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Into and out of Dislocationby Giscombe, C.S. Giscombe
A thought-provoking meditation on the connections between landscape, race, and family.
It was on his third or fourth trip there that the poet C. S. Giscombe grew aware of the space Canada had staked out in his imagination. Giscombe later spent a winter with his family in British Columbia, and his time there provides a lens through which he interrogates his… See more details below
A thought-provoking meditation on the connections between landscape, race, and family.
It was on his third or fourth trip there that the poet C. S. Giscombe grew aware of the space Canada had staked out in his imagination. Giscombe later spent a winter with his family in British Columbia, and his time there provides a lens through which he interrogates his preoccupation with Canada's otherness. Giscombe writes that "border crossings are always sexy. And racial." And so this book is filled with both actual and metaphoric exploration -- his travels serve as points of departure for a series of riffs on racial, national, physical, and psychological borders.
At the heart of this book is the author's ambivalent pursuit of John Robert Giscome, a man who may or may not be a relative. John R., as Giscombe calls him, was a black Jamaican explorer who flourished in British Columbia during the last half of the nineteenth century. Giscombe documents the places that John R. passed through, and he uncovers stories about mining, pioneer life, and even cannibalism. Giscombe likes to imagine John R. as a "self-aware outsider," and that symbolic status comes to seem more important -- and more interesting -- than any historical truth.
Into and Out of Dislocation is an intriguing and wryly told travel memoir by a writer Henry Louis Gates called a "major figure in contemporary African American letters."
Editorial Reviews
Product Details
- 9780865475410
- Publisher:
- Farrar, Straus and Giroux
- Publication date:
- 05/03/2000
- Edition description:
- Pages:
- 304
- Product dimensions:
- 5.87(w) x 8.57(h) x 1.21(d)
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Three Locations
Grande Prairie, Alberta
Sometimes when I'm driving up Veterans Parkway, the boulevard that traces the eastern and southern edges of my city, Bloomington, Illinois, if the light's right or close to right, I'll suddenly remember Grande Prairie, Alberta, where I spent a night at the beginning of the summer of 1995. I'm never startled, really, to recall Grande Prairie at those timesthe road into that town had made me think of Bloomington when we arrived there dirty and tired after several days on the various northern highwaysand I like remembering the place, Grande Prairie, and will tease the memory, once it's arrived on its own, and pretend between the banks of stoplights that it's Alberta I'm crossing instead of downstate Illinois and that I'm heading for the Peace River instead of Kinko's copies or the Schnucks superstore; or that I'm driving out to Fort Dunvegan or Fort St. John instead of off to teach my afternoon class at Illinois State University.
I was with my wife and our nine-year-old daughter. We'd been in northern Alberta for two days and I'd been surprised to discover how flat that part of the province was. I didn't know Alberta well (and still don't): before this trip, I'd only crossed it by train once, thirteen years earlier, and all I'd recalled of the province from that trip was the railroad track snaking through the incredible snowy mountains west of CalgaryKatharine and I had sat up at the top of the carpeted stairs in the coach's observation dome for hours staring into the infinity of white peaks.And here were planted fields, the look of agribusiness, a landscape that should have been familiar to me because of Illinois. But until we came into the little city, Grande Prairie, it hadn't felt like Illinoisthe light we were encountering in the country was different from the light I was used to cutting through on the drive to Peoria or the drive to Champaign: there was a hazy quality to it, probably owing something to the forest fires that year, but that quality was disconcerting because I could see a great long way through the haze, out to where the horizon did blur into the sky. The surface of the earth there in Alberta seemed to be dishy, slightly concave in its flatness way into the distances, and the light seemed to exist not as a series of gradual, far-off wanings but as an ever-present, if less distinctly visible, entity. It seemed to be pooling in the fields.
We'd driven into Albertafrom Fort St. John, British Columbiathrough that and come eventually to the Peace River at Dunvegan, where the landscape changed; we went down into the forested hills that rose above the water and camped in a provincial park. We spent the next day, which was cloudy, in some small towns along the Peace River and along the Smoky. Katharine was constructing a photo-essay about our travels along these rivers, and this low grey day was a challenge, she said, because of the kind of film she had in the camera. She photographed the Smoky from the spindly girder bridge at Watino and the Peace from the five-car ferry on which we crossed it for a third timethe first had been on the peculiar, curving span at Fort Dunvegan itself and the second was the long bridge that led into Peace River, Alberta, the town named for the water. Then we got over to Rycroft, where the rain started, and followed the straight road to Grande Prairie, dropping into town from the north.
At the eastern edge of Bloomington, Veterans is the long artery of upscale commerce. The east side's the most profoundly white side of town and there Veterans Parkway is garlanded with frontage roads and has a grassy median strip and "smart" traffic signals that allow you to turn onto the access roads for the malls or for one of the McDonald's or appallingly ridiculous Jumer's Chateau, the huge restaurant, hotel built according to a fantasy of stuccoed Europe. Beyond Veterans the "good" suburbs are extendingtown marches farther east into the cornfields and soybean fields each yearand the boulevard's swath is a rough boundary between, the older upper-middle-class neighborhoods (giant maples, straight streets, Prairie-style houses with recent additions) and the stark, newly built homes of surgeons and people in the insurance business (Bloomington's the corporate headquarters for State Farm), these in neighborhoods with names like Harbour Pointe. Unlike other urban boundaries the parkway doesn't separate discrete socioeconomic communitiesits several lanes separate only styles. The sky, though, seems to well up above Veterans more than it wells up at any other place in Bloomington. Hardly anything is tall on the horizon and perhaps because of that the sky is simply most visible there, from along Veterans, from one's automobileduring the afternoons, the light and clouds are incredible, nearly static presences, towering in fat vertical contrast to the divided lines of traffic. But the location of the light is different there: it's specific and diverting and profoundly a thing. Yet even so, Veterans Parkway looks like a lot of places I can think of, effortlessly, in the East and MidwestFar Hills Avenue in Dayton, Ohio, for example, or Erie Boulevard in Syracuse, Adlai E. Stevenson Drive in Springfield, Illinois, Central Avenue between Albany, N.Y., and Schenectady, etc. Some days I remember Grande Prairie but usually, if I'm thinking about location at all as I drive up Veterans, I think about how I could be at the edge of anywhere.
And because of that I had been surprisedas Katharine and Madeline and I came into Grande Prairie that evening in Juneto be reminded so strongly of Bloomington's strip; it had rained, as I mentioned, earlier in the afternoon, but that had stopped and the day had cleared and the air was bright and free of haze and here we were coming into an unexpectedly big town with a lot of traffic lights, restaurants, and motels. The sky was a presence. We were grubbywe'd camped the night before, as I said, at old Fort Dunvegan on its wild little hill above the Peace and we'd spent the night before that camping in the Rockies, in prosaically named Summit Pass, in B.C. The previous evening we'd tented at Mighty Moe's Campground in the Cassiar Mountains near McDame Creek; that was one of the nights during this trip that it never quite got darktwilight had lasted and lasted and swelled outside the tent. The air had seemed to become increasingly granular but it never really got dark.
We were actually making a long, wide circlea two-week car and ferry tripand Grande Prairie was the last stop before we arrived back at the starting point, Prince George, British Columbia, where we'd been renting a house near the Nechako River. Prince George is in the geographical center of the province, it's the place where the north-south highway and the north-south railroad cross the ones going east and west. The Nechako flows into the big Fraser River at Prince George; the confluence is visible from Cottonwood Park downtown. It's a hub, a lumber and railroad town, the only city of any note for several hundred miles in any direction. I had a Fulbright that year and this was where I needed to beI'd wanted to figure out some ways to document the travels in northern British Columbia of the Jamaican miner John Robert Giscome. He'd flourished there, as they say, in the latter half of the nineteenth century and he was, perhaps, a relative of myand Madeline'sancestors. He'd arrived in Prince George in the November of 1862, when it was Fort George, a Hudson's Bay Company outpost; he was on his first prospecting trip north from Quesnel, the village seventy miles south of Fort George where he'd been living, and he was accompanied by Henry McDame, a man from the Bahamas. They were headed for the Peace River country, where there was supposed to be a great quantity of gold, but the ice on the Fraser River stopped them and they hunkered down for the winter in Fort George. He was thirty-one years old then, I don't know how old McDame would have been.
We'd arrived in Prince George in the winter too, or partway through it, in January, and were due to go back to the States at the end of June, so this would be our last trip out of town before that. Madeline was missing a little chunk of third grade but her teacher had agreed with us that this would be a worthwhile experience for her and that she could learn to multiply by seven later. It had been a pretty good jauntwe'd taken the Yellowhead Highway west to the Pacific at Prince Rupert and caught the ferry from there up past Ketchikan and Wrangell and Juneau to Skagway, Alaska. From Skagway we'd made a detour to Whitehorse, the nearest city, the capital of the Yukon Territory, because Katharine was sick and needed a doctor and maybe was going to need a hospital. But it turned out all right and we were able to get back on the road after a couple of days in a motel and drive down into the Cassiar and through the Rockies and so forth. The Cassiar and the Rockies and the Peace River and Wrangell, Alaska, were important to the project because they were places John Robert Giscome had got to; Grande Prairie was notit was a convenient juncture for us to clean up in and relax in for the last evening before the last day of travel, before we'd drive over Pine Pass and come down the Hart Highway back into Prince George. (And then we'd start packing up to really go home, to return to Bloomington.) Grande Prairie was on the flats, as its name suggests, on a high dry plateau devoid of the sorts of undulations that rivers provide, and John R. had gotten everywhere he went by water.
After the ice broke up on the Fraser in the April of 1863 Giscome and McDame had set out for the Peace River goldfields on the roundabout way that was standard theneighteen miles on the winding Fraser north to the Salmon's mouth and then northwest for twenty-some miles up the Salmon to a short, marshy portage to what's now called Summit Lake. From there they were going to descend the Crooked River to McLeod Lake and the Parsnip River and eventually get to the Peace. But when they arrived at the place where the Salmon River flows into the Fraser they found the Salmon high and dangerous and their guidea local man, an Indiansuggested that they go a little farther up the Fraser and take a short path he knew to a lake from which they'd be able to reach McLeod by canoe. That was in April. Much later, around Christmas, John R. would be down in Victoria talking about all this to the British Colonist, the newspaper there. The long front-page article, "Interesting from the Rocky Mountains," in the December 15 issue is the main source for my knowledge about his trip; it's the main print source for what I can begin to knowor guess, reallyabout him. The paper notes that he and McDame "made a portage of about nine miles to a lake, leaving the canoes behind," and at that lake they picked up another canoe"from an old Indian Chief"and came down the Crooked River (as it's called now), getting eventually to McLeod Lake. There were no towns then, of course, only those forts dotting the landscape, sitting on the shores of lakes and rivers. At the fort at McLeod Lake "a salute of about 20 shots was fired, with firearms, in honor of the arrival of that party through that route which had never been traversed by any others than Indians." The route that Giscome and McDame had usedthat "portage of about nine miles"was a more dependable route to the north than the standard, one not subject to the vagaries of high water; by 1871 the path was known as the Giscome Portage and it appeared prominently on maps until the age of highways began after the First World War, at which point travel past the new city, Prince George (built at the townsite adjacent to old Fort George), began to stop meaning travel via lakes and rivers. Up until that point it was the way. That first lake that the partners came to after the portage, Summit Lake, is the beginning of the Arctic watershed; the Fraser flows south and enters the Pacific at Roberts Bank in Vancouver, but Summit Lake drains into the Crooked and the Crooked flows north into other rivers and lakes and, eventually, all that water gets to the Arctic Ocean. According to the Colonist story, John R. noted, as he and McDame left Summit Lake, that they were in a north-flowing riverhe must have known he'd crossed the divide. The two of them did eventually make it to the Peace on their 1863 trip but found little there in the way of gold and, after some adventures, moved on to other sites in B.C. where they fared better.
Now, there's something black people, or American black people of certain generations, say: we say that no matter where you go, no matter how far, no matter to what unlikely extreme, no matter what country, continent, ice floe, or island you land on, you will find someone else black already there. (In Fairview, Alberta, when I went into the 7-Eleven to ask where we might camp in the vicinity it was a big chocolate-colored man in blue overalls who said that he'd just driven his truck over from Fort Dunvegan, where there was a provincial park, and that we could be there in twenty minutes.) And maybe white people do something similar but on a grander scale, make a similar claim but one so unironically tied to civic identity and national consciousness as to be invisible, as to require no particular thought or self-consciousness: the local case in point is that most historiescasual and publishedof B.C. start by mentioning the same fact, the same luminous detail, they all start off with Alexander Mackenzie being the first white man to enter what is now the province. The story is not indicative of some vicious racism on the part of its tellers but its presentation as a flat fact reveals the tendency that we all have to go along with things, to not question the conventional. When John R. and Henry McDame strolled into Fort McLeod, the Hudson's Bay Company lads there at the fort fired off those shots in their honor, or in what John R. reported as honor, "in honor of the arrival of that party" over that trail "which had never been traversed by any others than Indians." I imagine that when people read that description in the newspaper they assumed that our heroes were two white guys; and I imagine John R. smiling as he or the newspaper reporter, or the two of them together, came up with that phrase, "any others than Indians." I imagine him smiling; I don't know if he did. Who was the first black man to enter B.C.? Who was the first Giscome and how did he or she spell the name?
And all my life I've been struck by how the world's staked out by namesthat the path between the Pacific and Arctic watersheds became the Giscome Portage, that's the thing that brought me to Fort George a hundred and thirty-three years after John R. had wintered there. Of course, the name's a spelling variation of my own family name, Giscombe, and all the handful of Giscomes and Giscombes I'd ever met or heard of up to the point of my own arrival at Fort George had been, as I am, black Jamaicans (by birth or by ancestry); Giscome or Giscombe is not the sort of name that one associates easily with the Arctic, with ice and snow. And British Columbia is a land of white people (who've written the place's history, starting that book with A. Mackenzie), Chinese people, and Indiansthat's the standard racial breakdown in the province and white history in B.C. is an even more recent series of events than it is elsewhere in North America; "pioneer" appears with great frequency in the names of businesses and organizations in the province and various other white firsts (after Mackenzie's) are casually mentioned in most conversations about the landscape. Photographs abound of the early days of the provincehistory is close by. But into that history, from the Bahamas and Jamaica, come Henry McDame and John Robert Giscome. They came into Fort George that winter and the latter's black name got affixed to the geography around there: the portage wasn't the only thing named for himthere's also a town, thirty miles out from Prince George, and a canyon and a rapids, both on the Fraser, and a spate of other designations as well. And into that historyand into the land of ice and snowcame I and my little family; it wasn't the first time we'd come to Prince George but it was the first time we'd arrived to dig in.
Prattville, Jamaica, West Indies
I finally went to Jamaica for the first time in the spring of 1996, after we'd been back from Prince George for almost a year. I went there rather specifically to interview John Aaron Giscombe, Jr., who was ninety-three years old then and who is the great-nephew of John Robert Giscome. He lives just outside of Prattville, a tiny place which is itself in the hills above Mandeville, a big market town in the center of the island. These hills are no region of Giscombe family origins, they're where his wife's people were from. All the Giscombes trace back to the parishes of the northeast coast, the northern side of the Blue Mountains: Buff Baywhere my grandfather was born, Belcarres, Portland Parish, etc., places I've still never seen. Or that I've not seen yet. I suspect there's a blood connection in all that geography, a link that's out there waiting to be found between my grandfather's people and that family, John R.'s. Or I imagine that there is; names rise in a number of different ways and if we do share some ancestryif the same coupling long ago produced both John Robert Giscome and myselfI've certainly not discovered it, marked it, located it; I've been concerned, so far anyway, more with the peripheries than with a core.
And John R. is himself, in Canadian history, a peripheral characterthat is, he appears, or his name does, in a variety of contexts, but almost never as the central focus. The articles and descriptions and paragraphs are rarely about himthey're about the countryside or the route through it that bears his name or about the business ventures of a white man for whom he's reputed to have worked once. There are a couple of exceptions to this, thoughone is that long article in the Colonist, "Interesting from the Rocky Mountains," and the other is a videotape, made in summer 1994, at a Giscombe family reunion in Melbourne, Florida. The tape contains an extensive interview with old John Aaron and it was sent to me a year or so after the fact by Lorel Morrison, who lives in Maryland and is himself one of John Aaron's great-nephews: there's a relatively tight family group descended, it turns out, from John R.'s brother Peter, who stayed in Jamaica while John R. went on to Canada, and Lorel's part of that group. I don't know whether or not I am: there's a coincidence of some first names but they're fairly common first names and there are enough holes and guesses in the family trees to make me dubious or at least cautious and qualifying in my embrace. But on the tape the old man was sure about some thingshe called the names of people long dead and told stories about John R. and Peter, who was, of course, his own grandfather.
My grandfather, for whom I am named, left Buff Bay suddenly one afternoon near the turn of the century and never went back: the story goes that one of his brothers was shipping out on a United Fruit boat to Costa Rica and that hemy grandfatherhad gone down to the docks to see the brother off and decided or had decided (impulsively, that is, or by design) to join him. He picked bananas for a while in Costa Rica and saved money and came to the United States and went to Clark, the black school in Atlanta, and then on to Meharry Medical College in Nashville. He settled in Birmingham, where my father was born, and practiced medicine there until the week before he died in 1962, when I was eleven. He was a short man with coppery skin and high cheekbones, he was fierce and calm at once in his demeanor; he had an accent, of course, and I can remember the sound of that much more vividly than I can recall anything he ever said. He said rather little. When he died we all went down to Birmingham on the overnight train (from Dayton, Ohio, where I grew up and where my parents still live) and I played with the neighborhood boys while my father closed up his office. Small mysteries were discovered among the papersnothing scandalous but things he'd never mentioned: a medal and an accompanying citation for his work with the Selective Service signed by Harry Truman, a handful of stock certificates from shady-sounding oil ventures, and a 1921 letter from the Provincial Board of Medical Examiners telling him what he'd have to do in order to practice medicine in British Columbia.
Years later, when I found out about John R., I immediately thought of that letterit's now ensconced in a little cardboard envelope in my top desk drawer here in Bloomington. I suppose I don't really know what to do with it on any level: it's an artifact all right but I'm not sure what it represents, I do see that it's no dotted line on a map connecting my grandfather's fortysome years in Birmingham to John Robert Giscome's fortysome years in B.C. I don't know what was in my grandfather's mind when he wrote to the medical examiners and I don't know what set of circumstances stopped him from going out there. Like much else in the family history it's locked up in the head of someone who's died. Papers don't reveal much, I think, for most of us, especially when it comes to our desireswe're not scrupulous about maintaining a trail that would reveal us, we're more busy getting through life than documenting it. At the funeral my grandfather was laid out in his tuxedo and my mother whispered to me that he had last worn that at her wedding to my father, fourteen years earlier. He'd been entertaining them, she said, during the reception and, because I'd never before heard the word used in that context, I imagined him fiercely doing magic tricks. I knew where British Columbia was when I was a child because I was interested in maps.
I didn't know a thing about John Robert Giscome, though, until I was thirtyI was an editor then, at Epoch magazine at Cornell University, and I was publishing work by a Vancouver poet, George Bowering. In one of his letters he included something odd: he circled my name on the line of salutation and scrawled a question across the top of the sheet"Do you know that there's a town in northern B.C. that has this name?" I didn't know but when I went home that evening there it was in the world atlas I'd had since I was thirteena black dot on the map outside Prince George, on the red line of the Canadian National Railways. The name itself, Giscome, was in the sans serif typeface Rand McNally uses to indicate very small towns; the index listed the population at 575. A patient little time bomb, in my possession, waiting to go off. I typed a note of inquiry to the Chamber of Commerce in Prince George and got a letter back that quoted 1001 British Columbia Place Names, the guidebook by G.P.V. and Helen B. Akrigg: "Named for John Robert Giscome, a negro miner who entered the district in 1860 and died about 1910 in Victoria." This was something real. The next afternoon I went over to the Olin Library at Cornell and took the elevator up to the sixth floor and found a copy of the Akriggs' book and read the one-line description again. I looked out the window at Inlet Valley and West Hillit was winter and the line of the hill was jagged against the sky. The Olin ventilation made its constant whoosh and the dry, sweet stink of leather bindings drifted in the air. Here was something real indeed and eventually, because of that, I made it out to British Columbia. But I've always, all my life, been going on into Canada, going up to Canada, over into Canada.
When Katharine, Madeline, and I got to Jamaica we rented a car, a Toyota Tercel, and drove the hundred miles from Kingston out to Mandeville. The ride was harrowingpeople went fast and passed one another on curves and on hills and I was, of course, unused to driving on the left side. We got through Spanish Town, Old Harbour, and May Pen and, as the country began to get steep and the traffic got less intense, we stopped for lunch at a roadhouse called the Healthy Eaters Café. The place was full of truck drivers, African-descended and Indian men, who spoke, as we waited in line to place our orders, in an accent that stopped me from understanding whatever they were telling me; but I was finally able, after some false starts, to joke with the women at the counter about the price of Pepsi-Cola. One brought our lunches out to us in the dark little dining room and my barbecued chicken was quite delicious. We came into Mandeville a little after that and found our hotel, and the next morning I got up early and went off alone, with my new tape recorder, to see John Aaron Giscombe in Prattville.
Lorel Morrison had provided me with directions to John Aaron's house and the hotel owner's husband augmented those by drawing me a very detailed map of the way out of Mandeville. With all that on the seat beside me I headed up over the shoulders of the edge of town, passed some big estates, and suddenly town all fell away and I was on a narrow road that looped through a lush, open country. I felt a certain ebullience at driving alone through this, through Jamaica, in the morningthe road was deserted and on either side were hills that were thick and a brilliant green color and the sunlight too was thick without being either hazy or bright. This was certainly the country of joy, of resonancebut with what? The road was beautiful but it reminded me of many other trips on many other roadsone memory yielded effortlessly to another, the road was that basic in its climbs and in the way it went into the sunlight. All was a scattering, nothing cohered. And in that scattering, or rolling alongside it, I was headed for an almost arbitrary location, a place where I hoped to find some information, a crossroads, as it were, at which I was to meet an emissary from something bigger, something more specificit was the classic literary situation, almost a cliché. But this landscape was specific too, this was Jamaicathe land of my fathersand I was on my way through it to Prattville in a rented white Tercel.
After a while Newport, where I was to turn, hove into view: it was an intersection with some two-story buildings and a police station, and I found my left turn in a grove of big trees and made that and went on toward the hills in which Prattville was situated. Trees shaded the way for the first quarter mile or so, and I saluted an ancient man with a cane who was walking in the road there, tottery on his bare feet, and he returned my wave shakily with his free hand. The skin was profoundly black, the beard and hair were bright white. Actually, many people were walking in the road and there were goats too, and cows, and a plague of white egretsall of our driving thus far in Jamaica had involved an unnerving proximity to people and animals. Lorel had asked, in one of our phone conversations, if I'd ever traveled in the Third World, fretting over me a little bit, I think, on the eve of my departure for the island of his birth, and I'd answered, half-joking, that I had been to New York. And Englandwhere we'd lived for half a year when Madeline was a babyhad outfitted me with a series of handy comparisons: as I climbed toward Prattville I became mindful of the road I'd bicycled on over the Malvern Hills near the Welsh borderlike that road it ascended and descended very sharply (much more so than the one I'd taken from Mandeville down into Newport), plunging into and out of some deep shade, and it was often gravel and there were the "washed-out interrupted raw places" too that Theodore Roethke named in his great last poem, in the section that begins "In the long journey out of the self ..."
But all that's metaphorliterary bric-a-bracand metaphor's heavy on any road. All around me Jamaica roiled in the sunlight and jutted out onto the pavement and seemed a lot like itself. My comment about New York was merely clever and England hadn't really prepared methis was the land of some of my fathers and it was at least as strange to me as England had been when I'd arrived there.
Lorel's instructions had called for me to begin asking, at some point, for the way to Mr. Giscombe's house. At what felt like the outskirts of Prattville I stopped two men who were walking by and asked them and the bald man said that he lived up in Nonperel, up at the top of a hill, and asked, "You he grandson?" I'd noticed, once we left Kingston, how dark-complected almost everyone was and because of that, I think, I stuck out someI've never thought of myself as being particularly light but in comparison to the people I ran into in the country I was. I am. Old John Aaronwhom I'd seen in the videotapehas skin roughly the same color as my own and I suppose that this was enough to base the question on. A young man named Martin appeared and one of the men I'd been speaking with arranged for him to act as guide. We drove up the potholed hill to Nonperel, which was a group of houses in among some trees; I steered around a young one-armed woman in a sleeveless blouse who was walking with childrenhers?, carrying a gallon jug of milk, and Martin pointed out Mr. Giscombe's driveway and accepted the couple of dollars I offered for his trouble. I parked at the bottom of the hill and climbed up to the house, where I was met by Noel Giscombe, John Aaron's son. I'd written and so was expected.
The old man came out of the back room then and I introduced myself to him, using my first nameCeciland my last name, which was, of course, the same as his. "I knew a Cecil Giscombe," he said but I couldn't get him to elaborate. He rambled for a long time, repeating, word for word, snippets of his talk on the tape Lorel had sent me. I'd try to guide him, but everything about John R. came back to him having "found a gold mine in Canada" and that, when he died, "his property was worth twenty-five t'ousand dollars"he'd emphasize the "t'ousand" the same way each time, just as I'd heard him emphasize it when he told the story on the videotape, and finally his son said, "Forget it, man," and went on to say I should have been there last year; he'd been sharp then, Noel said, and could've told me everything I wanted to know. But during the intervening winter he'd fallen sick and Noel and his other sons had thought he was going to die; he hadn't, of course, but he'd emerged from the illness frail and disoriented. "His mind's gone, man," Noel said; "you're about a year too late." The old man sat on the couch next to me staring out the open window. The tops of trees were visible and from somewhere else in the house music was playing. There was a picture of Queen Elizabeth on the wall. I get tangled up in language myself sometimes and often will remember things I've said or should have said and repeat them later, turning them over again and again in my mind. I teach in a largely windowless building named after the Bloomingtonian Adlai Stevenson and have identified a malaise I call Adlai Stevenson's disease, the first sign of which is talking to yourself in the stall in the fourth-floor washroom, the one English shares with Accounting and Philosophy. It's a joke ailment of course, garden-variety depression crossed with the fear of Alzheimer's. The question on the road had been whether or not I was a grandson, but I was forty-five then, about the same age as Noel. What'll I be like in half a century? The videotape had been made at a family reunion in Florida and the old man had been casually encyclopedic about the tribethe range of skin colors, his father's experiences in Panama, his own adventures when he'd lived in Chicago. Some of those adventures had had a sexual tinge and John Aaron had flirted, a little, on the tape with some of his young, distant cousins, trim good-looking Giscombe women in their fifties and sixties.
I've never been terribly interested in the costume drama that most imaginations of the past seem to entail. Which is to say that I regard devotion to family trees with a mix of suspicion and uninterestthere's something irritatingly civic about the enterprise, something that verges on a kind of boosterism. One wishes to find and then capture the connection as though it were a trophy. It'll settle this or that, it'll confer status. I recently met a white man in Indiana who made a point of telling me that he'd traced his lineage back to Abraham. When I do think of the past and family trees and so forth I imagine copulationthe romance of sex, the inevitability of bodies producing another body, the grandparent suddenly youthful and randy. The delights of being naked. Or I imagine the ancestor wasting time doing this or that or being sullen or fearful or, as Auden said, just walking dully along. Eating. Working for someone. Asleep. Or waiting for something to happen.
I came back to Mandeville, picked up Katharine and Madeline, and we drove down to Treasure Beach on the south coast and went swimming in the Caribbean. It was March and the water was warm. We sat on the sand and watched pelicans, birds none of us had ever seen before except in pictures.
Bloomington, Illinois
Above the Schnucks parking lot in Bloomington nighthawks are a presence in the spring. Schnucks is the biggest supermarket in town and its lot has the best arc lights of any of the lots in town and the birds come because of those, in pursuit of insects. Their wings jiggle, light catches on their bellies, the calls are high-pitched and piercing as they swoop. I found a dead one recently, when I was bicycling outside of town, at a country intersection, and it was cause to stop and take a close look. They're not really hawks, of course, they're goatsuckers; the name sounds vampirish and oddly sexual in other ways as wellit comes from the astounding width of their open mouths, big enough, the notion goes, to fit around a goat's teat. The beaks are very small, though, in terms of length. I leaned over the handlebars and poked it with my foot: it was perfect, as we say of dead creatures, it had probably been struck glancingly and died of shockeven dead it looked sleek and capable. I'd never seen a nighthawk close up before.
A mile south of our house on Vale Street is the edge of town and I'll often make for that when I'm out for a quick before-dinner bike ride; town stops, at least for right now, at a little subindustrial copsesomething having to do with Olin Corporation, Stahly's Truck City, Owen Nurserybordering the Norfolk Southern tracks and there's a twelve-mile loop I do that commences just beyond that: it follows a relatively hilly road along the railroad, skirts the edge of a freestanding subdivision that's popped up beyond town, and crosses I-74 twice. In the fields outside Bloomington live thirteen-lined ground squirrelshandsome rodents, they have a bad time with cars, moles, voles, the inevitable raccoons and woodchucks. Pheasants, a couple of varieties of owls, kestrels, redtail hawks, casual flocks of pigeons. Nighthawks. "An enormous added dimension is given a country by its game," said Edward Hoagland in his book about B.C. Deer occur in the little clumps of woods around Lake Bloomington and some of the other man-made lakes. I recently saw a bald eagle above the Illinois River at Peoria and I've encountered four coyotes in the last few years. Once I saw a fox run across the parking lot of the Super 8 Motel.
I said something in a poem once about "all locations being temporary" and, later in the same long poem, that theylocationsare "emphatic and come to know one place," counting on the reader to hear "know" as both itself and "no." Locations are provisional: we're in Bloomington because of my job with the university but there's no origin for us hereor anything that might remind us of any place of origin, this is not anyplace that one might aim at or make for deliberatelyand no resonance in the shape of the countryside past town which stretches unambiguously to the horizons and is owned by a corporation. But locations are where you happen to get to and then, as the joke goes, there you are.
I went to British Columbia to see and live in the remote, unlikely place that the family, people with this Jamaican name, arrived at. Being in British Columbialiving therewas like going along a ridge, like being on a path that follows the top of the ridge for a long time and offers a view of myriad this and that below. It was like having gained the ridge, as they say. (When I went back to Prince George, in June of 1996, I climbed up Teapot Mountain with Vivien Lougheed and John Harris and Barry McKinnon; when we got to the top we were able to see a great distance into the westvalleys, the plume of smoke from a lumber mill, two or three lakes, and a town. Nothing terribly exciting except for the conjunction and the fact of distance. And the presence of height, or the presence of a change in height, in elevation, someplace to see from. Still, it's pretty much what I'd expected to have a view of, those valleys and that town and some water. But my metaphors come, if sometimes too easily, from that sort of thing, there being geographic sites on the earth. And on the bodythe recollection of this erotic adventure, that injury, that little surgery. Old places where the hair doesn't grow.)
Grande Prairie was not a special place, it was a coincidence of light that makes our approach to it stick in my memory. Or it was the prescience that came along with the lightsoon it was going to be time to go back. Once we'd got to the motel and lugged our stuff into the room we began arguing about something stupid: there was only one towel in the bathroom and Katharine and I went around and around about who was going to call the front desk to ask for more so we could all shower before going out for dinner. I can't recall now which one of us finally made the call, and though we both apologized and chalked our behavior up to travel fatigue, the argument had soured my mood some and dinner didn't make it better. We ate at a Greek restaurant downtownit had a nice tile decor and the sun slanted in through its big windows but the food was unmemorableand wandered back to the motel. I was feeling a slow sad irritation that I now think had more to do with the end of our life in British Columbia becoming visible to me than it did with being tired and having carried on about towels. We'd be eating soon at one of the chain restaurants on VeteransChili's or Applebee's or the Olive Garden. Katharine agreed to take Madeline to the swimming pool and I went out to try to walk off my unhappiness in whatever was behind the strip of motels and eateries.
The road went across the CN tracks and up a little hill: there was a newly built school on the right-hand side but to the left was a wide expanse of bushes and trees and a paved footpath leading off into them. I thought again of Bloomington: we have a series of connected walking and cycling paths that, together, are called the Constitution Trail; the trail's situated on the old railroad beds that wind through town and one leg of it traverses an interesting little undeveloped area by Veterans Parkwayit follows the curves of a creek with low, scruffy sides in between Jumer's Chateau and Pier One Imports. Someone said recently, in a letter to The Pantagraph, the Bloomington paper, that she'd seen otters there but I suspect she really saw a muskrat. Whatever she saw, it's one of my favorite places in Bloomington. But this was Grande Prairieor an edge of Grande Prairieand I followed the path off into the trees and bushes, and ten or so minutes later I was surprised to arrive at a body of water. A sign told me it was Crystal Lake.
A dock stuck out from a marshy corner of the lake and, as I walked out onto it, I saw the whole place was alive with birds. I've never been so close to more shorebirds, or more different kinds of shorebirds, at once than I was at that long moment when I stood out at the end of that dock. A pair of ruddy ducks did a courtship display and a tern divebombed me so repeatedly that I had to take several steps backI suppose the bird's nest was nearby. I saw scoters and great numbers of Bonaparte's gulls. A muskrat swam nearby and female redwings with nesting materials in their mouths clung to reeds just as they do in Peterson's. It was a brilliant, noisy place and I stood there and watched and listened for half an hour. I don't know if the lake was natural or man-made, I don't know how often people visit it, whether it was a feeding site or not. It was a place where I wanted to surrender, a place I'd come to unexpectedly, an uncomplicated center. I was still in my funk but I'd seen birds. They won't save you but they're beautiful and necessary.
Finally I turned away from that, turned to go back to the motel down the path I'd come up on, and I realized, once I'd regained the bushes, that the light had changed a little; it wasn't dark or even near dark but the light had shifted. Dark was coming"black like me," Langston Hughes said, it was going to get dark. I walked on, thinking about the birds and the muskrat and about this place, and suddenly I knew, there on the path, that I wasn't quite sure where I was. I mean I knew I was on the path back to the road back to the motel, but I didn't know what the country right here was. It touched me the way understandings do in the dreams that are not nightmares but that have an interesting, menacing edge to them, that entangle the dreamer, me, in a slow cognizance not of danger but of the fact of danger probably existing, somewhere that I the dreamer can't quite see. I mean I suddenly realized that in the bushes beyond the path there might very possibly be bears.
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Richard Wilson
- Birthday
- Jul 9, 1936
Fresh from the University of Denver, American actor Richard Wilson headed to Chicago and then New York, for the hectic life of a radio actor. He befriended fellow performer Orson Welles while both were making the radio-network rounds. In 1937, Welles invited Wilson to join his Mercury Theatre stage troupe, where Wilson functioned as actor, adaptor,… More Bio:
Fresh from the University of Denver, American actor Richard Wilson headed to Chicago and then New York, for the hectic life of a radio actor. He befriended fellow performer Orson Welles while both were making the radio-network rounds. In 1937, Welles invited Wilson to join his Mercury Theatre stage troupe, where Wilson functioned as actor, adaptor, production associate and assistant director. When Welles moved his Mercury troupe to Hollywood in 1940 for Citizen Kane, Wilson went along as jack-of-all-trades; if you look closely, you can see the angular Mr. Wilson as one of the shadowy reporters in Kane's closing scenes. After working as a production assistant on Welles' followup film The Magnificent Ambersons (1942), Wilson joined Welles in Rio de Janeiro to work on the ill-fated Technicolor documentary It's All True (1942). Stories involving this disaster-prone effort have fallen into the realm of legend, making it difficult for the historian to separate fact from fancy in reporting on the film. Indeed, so many falsehoods concerning It's All True were repeated as gospel in one 1970 book on Welles that Wilson was moved to write a rebuttal article for Sight and Sound magazine, titled "It's Not Quite All True." While many of Welles' Mercury associates had scattered by the late '40s, Wilson remained loyal, acting as associate producer for Welles' The Lady From Shanghai (1947) and Macbeth (1948). On his own as a staff producer at Universal in the '50s, Wilson helmed everything from swashbucklers to Ma and Pa Kettle pictures. He began directing in the '50s, mostly program westerns like Man with the Gun (1955). Wilson did what he could to draw a performance from a burned-out Errol Flynn in The Big Boodle (1957), and coaxed a convincingly dramatic turn from aquatic star Esther Williams in Raw Wind in Eden (1958). Wilson deservedly won critical plaudits for his handling of a brace of brutal Allied Artists gangster pictures, Al Capone (1960) and Pay or Die (1961). Richard Wilson retired in 1968, making an unexpected return to the cameras in 1989 as an actor in the British satire How to Get Ahead in Business.
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Workers strike at fast-food restaurants
Workers strike at fast-food restaurants
PaleyLive: An Evening with the Cast & Creators of UnREAL
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Toni Yates reports
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Backyard barbecue or boring summer afternoon—there's no scenario that won't get better with one of these amazing fruit waters. Why in the world are you still settling for boring bottled?
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November 21st, 2012
JNJ Spends Thanksgiving by Giving Back
by Patrick McCrummen, Director of Worldwide Corporate Contributions at Johnson & Johnson
On Thursday, many people in the U.S. will give collective thanks over a shared meal with family and friends on Thanksgiving Day. Yet, for many people along the U.S. eastern seaboard, struggles remain to return to normal after one of the most devastating hurricanes ever to hit the region. After witnessing the worst of Mother Nature, the best of humankind has come together, helping neighbors and communities get back on their feet.
New Jersey residents were particularly hard hit by this ferocious storm. More than 13,800 of our employees live and work in this state – where our company has called home for more than 125 years. For the many who were impacted, the Johnson & Johnson legacy of helping people recover from disaster became very personal.
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Lucas and Crawford On B-Ball
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Richard Lucas and Greg Crawford, two veteran media personalities get together here for a lively half hour fo basketball talk, on a wide range of subjects.
My dad is not drafting Adrian Peterson
in Sports
Mind of Mansion Podcast Episode 140: Matt Kelley @fantasy_mansion explains why Demarco Murray is the best of flawed options at running back in 2015.
Even in his prime, Peterson couldn't soak up enough targets to be considered the top-projected PPR running back.
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Norv Turner has not had a running back like Jerick McKinnon since LaDanian Tomlinson.
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No one owns a Blatt jersey
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Mind of Mansion Depth Perspective Episode 139: Matt Kelley @fantasy_mansion explains why coaches do not possess playcalling black magic.
Lamenting the fickle king making role that we have entrusted to the sport media. Mike Martz and Brian Billick ran successful offenses for many years and won Superbowls, and they are now punchlines.
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Loving Myself Enterprises Radio Show Welcome the Talented David Lucas
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Local Teen Publishes First Book
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DARLINGTON – Darlington native David E. Lucas isn't your typical teenager. He's been preaching since age 13. He started a charitable organization at age 15. And now at age 17 he's publishing his first book.
"It's Dark But I can Still See The Light" is a motivational book that aims to encourage teens to pursue success no matter what challenges they may face. The book is set to be released this spring.
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In his book, the Darlington High School student shares his pursuit of success, even while overcoming a learning disability.
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Preplanning Your Funeral as Part of Your Financial Planning Strategy
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Sue Brown with Brown and Freeman is back on the show for this segment on pre-planning your funeral arrangements as part of your financial planning strategy. Joining us is Mark Lucas-Kelly with Lucas Funeral Homes. Preplanning is a growing tread, particularly among 'Baby Boomers'. In 2007, surveys revealed that more than 20 million US citizens over the age of 50 have prepaid for funeral or burials for themselves. Tune in to hear more about options, average costs and more.
Plaid for Women radio is produced to give you information, advice and resources to manage "The Business of Life". Our goal is to help you achieve your goals, get connected, and be heard.
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This show is all about basketball, all levels and a can't miss listen.
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The RotoExperts.com Fantasy Sports Show airs 5 times a week and also appears on The Fantasy Sports Television Network. Hosted by RotoExperts.com Staff Writer Chris Mitchell @CJMitch73 and Co-Hosted by @GeorgeKurtz, Brandon C Williams @BCWilliams71, Ian Riley @Ian_Riley, Kyle Soppe @unsoppable23, Daniel Dobish @DanielEDobish , Bobby McMann @HelloImBobby, Ricky Sanders @RSandersRX, Lenny Melnick @lennyMelnick, Adam Ronis @AdamRonis, and Jennifer Millman @JMillmanRX.
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We discuss everything in Fantasy sports with analysts from all over the spectrum of the Fantasy sports industry.
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Mauricio "El Maestro" Herrera joins Team LeftJab Boxing Radio to discuss his upcoming fight with Hammerin' Hank Lundy.Herrera talks about what type of opponent Lundy will be and what he has to do to come out victorious in the fight.Herrera also gives his thoughts on what division he wants to fight in after this fight as well as Danny Garcia's move to 147 and his next fight against Paulie Malignaggi.
Ep 28: Bakulu Divination set with Robert Lucas of Ancestor Healing
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A first-generation Northerner of mixed Cherokee-Blackfoot and Gullah-Geechee heritage, Robert Lucas (aka "Unkle Rob") grew up surrounded by the artifacts and rituals of South Carolina Conjure, a secretive branch of family folk magic traditionally passed from parents and extended family to child:
An adolescent fascination with the occult lead Rob first to Wicca, and then later to the works of Anton LaVey – "A lot of these ideas tempered me," he laughs, "even today I would say that I still have a lot of respect for Lavey and what he accomplished." But the focus of his research always remained on ancestral spirits and traditions.
A priest of the Muna Lemba lineage of Palo Mayombe, Rob today lives in Garfield Heights, OH, where he splits his time between family, motorcycles and building his Palo Mayombe munanso (temple).
Lucas and Crawford On B-Ball
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This show features Richard Lucas and Greg Crawford, two veteran basketball medial personalities.
The show is hosted by Greg Crawford, editor of http://gregcrawfordbasketball.blogspot.com and http://crawfordsgolfdaily.blogspot.com (golf and sports biz combo)
The Diva Of Days Of Our Lives 216th Blogtalk Radio Show
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We have been gone a few weeks, but we are back this week to catch you up with the show. Oh August can't get here soon enough! Join us as we discuss the never ending elephant story, pathetic JJ/Paige/Eve, those love birds Lucas and Andrianne and our favorite Miss Roberts was at it again!. Theresa/Brady and the departure of Melanie. Clyde/Victor/Hope/Rafe/Aiden. Bo please hurry back! Ari's birthday party along with Sonny/Will/Paul We even got some Roman and Caroline! Also some great twitter teases of what is to come from our favortie DiMera,Thaao Penghlis! Don't miss this one
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Vladimir Putin attends final day of team figure skating
Feb 9, 2014, 12:03 PM EDT
Russian president Vladimir Putin is attending today's final day of the Olympic team figure skating competition, no doubt hoping that the host nation can lock up its first gold of the 2014 Sochi Olympics.
NBCOlympics.com's Nick McCarvel also tweeted this photo of Putin, along with the rest of the crowd, cheering after Yulia Lipnitskaya's performance in the ladies' free skate program.
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By Bob Magee | March 05, 2012 | Comments
* Making their PTW and UK debuts, from New York, USA - Team CK (Sean Carr & Kage)!
* PTW stars such as Born To Fly (Alex Young & TJ Ski), Steve Omega, Chris Sharpe, and more to be confirmed in the upcoming weeks to the show!
"Power Trip Wrestling - "Bedfordshire's Favourite Family Night Out - As Featured on National Television (BBC2, Sky Digital), TalkSPORT radio, The Sun, & The Metro newspapers, BBC Radio Northampton & BBC 3 Counties Radio, and much more!"
Combat Zone Wrestling will make its return to Philadelphia this Saturday night with Aerial Assault (7:30 pm belltime) at Boyle's World Gym, 11000 Roosevelt Boulevard, Philadelphia, PA (Roosevelt Boulevard and Haldemann, in the Target Plaza behind Chickie's & Pete's); easily accessible via SEPTA the 14 bus from Bridge and Pratt.
Already announced for Aerial Assault...
In the Aerial Assault match for a spot in BOTB 11!
LUCKY tHURTeen
CZW World Heavyweight Championship
SCOTTY VORTEKZ (c) vs. DEVON MOORE vs. 'EGO' ROBERT ANTHONY
Three-Way CZW World Tag-Team Championship
AZRIEAL & BANDIDO JR (c) vs. BLK-OUT vs. THE RUNAWAYS
Tables, Ladders and Chairs
GREG EXCELLENT vs. MIA YIM
First Time Ever
Ultraviolent Underground Champion MASADA vs. ADAM COLE
Another First
CZW Jr. Heavyweight Champion SAMI CALLIHAN vs. DRAKE YOUNGER
The Drunkard and The Campaign
DANNY HAVOC vs. a member of GULAK FOR A BETTER CZW
6 Man Tag Match
CZW Wired Champ JAKE CRIST, A.R. FOX & CHUCK TAYLOR vs. DAVE CRIST, JOKER & BLK JEEZ
Tickets available now at the CZW Pro Shop or buy them at the door before the show. Doors open at 7:00PM.
Until next time...
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Mada On Being Angry At His WWE Tough Enough Elimination, The Miz Saving Amanda, What's Next, More
Spoilers: WWE SmackDown Results For Tonight
Michael Cole Reportedly Meeting With Current GFW Personality At Upcoming WWE Tapings
Video: Theme And Matches For Next Week's TNA Impact Wrestling Episode
Ring Of Honor Adopting Women's Division?
Spoilers: More TNA Title Changes At Wednesday's Impact Wrestling Tapings
** SPOILERS ** TNA Impact Wrestling And Xplosion Tapings From 7/29/15
John Cena Injury Update From Last Night's RAW
** SPOILERS ** WWE SmackDown Results For This Week
Sting Not Appearing At WWE SummerSlam After All?, Speculation Among WWE Talents Backstage
Scott Steiner Gives His Thoughts On Hulk Hogan Controversy And Racism
JTG Talks How Black Wrestlers Are Portrayed In WWE, How Cryme Tyme Gimmick Happened


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The complete 2015 conference program will be published soon. The pre-conference workshops will be held Tuesday, December 1, the day before the main conference, December 2 – 3:
Developing a personalization strategy: one size doesn't fit all
Instructor: John Berndt, CEO, The Berndt Group (TBG)
An anatomy of a digital audit
Instructor: Tim Bourgeois, Partner at East Coast Catalyst and Founder, ChiefDigitalOfficer.net
Insider's guide to selecting the right WCM
Instructor: Tony Byrne, Founder, Real Story Group
Foundations for best-fit WCM service provider selections
Instructor: Cathy McKnight, Partner and Principal Analyst, Digital Clarity Group
Great ideas need the right metrics to flourish – building the analytics you need to monetize your innovation
Instructor: Jaime Fitzgerald, Founder and Managing Partner, Fitzgerald Analytics Inc.
Digital is global in nature, not by default: leveraging digital globalization to increase global customer experience
Instructor: Bruno Herrmann , Director of Globalization, Nielsen
Find out more and get detailed descriptions for these workshops.
The Fairmont Copley Plaza is the official conference hotel for Gilbane Conference 2015. Discounted room rates have been arranged for attendees and are now available. Find out more.
You can also subscribe via our feed
This post from March is still the most popular recommended post from the Gilbane Advisor so far this year. The focus is on a news homepage but anyone thinking about a site redesign or some tweaking will get some new ideas either directly or inspired by this piece. Something to share with your team to get their design juices flowing. Read more
© 2015 Bluebill Advisors Inc (except for contributed posts which are licensed under creative commons)


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Finding the Historical Christ: After Jesus (Volume 3)
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Product Description
Product Information
|Format: Paperback
Number of Pages: 304
Vendor: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co.
Publication Date: 2009
|Dimensions: 9.00 X 6.00 (inches)
Availability: In Stock
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After Jesus, Volume 1 - The Birth of Christianity: The First Twenty YearsPaul BarnettWm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. / 2004 / Trade Paperback$13.99 Retail:3.5 Stars Out Of 5 2 Reviews
$20.00Save 30% ($6.01)Availability: In StockCBD Stock No: WW827810
After Jesus, Volume 2 - Paul: Missionary of JesusPaul BarnettWm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. / 2007 / Trade Paperback$11.99 Retail:4 Stars Out Of 5 1 Reviews
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Is the New Testament Reliable?Paul BarnettInterVarsity Press / 2005 / Trade Paperback$10.99 Retail:4.5 Stars Out Of 5 2 Reviews
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Jesus & the Rise of Early Christianity: A History of New Testament TimesPaul BarnettInterVarsity Press / 2002 / Trade Paperback$18.99 Retail:4.5 Stars Out Of 5 2 Reviews
$28.00Save 32% ($9.01)Availability: In StockCBD Stock No: WW26990
Author Bio
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He begins by examining the veracity of the historical documents pertaining to Jesus, including the accounts of historians antipathetic to the Christian movement Josephus, Tacitus, and Pliny and the summarized biographies of Jesus that appear in Acts and other letters of Paul. However, the four gospels receive the majority of Barnetts attention. He identifies the process by which the words and works of Jesus found their way from the source into these earliest written accounts.
Throughout, Barnett reveals time and again that, based on the truth of the historical documents, there can be no explanation but that the historical Jesus was also the prophesied Christ, both in his own mind and eventually also in the minds of the disciples before he died and rose again. Astutely argued, this book is a compelling and convincing attempt to once and for all put to rest any other interpretation of Jesus, the Christ.


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Cute, simple and easy to use, our bamboo 2.75'' Small Salt Box has an easy slide-off top that rotates a full 360 degrees and has enough space to store spices and other items!
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|Country of Manufacture: China
About the ManufacturerTotally Bamboo was started several years ago by Tom Sullivan and Joanne Chen while they were trying to manufacture customized director chairs. While building the chairs they came across the idea of using bamboo, an extremely strong but also very light material. This gave them the idea to use bamboo for various household products and thus Totally Bamboo was born.
Totally Bamboo featured in Cook's Illustrated!
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Very happy with this purchase. I personally prefer different containers for salt and pepper.
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Pixel Power will use IBC2006 to launch lower cost entry-level and pro-AV variations of its Clarity family of SD/HD hybrid graphics systems.
The graphics manufacturer is set to introduce the Clarity 2000 SD/HD entry-level switchable-format character generator (CG), the Clarity 50 for smaller broadcasters and AV installations, and the low-cost Clarity LoGo for branding and logos.
Pixel Power said the Clarity2000 offers a rich, easy-to-use feature set with full HD capabilities for the smaller broadcaster and production facility.
Also slated for IBC introduction is a Clarity HD/SD series option for real-time 3-D animation with parametric control of elements, lighting and moves. This provides the 3-D animation capability of dedicated 3-D systems with no 3-D experience necessary. With the 3-D option, Clarity also imports complex 3-D models, including Autodesk 3-DS formats, for editing and animation with user-defined key-frames.
Clarity 50 is a cost-effective broadcast and production character generator that can be fully automated for news and data-based displays. Clarity LoGo incorporates SD and HD, including multiple layers of static and animated logos, clocks and crawls. It can be triggered via GPI, serial or Ethernet TCP/IP based automation protocols.
For more information, visit www.pixelpower.com.
NBCU Ups Ian Trombley to President, Operations and Technical Services
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German UHD shopping channel to launch via SES in September
The Co-Director of Rihanna's 'BBHM' Music Video Talks Narrative Techniques
This Futuristic Music Video Explores the Boundaries Between Reality and VR
Here's Why 'Creep' Is a Perfect Film for Netflix


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"We are organized, we are determined, and we will continue to fight this project in the courts, in the permitting process, and in the public arena. We will not let this port be built."
- Paula Williams, Co-Founder of Communities and Coal
Back in May, Communities and Coal, Dogwood Initiative and Voters Taking Action on Climate Change collectively encouraged the public and organizations to sign on to an open letter (at right) telling Fraser Surrey Docks we still oppose a new coal port on the Fraser River.
The letter, now signed by more than 3000 individuals and endorsed by 60 groups, was delivered to Fraser Surrey Docks CEO Jeff Scott in person at the Vancouver Fraser Port Authority Annual Meeting on June 2nd, but the company has not acknowledged the letter in the documents posted for the current public comment period.
That's why we've re-opened the letter and will be re-submitting it to Fraser Surrey Docks on August 21st. Add your signature to this public letter by filling out the form below. We'll continue to update the letter signatures here.
We're also encouraging people to send individual letters. This is the time that the port, as the public regulator for the permit amendment application, should be taking public comments to inform its decision. But, instead of living up to this responsibility, the port is asking people to send comments directly to the proponent.
This is unacceptable, especially given the high stakes for our communities. A coal port on the Fraser means more coal trains in our communities, it means more risk of oil spills and accidents in the Salish Sea, and it means more global warming pollution when that coal is burned. We're deeply concerned that once the Massey Tunnel is taken out Fraser Surrey Docks will want to bring longer, larger ships to Surrey to load even more coal. That's not the future we want for our region.
People deserve to know that their voices have weight in the decision-making process and these concerns will be addressed. The port and Fraser Surrey Docks need to know that local residents will accept nothing less. Use the form below to send a personal letter today and we will post it on this website instead of lost in the proponent's inbox.
See the signatories to the letter here.
See which organizations have endorsed the letter here.
See individual letters submitted on the Fraser Surrey Docks amendment here.
Despite the feedback they have received to date, neither the port authority nor Fraser Surrey Docks has addressed these major flaws in their U.S. thermal coal export proposal:
- No Health Impact Assessment
- Zero assessment of impacts along the proposed barge route to Texada Island
- No consideration of the cumulative impacts of shipping traffic from multiple existing and proposed export projects
- No public hearings or meaningful consideration of public input in permit decisions
Enough is enough. Use the form below to write a personalized letter here before August 21st to tell Fraser Surrey Docks exactly what you think of its coal port proposal.
Organizations who would like to sign our open letter
If you would like to sign on behalf of an organization, please contact us at firstname.lastname@example.com to get the process started.


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House-shaped windows of different sizes protrude from the facade of this mixed-use building in South Korea, offering clues about the "three-dimensional puzzle-like composition" of rooms inside (+ slideshow). More »
Gablepack by AND features a facade
Kouichi Kimura's Framing House
combines a home and a gallery
This Japanese family home by FORM/Kouichi Kimura Architects is arranged as a series of framed spaces, with the ground floor dominated by an art gallery and workspace (+ slideshow). More »
B.E. Architecture adds gridded glass
rooms to a Melbourne residence
Barend Koolhaas completes a blackened timber
house with a triangular floor plan
This three-sided house in a Dutch village has two blackened timber sides that flank a neighbouring property, while its only glazed facade is orientated towards an adjacent field (+ slideshow). More »
Homes near Belgium's coastline feature
ridged skins of white aluminium
Three-winged 36SML House by Levenbetts
has a driveway carved through its middle
Superkül extends Canadian farmhouse
with rusty Corten-clad block
Pre-rusted steel clads this L-shaped extension to a farmhouse in rural Canada, giving the block a burnt orange colouring that complements the red brickwork of its neighbour (+ slideshow). More »
Huize Looveld is a blackened timber house
built on the site of a razed farmstead
Strips of dark-stained timber give a charred appearance to the three stacked blocks that form this house in the Netherlands, which replaces another property that was destroyed by fire (+ slideshows). More »
DSDHA's Covert House is designed to
camouflage with its surroundings
AIA names top 10 American
housing projects of the year
The American Institute of Architects has selected its top 10 housing projects of the last 12 months, including a rusting steel residence in rural Washington, a series of musicians' cottages in Vermont and a student housing tower in Boston (+ slideshow). More »
Slatted timber screens shade poolside
residence in Thailand by Architectkidd
Faceted concrete capsule by Noborders Collective
extends a Mexican residence
This concrete pod with faceted sides and a glass facade is perched up over a courtyard, creating an extension to a house in Mexico that doesn't compromise its existing outdoor spaces (+ slideshow). More »
Make Architecture adds perforated wooden facade
to renovated and extended Melbourne house
Villa in the Czech mountains combines
perforated metal with stone gabions
A skin of corrugated and perforated metal clads this villa in the Beskid Mountains, which sits on a wedge-shaped podium with stone-filled gabion walls (+ slideshow). More »
House in rural Germany features a slatted
wooden facade and copper fittings
Casa 367 sits above the treetops
of a hillside in Argentina
The top floor of this hillside house in Argentina extends out over the treetops to offer residents a vantage point over the surrounding town (+ slideshow). More »
Pitsou Kedem's house in Israel is influenced by
its "humble and timeless" Modernist neighbours
Concrete forms influenced by 1950s architecture were combined with contemporary details for this house that architect Pitsou Kedem designed for himself and his family in Ramat HaSharon, near Tel Aviv (+ slideshow). More »
Timber-lined roof perches at an angle
on top of Chilean seaside home
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Explore the personal stories of Syrian refugees in Lebanon
Return to Kuwait: The class of 1990
24 Jun 2013 05:50 GMT | Asia, US & Canada, China, Pakistan, United States
Pakistan's umbrella Taliban movement has claimed responsibility for killing nine foreign climbers in the Himalayas, saying it had created a new wing to attack foreigners to avenge US drone strikes.
Gunmen had stormed a base camp on Saturday night in a remote part of northern Pakistan and killed nine tourists and one Pakistani guide who were part of a Nanga Parbat mountaineering expedition, police officials said.
Taliban spokesman Ehsanullah Ehsan telephoned the AFP news agency to say that the killings were intended to avenge the death of the second in command of the Tehreek-e-Taliban (TTP) in a US drone strike late last month.
"We did it and we claim responsibility for this attack," Ehsan said in the call from an undisclosed location.
"One of our factions, Junood ul-Hifsa, did it. It is to avenge the killing of Maulvi Wali ur-Rehman," he said.
"We want to convey to the world that this is our reply to US drone attacks," he added.
Rehman died on May 29 in a US drone attack on a house in North Waziristan, the most notorious Taliban and al-Qaeda stronghold in Pakistan on the Afghan border.Ehsan told AFP that Junood ul-Hifsa was a new wing set up by the Taliban "to attack foreigners and convey a message to the world against drone strikes".
Deadly raid
The night-time raid, which killed five Ukrainians, three Chinese and a Russian, was among the worst attacks on foreigners in Pakistan in a decade and underscored the growing reach of fighters in a highland region once considered secure.
Police said a 15-strong gang of attackers wearing uniforms used by a local paramilitary force arrived at about 1.00 am at a group of tents and ramshackle huts used by hikers scaling the flanks of the snow-covered 8,125-metre Nanga Parbat peak.
"The gunmen held the staff hostage and then started killing foreign tourists and made their escape," an official said.
A senior government official said a large number of security personnel had been sent to the area.
Al Jazeera's Kamal Hyder, reporting from Islamabad, said that the attack took place at a base camp, 4000 metres above sea level, for the western face of the Nanga Parbat, one of the highest mountains in the world.
He said this is the first attack against foreigners in that region and the remoteness of the area made retrieval of bodies possible only by helicopter.
Hyder said that this incident puts Pakistan in a difficult situation as the country is planning to host other mountaineering expeditions this year.
He added that since it takes two days to travel to the base camp, officials said the gunmen could still be trying to escape and have sent military helicopters for search and rescue.
Source: Al Jazeera and agencies
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