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For centuries, trade has been a crucial factor of life in China. From the ancient "Silk Road" to modern ocean trade, the flow of goods and cargo was the very lifeblood of the great "Middle Kingdom." Once, bearers traveling on foot or carts pulled by (Learn More...)
Pack it and stack it or pay the price. (Learn More...)
Build your domain to best your Rivals.
The Rivals for Catan puts you in charge of one of the two factions developing newly-settled Catan. Use your under card mix to create your own principality. Explore and settle new lands, acquiring resources thr (Learn More...)
©2015 Mayfair Games, Inc. All Rights Reserved.


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Only hotels in Franklin are listed below. Search for the cheapest discounted hotel and motel rates in or near Franklin, WI for your corporate or personal leisure travel. Discover the most favored Franklin Wisconsin hotel/motel rooms. Review the Franklin hotel list below to find the perfect lodging. We also have a map of the Franklin hotels. Group booking? Search Franklin Group Hotel Rates
Franklin Hotels & Accommodations
Next 20 Franklin Hotels > [1 - 20 of 50]
Next: See My Franklin Hotels with Pricing >

subset: commoncrawl


text: The Volcom Diamondeer Pocket T-Shirt features small diamond Volcom logo at left chest pocket and large at back. A 100% cotton t-shirt. Available in colorways as seen below. Men's sizes: SM (34-36), MD (38-40), LG (42-44), XL (46-48) unless otherwise noted. Skate Warehouse shows all colors of the tees that we have in stock. In rare cases the logo or the color pictured may be slightly different than what is shipped. Model wears a medium.


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View online
IBM Directory Integrator is a truly generic data integration tool that is suitable for a wide range of problems that usually require custom coding and significantly more resources to address with traditional integration tools.
The world is full of integration tools, so you might ask: What makes IBM Directory Integrator special?
It is simply one of the most agile, rapidly deployed, and flexible integration environments. The biggest problem is that you must see it to believe it.
This IBM Redpaper will guide you to an understanding of what IBM Directory Integrator is capable of and whet your appetite for more information.
Table of contents
What can IBM Directory Integrator do for me?
Overall architecture
IBM Directory Integrator in action
Further resources
The team that wrote this Redpaper


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AUSTIN, Texas (AP) - Trae Hannon scored 16 points and Water Valley cruised to the Class 1A Division II championship 68-44 over Laneville.
Water Valley had four players score in double figures. Kellan Kirkland had 14 points and 11 rebounds as Water Valley ( ) outrebounded Laneville 43-25. Brock Demere and Cameron Copley each scored 13.
Water Valley (29-5)was 11 of 15 shooting in the third quarter as it stretched a 30-25 halftime lead to 55-37 by the end of the third. Water Valley made seven 3-pointers.
Kendrick Anderson scored 13 points for Laneville (33-7). Dontavious Harris, who scored 30 points and made eight 3-pointers in a semifinal victory, attempted just five against Water Valley and finished with nine points.
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This single seat swing is perfect for enjoying those long summer nights! Made from canvas, the swing is accented with blues and browns and comes with two pillows for extra comfort. The bottom pillow matches the pattern of the swing and the top pillow resembles a pea pod in the brown and blue colors. The swing hangs by a single hook at the top and can either be hung on a hook on a porch or outside on a sturdy tree limb. Comes with a bag for easy transport and storage.
Other Items from Swings
Cafe Soleil Swing -
Cappuccino Stripe Swing -
Meadow Mist -
Pea Pod Swing -
Mocha Swing -
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Splish Splash Swing -
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Gingham Yellow Swing -
Home Contact Us Request Catalog Shipping Info Create a Gift Package Corporate Gifts Who We Are
Copyright © 2005 The Mississippi Gift Company All Rights Reserved.


text:
Indianapolis, IN Phone Store
Keystone Wireless
Welcome to Keystone Wireless. We are one of the best phone stores in the city of Indianapolis, IN. We offer a large variety of cellular phones. We guarantee your satisfaction.
About Keystone Wireless:
- Home of the free government phones
- Open 24/7
- Conveniently located near Keystone Avenue
Contact Keystone Wireless today at 317-924-5270.
Contact Information
Methods of Payment:


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Innovative Approaches to World History and World Geography
Thu, October 22, 2009 • 8:00 AM - 4:00 PM • Region VII ESC, Kilgore
Hemispheres, the international outreach consortium at the University of Texas at Austin, is pleased to present a day-long training session with content, curriculum, and resources for teachers of Contemporary World Cultures, World History, World Geography, and related subjects. Our sessions focus on enhancing your background knowledge of Latin America, the Middle East, Russia and Eastern Europe, and South Asia. Bring your toughest questions!
Presentations will include our curriculum unit, "Explorers, Traders, and Immigrants: Tracking the Cultural and Social Impacts of the Global Commodity Trade" examines eight global commodities from their points of origin and the social, cultural, political, and economic changes they wrought along their way. Each case study covers the initial discovery of and/or access to a commodity, its progress from local good to international trade, the ramifications of large-scale production, and the drama of its boom-and-bust cycles through the years.
We'll also explore "Restoring Women to World Studies," our newest curriculum unit that uses primary documents to examine women's lives and roles in current and historical contexts in Latin America, the Middle East, Russia, and South Asia.
Attendees will leave with a copy of all of our FREE curriculum units for their own use, including "Explorers, Traders, and Immigrants," "People and Place: Curriculum Resources on Human-Environmental Interactions," "Understanding Migration: Curriculum Resources for the Classroom," and more!
Hemispheres provides free and low-cost resources to supplement the teaching of world studies in K-12 classrooms. Hemispheres is a consortium of the Teresa Lozano Long Institute of Latin American Studies, the Center for Middle Eastern Studies, the Center for Russian, East European and Eurasian Studies, and the South Asia Institute in the College of Liberal Arts at the University of Texas at Austin. For more information, visit our Web site: http://www.utexas.edu/cola/orgs/hemispheres/
For registration information, log on to the Region VII MIS and search for session 021090, or contact Cheri Hood.


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Wednesday, December 26, 2012
© Copyright 2015 Gwinnett Daily Post
Since most of the leaves have fallen off deciduous trees, mistletoe infestations are now visible. The plant is sometimes used in Christmas decorations. An old Christmas custom exists that when two people who meet under a hanging piece of mistletoe are obliged to kiss. It began centuries ago in Scandinavian countries. When two enemies met beneath the mistletoe in a forest, they would lay down their weapons. They would not attack each other until the following day. Despite its folklore, mistletoe is a parasitic plant that is detrimental to trees.
Mistletoe plants are either male or female. Only the females produce fruit. The berries are small, sticky and are white in color. They appear from October to January. Birds feed on the berries and excrete the seeds on to tree limbs. The birds can consume the berries without harm, but the fruit, as well as the rest of the plant, is highly toxic to people. After the mistletoe seed germinates, it develops a root-like structure that penetrates into the tree.
Trees in good health normally can tolerate small infestations of mistletoe. Individual branches with the parasitic plant may weaken and eventually die. However, trees that have suffered environmental stresses, such as drought and construction damage, or afflicted with another pest infestation, can decline and die as a result of the mistletoe.
The question arises: What should be done if a tree is infested with mistletoe? One of the important things to do is to remove the mistletoe before it produces berries and spreads to other parts of the tree or to other trees. The procedure of mechanically pruning out infected branches is one of the most effective ways of controlling it. Remove the infected branches back to where they begin on the tree or back to lateral branches. Cut at least one foot below the point of infection. If the mistletoe is growing out of the main trunk or a major limb and cannot be pruned, cut it back flush to the stem or trunk. Then wrap the area with a few layers of black polyethylene plastic to keep light out. Secure it with rope or twine. The mistletoe will eventually die. However, this may take several months.
Special chemicals are sometimes used to control mistletoe. They are highly toxic, and only licensed pesticide applicators can apply it. They are applied to dormant host trees causing the shoots and leaves of the mistletoe to fall off. The control is temporary. It will eventually re-sprout, and the chemicals will need to be re-applied one or more times before the mistletoe is destroyed.
For the removal of mistletoe from large trees, only trained professionals should attempt the task. Specialized equipment and expertise are required for the safe, effective control of this parasitic plant. You should consult with a certified arborist first to determine the exact extent of the infestation and its impact on the tree. A list of certified arborists and tree care companies can be found through the Georgia Arborist Association website at www.georgiaarborist.org.
Timothy Daly is an Agricultural and Natural Resource Extension Agent with Gwinnett County. He can be contacted at 678-377-4010 or firstname.lastname@example.com.
More like this story
- DALY: Mistletoe can kill trees that have suffered environmental stresses ( December 9, 2010 )
- Mistletoe can be potentially harmful to trees ( December 25, 2008 )
- Gardening in Gwinnett: Mistletoe can be potentially harmful to trees ( December 25, 2008 )
- DALY: Certified arborists can help trees in trouble ( May 25, 2012 )
- DALY: Many pine trees are being troubled by bark beetles ( December 7, 2011 )


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Spring break 2011: Sun and fun Monday in Port Aransas | VIDEO
PORT ARANSAS - College and high school students, families, locals and visitors alike cooled down the drinks and heated up the grills on Monday as they made themselves at home on the beach, some with recliners and couches.
The first weekday of the weeklong spring break party looked as if it might be a rainy one, but by noon the sun was out and so were the crowds as trucks, cars and RVs lined Mustang Island.
Justin Landry, 18, and his friends from Texas State University packed into a truck and headed to Port Aransas with plans to stay through the week.
"This is what's it all about," he said wearing Mardi Gras beads and a cowboy hat. "Just having a good time and hanging out with friends."
Up and down the beach groups gathered around oversized trucks, blasting music, dancing on car roofs for hours and mingling.
But Port Aransas police officers said they didn't have too many problems Monday.
"We're mostly dealing with minors in possession of alcohol, and people trying to drive after drinking," said Jeremy Stewart of the Port Aransas Police Department.
It's Stewart's first time to work a spring break but he said it's not as wild as some think.
"I've heard this isn't as crowded as years past, so I think it will stay under control," he said.
Officers showed a strong presence Monday up and down the beach, pulling over vehicles, helping stuck motorists and detaining minors who were drinking.
Michelle Hackett of Austin who came with relatives including a young niece and nephew said she was glad for the police presence.
"They've done a good job of keeping things in order," she said.
Allen and Ginny Eubanks were among the few who planned to make work from others' play.
The Eubankses, who fly a flag with the words "can man" from their truck, spend spring break collecting the cans to sell.
It puts money in their pockets and keeps the beach clean, he said.
"We call it our retirement fund," Eubanks said.
While the visitors came in all shapes and sizes so do their accommodations — condominiums, beach houses, tents on the beach. Dean Thomas, 18, of Aransas Pass brought his own short bus to relax in.
"I picked it up at a pawnshop with my dad," he said.
Thomas and friends outfitted the yellow bus with a sound system, making it a gathering spot for bystanders.
"I just thought it would be something out of the ordinary," he said.
Spring break tips
Remember to purchase a beach parking permit for $12 if you plan to drive and park on the beach.
Leave the glass containers at home.
Bring the sunscreen. Today's forecast is partly sunny, with a high near 73.
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Infographics are in right now. Our major Canadian news stations and papers – notably The Globe and Mail and CBC – use them to communicate information on a seemingly daily basis, bloggers and social media folk love them, and the business and professional world is increasingly using the infographic as a way to communicate to their employees and stakeholders. Some may say that this is a tool representative of our generation and culture, what with our need for information that is available instantaneously and understandable in minutes. Or a sign of our technological times – while in days past a graphical representation of information would have taken a painstakingly long period of time to create, we're now able to use software and tools to create infographics quickly, accurately and easily.
Yes, some may say these things. But are they right? First, the idea of images being able to communicate complex or lengthy ideas has been around and appreciated for eons – as Ivan Turgenev wrote back in 1862, "A picture shows me at a glance what it takes dozens of pages of a book to expound". Second, are infographics really that easy and accurate? For basic information – yes, I'm sure they are. However, for infographics seeking to explain the relationship between complex ideas or variables, I'm not so sure. While attempting to make this information clearer, infographics may have the opposite effect, making the connection between ideas or variables more difficult to grasp, or in some cases, leading to lost meaning.
One example that both impresses me and leaves me slightly wary is The Common Good Forecaster. This interactive infographic, developed by the United Way and the American Human Development Project, allows users to graphically see how various economic and social conditions would change as educational outcomes change – for example, how increased high school or college completion rates can 'forecast' improved health outcomes (e.g. obesity or life expectancy rates), financial outcomes (e.g. poverty or unemployment rates), and community involvement outcomes (e.g. voting rates).
While the tool is neat and the results interesting, the methodological description of how this tool was developed calls the accuracy of the data into question. On a more philosophical note – can something as complex as the relationship between education and health, or education and community involvement, be captured in a series of graphs? And lastly on a decidedly political note – will those who hold the real power – policy makers – use tools such as these to make decisions regarding educational initiatives, or is the point to create awareness and advocacy for change at a community level? And if so – is such a technique effective, and will this tool galvanize those that need to be galvanized?
On a completely different note, I can't think of infographics without remembering CBC's coverage of the last federal election. While the graphical representation of voting results was helpful, the reliance on infographics and social media was at times annoying and distracting. It seemed at numerous points during the coverage that Peter Mansbridge was having difficulty reporting on the results while also keeping track of the various graphs and charts that were being thrown on numerous screens surrounding him – sometimes with the wrong information.
While the ability to communicate information in new ways is obviously a good thing, it seems to me that it's absolutely pertinent to examine not just what is gained, but what might be lost as well.
Masthead photo courtesy of Steve Punter


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Below is the poem entitled Portrait of Esther and Mike which was written by poet
DeBole. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
Read Poems by
Gail Debole
Started writing: 1996
Finished writing: March 2012
Note: Inspired by my friend Mike
There once was a woman named Esther
Whose feelings were known to quite fester
Unless her lawn-mowing guy
Cut her lawn down to size
So her lawn and spirit were not mess-ters.
As long as Mike was her lawn-mowing man,
Sweet Esther was his biggest fan.
But once Mike could not mow
Her lawn and dismay did grow
Cutting down her lawn-mowing plan.
Some say that her lawn grew so high
That her lawn grew right over the sky.
Grew over airplanes that zoomed,
Birds, and hot air balloons,
'Til the man in the moon was green-eyed!
Note: Part of the Portrait Collection


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This project examines a large scale renovation project within a 500 unit, 1960's era subsidized urban housing community. The development comprises low-rise and mid-rise structures both of which exhibit exposed concrete frames with uninsulated masonry infill walls. The renovation project has a particular focus on indoor environmental quality and energy performance. The nature of occupied rehabilitation necessarily limited the scope of work implemented within apartment units. This research focuses on the airflow control and window replacement measures implemented as part of the renovations to the low-rise apartment buildings.
For additional information about the Castle Square Deep Energy Retrofit Project, click here.
Download Complete Document .pdf


text:
No eBook available
The Nazi Doctors and the Nuremberg Code : Human Rights in Human ...edited by George J. Annas Edward R. Utley Professor of Health Law, Medicine Michael A. Grodin Associate Professor of Philosophy and Associate Director of Law, and Ethics Program both of the Boston University Schools of Medicine and Public Health
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Rent and save from the world's largest eBookstore. Read, highlight, and take notes, across web, tablet, and phone.
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text:
Mark Your Calendars – Pineywoods Youth Football League Registration For 2012 Season Starts In August
I started playing football at a very young age, and I think it's great for teamwork skills! If you have a child aged 10 or 11 (must be under 12 by September 1st) interested in playing football, the Pineywoods Youth Football league is a great place to get started. Come by the Boys & Girls Club Of Lufkin on August 30th and 31st from 6pm - 8pm with your child's birth certificate and payment.


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Tags pop, alternative rock, dub, electronic dance, new wave
Artists Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Bat for Lashes, Andrew Bird
May 01, 2010
Twenty-two tracks including music by Andrew Bird, Bat For Lashes and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.
Photo cred:
Let me go by thebetsybeast
indie rock, hopeless love, alternative, sad love songs, when it's over
The two hardest things in life to say are hello for the first time and goodbye for the last. by thebetsybeast
I hope you can learn to be happy one day.
end of things, goodbye, indie rock, love and sadness, breakup
Where to now, babe? by thebetsybeast
Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night.
indie rock, hard love, confused emotions, alternative, indie
Goodbye is such a terrible word by thebetsybeast
For those separated by distance but hopelessly in love.
alternative rock, pop, long distance relationships, long distance love, indie


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ManageEngine® SQLDBManager Plus
Monitoring Capabilities
SQLDBManager Plus provides proactive measures by notifying database and system administrators about potential problems that could compromise database performance. This database server monitoring tool has the ability to connect to the database source, process any query received in the database, monitor various system parameters, collect data, etc. and also notify through alarms, if the database system properties are beyond a given threshold value. In addition to this, it also monitors MS SQL system resources such as memory utilization, CPU utilization, etc.
For all databases, data collection happens by establishing a JDBC connection and executing queries to collect the data.
|Note: Learn how to create / add Microsoft SQL Database Servers. Apart from the monitoring MS SQL databases, you can monitor your own custom database queries and custom WMI metrics
Key Features
Release Notes


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Posted at: 12/27/2012 9:33 AM
CROSBY, Minn. (AP) - A 28-year-old man is accused of entering a Crosby house on Christmas Day and stealing their gifts.
Crosby Police Chief Kim Coughlin says police responded to a residence after a report of a burglary in progress at 7:05 p.m. Tuesday. At that point the suspect ran out with Christmas presents in hand.
The Brainerd Dispatch reports (http://bit.ly/WTcDxU) he was apprehended hiding near another home.
Coughlin says some presents were recovered when the suspect dropped them while fleeing.
Information from: The Daily Dispatch, http://www.brainerddispatch.com
(Copyright 2012 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.)


text:
Natural Power and Energy constructed a 599 kW solar parking system for Banner Health at its Corporate
Center in Mesa, AZ.
When National Bank of Arizona decided to purchase their second corporate solar system, they turned to Natural Power and Energy for turn-key design and construction services. The result was a 403 kW landmark solar system at their Tucson headquarters.
Solar Piranha is an electrical bonding and mounting device used to install solar modules.


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Giant Bombcast 07/28/2015
Become Premium to Watch
This re-release seems unnecessary at first glance, but the conclusion of Kratos' journey serves up a level of spectacle that remains impressive in 2015.
Her Story is a bold and largely successful experiment in interactive crime fiction.
Rocksteady's gorgeous-looking third Arkham game refines its open-world format a bit and lets you drive a whole hell of a lot of Batmobile.
Game »
consists of 1 releases.
Released Sep 24, 2002
The homeworld of Humanity, and a popular vacation destination for galactic travellers in-the-know. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy defines Earth as "mostly harmless."
King of Planets, Jupiter is the largest planet in the solar system. Around it orbits a host of smaller objects, some of which rival or exceed many of the terroid planets in size.
The fourth planet from the sun, it's proven a popular location for the demons of hell to vacation. Mars is best known as the setting for the Doom franchise as well as being an actual planet in our solar system.
Mercury is the closest planet to the sun and is found in many video games such as Blast Corps and Buck Rogers: Countdown to Doomsday
Neptune is one of the planets in our Solar System
Space, the Final Frontier, the focal point and main location of space faring games, from Asteroids to the Mass Effect series.
The Moon is Earth's only natural satellite and the fifth largest moon in the Solar System.
Uranus is one of the planets in our Solar System
Venus, the second inner most planet in the solar system.
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text:
Click Here to Watch the Whole Video in HD at Cocky Boys
It's Hotter in Southern California: Kyle Majors Cocky Boys! The Men are hotter in Southern California: COCKYBOYS.COM
Conceived as a Follow-up to the Highly Acclaimed Series a Thing of Beauty, This New Series Is Designed to Explore and Intertwine Both the Sexual and Creative Energy of Both the Filmmakers and Performers.
meet Justin: a True Southern Boy With a Big Heart, a Beaming Smile, and a Strong Passion for Music. He Lives His Life the Same Way He Plays His Guitar--on the Fly. Along With Colby Keller and Duncan Black, Justin's Version of the Perfect Day Is Collected Into Simple Pleasures In Life. and From That Perfect Day He Creates a Perfect Song, Sung Around the Campfire With Friends and Lovers. (note: the Music You Hear In This Film Is a Result of a Collaboration Between Justin Matthews, Jake Jaxson & Rj Sebastian, as All There Worked to Create Both the Mood, Energy, and a Sound Track to a Life Well Lived.)
kiss•hug•fuck•love Showcases Harmony In Its Many Forms, Celebrating the Natural Moments That Occur From the Power of Three!watch as These Confident Young Men Strip Aw
Pixels: 320X240 | Bitrate: 350K
Pixels: 640X480 | Bitrate: 700K


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‹ Exit photo gallery
Meet Comet Ping Pong's booking maven, Sasha Lord
How a professional Girl Scout turned an out-of-the-way pizza joint in Northwest D.C. into a live music hub.
In September last year, Sasha Lord left her full-time job as a field director for the Girl Scouts in Prince William County and was hired to book bands at Comet Ping Pong, a neighborhood pizza bar and concert venue just south of Chevy Chase on Connecticut Avenue.
(Photo: Joshua Yospyn/TBD) fullscreen mode


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The Lega took action after the 22-year-old was subjected to "racially discriminatory chants" by a section of Nerazzurri fans at the San Siro, while several supporters were seen waving inflatable bananas towards the Italy international.
A statement published on Gazzetta.it confirmed that Balotelli has also been fined 10,000 euros (£8,600) for directing a vulgar gesture at the Inter fans when leaving the pitch at the final whistle, with Milan receiving a 10,000 euro fine for unveiling "insulting banners".
Inter were recently fined 20,000 euros (£13,200) when a section of fans were heard singing racist songs about Balotelli during a Serie A match against Chievo.
The Lega statement explained that Inter had been issued with the heavy punishment as certain fans were observed directing "shouts and chants containing racially discriminatory expressions to a player of the opposing side" on five separate occasions.
Inter also fell foul of the authorities for unveiling four separate banners insulting Milan players, with a laser pen being shone onto the pitch in the 75th minute.
Milan were also fined as fans unfurled a banner mocking their former striker Antonio Cassano, now with Inter, who had life-saving heart surgery while playing for the Rossoneri.
Balotelli was later praised by the management of both sides for keeping his cool during the match, which ended 1-1, but he was adjudged by the Lega to have directed an undisclosed insulting gesture towards the Inter fans as he walked towards the players' tunnel.
The events of Sunday's match marked the third time Balotelli has been the victim of racism since his return to Italy after spending two-and-a-half years in England with Manchester City.
Inter president Massimo Moratti apologised when a section of his club's fans sang racist songs about Balotelli during a league victory over Chievo, but Milan's own management had already made an embarrassing public blunder.
Milan vice-president Paolo Berlusconi - the younger brother of club owner Silvio - was filmed at a political meeting in Monza near Milan describing Balotelli as "negretto della famiglia" - translated as "the family's little negro".
That came just four weeks after Silvio Berlusconi praised midfielder Kevin-Prince Boateng for walking off the pitch after he was racially abused during a friendly against Pro Patria.
Tuesday's announcement follows news that Lazio could be facing the prospect of playing a home Europa League tie behind closed doors after UEFA charged the Rome club over the behaviour of their supporters for the fourth time this season.
European football's governing body confirmed it has charged the Rome club over the "racist behaviour" of their fans during last Thursday's 2-0 win over Borussia Monchengladbach as well as the "throwing of missiles and or fireworks" and "insufficient organisation".


text:
Land Without Jews
The Republic of Haiti was a land without Jews except in myth and memory. There was no congregation and no cemetery, but there were a few visitors. There were some visiting American Jews, two Israelis. There was no community, no rabbi, no shared life—this lack was nothing strange to me. I had lived all my life with no Jewish community, no Jewish leadership except habits dimly revealed in my family, no religious life. These habits, and their presence in my father and mother, must have given me the connection with the past we all need to survive. My father was a man mysterious to me, though reconciliation is a kind of understanding and we reconciled. An avenue of blood was my link with history, and as I came back to him in time, I also go forward with my children into the history of the future.
The barrenness of history without connection became as demanding as hunger or thirst. In Haiti I began to search for the Jew in myself, and it began as something little more than a fantastic paradox—to find Jews in the land without Jews. Even in this desolate Caribbean island, suffering from so much poverty and isolation, its Christianity smudged over by voodoo, there remained an imagination of Jews; for me and, as I learned, for others.
In the rank, oily harbor of Port-au-Prince glistening black boys dived for coins, frantically turning like playful dolphins for the pleasure of the tour ships. The smoke of charcoal fires lay over the white heap of a city built on hills like Naples, Haifa, and San Francisco. The lizards played up walls and across ceilings, darting after flies. Beneath the surface, the town was sleepily insomniac, drinking coffee and rum-cola to stay awake, but to see it as a tourist was to see frantic commerce, subtle sexual gaming, a struggle to stay alive and feel vivid in the heat.
What was I doing in Haiti? The traditional or curriculum-vitae answer would be: interested in the meeting of France and Africa, lecturing about literature under U.S. study grant. The oedipal or psychoanalytic answer would be: bored with marriage, desiring to break the habit of suburbia, wishing to ease wife's spirit by providing distraction and cheap servants. The deepest answer is that my childhood dreams are always with me. I can fly. I can find perfect love. I can do what I choose to do, be what I choose to be. In the hunt for buried treasure (in which I nearly died of malarial jaundice), in adventures among white magic, black magic, and harsh strangers, I could discover the possibilities of that harsh stranger which was my self. And following along, grinning at me with big teeth, was the devil of a question from my earliest childhood: What is a Jew and why am I this thing?
Stand far from it, stand close. No matter; answer the question. I sought the answer along with power, love, and riches. Those things would do until the truth came along.
I shipped out as a scholar assigned to the Université d'Haiti. The school of music in those days of 1954 consisted of one professor, a Cuban guitarist whose sister was the "petite amie" of the Président de la République. The university was a complex of termite-ridden wooden buildings, barracks, and gingerbread houses, but Haiti had an adequate medical school and of course the usual crowded school of law required by French tradition. There was a steady stream of anthropologists come to study voodoo, village culture, and the marketing system. In the countryside, another synonym for white man was "anthropologue," just as a Haitian educated abroad was known in Creole as "oun masters-of," indicating that he was no doubt a Master of Something-or-other from Columbia University. I happened to be a white master-of.
Haiti divided the peoples of the world into three races—black, mulatto, and white. An occasional Oriental visitor was just another rich white man. The real and practical social discord, between black and mulatto, was oddly played against an abstract historical world warfare between Haiti and everyone else outside. A few Haitians believed, as did one of my friends among the coffee-drinkers of the Cénacle des Philosophes in the village of Kenscoff: "Haiti is the third force. After the United States and Russia destroy civilization, Haiti will make peace between them."
"Ah!" said Monsieur Bonfils, single pedagogical finger uplifted. "Perhaps with the aid of China!"
I discovered an odd new condition in Haiti. I was first of all a white man without qualification. Coddled or resented, teased or accepted, I was a member of the group called "blancs," a name which included all foreigners. Nothing is pure on this earth, of course, and even black Americans—foreign is dominant—were commonly called "blancs." And a rich black Haitian was often transformed by Haitian optical nerves into a mulatto or a "griffon" or one of the hundred-odd other classifications for someone with mixed blood and complicated skin, nose, hair, lips. And money.
The dentist, the market woman, the Haitian bureaucrats were missing something in their definition of me as white like all other whites. But there was no Jewish community, no Jewish life. Even the most primary and final sign of Jewish history, as of all histories, was lacking—no Jewish cemetery, no Jewish place in a cemetery. A Jew might run and hide, history is full of that, but the cemetery remains, or the place where the cemetery once stood, or the memory of that place. None. No graveyard, no place, no memory of a place which never was. And yet, as it happened, even here, in this lovely, forsaken corner of the world, Jews had come out of hope, desperation, and in one case at least, perhaps simple curiosity.
Before I found the traces of Jewry, I found the anti-Semites, refugees from their crimes, a Gestapo informer from Paris who became my good friend and companion ("Get me into the States, can't you? Surely you can!"), and a Pétainist colonel in exile. Odd to meet the evidence of my own history first in the form of its enemy, the fascist exiles biting their nails, biding their time in a backwater of time. And then I found Haitians like my friend Jean Berlin, a handsome engineer and traveler, tall as a Watusi, with a cackling hysterical laugh when he described the origin of his distinguished Roman Catholic family: "Berlin! A Jew from Berlin came here to trade in coffee! He left a family of brown coffee merchants in Jacmel, in Jeremie, and another wife here in Port-au-Prince, and now Bairlin is a fine old Gallic name for a family croyant et bien-pensant, all of us married in the cathedral. I'm the only one who tells the truth, my friend."
He knew nothing of being Jewish except that his rebellion against the conservative old family consisted in saying. Yes I am. I am! As sign of the double view of knowledge he urged his son to convert—"Too late for me," he said—to Protestantism.
Through my friend Berlin I met an accountant, a morose black man with a degree from a school of business in Philadelphia and a mania for recounting the days of his persecution there. Restaurants, doormen, professors, women had all treated him like a Negro—"Moi qui est Haitien!" he cried. Except in the purgatory of Philadelphia, he despised Haiti, the peasantry, and the Jews; and his name was Cohen. When he confided one evening that the Jews are at the root of all the trouble in Haiti and the world, I said to him what an American or a European would have known without being told: I am a Jew. He looked at me blankly through his red-rimmed eyes, as if he had never seen one before. "And you, with your name," I said.
"My grandfather came from Jamaica!" he shouted.
"You must have had a Jewish grandfather in there someplace," I said.
"You're making that up! . . . How did you know?"
"Cohen?" he asked. To him Cohen was the name of a Catholic Haitian accountant. I explained that the Cohanim were priests and he was descended from priests and princes.
"Priests don't have children," he said irritably.
"Do you really think Jews caused all the trouble in Haiti?" I asked.
"No, not all," he said, "but the wars, the world wars, they touch us, too."
There was a secret black ledger between his consciousness that he had a Jewish ancestor and his desire to provide an explanation for trouble and sin in the world. I could torture him with facts, brutalize him with my own history, but I could never change his accounting and put Cohen, the Haitian accountant, in touch with Cohen, the man with an ancestor who did not start the line in Jamaica. He had horn-rimmed glasses, owlish eyes with reddened conjunctiva, pock-marked black skin, and a Jew-hating heart which was only stopped a moment from its need by the information, which he knew already, that his name meant something grave in his past. He was not descended from an infinite line of Jamaican mulattoes. Someplace back there in the accountant's genes wandered a Jew.
"Priests don't have children," he mumbled, "but of course princes do. That's just a theory you have, however. I studied the Jews very carefully in Jamaica and Philadelphia."
"If you knew more about the troubles of the world," I told him, "you'd be safer from them."
"J'en ai eu, des difficultés."
"Try to learn what they come from."
Not safe, but safer. I didn't add the maybe which would only confuse a black Roman Catholic Cohen in search of clear definitions.
There were others like him, of course, good Mass-going Haitians with names like Goldenberg or Weiner or with Sephardic names. The legend of Jewish ancestry might make some of them giggle, but it was even more fantastic and unreal than the feudal French names of other Haitians. The Duc de Marmalade was one of the courtiers of the mad emperor Faustin Soulouque, and the hamlet of Marmalade, reachable by burro, still exists in the jungle center of Haiti. Faustin the First (there was no second or other) named four princes, fifty-nine dukes, ninety counts, two hundred barons, three hundred and forty-six chevaliers. Later the deputies and senators also became barons. Massacre and forgetfulness have ended most of these lines.
In Jacmel, a tiny town on the sea with an unpaved Grande Rue and traffic jams of black Haitian pigs—which are as skinny and speedy as dogs—perhaps once a week a police jeep scattered them, flailing dust—and a pension, telephones and electricity which rarely worked, the look of a spoiled African village—in this place, Jacmel, I found a Jewish tailor. There were a few of the elegant carpentered Haitian dreamhouses in Jacmel, floating above reality like a magic vision, but Monsieur Schneider lived in a dwelling only a step above the caille-paille, the country hut of mud and straw. He did his work on a hand-treadled machine out in the dusty street, his head tilted on one side to favor his good eye, his joints swollen and his body twisted by arthritis. He was old and wore hand-sewn rags, like many other Haitians, but the rags were sewn into the blurred shape of a European shirt and a suit. It was too hot for such formal etiquette. He was one of two or three white people in the town. In the air around him, like the insects and the animals—the little black Haitian pigs that ran and even barked like dogs—eddied the members of his extended family, the mixed African and Semitic, some dark and some light, children and adults, wives and grandchildren.
With no authority but our common color and my knowing his name, I spoke with him, first in English. No English, but he understood that I was asking if he was a Jew. Was I? Yes. Out. A flood of Yiddish poured out of his head. I spoke no Yiddish. He looked at me as if to doubt my sanity. A Jew I said, and spoke no Yiddish? He tried Creole. We settled on French, which he spoke in a Yiddish accent, with Creole words and phrases. He believed I was what I said I was, for otherwise what gain could there be for either of us? He was a shriveled old man, kicking amiably at the grandchildren—children?—playing about the treadles of his Singer machine. The treadle was cast with scrolls and Art Nouveau symbols in iron polished by his bare feet. To do honor to our conversation, he slipped his feet into sandals soled with sliced and shaped tires and sisal uppers.
He did not have the look of a man who asked deep questions, but he stared at me from his one good eye. "What's a Jew—?" he asked.
I had no answer until he finished the question. "—doing in Jacmel?"
His face, shriveled against sunlight, shriveled by age, blotched and deeply freckled, looked like a dog's muzzle. "Why is a Jew living here?" I asked him in return.
"My home," he said. "Living? You call this a life? My wife is dead. I have another wife. My children and grandchildren."
"Would you forgive my asking how you happened to settle in Jacmel?"
He pumped furiously at the machine. He was fixing a seam, a simple matter, but he gave it all his concentration. Then he looked up and squinted around at me. I had moved so he wouldn't be staring into the sun and he winked at so much consideration, Jew to Jew.
"Jacmel," he said. "And where else is there?"
Jeremie, St.-Marc, Cap Haitien, Port-au-Prince, Port-de-Paix—that's all.
"Were you Polish?" I asked him.
"So were my parents. Why didn't you go to the United States?"
"Ah," he said. "Because I wanted to learn the French and Creole languages, c'est vrai?"
"Non," I said.
"Because,"—and he spread wide his arms—"I had adventure in my heart?"
He put down his cloth, he stood up, he was a tiny old man with one dead eye. He put his face close to mine, pulled at the lid of the dead eye as if he were pulling at a piece of excess cloth, and said, "I went to the Ellis Isle, maybe your father did too. But he didn't have a sick eye. At that time it was infected from the trip. They sent me away. And then I wandered, no place to go, so instead of killing myself I came to Haiti."
Stupid to be oppressed by sadness and a sick eye from a generation before I was born. "I'm sorry," I said.
He started to laugh. It was not the dry, fearful, old-man's Jewish laughter of my uncles in Cleveland. It was a rich, abandoned, Haitian old-man's laughter. He clutched at his pants for luck. "You see these children? You see all the beautiful brown Schneider children in Jacmel? Many died, my wives often die, but look what I have done. I have proved God is not malevolent. He let me live, He let some of these children live. God is indifferent, but perhaps I have shown, not proved, but demonstrated that He is not malevolent."
"If you believe, God is not evil, merely all-powerful."
He put his face down, he reached in his pocket for a cube of sugar and held it up to my face. "If He were all-powerful, then He would be evil. He could not allow what He allows. Coffee? You like Haitian coffee? Marie!" he shouted into the caille-paille. "Café pou l'blanc!"
I drank coffee with the tailor and his new wife, who said not a word as she sat with us. He sucked cubes of sugar and drank his coffee through them.
"I have a few books," he said, "but I was never a scholar. My uncle was a rabbi, I think my brother was going to be a rabbi, but—" He shrugged. "I never found out what he became. You're not a rabbi?"
"It's not so ridiculous. I heard once there are rabbis who don't speak Yiddish."
"I don't speak Hebrew, either."
"Then you couldn't be a rabbi, could you? But you speak other languages."
I wanted to give him answers and ask questions, but we drank coffee and made tiny conversation. We were two Jews speaking a mad polyglot in the town of Jacmel, which few people visit, even if they live in the nearby villages of Carrefour Fauche, Bassin Blue, or Bainet. Jacmel is the end of the world with a dusty street and a crowd of people. He didn't offer to show me about the village. We sat in his portion of the street in front of his door. His arthritis confined him to his sewing machine and his house of wood, mud, and straw. His house had a floor of hewn slats; it was not just a caille-paille. His wife watched us with mournful eyes, as if I would take him away from her, but time was taking him away faster than I could. We had little to say across the many years and many lives between us except to give each other greetings in the town of Jacmel.
When I said goodby, dizzy with coffee, he stood up painfully and I saw a small thin bent brown man, a creature neither Russian nor Jewish nor Haitian, something molded in time's hands like a clay doll. He put out his hand and said in a cracked voice, laughing at the peculiar word he must have pronounced for the first time in years: "Shalom !"
I would return to Jacmel to try to learn what living in this place meant for a Russian Jew, but although I did come back to visit, I was still only a tourist. A few years later there was a hurricane which devastated the village, and now, fifteen years later, I wonder what of Schneider's mark on life can still be felt there. Has one of the mixed-blood Schneiders learned to sew and use the treadle? Have they scattered? How many survive? No matter; he had many sons and daughters; something of Jewry has surely been sown in this corner of Haiti which is forsaken, like the rest of the world, by an indifferently fructifying God.
It seems that I had gone hunting for Jews, but in fact I was unaware of my desire. I was busy with wife and children, living under peculiar conditions—we kept a lizard in a cage, warning burglars of what our magic could do to them; I was writing, reading, floating, studying, learning about Haiti and Haitians, not about Jews. I was drifting and lazing with an island's self-sufficient isolation.
But when a Jew happened, I was alert. It was an odd nostalgia which chilled and awakened me; I didn't know why. I know why: it returned me to myself.
I met the old Russian Jew Lazaroff living with his Haitian wife and his library on the mountain leading from Port-au-Prince up above Kenscoff to the Forêt des Pins. He was unused to speaking with visitors, and it was a skill he didn't need anymore. He gave me coffee; he smiled without speaking when I looked at his books and said, "I've read that. . . . I've read that one. . . ."
"Please, if you would like to borrow?" he said at last.
"No, thank you, I have enough books. You've been here long?"
"Long," he said.
"You plan to stay very long?"
"Forever," he said.
He shrugged. "That's not very far away."
I met the French Calmann who had suffered under Hitler and chose not to suffer under the Soviet occupation of France. "If that happens," I said, "Haiti won't be safe, either."
"Haiti will be safer," he said stubbornly. "This time I've done all I can."
These flight-obsessed men, cutting their losses, limited their gains to nothing but survival. They served their time on earth as a dizzy bewilderment. Then it happened that I came to know Shimon Tal, the fisherman, who had more than survival in mind.
There was a small colony of foreigners attracted to expatriation in this dreamy corner of the world by island ease, drink, isolation, or porous laws. They could live with eleven-year-old girls or drink Rum Barbancourt, smoky and rich as brandy, or buy the police for whatever odd quirks or against whatever odd crimes they may have committed elsewhere. It was a good place to hide the self, and perhaps, in voodoo, excess, and wildness, even in odd new disciplines, also a place for finding selves. There were plenty of local fishers of souls, and plenty of souls to be fished—often, of course, the fishers and the fish were identical. Doc Reser, the retired Marine sergeant, was now a voodoo priest; a wild white pelt on his chest, much drink, little wily red barroom eyes; and old Dan Cassidy, once a fashion photographer in Paris and New York, who collected all his wives from one family, marrying the girl, divorcing her when she turned fifteen, looking toward her younger sister, trying again, one more good shot for true love; many others. There were the international bureaucrats, United Nations study groups, American military missions, Jesus missionaries, Belgian and Breton priests, chic Episcopalians, CARE officials trying to keep the milk away from the weevils and the politicians, researchers on detached service from the Katherine Dunham dance troupe, entranced addicts dug into a good connection, sly advisers and profiteers, apprentice white gods, retired white gods, a Swedish geologist looking for gold, oil, tungsten, or hemp—anything salable, aging Greenwich Village ladies who loved black men, or at least hoped to be loved in return, a few winsome homosexuals, political exiles with a purchase on the police, escapees from Devil's Island, and of course the wandering students and anthropologists who wore castoff World War II clothes and were forever looking for an authentic voodoo ceremony, finding a staged one. And settling for an authentic cockfight.
A lovely high-living international lady named Shelagh reminded me, with only the slightest touch of malice, just enough to keep awake in the hot season, that I might like to meet a fellow Jew. He was a United Nations fishing expert, an Israeli, and she described him as weathered and quiet as a farmer. "I like him, he's funny. He pretends he's asleep all the time because he's, you know—shy?"
I'd heard of that.
She had met him at an obligatory meeting for a UN official; he was hiding from the foreign colony. The notion of a shy Israeli of Middle European ancestry teaching this island people to fish made me smile, too. Maybe he wasn't shy, only embarrassed.
I didn't find him at any United Nations or American Aid drinkfests, but eventually we did meet. I was visiting the Damiens agriculture station outside Port-au-Prince. His Haitian "counterpart" (trainee), Monsieur Gerard, a gleaming, very polite graduate of the Damiens school, hung at his elbow as if his every motion gave hints about the puzzling folkways of fish. The counterpart might learn how fish bit and bred, swarmed in schools and took to the rushes, by studying this white man's gestures. We toured the ponds—carp, tilapia, fry, mature fish—and Tal explained about protein starvation and the bounty which could be provided by the sea and also by rivers, marshes, ditches, and ponds.
Then he asked to come to visit us. When he did, without Monsieur Gerard and his thermometer, grain samples, and Hebrew-French phrase book, he looked like just another lonely middle-aged Jew, far from home and missing his wife and children. His face was sunburned and peeling; there were broken capillaries, sunburn upon sunburn. Pale smile lines radiated from corners of eyes, corners of mouth. It was a face of hard work and abstract conviction. His family waited on the kibbutz back home. He was doing this service and he would use his pay to buy an earth-mover. In Israel he had built ponds to raise fish—pisciculture was a new word to me—refining the techniques taken by Yugoslavs from the ancient Chinese. And now here he was also planting tilapia, the African shmoo-fish, in the streams and ditches, besides constructing a few experimental carp ponds for venturesome Haitian businessmen.
"They are a wonderful people. They are so beautiful. But there are certain problems—" And he shook his head over the difficulties of organizing fishponds and threading a way through bureaucracies in Haiti. "But they are a beautiful, wonderful people."
He meant the perfume of Haitian women, the great gold hoops of earrings, and the sliding, enticing walk of those women. There were wonderful things in Haiti. A sensual walk served not to clean the ponds, or keep the spry safe from the voracious frogs, or feed the grains into the stream at the proper steady rate.
"—a wonderful, wonderful people, anyway. But they don't know anything about fish."
He was lonely and I was married, with small children in the house, and thus he became uncle, grandfather, guide, and patron, in return for a place to sit and talk about Israel. "We can learn from these beautiful, wonderful Haitian people," he said. "They know how to dress so beautiful. They can sit and do nothing and smile so. We need to learn some of that, too."
In the meantime, Monsieur Gerard, his colleague, learned to plant fish in the ditches, flooded fields, and waterways. I traveled with them by jeep into the markets of Les Cayes, St.-Marc, Jeremie, Jacmel, and up the mountain from Port-au-Prince to Kenscoff—pine and eucalyptus, a sudden spring in the perpetual humid August—and everywhere now tilapia could be bought for a few pennies in the marketplace. Tilapia is a stubborn little African fish which grows eagerly in salt, brackish, or fresh water, in ditches, streams, rice fields, ponds, and puddles, breeding handsomely everywhere, provided only that the water remains warm. It had not existed in Haiti; Tal brought it from Africa. Planted occasionally, it grew throughout the island. Tal guessed that the fish, installed near the mouths of streams giving onto the Caribbean, had been carried to the mountains by birds; or perhaps eggs had clung to the birds' wings and then been dropped in mountain sources. The upstream magic of fertility.
We stood in the market at St.-Marc and looked at some cooked fish in a pan. "Combien?" I asked.
"Deux cob."
"Que-est-ce que c'est?"
"Poisson juif."
They had never seen a Jew, but somehow they knew by the "telejiol"—telemouth—that this fish was to be called Jewfish. In another village it was called poisson Israélite. And in another poisson Assad, because it had been found first in this locality on lands belonging to a man named Assad, a Lebanese. The telejiol works like magic—but not perfectly.
Tal played with my children, counseled my wife, told us his troubles, and said to us: "Someday you will visit us on the kibbutz." Amid the drums of voodoo ceremonies, the crazy golden age of Haitian prosperity—generals in Eisenhower jackets tailored in Jamaica, much aid from elsewhere—it seemed odd to remember the nation of of Jews far away and for which this man longed. "It is not so much luxury, but it is nice," he said. "If they let us live, you will see swimming, culture, fine things. This could be a beautiful, wonderful country, also."
I took ill with malaria and he sat by my bed. I thought I would die, but he was smiling and so I knew I would live.
He told me about the other Israeli in Haiti—Schwartz, a tomato farmer. He was a Jew who called himself an Israeli, and therefore Tal considered him what he said he was, though he spoke no Hebrew. He grew tomatoes with cheap Haitian labor. He planned to ship them to Florida. He would get rich on delicious little year-round Haitian tomatoes. He borrowed money and took the necessary uniformed military Haitian partners. They grinned at sharing with him. Sometimes they came to inspect the fields and took a bite from a tomato and when the juice ran down the lovely front of the Eisenhower combat jacket, an aide ran forward to wipe.
Suddenly there were new taxes. Why new taxes? Schwartz wanted to know.
Taxes, everyone knows about Haitian taxes, but Schwartz didn't know. It was a game they played with foreign businessmen—not Brown & Root, not the big companies from Texas, but with the tasty little innocents like Schwartz. Schwartz didn't know what he was doing.
However, if he increased the balance of the partnership, an arrangement could be made about the taxes. How to do that? A colonel, squeezing deliciously into a tomato, little pink seeds on his chin, suggested that his share be doubled.
"But twice 50 per cent is 100 per cent!" cried Schwartz.
The colonel made a lightning calculation. "Yess," he said.
"That leaves nothing for me!"
The colonel's lips bubbled fresh tomato juice. He agreed. Yess.
"Impossible, impossible!" Schwartz wailed.
"Possible," said the colonel, a resourceful mathematician.
Schwartz found himself one midnight being awakened by gentlemen in a police Buick. He finished the night in jail. He passed a few more days in this place. A Haitian jail is as bad as a Syrian one, especially when a man's partner is not only an army colonel, but also a police colonel. A Syrian jail might be worse, but a Haitian jail is bad enough.
Tal found the correct channel for the money and got him out. "Go home, not to America," he said. "Son, you're not a tomato rancher. Don't try to do something you can't, such as raising tomatoes in Haiti."
"I'm not really an Israeli," said Schwartz, "It's very complicated."
"Well, be one. It's your last chance. You're no bargain, Schwartz."
Tal sat by the bed in which I was recovering from malarial hepatitis, smelling the damp ticking of my mattress, and told me that the poor fellow was just a confused Jew from middle some-where-else who thought he could purify his soul with tomatoes and dollars. He had a tattoo on his wrist. A survivor, but a war casualty. Tal shook his head mournfully. "The trouble we get into," he said. "In Israel it's different. Different trouble. I don't think we can make anything with Schwartz, but he's tired. He thinks all you have to do now is grow the tomatoes. He should go home to rest."
It was tempting to make the Israeli fishing expert the bearer of my hopes for a Jewish hero in life and a Jewish community on earth. And I surrendered to that temptation and hope. Amid the smell of mangoes and wood-smoke, the hot winds of black history, the humid simmering of Port-au-Prince, I had found a few black, Roman Catholic, voodooesque Jews. The traders of a hundred years ago, a hundred and fifty years ago, yesterday, had wandered so far, trying their luck, and died after planting their brown Cohens, Goldenbergs, Weiners, Levis, Schneiders, on this forgotten island. In the mulatto population of Haiti there were also French, Germans, Danes—one family of beautiful coffee-colored girls with Scandinavian faces, finally achieving the smooth tan which Danish women always want—and gloomy Poles from the village of Casals. And Jews. Who? Whose?
Where do I ever find them?
Wherever I am. Within myself.
Where is that?
It was in Haiti just then, amid the descendants of, among others, the gloomy Poles. But also there was the beautiful Dr. Goldenberg, plump, brown, diplomée from the Cornell Medical School. "They use makeup," Tal said. "They walk so. They dance so. Our women can learn from them even now," said the man who disseminated the Jewfish. He would have liked his daughters on the kibbutz to learn the secrets of Creole grace from the languorous doctoresse, Felice Goldenberg.
To fix in the mind a good man is a difficult task. What do you remember? Kind smiles, a habit of amiable judgment? Heroes make extraordinary sacrifices in moments of danger, but Tal merely took friendship from me and gave his own in return. He was a good man, and what I remember after the fish-farmer's love of fish was his joy when they spawned in a tricky pond. "Look! There will be good spry!" And that he watched the beautiful Haitian girls avidly and in all innocence. The desire to find small perfections in womankind and in nature constituted the hope in his loneliness for country and family.
The persistence of Jean Berlin, his grin, shrewdness, secret knowledge, his handsome roars of Haitian laughter: "I'm the only one in the family who remembers. Of course, I'm a Catholic like everyone else." Delighted and maliciously elated because of his grandfather from Berlin. "I know, I know anyway."
My friend Cohen, the anti-Semite, who found a business to suit his temperament. He imported Manischewitz Kosher Wine, sweet and thick, and advertised it for Saturday nights. Kosher was the magic word he blandished, magic first of all for himself. He understood the Haitian tradition of fear of the white stranger and longing for his potency; the mysteries of the alien people had formed his own disturbed soul. Fountains of youth and aphrodisiacs have always been popular in Latin and Caribbean places. The anti-Semite, Cohen, felt pleasure surge through his body at the menace and promise of the Word. He would profit from it himself. "Kosher!" screamed the newspaper announcements. "Guaranteed to be kosher! Try it and see! Try it tonight! If it doesn't turn out to be kosher, your money back!"
The tailor in Jacmel with his bad eye and his attendant court of brownish children, squatting in the dust of a dying colonial town, dying forever, dying for many generations, dying forever and persisting in life. He sat by his machine and we groped for our few words of Yiddish and finally spoke French and Creole with each other. Two Jews in Jacmel, finding Creole their common lanugage for saying that they have a nostalgia for a town they had never seen, Jerusalem.
Haiti was a land without Jews, no rabbi, no place of worship, no community, and yet one Jew, Shimon Tal, made it a Jewish place for me. In the cemetery there were Jews buried, with crosses over their graves.
When I recovered from malaria, I wanted to go with Tal to Jacmel to meet old Schneider. "I'm waiting for that," Tal said.
We took a jeep, bucking and churning over the rocky dry streambeds into the isolated village. I asked myself how the squinting Jewish tailor, dry as a pod in the sun, survived that Haitian male vanity which leads every man to seek to be the coq du village. Well, for one thing he seemed to have most of the children of the town. He rode with the vanity. He removed himself into himself, and observed his children, blood of his blood, growing their own souls, compounded of Schneider and of Haiti. And old as he was, teasing with me, he had touched his own balls for luck against the stranger.
Suddenly dust, chickens, speedy black pigs in the road, and the leaning nightmare craziness of Jacmel. I expected to see the tailor sewing in the street, as I had first seen him. But it was an overcast day and maybe he was indoors. "Où est Monsieur Schneider?"
"Pas conne," said a child, and ran away. I was sure it was one of his sons. He stood as far away as he could, giggling and shouting, "Pas conne."
Of course he knew.
"Où est Schneider?"
In his house, open to the street, the sewing machine stood dusty on a base of slats in the corner. He had died and was forgotten—weeks dead. He had died and was not forgotten. There was a ceremony that night for the rest of his soul.
In the hounfor, the temple outside town in the brush, an all-day ceremony was going on, three drummers urging the congregation into a whole series of voodoo possessions by the new god Ibo-Juif. Tal and I strolled over. Evidently Ibo-Juif was a happy god. The celebrants were drinking the blood of a bull recently slaughtered, catching his blood in pans laid at the slit belly. Gleaming mulatto boys, all named Schneider, danced about us, with firm tiny erections after so much excitement and laughter. It was slaughter and homage for the disappeared tailor from the Ukraine. His Haitian family danced, seeming to climb in the air, hauling invisible ladders after them as they climbed, and only the shriveled morose wife sat exhausted by her weeping in a corner of the zinc-roofed shack. Waves of drumbeats swept over her grief. The boys grabbed their genitals for luck and consolation in the time of the death of their father.
Tal and I stood silent. Then Tal's lips were moving. He ignored the need for ten men, he ignored his own atheism. He was murmuring the prayer for the dead. Later I told him he should have held himself at the groin in that all-purpose Haitian curse, blessing, and reassurance of power in the midst of ultimate powerlessness.
We returned to Port-au-Prince almost without speaking to each other except for the necessary collaboration of the road. I stood in a stream to guide the jeep forward over a mud bank; Tal showed me how to spin a jack tool when a tire blew out in a stretch of dried ruts. By the time we reached the outskirts of the capital—market women, dogs and chickens and pigs in the road, peddlers, the mobs of hungry-eyed children staring with dead sugar stalks in their mouths—we could talk of other things. His family, my family, fishing, the Artibonite dam project which would stand as an uncompleted ruin when the Magloire government fell.
"You will visit me at Nir David?" Tal asked. "We have found a Roman mill. Underground waters which was tapped maybe three thousand years ago. Were tapped?"
"You will come to see with your family?"
"I don't know," I said.
He was hugging the wheel of the jeep with both arms. "You are thinking about it?" he said.
"Haiti is enough traveling for awhile. The Jews of Haiti are keeping me busy enough."
He looked at me puzzled, the sweat running in rivulets through the dust on his face, and then realized that he knew enough English to understand me correctly. He smiled broadly. Haiti has no Jews.
I learned in Haiti that to be a Jew required nothing at all (I was well equipped with that). And this ignorance led to a powerful understanding, that history really exists and therefore I am a part of it, and there is no oblivion anywhere but in death, no salvation anywhere but on earth. It seemed unfair to abandon lonely men to that lonely place, the kingdom, empire, and republic of Haiti, but fairness played no part in it, for them or for the starved children on the road. That Jews had always been there and left their mark was nevertheless a profound comfort to me. The continuity of suffering is a paradoxical form of reassurance, but it can happen like that anyway. It was possible to survive anyplace; it is necessary to survive somehow.
As Haiti became a land filled with Jews, so my heart was filled with the sense that I was no different from those lonely men who would die on the mountain at the edge of the Forêt des Pins, or had already died in St.-Marc or Jacmel, or in the erosion of time as their sons forgot who their fathers were. Their sons do not forget; or if they do, nature does not, which shapes them; and if nature does, history finally does not.
Reconciliation also brings practical joys. My tradition, Cleveland and Jewish, would not let me populate Haiti with ghosts and spirits; that would be superstitious and a waste of a good education; and I could remember how my mother always wanted me to be another Jewish doctor, and then contemplate with my new genetic eyes, with my mother's passion for medical degrees and my friend Tal's for erotic good sense, the luxurious walk of the mocha-colored doctoresse, Felice Goldenberg.
When I left Haiti a few weeks later, I had troubles in the customs house with an officer who wanted to put mysterious taxes on my belongings. He was that cool official, known the world over, who makes others sweat. The sun beat down murderously on the zinc roof; fingers turned slimy as I tried to fill out forms; he knew exactly what he wanted and the heat could not touch him. Amid the shouts, groans, and shrieks of stevedores, the dust and reek of the port he remained calm, wearing military khakis and a khaki tie with a question mark embroidered on it. My wife asked him what was the question and he answered: A blanc will never know. Même pas une blanche."
He grinned and showed his teeth and his charmed face looked as if it knew it could open up and send the flies reeling in his life's sweet breath. I argued for my rights against the taxes he had invented on the spot, export duties on my own shirts, inspection duties, impôts de passage. I called out the names of my friends in the military, in the government. Finally he shrugged and said, "Give me half of the tax."
"No, that's ridiculous."
"A third."
"Then ten dollars," he burst out, "for my time which I have wasted on you! I've got to get something from you now." And he grabbed himself for magic against defeat by a foreigner.
I felt evil myself for beating him down so fast. It was too easy. Yes, now I would give him a ten-dollar bribe, and hope that all my suitcases got on board.
It was not difficult to offer him the money. It required no special envelope, slyness, or tact. During my year and a half in Haiti I had learned the basic techniques. Take money from pocket, hold it between two fingers. Recipient extends palm and pauses a moment submissively. His eyelids fall dreamily. Look nonchalant. Let bill touch hand. Hand closes; the heat of two bodies shimmers invisibly; it is an incomplete communion, celebrated through the intermediary of abstract work and goods in the form of cash.
Tal was there to bid us goodby and Captain Prosper said, "That is why I make things so easy for you. Monsieur Tal has brought us the poisson Israélite."
"Thank you very much," I said.
"You are also Israélite?"
"He is an Israeli. I'm an American."
"The Republic of Haiti declared war on Germany twenty-four hours before the United States. Good thing you did, however, you North Americans. And the Republic of Haiti voted for Israel in the United Nations—I know my history—though it is said that certain Zionist agents purchased the vote of Haitian diplomats. Alas. The foreign service was corrupt in that period—"
I had heard the story.
He opened the door courteously, and we stepped out of the cookery of the customs shed (zinc roof, heat reflecting crazily, like scooting mites across the eyes), out onto the wharf, where the gang bosses' screams of abuse replaced mechanized loading equipment. Captain Prosper fingered the raised question mark on his tie. "One of our first visitors was a Jew," he said. He grinned happily. "Christopher Columbus." And roared wth laughter. The ten-dollar bill stuck out of the pocket of his veston Eisenhower. "Columbus brought syphilis to the island, destroyed the Carib Indians, and made room for civilized Dahomey people, also Ibos, also Yorubas. Personally, I happen to be descended straight from an Abyssinian prince, and we go back, as you probably know, through Sheba to the King of the Jews."


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Two gene variants discovered to affect susceptibility to dengue
Researchers in South East Asia have identified two genetic variants that offer clues to how the body responds to dengue infection.
The study, funded by the Wellcome Trust and the Agency for Science, Technology, and Research (A*STAR), Singapore, compared genomes of about 2,000 children with severe dengue against population controls.
Changes in the DNA code within two codes – MICB on chromosome 6 and PLCE1 on chromosome 10 – seemed to increase a child's susceptibility to dengue shock syndrome.
MICB is known to play a role in the body's immune system and variants of this gene may affect the activation of natural killer cells or CD8 T-cells, two types of cells that play a key role in combating viral infection.
If these cells are not properly functioning, the body cannot entirely fight off the dengue virus.
Mutations in PLCE1 have previously been linked to nephrotic syndrome, a childhood disease characterised by impairment of the normal barrier and blood filtering functions of cells in the kidney.
Researchers believe mutations in PLCE1 could result in leakage from the blood vessels, which is consistent with dengue shock syndrome.
The findings are published today in the scientific journal Nature Genetics.
Professor Cameron Simmons, senior author of the study from the Oxford University Clinical Research Unit, Vietnam, said: "Our study confirms epidemiological evidence that some people are naturally more susceptible to severe forms of the disease than others."
Dengue is globally the most common mosquito-borne infection after malaria, with an estimated 100 million infections occurring annually.
No clinically-approved vaccine or specific treatments exist for the disease.
http://health.asiaone.com/Health/Health percent2BMatters/Story/A1Story20111017-305550.html
Category: Health


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Pengrowth, Paramount Fall on Oil Prices: Calgary Mover
June 25 (Bloomberg) -- Pengrowth Energy Corp., which has lost more than 40 percent of its value this year, and Paramount Resources Ltd. fell along with other Canadian oil producers as crude dropped below $80 a barrel for a third day on concerns a sluggish global economy will cut fossil-fuel demand.
Pengrowth, based in Calgary, fell 5.3 percent to C$6.20 at the close in Toronto, the lowest since Mar. 11, 2009. Paramount declined 6.5 percent to C$22.30, the lowest since Nov. 17, 2010.
"If you believe that the world economy is shrinking, which most people probably believe, then it's not a stretch to imagine that the rate of growth and oil demand is decreasing," Eric Nuttall who manages C$90 million for the energy fund at Sprott Inc. in Toronto, said in an interview today. "Supply this year is likely surpassing demand."
Oil for August delivery declined 0.7 percent to settle at $79.21 a barrel on the New York Mercantile Exchange after George Soros warned that a failure by European Union leaders to stem the region's debt crisis may spell the demise of the euro. Futures are down 20 percent this year.
Ithaca Energy Inc. fell 15 percent to C$1.56 and Blackpearl Resources Inc. dropped 8.9 percent to C$2.87, the lowest since July 6, 2010. Baytex Energy Corp. slipped 2 percent to C$39.69, the lowest since Nov. 5, 2010.
To contact the reporters on this story: Jeremy van Loon in Calgary at firstname.lastname@example.com; Katia Dmitrieva in New York at firstname.lastname@example.com
To contact the editor responsible for this story: David Scanlan at email@example.com


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Intense, Plum, Fig, Medium-bodied
Mendoza, Argentina- Medium-bodied with a dark purple color and complex nose of plum and fig framed with floral notes. The well-balanced palate shows ripe dark fruit with the right amount of acidity ending in a long lasting finish. This classic wine pairs well with Osso Buco.
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Lucky dragons...
Apple to launch 'Red Friday' one day sale in Asia to celebrate The Year of the Dragon
Apple is set to hold a sale across Asia to celebrate The Year of the Dragon. The sale will start on January 6 and will last for one day only. As with all Apple sales, you will not know what the sale covers until it actually starts.
Customers in China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Thailand, Singapore and the Philippines are eligible for Apple's one-day sale, which the company is calling 'Red Friday', offering a range of accessories, gadgets and software — as well as some Apple Store exclusives.
Apple apparently sees Asia as a major growth market with China having the largest draw due to its huge population. Apple will look to boost sales and develop its brand by having promotions to match key dates in the Asian calendar.
Source: TNW
Have something to say about this story? Leave a comment! Need help with something else? Ask in our forums!
Reader comments
Apple to launch 'Red Friday' one day sale in Asia to celebrate The Year of the Dragon
Will this apply to online shopping on your Apple stores?
The Philippines isn't on Apple's Red Friday list! You got my hopes up for nothing, tipb! Next time double-check your sources -- or check Apple.com first.


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HOME NFL Buffalo Bills Gear Buffalo Bills Sweatshirts & Fleece $40 to $60 (28 items) Product ID: 1159851
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Poor David Wright.
He looks so sad, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
That's been how he's looked for the entire Alderson Era, in fact.
Gone the puppyish glee, the eager bounce to his step.
These days he looks skyward, beseechingly, and sadly walks back to the dugout.
Then he checks his bank account.
No worries!
He's made his choices.
So, yeah, I don't feel sorry for David Wright. He saw the plan, and as far as I can tell it looked like this:
We give you a s**tload of money!
David saw that and was like, "Wow, that is an awesome plan! Sign me up!"
A lot has been said about this "face of the franchise." Young, talented, handsome, pure as the driven show. Yeah, maybe.
But actually I think it's his new face that fits the franchise even better.
Confused, lost, disappointed, self-pitying.
But like Jeff, and Fred, and Sandy, David Wright knew enough to take care of #1.
Don't worry about any of those guys. They'll be fine. They made sure of it.
To be clear, I'm not against David Wright. I'm against feeling sorry for David Wright. Sad and depressed, he has truly become the face that best represents the entire New York Mets franchise: A great thing squandered, flushed in Flushing.


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Thanks again to both of you.
I picked up a 1TB Western Digital Essentials Edition and it is working great (300GB partition for Wii). The only error I've run into is Tiger Woods 10, which had Error 002 - however I found an option in USB Loader GX for Error 002 fix and ran it.
It is definitely nice having all my games on the hard drive.
I was reading through your post here:
You say disc updates shouldn't be a problem, but is there anyway to block the system update, besides remaining vigilant? Will the preloader with the hacks.ini do that? (Can I even install that preloader since I already have Bootmii?)
With Bootmii if I backup my NAND will it undo bricking?
I know I can't do Starfall since I'm not on 3.2.
I can'ta nswer your question about preloader. I think it's the devil. And as for the Bootmii, i'm 99% positive the answer is yes. But again, i'm far from an authority on that.
However, it's impossible, 100% impossible to get a backup loader to run an update. Even if you time warp 5 years from now and find a disc with sysmenu 8.0 on it. Your backup loader wont load it.
The only way you should ever be presented with an update is if you go online and have it check.
I CAN also tell you that r14 will load nands from an sdcard. Which means, hopefully in the future, no one will ever actually modify their Wii's actually nand other than installing r14. All other modifications you make will be to the nand you store on your sdcard. So if you haven't installed preloader and bootmii and all that business, i'd just forego it and wait out r14. It's supposed to be released this weekend.


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On behalf of the Department of Art, I am pleased to welcome these fine artist-teachers to Moravian College. They bring a wealth of talent and knowledge to enrich our students. This display showcases their personal work, a mix of styles, subject matter, and media. We are fortunate to have them on our staff and to have this opportunity to present examples of their artistic endeavors.
--Dr. Rudy S. Ackerman
Chair, Department of Art
Hurd Professor of Arts and Humanities
William Hudders is teaching Two-Dimensional Design, Fundamentals of Drawing and Painting, and Independent Study. He received the M.F.A. from the University of Pennsylvania and the B.F.A. from Rhode Island School of Design. He states: "My work is primarily derived from the images and sensations one sees in everyday life . . . I was surprised to find that the depiction of everyday reality was consistently challenging and unpredictable."
Barbara Kozero, teaching Painting I, received the M.F.A. from the University of Wisconsin at Madison and the B.F.A. from Tyler School of Art, Temple University. Her whimsical mixed media pieces demonstrate her belief that "my influences have also valued humor as an important aspect of art . . I delight in rich colors, textures, and detail. When I work, I look for the unexpected and hope for the spontaneous."
Dana Van Horn is also teaching Painting I. His background includes the M.F.A. from Yale University and the B.F.A. from San Diego State University. Displayed are acrylic and watercolor figurative works. He says of his work, "I paint people because they are to me the most important and compelling subject matter."
Douglas Zucco, teaching Drawing II, received the M.F.A. from the University of Georgia and the B.F.A. from Kutztown University. He has also offered several paper-making workshops at Moravian College, and his mixed-media pieces incorporate hand-made paper as well as other techniques. He states: "My work is puzzle-like and compartmentalized . . . The best part of creating these works is the mystery of what's coming next."


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GTA 5 Cheats: Explosive Melee
Published 1 year, 10 months ago by Bryan Dawson
The cheats for Grand Theft Auto 5 recently leaked and Prima Games is here to give you the hook up! It's time to add a little bit more swagger to your punch with some explosive melee attacks. Check out the video from our YouTube channel. You won't be able to unlock trophies and achievements, but it it's worth it for explosive punches!