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CAVEAT EMPTOR by Vincent Daemon
As those reading this may or may not know, I work for an ezine entitled THE INTESTINAL FORTITUDE. The Intestinal Fortitude is essentially the ezine companion piece to the ANDRIODVIRUS & SEAN SHOW radio show/podcast.I do the occasional opinion column, but often focus mostly on reviewing, analyzing, and commenting on music. It's a job I was if I was interested in doing last September or so, and having just started to slither out of a severe and bad spell of agoraphobic depression and writers block, decided "sure." In fact, after having been m.i.a. for so long I was ecstatic to be invited on board (as I still am), especially considering a recent "incident" that occurred due to one of my reviews (there IS a point here, just stick with me).
Last week I did a review (I will leave names and distros out), but it was an (admittedly) harsh piece, done in a deliberately satirical form, even STATED AS SATIRE within the review itself. The piece got posted, as always, and the band/PR Firm did not like what I had to say one bit. In fact, they contacted my editors, and initially accused the review of being slanderous, etc. In fact, they did EXACTLY what I SATIRICALLY said "might" happen, be there a slight bust to the "rockstar" ego someone doesn't like.
And it's not like I was reviewing some completely new band just getting their shit together and trying to get the name out there as artists of sound. I was dealing with actual "Top 40"-types. (again names I won't mention for sake of the once satirical piece that was entirely misunderstood/mis-contexted – – – and the "subtle" threats made by the Firm – – – which I entirely SATIRICALLY predicted in my review – – – which they ACTUALLY made.) These are bands that have been around since the 90's/early 2000's, clogging the airwaves with the same sounds and interchange abilities for close to 20 years. One would think that such high-end radio charting and live selling acts that have been around so long would have a thicker skin. MY INTENTION WAS NOT TO INJURE ANYONES FEELINGS, but to question why "hard-rock" in general has just stayed the same, NOTHING MORE.
It was requested by the PR Firm that I NO LONGER REVIEW material of theirs for THE INTESTINAL FORTITUDE. Now there is a whole mess and the Firm may or may not continue to send materials for review and people to interview. Realistically, I can drum up enough of my own, were they to do as such, as can my bosses, etc., but that's kind of neither here nor there. It was also requested if they DO continue to send promos that I NOT review them.
Thankfully my editors have stood behind me 110%, something I am very grateful for, and I've been told to just keep doing what I do how I do it, which is fukking awesome. THE INTESTINAL FORTITUDE, and all related, is just that. There is no backing down or brown-nosing.
When I write a review, I write it FOR THOSE WHO READ IT, meaning, I'm NOT going to say I like something when I don't, or that it had some wondrous quality that it didn't, so that said distro or label or artist doesn't get their panties bunched AND sell bad music (IN MY OPINION) or art. No. You're going to get EXACTLY HOW I FEEL about what I am listening to. Anything otherwise would be a disservice, and dishonest, to those who are taking the time out of their day to check out my rambling whatever.
On top of that, there are my feelings about WHO HAS THE RIGHT to critique another person's material, of any kind, be it writing, music, painting, poetry . . . whatever. THE PERSON WHO HAS THE RIGHT TO CRITIQUE IS HE WHO HAS BEEN THERE THEMSELVES, BECAUSE IF YOU HAVE NOT, then you have no clue just what all exactly is involved. I do, and still don't know everything. I've released music from my own bands, played for other bands, toured, written lyrics for others, had 30+ stories published, a novella, at this point written a good (at least) hundred or so reviews and analysis' of both film and music, and made several short films, put out my own legit print magazine, among many other things. The ENTIRE BUSINESS OF ART OF ANY KIND IS BRUTAL. It is entirely a double-edged sword, a double-sided coin, a Catch 22 squared to the 6th. I know, I've been doing this some 25 years now. Honesty and integrity have disappeared from most art forms, unfortunately, the almighty dollar being the New God. I refuse to let myself fall into that trap; I watched it happen to others and it can be ugly. It's not what I am in my soul or person. I write what I write, from my gut, and when reviewing, NEVER with the intention to HARM ANOTHER BEING IN ANY WAY. IT IS SATIRE, WITH A PURPOSE.
Vincent Daemon, writer, editor, musician, photgrapher, film/music buff and historian, and rabblerouser, can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/vincent.daemon.1 as well as his spontaneously updated blog of writing news and nonsense THE WRITINGS OF A DEPRAVED MIND http://vincentdaemon.blogspot.com/ Some of his music can be painfully experienced at http://www.reverbnation.com/vincentdaemonsageofdesire3 His email is email@example.com


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Storage Rental Rates Increased in Van Buren – October 4, 2017
Increasing storage rents in Van Buren is by no means a great condition when you are considering moving there or just need self storage generally. On average, self storage rents in Van Buren went up by 11.2% recently. You may want to reserve a space in case rental rates continue to increase soon. In the case that self storage prices do continue to rise in Van Buren, you will save money by reserving a space now using StorageSeeker. However, if prices ultimately fall, since storage leases are usually only 30 days long, you can always move to a different facility in the future as well. Either way you are not stuck having to pay higher prices for self storage later on! With these options under consideration, it may possibly not really be such a poor strategy to at least hold a self storage space in Van Buren at this time.
The post Storage Rental Rates Increased in Van Buren – October 4, 2017 appeared first on Storage Seeker Blog.

subset: commoncrawl


text: Atenção! Esta oferta já expirou, não sendo possível efectuar mais candidaturas. Emprego Senior Java Developer (M/F) Empresa:Landing.Jobs Data Publicação:14/03/2018 Descrição da Função:Novabase's vision is to make life simpler and happier for people and businesses, through technology. Engineering and management combine with human sciences and design to create solutions focused on people. Its current businesses are Celfocus, Financial Services Industry Business Solutions, Government, Transports and Energy Business Solutions, IT Contracting and Venture Capital. Responsible for:• Programming and software development using various programming languages and related tools and frameworks• Reviewing code written by other programmers, requirement gathering, bug fixing, testing, documenting and implementing software systems.• Interpreting architecture and design, code reviews, mentoring, guiding and monitoring programmers• Ensuring adherence to programming and documentation policies• Software development, testing and release. Requisitos: • Bachelor's degree in Computer Science, Information Technology, or another related field from an accredited university• 7+ years of JEE programming experience• 3+ years of experience in architecting JEE application• Deep expertise in Solution Architecture:o Web application architectureso Web services architectureso Relational and non-relational data storage specifico Web application front-end and/or back-end architectureo Solution cross-cutting concerns (security, monitoring, caching, etc).• Experience with RESTful architecture and SOA architecture• Experience in designing solutions using in industry standard open source frameworks such as Spring, React, Sling, Apache, and Integration patterns• Expertise in one or more of the JEE containers (Tomcat, JBoss, Websphere, or Weblogic)• Must have worked as an architect for high volume high throughput applications in the past• Experience using Agile practices such as TDD, XP, continuous integration, unit testing to deliver solutions• Familiarity with builds and dependency management using Maven or similar tool• Should have excellent presentation skills and ability to express conceptual and physical architecture to directors and other key strategic partnersNice to have:• Experience in core Java development using concurrent threading model, JVM tuning, GC management. SOLR / Elastic Search• Experience with Azure technologies Local:Lisboa (Distrito de Lisboa) Partilhar esta informação Enviar a oferta: Senior Java Developer (M/F) Comentários Atenção! Esta oferta já expirou, não sendo possível efectuar mais candidaturas. Candidate-se a esta oferta Será redireccionado para o site da empresa


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If you are searching for a number of the best instrumentals mixtapes around you must check out one of Big Mike mixtapes titled Cruel Summer 2K3. I'm very content with the album. You can't compose a song just anywhere all of the time, inspiration is crucial, and therefore don't rush your art. So, we been fighting with that sort of shit for a lengthy moment. He ain't need to do that shit.
Quite simply, it's thought that he is merely a name and a face for the new music 2pac might still be releasing to this day. These companies have various opinions on the main reason why they reject links. You will have to do your own company in the start, but you constantly need to be on the lookout for somebody else to wear the many hats, be a boss. And you need plenty of money, and people behind you making moves for your benefit.
Trying to compare 1 country to another when it has to do with firearms is a fallacy. Guess the world might never know. The lives of my buddies and family are precious. Only time will tell whether this ghetto drama has a joyful ending. Since it's like they're attempting to hold on. It is intriguing to find this might actually end up being more true than they realise. One reason why this made it onto my top 10 is on account of the sum of energy which you gain from it.
The outcome of the organic search in 2016 went to the bottom. This effect is going to be felt more acutely in the event the recent Facebook video trend bears out. As a result, in case you have a change, it's advisable to move to this protocol. For that reason, it was decided to produce modifications to the search algorithm.


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Full-spectrum, JBL-quality sound featuring PureBass performance and premium 9mm drivers
Experience dynamic, full range frequency response from premium 9mm drivers with PureBass performance for a legendary sound experience.
Smartphone and tablet-friendly design with universal, inline, single-button remote/microphone
No matter the device you're using, clear sound and convenience is yours. You're in control – from smartphone to tablet – with the push of an inline, one-button remote/mic.
Lightweight construction merges with ear-pieces featuring angled ear-tubes and multiple-sized ear-tips for a snug, secure and comfortable fit
From its slim profile to its lightweight flat cable, E10s offer unique, angled ear-tubes and multiple ear-tips sizes for an optimal fit, reducing ambient noise for better listening.
Heightened aesthetics and styling in four upscale color choices
Sounding good is second only to looking good and E10's overall sense of design enhances ownership with cool colors and a carefully branded look to suit your style.
Includes lightweight, plastic carrying case for easy storage and safe transport
Taking quality sound on the road is something JBL does very well. With a lightweight carrying case, it's no different for your E10 headphones.
Step up to JBL-quality sound in an in-ear headphone with enhanced frequency response, a comfortable fit and tablet/smartphone-friendly features to keep you plugged-in and portable. JBL fully realizes the need for quality sound, having designed this bold, new profile for today's on-the-go lifestyle. JBL Synchros E10 in-ear headphones are a tablet/smartphone-friendly solution opening the door to full-spectrum, JBL-quality sound thanks to PureBass performance and 8mm drivers. From essential features including a secure, comfortable fit, lightweight design, advanced styling – in a variety of colors to choose from ¬– to their handy, inline, one-button remote/mic and widened frequency range, you'll enjoy more performance than you might ever expect. The added touch of including a lightweight carrying case, to safely transport your E10s, underlines their portability. Why deny yourself the best sound possible when there's an affordable, in-ear headphone that speaks so highly of your good taste?
General Specifications
Audio Specifications
Speaker Specifications
Control and Connection Specifications
Spec Sheet (EN)English 345 KB
- 1 JBL Synchros E10 in-ear headphones with 1 button remote/mic
- 1 Quick-start guide
- 3 Sets of silicone ear-tips (S, M, L)
- 1 Safety sheet
- 1 Lightweight carrying case
Manuals & Downloads
The latest owner's manuals, quick start guides, and documents.
Search Result For ""
1 Year Warranty
Products purchased online or from an authorized local retailer and under warranty may qualify for an exchange with a valid receipt.
Purchases made from an unauthorized dealer will not be eligible for exchange.
Call us: 1.800.336.4525
- Sales and pre-sale assistance
- Technical help
- Parts and accessories


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I cannot believe we are in August already! I have been in the beauty blogging world for just over a month now and have loved every minute of it so far. I didn't think about doing an empties post until it was too late, so I only have a few bits and pieces to show you this month. I'm sure Augusts empties will be twice as big now!
This month I've been really into my cleansing routine, a bit more than normal. After reading Caroline Hirons blog on a frequent basis, I've been learning about the actual ingredients inside products and tailoring my Skincare routine by listening to my skin a bit more. So before I go out and buy a whole new Skincare system, I'm using up the old. Two of my favourites are from Liz Earle. First, the Cleanse and Polish, see full blog post here and the second is the Gentle Face Exfoliator. This Exfoliator is fantastic for my skin when I have been flying. It gives me a much brighter complexion and there is no limit on how many times you can use it per week as it is so gentle. The jojoba microbeads aren't in anyway harsh on my skin and i feel so clean and unclogged when I use it.
I've been trying to use up some of my perfumes lately as I have so many. I've been wearing Victor and Rolf Flowerbomb for work. I adore this scent, I adore the bottle and it lasts for a good few hours which is a very good thing too. The perfume has base notes of patchouli and musk, heart notes of jasmine, rose, freesia and orchid and top notes of bergamot and green tea. It's a delightfully seductive oriental fragrance and its back on my repurchase list.
Every time I go to the States I alway pop in Bath and Body Works and come out with another five antibacterial hand soaps as they're usually on offer. I tend to buy the same ones, and colour coordinate them with the rooms they are going in! My favourites are Midnight Pomegranate, Caribbean Escape and Fresh Market Apple. I've just had a little nosy at the website and the new autumn scents are online. I need a trip to the USA now!!
My final empty is the L'Oreal Volume Million Lashes Excess. I'm not going to harp on too much about this as I will be featuring it in a blog post very soon. What I will say however is that I go through one of these a month and continuously have it on my 'To Buy' list. Favourite mascara? Without a doubt, it has to be this one!
Don't forget to follow me on Bloglovin!This post may contain PR samples that have been sent to me for consideration for review however all my opinions will be my own. The links in the post my be affiliate links which will earn a small amount of commission should you shop my recommendations.


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Quick search of recorded panels
Search the ERA database using the form above or browse panels by choosing an option below:
Investigate & Manage
ERA Projects
The Northumberland and Durham Rock Art Project was managed by Northumberland and Durham County Councils and funded by English Heritage through the Historic Environment Enabling Programme.
The project was managed by Sara Rushton, who led the Project Team: Tertia Barnett, Kate Sharpe, and Richard Stroud (See Project Team).
The role of the Project Steering Group (Aron Mazel, Clive Waddington, Jon Mills, Sally Foster, Emma Carver, Gail Graham, Gill Grayson, Jack Stevenson, Kate Wilson, Lindsay Allason-Jones, Margarita Díaz-Andreu, Myra Tolan-Smith, Paul Bryan, Pete Topping, Petra Wade, Philip Deakin, and Stewart Ainsworth) and the Database Steering Group (Aron Mazel, Clive Waddington, Glynn Goodrick, Professor Geoff Bailey, and Lindsay Allason-Jones) in supporting and guiding the project is gratefully acknowledged. We would also like to thank the English Heritage RAMASES advisory group for their continued support: Kate Wilson, Alex Gibson, Jonathan Last, Barney Sloane, Stan Beckensall, John Coles, Sally Foster, Graham Lee, Jan Magnusson, Sebastian Payne, Eric Robinson, Jack Stevenson and Robert White. Former County Archaeologists Caroline Hardie, Niall Hammond, and Fiona McDonald also made a significant contribution to the original project design.
Special thanks are also due to the following individuals and organisations:
The NADRAP project is also indebted to a number of volunteers who contributed their skills, and their time, above and beyond expectations:
Finally, we would like to acknowledge all the farmers and landowners whose assistance and co-operation was critical for the completion of the recording work.
Further acknowledgements relating to the ERA website and database can be found here
ERA website Credits, Disclaimer and Terms & Conditions


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LOS ANGELES � Will this year mark the death of the joystick?
With major video game publishers adopting camera and motion controller technologies, the end of the traditional controller � you know, that thing with all those buttons, sticks and pads � could be imminent. Microsoft and Sony will introduce dueling systems for the Xbox 360 and PlayStation 3 later this year that could rival Nintendo's popular Wii.
"I think it's going to be awhile, if ever, that we get away from a solid control pad, especially with our game," said Robert Bowling, creative strategist at "Modern Warfare" franchise developer Infinity Ward. "In a first-person shooter, you have to have that accuracy, so I don't think we will ever move away from having that stick control and using a control pad."
The next input evolution, the one that Sony Corp. and Microsoft Corp. unveiled at last year's Electronic Entertainment Expo, involves cameras connected to consoles. Sony's unnamed system employs detectable wandlike devices, while Microsoft's Project Natal relies on camera-gesture recognition, which can enable gamers to exert their actual fists in a fighting game, for example.
Meanwhile, Nintendo has teased the Wii Vitality Sensor, a peripheral device also expected out this year that attaches to players' fingertips and can measure their body signals. Much like the Microsoft and Sony camera systems, developers believe such technology can provide more specialized experiences, like a zombie game that unleashes more undead if a gamer seems bored.
"It's this whole sensory thing that we've never had � a window to the player's sort of mental state � or with the Wii, the biometrics that we can tune and tweak to customize an experience that way," said Morgan Gray, senior producer at "Resident Evil" developer Capcom. "That is exciting because now it's a twoway dialogue between the player and the game."
Yet most developers and publishers agree that such innovation won't mark the demise of the traditional controller. Despite revolutionizing the marketplace with the Wiimote, the motion-sensitive Wii doodad that can also be turned on its side and used as a traditional controller, Nintendo of America President Reggie Fils-Aime said buttons will continue to be mashed.


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Strawberry Peach Smoothie
Shopping List
- 2 cups So Good Original or No Sugar Added
- 1-1/4 cups hulled and sliced fresh strawberries
- 1-1/4 cups frozen sliced peaches (with or without skin)
- 2 tbsp. liquid honey
- 1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice
- 1 tbsp. chopped fresh mint
- In blender, purée together So Good, strawberries, peaches, honey, lemon juice and mint until smooth.
- Pour into glasses; garnish with mint sprigs, if desired.
Serves two.


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Ubuntu Live CD
Do you suspect your Windows machine is infected? Before dropping cash on anti-virus software, check out this quick tutorial that will help get rid of the spyware and viruses in your PC. It's easier than you think.
Maybe you can't even boot into your operating system because your rig is so bogged down, have no more fear, Purvesh is here! Please comment, magical things will happen! 8-)
Drupal theme by Kiwi Themes.


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Exotic pets, rodents and birds
Regarding Kelp as a Supplement for Tortoises
Regarding kelp for tortoises - it is difficult to comment on in general terms. However, while some marine turtles are of course adapted to a diet almost entirely of algae, this is not true of terrestrial tortoises at all and I have grave doubts as to the wisdom of feeding them kelp. Of course, if there is some clearly diagnosed dietary deficiency which kelp might remedy better than more natural food items (such as iodine deficiency) then of course there is a good case for using it in such situations. However, quite a few of our southern African tortoises are highly specialised with respect to their food plants - Chersina, Psammobates, Homopus and some Kinixys, as you know - and while they can be kept alive outside their natural range on other plant species, their condition is often less than satisfactory. This is not merely a matter of behaviour - it is reflected in gut length, gut anatomy, gut physiology, motility, etc., all of which are geared towards the characteristics of the plants they evolved to feed on over some millions of years. I have frequently seen, at post-mortem, diet-related enteropathy - often presenting macroscopically as flattened mucosal folds and floppy musculature; and microscopically as atrophied villi and altered epithelium, very much like the gluten-dependent enteropathy seen in some humans. Considering the huge chemical differences between kelps and the terrestrial plants tortoises feed on, not to speak of the big differences in physical properties particularly relating to bulk and to roughage (essential for proper gut motility in the grass-eaters) I would consider the routine provision of kelp as part of the usual diet to be a very bad thing indeed. I would only recommend its use where specifically indicated on medical grounds, for only as long as is necessary to rectify a particular deficiency and not under any other circumstances - least of all as an unsubstantiated "just in case" stratagem! Best wishes,
Dr. A.J. Lambiris
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Vol. 3, No. 3
by George Makana Clark
I was kissing Madota behind a pile of sandbags when the war of liberation came to Manicaland, working my hand beneath the blouse of her school uniform, touching the cotton of her brassiere for the first time. The war didn't arrive in jeeps, their fenders, bonnets, and running boards covered with rebels come to drag us out of our beds and shoot us on the lawns of our homes in the harsh light of our own security lamps. That story happens later. War came to us instead with the growl of a dog, and a cry of pain and fear that made Madota sit up and button her blouse. I clambered over the sandbags to witness a grim tug-of-war. A guerrilla soldier clung stubbornly to our clothesline pole, his foot trapped in the maw of my father's security dog, a Ridgeback. The dog dragged the rebel earthward by degrees. Because the Rhodesian Security Forces tracked the terrs by the figure-of-eight patterns on their soles, the intruder was barefoot, his combat boots strung over his shoulder. The links of the dog's choke collar rattled with each shake of its head as it separated flesh from anklebone. A poet might have seen in the man a sort of backward Christ, his face pressed against the pole, arms wrapped around the crossbar, but there's no poetry in a fifteen-year-old boy determined to lose his virginity, and I saw only an old man screaming. Behind me, Madota tucked her blouse into her waistband. I'd spent the better part of an hour opening the garment one-handed, my thumb and forefinger working the mother-of-pearl through starched buttonholes as my other hand stroked the pleats of her plaid skirt. In opening her shirt, I had exposed a swell of brown flesh against the bleached whiteness of her secret undergarment. Two silver rings hung from a thin metal chain around her neck. We both understood that a new line had been drawn between us, that the next time I coaxed her to the sandbags, this open blouse would be my entrenched position. My assault on Madota's maidenhead was glacierlike, unrelenting and slow and inevitable. I meant to become a man, there with Madota in the dirt behind the sandbags, before my sixteenth birthday. "Leave off," I said, pulling at the choke collar, but the dog refused to release the rebel soldier. My father had bought the Ridgeback from a trainer in Umtali, a red-faced Afrikaner who beat his animals with his fists, then turned them loose on a dummy whose head and hands were painted dark. No one felt comfortable petting the nameless dog, and Madota would only come onto our property if I escorted her. It was the dog that had prevented the Shona lorry driver and his turnboy from delivering the sandbags to our door a week earlier. Instead they stood in the bed of their lorry and tossed sandbags and nervous glances at the Ridgeback as it paced the edge of our property line with a show of hackles and teeth and black gums. Afterward, I wheedled and coaxed Madota behind the bags heaped on the shoulder of the road, and there, for the first time, I kissed the face and neck of my childhood friend and worried at her school uniform, a haze of dust floating in the late afternoon sun, her brown fingers against my freckled wrist, caressing, restraining. "Give it up!" I commanded, but the trainer had never bothered to teach his animals to release the painted dummy, and the Ridgeback held fast to the guerrilla's foot. I stepped back and pointed to my feet. "Sit!" I said, and the Ridgeback let go of the terr and obediently sat before me, fixing its flat stare on my throat. The terr climbed from the pole, his weight on his undamaged foot, and regarded us impassively. In me, he saw a pale Murunge boy who seduced Shona girls for sport, and in Madota, he saw the sort of girl who made poor choices. The rebel was stooped and white-bearded, like Madota's father when he was alive, and she cast her eyes at the ground as she brushed the dirt from the seat of her skirt. The Shona are a proper people, as were the ancient sisters who ruled the native school and orphanage, members of the withered and forgotten missionary order of Saint Agnes, from whose care Madota sometimes managed to escape in order to join me behind the sandbags against all rules of accepted behavior. The terr turned his back on us and began to hobble toward my house to wait for the police to take him away to prison, there to await his execution. To give him over to our security forces would be to accept his assessment of us. Madota's hand rested on my sleeve, and in this gesture I felt a silent plea. There had always been an unspoken language of touch between us, though in the matter of sexual intercourse I refused to listen. "No, this way," I called to his back. I motioned to the tangle of wild vegetation behind our house the way a toddler might wave a loaded pistol, or an informant point to a neighbor with whom he'd just quarreled, a spurious gesture with no regard for consequences. I would help the terr because I felt sorry for him, tattered and bleeding, old and disoriented, and this was the Christian thing to do. Or because I'd become fed up with oppression, and I loved Madota, and so on, the sort of rot that comes early in the story when everybody's still looking for reasons. I draped the rebel's arm around my neck so that I could take his weight. "There's a place you can hide," I said, and with this, I stepped into the story that had carelessly rambled into my yard. The old terr looked at me suspiciously, almost annoyed that he would now be forced to reappraise me. I held my breath, and Madota squeezed my hand; here was a breach in the solidarity between the white people of our country, the cement that held Rhodesia together, and there followed a break in the story to accommodate the enormity of the moment.
That evening, Madota climbed from the window of the crowded barracks she shared with sixty-four other Shona girls, all wards of the church, and she gapped it from the sisters of Saint Agnes. She slowed to a walk when she reached an ancient mahogany whose roots had thrown up a section of the brick wall surrounding the conventa place, the story goes, where the nuns in their distant youth had met with their Shona lovers. Madota stepped respectfully over the rubble of gnarled roots and broken masonry. It was a sacred tree. She skirted a desolate plot of ground that on certain days of the year was anonymously decorated with lilies and orchids from the sisters' hothouse, and sped down the kopje, her bare feet holding the path in the darkness, silver wedding rings jangling on the chain around her neck, until she reached the garden shed. In this way, bringing only her spare school uniform, a picture Bible, and a leather case containing her toiletries, Madota left the care of the sisters of Saint Agnes and joined the rebellion. Her first duty was to tend to the guerrilla's foot, washing the punctures and tears and applying ointments and fresh bandages that I pilfered from my father's large stockpile of first aid supplies. The terr called himself Granma, after the yacht that smuggled Castro, Che, and a small cadre of revolutionaries into Cuba. Granma had trained for thirteen weeks on the Caribbean island, most of it in the mountains of the Oriente. He'd returned to Rhodesia with bulging calf muscles, a working knowledge of map reading and Soviet-manufactured light weaponry, and a ceramic coffee mug. Granma fell into a dream in which an enormous dog held his foot fast in its muscled jaws, and we left him, motionless and sweating, on the dirt floor of the garden shed, which was hidden by a dense tangle of undergrowth, outside the territory the Ridgeback had marked with its urine. I led Madota behind the sandbags and removed her shirt. This had become a struggle between us, and we took no enjoyment in it. I succeeded in unhooking her brassiere before the dawn brought its truce, and we lay on our sides, not looking into each other's faces, each frustrated with the other, the sandbags hard against our hips and shoulders. That weekend, while my father and I shifted the sandbags into our house to shore the perimeter walls against gunfire and shrapnel, Madota nested in the old gardener's shed, clearing a small patch of the weedy tangle that had once been a brilliant garden in the days before my father grew too frightened to hire Shona servants. Her breathy voice sounded like pan pipes as she sang and planted, sometimes a strange and unknown hymn, for the sisters of Saint Agnes were secret psalmists, but more often a bit of nonsense her father had sung to her in her childhood: There was once a girl, there was once a girl, there was once a girl, let's go to Zinjanja! Madota planted matinal and nocturnal flowers, and in the late afternoon hours we witnessed showers of purple morning glories wilt on the vine while moonflowers spread their white petals beneath the darkening sky, and her song floated on their scent, Who went to fetch firewood, who went to fetch firewood, and hundreds of species of butterflies sent representatives to the congress that convened in the constant bloom of her garden, who went to fetch firewood, and the wind jostled chimes suspended from threadsshards of dutchware blue from Indonesia, stemless champagne flutes, chipped glass napkin rings, and silver spoons pounded flat, an orchestra that swelled and fell away behind Madota's voice as if her breath animated them, let's go to Zinjanja! This was not a rebel hideout she was preparingthis point has been clarified in the retellingsbut rather a home for the two of us. She planted mint in paraffin tins and set them on the sill of our only window so the mountain wind would rustle it on its way into the shed, and it would always smell cool and fresh inside, until the hot month of November, when the wind chimes fell quiet and Granma's foot began to go septic. Granma was nearing sixty, stooped but muscular, and he clung to the old Shona belief that all things were woven together into the fabric of the universe. For this reason he never took more than one cup of instant coffee and chicory, though he clearly enjoyed it over any other beverage. "If I take too much, someone will have to stoop longer in the sun to pick more beans in exchange for the right to remain on their ancestors' land," he explained. Granma polished his ceramic drinking cup after his daily coffee, wrapped it in an undershirt, and placed it carefully in his ruck, out of respect, he told me, for the Cuban who'd been in charge of his weapons training. The revolutionary had been a potter in the days of Batista, and the factory owner would not allow time for the cups to cool before the workers removed them from the kiln. The man's fingertips, Granma told us, were like mushrooms. Granma nursed his daily coffee and watched his foot gray like aged steak, and Madota planted her garden and fetched water and changed the bandages that wrapped his rancid foot, and my father and I stacked the sandbags against the papered walls of the bungalow until the heather print was completely obscured. My father had shipped the wallpaper, along with my mother, from Scotland twenty years earlier, and the African climate had been cruel to both. We piled the sandbags in rows of twenty, floor to ceiling, each tier staggered for cohesion in case any stray rockets managed to clear the towering mesh fence my father planned to erect around the house. My father and I ate from tins in the dark kitchen, my mother in her room. The kitchen window was left unblocked to help me better see the sink where I scrubbed our dishes, but the mesh cover allowed little light, and we grew used to finding particles of dried food on our china and flatware. There were eleven interior doors in our bungalow, most of the rooms with two and three entrances, giving occupants the impression of many choices. But my father had sealed the kitchen door and covered the windows with mesh, and when our rebel executioners finally came to wake us from our dream of security, they would lead us out the front door. Granma's foot prevented him from leaving the shed, so he sent Madota in his stead to rendezvous with the surviving rebels who had crossed with him into Rhodesia. Granma had designated the ancient mahogany at Saint Agnes's as the rendezvous point in the event the cadre became separated, because the tree was prominent on the crest of the kopje, and it was sacred, and for other reasons we would later discover. One of their cadre had been lost during the river crossing, drowned or taken by a crocodile, Granma couldn't say. He had turned to pull his comrade onto the bank, but there was only the black, swirling water of the Zambezi. A mounted patrol of Grey's Scouts fell upon the exhausted and wet guerrilla band, and many surrendered without a fight. Granma threw down his rifle and hid in a tree while the scouts executed their captives, and yet there was no bitterness in his voice as he reached this place in his story. "What would you have them do, nephew? Arrest my comrades, feed them, give them dry clothes?" he asked. "That way we could all fight this war forever, and with clear consciences." Madota returned with a stooped man and an emaciated boy, not much older than myself, both weaponless, the only members of the decimated cadre to make the rendezvous. October Twenty-Five had been trained in the Soviet Union and took his name from the date of their Great Revolution. He had worked in the refinery in Umtali until the birth of his twelfth child. The other guerrilla had adopted the name Zhanta, after the legendary Shona warrior of the Rebellion of 1897. Like Granma, the two guerrillas had taken revolutionary names to bolster their morale and, in the advent of capture, to shield their villages and families from reprisals. Zhanta followed Madota into the shed, his left eye welling, its cornea bleached white. The eye blinked and teared constantly, as if trying to rid itself of the naked pupil that floated on its surface like a bit of blown ash. As a child, he'd been taken away from his village to work in the dip tanks because his parents couldn't afford to pay a tax. "Mhoro, comrade," he said to Granma, looking at me with his leaking eye, and I caught the faint scent of harsh toxins. I imagined that the dead parasites he rinsed from the cattle at the dip tank had become, for him, a metaphor for the Europeans who infested his homeland. "Ahoi," Granma replied, then lowered himself onto the dirt floor of the shed, his damaged leg stretched before him. October Twenty-Five squatted silently. Of the thirty-seven members of their cadre who crossed the Zambezi into Rhodesia, only the three remained alive, each uncomfortable with his survival. No one introduced me, and I stood outside their circle, unsure if I was a comrade or an enemy. Granma spread his outdated survey map over a battered trunk, the only piece of furniture in the shed. When I dragged this trunk from the crawl space in the bungalow to our shed, chips and fragments of glass and delft and porcelain and china glaze and longing and heart's desire had shifted like musical sand in the ullage of its depths. Madota made her chimes from the detritus she found inside the trunk, a coffin- sized steamer lined with rotted toile depicting Napoleon's Egyptian campaigns. Its contents smelled of Scottish mildew and stone, and spindrift, and stevedore's spilt beer, and untreated crate wood, and alien scents of faraway cargo, the wafture of seas and continents. The trousseau had accompanied my mother on her sea journey from Scotland, a hopeless chest filled with the sort of frippery that quickly disintegrates in Africa. Because Granma was the only rebel who had previous experience as a guerrilla soldier, we elected him our leader, and we circled around the trunk that would become our dining and campaign table, and so convened the first meeting of the Leopard Gang.
Place, rather than time, is the stitch that weaves African stories together, and when Granma told us he knew where a cache of weapons could be found, it seemed foreordained that they'd be buried near the sacred mahogany that towered over Saint Agnes's, on a patch of desolate ground scattered with dead and fresh flowers. The previous owners of the weapons, the story goes, were a cadre of rebels who, in the early days of the war, infiltrated into Rhodesia with neither reconnaissance, nor planning, nor any local support from the villagers, whom the police alternately bribed and bullied for information. They suffered three weeks of starvation and exposure before they finally buried their weapons and money and uniforms and made their way south across the Botswanan border. Only one member of the cadre, Granma, would return to Africa to resume the hondo. Granma's foot had prevented him from joining us, so there was a childish excitement among the Leopard Gang when we broke ground beneath the waxing crescent moon, playing pirates after treasure. At times Madota's shoulder touched mine as we put our weight to the spades, and an acute awareness of her flooded me, and I felt myself swell against the fabric of my trousers. Although the beleaguered guerrillas had buried the weapons shallowly in their haste to be rid of them, the dry season had turned the mound of earth into the crown of a great skull, and the romance quickly evaporated as the tips of our shovels scratched and scraped against the hardpan. As we dug, I told October Twenty-Five and Zhanta about the twelve lay Catholics, all young Shona men under the direction of a Swiss Bethlehem priest, who had built the chapel, convent, native school, and orphanage during such a dry season. A mother superior and twenty-four young novices came with the rains, and the chapel sunk and canted beneath their feet. After the Swiss Bethlehem father returned to Umtali, the Shona men erected a temporary barracks at a discreet distance from the convent and, according to the story, continued to serve the sisters, first installing blair toilets and a donkey boiler, then a runoff channel to direct the rainwater down the kopje. The laymen stayed on after there was nothing left to build, repairing all imperfections, save the breach in the wall forced by the mahogany's roots, which provided secret access to the compound. There was a mandatory hanging clause in the Law and Order Act for anyone found guilty of terrorist activity. Possession of a firearm constituted such an offense, and in our fatigue it was easy to imagine that the hole we dug was, in a way of speaking, our own grave. October Twenty-Five shuddered and climbed out of the shallow pit to smoke a cigarette beneath the mahogany, and Zhanta threw a shovelful of dirt at him. "Why do you stand there breathing through your nose while we work so hard? Granma says, 'Where one rests, another works double.'" "Granma's always talking. Zzzz, zzz, zzz. Where's he now? Who's working double for him?" October Twenty-Five spat. He had little use for ideology. "Granma also says he'll take on all the sins of our country." Granma was a sinnerist who believed he could save people from evil by committing their transgressions for them. October Twenty-Five thought Granma was vuta, full of airs. Zhanta's colorless eye glared. He believed Granma was a holy man. Madota and I continued to dig, uneasy in our growing fear that we would exhume the fine bones of smothered infants. It was widely known that the nuns had buried their unwanted babies here, marking the anniversary of each interment with a spray of hothouse flowers. At a depth of four feet, we uncovered a bed of sticks that the rebels had spread over the weapons. I trained my penlight into the shallow pit while October Twenty-Five inventoried the cache: five Chinese AK automatics, seven grenades, one land mine, several thousand rounds of ammunition, stacks of ZANU pamphlets, straps of South African and Rhodesian money, camouflaged uniforms, two TNT demolition slabs, a military radio, a PPSH Russian submachine gun, piles of Mao's Little Red Book, and discarded uniforms. We reburied the pamphlets and books, as well as the radiothe Rhodesian Security Forces occupied so many frequencies that it wasn't safe to use it. Madota and I shook out two sets of camouflaged uniforms to take home and wash for ourselves. My fatigue shirt had a bullet hole in the shoulder, and when we returned to the shed Madota sat close and taught me how to sew it shut, my hands in hers, looping the needle in small, even stitches, the cooking fire hot on our faces, the smoky chicory from Granma's coffee in our nostrils. That same night, a leopard visited Granma in a dream, and she told him we would be invisible at night if we kept off the crest of hills where the stars and moon would silhouette us, and she warned us that we must put aside our selfish interests or fail in our rebellion. The leopard was the spiritual animal of Granma's family, and she advised and warned him in his dreams. We called ourselves the Leopard Gang in honor of Granma's dream, and we broke off the front and back sights on our weapons to prove we would kill close in the night, and we called each other "comrade" and fired our empty rifles point-blank at life-size soldiers cut from butcher paper and taped to the rocks. The night wind made our enemies writhe under our imaginary fusillade. On Granma's strict orders, we aimed dead-center mass, like they teach in Cuba: "Humans are too hardheaded, and sometimes the bullet will turn against the skull. Better to hit the belly or chest. That way, you remove three soldiers from the fightthe soldier you shoot, and the two who carry him away." The mountain wind swallowed the hollow tick of our dry fire, and our silent target practice went unheard by the sticks of police and soldiers who patrolled the highlands, nor did it reach my father as he paced the bungalow's perimeter with the Ridgeback, checking locks, testing mesh window coverings, nor did it penetrate my mother's bedroom, where she kept my father's loaded service revolver within arm's reach at all times. Whether she planned to use this weapon as a last-ditch defense against the terrs who would one night burst into her room, or whether she intended at that final moment to turn it on herself, is beyond my ken.
In September, when the Leopard Gang was still new, we cleared Granma's maps from the steamer trunk and laid on a feast: Granma peppered rusks of stale bread with cinnamon, and we immersed them in his ceramic mug until they were soft with instant coffee and chicory; October Twenty-Five fried beetles that Zhanta rooted from the bark of dead flame trees that had once grown in the garden; I bought scuds of beer and takeaways of fried meat; and Madota stewed a pot of fresh vegetables that had been delivered to us anonymously. Though the Leopard Gang stayed clear of the Shona in a nearby trust land, we had awoken that morning to find gem squash, tomatoes, cucumbers, maize, pumpkins, papaya, mangos, and courgettes piled outside the shed door. "There are brothers and sisters everywhere," Granma told us. Madota said a simple grace, "Keep us well, Father," and I wondered which "father" she meant: the Christian God of the Sisters of Saint Agnes, as illustrated in her book of Bible stories; Mhondoro, the great tribal spirit of the Shona people; or the spirit of her own dead father. Granma told me to hang some meat outside the shed, and I reckoned this to be some sort of spiritual offering to facilitate the healing of his foot, which I suppose, in a sense, it was. "Have more, brother," Zhanta pressed Granma. Granma refused. "If I take too much, someone else goes without." October Twenty-Five had no such qualms and accepted another scud of beer, then sang the song of the absent lover for his wife who waited in the trust lands for his return. Faraway mountains hide you from me, the shed's solitary window above him framed the emptiness of the night sky, while closer mountains throw their shadows at me, and here he made a fist, for dramatic tension maybe, or some feeling for his woman that had welled up inside him, Would that I had my war club, or perhaps this was how the song was sung, with balled fists, I would smash the near mountains, and he brought the fist down on the table softly so that it would not disturb his beer, Would that I had bird wings, and he made as if he were going to rise, but instead settled back on his haunches, I would fly over the far mountains. His song conjured a buried memory of my parents singing behind the closed door of my mother's room, their harmonies perfectly blended, proof that this was something they'd done often in the long ago, before my father brought his bride to Africa. It was an ancient air, mournful and Scottish. They never sang again in my hearing, and so I'm unable to weave the lyrics of their song into this narrative, nor provide details from behind that closed door to establish a scene, leaving this bit a curious digression to be edited out, perhaps, in the next telling. No one spoke at the close of October Twenty-Five's song, and he laughed at my surprise. "I know how you like to tell stories, nephew," he said to me, "and that you say I joined the revolution to get away from my wife and all those children." Outside the shed, the flies hummed around the meat I'd hung out for Granma. "Now I'll tell you the truth. My wife's a small woman. When she birthed our twelfth child, the nganga told us she wouldn't live through another; if I went with her again, the result might kill her. I had to go somewhere, so I joined the liberation movement." "Ehe! Why not use a condom, man?" Zhanta asked. "A condom can fall off, or sometimes they break holes. No, I'm a patient man. There's no quick end to our revolution, and she hasn't so many childbearing years left." It took more than a day for the flyblown meat to cultivate maggots, which Madota applied to Granma's gangrenous wound to eat away the poisoned flesh. While Granma screamed into a knotted rag stuffed into his mouth, Madota and I resumed our struggle, hidden in the thicket that surrounded the shed. I had progressed to the point where Madota was naked to the waist, but despite my coaxing and petting, she refused to yield to me. "Why do we do this?" she asked. The contest might have lasted all night had October Twenty-Five not discovered us when he left the shed to relieve himself. "This sort of thing endangers everyone," he muttered, and returned with a full bladder to watch over Granma. That morning, Madota burned out the maggots with a glowing stick, and Granma fell into a deep sleep that lasted two days. When he awoke, he refused to take any of the instant coffee we'd made for him, and he gave his ceramic mug to Madota, and he told us his dream. "In my sleep, the leopard told me our first target. We attack the sisters at Saint Agnes tonight." Zhanta's eye stared at Granma, and Madota seemed to sink into herself. I retreated further away from the circle of rebels. Up to this point, it had all been playing soldiers and talking. "They're only old women, comrade," October Twenty-Five said. "Those old women with their Jesus. He's more dangerous than soldiers." Granma's foot appeared smaller beneath the bandages. "A proper savior would commit our sins for us, so that we might be spared." Madota rose. "Is this what we trained and planned for? Soldiers are supposed to die in combat, but nuns!" "Just so!" Granma thumped the chest, and its contents shifted musically. "How many such acts can we stomach? It's time for a new war, one so ugly nobody can face it. The old one's gone on too long." "They aren't hurting anybody," I said. It had been my practice to remain silent at these meetings, and my voice sounded thin and childish in my ears. Granma settled back on his haunches and stared at me. "When I was a small boy, a messenger from the Ministry of Lands informed my family that our ancestral homestead had been designated as white and our cattle would be confiscated to make room for their convent and orphanage. No one's blameless, nephew." And here was the reason his story kept circling round to the ancient mahogany tree atop the kopje. Zhanta's bleached eye wept in its socket. Shortly after his release from the dip tanks, guerrillas had come to his village and promised his mother they'd send her son to England to study so he could become a leader when majority rule came. They took him across the border into Zambia, where they gave him a khaki shirt and trousers and a new name and sent him to Algeria for training. Each night, Zhanta pictured the faces of his family and fought to remember the exact position of each house in his village. "We'll never go home," he said miserably. "This is something you've just now realized?" Granma said sharply. "I didn't join the liberation movement to kill nuns," October Twenty-Five said. Granma placed his hand on October Twenty-Five's shoulder. "No worries, comrade. I'll take their deaths upon myself." In these last days, Granma spoke with gravity and portent, as if he were reading scripture. I collected water in buckets from the bungalow's faucet and we ritually cleansed ourselves in preparation for the attack, lathering and rinsing our genitals and armpits, and no one else stared when Madota joined us. But I couldn't look away from her nakedness, the water that ran down her belly and off the hair between her legs, and I quickly rinsed and covered my hardness. We dressed and drew leopard spots on each other's faces with burnt sticks, and we set off together to Granma's new war, because we were too frightened to face it alone.
I'd like to cut away this part of my narrative, but over years the bones of stories turn to stone, and it becomes difficult to break one away from the rest. The Leopard Gang moved through the breach in the brick wall, toward the unlit chapel where the old nuns, it is said, danced slowly in each other's arms, their eyes closed, remembering. Madota and I took our place with the submachine gun behind the rubble of bricks thrown up by the mahogany tree. From here we could watch the road that wound up the kopje and provide covering fire for our comrades. The white walls of the convent shone against the moon like the gates to heaven in Madota's picture Bible. This story was supposed to be about how I lost my virginity and became a man, but somehow Granma had turned it inside out until now it was all about killing nuns, and there was no longer any time for coming-of-age. My blood was up when I raised the submachine gun and trained it between Granma's shoulder blades. Perhaps Madota read my intent, for she unbuttoned her fatigue shirt and let it drift to the ground. The silver wedding bands that hung from her neck shone against her skin. The larger ring had belonged to her father, who raised her, the smaller ring to the mother who had died outside her memory. Granma limped into the darkness, and I sighed as I lowered the weapon, and the mountain wind swept away my breath. Madota raised her arms and I removed her undershirt, humming inside with satisfaction as I kissed her face and neck and breasts and nipples. Madota showed me how to arrange her body beneath me and, after a few misguided thrusts, guided me into her. Below us, an armored car wound its way up the kopje followed by a five-tonner filled with soldiers who sat on sandbags to protect their testicles from land mines, and I wondered who in the Leopard Gang had betrayed us. I tried to roll over to the submachine gun, but Madota pulled me back to her. I couldn't find my breath, her beauty and the moment stretched out before me. I heard the squeak of axles as the vehicles moved closer, and the rustle of dead petals from the nuns' hothouse flowers beneath us. Perhaps Madota relented not because she loved me, but rather so she could cease to love me, or maybe there, lying on her fatigue shirt beneath the immense moonshadow of the mahogany, she imagined herself in the marriage bed we would never share. The first report of Granma's rifle came to us from the convent. The nuns, some say, recited in unison as they were exterminated, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, and it has been reckoned that the interval between each shot was precisely the amount of time it took Granma to hobble over to the next kneeling sister, He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, and with each line another voice fell away, He leadeth me beside the still waters, until only one sister was left to deliver the final line of their dwindling psalm, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. The rattle of the armored car and the five-tonner continued to grow closer, Granma fired his final shot from inside the convent, my flesh was overwhelmed, and here was the reason I joined the war of liberation, to bring Madota to this moment of selfishness, and I rutted and roared and shut out the rumble and clatter of vehicles and soldiers and gunshots, my eyes closed to her impassive stare so as not to spoil this beautiful moment when I became a man. Exhausted, I listened to the crack of the soldiers' FN rifles and the deeper pop of the Leopard Gang's Chinese assault rifles as they returned fire. I could barely lift my head to see October Twenty-Five catch it on the lawn of the chapel. A bullet in the chest turned him to face his executioners, a second in the neck, a third in the groin. He must have rejoiced at this last wound, for he was no longer a threat to his own wife, and he lay on his side and bled into the ground, and he sang the song of the absent lover until there was no more breath to carry the words to the trust lands where she waited for him. Zhanta's dying silhouette moved between the trees amid the wink of the soldiers' flash suppressors, the restless, bleached eye now sightless, his arms and legs dancing crazily as he fell, only to miraculously rise again in his village where, it was said, he was seen by his mother and her cousin. There was no sign of Granma during this brief skirmish outside the chapel, and the news service would report only two bodies recovered. I closed my eyes and dreamed of Madota in some future, faraway place where I could never find her. She cradled an infant in her arms, a girl child that looked like her mother, but with blue eyes and a ginger cast to her hair. I reached out to touch my lost family, but their skin was as rough as the wool of Madota's fatigue shirt, and my fingers came away sticky with blood in the place where she had lain, but now was gone. If the mahogany had not sunk its roots deep into the earth over the centuries, it would have turned away as I ran into the darkness of the forest, having seen enough.
The branches of the sacred tree now support an epilogue to this storychimes made from broken rifle sights, silver wedding rings, and broken bits of a ceramic coffee mug, a sign, perhaps, that Madota refused to drink from Granma's cup. The caretaker of the empty convent bought the chimes, she recalled, at a musika, before the police shut down the native market and scattered the vendors, from a woman who carried on her hip a colored child with ginger hair. I received my call-up notice on the second anniversary of the Leopard Gang's attack on the sisters, and was given two weeks to report for induction into the Rhodesian Security Forces. My father, worried that the underbrush might provide the terrs with cover, hired a bulldozer to level the ground between the bungalow and the security fence. Some nights, I crossed the floodlit area between the sandbagged walls of our house and the mesh fence, past the Ridgeback that patrolled the broken ground, the stump of its docked tail stiff and unwagging, and through the surrounding tangle of new growth and deadfall to the place where the Leopard Gang had once sat and planned around my mother's hope chest, the shed now dark and the roof collapsed. The crepuscular moonflowers still opened their white petals, though, and the wind continued to gather hollow notes from the chimes, and these were reasons enough to draw me there. The Portuguese had lost Mozambique, and the new government there welcomed the boys of the hondo to operate from behind the closed frontier that bordered the eastern highlands of Rhodesia. From their new base camps, the terrs could easily cross the free-fire zone into Manicaland on foot, or even come to us in the night, crowded onto the running boards and bonnets of jeeps. The sound of their engines woke me, and I heard them shoot our security dog, and still I didn't leave my bed. The eleven doors in our bungalow offered only illusory escape routesour only exit was through the heavy front door, spotlighted with security lamps. Neither my father nor mother registered any shock at the sight of the hooded rebels who had crowded their dreams since they landed together in Africa. The terrs set fire to the bungalow and we all fell back before its heat. My father would go to his death ahead of us, neither courageous nor cringing, but resigned, as if he hadn't any place in this new world where it was no longer a good thing to be white. My mother followed him passivelyperhaps her pistol had clattered to the floor when she reached for it, and they found her scrabbling on her knees in the darkness. Or she had placed the barrel in her mouth but could not make herself pull the trigger. Regardless, the pistol was useful only to ward away night fears, like the Ridgeback that lay motionless beside the burning house, its tongue lolling. They shepherded us away from the house and made us lie down on broken soil where they would bring us to still waters. This was the path of righteousness, and though we lay in the shadow of the valley of the Vumba Mountains, I feared no evil, for Granma stood there before us, terrible and deathless, with his walking stick and his Chinese assault rifle, and I took such comfort as I could in his presence. Granma stood above my father, the barrel of his rifle pointed dead-center mass, and he retreated a step to avoid the backsplash of gore. My mother took my father's hand and he squeezed back, the only sign of affection between them I would ever witness. At least they would have this, the dying together. My father bounced as the bullets thupped into his back, and my mother wailed as she fully realized for the first time since my birth that she was in Africa, a rending ululation that resonated even after Granma took her death upon himself. I buried my face in my arms as Granma's uneven footsteps grew closer, and I shuddered at the touch of his rifle against the back of my head. A breath of wind filled the hollows of the valley like pan pipes, and from somewhere within the foliage outside the security fence, Madota's bric-a-brac chimed like bells for a wedding, There was once a girl, and I wanted to marry her and hold our daughter in our arms, there was once a girl, and my story no longer belonged to me, any more than the ancient sisters of Saint Agnes could lay claim to the tales I'd invented of their Shona lovers and smothered children. Certainly there followed the staccato of automatic gunfire, but only muted sounds penetrate such moments and register on the memory. The soft tangle of music from Madota's wind chimes, let's go to Zinjanja! The crackle of flames that burned away the covers of the sandbags, melting their contents into walls of opaque glass. Granma broke training and pushed his rifle against my head, hard enough to make the barrel slide at an oblique angle, and the first bullet turned my skull without penetrating it, as he always warned us might happen if we didn't fire dead-center mass, and the rest streamed harmlessly into the ground. My shoulder settled against my father's, and my mother's dead fingers touched the wetness of my anointed head as I fell into darkness, and now that the rebels had finally come, we were a family, my father, my mother, and I. At this point, a Shona storyteller might conclude simply with "Day breaks"; or a child with the rote "The end"; or, in the psalmody of the sisters of Saint Agnes, "Amen." But endings sometimes go and come without the story taking notice. Granma's story, I suppose, is still alive with atrocities committed so others will be spared, and Madota's story flows with her breast milk into our daughter, while the story of my father and mother continues along a path this earthbound narrative cannot follow. My own story invariably circles round to the night when Granma spared me to answer my call-up notice and become a soldier on the other side of the same fight, his disciple in the new war, a storybook of fresh offenses open before me.


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Fun Monday # 14 Isn't every day a bad hair day!!!
Robin's our host for today:
What's her challenge? She thinks Bloggers are notorious exhibitionists...we bare our hearts...we bare our souls...and sometimes...SOMETIMES...we bare our faces. It's not our faces she's interested in, though...it's
OUR HAIR! She wants us to find our WORST "BAD HAIR DAY" EVAH! If you're the unfortunate soul who has more than one, well then, post as many as you're willing.
As far as I'm concerned everyday is a bad hair day and I get around this by being the person who takes the photos of the rest of the family. Most of my really awful photos have long since been cut up and thrown out never to be seen again. I managed to find a few like the teenage perm, middle age perm blowing in the wind, the time I asked for highlights and came out virtually blond. The day I didn't have a comb handy, a bun that looks as though it been stuck on top of my head (it's all my own hair I promise). I've also added a few extra to make up the number and thanks to darling daughter number 2 for preparing my collage (she's rather cross with me because I keep changing my mind about which photos to include sorry Beccy XX).
Have a good laugh but don't be too unkind to this poor OAP who has seen better days but not many if these photos are anything to go by!!!
PS I have just noticed that Beccy's own collage did not include one particular photo that I sent her. If I get enough requests I MIGHT just post it!! (well if she'll let me- mmm if she says 'no' will I listen to her!!
11:15pm By popular request I'm adding this one of BECCY (I assure you it's not me) and as she pointed out its a bad face day but I think you'll enjoy it !!
Labels: bad hair, Fun Monday


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mp3 album
ant-zen. act208
download "nyx" from
following the fantasy influenced 'war of sound', the exotic 'aswad' and the haunting 'frozen spark', mathis mootz produced his latest concept work, 'nyx' (night). 'nyx' is not only the album title but it's also the ancestral name of the eight greek goddesses and gods that are the inspiration for the track titles. mootz says that this work 'is the most satisfying squaremeter release since i started the project'. the name of the first five mythological statures characterize an attribute for which they stand for: vitiation (moros), death (thanatos), sleep (hypnos), discord (eris), retribution and revenge (nemesis). the last three tracks are named by the moires (goddesses of faith): klotho, spinning the thread of life, lachesis who decides this thread's length and atropos who cuts the thread relentlessly. nyx and her descendants represent the dark regions of greek mythology - self-evidently 'nyx' is the aural implementation of what these figures stand for. the deep drones, bass pulses and disturbing soundscapes seem to originate from some otherworldly region and worm their way through the listener's psyche (and into nightmares). often, releases of this genre have a cold icy mood but the spirit of 'nyx' is red-hot - even when the deathless long pauses occur within the tracks. except for 'nemesis' no rhythmic structures will be found here as an anchor. time itself seems to be invalidated, experiencing this album will be as if you slipped into a black hole for an eternity. this is like watching waves crash against rocks in slow motion: there's a sense of movement and development, but it's almost as if that development is taking place on a grander time scale than what we are able to grasp. truly epic and massive: enveloping and cleansing, the sound of tectonic plates colliding. adjust the headphones - references are legion.
more releases
14id1610s. mp3 album
- download
- squaremeter
war of sound. mp3 album
- download
- squaremeter
aswad. mp3 album
- download
- squaremeter
- squaremeter. all releases


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adidas Patriot Inspiration LTD Mid Boxers
Item #
Single-layer mesh upper for a lightweight feel and maximum breathability
Single-layer mesh upper breathes to keep athlete cooler and drier
Stability straps wrap around the ankle
Patented, single-piece adiWear outsole
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Sunday, October 2, 2011
New listings.....
18 comments:
Wow Dale, You have been busy! Your shop looks Great :)ReplyDelete
The new things on etsy are fantastic. I love miniatures christmas.ReplyDelete
Bye Faby
What a massive collection Dale! You must have been working very hard. Did you think of us when you were making the perfume bottles? :)ReplyDelete
Still trying to make a good basket for you :)
Thanks, Victoria and Faby! I have been busy! .... and I'm gonna get busy again. :)ReplyDelete
Sans! but, of course! ;) That's okay, I'm very patient, especially for good things. :)
Those are adorable things! The cheetah rug is soooo cute!ReplyDelete
Thanks, Caroline! :)ReplyDelete
¡Que bonito todo!!!!!!ReplyDelete
Un abrazo
Well, i did take a peak and i liked it very much!Nice webshop you have.ReplyDelete
Muchas gracias,ReplyDelete
Flor! :)
Maria, thank you very much! :)ReplyDelete
I'm glad you took a peek! :)
Wonderful things on etsy. Wow.ReplyDelete
Thank you for your comment on my blog. I count you in.
Hugs from Craftland
Thank you, Craftland! :)ReplyDelete
¡Hermoso Dale!!!! ÖÖÖReplyDelete
Absolutamente , todo precioso!!
Un abrazo
Muchas gracias, Flor! :)ReplyDelete
Que cantidad de maravillas!!!ReplyDelete
besitos ascension
Ascensión es tan dulce! ¡Gracias! :)ReplyDelete
Wow Dale!! You have beautiful things! Pillows are so original! And your parfum bottles are so cute and elegants! I love it! HugsReplyDelete
Oh, Paky, thank you so much, sweetie! :)ReplyDelete


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Friday, March 23, 2012
Book Review | "Carole Lombard: The Hoosier Tornado"
6 comments:
- KimWilson said...
In Wes' defense, sometimes professors (be it of film on his part or history on mine) don't make the best authors for books like these. Plus, I suspect he was working on a commission and was instructed closely about page limits and a focus on Lombard's Indiana roots. Still, I enjoyed reading your thoughts about the book.
- March 24, 2012 at 12:55 PM
- Kristen said...
I love your book review! I'm a HUGE fan of Hollywood biographies and it's hard to find good ones. You've actually inspired me to write a book review for my blog so thanks for the idea!
- March 25, 2012 at 6:04 PM
- Rianna said...
I definitely see what you mean, & understand that he was probably given page limits and told to focus on her Indiana roots (I mean, in reading the book it's obvious). There are reasons for why the bio turned out the way it was, but above all this it just wasn't a good book. Hopefully Carole will get a biography in the future that gives her justice. :)
- March 28, 2012 at 5:09 PM
- Rianna said...
You're welcome - I'm happy I inspired you to do so; I'll look forward to your biography reviews! :)
- March 28, 2012 at 5:10 PM
- Clara said...
It's a shame there isn't a decent biography about Carole! I rememeber I wanted to read more about her and saw this book, but I prefered "Chasing Carole". It wasn't good either :( I reviewed it here, in case you're interested:
Great review Rianna, thanks for sharing!
- March 30, 2012 at 11:58 AM
- Rianna said...
It really is a shame, and her life was so interesting, so I can't understand why! :( I checked out your review, and "Chasing Carole" sounds quite... interesting. ;) Thanks for sharing!
- March 31, 2012 at 12:09 PM
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As I get reenergized and rebooted in my writing career, my publisher and I have made the decision to permanently drop the eBook prices of both my books. So if you've been waiting to read either because of price, now is the time…especially Prophetess, because I know it was $6.99 before.
On a related note, I'm in need of some blurbs that I can add to the Amazon page for Prophetess from published authors. If you're a published author and have read it, I would be very appreciative if you would send me something to use. Or, if you're a published author and would like to read it, contact me and I can probably arrange a review copy. Thanks!


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X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) directed by Bryan Singer and written by Simon Kinberg. Starring Hugh Jackman, James McAvoy, Michael Fassbender, Jennifer Lawrence, Halle Berry, Anna Paquin, Ellen Page, Nicholas Hoult, Shawn Ashmore, Peter Dinklage, Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart.
Synopsis: The story begins in a dystopian future where mutants are fighting antagonistic robots called Sentinels. Their main purpose is to destroy mutants and human beings who possess the genes to carry on the mutant race. A small band of mutants including Kitty Pryde (Ellen Page) and Bobby Drake/Iceman (Shawn Ashmore) fight the Sentinels. This is when we see their true destructive abilities. After successfully eluding the Sentinels, they converse with Storm (Halle Berry), Wolverine (Hugh Jackman), Professor Xavier (Patrick Stewart), and Magneto (Ian McKellen). They decide that in order to prevent the eradication of mutants and to prevent this dystopian world, they send Wolverine's consciousness back to 1973. This is to prevent Mystique (Jennifer Lawrence) murdering Bolivar Trask (Peter Dinklage), the creator of the Sentinels as her DNA is used to give them their abilities. Wolverine will seek help from the likes of the younger Professor Xavier (James McAvoy) and Magneto (Michael Fassbender) to assist him.
I was quite impressed with this instalment of the X-Men franchise. After watching X-Men: The Last Stand (2006), I was quite disappointed with the way the trilogy ended. However, after watching X-Men: First Class (2011) and the latest Wolverine (2013) movie, I feel the franchise has been invigorated. There are a number of reasons as to why I found this latest instalment enjoyable.
Firstly, there is a lot of humour in this movie. One great character for comic relief is Peter Maximoff/Quicksilver (Evan Peters). The way he uses his superhuman speed is very comedic, and compliments the story well. The majority of this occurs when they try and break Magneto out of prison. Wolverine also has numerous funny one liners as usual which introduces some comedic elements to the story. He was always my favourite character growing up, and Hugh Jackman seems to play this character effortlessly.
Peter Dinklage plays antagonist Bolivar Trask well, and is the paradox of his Tyrion Lannister character in Game of Thrones (2011). This really secures him in the top flight of television and movies.
With regards to the story, Mystique has been made the main focus. She is of extreme importance due to her genes holding the key to forming the deadly Sentinels, and is also the object of Professor Xavier's/Magneto's affections. This was also part of the last instalment's story.
This movie ticks all the boxes for me because it not only has a good storyline, but also involves all of the integral X-Men characters without feeling too crammed. I felt that with X-Men: The Last Stand, there was so much going on which was detrimental to the storyline. However, this does not happen with this movie. This also appeals with its nostalgic elements because we gain insight into Professor Xavier's mutant academy, and see all of the initial characters from the original movies. This really brought that element of catharsis which I felt the series needed. I urge anyone to check this movie out as you will not be disappointed.


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XV and Producers Seven and Just Blaze Create "When Were Done"
XV was filmed in the studio by Life + Times creating the track "When We're Done" with Seven and Just Blaze. When Were Done is from XV's Zero Heroes Mixtape.
Just Blaze provides some valuable guidance on the track while they were at the Harlem studio, Stadium Red.
Read the full XV When Were Done Lyrics here.
3 Responses to "XV and Producers Seven and Just Blaze Create "When Were Done""
matty boi swag on April 27th, 2011 10:30 pm
sumthin is seriously wrong wit this video its glitchy as fuck try reposting it or sumtin cuz i actually wanna see this
Killerhiphop.com Reply:
April 27th, 2011 at 11:32 pm
Yeah it's a new video code from Life + Try. Try pressing pause to let it load for a while before playing it again…
Ghetto Bebop Reply:
April 28th, 2011 at 6:43 am
@Killerhiphop.com, works fine wiff me
Leave a Reply


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- wiscanAsked on February 09, 2018 at 11:44 AM
I am receiving this error message on the majority of my forms despite me deleting most of the submissions and having very little forms views this month. I understand I have 9 forms (not 5) as I have been a long time user and the max form rule was introduced after creating my forms.
Is this the reason I'm seeing this message? If so, has this only recently changed?
- JotForm SupportMike_GAnswered on February 09, 2018 at 12:20 PM
I see the issue you described when I checked the website you shared. However, not when I checked your form from its direct link — Where-to-Find-My-Form-URL
I have cleared the caches of your forms and that fixed the issue on your website. It seems that there was a temporary issue and we would like to apologize for any inconvenience it had caused you.


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75 g/3 oz dried pears
300 ml/0.5 pt water
5 cm/2 in piece of cinnamon stick
50 g/2 oz granulated sugar
100 g/4 oz/0.5 cup butter
225 g/8 oz/1 cup caster (superfine) sugar
4 eggs
100 g/4 oz/1 cup plain (all-purpose) flour
30 ml/2 tbsp cornflour (cornstarch)
15 ml/1 tbsp lemon juice
Soak the pears in the water overnight.
Place in a saucepan with the cinnamon stick and granulated sugar.
Bring to the boil, reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes or until
tender. Leave to cool, then discard the cinnamon.
Grease a 20 cm/8 in sponge flan tin (pan). Beat the butter and half
the caster sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in 2 of the eggs, one at
a time, beating well after each addition. Sift the flour over the
surface and fold in with a metal spoon. Turn into the greased tin and
smooth the surface. Bake in a preheated oven at 190°C/375°F/gas mark 5
for about 20 minutes until the centre springs back when lightly
pressed. Cool slightly, then turn out on to a wire rack to cool
completely. Transfer to an ovenproof serving plate.
Lift the pears out of the cold syrup and chop. Blend the cornflour
with the lemon juice and stir into the syrup. Bring to the boil and
cook for 2 minutes, stirring. Stir in the chopped pears. Separate the
remaining eggs and beat the yolks into the pear mixture. Turn into the
sponge flan case (pie shell). Whisk the egg whites until stiff. Whisk
in half the remaining sugar and whisk again until stiff and glossy.
Fold in the remaining sugar. Pile on top of the flan. Bake in the oven
at 190°C/ 375°F/gas mark 5 for about 10 minutes until lightly colored.
Serve warm.
More Pies and Tarts Recipes


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I care about making the web a more inclusive place
I made MIT OpenCourseWare accessible to vision-impaired users.
My Contributions
- Direct project with backend development team and an accessibility consultant
- Research into current HTML5 and WAI-ARIA standards
- UI Design
- UX Design for screen reader technology
- Update OCW to HTML5 and WAI-ARIA standards
In February 2015, The National Association of the Deaf filed a lawsuit against MIT and Harvard University over their lack of closed captioning in content. MIT OCW leadership responded by committing to caption all video retroactively and moving forward, and to improve the experience for people with low-vision accessibility requirements.
The Problem
Someone visiting OCW using screen reader software would be given a sub-par experience: the screen reader would announce the site header, top navigation menu, and then, the footer menu, skipping the main content of a course, or its sub-section navigation. While there were ways to get to the content, they were not easy or user-friendly. Due to the nature of the site layout, changes to the visual design would be necessary, but it could not appear any different after the project ended.
The Solution
I worked with an accessibility consultant to study each site section and identify areas where improvements would be necessary. I researched current HTML5 and WAI-ARIA specifications and identified how they could be consistently applied to the entire site.
After a planning period that looked at the site structure as a whole, I rewrote each of the 25+ templates to include HTML5 elements and ARIA specifications – primarily grouping navigation sections and identifying main content.
It became apparent that our prior efforts at accessibility, while well intended, were extremely verbose when being read aloud. I rewrote alt-text and labels, and hid anything that did not contribute to the experience while using a screen reader.
Changing the menu and footer navigation required a complete rewrite of the menu HTML and CSS, something I accomplished without affecting the visual design.
With these changes in place, I worked with our team to publish the new accessible site after performing thorough QA on the changes.
OCW content is now accessible to people with low vision needs, keeping with the promise that OCW is free and open to all.


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About VDI > About Dr. Lojeski > History of VDI > Research
Virtual Distance International (VDI), is a New York-based company specializing in providing Predictive Workplace Analytics (WPA) solutions to the most vexing challenges around Workplace Transformation. Based on the award-winning discovery of Virtual Distance by Founder and CEO, Dr. Karen Lojeski, VDI has developed the world's only algorithms that are scientifically validated and precisely reveal where and how Virtual Distance is impacting performance and innovation. VDI pairs these integrated data, assessments, analytics and reporting solutions with prescriptive action plans that once implemented, yield immediate and measurable improvements in performance and innovation.


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Hawaii is a beautiful and magical place, our team of professional photographers are here to help you capture and savior your most precious family moments.
We pride ourselves working alongside great companies to provide them with outstanding photography services:
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Dharma is about being here and now, fully in the present moment, and I have truly been living like that this summer. A clear example is our decision (Carina and myself) to travel to Mangutovo. As I return from Schwarzenberg, she tells me she has had an idea, but I am off for coffee and a chat with my beloved friend Joan Paul, so this has to wait. Finally, at 22:00 with a few other friends, the decision is made, we rent a car and head to Mangutovo tomorrow morning.
Finally, after an extremely long drive for our poor Georg, we made it to the wild forests surrounding Mangutovo. At that point I was repeating like a mantra "mangutovo, mangutovo, mangutovo..." And we were suddenly there!!!! Already the lecture was over, but our friends were at the Cafeteria having a drink and making bonds. I was immediately amazed by all the friendly faces from all past courses, and at least 10 people from Latin America were present!!! What a great development that we are able to come to these remote retreat centers. We decided to sleep in the Gompa and wait til the morning to set up our tent.
As soon as we arrived I started to ask all of the Hungarians on how to arrange a ride to Budapest on Monday, but space is scarse and my only sure thing is driving out Sunday afternoon with Adam, but I say no. I want to be with the Lama, the Sangha, and I trust Space. I will go to Budapest on Monday.
The lectures start... I am so happy to see my lama again. I feel so different than I ever felt before, I feel the unlimited field of possibilities opening to me, to really be of benefit for others. Suddenly a smile is no longer just a smile, it is much more: appreciation, openness, willingness to be useful and help. I see how I have moved from having a very small life to living a large life that commands inspiration to finish my Ngöndro and to be of service.
Lama Ole says: "It is always a practice of what is possible"
That night, I have a beautiful surprise. G. comes to me. I am happiest. I knew I would get to Budapest on Monday, but didn't expect it would be like this. Space is again generous beyond measure. Although I had decided to go see him in Budapest since my stay in Schwarzenberg, I must confess a subtle hesitation inside of me, it is not an easy step to take, but here he is meeting me half-way and all things fall into place. Again, he makes me feel safe.
Monday comes finally and we must leave. Mangutovo is all over my heart, I don't want to go. We go into the Lama House to visit the Gompa which will be inaugurated tonight. Latzi gives us the tour, showing us all the beautiful statues and tsa-tsas. As we come down the stairs I see Lama Ole is having dinner on the terrace and decide to say goodbye. He takes me in his arms, more gently than ever. His tenderness numbs me, and G., who is with me, also feels the same, we get an amazing blessing, he talks to us, tells us to always be friends and enjoy life, he holds our heads tightly to his forehead and speaks to us gently, no matter how hard we try, we cannot remember afterwards what he said.
As we walk towards the flags, G. whispers "I am still shaking from the blessing". So am I...


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Yep, that's right...
Everybody else does it...
The only problem with me is that I DESPISE most modern music...I pretty much hear MAYBE one thing each year that I keep in rotation. Everything else is rehash, or just awful new ideas. So, it was pretty surprising to find that I liked a lot more music this year than in the past. I mean, it's still going to be a stretch to make this a ten-item list, but that's pretty good for me considering.
No particular order.
1. Lil Ugly Mane - 'Mista Thug Isolation'
2. SpaceGhostPurrp - 'Mysterious Phonk: The Chronicles of SpvcxGhxztPvrrp'
3. OFWGKTA - 'The OF Tape, Vol. 2'
4. Kendrick Lamar - 'good kid, m.A.A.d city'
5. Death Grips - 'NO LOVE DEEP WEB'
(No picture, cuz I don't wanna put a disclaimer on the blog for ONE post. Look it up if you're really curious, it's just Zach Hill's dick with the title written on it.)
Hmmm, which Death Grips album to put on here? I mean, they put out TWO this year. I'm going with the one that immediately stuck with me more. I loved 'Ex-Military,' but then they got rid of all the cool samples on 'The Money Store,' so I didn't give it a fair shot. To me, this seems like an improvement on the sample-less style of MS. A lot more 'evil' sounding, which makes sense considering the real-life drama surrounding the album. These guys seem like genuinely unstable, crazy people. We'll see what happens.
6. Burzum - 'Umskiptar'
7. Deftones - 'Koi No Yokan'
8. The Frogs - 'Count Yer Blessingsz'/'Squirrel Bunny Jupiter Deluxe'
9. Quakers - S/T
10. V/A - 'Tomorrow's Achievements: Parry Music Library 1976-86'
...and some notes about the state of music in 2012, if you're interested:
*Killer Mike is boring and unoriginal. Why is everybody losing their shit about this guy?
*Frank Ocean's album was pretty cool, and definitely more original than ANY R&B released since the days of the Fugees, but I think that has a tendency to make people look for something that isn't there. He still uses a lot of auto-tune, and had a lot of help making the music, but he's on the right track for a pop musician.
*If you are in a band, please consider NOT over-producing your shit. This rendered so many albums unlistenable to me. It might be the thing to do nowadays, but so was gated reverb in the 80's.
*God damn a lot of shitty music is coming out these days. Please, no more 'wave' stuff...i.e. 'chillwave.' If you wanna write shitty 80's dance songs, then call it like it is. It's not ironic or cool just cuz you've got some hipstery blurry photo on the album cover.
*Rap music is where it's at. I think rock might be exhausted as a genre. It had its heyday in the 60's/70's, and again in the 90's. Currently, however, hip hop/rap is the only genre with consistently interesting albums coming out.
*Lots of sorta-cool releases happened, but they just didn't hold my attention. Guided By Voices and Dinosaur Jr both put out competent releases this year, but neither expanded on their sound, or refined it in a way they haven't tried before. Sorry folks, but Dinosaur is NOT 'just as good' as they were in the 80's, or even the 90's. I'd take one of J's solo Dinosaur outings over new stuff any day.
Lastly, my band (recently disbanded) put out two full-lengths this year. How 'bout that? You can hear both HERE.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
What? There's still good music? (aka Bizarro Jerry's top 10 for 2012)
Posted by Bizarro Jerry at 10:46 AM
Labels: 2012, album reviews, best of, best of 2012, new music, new rap, new year, top 10 list
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Tag Archives: sanity savers
12 Sanity Savers for Homeschool Moms
Homeschooling can be stressful. As a homeschool mom your job is truly 24/7. There are no breaks, there are no days where you send them off to school, and there is no relying on someone else to teach them what they need to know. It's on you!


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Comfortable island home on a sunny low maintenance lot. Charming 3 bedroom 1 ½ bath split level home has the perfect layout with bedrooms separated from living/entertaining area. Bright, open kitchen with skylights and eating nook is a joy to work in. Large decks on both sides of the home and a private deck off the master bedroom provide plenty of summer hang out space. The back yard is private and partially fenced with a soothing water feature and raised beds for herbs or veggies. A huge bonus is the oversize garage/workshop and attached carport, plus ample parking for boat or RV. Metal roof, new decking and exterior paint are just some of the recent updates. A quick walk in either direction to two beautiful ocean access points makes this the perfect location.
Interior Features
Ceil Vaulted,Dining Area,Flrs/Laminate,Flrs/Lino,Flrs/Tile,Soaker Tub,Storage In Suite
Exterior Features
Balcony/Deck,Fenced Yard/Part,Workshop


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Don Nell Lewis Nash passed away peacefully at Page Springs Living in Cornville, Ariz., on Oct. 28, 2014, with her four daughters by her side.
She was born in Greenville, Texas, on Dec. 17, 1923.
Don Nell moved to Arizona at a young age and eventually met and married her husband, Lloyd Douglas Nash, in July of 1942. She spent her life being a wife and mother and a beautiful Christian example to four daughters, nine grandchildren and 22 great-grandchildren. She loved her family and enjoyed every time she could be with them.
Her hobbies were reading, puzzles and crocheting the most beautiful doll dresses with intricate designs of beads, sequins and feathers. Her family cherishes every one.
Don Nell's husband of 72 years preceded her in death just four months ago on June 30, 2014. She has gone to be with him and her beloved Savior Jesus.
Don Nell is survived by her daughters, Shirley Phelps (Marvin), Gail Cammllarie (Pete), Donna "Penny" Hunter (Ron) and Suzette Maharry. She is also survived by her sister, Helen Small of Arroyo Grande, Calif.
Her husband, Lloyd, was a Chevron service station owner for many years in Kingman before they retired and moved to Cottonwood.
There will be a memorial service at Verde Baptist Church in Cottonwood at 2 p.m. Nov. 15.