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Monday's Five Things to Know Before 5April 2nd, 2012 at 3:15 pm by Hawa Konte under 5 Things, Latest Posts
The ABQ Biopark is in mourning, NCAA Tournament coming to an end, lottery helps a group of firefighters and more in Monday's Five Things to Know Before 5.
5. Zoo keepers say Lina, a Western Lowland gorilla at the Albuquerque BioPark, died Friday.
4. An Albuquerque fire fighter is facing his biggest battle yet this week, but he already has a little luck on his side thanks to the Mega Millions Lottery. Five fellow fire fighters at Station Eight struck gold winning $10,000 in the lottery. From KRQE.com: Check your lottery numbers>>
3. The city of Albuquerque is holding a city council meeting Monday night at5 p.m. where they will discuss issues ranging form curfew by minors to plumbing fixtures.
2. Kentucky has the best players. Kansas has the most heart. From the first practice in October to the final cutting of the nets in April, that's how the two teams remaining in the NCAA tournament have made a name for themselves. The teams will meet in the championship game Monday night at 7 p.m. on KRQE News 13.
1. A gunman opened fire at a Christian university in California Monday, killing at least seven people, law enforcement sources close to the investigation said. Police say they have a suspect in custody.
What's happening tonight: KRQE 13 and 2 KASA Fox TV programming schedules
What's coming up: KRQE.com Community Events Calendar


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Is your OneCard missing?
Lose your wallet and chances are your cash may be gone. Lose your OneCard, report it using the
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New healthy vending machines have been placed in the Burdick Hall lobby, 1st floor of the University Union, and the 2nd floor of both of the Liberal and Fine Arts buildings!
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subset: commoncrawl


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One less thing for the Knicks to worry about. On to the next player signing.
Not sure if this was common knowledge or posted already, but it's being reported that J.R. Smith is likely to re-sign with the Knicks for 4 years at a little more than 5 million a year rather than test the free agent market and possibly cash-in for more with another team.
Here's the story I saw:
[Only registered and activated users can see links. ]
Apparently, part of the agreement is likely to be for the Knicks to also sign J.R.'s brother Chris again. This part of the move is either shady or savvy, depending on what you think about J.R. I suppose.
My take on this deal, if this story is true, is that it avoids a smaller scale version of the Lin mess from last year and gives us at least a little stability going into next season. There is no way we'd get as good a player as the 'good' version of J.R. Smith for a little over 5 million a year. The continued variable is going to be how much of the 'good' J.R. Smith is going to show up once he's got an extended deal.
One less thing for the Knicks to worry about. On to the next player signing.
Real Talk
The haters gonna hate this move after his playoff performance but it's the right move if JR is willing to sign with the Knicks rather than test the FA waters.
The Knicks could have gambled that he wouldn't have drawn any interest because of his playoff performance and because there a lot of good FA wings on the market this year that JR would have to pick up his player option but I think he had a good enough year to warrant giving him a new deal.
JR is a great athelete and a talented shooter as but as a doctor I wonder if he has all his marbles or at 27 is just immature. Babe Ruth could drink and hit home runs...so could Mantle and Martin play hung over. Obviously JR 's escape to the brew was psychic pain for game 4 against the Celtics and all of it's reprecussions. For JR to become a great player he must make players around him better and must get his shots in the flow rather than his behind the back dribbles and step back jumpers exclusively. I agree with the previous post that this would be if happens for 5 million a good signing.
Smart move by the Knicks. 6th man of the year as low as 5M a year...That's value for the buck right there...
U guys are all Morons who think this is a good idea..........A player dictates who we sign and who we dont sign ????
Remember last year how Knicks got JR for cheap.....I do not remember a single team offering him a penny more or any contract,,,,,,,,JR was not offered more money last year....
Look How good Kenyon Martin was for us...NO TEAM would offer him even a 10 day contract....
NYers me being a lifer always seem to think we pulled the wool over someones eyes can got a great deal....
Sign me and sign my brother,,,,,,,,,,,,,Just what we need is a locker room of 2 smiths when we could not even handler JR....
The dude elbowed terry, Went put partying, Played instagram with Rihana and most of all Sucked in the Playoffs again....
wait till he resigns and he gets to demand playing time for his brother....or when JR's minutes are reduced should make for a a warm fuzzy locker room...
And then lets talk about how IF eh changes this or Changes that he will be much better...
HE IS WHAT HE IS ......As every NBA player says the playoffs is where players play their best.....JR LOOKED CRISP DONT U THINK
Grrizzlies was Rusty after 4-1 Spurs was just after 4-2 with GSW
Spurs also won 2 games vs OKC but then lost 4 and lost .
It about chemistry in team and he is fastest guy after Shump in this team.
Keep both brothers away from the team.
The only stability this add, is in stabilizing the NYK's future as a 1st or 2nd round playoff exit. Dollars are precious, especially when you have a playoff team that's locked into big salaries already.
And that ain't even what's the worst about the deal: it just adds more cement to the NYK's fatal flaws of culture and chemistry. Okay, you wanna build a team around Melo, you need to do so in a very specific way if you want to be a real contender. This is another reason he ain't no Lebron, no Wade, no KD, etc.
Melo is a bit of a complicated superstar, can we all agree? The debacles of him playing alongside STAT (especially a healthy STAT) and Lin, being coached under D'antoni, his days in Denver, etc......Can we call a spade a ****in' spade?
Melo is still a superstar, and I do think you can win with Melo as your #1. I think he is a punk and don't like him personally, but I admit he can be a true #1, and even on a winner. When his game is on, and he is in the right situation, outside of Lebron there is no player in the NBA I'd rather have. But not when Woodson is your coach, not when you bend over for Melo's stylistic wishes, not when James Dolan gives him the keys to the franchise, and not when you surround him by guys like JR.
JR playing even for free would be detrimental to NYK chances of building a true contender.
It makes me wanna throw hooks to people's bodies when I think of NYK being bounded out of playoffs in 2nd after struggling to get past a Boston geriatric hospital team.
Also, this is actually why Melo deal all way back when was weak. It wasn't that we gave up so much (though Dolan got fleeced, if you compare to what BK gave up for Deron Williams). It was because it didn't put us on a clear path to a chip.
Melo > STAT. But STAT became an awkward role player, even when health, ever since Melo has stepped on same court as him. I don't blame Melo for this, bc it is what it is. It's Dolan's dumbassery #1, and the reality of who Melo and STAT are #2.
Now we're locked into paying max for a shell of STAT, and have locked in players around maxed out Melo who play to his flaws.
The NYK need a legit brilliant coach to reign in Melo, and maximize him the a team with him. I don't believe Melo will be a part of a true winner in the NBA unless he has a Jackson-like coach on board. Melo will never make a coach look like a genius, and better than he really is (mark of a true upper tier superstar, IMO).
NYK need max flexibility right now, and to do things to help Melo succeed and thrive, while correcting flaws. Re-signing JR does not do this. It is true that Melo doesn't have a ton of quality help on the NYK -- but this is partly his fault, and either way, it needs to be corrected.....not by moves like this. And i fear it won't happen as long as Woodson-Dolan-Melo dynamic is in play.
JR, another Woodson boy.
[QUOTE=DrB;271697]Agreed they all would be great additions at what price. BTW I saw Zack Randolf ...the multi million dollar man score 2 points yesterday as the SPURS made the Grizzlies look their J.V. JR had a great year...and stunk up the playoffs along with CHANDLER, Felton's FABULOUS game 6, NOVAK who burnt his ass on the bench....talking to CAMBY ,Q RICH, BALLONE, ....and J KIDD whose season ended before the PLAYOFFS BEGAN. I will take 27 year old JR who has learned alott about life this post season.[/QUOTEL
Last year JR against the Heat was awful in the playoffs...then got into a sparring match with Fans through tweets.
so this year our 6th man award winner :
Elbows Terry for no reason and get tossed. Knicks then need to play without him and Lose.
Then JR comes back and plays terrible.....We find out he was out the night before partying...
Lesson is if you elbow a player and get suspended make sure your first game back that you are out the night before till 1 am plus. The JR plays and continues to shoot incredibly poor and does not drive to the hoop.
Lesson learned all season if JR drives to the hoop he is much more efficient but he decides to not take that route.
Then in the 4th quarter of an elimination game with 2 seconds left on the shot clock he loses his man and the Pacers get 2 easy lay-up.....
at 27 you are done learning if you are an NBA player......Yes at 23 you can say potential but at 27 no.....
Woodson will be JY's B_itch and soon JR;s brother will join that..........
I believe there is no team in the NBA who will offer JR 4 year 20 million dollar contract,,,,,,,Jamal Crawford makes 5 million is JR a bargain at 5 million.....Nate wont get 5 million I would rather have him...
OH YEAH....Our special bargain is we get JR's brother that no team wants to sign as a Knick and we get JR to continue to shoot 16 shots a game......
WTF do you not see


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|Re: Ask a question
|mirfak (Authenticated as mirfak)
|January 28, 2013 at 9:41:03 AM
|Reply to:
|Re: Ask a question by Billina
1. no. I had two years of high school Spanish, which is now just a few words.
2. Realistically, German. I'm not sure why it attracts me. Seems the most learnable to me.
Unrealistically - like if I had amazing language learning ability and guaranteed enough longevity to make it worthwhile - Mandarin, because it'd be really cool to learn about China in Chinese language, and because the language itself is just so different that I think it'd be mind-expanding.
- mirfak
|Because this message is archived you cannot respond to it.
|Messages in this thread:


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MEElectronics | In-Ear Monitor | $ 79.99
MEElectronics really has established themselves as a company that can produce IEMs that sound great without the need to break the bank. The A151 is a classic MEElectronics model, one that I previously reviewed. The A151p is the mic'd version of the IEM. For whatever reason, some of the issues I had with the original seem to have disappeared despite being the very same IEM. The A151p proves to be a sonically strong IEM with its sweet signature
Drivers: Balanced Armature
Frequency Response: 20 Hz – 18 kHz
Impedance: 27 ohms
Sensitivity: 111 dB
In the Box
MEElectronics A151p
Silicone Tips (Single Flange: S/M/L, Double Flange: L, Triple Flange: L)
Carrying Case
The A151 have a very unique housing design that seems to be specific to MEE only. It's one of two over-ear only designs that is employed by MEE, the other being the M6 fitness-targetted IEM. The A151 offers a shape that looks very odd, but looks great when inserted into the ear. The color scheme is monochrome with a flashy chrome accent that has the MEE logo silkscreened directly into it. The design is something that really works for the A151; it proves to be one of my favorite IEM designs of all time.
Design: ★★★★★
The signature of the A151 is a classic sweet signature that has linear bass response while have a midrange focus with strong vocals and lighter treble. The signature is one that is employed quite a bit and very successful. The midrange vocals may be a bit too focused for a few people though.
The A151 has a nice bit of bass to it that seems to be quite linear with a roll off that may be a little earlier than I'd like. The sub-bass can lack presence at times and find itself in the back seat. Overall, it's got a solid texturing, but doesn't really carry fluidity to it. The impacts are nice and strong while the mid-bass punch keeps everything tight and controlled.
The midrange has a slight focus on it that can come off as aggressive at times. The detailing and its retrieval is very well presented though. Clarity is something that the A151 focuses on, and it does it in a way that is anything but discrete. Vocals are probably one of the stronger focuses of the A151 allowing them to pop out with strong power and clarity; the energy up top really allows them to stand out. At times, they may seem like they lack lushness though.
A treble focus is something that the A151 doesn't have. The lower treble has ample presence, but is strong with detailing and extension. This allows for accurate reproduction of snares. However, that's where it really ends for the treble. The upper highs can splash every now and then, but they definitely aren't the strongest. Detailing is OK, but separation is great. They don't extend too far into the spectrum unfortunately.
Audio: ★★★★½
The build quality of the A151 is probably one of the best I've ever seen. The new A151 does ship with MEElectronics' redesigned case that protects as well as its old one. The case has a single pouch inside for accessories or something like an iPod Shuffle. The case itself will do its job and protect the IEMs when not in use.
The housings on the A151 are made out of a polycarbonate. Unlike most plastics though, this one feels nice and firm with a good thickness to it. This quickly translates over to a pair of housings that feels very solid and strong. A nice, large, and angled strain relief comes out of each of these housings to reduce stress on the cable.
The cable on the A151 have always been one of my favorite cables ever made. Lots of companies have a twisted cable, but none of them feel like the A151's. It's twisted design makes the cable feel much stronger without the need to actually thicken it. The design also allows the cable to be flexible and malleable without tangling at all. MEElectronics did a great job cabling the A151, I hope that they decide to use this cable in some of their future products.
The headphone jack, however, is probably the weakpoint of the headphones. The jack does have an amply sized strain relief that comes out of it. It does have a housing that seems strong enough and the gold-plating on the connector makes them resist corrosion. All of these are great properties, but the main weakness of the jack is that it is still the same straight jack; I'd rather it be angled.
Build: ★★★★½
The A151 is a fairly light IEM due to the plastic housing. The strain reliefs are angled out of the housing to allow them to be more comfortable when worn over the ear. That said, these are an over ear design. The tips that they ship with may be a little stiffer than most people may be comfortable with, but something that one can adjust to. Overall, the comfort is solid, a softer tip may be beneficial to the IEM though.
Comfort: ★★★★½
The A151 does provide an overall great value for what it offers. I do still feel that their current flagship, the A161, would provide a better value overall. The A151 is not too far behind though. The sound quality is still great for the price and design eye catching. The build is top-notch overall as well. Some may have to adjust to the comfort and fit of the A151, but it's worth it in the end. As with the rest of the p series that MEElectronics has, the A151p does come equipped with a remote and mic.
Value: ★★★★½
Final toughts
The A151p is a refresh of MEElectronics' previous flagship model, this time a new remote and mic was added to the beautifully designed coiled cable. The IEM remains the same, and still holds a strong value, like it did before. The sound quality you get is really great, especially at the lower price point.
I'd like to thank Mike for the product sample.
Overall Score
† All prices are in US currency.
This review was written by the iFans.com Review Team. Cumulative scores are rounded to the nearest half or full star.
This accessory, product, or app was received as a sample. Thanks Mike for the product sample.


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"We are a team of health care professionals who integrate the best of conventional and natural therapeutics to provide patient centered care and results." - Ryan Hindmarsh, Personal Trainer/Partner, The Urban Athlete
You are lucky. Toronto is a city of healthy lifestyles and, regardless of your activity, you can choose from a variety of services, including sports injury clinics.
However, there is only one sports injury clinic where every trainer, therapist and doctor is an athlete who leads an active lifestyle like yours.
Only one offers the same wide variety of assessment, treatment and training solutions.
Only one will get you back on track faster and performing better than before.
When you choose The Urban Athlete you will be treated and trained by athletes who, just like you, believe that activity is an integral part of everyone's lifestyle.
Our skilled staff will work one on one with you to get you back to your desired activity level as soon as is safely possible.
Trust The Urban Athlete to get you back on track


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The Style Gallery is a great new way for you to view, love, and share outfit photos. It's meant to showcase
all the expressive, creative, and inspirational personalities of our community!
Love you too!
Your email has been sent!
Everything seems A-OK when you're striding through town in a khaki jacket, a fluttery sundress, and these black and white canvas wedges by Seychelles. On-trend and totally comfortable, these casual heels turn frowns upside down everywhere they're seen. Even a surprise shower feels lighthearted and fun - rather than an interruption in your walk, it's a chance to step these striped shoes into a yet-to-be explored cafe, find a nearby booth, and order something as sweet as your carefree demeanor!
Final Sale: This item cannot be returned or exchanged.
Sorry this item isn't available anymore


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CNJ staff report
The March 23 tornado that thrashed through Clovis has claimed another life.
Walter "Snap" Cravy, 90, of Clovis died Thursday evening at Lubbock Covenant Hospital, according to his son, Thomas V. Cravy.
Cravy said his father spent 20 days in the hospital before succumbing to the severe injuries he sustained in the tornado. "He died peacefully," Cravy said.
The elder Cravy was born in Roswell in 1916 and had been a Clovis resident for 88 of his 90 years. He worked for the railroad and was well known in the area, his son said.
Heleneta Blevins, 90, died March 27, four days after a tornado packing winds of up to 125 mph destroyed her trailer house in south Clovis.
Cravy and Blevins are the first tornado casualities in Clovis history. About 35 people were reported injured and 500 buildings damaged, according to officials.


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The award winning KeyArena at Seattle Center, which opened its doors on October 26, 1995, has entertained over 17 million guests as Seattle's premier venue for sports, concerts and family entertainment. Its unique design provides sports and concert fans an intimate entertainment experience with spectacular sightlines and acoustics, uncommon in arenas of similar size. Enjoy convenient concession and merchandise areas and three nearby parking garages for more than 2,000 vehicles.
Home to the WNBA's Seattle Storm, Seattle University Men's Basketball and the Rat City Rollergirls, KeyArena at Seattle Center also hosts entertainment's most acclaimed talent from music's biggest stars to popular family shows. Since its opening in 1995, KeyArena has hosted entertainment's biggest names such as: Pearl Jam, Celine Dion, Elton John, Metallica, Jay-Z, Garth Brooks, George Strait, Aerosmith, Simon & Garfunkel, Madonna, Jimmy Buffet, UFC, and countless others. KeyArena has entertained thousands of families with shows from The Harlem Globetrotters, Disney On Ice, WWE, NCAA and NBA Finals.
Follow KeyArena:
Tickets to all KeyArena events are available at the KeyArena West Box Office located on the West Plaza along 1st Avenue North. The West Box Office is open Monday – Saturday 10 am – 6 pm.
The KeyArena East Box Office is open on event days only, one and a half hours before tip-off-half time for all games and two hours prior to event start time through the first 30 minutes of the event.
Tickets can be purchased at the KeyArena Box Office, Ticketmaster outlets, Ticketmaster.com or charge by phone toll free at (800) 745-3000. All tickets subject to applicable service charges and fees.
All entries are ADA accessible.


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Matt Flynn will start at quarterback for the Seahawks' preseason opener at home against Tennessee on Saturday, and likely play the entire first half.
Flynn, signed as a free agent from Green Bay over the offseason and believed to have the inside track to the starting job, is competing with incumbent Tarvaris Jackson and rookie Russell Wilson in training camp.
That Flynn is getting the call to open the preseason over Jackson is an indication the coaching staff is pleased with his ability to pick up the playbook and command the offense. Flynn will take over the first-team reps in practice beginning Wednesday in preparation for the Titans.
"Matt has done a fantastic job so far," coach Pete Carroll said. "He's learned the system. He's on it. He can make all the adjustments, all the calls. He sees the defense really well. I love that he's moving well in the pocket. All of the things we're asking him to do he's fit that together so far.
"Now I need to see him in a situation where now he takes over and see what that looks like."
However, starting the preseason opener doesn't mean Flynn will necessarily start the regular-season opener next month.
"This is how we had planned it all along," Carroll said. "It's turned out that it's going to fit together and then we'll see how we go at the end of the week."
--Wide receiver Terrell Owens officially signed with the Seahawks on Tuesday, Carroll confirmed. It's a one-year, $1 million deal, according to ESPN.
Carroll tweeted Monday night: "@terrellowens welcome to the land of the #12thMan Terrell, see you in the morning... 8am meetings!!"


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from Wiktionary, Creative Commons Attribution/Share-Alike License
- adv. Back and forth, like a shuttle.
from the GNU version of the Collaborative International Dictionary of English
- adv. Back and forth, like the movement of a shuttle.
from The Century Dictionary and Cyclopedia
- Like a shuttle; with the motion of a shuttle.
shuttle + -wise (Wiktionary)
But cool airs crept along the water, and the ferry-boats, thrust shuttlewise back and forth between either shore, made a refreshing sound as they crushed a broad course to foam with their paddles.


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Works by Langston Hughes
Father and Son
Twenty years ago he had begotten him.
This boy, however, was not his real son, for Colonel Thomas Norwood had no real son, no white and legal heir to carry on the Norwood name; this boy was a son by his Negro mistress, Coralee Lewis, who kept his house and had borne all his children.
Colonel Norwood never would have admitted, even to himself, that he was standing in his doorway waiting for his half-Negro son to come home. But in truth that is what he was doing. He was curious about this boy. How would he look after all these years away at school? Six or seven surely, for not once in that long time had he been allowed to come back to Big House Plantation. The Colonel had said then that never did he want to see the boy. But in truth he did -- for this boy had been, after all, the most beautiful of the lot, the brightest and the badest of the Colonel's five children, lording it over the other children, and sassing not only his colored mother, but his white father, as well. Handsome and mischievous, favoring too much the Colonel in looks and ways, this boy Bert, at fourteen, had got himself sent off to school to stay. Now a student in college (or what they call a college in Negro terms in Georgia) he was coming home for the summer vacation.
Today his brother, Willie, had been sent to the station to meet him in the new Ford. The ten o'clock train must have reached the Junction by now, thought the Colonel, standing in the door. Soon the Ford would be shooting back down the road in a cloud of dust, curving past the tall white pillars of the front porch, and around to the kitchen stoop where Cora would greet her child.
Thinking thus, Colonel Norwood came inside the house, closed the screen, and pulled at a bell-cord hanging from the wall of the great dark living room with its dignified but shabby horse hair furniture of the nineties. By and by, an old Negro servant, whose name was Sam and who wore a kind of old-fashioned butler's coat, came and brought the Colonel a drink.
"I'm going in my library where I don't want to be disturbed."
"Yes, suh," said the Negro servant.
"You hear me?"
"Yes, suh," said the servant, knowing that when Colonel Norwood said "library," he meant he did not want to be disturbed.
The Colonel entered the small room where he kept his books and papers of both a literary and a business nature. He closed the door. He did this deliberately, intending to let all the Negroes in the house know that he had no interest whatsoever in the homecoming about to take place. He intended to remain in the library several hours after Bert's arrival. Yet, as he bent over his desk peering at accounts his store-keeper had brought him, his head kept turning toward the window that gave on the yard and the road, kept looking to see if a car were coming in a cloud of dust.
An hour or so later, when shouts of welcome, loud warm Negro-cries, laughter, and the blowing of an auto horn filled the Georgia sunlight outside, the Colonel bent more closely over his ledgers -- but he did turn his eyes a little to catch the dust sifting in the sunny air above the road where the car had passed. And his mind went back to that little olive-colored kid who he had beaten one day in the stables years ago -- the kid grown up now, and just come home.
He had always been a little ashamed of that particular beating he had given the boy. But his temper had gotten the best of him. The child, Bert, looking almost like a white child (a hell of a lot favoring the Colonel), had come running out to the stables one afternoon when he was showing his horses to some guests from in town. The boy had come up to him crying, "Papa!" (He knew better, right in front of company.) "Papa, Ma says she's got dinner ready."
The Colonel had knocked him down under the feet of the horses right there in front of the guests. And afterwards he had locked him in the stable and beaten him severely. The boy had to learn not to call him papa, and certainly not in front of white people from town.
But it had been hard to teach Bert anything, the Colonel ruminated. Trouble was, the boy was too smart. There were other unpleasant memories of that same saucy ivory-skinned youngster playing about the front yard, even running through the Big House, in spite of orders that Coralee's children and all other pickaninnies keep to the back of the house, or down in the Quarters. But as a child, Bert had never learned his place.
"He's too damn much like me," the Colonel thought. "Quick as hell. Cora's been telling me he's leading his class at the Institute, and a football captain... H-m-m-m, so they waste their time playing football at these darkie colleges... Well, anyway, he must be a smart darkie. Got my blood in him."
The Colonel had Sam bring some food into the library. He pretended to be extremely busy, and did not give the Old Negro, bursting with news, a chance to speak. The Colonel acted as thought he were unaware of the presence of the newly arrived boy on the plantation; or if he were aware, completely uninterested, and completely occupied.
But in the late afternoon, the Colonel got up from his desk, went out into the parlor, picked up an old straw hat, and strolled through the front door, across the wide-porticoed porch with its white pillars, and down the road toward the South Field. The Colonel saw the brown backs of his Negroes in the green cotton. He smelt the earth-scent of a day that had been long and hot. He turned off by the edge of a field, went down to the creek, and back toward the house along a path that took him through a grove of pecan trees skirting the old slave quarters, to the back door of the Big House.
Long before he approached the Big House, he could hear Negroes' voices, musical and laughing. Then he could see a small group of dark bare arms and faces about the kitchen stoop. Cora was sitting on a stool in the yard, probably washing fruit for jelly. Livonia, the fat old cook, was on the porch shelling peas for dinner. Seated on the stoop, and on the groups, and standing around, were colored persons the Colonel knew had no good reason to be there at that time of day. Some of them, when they saw the Colonel coming, began to move away, back toward the barn, or whatever work they were doing.
He was aware, too, standing in the midst of this group, of a tall young man in sporty white trousers, black-and-white oxfords, and a blue shirt. He looked very clean and well-dressed, like a white man. The Colonel took this to be his son, and a certain vibration shook him from head to foot. Across the wide dusty yard, their eyes met. The Colonel's brows came together, his shoulders lifted and went back as though faced by an indignity just suffered. His chin went up. And he began to think, on the way toward them, how he would walk through this group like a white man. The Negroes, of course, would be respectful and afraid, as usual. He would say merely, "Good evening, Bert," to this boy, his son, then wait a moment, perhaps, and see what the boy said before passing on into the house.
Laughter died and dripped and trickled away, and talk quieted, and silence fell degree by degree, each step the white man approached. A strange sort of stiffness like steel nearing steel grew and straightened between the colored boy in the black-and-white shoes and the old Colonel who had just come from looking as his fields and his Negroes working.
"Good evening, Bert," the Colonel said.
"Good evening, Colonel Tom," the boy replied quickly, politely, almost eagerly. And then, like a puppet pulled by some perverse string, the boy offered his hand.
The Colonel looked at the strong young near-white hand held out toward him, and made no effort to take it. His eyes lifted to the eyes of the boy, his son, in front of him. The boy's eyes did not fall. But a slow flush reddened the olive of his skin as the old man turned without a word toward the stoop and into the house. The boy's hand went to his side again. A hum of dark voices broke the silence.
This happened between father and son. The mother, sitting there washing plums in a pail, did not understand what had happened. But the water from which she took the plums felt cool to her hands that were suddenly burning hot.
The history of their liaison, like that of so many between Negro women and white men in the South, began without love, at least on his part. For a long while its motif was lust -- whose sweeter name, perhaps, is passion.
The Colonel had really known Cora all her life. As a half-grown boy, he had teased her as a baby, pulling her kinky braids and laughing at the way she rolled in the dust with the other pickaninnies born to the black servants and share-croppers on his father's plantation. He had seen her as a girl, bare-footed and shy, brown face shining, bringing milk to the Big House night and morning, for her father took care of the cows. Her mother worked sometimes in the house but mostly in the fields. And Cora knew early how to pick cotton, too.
Then there came years when young Norwood had no contact with Cora: years when he had been away at Military School; those first few years when he had come back from Macon with his new bride; those years of love and worry with the delicate and lovely woman he had wedded. During his early married life the Colonel could not truthfully remember ever having laid eyes on Cora, although she was about the place surely.
But Cora remembered often seeing the Colonel. Young and handsome, tall and straight, he drove over the plantation roads with the wisp of a pretty little lady he had married. She remembered him particularly well the day of his father's funeral, when he came back from the burial -- he and his wife, master and mistress of the Big House now. How sad and worried young Colonel Norwood looked that day descending from the carriage.
And as the months went by, he began to look more and more worried and weary. Servants' gossip from the Big House, drifting down to the humbler Negroes in the cabins, said that a wall had grown up between the young colonel and his little wife, who seemed to be wasting away day by day. A wall like mist. And the Negroes began to laugh that there were never no children born to Mister and Missus. Then gossip began to say that the young Colonel had taken up with the cook's daughter, black but comely Livonia, who worked in the pantry. Then the Quarters laughed all the more -- for Livonia had four or five Negro lovers, too. And she wasn't faithful to anybody -- just liked to love.
Cora heard all this and in her mind a certain envy sprang up. Livonia! Huh! Cora began to look more carefully into the cracked mirror in her mother's cabin. She combed her hair and oiled it better than before. She was seventeen then.
"Time you was takin' some pride about yo'self," said her mother, noting the change.
"Yes'm," said Cora. And when she took milk to the Big House now, she tried to look her best.
One night, there was a party there. A great many people came from the Junction, and even seventy miles off from in town, by horse and by carriage, by train, and even some by that new-fangled auto-buggy that most of the plantation hands had never seen before. The Negroes were all excited at having so many white folks around. It was the Missus' birthday. There were great doings at Big House Plantation.
The first evening, the party went on until late in the night. Some people left at dawn. Others slept awhile and left in the afternoon. Some were house guests, and on the second night there was a party again. But that night everybody was pretty tired. And got pretty drunk, too, mostly. The Colonel was very gay and very drunk; but his little wife cried, and went to bed. She was mighty touchy, all the Negroes knew. Always poutin' and spattin' and actin' funny with the Colonel.
Wonder why? Wonder why?
There was a party in the Quarters among the Negroes, too, that second night. Livonia was there, dancing fit to kill. And the music was wild. In the heat of the night, Cora went out of the barn where the party was, out into the moonlight, and looked up at the lights of the Big House on the rise. She stretched, and breathed in the warm night air, and walked through the trees toward the road that ran to town. She made a big circle about the Big House, wondering a little what was going on there. When she got to the road, she sat down under a huge live oak tree. She could hear the laughter and clapping of the Negroes down on the edge of the cotton fields. But in the Big House, where it should have been gay, it was mighty quiet. Sometimes a loud and quarrelsome voice could be heard. Probably men gambling, and the ladies gone to bed.
The trees cast great shadows across the road in the warm light of the moon. Cora stretched, breathed deeply again, and got up to go, when she saw very near her a figure walking in the silvery dusk, a tall thin young white man walking in the cotton. Suddenly he called her.
"Who're you?" It was young Norwood speaking.
"I's Coralee Lewis, Aunt Tobie Lewis' daughter."
The white man came up to her, took her brown face in his hands and lifted it at the moon. "You're out mighty late," he said.
Cora's body trembled. Her mouth opened. In the shadow of the live oak tree there by the road, thirty years ago, in a night of moon. . . .
Even before the young Mrs. Norwood died (she did die - and childless) Cora was working in the Big House. And after Mrs. Norwood's death, Cora came there to sleep.
Now the water where the plums were felt cool to her hands this spring afternoon many years later as the Colonel went into the house leaving their youngest son dazed in front of her; and the nigger-voices all around her humming and chattering into loudness and laughter.
"Tell him to kiss my behind," Bert said.
Willie bucked his eyes, stuttered, then kept quiet. His brother was the same Bert as he had been as a child. Crazy! Trouble coming. William made up his mind not to be in it, himself, one way or another. Though he was eight years older, he had always been afraid of Bert with a fear worse than physical, afraid of the things that happened around Bert.
From the new Ford, Bert looked out at the straggling streets of the village of the Junction, at the Negroes lounging in front of stores, at the red-necked crackers, at the unkempt women. He heard the departing train whistle as it went deeper into Georgia, into Alabama. As they rode, he looked at the wide fields of young cotton stretching on either side, at the cabins of the share croppers, at the occasional house of a white owner or overseer. Then he saw the gradual rise of the Norwood plantation, the famous Big House, surrounded by its live oaks and magnolias and maples, and its many acres of cotton. And he knew he was nearing home.
Six years away. Kid of fourteen when he left, wearing his first long trousers bought in the commissary store, feeling funny out of overalls, feeling very proud going away to school. Only the Lewis niggers (old man Norwood's kids by Cora) went away to school in these parts. And with the going of Sallie, the youngest, the little county school at Norwood's Crossroads closed up, and didn't open any more. Sallie was the Colonel's last child -- no other niggers needed a school.
Old Aunt Tobie, the grandma, before she died, used to keep on saying that the Lewis young 'uns ought to appreciate what the Colonel was doing for 'em. No white man she ever heard of cared anything 'bout educatin' his tar-brush chillun. But the Colonel did. Somehow 'nother Cora was able to put it in the Colonel's mind and keep it there until the last child, Sallie, got sent off to Atlanta.
In Atlanta, Bert had entered the same run-down Negro boarding school, the Institute, that brother Willie and his oldest sister, Bertha, had attended. But Willie, several years before, hadn't stayed there long, being a dumb boy who liked the plantation better. Bertha had gone up North once with the Spiritual Jubilee Singers, and liked it so well that she remained to work in Chicago. Now, little sister Sallie, seventeen, went to the Institute also, but had come home this spring ahead of Bert, who fooled around Atlanta a week or so before leaving, not wanting to come home really.
"Home, hell!"
Bert didn't want to come home. He felt he had no home. A brown mother, and a white father; bed for him in a nigger cabin down on the edge of the cotton fields. Soon as Cora's kids stopped nursing they went to live outside the Big House. Aunt Tobie, the grandmother, had really raised them, until she died. Then a cousin of Cora's brought up Sallie.
"Hell of a way to live," Bert thought, the night before his arrival, sitting in the Jim Crow car bound for south Georgia. During the long ride, he had turned over in his mind incidents of his childhood on the Big House Plantation. Sitting in the smoky half-coach allotted to Negroes (the other half being a baggage car) he thought of what it meant growing up as one of Colonel Norwood's yard-niggers (a term used by field hands for the mulatto children of a white planter).
"It's hell," Bert thought.
Not that Cora's other kids had found it hell. Only he had found it so, strangely enough. "The rest of 'em are too dumb, except little Sallie, and she don't say nothing -- but it's hell to her, too, I reckon," the boy thought to himself as the train rocked and rumbled over the road. "Willie don't give a damn so long as his belly's full. And Bertha's got up North away from it all. I don't know what she really thought.... But I wish it hadn't happened to me."
With the self-pity of bewildered youth, he began to think about himself. Always, he had known the colonel was his father, from the earliest he could remember. For one thing, Bert had been lighter than any of the other colored children on the plantation -- a sort of ivory white. And as a small child, his hair had been straight and brown, his eyes grey, like Norwood's. His grandma, old Aunt Tobie, used to refer to them all, Willie and Bertha and Bert and Sallie, not without pride, as Colonel Tom's children. (There had been another brother who died.) Bert noticed early in life that all the other kids in the Quarters were named after their fathers, whereas he and his brother and sisters bore the mother's name, Lewis. He was Bert Lewis - not Bert Norwood. His mother slept in the Big House -- but the children lived outside with Aunt Tobie or Cousin Betty. Those things puzzled little Bert.
As he grew up, he used to hear folks remarking on how much he looked like Colonel Tom, and how little like Cora. Nearly light enough to pass for white, folks said, spittin' image of his father, too. Bert had a temper and ways like white folks, too. Indeed, "You needn't act so much like quality with me," was one of Aunt Tobie's favorite ways of reprimanding him when she wanted to take him down a peg or two.
He was always getting into mischief, playing pranks and worrying his mother at the backdoor of the Big House. There was a time once when the Colonel seemed to get pleasure out of letting little Bert trail around at his heels, but that period didn't last very long, for young Bert sassed the Colonel, too, just as though he were colored. And somehow, he had acquired that way of referring to Norwood as papa. The Colonel told him, sternly and seriously, "Boy, don't you use that word to me." But still, forgetful little devil that he was, he had come running up to the Colonel that day in the stables yelling, "Papa, dinner's ready."
The slap that he received made him see stars and darkness, Bert remembered. As though he were brushing a fly out of the way, the Colonel had knocked him down under the feet of the horses, and went on talking to his guests. After the guests had gone, he switched Bert mercilessly.
"Can't nobody teach you nothin' but a switch, nohow," said old Aunt Tobie afterwards. "I tole you 'bout gittin' familiar wid that white man."
"But he didn't need to scar him all up," Bert remembered Cora's saying when she saw the black and blue marks on his back. "I ain't bearin' him children for to beat 'em to death.... You stay away from him, son, you hear?"
From that time on, between Bert and the Colonel, there had been a barrier of fear -- a fear that held a certain mysterious fascination for Bert's sense of defiance, a fear that Bert from afar was continually taunting and baiting. For instance, the Colonel had a complex, Bert recalled, that all the Negroes knew, about the front door of the Big House. His orders were that no Negroes go in and out of that door, or cross his front porch. When the old house-man, Sam, wanted to sweep off the porch, he would have to go out the back and come all the way around. It was as absurd as that. Yet Bert, as a child, in the Big House visiting or helping Cora, would often dart out the front way when he thought the Colonel was in town or down in the South Field, or asleep in his library. Cora used to spank him for it, but it was a habit he kept up until he went away, a big boy, to Atlanta.
Bert, home-bound now, smiled to himself in the stuffy Jim Crow car, and wondered if the Colonel were still as tall and stern and stiff-fronted as he used to be. No wonder his young white wife had died years ago -- having to live with him -- although, according to Aunt Tobie's version, the Colonel had humored her in every way. He really loved her, folks said, and had sworn after her death that he would never marry again. He hadn't -- he had taken Cora.
And here Bert's mind balked and veered away from speculating about the intimate life of this old man and his mother. Bert knew that in a sense the white man had been kind to her. He remembered as a child the extra little delicacies that came down to Aunt Tobie and Cousin Betty and Cora's other relatives in the Quarters, especially at Christmas. He remembered how he had always known that the little colored school had not been there before Cora's children were born, and that it was no longer at the Cross Roads now. (For the Colonel and Mr. Higgins, being political powers in the county, were in charge of education, and their policy was to let Negroes remain unlettered. They worked better.) Bert knew, too, that it was his mother's influence that had got her children sent off to the Institute in Atlanta. But it was the Colonel's dislike of Bert that had kept him there, summer and winter, until now. Not that Bert minded. Summer school was fun, too. And tennis. And the pleasures of the town. And he was never homesick for the plantation - but he did wish sometimes that he had a home, and that the Colonel would treat him like a son.
Tall and light and good-looking, as Bert was now at twenty, he could have a very good time in Atlanta. Colored society had taken him up. He went around with the sons and daughters of Negro doctors and dentists and insurance brokers and professors. He had his hands full of pretty girls. Lots of cream-colored girls, chocolate brown girls, velvet-soft night-shade girls all liked Bert. And already he had been involved in a scandal with a doctor's wife.
To add to his good looks, Bert was an excellent athlete. He had been as far north as Washington with Institute teams, and had seen colored people at the Capitol riding in street cars where there had been no Jim Crow signs, and getting on trains that had no coaches especially for Negroes. Bert made up his mind to come North to live, as soon as he finished school. He had one more year. And this last summer, Cora wanted him to spend with her - because she sensed he might never come back to the plantation again.
Sallie, his sister, three classes behind him at the Institute, was frankly worried about his going home. She was afraid. "Colonel Tom's getting old. He ain't nice a-tall like he kinder used to be. He's getting more and more touchy," Sallie said to her brother. "And I know he ain't gonna like the looks of you. You don't look a bit like a Georgia boy any more."
"To hell with him," said Bert.
"I wouldn't even know you and Willie were brothers," Sallie said. For Sallie went home every summer and worked in the Big House with her mother, and saw Willie and knew how things were on the plantation. Willie and the Colonel got along fine, because Willie was docile and good-natured and nigger-like, bowing and scraping and treating white folks like they expected to be treated. "But Bert, you ain't a bit like that."
"Why should I be?" Bert asked. "I'm the old man's son, ain't I? Got white blood in me, too."
"Yes, but... "
"But what?" Bert said. "Let old knotty-headed Willie go on being a white-folks' nigger if he wants to, I won't!"
And that's the way it was when he came home.
In the chemistry lab at school, did you ever hold a test tube, pouring in liquids and powders and seeing nothing happen until a certain liquid or a certain powder is poured in and then everything begins to smoke and fume, bubble and boil, hiss to foam, and sometimes even explode? The tube is suddenly full of action and movement and life. Well, there are people like those certain liquids or powders; at a given moment they come into a room, or into a town, even into a country -- and the place is never the same again. Things bubble, boil, change. Sometimes the whole world is changed. Alexander came. Christ. Marconi. A Russian named Lenin.
Not that there is any comparing Bert to Christ or Lenin. But after he returned to the Big House Plantation that summer, life was never the same. From Bert's very first day on the place something was broken, something went dizzy. The world began to spin, to ferment, and move into a new action.
Not to be a white folks' nigger - Bert had come home with that idea in his head.
The Colonel sensed it in his out-stretched hand and his tall young body - and had turned his back and walked into the house. Cora with her hands in the cool water where the plums were, suddenly knew in her innermost soul a period of time had closed for her. That first night she prayed, cried in her room, asked the Lord why she had ever let her son come home. In his cabin Willie prayed, too, humble, Lord, humble. The Colonel rocked alone on his front porch sucking a black cigar and cussing bitterly at he knew not what. The hum and laughter of the Negro voices went on as usual on the vast plantation down to the last share-cropper's cabin, but not quite, not quite the same as they had been in the morning. And never to be the same again.
"Is you heard about Bert?"
Not to be a white folks' nigger!
Bow down and pray in fear and trembling, go way back in the dark afraid; or work harder and harder; or stumble and learn; or raise up your fist and strike - but once the idea comes into your head you'll never be the same again. Oh, test tube of life! Crucible of the South, find the right powder and you'll never be the same again - the cotton will blaze and the cabins will burn and the chains will be broken and men, all of a sudden, will shake hands, black men and white men, like steel meeting steel!
"The bastard," Bert said. "Why couldn't he shake hands with me? I'm a Norwood, too."
"Hush, son," said Cora with the cool water from the plums on her hands.
And the hum of the black voices that afternoon spread to the cabins, to the cotton fields, to the dark streets of the Junction, what Bert had said - Bert with the ivory-yellow skin and the tall proud young body, Bert had come home not to be a white folks' nigger.
"Lawd, chile, Bert's come home... "
"Lawd, chile, and he said... "
"Lawd, chile, he said... "
"Lawd... "
For the Colonel, the summer was hectic enough, what with cotton prices dropping on the market; share-croppers restless and moving; one black field-hand beaten half to death by Talbot and the storekeeper because he "talked high" to a neighboring white planter; news of the Scottsboro trials and the Camp Hill shootings exciting black labor.
Colonel Norwood ordered the colored rural Baptist minister to start a revival and keep it going until he said stop. Let the Negroes sing and shout their troubles away, as in the past. White folks had always found revivals a useful outlet for sullen overworked darkies. As long as they were singing and praying, they forgot about the troubles of this world. In a frenzy of rhythm and religion, they laid their cross at the feet of Jesus.
Poor over-worked Jesus! Somehow since the War, he hadn't borne that cross so well. Too heavy, it's too heavy! Lately, Negroes seem to sense that it's not Jesus' cross, anyhow, it's their own. Only old people praise King Jesus any more. On the Norwood plantation, Bert's done told the young people to stop being white folks' niggers. More and more, the Colonel felt it was Bert who brought trouble into the Georgia summer. The revival was a failure.
One day he met the boy coming back from the river where he had been swimming. The Colonel lit into him with all the cuss words at his command. He told him in no uncertain language to get down in the South Field to work. He told him there would be no more school at Atlanta for him; that he would show him that just because Cora happened to be his mother, he was no more than any other nigger on the place. God damn him!
Bert stood silent and red in front of his father, looking as the Colonel must have looked forty years ago -- except that he was a shade darker. He did not go down to the South Field to work. And all Cora's pleadings could not make him go. Yet nothing happened. That was the strange thing about it. The Colonel did nothing -- to Bert. But he lit into Cora, nagged and scolded her for days, told her she'd better get some sense into her boy's head if she wanted any skin left on his body.
So the summer passed. Sallie, having worked faithfully in the house throughout the hottest months, went away to school again. Bert remained sullenly behind.
The day that ends our story began like this:
The sun rose burning and blazing, flooding the earth with the heat of early autumn, making even the morning oppressive. Folks got out of bed feeling like over-ripe fruit. The air of the morning shimmered with heat and ill-humor. The night before, Colonel Norwood had been drinking. He got up trembling and shaky, yelling for Cora to bring him something clean to put on. He went downstairs cussing.
The Colonel did not want to eat. He drank black coffee, and walked out on the tall-pillared porch to get a breath of air. He was standing there looking through the trees as his cotton, when the Ford swept by in a cloud of dust, past the front of the house and down the driveway to town. Bert was driving.
The Colonel cussed out loud, bit his cigar, turned and went into the house, slamming the door, storming to Cora, calling up the stairs where she was working, "What the hell does he think he is, driving off to town in the middle of the morning? Didn't I tell Bert not to touch that Ford, to stay down yonder in the fields and work?"
"Yes, suh, Colonel Tom," Cora said. "You sure did."
"Tell him I want to see him soon as he comes back here. Send him in here. And tell him I'll skin his yellow hide for him." The Colonel spoke of Bert as though he were still a child.
"Yes, suh, Colonel Tom."
Accustomed as he was to his friend's voice on the phone, at first the Colonel could not make out what he was saying. When he did understand, his neck bulged and the palms of the hands that held the phone were wet with sweat. Anger and shame made his tall body stoop and bend like an animal about to spring. Mr. Higgins was talking about Bert.
"That yellow nigger . . ." Mr. Higgins said. "One of your yard-niggers sassed . . ." Mr. Higgins said. "I thought I'd better tell you . . ." Mr. Higgins said. "Everybody . . ." Mr. Higgins said.
The whole town was excited about Bert. In the heat of this over-warm autumn day, the hot heads of the white citizens of the town had suddenly become inflamed about Bert. Mr. Higgins, county politician and Postmaster at the Junction, was well qualified to know. His Office had been the center of the news.
It seemed that Bert had insulted the white woman who sold stamps and made out money-orders at the Post Office. And Mr. Higgins was telling the Colonel about it on the phone, warning him to get rid of Bert, that people around the Junction were getting sick and tired of seeing him.
At the Post Office this is what happened: a simple argument over change. But the young woman who sold the stamps was not used to arguing with Negroes, or being corrected by them when she made a mistake. Bert said, "I gave you a dollar," holding out the incorrect change. "You gave me back only sixty-four cents."
The young woman said, counting the change, "Yes, but you have eight three-cent stamps. Move on now, there're others waiting." Several white people were in line.
Bert said, "Yes, but eight times three is not thirty-six. You owe me twelve cents more."
The girl looked at the change and realized she was wrong. She looked at Bert -- light near-white nigger with grey-blue eyes. You gotta be harder on those kind than you have on the black ones. An educated nigger, too! Besides it was hot and she wasn't feeling well. A light near-white nigger with grey eyes! Instead of correcting the change, she screamed, and let her head fall forward in front of the window.
Two or three white men waiting to buy stamps seized Bert and attempted to throw him out of the Post Office. Bert remembered he'd been a football player -- and Colonel Norwood's son -- so he fought back. One of the white men got a bloody mouth. Women screamed. Bert walked out of the Post Office, got in the Ford and drove away. By that time, the girl who sold stamps had recovered. She was telling everyone how Bert had insulted her.
"Oh, my God! It was terrible," she said.
"That's one nigger that don't know his place, Tom," Mr. Higgins roared over the phone. "And it's your fault he don't -- sending 'em off to school to be educated." The Colonel listened to his friend at the other end of the wire. "Why that yellow buck comes to my store and if he ain't waited on quick as the white folks are, he walks out. He said last week standin' out on my corner, he wasn't all nigger no how; said his name was Norwood -- not Lewis, like the rest of Cora's family; said your plantation would be his when you passed out -- and all that kind o' stuff, boasting to the niggers listening about you being his father." The Colonel almost dropped the phone. "Now, Tom, you know that stuff don't go 'round these parts o' Georgia. Ruinous to other niggers hearing that sort of talk, too. There ain't been no race trouble in our county for three years - since the Deekins lynching -- but I'm telling you, Norwood, folks ain't gonna stand for this. I'm speaking on the quiet, but I see ahead. What happened in the Post Office ain't none too good."
"When I get through with him," said the Colonel hoarsely, "you won't need to worry. Goodbye."
The white man came out of the library, yelled for Sam, shouted for Cora, ordered whisky. Drank and screamed.
"God damn that son of yours! I'm gonna kill him," he said to Cora. "Get out of here," he shouted at Sam, who came back with cigars.
Cora wept. The Colonel raved. A car shot down the road. The Colonel rushed out, brandishing a cane to stop it. It was Bert. He paid no attention to the old man standing on the steps of the pillared porch waving his stick. Ashen with fury, the Colonel came back into the house and fumbled with his keys at an old chest. Finally, a drawer opened and he took out a pistol. He went toward the door as Cora began to howl, but on the porch he became suddenly strengthless and limp. Shaking, the old man sank into a chair holding the gun. He would not speak to Cora.
"I want to talk to that boy," the Colonel said. "Fetch him here." Damned young fool... bastard... of a nigger...
"What's he gonna do to my boy?" Cora thought. "Son, be careful," as she went across the yard and down toward Willie's cabin to find Bert. "Son, you be careful. I didn't bear you for no white man to kill. Son, you be careful. You ain't white, don't you know that? You be careful. O, Lord God Jesus in heaven! Son, be careful!" Cora was crying when she reached Willie's door, crying all the way back to the Big House with her son.
"To hell with the old man," Bert said. "He ain't no trouble! Old as he is, what can he do to me?"
"Lord have mercy, son, is you crazy? Why don't you be like Willie? He ain't never had no fusses with de Colonel."
"White folks' nigger," Bert said.
"Why don't you talk sense?" Cora begged.
"Why didn't he keep his promise then and let me go back to school in Atlanta, like my sister? You said if I came home this summer he'd lemme go back to the Institute, didn't you? Then why didn't he?"
"Why didn't you act right, son? Oh-o-o!" Cora moaned. "You can't get nothin' from white folks if you don't act right."
"Act like Willie, you mean, and the rest of these cotton pickers? Then I don't want anything."
They had reached the back door now. It was nearly dark in the kitchen where Livonia was making biscuits.
"Don't rile him, Bert, child," Cora said as she took him through the house. "I don't know what he might do to you. He's got a gun."
"Don't worry 'bout me," Bert answered.
The setting sun made long paths of golden light across the parlor floor through the tall windows opening on the West. The air was thick and sultry with autumn heat. The Colonel sat, bent and old, near a table where there were whisky and cigars and a half-open drawer. When Bert entered he suddenly straightened up and the old commanding look came into his eyes. He told Cora to go upstairs to her room.
Of course, he never asked Bert to sit down.
The tall mulatto boy stood before his father, the Colonel. The old white man felt the steel of him standing there, like the steel of himself forty years ago. Steel of the Norwoods darkened now by Africa. The old man got up, straight and tall, too, and suddenly shook his fist in the face of the boy.
"You listen to me," he said, trembling with quiet. "I don't want to have to whip you again like I did when you were a child." He was almost hissing. "The next time I might kill you. I been running this plantation for thirty-five years and never had to beat a nigger old as you are. Never had any trouble out of none of Cora's children before either, but you." The old man sat down. "I don't have trouble with my colored folks. They do what I say or what Talbot says, and that's all there is to it. If they turn in crops, they get a living. If they work for wages, they get paid. If they spend their money on licker, or old cars, or fixing up their cabins - they can do what they choose, long as they know their places and it don't hinder their work. To Cora's young ones -- you hear me, boy? -- I gave all the chances any nigger ever had in these parts. More'n many a white child's had, too. I sent you off to school. I gave your brother, Willie, that house he's living in when he got married, pay him for his work, help him out if he needs it. None of my darkies suffer. You went off to school. Could have kept on, would have sent you back this fall, but I don't intend to pay for no nigger, or white boy either if I had one, that acts the way you've been acting." Colonel Norwood got up again, angrily. "And certainly not for no black fool! I'm talking to you like this only because you're Cora's child -- but you know damn well it's my habit to tell people what to do, not discuss it with them. I just want to know what's the matter with you, though -- whether you're crazy or not? And if you're not, you'd better change your ways a damn sight or it won't be safe for you here, and you know it -- venting your impudence on white women, ruining my niggers, driving like mad through the Junction, carrying on just as you please. I'm warning you, boy, God damn it!... Now I want you to answer me, and talk right."
The old man sat down in his chair again by the whisky bottle and the partly opened door. He took a drink.
"What do you mean, talk right?" Bert said.
"I mean talk like a nigger should to a white man," the Colonel snapped.
"Oh, but I'm not a nigger, Colonel Norwood," Bert said, "I'm your son."
The old man frowned at the boy in front of him. "Cora's son," he said.
"Fatherless?" Bert asked.
"Bastard," the old man said.
Bert's hands closed into fists, so the Colonel opened the drawer where the pistol was. He took it out and laid it on the table.
"You black bastard," he said.
"I've heard that before." Bert just stood there. "You're talking about my mother."
"Well," the Colonel answered, his fingers playing over the surface of the gun, "what can you do about it?"
The boy felt his whole body suddenly tighten and pull. The muscles of his forearms rippled.
"Niggers like you are hung to trees," the old man went on.
"I'm not a nigger," Bert said. "Ain't you my father? And a hell of a father you are, too, holding a gun on me."
"I'll break your black neck for you," the Colonel shouted. "Don't talk to me like that!" He jumped up.
"You'll break my neck?" The boy stood his ground as the father came toward him.
"Get out of here!" The Colonel shook with rage. "Get out! Or I'll do more than that if I ever lay eyes on you again." The old man picked up the pistol from the table, yet the boy did not move. "I'll fill you full of bullets if you come back here. Get off this place! Get to hell out of this county! Now, tonight. Go on!" The Colonel motioned with his pistol toward the door that led to the kitchen and the back of the house.
"Not that way," Bert said. "I'm not your servant. You must think I'm scared. Well, you can't drive me out the back way like a dog. You're not going to run me off, like a field hand you can't use any more. I'll go," the boy said, starting toward the front door, "but not out the back -- from my own father's house."
"You nigger bastard!" Norwood screamed, springing between his son and the door, but the boy kept calmly on. The steel of the gun was between them, but that didn't matter. Rather, it seemed to pull them together like a magnet.
"Don't you...," Norwood began, for suddenly Bert's hand grasped the Colonel's arm, "dare put your...," and his old bones began to crack "black hands on... "
"Why don't you shoot?" Bert interrupted him, slowly turning his wrist.
" ...me!"
"Why don't you shoot, then?"
The old man twisted and bent in fury and pain, but the gun fell to the floor.
"Why don't you shoot?" Bert said again as his hands sought his father's throat. With furious sureness they took the old white neck in their strong young fingers. "Why don't you shoot then, papa?"
Colonel Norwood clawed the air, breathing hoarsely and loud, his tongue growing stiff and dry, his eyes beginning to burn.
"Shoot -- why don't you, then? Huh? Why?"
The chemicals of their two lives exploded. Everything was very black around them. The white man's hands stopped clawing the air. His heart stood still. His blood no longer flowed. He wasn't breathing.
"Why don't you shoot?" Bert said, but there was no answer.
When the boy's eyes cleared, he saw his mother standing at the foot of the stairs, so he let the body drop. It fell with a thud, old and white in a path of red from the setting sun.
"Why didn't he shoot, mama? He didn't want me to live. He was white. Why didn't he shoot then?"
"Tom!" Cora cried, falling across his body. "Colonel Tom! Tom! Tom!"
"He's dead," Bert said. "I'm living though."
"Tom!" Cora screamed, pulling at the dead man. "Colonel Tom!"
Bert bent down and picked up the pistol. "This is what my father wanted to use on me," he said. "He's dead. But I can use it on all the white men in Georgia -- they'll be coming to get me now. They never wanted me before, but I know they'll want me now." He stuffed the pistol in his shirt. Cora saw what her son had done.
"Run," she said, rising and going to him. "Run, chile! Out the front way quick, so's they won't see you in the kitchen. Make fo' de swamp, honey. Cross de fields fo' de swamp. Go de crick way. In runnin' water, dogs can't smell no tracks. Hurry, son!"
"Yes, mama," Bert said slowly. "But if I see they gonna get me before I reach the swamp, then I'm coming back here. Let them take me out of my father's house -- if they can." He patted the gun inside his shirt, and smiled. "They'll never string me up to some roadside tree for the crackers to laugh at. Not me!"
"Hurry, chile," Cora opened the door and the sunset streamed in like a river of blood. "Hurry, chile."
Bert went out across the wide pillared porch and down the road. He saw Talbot and the storekeeper coming, so he turned off through the trees. And then, because he wanted to live, he began to run. The whole sky was a blaze of color as he ran. Then it began to get dark, and the glow went away.
In the house, Cora started to talk to the dead man on the floor, just as though he were not dead. She pushed and pulled at the body, trying to get him to get up himself. Then she heard the footsteps of Talbot and the storekeeper on the porch. She rose and stood as if petrified in the middle of the floor. A knock, and two men were peering through the screen door into the dusk-dark room. Then Talbot opened the door.
"Hello, Cora," he said. "What's the matter with you, why didn't you let us in? Where's that damn fool boy o' your'n goin', comin' out the front way like he owned the place? What's the matter with you, woman? Can't you talk? Where's Colonel Norwood?
"Let's have some light in here," said the storekeeper, turning a button beside the door.
"Great God!" Talbot cried. "Jim, look at this!" The Colonel's body lay huddled on the floor, old and purple-white, at Cora's feet.
"Why, he's blue in the face," the storekeeper said bending over the body. "Oh! Get that nigger we saw walking out the door! That nigger bastard of Cora's. Get that nigger! ... Why, the Colonel's dead!"
Talbot rushed through the door. "That nigger," he cried. "He must be running toward the swamps now... We'll get him. Telephone town, Jim, there in the library. Telephone the sheriff. Telephone the Beale family down by the swamp. Get men, white men, after that nigger."
The storekeeper ran into the library and began to call on the phone. Talbot looked at Cora standing in the center of the room. "Where's Norwood's car? In the barn? Talk, you black wench, talk!"
But Cora didn't say a word. She watched the two white men rush out of the house into the yard. In a few minutes, she heard the roar of a motor hurtling down the road. It was dark outside. Night had come.
Cora turned toward the body on the floor. "My boy," she said, "he can't get to de swamp now. They telephoned the white folks down that way to head him off. He'll come back home." She called aloud, "Colonel Tom, why don't you get up from there and help me? You know they're after our boy. You know they got him out there runnin' from de white folks in de night. Runnin' from de hounds and de guns and de ropes and all what they uses to kill poor niggers with... Ma boy's out there runnin'. Why don't you help him?" Cora bent over the body. "Colonel Tom, you hear me? You said he was ma boy, ma bastard boy. I heard you. But he's your'n, too - out yonder in de dark runnin' -- from your people. Why don't you get up and stop 'em? You know you could. You's a power in Polk County. You's a big man, and yet our son's out there runnin' -- runnin' from po' white trash what ain't worth de little finger o' nobody's got your blood in 'em, Tom." Cora shook the dead body fiercely. "Get up from there and stop 'em, Colonel Tom." But the white man did not move.
Gradually Cora stopped shaking him. Then she rose and backed away from this man she had known so long. "You's cruel, Tom," she whispered. "I might a-knowed it -- you'd be like that, sendin' ma boy out to die. I might a-knowed it ever since you beat him that time under de feet of de horses. Well, you won't mistreat him no more now. That's finished." She went toward the steps. "I'm gonna make a place for him. Upstairs under ma bed. He's ma chile, and I'll look out for him. And don't you come in ma bedroom while he's up there. Don't you come to my bed either no more a-tall. I calls for you to help me now, Tom, and you just lays there. I calls you to get up now, and you don't move. Whenever you called me in de night, I woke up. Whenever you wanted to love me, I reached out ma arms to you. I bored you five children and now," her voice rose hysterically, "one of 'em's out yonder runnin' from your people. Our youngest boy's out yonder in de dark, runnin'! I 'spects you's out there, too, with de rest of de white folks. Uh-um! Bert's runnin' from you, too. You said he warn't your'n -- Cora's po' little yellow bastard. But he is your'n, Colonel Tom, and he's runnin' from you. Yes, out yonder in de dark, you, you runnin' our chile with a gun in yo' hand, and Talbot followin' behind you with a rope to hang Bert with." She leaned against the wall near the staircase, sobbing violently. Then she went back toward the man on the floor. Her sobs gradually ceased as she looked down at his crumpled body. Then she said slowly, "Listen, I been sleepin' with you too long not to know that this ain't you, Tom, layin' down here with yo' eyes shut on de floor. You can't fool me -- you ain't never been so still like this before -- you's out yonder runnin' ma boy! Colonel Thomas Norwood runnin' ma po' little helpless Bert through the fields in de dark for to lynch him and to kill him ... God damn you, Tom Norwood!" Cora cried, "God damn you!"
She went upstairs. For a long time the body lay alone on the floor in the parlor. Later Cora heard Sam and Livonia weeping and shouting in the kitchen, and Negro voices outside in the dark, and feet going down the road. She thought she heard the baying of hounds afar off, too, as she prepared a hiding place for Bert in the attic. Then she came down to her room and put the most beautiful quilts she had on her bed. "Maybe he'll just want to rest here first," she thought. "Maybe he'll be awful tired and just want to rest."
Then she heard a loud knock at the door, and white voices talking, and Sam's frightened answers. The doctor and the undertakers had come to take the body away. In a little while she heard them lifting it up and putting it in the dead wagon. And all the time, they kept talking, talking.
". . . 'll be havin' his funeral in town ... ain't nothin' but niggers left out here ... didn't have no relatives, did he, Sam? ... Too bad ... Nobody to look after his stuff tonight. Every white man's able to walk's out with the posse ... that young nigger'll swing before midnight ... what a neck-tie party! ... Say, Sam!"
"Yes, sah! Yes, sah!"
" ... that black housekeeper, Cora? ... murderin' bastard's mother?"
"She's upstairs, I reckon, saw."
". . . . like to see how she looks. Get her down here."
"Yes, sah!" Sam's teeth were chattering.
"And how about a little drink before we start back to town?"
"Yes, sah! Cora's got de keys fo' de licker, sah."
"Well, get her down, double quick, then!"
"Yes, sah!" Cora heard Sam coming up for her.
Downstairs, the voices went on. They were talking about her. " ... lived together ... ain't been a white woman here overnight since the wife died when I was a kid ... bad business, though, living with a," in drawling cracker tones, "nigger."
As Cora came down the steps, the undertakers looked at her half-grinning. "So you're the black wench that's got these educated darkie children? Hum-m! Well I guess you'll see one of 'em swinging full o' bullet holes before you get up in the morning ... Or maybe they'll burn him. How'd you like a roasted darkie for breakfast, girlie?"
Cora stood quite still on the stairs. "Is that all you wanted to say to me?" she asked.
"Now, don't you get smart," the doctor said. "Maybe you think there's nobody to boss you now. We're goin' to have a little drink before we go. Get out a bottle."
"I take ma orders from Colonel Norwood, suh," Cora said.
"Well, you'll take no more orders from him," the undertaker declared. "He's outside in the dead wagon. Get along now and get out a bottle."
"He's out yonder with de mob," Cora said.
"I tell you he's in my wagon, dead as a door nail."
"I tell you he's runnin' with de mob," Cora said.
"I believe this black woman's done gone nuts," the doctor cried. "Sam, you get the licker."
"Yes, sah!" Sam sputtered with fright. "Co-r-r-ra, gimme . . ."
But Cora did not move.
"Ah-a-a-a, Lawd hab mercy!" Sam cried.
"To hell with the licker, Charlie," the undertaker said nervously. "Let's start back to town. We want to get in on some of that excitement, too. They should've found that nigger by now -- and I want to see 'em drag him out here."
"All right, Jim," the other agreed. Then, to Cora, "But don't you darkies go to bed until you see the bonfire. You all are gettin' beside yourselves around Polk County. We'll burn a few more of you if you don't watch out."
The men left and the wheels of the wagon turned on the drive. Sam began to cry.
"Hab mercy! Lawd Jesus, hab mercy! Cora, is you a fool? Is you? Then why didn't you give de mens de licker, riled as these white folks is? In ma old age, is I gonna be burnt by de crackers? Lawd, is I sinned? Lawd, what has I done?" He looked at Cora. "I sho ain't gonna stay heah tonight. I's gwine."
"Go on," she said. "The Colonel can get his own drinks when he comes back."
"Lawd God Jesus!" Sam, his eyes bucking from their sockets, bolted from the room fast as his old legs could carry him. Cora heard him running blindly through the house, moaning.
She went to the kitchen where the pots were still boiling on the stove, but Livonia had fled, the biscuits burnt in the oven. She looked out the back door, but no lights were visible anywhere. The cabins were quiet.
"I reckon they all gone," she said to herself. "Even ma boy, Willie. I reckon he gone, too. You see, Colonel Tom, everybody's scared o' you. They know you done gone with de mob again, like you did that time they hung Luke Jordan and you went to help 'em. Now you's out chasin' ma boy, too. I hears you hollerin'."
And sure enough, all around the Big House in the dark, in a wide far-off circle, men and dog-cries and auto-horns sounded in the night. Nearer they came even as Cora stood at the back door, listening. She closed the door, bolted it, put out the light, and went back to the parlor. "He'll come in by de front," she said. "Back from de swamp way. He won't let 'em stop him from getting' home to me agin, just once. Po' little boy, he ain't got no place to go, no how. Po' little boy, what growed up with such pride in his heart. Just like you, Colonel Tom. Spittin' image o' you ... Proud! ... And got no place to go."
Nearer and nearer the man-hunt came, the cries and the horns and the dogs. Headlights began to flash in the dark down the road. Off through the trees, Cora heard men screaming. And suddenly feet running, running, running. Nearer, nearer. She knew it was him. She knew they had seen him, too.
Then there were voices shouting very near the house.
"Don't shoot, men. We want to get him alive."
"Close in on him!"
"He must be in them bushes there by the porch."
And suddenly shots rang out. The door opened. Cora saw flashes of fire spitting into the darkness, and Bert's tall body in the doorway. He was shooting at the voices outside in the dark. The door closed.
"Hello, Ma," he said. "One or two of 'em won't follow me no further."
Cora locked the door as bullets splintered through the wood, shattered the window panes. Then a great volley of shots struck the house, blinding head-lights focused on the porch. Shouts and cries of, "Nigger! Nigger! Get the nigger!" filled the night.
"I was waitin' for you, honey," Cora said. "Quick! Your hidin' place's ready for you, upstairs in de attic. I sawed out a place under de floor. Maybe they won't find you, chile. Hurry, 'fore your father comes."
"No time to hide, Ma," Bert panted. "They're at the door now. They'll be coming in the back way, too. They'll be coming in the windows. They'll be coming in everywhere. I got one bullet left, Ma. It's mine."
"Yes, son, it's your'n. Go upstairs in mama's room and lay down on ma bed and rest. I won't let 'em come up till you're gone. God bless you, chile."
Quickly, they embraced. A moment his head rested on her shoulder.
"I'm awful tired running, Ma. I couldn't get to the swamp. Seems like they been chasing me for hours. Crawling through the cotton a long time, I got to rest now."
Cora pushed him toward the stairs. "Go on, son," she said gently.
At the top, Burt turned and looked back at this little brown woman standing there waiting for the mob. Outside the noise was terrific. Men shouted and screamed, massing for action. All at once they seemed to rush in a great wave for the house. They broke the doors and windows in, and poured into the room -- a savage crowd of white men, red and wild-eyed, with guns and knives, sticks and ropes, lanterns and flashlights. They paused at the foot of the stairs where Cora stood looking down at them silently.
"Keep still, men," one of the leaders said. "He's armed. ... Say where's that yellow bastard of yours, Cora -- upstairs?"
"Yes," Cora said. "Wait."
"Wait, hell!" the men cried. "Come on, boys, let's go!"
A shot rang out upstairs, then Cora knew it was all right.
"Go on," she said, stepping aside for the mob.
But others, aware of what had happened, thought, "It'd be a hell of a lot better lynching a live nigger. Say, ain't there nobody else mixed up in this here Norwood murder? Where's that boy's brother, Willie? Heh?"
So the evening papers carried this item in the late editions:
A large mob late this afternoon wreaked vengeance on the second of two Negro field hands, the murderers of Colonel Thomas Norwood, wealthy planter found dead at Big House Plantation. Bert Lewis was lynched last night, and his brother, Willie Lewis, today. The sheriff of the county is unable to identify any members of the mob. Colonel Norwood's funeral has not yet been held. The dead man left no heirs.
From The Ways of White Folks, originally published in 1933, Vintage Classics Edition, 1990.
Masterpiece is sponsored by:


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Now the few remaining indigenous languages are in danger of dying out in the coming years. The struggle to preserve them often rests with a few dedicated individuals striving to not only re-learn the language of their ancestors, but to also teach it to others.
Michael Jarrett, who teaches the Gumbaynggirr language spoken on the Queensland coast, says: "When I was growing up, the Aboriginal people were forbidden to speak their language. So I didn't get to hear fluent speakers talking together. But the land is starting to hear the native tongue again. The Gumbaynggirr language belongs in Gumbaynggirr territory. It hasn't heard the language for many, many years."


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Magnolia Memorial Park
Garden Grove, Orange County, California
Tombstone Inscriptions
Submitted by Barbara Gossett, Jun 26, 2010 [email@example.com].
??, ??, b. 1849, d. 1931, age: 82 years, Masonic symbol, in SE section of cemetery
??, Geneva May, b. 14 Aug 1916, d. ? Oct 1957, age: 41 years, stone deteriorated
??, Gertrude H, b. 1880, d. 19(illegible), stone deteriorated
??, Henry, b. 1868, d. illegible
??ysat?, Margaret Ellen, b. 1916, d. 1939, age: 23 years, surname almost completely obscured
Churchwell, ??, b. 1942, d. no date, Stone deteriorated
Conkey, ??, b. illegible, d. 1967, "Son"
Hollar, (blank), b. (blank), d. blank, "Mother"
Johnston, ??, d. 1971, stone badly worn
Long, (illegible), no dates, stone badly worn
Lyo(illegible), W. Raymond, b. 1893, d. Illegible date, Stone deteriorated
Walton, (illeg) W., d. 1976, could be Sharite W.?
California Obituaries and Death Notices
- California Obituary Records, 1690-Today - GenealogyBank.com
- Find California Death Records in Newspapers, 1690-Today - GenealogyBank.com
- California Newspaper Funeral Notices, 1690-Today - GenealogyBank.com
Post a Note / Submit Records
Post a note, make a comment, or submit your burial records for this cemetery...


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Jaclyn KellyDirector, Corporate Relations firstname.lastname@example.com 1-630-590-7793
Nate WicksSales Manager, Corporate email@example.com
All coffee locations within McCormick Place (excluding Starbucks areas) will serve coffee with insulated sleeves featuring a sponsor's logo and booth number. More than 30,000 cups of coffee are served during the six days of the meeting.
Material Deadline - 10/21
Size:3-1/2" wide x 2" high
Choice of white or brown sleeve.Artwork/logo can be one, two or three colors. Contact Judy Kapicak at email@example.com for four-color options.


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I have mentioned this before but here's a link with some more information, if you are interested either email alicia or drop me a line to my email in my profile . . . Alicia might be confused if you say you found out from Adjustablewench
Bike Forum
Richmond to Windsor charity ride
Posted 3 years ago #
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SOURCE, the Symposium On University Research and Creative Expression will take place on Thursday, May 16, 2013, in the SURC and on associated dates at some University Centers. SOURCE is a university-wide forum that showcases all genres of scholarly work by CWU students, faculty, and staff. This is a great way to show off your projects or your students' projects to the entire campus. This is also a great way to have students prepare for graduate school or their future professions.
The abstract submission website is now open! Visit http://www.cwu.edu/source
Please forward this email to colleagues who you think would be interested in this event.
This year, the Office of Alumni Relations will be hosting an Awards-Alumni Event at the Experience Music Project in Seattle for the best of the SOURCE student presenters. Judging is always an essential part of SOURCE; please check the SOURCE website in early April if you would like to volunteer to be a judge at SOURCE 2013.
We are also happy to host the I4IE Business Plan Competition once again this year. A total of $10,000 for business start-up funding is available for 2013. For more information visit: http://www.cwu.edu/source/2013-business-plan-competition.
Dates/deadlines for SOURCE 2013 are:
- The Business Plan Competition Abstract Deadline is Monday, March 11 at noon.
- Deadline for ALL SOURCE submissions is Friday, April 5 at noon.
- The Community SOURCE Preview Night at Prosody in downtown Ellensburg is Tuesday, May 14.
- SOURCE at CWU-Des Moines campus is Tuesday, May 14.
- SOURCE at CWU-Lynnwood campus is Wednesday, May 15.
- Pre-load of SOURCE presentations and posters on the Ellensburg campus is outside the SURC ballroom on Wednesday, May 15 from 5-8 p.m.
- The on-campus Awards Ceremony is Wednesday, May 22 from 12-1 in the SURC Pit, and the Office of Alumni Relations-hosted Awards-Alumni Event is Thursday, May 30th in Seattle.
Remember that SOURCE 2013 is Thursday, May 16th, on the Ellensburg campus in the SURC.
If you have questions about how you or your students can participate, please contact the Chair of the SOURCE Committee, Kara Gabriel, via email at firstname.lastname@example.com.


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- Services and Information Catalog
- Academic Calendars
- Enrollment Verification
- Grades
- Graduation
- O.U.R. Blog
- O.U.R. Contacts
- Mission Statement
- Pennsylvania Residency
- Registration Information
- Transcript Services
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External Links:
Conwell Hall
General FAQs
- Who makes the initial determination of a student's residency status?
- An Official in the Admissions Office determines a student's residency status based on the information provided on each student's application.
- What is domicile?
- Domicile is the place where a person resides and intends to reside either permanently or indefinitely.
- Are children of Temple University alumni considered Pennsylvania residents for tuition purposes?
- The alumni status of a student's parents does not determine the student's residency status.
- I'm really having a hard time paying out of state tuition - is there a financial hardship exception?
- No. Financial hardship is not a factor that is considered in determining whether a student is a Pennsylvania resident for tuition purposes. Similarly, demonstration of financial hardship, in and of itself, will not entitle a student to in-state tuition rates.
- My friend (cousin, neighbor, etc) is going to Temple (or another college or university in PA) and they received in-state tuition, why can't I?
- Each student's circumstances and background is unique and will be evaluated on its own basis.
- I'd really feel more comfortable speaking with someone before filling out the application. Is this possible?
- Absolutely! Please feel free to contact the Residency Certification Officer at ANY time using the information here


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Thursday, September 10, 2009PRESIDINGPresident Peter A. Lillback, PhD PRELUDEVince Treadway, piano WELCOME AND ANNOUNCEMENTSPeter A. Lillback, PhDPresidentCALL TO WORSHIPCarl R. Trueman, PhDVice President for Academic AffairsHYMN OF PRAISENew Songs of Celebration RenderHymn 14PRAYER OF ADORATION AND CONFESSIONVern S. Poythress, PhDProfessor of New Testament InterpretationSCRIPTURE READINGRomans 9:1-8Steven Ko, MDiv StudentADDRESS "Can God Be Trusted?" David B. Garner, PhDAssociate Professor of Systematic Theology Vice President for AdvancementHYMN OF RESPONSEThe Heavens Declare Your Glory, LordHymn 138RESPONSIVE READINGPsalm 119:89-112John S. Leonard, PhDAssociate Professor of Practical TheologyGREETING THE ENTERING STUDENTSPeter A. Lillback, PhDPresidentHYMNO Lord, I Love You, My Shield, My TowerHymn 620CLOSING PRAYERGregory C. Hobaugh, ThMDean of Students and Ministerial FormationPOSTLUDE
"In Romans 8, we have a climax of confidence. In Romans 9, we have a crisis of credibility..."
"Has the Word of God failed? Paul writes here as a pastor...many of you are going to go into pastoral ministry...after serving for some years...you will know biographies of obedience and biographies of sorrow..."
"Why does Paul call us to trust in God's Word? Because it is the Word of God..."
"I love speaking to our 50 year year alumni about their Westminster experience. Recently one said to me, 'I remember not just the content of lectures but also how the faculty loved the Word of God..."
"Do we love the Word of God or do we love what we do with it?"
Westminster Theological Seminary - 2960 Church Road, Glenside PA 19038 - 215-887-5511© Copyright/Privacy 2014 Westminster Theological Seminary


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February 2, 2013 3:00PM EST
UC Berkeley Campus
Nano-High, a program of the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, is a series of free Saturday morning talks by internationally recognized leaders in scientific research. The talks are designed for all high school students, regardless of primary academic interest, or year in school. All classroom teachers are welcome. Talks are held on the UC Berkeley Campus, at 10am. Register online at their website.
|Carolyn Bertozzi
|Feb. 2, 2013
|Good Sugars: The Language of Cells


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« Stuffed Pork Chops | Main | Not Tuesdays With Dorie, But No Bake Key Lime Cheesecake Instead! »
June 9, 2008
What's For Dinner?
Well it's another steamer outside so it's another slower cooker day in the kitchen! It's currently 90 degrees and depending who you believe we'll either hit 98 or 102. We're going to have steak tips and I'll steam some rice and asparagus right before dinner. I put some steak cut into strips, along with some Vidalia onion and mushrooms in the slow cooker and some seasonings and have it set on low.
What are you having?
Posted by Dianne at June 9, 2008 10:14 AM
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Plans changed yesterday and we ended up grabbing chicken tacos while we were out. Tonight I'm searing the ahi tuna for sure! I found a recipe for sesame peanut butter noodles, and I'm going to use whole wheat udon. I also found a cool sounding salad dressing with wasabi that I'm going to put on Romaine and radishes (that might sound weird but I'm actually craving radishes!)
Posted by: Noelle Markus at June 9, 2008 8:58 PM
I love radishes. They give things a nice, cool bite!
Posted by: Dianne at June 10, 2008 3:25 PM


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Source: Commentary Magazine | David Aikman February 2012 Abstract On October 2011, when the so-called Arab Spring took a dark turn in Cairo, Egypt, the social media and smartphone technologies that had aided protesters in their fight for freedom captured new and dangerous developments. On video-hosting websites such as YouTube, one can see footage of the Muslim mobs that began throwing rocks at Coptic Christians on October 8. These young Copts had been protesting the burning of a Coptic … [Read more...]
Archives for February 2012
The Worldwide Attack on Christians
Assembly of Bishops Secretariat, Committees Conclude Meetings
Source: The Assembly of Canonical Orthodox Bishops of North and Central America NEW YORK, NY As reported on the web site of the Assembly of Canonical Orthodox Bishops of North and Central America, a number of meetings were conducted at the end of January 2012. Members of the Assembly's Secretariat held their annual "face-to-face" meeting at Saint Andrew Church, Riverside, CA, January 24-25. An overview of the work accomplished at the meeting will be included in a forthcoming Assembly … [Read more...]
'Divine Intervention' Saves Syrian Convent
Source: News24 Saidnaya - Divine intervention prevented a shell that pierced the walls of a Syrian convent from detonating, swears the mother superior of Our Lady of Saidnaya, a spiritual retreat near Damascus. "The Virgin Mary stopped the shell from exploding with her own hands," said Mother Verone, who interpreted the close call as a divine message that "God is watching over sacred places" amid the unprecedented unrest rocking Syria. The sound of explosions and gunfire from nearby … [Read more...]


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Unless I misunderstand the question, it turns out to be false unless u and v are perpendicular. Consider the following counter example:
Let the plane P be the XY plane (just to keep things simple) and let u=(1,2) and v=(1,0). These vectors span P (since they're linearly independent). Let's take x=(1,1).
So unless I'm misunderstanding or there's something missing, it's not true.


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Pregnancy issues in scleroderma.
This review focuseds on the effects of scleroderma on fertility and pregnancy as well as on the management of pregnancy and delivery in the scleroderma patient. Autoimmun Review, 2011 Dec 3. (Also see: Pregnancy and Scleroderma)
This item was posted in the ISN Newsroom. Please check the newsroom daily for updates on scleroderma and other related articles.
Pregnancy issues in scleroderma.
Started by Joelf , May 04 2012 12:24 AM
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Posted 04 May 2012 - 12:24 AM
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Supplier's electrical woes lead to Honda shutdown
- Written by JOEL E. MAST
An interruption in Honda's parts supply chain forced the automaker to suspend second-shift production Thursday at the East Liberty and Marysville auto plants.
Production is back to normal today, Honda spokeswoman Stacey Pond said.
She said Honda of America Manufacturing Inc. officials determined during the first shift that there were not enough parts to supply the second shift's needs.
They used a variety of notification methods to alert about 2,000 production line associates affected by the temporary shutdown.
Honda is not saying what part was unavailable nor identifying the parts supplier.
Ms. Pond said an electrical issue at the supplier's facility interrupted its production.