but Ty made me realize that maybe it is about being the “best person I know” to someone. It made me think about the impact we have on others without even realizing it. Now I truly think the world of Ty’s Grammie and always feel honored to step in as Ty’s basketball, ice cream and domino buddy but now I realize that I am friends with the best person Ty Sink knows. Maybe our own greatness lies within an arm’s reach. Maybe if we live with intention that in the touching of others’ lives we too can be the best person someone knows.

Times magazine recently published a special edition “Mindfulness- the new science of health and happiness. Adapted from Living with Intent by Malika Copra were six strategies to live with INTENT:

Incubate: quiet your mind to tap into your deepest intentions

Notice: Become mindful of your thoughts and actions, and pay attention to what they tell you about what gives you meaning and a sense of purpose.

Trust: Have confidence in your inner knowing- and in the messages the universe sends you.

Express: write down your intentions, say them out loud or share them with others to fully embrace them.

Nurture: be gentle with yourself as you try to find your way. Give yourself opportuinties to try and fail.

Take Action: Once you have identified intent, take practical steps to make each intention a possibility.

By the way, Ty’s Grammie is truly a wonderful person who devoted over 40 years to teaching children in Wilkes County and many years making sure each preschool school child had the best education possible. She was a leader statewide in early childhood education system and spent many years as the PreK Coordinator for Wilkes County but most of all she is a great “Grammie” and good friend to many known to most of us as “Janet Sink”.

Laura Welborn, Mediator and aspiring Substance Abuse Counselor.

The Title Deed to Jerusalem

By EARL COX

Special to The Record

Days after UNSC Resolution 2334 condemned Israeli settlements in the “occupied Palestinian territory” of Judea, Samaria and East Jerusalem as a “flagrant violation under international law” Jerusalem Mayor Nir Barkat issued a strong rebuke: The mayor and his planning-committee director announced the committee’s intent to approve building 618 previously planned housing units in East Jerusalem—a first step toward an additional 5,600 units in the city. “I’m not ever going to stop building. No construction will be stopped by me as mayor,” he said. While the Obama administration harmed its ally by strengthening its enemies, if President Trump holds to his promises perhaps things will change going forward but there is already talk of backpedaling.

Barkat is “politically correct” in the most positive sense of the phrase. He is also legally and historically correct. In property disputes over land ownership, lawyers search property records for deeds, liens and related issues in order to identify the real legal owner(s). They also use mandatory “discovery” to demand that the opposing party provide all relevant documents, inspections and depositions that pertain to the dispute. In the courtroom, the presiding judge determines whether the proceedings and evidence of both sides are represented in a fair and balanced way.

The U.S. abstention of Resolution 2334 and John Kerry’s specious rhetoric laying out his two-state agenda were mockeries of the these basic processes and premises of justice. As further evidence of’ the resolution’s shaky legal grounds, it conflicts with tenets of international law in the Palestine Mandate, UNSC Resolution 242, the Oslo Accords and Camp David Summit.

Ancient Boundary Lines

One of the oldest title deeds in the world is recorded in the Tanach, where King David purchased the future site of the Jewish Temple from Araunah the Jebusite for 600 gold shekels. David’s son, King Solomon built the First Temple on that site. There’s ample additional biblical, archeological, religious and historical evidence of Israel’s abiding connection to Jerusalem that pre-dates Palestinian claims. The Jews governed Israel for a thousand years, and lived there continuously for the past 3,300 years. According to Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs researcher Nadav Shragai, Jerusalem was the Jewish capital during that time, never a capital of any Arab or Islamic entity.

Palestinian Claims

Despite Israel and the Jewish people’s deep and abiding historical, cultural and religious connection to Jerusalem, the Palestinians, who began to define themselves as a people only about 100 years ago, insist they will never sign a peace deal that does not include Israel’s surrender of East Jerusalem, including the Old City and the Temple Mount. (Under international law, this area is disputed, not “occupied.”) Meanwhile, the Palestinians continue to deny Israel’s right to exist and incite violence and terrorism against her. As Dr. Joel Fishman wrote, “It is simply not possible to build [a state] on a foundation of myth and ignorance.”

Mayor Barkat and many others rightly discerned the previous administration in Washington D.C. as being anti-Israel long before Resolution 2334 reared its ugly head. Over the past eight years the U.S. has pressured Israel to halt “illegal” Jewish construction in eastern Jerusalem. In recent years Barkat slammed the Obama Administration for criticizing Israel’s plans to expand the suburb of Ma'aleh Adumim—an effort to provide affordable housing in the over-crowded capitol. "I don't know of any city in the world whose regulator is the U.S. president," the mayor remarked. Efrat Mayor and pro-settler leader Oded Revivi added, “Israeli building policies are set in Jerusalem, not New York.” Based on the latest news reports, it now appears that the Trump Administration are starting to sideways waffle on the topic of settlements. Let’s hope these news reports are mistaken as they so often have been.

What country doesn’t have the right to its unified capital, and to develop and build it? I pray the Trump Administration will focus its efforts at the United Nations against terror instead of attempts to delegitimize the only democracy in the Middle East.

A Love story with a few twists and turns

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

Love stories are big business. Many have made a good living on the emotional wings of passion driven stories often filled with sorted affairs and moderately complex plots.

The diversity of these stories and their fans are evident. From the classics to our modern-day renditions of stories that are, for the most part, conscious or not, inspired by Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

It seems as if the nature of young love and it’s many challenging attributes continue to inspire new books, plays, and movies, and I suppose this will never change and, why should it? You don’t have to be a public romantic to see the value in a good love story.

Growing up in the foothills of the Carolinas I remember hearing the stories about Tom Dula, better known as Tom Dooley by most. I don’t think I thought about the story as being about murder or passion. It was, however, never a question if he was a real person of a fictitious character. We all know he was real, but there was always a question as to if he killed Laura Foster, a crime for which he would hang.

One thing is for sure. Tom Dooley would become legendary, and his story would far outlive his short life of only 22 years. Over the years, I would engage in many conversations about Tom, and it was in 2011 that I produced my first TV special about the life of this Carolina Legend, it was titled “A Wilkes County Tale of Love and Tragedy.”

The show got a lot of attention. However, I had no plans on doing anything else on Tom, that is until I got a lead on a new book and its author Charlotte Corbin Barns and even then, I was not convinced. So once again I found myself back in research on our legend, however, this time I was looking at the people who are in love with the story of Tom Dooley rather than the loves of Tom’s life.

It’s one thing to look at the short life of Thomas C. “Tom” Dula who was born June 22, 1845, and had an active life of passion from the age of 12 and who would enlist three months before his 18th birthday in the Confederate Army as a private in Company K, 42nd NC Infantry Regiment.

When Tom returned home after the war, there would be many twists and turns with his assorted affairs, and he would end up being charged with the murder of Laura Foster. Even though he was represented by past NC Gov. Zeb Vance, he would be found guilty and then guilty again on appeal, and he would hang before his 23rd birthday. Tom did a lot of living in his short time on earth.

I was intrigued by Charlotte Barns, not because she had written a book about Tom, but rather that is was almost 50 years in the making. Her book the “Tom Dooley Files My Search For The Truth Behind The Legend” is a 485-page book that is an extensive collection of files on the life of Tom Dooley.

It was her childhood story of being sick and bedridden for some time and hearing the Kingston Trio’s Tom Dooley song that so moved her emotionally. Her mother would tell her that Tom was not a real person and the song was not something that should upset her. So, Charlotte would soon forget about Tom, until years later when she would come across an article in the Charlotte Observer about Edith Carter opening a Tom Dooley museum in Wilkes County.

Well, that’s all it would take for Charlotte to become forever in love with the story of Tom Dooley. Edith would become her mentor and friend and the journey to discover the truth about Tom would become a priority for a once little girl that was told that the object of her emotional expressions was not real.

Yes, Charlotte, Tom is Real and so is Love and thanks to you we're not done with telling the story either.

Happy Valentines Everyone!

Carl White is the executive producer and host of the award-winning syndicated TV show Carl White’s Life In the Carolinas. The weekly show is now in its eighth year of syndication and can be seen in the Charlotte viewing market on WJZY Fox 46 Saturday’s at 12:00 noon. For more on the show, visit www.lifeinthecarolinas.com, You can email Carl White at [email protected].

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